Translated material
Winston Churchill. "My Great Contemporaries"
Published for the first time
Every person has once been criticized, every idea has been scolded, but everything remains the same. Churchill (from an essay on B. Shaw) "My great contemporaries" - literary portraits of prominent political and military figures, written ...
Every person has once been criticized, every idea has been scolded, but everything remains the same. Churchill (from an essay on B. Shaw)
My Great Contemporaries are literary portraits of prominent political and military figures painted by Winston Churchill from 1929 to 1939. The author had a chance to work with many of them and was lucky to be friends.
A brilliant writer, observant and tenacious, Churchill paints with thin and precise strokes: Chamberlain, Rosebery, Curzon, Alphonse XIII, Lawrence of Arabia, Trotsky, Bernard Shaw, Morley, Asquith, Hindenburg, Clemenceau, Roosevelt ... Twenty-five stories of the great contemporaries of the great man will be published in Publishing house "Zakharov" in January 2011. For the first time in Russian.
George Bernard Shaw
I had one of my earliest antipathies towards Bernard Shaw. In fact, the first literary work I ever wrote while I was serving as a junior officer in India in 1897 (it did not see the light of the day) contained a fierce attack on him and his article, in which he wrote in a spirit of humiliation and mockery over the British army about some small war. Five years later, I met him personally: my mother, who always had a good relationship in artistic and theatrical circles, took me to dinner with him. I was attracted by his bright and cheerful manner of dialogue, and was struck by the fact that at dinner he ate only vegetables and fruits and drank only water. I wanted to poke him and asked: “What, you really never drink wine?” "No, I'm strong enough to stay fine as it is," he replied. Maybe he had heard about my youthful prejudices against him.
Later, especially after the war, there were several pleasant and memorable conversations about Ireland and socialism. I don't think they displeased him, he even gave me a copy of his outstanding work entitled "The Wise Woman's Path to Socialism", remarking that it was "the surest way to prevent you from reading it." In which, as it turned out later, he was wrong. In any case, I retained vivid impressions of this bright, intelligent, hot and understanding person, a kind of Santa Claus dancing in a circle of sparkles - an image that I would not want to lose.
One of his biographers, Edward Shanks, once said: "It is more important to remember that Shaw's heyday was in the nineties than to remember that he was born in Ireland." This is true, because the Irish influence in him can only be detected by someone who wants to see him. But the influence of the nineties is much stronger, but not the pale influence of the decadents, but the energetic pressure of the new journalism, new political movements, a new religious trend. The seething and charm of new movements captured him. He lived in London for nine years on the verge of poverty, without the slightest hope of success. His tobacco-colored suit, backwards (out of obscure economy) hat, black overcoat fading into grey-green were gradually becoming famous. But all these years, he said, he earned only six pounds; in other words, dependent on the mother. He wrote several mediocre novels that no one bought. He was so indecisive in his words that he would get stuck and ponder over the first phrase in his articles. Gradually, work came to him: critical articles on music, theater, notes and pamphlets on political topics. But all this happened after 1892, when his first play, The Widower's House, came out.
During his early years in Ireland, he contracted a distaste for secular manners and religion, perhaps because the youth of the time saw secularity as an object of ridicule, and Shaw was always a son of his time. But, perhaps, also because his family always tried, on the one hand, to correspond to their position as relatives of the baronet, and on the other hand, they fought poverty. He was sent to a school famous for prohibiting communication with the children of commoners, this led to the appearance of complexes in him, from which he could not get rid of. It was precisely because of this that he resolutely opposed "artificial morality", against the manual conformism of the aristocracy - in general, against what Kipling called the "corroded soul of things." When Shaw finally got on his feet, he appeared as a harbinger of rebellion, a destroyer of established norms, a cheerful, mischievous, violent mischief who asked the Sphinx the most uncomfortable questions.
He was an energetic, searching, angry man of about thirty years old, a poor author of several unsuccessful novels and several critical articles, with a good knowledge of music and painting, who knew how to masterfully express his indignation. He meets with the already elderly Henry George * and immediately joins the Fabian Society with enthusiasm. He performs in hotels and on the streets. He manages to suppress his fear of public speaking. He gives his speeches a polemical enthusiasm, which later can be felt in the prologue of each of his plays. In 1889, for the first time, the influence of Marxism can be seen in his words. He would later renounce Marx in favor of the socialist and founder of the Fabian Society, Sidney Webb, who Shaw acknowledged was an exceptional influence on him. But even this was not enough: it was necessary to find a force that guides and binds society instead of religion. According to Shanks, he "suffered all his life because he was ashamed to pronounce the name of God, but he could not find a suitable replacement for him." I had to invent the Power of Life, which turned the Savior into the likeness of a socialist, and introduce the kingdom of heaven into our political everyday life.
“Art,” our hero proclaims on another occasion, “is the only teacher other than torment.” However, as usual, he does not experience the effect of his own teaching. He never got involved in unprofitable tasks and a few years later wrote: “All my attempts to make art for the sake of art ended in failure. It's like hammering nails into music paper." His versatile taste allowed him to identify himself with Schopenhauer, Shelley, Goethe, Morris** and other authorities. Once, apparently, when critical thinking failed him, he compared William Morris to Goethe!
Meanwhile, he continues to attract attention from all sides. In The Ethics of the Devil, he said: “I leave the pleasure of solitude to those who are first a gentleman and only then a man of letters. And for me, please, a wagon and a pipe. The trumpet, which he used to awaken and shock, gave out a lot of crackling nonsense - for example: "There are just as good reasons for burning a heretic as for saving the crew of a sinking ship, or even more weighty."
Only at the end of the nineties did real, bright success come to Bernard Shaw forever. Through due periods of time and with increasing recognition, his plays "Candida", "Major Barbara" and "Man and Superman" followed one after another, attracting the attention of the intellectual elite. The place that had been vacant since Wilde's disappearance has been replaced by a man with a more flexible mindset, a writer of solidly constructed dialogues, dealing with more complex themes in densely packed plots, with a deeper and more natural understanding of the world. Features and originality of the dramaturgy of Bernard Shaw are well known. His plays are now performed not only where English is spoken, but also in other parts of the world, even more often than Shakespeare's plays. The whole society, all the parties listen attentively to the words that resound in them and welcome their arrival on the stage.
From the very first performances, his plays made an unforgettable impression. Ibsen broke the "good play" stereotype by making it even better; The show broke it by not "making" plays at all. One day he was told that Sir James Barry first created the plot of the play Shall We Join the Ladies?, and then wrote it. Shaw was indignant: “I wonder how it is possible to know how the play will end before you start writing it? When I start writing, I have no idea what the ending will be." His other major innovation was that he made the main thing not the interaction of characters or character and circumstances, but the play of the arguments of the parties. His ideas were embodied in the characters, and the fight played out between them sometimes dramatically, sometimes not. His characters - with a few exceptions - existed for the sake of lines, and not to move around the stage. And yet they were living heroes. <…>
There are people who follow in life the principles that they preach, but you can't say the same about Bernard Shaw. Few people manage to surpass him in the ability to separate principles and life. His homeland in spirit is certainly Russia, his homeland by birth is the free republic of Ireland, and he lives in calm England. His destructive ideas about life and society have no circulation in his house and his everyday life. He leads a respectable life far from his explosive imagination. He mocks marriage vows, and sometimes even love itself, but this does not prevent him from being in a prudent and happy marriage. He enjoys all the perks of an irresponsible chatterer, ranting from dawn to dusk, but at the same time he advocates the abolition of parliamentarism and the establishment of an iron dictatorship, the first victim of which he risks becoming himself. He chats nicely with tame English socialists and poses with visible pleasure against the backdrop of the smiles of such people as Mussolini or Stalin. Oblivious to his own thoughtlessness, if not fraud - perhaps unwitting - he proclaims in a decisive tone the need for equality of income, arguing that he who receives more than another is worthy of condemnation. He advocates that the state should own all the wealth of society. However, when Lloyd George's budget first made a modest attempt to introduce a special tax on the rich, no one could shout down this protesting Fabian, then already well off. He is both a greedy capitalist and a sincere communist in one person. His characters cheerfully discuss killing people for an idea, but he wouldn't hurt a fly in real life.
It seems that the combination of these conflicting habits, principles and opinions gives him pleasure. He walked his bright life path laughingly, destroying in word or deed his own arguments, expressed by him when considering one or another side of the issue, which infuriated any audience to which he addressed. It seemed to him funny: he scoffed at any case that he defended. The world has long and patiently watched the masterful antics and antics of this amazing two-headed chameleon, and all this time he wanted to be taken seriously.
Several years ago my attention was drawn to a report he published about a trip to Russia. As a companion or companion, he invited Lady Astor. The choice was good and appropriate. Lady Astor, like Bernard Shaw himself, knows how to lead a social life in this best of all possible worlds. She reigns on both sides of the Atlantic, in the Old and New Worlds, both as a socialite and as the leader of a progressive women's democratic movement. She combines a kind heart with a sharp tongue. Her name is associated with a historic event: she became the first woman parliamentarian. She strongly condemns the vice of gambling, but is closely associated with one of the best racehorse stables. She accepts communist hospitality and flattery and remains a Conservative MP for Plymouth. She combines all these opposites so naturally that the public, tired of criticizing her, can only be surprised. <…>
The leaders of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics must have been waiting with some trepidation in their gloomy mansions for the arrival of this cheerful delegation. Russians love circus performances. Since many of their best comedians were shot, starved to death, or imprisoned, these guests could fill the void for a while. And now on the stage in the capitalist pantomime appeared the world-famous intellectual clown Pantalone and the charming Colombina. They drew crowds of spectators.
Trained demonstrators took to the streets with red scarves and flags. Huge orchestras roared. The loud cries of the proletarians shook the sky. The nationalized railways provided them with the best carriages. Commissar Lunacharsky made a flowery speech. Commissioner Litvinov, not noticing the queues for groceries in the stores, prepared a sumptuous banquet. First Commissar Stalin, a “man of steel,” threw open the doors to the heavily guarded shrines of the Kremlin and, putting aside the daily quota of approving death sentences and signing arrest warrants, greeted the guests with a smile that testified to his overwhelming sense of friendship.
But! We must not forget that it was an educational and educational trip. After all, it was important for our public figures to find out for themselves the truth about Russia: to see for themselves how the five-year plan works. They want to know if it is true that communism is better than capitalism, and how the broad masses of the Russian people live in "freedom and the pursuit of happiness" under the new regime. Who would spare a few days to achieve this difficult goal? Would this old fool with an icy smile and a well-invested capital pass up the opportunity to drop a few heavier bricks on the corns of his sworn friends? And Lady Astor? Her husband had received three million pounds in tax refunds from an American court the week before, according to the newspapers. For her, all these joint fraternizations and events should be, probably, a very interesting sight. But it is the bright hours that go faster.
If I have portrayed this visit in comical terms, there must be a serious moral. It is precisely said that the genius of comedy and the genius of tragedy are essentially one and the same. In Russia, huge masses of speechless people live according to the schedule of the wartime draft army. The people during the years of peace suffer from hardships and hardships caused by the harsh measures of the authorities. The people are ruled by terror, fanaticism and secret police. In this state, the subjects are so happy that they should be prohibited from leaving it on pain of punishment, and its diplomats and agents sent to foreign countries leave wives and children as hostages to ensure their return. A system has been created there whose social achievement is to stuff five or six people into one room, where the purchasing power of wages cannot compete with the British unemployment benefit, where life is not guaranteed to anyone, where freedom is not known, where virtue and culture disappear, where armaments and preparation for war is in the order of things. In a country where the name of God is blasphemy, and a man suffering from disasters unprecedented anywhere in the world, mercy is denied on both sides of the grave. His soul, according to the aptly revealing expression of Robespierre, "is just a breath of wind disappearing at the edge of the grave." <…>
Leon Trotsky
When a usurper and tyrant descends to literary polemics, when a communist pours out his soul in the capitalist press instead of making bombs, when a fugitive military leader replays his battles again and again, when a retired executioner turns into a talker by the salon fireplace, we can rejoice at the signs of better days.
I have before me an article that Trotsky, aka Bronstein, recently wrote for John O'London's Weekly. In it he talks about my characterization of Lenin, the Allied intervention in Russia, Lord Birkenhead, and other controversial topics. Trotsky wrote it in Turkish exile, from where he sent petitions to England, France and Germany with a request to let him into that very civilization, the destruction of which was and remains the main goal of his life. Russia, his own Red Russia, which, regardless of the suffering of others and the risk to himself, he cut and sewed according to his own arbitrariness, threw him out. All his intrigues, all his daring accomplishments, all his labors, all his appeals, all his cruelties only led to the fact that another "comrade", his subordinate in the revolutionary hierarchy, is weaker in mind, although, perhaps, equal to him in the number of crimes , rules, taking his place, and he, the one who was once a triumphant Trotsky, whose one frown meant death for many thousands of people, turned into a furry-filled waterskin, inconsolably stuck on the shores of the Black Sea and later thrown out on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico .
He was hard to please. He did not like the king and therefore he killed him and his family. He did not like the government of the Russian Empire, and therefore he blew it up. He did not like the liberalism of Guchkov and Miliukov, and therefore he overthrew them. He could not bear the social revolutionary moderation of Kerensky and Savinkov, and so he took their place. And when the communist regime, for whose victory he fought with all his might, finally won all over Russia, when the dictatorship of the proletariat became the supreme power, when the new social order turned from theory into practice, when the hated traditions and culture of the period of individualism were destroyed, when the secret police entered the service of the Third International, in short, when he sailed to his Utopia, he still did not feel satisfied. He was still furious, snarling, grumbling, biting and scheming.
He raised the poor to the rich. He raised the beggars to the poor. He raised criminals to beggars. Everything happened the way he wanted. But the vices of human society demanded more and more whips. Having sank to the very bottom of the deepest depression, he tried to dive even deeper with desperate energy. Poor scoundrel, at the bottom he ran into a rock. There is nothing in the world below the criminal communist class.
In vain did he turn his eyes to the realm of wild beasts. The monkeys could not appreciate his eloquence. The wolves, whose numbers increased markedly during the years of his reign, did not obey the mobilization decrees. The criminals, who had received positions from his hands, came together and drove him out.
That is why these chatty articles appeared. That is why this howl came from the Bosporus. That is why there is a plea for permission to visit the British Museum in order to study its documents, or to go to the waters in Malvern to treat rheumatism, or to Nauheim to treat the heart, or to Homburg to treat gout, or somewhere else for something else. That is why he sits sullenly in the shade on the Turkish coast under the gaze of Mustafa Kemal. That is why he was forced to leave France and Scandinavia. That is why Mexico became his last refuge.
One cannot but be surprised by the fact that Trotsky, with all his intellect, cannot understand the distinct hostility of civilized rulers towards the leading representatives of the communist movement. He writes as if it were driven by simple petty prejudices against new ideas and competing political theories. But communism is not just a creed. This is a plan of action. A communist is not just a bearer of certain views, he is also an ardent adept of carefully thought-out means for their implementation. Every phase, every aspect of the anatomy of discontent and revolution has been studied, and a real textbook on the undermining of existing social institutions has been compiled. The methods of implementation are as much a part of the communist religion as the teaching itself. First, the time-honored principles of liberalism and democracy are used to protect the baby. Freedom of speech, the right to public meetings, any form of legal political agitation and constitutional rights parade through the streets, and no one denies them. Alliances are made with every social movement on the left flank.
The creation of a moderate liberal or socialist regime during a period of social upheaval becomes the first stage. But as soon as he is in power, he is immediately overthrown. Troubles and a general lack of everything caused by turmoil must be used. Between the representatives of the new government and the workers, fights should be arranged, as bloody as possible. We must create martyrs. From the reconciliation of the ruling circles, it is also necessary to profit. Pacifist propaganda can be used as a mask to hide a hatred that people have never known before. Trust is excluded; more precisely, it cannot be given to non-communists. Every act of goodwill, tolerance, conciliation, mercy and generosity undertaken by a government or statesmen must be used to crush them. And then, when the time is right and the right moment comes, you need to use any form of deadly violence without delay and without regret - from the uprising of the street mob to the murder of specific people. The citadel will be taken under the flags of freedom and democracy, and as soon as the apparatus of power is in the hands of the leaders of the movement, all opposition, all dissenters must be destroyed forever. <…>
Perhaps Trotsky never understood the Marxist creed, but he was an incomparable expert in its teachings. In his nature were hidden all the qualities necessary in the art of destroying society: organizational talent, like Carnot, cold, detached intelligence, like Machiavelli, oratorical ability to captivate the crowd, like Cleon, cruelty, like Jack the Ripper, toughness, like Oates. . His relentless high capacity for action was not weakened by the slightest compassion, nor by human feelings of kinship or spiritual unity. Like a cancerous tumor, he grew, he fed, he caused suffering, he killed in full accordance with his nature.
He found a wife who shared his communist religion. She worked and plotted with him. She shared with him the hardships of his first Siberian exile during the time of the tsar. She bore him children. She helped him escape. And he left her. He found a kindred spirit in a girl from a good family, who was expelled from the Kharkov gymnasium because she urged students not to go to prayer and read communist literature instead of the Bible. With her, he created another family. As one of his biographers (Max Eastman) writes, “with the exact interpretation of the law, she was not his wife, since Trotsky never divorced Alexandra Lvovna Sokolovskaya, who still bears the surname Bronstein.” About his mother, he writes coldly and dispassionately. His father, old Bronstein, died of typhus in 1920 at the age of 83. The triumph of his son did not bring happiness to this honest, working, believing Jew. The Reds persecuted him for being a bourgeois, the Whites for being the father of Trotsky. Abandoned by his son, he was left to sail on the waves of the Russian flood, and he stubbornly sailed to the end. What else was left for him?
And yet in Trotsky, an individual so far removed from ordinary human attachments and feelings, so towering, shall we say, against the backdrop of an ordinary flock, so perfectly prepared for his task, there was one element of weakness, which from a communist point of view was especially serious. Trotsky was ambitious, and ambitious in the most ordinary sense of the word. No collectivism in the world could take away from him the feeling of egoism, which became in him a disease, and a fatal disease. Not only must he destroy the state, he must then govern what is left of him. He hated any system of government if it did not provide for him as commander, or at least first deputy. <…>
This led to problems. Friends began to envy. Standing at the head of the Red Army, which he himself reconstructed, despite indescribable difficulties and dangers, Trotsky came very close to the empty throne of the Romanovs.
The communist principles he had applied with such destructive effect in his dealings with others could not hinder him now. He cast them aside as easily as he forgot his wife, his father, and his own name. It is necessary to rebuild the army, it is necessary to achieve victory, Trotsky must do this, and Trotsky must benefit from this. And why else are revolutions being made? He used his exceptional talent to the fullest. The officers and soldiers of the new type of army were fed, dressed better than anyone else in Russia, and the attitude towards them was corresponding. Thousands of officers of the tsarist army were persuaded to return. "To hell with politics, let's save Russia." Salute was restored. Returned insignia and seniority. The commanders were given back their powers. Senior officers and generals found that these communist upstarts treated them with a respect that they had never felt in the offices of the tsarist ministers. And when the allies left the Russian patriotic movement, these measures were crowned with an easy but complete victory. In 1922, the military valued Trotsky so highly for his personal attitude to the army and its development that they could have made him the dictator of Russia, if not for one fatal circumstance.
He was Jewish. He was still Jewish, and nothing could be done about it. To endure the hardships of fate, to abandon one's family, to disgrace one's people, to give a damn about the religion of one's fathers, to unite Jew and goy in common hatred - and all this in order to lose such a great trophy for such a stupid reason?! It is really difficult to come to terms with such fanaticism, such vulgarity, such hypocrisy. And this disaster led to even greater troubles. Disappointment brought disaster.
And all because the comrades did not sit idly by. They also listened to the conversations of the officers. They also saw what an army rebuilt on the basis of old cadres is capable of. While Lenin was alive, the threat seemed not very real. Lenin did consider Trotsky his political heir. He tried to protect him. But in 1924 Lenin died, and Trotsky, still preoccupied with his army, still running his department, still basking in the eulogies that had previously been dedicated only to Nicholas II, suddenly found a strong and tightly knit opposition organized against him. <…>
What place will he take in history? Despite all the horrors of the French Revolution, a bright light illuminates its stage and the faces of the actors acting on it. For a hundred years now, the paths of life of such personalities as Robespierre, Danton and even Marat have gloomily shone on it. But the boring and miserable figures of the Russian Bolsheviks do not arouse interest even in the size of their crimes. Everything extraordinary, contrasting is flooded by a wide Asian flood. Even the death of millions and the suffering of tens of millions will not arouse the interest of future generations in their rude faces and outlandish names. To date, many of them have already paid for their crimes. From the prisons of the Cheka, they were born to make their strange, unnatural confessions before the whole world. They met their death in secret, the same that surrounded the death of so many more worthy and brave people whom they once sentenced themselves. <…>
_ Henry George was an American economist who believed that the poverty of most of society was growing faster than the wealth of a smaller part, and called for an end to this. William Morris (1834-1896) - one of the first English socialists, poet._ Translation and notes by Sergei Strukov *