Well, it suits me to let people think what they like. They will be all the more astonished when they read this and see what I achieved. This is my private glee: to know how the peasants and loafers, the scum of three continents, see me, but to be aware of what I really am. There are a few who respect me and to these I tell my secrets. But I do not want fame now. And honour I shall have in plenty when I am dead. I have had enough of politicians to last several lifetimes. My heart could probably not stand any publicity I might now achieve. Admittedly, a small pension, an OBE or perhaps a knighthood, would help me in my old age, since I am now entirely without regular companionship. Mrs Cornelius was the only one to offer me that. It was to be near her that I moved into this area. I could have gone to Earl’s Court. I could have had a job with the government. But I will not talk about Mrs Cornelius for the moment. It will be best to come to her when you know the kind of person who is writing about that remarkable personality who is justly famous, as are her talented children. Here I will say only one thing: she never betrayed me.
I returned again and again to the shop with its solitary English bicycle, until inevitably it was sold. I saw it once, being ridden over the bridge near the Zoological Gardens, and that was that. But I did not care. The symbol remained. Many years later I read the whole of H.G. Wells’s Wheels of Chance, but was disappointed. It contained the seeds of his later literary decline. It was altogether too flippant and held none of the visionary wonderment I had found in The War of the Worlds, which I read in Pearson’s. His Sea Lady, also published in Pearson’s, was equally worthless. The desire to be fashionably amusing can infect the best of us. How is it that a writer can be so full of optimism and faith in one book and so foolish and cynical in another? My studies of Freud - who, as I was to discover, was a bad-tempered, misanthropic Viennese Jew willing to snub anyone he considered his social inferior - have yet to supply me with an answer to this mystery. Not that I have respect for the so-called psychologists, especially those of that same sordid Viennese school. You can take it from me that most of them were on the edge of absolute madness for the best part of their lives. At my single meeting with H. G. Wells I was able to ask why he had wasted so much time on his non-scientific novels and he answered that he had once thought he could ‘achieve the same sort of thing through comedy’. He baffled me by this. I must assume he was making fun of me or that he was drunk or experiencing, as so many artists do, a form of temporary dementia. It is just possible that he could have misheard me for though my English is excellent, as this narrative testifies, I had at first some difficulty in making myself properly understood. I learned colloquial English almost entirely from Mrs Cornelius. My attempts to apply it so as to put others at ease were not always successful. During my first year as a permanent English resident it was not unusual for me to be left in the basket quite innocently by my friend. I could actually communicate better (as I had done in the twenties) by using Pearson’s English, which was at least readily interpreted by all. My affectionate and admiring ‘How are you, you old bugger?’ to Mr (later Lord) Winston Churchill, at a function for celebrated Polish émigrés, was not as well-received as I had expected and I was never able to thank him, thereafter, for the hearty support he had given to the cause of Russia’s rightful rulers.
I know today that the English share something with the Japanese, who do not like to hear their language spoken too well by foreigners. In Japan, I am told, people who speak perfect Japanese must often pretend to speak it badly in order to be accepted. In common with all Orientals, our Nipponese friends have an elaborate sense of protocol not easily communicated to foreigners. To a lesser extent this is true, in my experience, in all countries. I am by nature the most diplomatic of men, but it has sometimes been my fate to have my motives misinterpreted entirely because I have shown myself unsuitably fluent in a language.