In the summer of 1955 1 was living with mY wife and two
children at St Jean-Cap Ferrat in a decaying old villa called
L Escapade . Up on the hill above us was Somerset
Maugham s Mauresque , which overlooked the deep, blue
bay of Villcfranche, and from which the old master could
see almost all the true Riviera as far west as Antibes. The
other neighbour above us was one of the Rothschilds,
whose villa had been turned into a sort of empty, marble
museum of nineteenth-century objets d art. At the foot of
our mutual hill was St Jean itself, still a village then,
although on one side of its bay was the huge Villa Singer
(Sinjay), and on the other side the rich old Bristol Hotel of
Beaulieu.
It was an exotic and ridiculous setting for the peculiar
drama that we played out on our verandahs and gardcns and
terraces that year. Drama is not a very good word any
more. It was more of a confrontation. What else could
you call a carefully prepared meeting between one of
Roosevelt s advisers on Chinese affairs whose life had been
devastated (like Alger Hiss s) by the condemnations of the
Un-American Activities Committee, and his former friend
who had actually denounced him to the committee and
ruined him?
The idea of bringing the two men together again was so
horrible and yet so fascinating that when it was first sug-
gested I was repulsed and enthusiastic at the same time,
because the events were still brutally flesh in 1955. Being
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