Ashenden; or, The British Agent
by W. Somerset Maugham 
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Ashenden: Or the British Agent is a 1928 collection of loosely linked stories by W. Somerset Maugham. It is partly based on the author's experience as a member of British Intelligence in Europe during the First World War.Tags
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Ó, Britannia, melyek valának fegyvereid, melyekkel egykoron igába hajtottad a világot? Hűvös ész, fanyar humor és kifogástalan társasági viselkedés a koktélpartikon. Ashendennek mindez megadatott, és még valamivel több is: a káprázatos emberismeret. Ami tulajdonképpen szakmai követelmény nála, hiszen civilben író a szentem, de kitör az első világháború, a haza pedig szolgálni hívja, berukkol tehát hírszerzőnek*. Hisz ki lenne jobb hírszerző, mint egy író? Mind a ketten információkkal és félinformációkkal (valósággal és fantáziával) dolgoznak, csak amíg egyikük elegyíti a kettőt, a másikuk szétválasztaná. Szóval Ashenden a kémek Paradicsomába, Svájcba kerül (meg később show more máshová is), és keveri-kavarja, miközben ilyen-olyan figurákkal hozza össze a sors. Tőrőlmetszett kémnovellák, így, akinek szíve központi bugyrában székel a cselszövevények iránti vágy, jó eséllyel szeretni fogja őket. Ugyanakkor Maugham erőssége nem a csűrés-csavarás, hanem a jellemrajz és az erkölcsi konfliktusok ábrázolása, úgyhogy kapunk egészen káprázatosan felskiccelt, komplex szereplőket meg feloldhatatlan morális dilemmákat is, mindezt egy finom, elegáns atmoszférába ágyazva. Alapvetően ez az atmoszféra az, amitől végig jó volt nekem a kötetben: a békebeli európaiság leheletét érezni benne, amire elviselhetetlen súllyal nehezedik a háttérben zajló világégés, az a világégés, ami aztán pozdorjává is zúzta a fenn említett békebeliséget. Úgy is felfoghatjuk tehát az írásokat, mint a Pax Britannica hattyúdalát, amit (talán) alá is húz, hogy az utolsó novella egy tüdőszanatóriumban játszódik.
Bírtam. Csak a legeslegutolsó bekezdésben Maugham – merőben indokolatlanul – ne vágta volna hozzám a giccsgránátot.
* Azt, hogy a hírszerzés afféle lelkes amatőrök vadászterülete, Maugham nem az ujjából szopta – valóban, még a második világháború idején is exhibicionisták, csodabogarak, kalandorok, egyszóval egy válogatott cirkuszi menazséria alkotta a kémek és kettős ügynökök derékhadát. Egy olyan furcsa és hihetetlen figura felbukkanása, mint a Csupasz Mexikói, egyáltalán nem irreális a regény terében – a brit titkosszolgálatok alkalmaztak nála groteszkebb figurákat is. show less
Bírtam. Csak a legeslegutolsó bekezdésben Maugham – merőben indokolatlanul – ne vágta volna hozzám a giccsgránátot.
* Azt, hogy a hírszerzés afféle lelkes amatőrök vadászterülete, Maugham nem az ujjából szopta – valóban, még a második világháború idején is exhibicionisták, csodabogarak, kalandorok, egyszóval egy válogatott cirkuszi menazséria alkotta a kémek és kettős ügynökök derékhadát. Egy olyan furcsa és hihetetlen figura felbukkanása, mint a Csupasz Mexikói, egyáltalán nem irreális a regény terében – a brit titkosszolgálatok alkalmaztak nála groteszkebb figurákat is. show less
I'm surprised that it took me so long to find my way to Ashenden or the British Agent, W. Somerset Maugham's espionage tales rooted in his own experiences of the First World War. Having read it now, I can see its ideas, tropes, and styles revived in all of the key Cold War spy novels I've read, including those by Deighton and Fleming. Even Graham Greene's Our Man in Havana is something of an expanded and reoriented take on the "Gustav" story in Ashenden. Curiously, this 1928 book set two generations earlier than the Cold War foreshadows it by concluding with the English spy's firsthand view of the October Revolution.
The protagonist Ashenden is somewhat modeled on the author, so he is a literary man recruited into the British show more intelligence service. He spends much of the book in neutral Switzerland, where he writes a play while supported by his spy work. Ashenden is valued by his organization as a judge of character more than a man of action. As a result, the book teems with diverse and carefully-drawn personalities. There is a good deal of humor, all of it very dry.
There is an acute awareness of the nature of intelligence work as being that of a cog in a machine, never seeing the ultimate origins or outcomes of one's labors, and this sensibility has an impact on the structure and pacing of the book. The stories are brief. Each has a dramatic unity of its own, and they are in chronological sequence, but there is no sense of a grand plot arc embracing the book as a whole. Often, the question that a tale seems to have been posing with increasing intensity throughout finally goes unanswered--for the reader, if not for Ashenden himself. show less
The protagonist Ashenden is somewhat modeled on the author, so he is a literary man recruited into the British show more intelligence service. He spends much of the book in neutral Switzerland, where he writes a play while supported by his spy work. Ashenden is valued by his organization as a judge of character more than a man of action. As a result, the book teems with diverse and carefully-drawn personalities. There is a good deal of humor, all of it very dry.
There is an acute awareness of the nature of intelligence work as being that of a cog in a machine, never seeing the ultimate origins or outcomes of one's labors, and this sensibility has an impact on the structure and pacing of the book. The stories are brief. Each has a dramatic unity of its own, and they are in chronological sequence, but there is no sense of a grand plot arc embracing the book as a whole. Often, the question that a tale seems to have been posing with increasing intensity throughout finally goes unanswered--for the reader, if not for Ashenden himself. show less
Ashenden is a thinly disguised memoire of Maugham's own period in wartime (1914-1918) secret service work. For all his customary detachment, he is very aware of and interested in the moral issues involved in such work.
Maugham cannot write badly but this book is still (structurally) an imperfectly strung together group of short stories and novellas. It can also be rather self-consciously literary at times.
Famous as a precursor of Fleming's Bond and influencing an early Hitchcock film, it is rather misleading to compare Ashenden with 007. The book is certainly not 'exciting' in the way that we have come to expect within the thriller genre.
Each story is both a literary concoction and a moral tale of sorts in which the 'hero' is an show more observer out of necessity, with his own moral choices limited to a certain commitment and a sense of duty.
As neither one thing nor the other, literature or memoire, the total leaves one a little dissatisfied but the parts make up for the whole.
The component stories tend to centre on types of weak, fundamentally unimaginative or unfulfilled individuals, none of whom are truly mocked but all of whom are dissected through their own words.
They kill, lose lovers, probably die, actually die or are left deeply depressed, either because some obligation creates a situation from which there is no escape or the necessary duty of others entraps them.
The book closes with a tragic satire of two types of bourgeois - the Russian liberal and the American businessman - but there is an unusual generosity of spirit here, as if the confusion of the middle classes in a collapsing West had resulted in a strange camaraderie.
If the book can appear to be callous on the surface, it is only the detachment of the doctor dealing with pain and disease. We should remind ourselves that Maugham was originally trained in that profession at St. Thomas'.
Every now and then, we find out that this secret agent is not a natural psychopath like 007 but one socially constructed entirely by war and empire.
Ashenden is quite capable of holding strong sympathies with his required victims while wholly suspending sentiment in order to get the job done. In a way, he stands for all corporate men with a job to do.
In the tale told by an ambassador, in a literary sleight of hand, a man speaks of another where Maugham is clearly speaking of himself in the voice of the first.
It help here to know what contemporary readers did not - that he was gay. 'Society' requires certain things in terms of sexual conduct and that's an end to the matter.
This particular tale drags a bit and is conventional in precisely the way that Maugham (through Ashenden) appears to mock earlier in the book but the sentiment within it is undeniably real.
Perhaps that is the real virtue of the book - out of conventional, even theatrical, tales of duty, courage and treachery, he teases out an underlying human reality.
In each of his characters, he uncovers some emotional trait that may be absurd, and even be hysterically expressed, but which is nevertheless 'true' to our species.
Ostensibly a story of a world which has lost its moral compass in a struggle for survival, the book returns us time and time again to the fact that even a world of duty and obligation contains human foibles and emotions that need to be recognised as part of that world. show less
Maugham cannot write badly but this book is still (structurally) an imperfectly strung together group of short stories and novellas. It can also be rather self-consciously literary at times.
Famous as a precursor of Fleming's Bond and influencing an early Hitchcock film, it is rather misleading to compare Ashenden with 007. The book is certainly not 'exciting' in the way that we have come to expect within the thriller genre.
Each story is both a literary concoction and a moral tale of sorts in which the 'hero' is an show more observer out of necessity, with his own moral choices limited to a certain commitment and a sense of duty.
As neither one thing nor the other, literature or memoire, the total leaves one a little dissatisfied but the parts make up for the whole.
The component stories tend to centre on types of weak, fundamentally unimaginative or unfulfilled individuals, none of whom are truly mocked but all of whom are dissected through their own words.
They kill, lose lovers, probably die, actually die or are left deeply depressed, either because some obligation creates a situation from which there is no escape or the necessary duty of others entraps them.
The book closes with a tragic satire of two types of bourgeois - the Russian liberal and the American businessman - but there is an unusual generosity of spirit here, as if the confusion of the middle classes in a collapsing West had resulted in a strange camaraderie.
If the book can appear to be callous on the surface, it is only the detachment of the doctor dealing with pain and disease. We should remind ourselves that Maugham was originally trained in that profession at St. Thomas'.
Every now and then, we find out that this secret agent is not a natural psychopath like 007 but one socially constructed entirely by war and empire.
Ashenden is quite capable of holding strong sympathies with his required victims while wholly suspending sentiment in order to get the job done. In a way, he stands for all corporate men with a job to do.
In the tale told by an ambassador, in a literary sleight of hand, a man speaks of another where Maugham is clearly speaking of himself in the voice of the first.
It help here to know what contemporary readers did not - that he was gay. 'Society' requires certain things in terms of sexual conduct and that's an end to the matter.
This particular tale drags a bit and is conventional in precisely the way that Maugham (through Ashenden) appears to mock earlier in the book but the sentiment within it is undeniably real.
Perhaps that is the real virtue of the book - out of conventional, even theatrical, tales of duty, courage and treachery, he teases out an underlying human reality.
In each of his characters, he uncovers some emotional trait that may be absurd, and even be hysterically expressed, but which is nevertheless 'true' to our species.
Ostensibly a story of a world which has lost its moral compass in a struggle for survival, the book returns us time and time again to the fact that even a world of duty and obligation contains human foibles and emotions that need to be recognised as part of that world. show less
This is a collection of stories that draws heavily on Maugham’s experiences as a writer doing espionage work in Switzerland during the First World War. Some say that Ashenden, a sort of alter ego for Maugham, is the precursor to James Bond, but I found a bit more of le Carré in him, in the portrayal of sad, desperate people scrabbling to get their secrets sold and save their skins.
There were moments of comedy—the Odd Couple pairing of Ashenden and Mr. Harrington had me definitely on Team Ashenden—and moments of pathetic sadness, as in the story the ambassador told Ashenden about “a friend” who wasted his youth by chasing after a dancer and then marrying a woman he grew to despise. I liked the Switzerland part of the book show more best, then the Russian part, even though I felt Ashenden to be a bit out of character when falling for Anastasia.
I’d cautiously recommend this if you like early 20th-century stories and particularly if you want to explore the earliest spy stories. show less
There were moments of comedy—the Odd Couple pairing of Ashenden and Mr. Harrington had me definitely on Team Ashenden—and moments of pathetic sadness, as in the story the ambassador told Ashenden about “a friend” who wasted his youth by chasing after a dancer and then marrying a woman he grew to despise. I liked the Switzerland part of the book show more best, then the Russian part, even though I felt Ashenden to be a bit out of character when falling for Anastasia.
I’d cautiously recommend this if you like early 20th-century stories and particularly if you want to explore the earliest spy stories. show less
Reading Tan Twan Eng's latest novel [b:The House of Doors|65215270|The House of Doors|Tan Twan Eng|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1698331937l/65215270._SY75_.jpg|98727713], which stars W. Somerset Maugham, intrigued me sufficiently to borrow [b:Ashenden|887797|Ashenden|W. Somerset Maugham|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320419387l/887797._SY75_.jpg|552471] from the library. I wasn't sure what to expect, other than fictionalisation of real events and people, but did not expect it to be so funny. [b:Ashenden|887797|Ashenden|W. Somerset Maugham|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320419387l/887797._SY75_.jpg|552471] is based on show more Somerset Maugham's experiences as a spy during the First World War. With the distance of time and fictionalisation, he includes a plethora of witty quips that I greatly enjoyed:
Like Jane Austen, W. Somerset Maugham appears to have extremely acute powers of observation and writes annoying individuals that are utterly convincing. This is quite a skill, as well-meaning yet irritating people are everywhere in real life. Whereas many book characters are of a type you could never possibly meet and therefore do not have points of comparison for. [b:Ashenden|887797|Ashenden|W. Somerset Maugham|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320419387l/887797._SY75_.jpg|552471]'s best character has to be Mr. Harrington, an American man with whom Ashenden is trapped in a tiny Russian train compartment for eleven days:
[b:Ashenden|887797|Ashenden|W. Somerset Maugham|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320419387l/887797._SY75_.jpg|552471] is described on the Vintage Classics back cover as a short story collection. It doesn't actually read that way, as the narrative is contiguous although most chapters could potentially stand alone. As well as appreciating the wit and astute characterisation, I enjoyed the insight into class and nationalism during WWI. The reader gets a sense of Ashenden's enjoyment but ambivalence about the impact of his job as a spy. There is little to be discerned about either author or protagonist's political beliefs (if any). As befits a tale of spying during a world war, there are a number of very bleak happenings, as well as plenty of (presumably period-typical) racism, xenophobia, and sexism. Women are volatile and mysterious; non-white men are dangerous and mysterious. Yet even the grimmest moments are narrated with dry humour. [b:Ashenden|887797|Ashenden|W. Somerset Maugham|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320419387l/887797._SY75_.jpg|552471] ends abruptly on a distinctly downbeat note, after being much more entertaining than I dared to expect. It left me wanting to read more of Somerset Maugham's work. show less
"Don't make a hash of things, Manuel, and if you do keep your mouth shut."
"They tell me that in one of your colleges where the sons of gentlemen are trained to become naval officers it is written in letters of gold: there is no such word as impossible in the British Navy. I do not know the meaning of the word failure."
"It has a good many synonyms," retorted R.
Like Jane Austen, W. Somerset Maugham appears to have extremely acute powers of observation and writes annoying individuals that are utterly convincing. This is quite a skill, as well-meaning yet irritating people are everywhere in real life. Whereas many book characters are of a type you could never possibly meet and therefore do not have points of comparison for. [b:Ashenden|887797|Ashenden|W. Somerset Maugham|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320419387l/887797._SY75_.jpg|552471]'s best character has to be Mr. Harrington, an American man with whom Ashenden is trapped in a tiny Russian train compartment for eleven days:
Mr. Harrington was a bore. He exasperated Ashenden, and enraged him; he got on his nerves, and drove him to frenzy. But Ashenden did not dislike him. His self-satisfaction was enormous but so ingenuous that you could not resent it; his conceit was so childlike that you could only smile at it. He was so well-meaning, so thoughtful, so deferential, so polite that although Ashenden would willingly have killed him he could not but own that in that short while he had conceieved for Mr. Harrington something very like affection. [...]
When Ashenden was ill for a couple of days Mr. Harrington nursed him with devotion. Ashenden was embarrassed by the care he took of him and though racked with pain could not help laughing at the fussy attention with which Mr. Harrington took his temperature, from his neatly packed valise extracted a whole regiment of tabloids and firmly doctored him; and he was touched by the trouble he gave himself to get from the dining-car the things that he thought Ashenden could eat. He did everything in the world for him but stop talking.
[b:Ashenden|887797|Ashenden|W. Somerset Maugham|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320419387l/887797._SY75_.jpg|552471] is described on the Vintage Classics back cover as a short story collection. It doesn't actually read that way, as the narrative is contiguous although most chapters could potentially stand alone. As well as appreciating the wit and astute characterisation, I enjoyed the insight into class and nationalism during WWI. The reader gets a sense of Ashenden's enjoyment but ambivalence about the impact of his job as a spy. There is little to be discerned about either author or protagonist's political beliefs (if any). As befits a tale of spying during a world war, there are a number of very bleak happenings, as well as plenty of (presumably period-typical) racism, xenophobia, and sexism. Women are volatile and mysterious; non-white men are dangerous and mysterious. Yet even the grimmest moments are narrated with dry humour. [b:Ashenden|887797|Ashenden|W. Somerset Maugham|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320419387l/887797._SY75_.jpg|552471] ends abruptly on a distinctly downbeat note, after being much more entertaining than I dared to expect. It left me wanting to read more of Somerset Maugham's work. show less
This is a compelling, although rather chilly, collection of loosely connected short stories following the intelligence work of Ashenden, a writer turned spy for the British government during World War I. The stories are based on Maugham's own work during the war and are frequently cited as a main influence on the character of James Bond. Ashenden (and, probably, Maugham) has an approach to spy work that is both playful and serious. He brings a writer's power of observation to his interactions with intelligence agents, fellow spies (both friendly and unfriendly), and targets. His descriptions of characters are evocative and detailed, sometimes funny, and (as you might imagine) occasionally more than a little racist and sexist. The plots show more sometimes get bogged down in the parade of closely observed characters, but are generally paced well. I'm not sure why Maugham decided to end the collection with the story that he did, but my goodness this thing has a rough ending. Maugham was one of the most popular writers of the 20s and 30s, and this is a good time capsule of that style. Worth reading, but probably not essential unless you are a spy novel type. show less
[Preface to Ashenden, Heinemann, The Collected Edition, 1934:]
This book is found on my experiences in the Intelligence Department during the war, but rearranged for the purposes of fiction. Fact is a poor story-teller. It starts a story at haphazard, generally long before the beginning, rambles on inconsequentially and tails off, leaving loose ends hanging about, without a conclusion. It works up to an interesting situation, and then leaves it in the air to follow an issue that has nothing to do with the point; it has no sense of climax and whittles away its dramatic effects in irrelevance. There is a school of novelists that looks upon this as the proper model of fiction. If life, they say, is arbitrary and disconnected, why, fiction show more should not be so too; for fiction should imitate life. […] They give you the materials for a dish and expect you to do the cooking yourself. Now this is one way like another of writing stories and some very good stories have been written in it. Chekov used it with mastery.
[…]
For it is quite unnecessary to treat as axiomatic the assertion that fiction should imitate life. It is merely a literary theory like another. There is in fact a second theory that is just as plausible, and this is that fiction should use life merely as raw material which it arranges in ingenious patterns.
[…]
The method of which I speak is that which chooses from life what is curious, telling and dramatic; it does not seek to copy life, but keeps to it closely enough not to shock the reader into disbelief; it leaves out this and changes that; it makes a formal decoration out of such of the facts as it has found convenient to deal with and presents a picture, the result of artifice, which, because it represents the author’s temperament, is to a certain extent a portrait of himself, but which is designed to excite, interest and absorb the reader. If it is a success he accepts it as true.
I have written all this in order to impress upon the reader that this book is a work of fiction, though I should say not much more so than several of the books on the same subject that have appeared during the last few years and that purport to be truthful memoirs. The work of an agent in the Intelligence Department is on the whole extremely monotonous. A lot of it is uncommonly useless. The material it offers for stories is scrappy and pointless; the author has himself to make it coherent, dramatic and probable.
[Preface to Ashenden, Doubleday, 1941:]
I have heard it suggested that the service is less efficiently conducted than it was when I was a very obscure and insignificant member of it, but whether this is so I have no means of telling. The circumstances are different and I daresay more difficult to deal with. At that time the nationals of neutral countries were allowed considerable liberty of movement and it was possible by their means to get much useful information; but now, taught presumably by past experience, the authorities are watchful and it would go ill with any alien who displayed unreasonable curiosity.
[…]
Though twenty years have passed since these stories were written I cannot think they are entirely out of date, since till quite recently, I am told, they have been required reading for persons entering the Department; and early in this war Dr Goebbels, speaking over the air, taking one of them as a literal statement of recent facts, gave it as an example of British cynicism and brutality.
But it is not for any topical interest they may have, nor because they have been used as a sort of textbook, that I now offer to the public a new edition of these stories. They purpose only to offer entertainment, which I still think, impenitently, is the main object of a work of fiction. show less
This book is found on my experiences in the Intelligence Department during the war, but rearranged for the purposes of fiction. Fact is a poor story-teller. It starts a story at haphazard, generally long before the beginning, rambles on inconsequentially and tails off, leaving loose ends hanging about, without a conclusion. It works up to an interesting situation, and then leaves it in the air to follow an issue that has nothing to do with the point; it has no sense of climax and whittles away its dramatic effects in irrelevance. There is a school of novelists that looks upon this as the proper model of fiction. If life, they say, is arbitrary and disconnected, why, fiction show more should not be so too; for fiction should imitate life. […] They give you the materials for a dish and expect you to do the cooking yourself. Now this is one way like another of writing stories and some very good stories have been written in it. Chekov used it with mastery.
[…]
For it is quite unnecessary to treat as axiomatic the assertion that fiction should imitate life. It is merely a literary theory like another. There is in fact a second theory that is just as plausible, and this is that fiction should use life merely as raw material which it arranges in ingenious patterns.
[…]
The method of which I speak is that which chooses from life what is curious, telling and dramatic; it does not seek to copy life, but keeps to it closely enough not to shock the reader into disbelief; it leaves out this and changes that; it makes a formal decoration out of such of the facts as it has found convenient to deal with and presents a picture, the result of artifice, which, because it represents the author’s temperament, is to a certain extent a portrait of himself, but which is designed to excite, interest and absorb the reader. If it is a success he accepts it as true.
I have written all this in order to impress upon the reader that this book is a work of fiction, though I should say not much more so than several of the books on the same subject that have appeared during the last few years and that purport to be truthful memoirs. The work of an agent in the Intelligence Department is on the whole extremely monotonous. A lot of it is uncommonly useless. The material it offers for stories is scrappy and pointless; the author has himself to make it coherent, dramatic and probable.
[Preface to Ashenden, Doubleday, 1941:]
I have heard it suggested that the service is less efficiently conducted than it was when I was a very obscure and insignificant member of it, but whether this is so I have no means of telling. The circumstances are different and I daresay more difficult to deal with. At that time the nationals of neutral countries were allowed considerable liberty of movement and it was possible by their means to get much useful information; but now, taught presumably by past experience, the authorities are watchful and it would go ill with any alien who displayed unreasonable curiosity.
[…]
Though twenty years have passed since these stories were written I cannot think they are entirely out of date, since till quite recently, I am told, they have been required reading for persons entering the Department; and early in this war Dr Goebbels, speaking over the air, taking one of them as a literal statement of recent facts, gave it as an example of British cynicism and brutality.
But it is not for any topical interest they may have, nor because they have been used as a sort of textbook, that I now offer to the public a new edition of these stories. They purpose only to offer entertainment, which I still think, impenitently, is the main object of a work of fiction. show less
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Writer William Somerset Maugham was born in Paris on January 25, 1874. He attended St. Thomas's Medical School in London. A prolific writer, Maugham produced novels, short stories, plays, and an autobiographical novel, "Of Human Bondage." Although he remains popular for his novels and short stories, when he was alive his plays, now dated, were show more also popular, and in 1908 four of his plays ran simultaneously. Maugham died in Nice, France, on December 16, 1965. (Bowker Author Biography) show less
W. Somerset Maugham has a Legacy Library. Legacy libraries are the personal libraries of famous readers, entered by LibraryThing members from the Legacy Libraries group.
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Common Knowledge
- Canonical title
- Ashenden; or, The British Agent
- Original title
- Ashenden; or, The British Agent
- Original publication date
- 1928
- People/Characters
- R.; Ashenden; Mr Harrington; Giulia Lazzari; Chandra Lal; Grantley Caypor (show all 8); Baroness von Higgins; Miss King
- Important places
- Naples, Italy; Geneva, Geneva, Switzerland; Basel, Basel-Stadt, Switzerland; Saint Petersburg, Russia (as Petrograd, Russia); Thonon-les-Bains, Haute-Savoie, Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes, France; Lucerne, Lucerne, Switzerland (show all 10); Lyon, Rhône, Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes, France; Paris, Île-de-France, France; London, England, UK; Vladivostok, Primorsky Krai, Russia
- Important events
- World War I
- Related movies
- Secret Agent (1936 | IMDb)
- Dedication
- To Gerald Kelly, R. A.
- First words
- It was not till the beginning of September that Ashenden, a writer by profession, who had been abroad at the outbreak of the war, managed to get back to England.
- Quotations
- Death so often chooses its moments without consideration.
. . . man has always found it easier to sacrifice his life than to learn the multiplication table.
Ashenden sighed, for the water was no longer quite so hot; he could not reach the tap with his hand nor could he turn it with his toes (as every properly regulated tap should turn) and if he got up enough to add more hot wate... (show all)r he might just as well get out altogether. On the other hand he could not pull out the plug with his foot in order to empty the bath and so force himself to get out, nor could he find in himself the will-power to step out of it like a man. He had often heard people tell him that he possessed character and he reflected that people judge hastily in the affairs of life because they judge on insufficient evidence: they had never seen him in a hot, but diminishingly hot, bath. - Last words
- (Click to show. Warning: May contain spoilers.)Mr. Harrington had not let his washing go.
- Publisher's editor*
- Borbás, Mária
- Original language
- English
*Some information comes from Common Knowledge in other languages. Click "Edit" for more information.
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