On first taking up my abode with the [A] family, I was made to feel self-conscious about my immaturity. Their brother Alain, who only came to lunch on occasions, since he was married - already at the age of twenty-three - and had all the air of being a participant within the adult world. But there was still something lacking within my own outlook on life, which showed up as a basic uncertainty as to how I should be behaving, which - when coupled with the freshness of my complexion - gave the impression that I might be years younger than I in fact was. It was really as if I had reached the age of seventeen, in the company of all my school friends, but my development had been arrested at this point. Or I had lost ground in any case on the pace of development within my peer group.

This had left me with a constant urge to open people’s eyes to the fact that I was older than they imagined. As soon as I discerned that they were getting my age wrong, and treating me as if I were still a juvenile, I wanted to wag my finger at them and inform them how I had already served as a commissioned officer in the Brigade of Guards, and was still the British army officers’ Welter-weight boxing champion. But I was far too inhibited to be so boastful. Modesty was required of me. But I felt torn between the two lines of behaviour, with some manner of unresolved schism opening up inside me on the issue.

Out here in Paris, in the bosom of a French family, the deficiencies in my development were perhaps all the more noticeable, due to the cultural contrast in our respective upbringing. Cultural contrast was an eternal subject for discussion at our meal times - that the French do things like this, whereas the British do things like that. It was all an exercise in probing to perceive where our identities might lie. Some of my conclusions seem curious in retrospect. Or perhaps it said something about this post-war decade, when I wrote home to Henry with the following information, in a letter dated February 15th.

My upbringing under Henry had indeed been greatly concerned with the question of cleanliness - with a bath taken regularly each morning. Not that I had matched these standards either at Eton, or during my National Service in the Life Guards. And in any case I was beginning to identify the cleanliness in Henry’s attitude to life as symbolic of his whole regime, and something from which I should establish my sense of distance.

The fact that I had withdrawn myself from the ranks of my peer group from Eton and the Life Guards was now perhaps serving to fortify my eccentricity of outlook. It had thrown me back upon my own individualism - which had in fact always been the key note to the line on which I was developing. Out here in Paris, I was struggling fiercely to perceive what I was, and to define myself in contrast to all this foreignness around me. This certainly didn’t have the effect of making me revert to a stereotyped version of Englishness. I saw that too as something from which I was striving to distance myself. It was more a question of discerning those building-blocks of Englishness from which I could construct my own brand of identity.

It wasn’t just the [A] family against whom I was endeavouring to measure my Englishness. I got in contact with Mr and Mme [J], with whose family I had gone to stay at Trouville, when I was seventeen. But it was to their house near the Pont Alexandre III that I was now invited, on a fairly regular basis, to come and dine with them. It was so kind (and so typical) of them to bother; but if the truth be told, we never really felt close enough to one another for psychological comfort. The effort was painful on all sides. But it all helped to remind me of the distinctions that I had originally observed between the French and English way of life. And there was one episode in particular which, when I recounted it to them, became their reference point concerning behaviour which they regarded - mistakenly I think - as being typically English. So I had best start by recounting the episode for what it was.

It was in early March that I went to cash some travellers’ cheques at Thos Cook & Son on the Place Madeleine. On a previous visit, I had noticed how there was an Arab with a beret, surreptitiously displaying a packet which he was endeavouring to sell to passing tourists. It was impossible to get a close look at it, but the package evidently contained photographs, and we tourists were intended to suppose that these were the "filthy postcards" which we all assumed must be on sale somewhere or other in this notorious city.

Anyway, on this second visit, I decided to enquire how much he was asking for them - whereupon he became even more secretive, ducking into a side alley and beckoning me to follow him. He was in a tremendous rush to get the transaction completed, as it seemed. He whispered to me confidentially that he would let me have two packets for 2,000 francs. (Something less than £2.) I murmured that this was rather more than I’d been expecting. And seeing that I was holding a 1,000 franc note in my hand, he quickly agreed that I could have them for just that. Taking the note, he thrust them into the pocket of my duffle-coat - and disappeared round the corner rather too rapidly for me to feel that things were all above board.

Well as soon as I’d had the chance to open the packs, I found that they were nothing more than photographs of paintings from all the Parisian museums - admittedly with the nude or two featured in each, with subjects like Adam and Eve, or Leda and the swan, as their titles. But there was nothing especially "filthy" in material of that ilk. I felt truly diddled. But the Arab had now disappeared from the vicinity, so there was no opportunity to ask for my money back.

I wasn’t going to leave the matter there, however, so I kept returning to the Place Madeleine until I found him. When he saw me coming, he adopted the vieux copin attitude, feigning to suppose that I’d only come to purchase some additional packs. Indeed, he appeared well-accustomed to fobbing off his dissatisfied customers - adopting an obtuse expression as soon as I mentioned that I would like my money back, in exchange for the packs he had already given me. "Mille francs? Quel mille francs?" So I became gruff in jogging his memory, whereupon he said he’d go and fetch the money. But I announced that I’d go with him. He claimed that this wasn’t necessary, but I insisted. So he took me a little distance and then introduced me to "his friend" - an Arab with grey crinkly hair who was far better dressed than himself, and looking more like the man who ran the enterprise than any mere salesman. He said that I should wait with him, and since the latter shook my hand in greeting, I supposed that our business might soon be successfully concluded - so permitted the other to depart. As soon as we were truly on our own however, the one with the crinkly hair disclaimed all acquaintance with the one who had departed. I was now feeling utterly stupid, but I could think of no appropriate action that I should take. So I went back home to fret upon the manner that they’d been making a fool of me - until my umbrage became too much for me.

But it wasn’t until the following Sunday that I needed to collect some more money from Thos Cook & Son. So did Eughien, my fellow lodger with the [A] family, so I was not on my own this time. I took the precaution of warning him, as we approached the Place Madeleine, that I might have to make a bit of a scene if I found certain people ahead of us. And sure enough, there stood the Arab with the crinkly hair, on the same spot where I had previously conversed with him, although this time he was chatting with a small group of others.

I took the initiative by going straight up to him and demanding my money back. He then made the error of trying to frighten me off - shouting contemptuously at me, and suddenly raising his fist as if he were about to strike me. My reaction as a boxer must have looked adequately professional, as I ducked to one side with my hand coming up to shield myself from the blow. He stopped it short however, and I was then standing in fighting stance, and quite ready to counter with whatever punches might be necessary. But he was now just standing still, so I seized him by the scruff of his coat collar and shook him.

This wasn’t doing his status any good in the eyes of the friends who had been accompanying him - although they were quick to distance themselves, now that it appeared that violence was threatened. He had reassumed a reasoning demeanour, stressing that he didn’t really know what I might be talking about. But I shook him once again by his coat collar, and declared that he’d better explain all that down at the gendarmerie. People were beginning to gather round, and he didn’t like this. He tried to persuade me to let go of his collar, but I merely shook it the harder. He declared that he would accompany me, if only I let go of his collar. So I released him. And he did accompany me to the police-station, which was some little distance from the Place Madeleine.

What had slipped my mind however, was that the gendarmerie would be closed on a Sunday. We went right up to the door, and he pointed out to me that it was locked. Once again I felt that I’d made a fool of myself - although not so badly this time. I was still in a position to make threatening noises to him to say that this wasn’t going to be the end of the matter, and that I’d be returning to demand my money back from the Arab who had sold the photographs to me. And I let him depart.

Eughien meanwhile, had been following us from a distance - never actually at my side, even at the moment when it looked as if blows were to be exchanged. But when he saw the Arab emerging alone from the alley that ran down beside the police-station, without any sign of what might have happened to myself, he told me later how he was suddenly quite scared - supposing that the man had knifed me once he’d taken me out of sight. I was aware of his relief, and how my cool had greatly impressed him.

But this wasn’t the end of the story. I kept up my inspections of the Place Madeleine until I espied the small scruffy Arab with the beret, who had been the one originally to accost me. When he saw me approaching, he immediately started shouting: "Je ne vous connais pas! Je ne vous connais pas!" - which was an unusual comment to be making to someone who had yet to speak to him. And as I came nearer, he turned round to run. So I followed suit and caught him by the hem of his jacket, which he immediately shed - like a lizard’s tail. I tried to get a further grip on him, and he immediately fell to the ground, calling out to the passers-by to witness that I had assaulted him.

People came running up to join the crowd of spectators, and the police too were soon on the scene. When they arrived, the Arab tried to make out that he was the injured party, and that I was a great big bully who had struck him down for no apparent reason. The police wanted to know what I might have to say about this. I explained that I hadn’t struck him with a single blow, but had paid an exorbitant price for some photographs, and therefore wanted my money back. The Arab promptly produced his unfilthy postcards and showed them to the police, protesting that I had no right to complain about such innocent pictures. The crowd now began to mutter their sympathy with the poor man, and I was getting portrayed as an absurdly prudish Englishman, who regarded such pictures as immoral. One of the gendarmes even remonstrated with me to be more reasonable. Why should I be so offended? There was nothing indecent about these nus des musées. But that was precisely my complaint, and I eventually managed to get this point over to him - that they were not sufficiently pornographic to warrant the price that I had paid.

The two gendarmes now saw that there might be some substance to my sense of grievance, so they bade us to accompany them to the police-station. And while we were being marched along there, the Arab played the game of trying to make me lose my temper - in proof that I was the unreasonable one - by whispering the grossest of insults to me in tones where I realized perfectly well the kind of things that he was saying, but wisely responded by disclaiming that I could understand a single word that he was saying.

By the time that we had arrived at the police-station, I had decided to take a different line. I told the gendarmes that, as a tourist, I’d had many superb experiences of France, but that this experience was "un mauvais souvenir." And I looked at them with maudlin eyes, hoping that this might arouse in them some innate sense of national chivalry. It worked. They immediately displayed sympathy for my cause. My adversary was also helpful in that he suddenly became petulant, even disagreeable, to all and sundry. He now appeared to accept that he was in the wrong, and was merely concerned cheekily to display his lack of any repentance. They ordered him to turn out his pockets, and finally to remove his (filthy) shoes and socks. A 500 franc note was discovered in one of the socks, and offered to me, but I declined it. The final outcome was that they released me, but detained the Arab for further questioning. And on that basis, I felt that I was emerging from their custody as a marginal victor.

As I was making my way out, one of the gendarmes came after me and handed me a package of saucy postcards, such as had been circulating in Paris during the earlier part of this century. He declared with a sheepish smile that they had been confiscated at that time, but had now been lying around the police-station for so long that no one had any further use for them. If they were any use to me, then I was welcome to take them. I assured him that this generosity of spirit transformed a bad experience into a magnificent one. And I have those photographs to this day - fully aware, as I am now told, that their value far exceeds what I originally paid for the two packs of nus des musées.

Anyway, this was an experience which I recounted in some detail to Mr and Mme [J], over the course of one of my dinner invitations. And they took the line that the stubbornness and perseverance which I had displayed were all typical of English character. A Frenchman might have flared up in instant anger and taken more effective steps to regain his money at the time. But he would never have sustained such a prolonged effort to bring the man to justice. The story was repeated on subsequent occasions too, for the appreciation of other guests - until the notion of my Englishness seemed to be contained within that anecdote. Not that I saw any reason to object. I had after all finally emerged as the victor.

The idea that I had been attempting to buy myself some filthy French postcards prompted Mr [J] to explore that particular vein of conversation with me. And I indicated my curiosity to know what his compatriots called one another, if they were hoping to register a sexual insult. This led to him dictating a list of such words, while explaining their meaning to me. It is a list which has survived to this day, so I shall take this opportunity of revealing its contents, which read as follows. "Pederaste! Homme enculé! Tante! Tapette! Inverti! Gousse! Gouine! Macquereau! Putain!" Or if I wished to be particularly offensive, then I should call someone: "Con de carron!" - or cunt of rotten meat. But he did warn me that I should be most careful in my choice of the occasions when I might display a knowledge of such vocabulary.

The effort of making polite conversation with the [J] family generally turned out to be a strain. And it was perhaps unfortunate that they appeared to know how, when I had previously been on that visit to them, I had posted home some post cards whose humour was scatological - even coprophagous. (I had been endeavouring to fulfil Daphne’s request for saucy French post cards, but had misjudged what was required; and Jean-Louis [J], their son, who was then staying at Sturford Mead, no doubt reported back to them this evidence on what was liable to amuse us.) Anyway, Mr [J] now did his utmost towards the end of each dinner, to keep me amused by recounting dirty stories - while Mme [J] looked on anxiously to discern whether they were scoring any points in my appreciation of such humour. And I was desperately anxious to please them by appearing suitably amused.

"Mais il n’est pas amusé," Mme [J] would murmur reproachfully to her husband. "Au contraire, je suis très bien amusé," I hastened to reassure them - with my face grimacing into a less than spontaneous grin. "Mais tu vois cherie, il est très bien amusé," declared Mr [J], quite evidently relieved. And the sequence of dirty stories were prolonged for a further quarter of an hour. But the truth of the matter is that I was finding it very difficult to grasp the point at which laughter might be appropriate. I am obtuse enough when such jokes are recounted in English. But I was invariably lost when it was all in French.

I did make some terrible errors when attempting to converse with other people on this subject of the English versus the French archetypal character. There was an occasion for example, at a dinner party to which I had been invited, preceding some society ball. (I shall be recounting in a later section how I began to receive invitations of this kind.) This was prior to the occasion when Mr [J] had been at pains to explain the meaning of such terms, but I had been hearing at the lectures that I was attending at the Sorbonne, how Marcel Proust was "un inverti". Unfortunately I misapprehended this word as meaning introverted, rather than it being the French way of referring to homosexuality. So I rapidly got myself into a hopeless confusion when explaining earnestly to my British hostess’s assembled company of French dinner guests that the important thing to understand - about Englishmen - was that they were all "invertis". And in that their expressions now became quizzical rather than intelligently comprehending, I sensed that my communication must somehow be incomplete. So I persisted, putting forward the same word indefatigably, in combination with other phrases - until my hostess broke in, so as to change the conversation to something of her own preference. I was never invited to grace her table again.

It was the [J] family who took me to my first opera - which was Rameau’s Les Indes Gallantes. It was a production orchestrated for the appreciation of foreign tourists, as I later learnt. But it furnished me with a valuable first glimpse through the open door of that particular cultural scene - a start upon which I might later build. And in a sense I saw this as a move in the direction of absorbing a more continental attitude towards the cultural scene - coming as I did from a family where Henry’s own philistine view upon life outweighed, at times, the artistic influences which had emanated from Daphne.

A word or two upon utterances which throw light upon my political views at this time might now be offered. The [A] children were eager at the start to discern whatever bias I might possess on the political spectrum. In the scoffing overtone to her enquiry, I may accurately have discerned that Michelle, who was in her final year at a lycée, had Communist sympathies. She and Jo had once tested me to the extent of enquiring if I knew the theme of The Red Flag. I couldn’t remember it, and realized that this branded me in their eyes as being dangerously right wing.

Eventually it was Michelle who came more exactly to the point, in stating: "Mais Alexandre, il est surement un royaliste?" I endeavoured to duck the question by pointing out that in Britain, royalism was hardly one of the political issues. The royal family had all-party assent. But they wouldn’t leave it there. "What are your politics?" asked Eughien more emphatically. "Vous verrez!" I retorted - without really perceiving what a conceited remark I was making. "So you think a lot of yourself?" declared Eughien - to the accompaniment of some sniggers. I just withdrew into a silence. The whole subject of politics was something that I felt uneasy about discussing with anyone at all, at this juncture in my life. I knew quite simply that I wasn’t ready for it.

When it came to the May-day celebrations, which took the form of two large political rallies - with the Gaulists gathering in the Place de la Concorde, and the Communists in the Place de la Bastille - I chose to put in my attendance with the latter. But it was far more from a curiosity than from any sense of participation. I was frightened of the Communists and of all that they stood for. But it represented a side of life with which I wanted to acquaint myself.

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