80
PARTISAN REVIEW
That afternoon one of the ship's officers informed me I could receive
no more :visitors unless they had a pass. "Instructions," he said. Every
hour a Bobby poked his head into my cabin to see if I was there. He
didn't like the job, he was ashamed and tried to laugh it off. "You've
never been so well looked after in all your life," he said.
On the fifth day the immigration man came and brought back most
of the letters and papers. Though he denied it, there were some he didn't
return. He boasted that he lmew of every visitor I had had, knew all
about them. He knew the contents of all telegrams and cables and letters
I had sent. He said I couldn't go on to Russia. I would have to return
to the States with the ship that afternoon.
"You have honored me very much," I said.
"You should be ashamed," he answered.
"No, the shame is yours. You've really made something important
out of this case, when it is actually trivial. You've behaved hysterically.
You took:
a
man of Barbusse's reknown and expelled him from England.
It's your shame. Barbusse is an eminent artist and England won't soon
blot out this act."
"How did you know about Barbusse," he asked.
"Isn't it true?"
He
mumbled something about doing his duty, about all of this being
out of his hands, the ruling of the Home Office. Then he shook my hand,
said good-bye, charmingly, and left.
In an hour passengers came aboard the ship. The ship cast loose,
the purser returned my American passport to me and I was permitted to
leave my cabin. The fog had finally lifted but I stayed below. I didn't
go on deck to see the Thames shore as we moved down the river. I kept
thinking of that English newspaper I had read while I was confined to
the cabin.
I thought of those young Mosley thugs, all under twenty-five, who were
sentenced to six months hard labor at Plymouth. I was not sorry for
them. But I could understand what had driven these young men into
the fascist armies of death. I had wanted to meet these legions in Europe
and write about them so that we in America would understand them better.
As a twenty-four year old who has been out of work: for over two years,
I think: I can understand the hold the Mosleys and Hiders have over
these young men.
On the trip home the Americans did most of the drinking. Why do
people dread "home"? Finally, we were towed up the Hudson River.
The tug turned the ship towards the dock. My friends were there,
cheering. It seemed only a moment ago that the boat had reached mid
river, now we were turning back:. Everything else seemed so unreal.
