Recently I was told the following story, and I have every
reason to believe that it is true.
Among the German prisoners captured in France there
are a certain number of Russians. Some time back two were captured who did
not speak Russian or any other language that was known either to their
captors or their fellow prisoners. They could, in fact, only converse with
one another. A professor of Slavonic languages, brought down from Oxford,
could make nothing of what they were saying. Then it happened that a
sergeant who had served on the frontiers of India overheard them talking and
recognized their language, which he was able to speak a little. It was
Tibetan! After some questioning, he managed to get their story out of them.
Some years earlier they had strayed over the
frontier into the Soviet Union and had been conscripted into a labour
battalion, afterwards being sent to western Russia when the war with Germany
broke out. They were taken prisoner by the Germans and sent to North Africa;
later they were sent to France, then exchanged into a fighting unit when the
Second Front opened, and taken prisoner by the British. All this time they
had been able to speak to nobody but one another, and had no notion of what
was happening or who was fighting whom.
It would round the story off neatly if they were
now conscripted into the British army and sent to fight the Japanese, ending
up somewhere in Central Asia, quite close to their native village, but still
very much puzzled as to what it is all about.
An Indian journalist sends me a cutting of an
interview he had with Bernard
Shaw. Shaw says one or two sensible things and does state that the Congress
leaders ought not to have been arrested, but on the whole it is a disgusting
exhibition. Here are some samples:
Q: Supposing you were a National Leader of
India, how would you have dealt with the British? What would have been your
methods to achieve Indian independence?
A: Please do not suppose a situation that
can never happen. The achievement of Indian independence is not my business.
Q: What do you think is the most effective way
of getting the British out of India? What should the Indian people do?
A: Make them superfluous by doing their work
better. Or assimilate them by cross-fertilization. British babies do not
thrive in India.
What kind of answers are those to give to people
who are labouring under a huge and justified grievance? Shaw also refuses to
send birthday greetings to Gandhi,
on the ground that this is a practice he never follows, and advises the
Indian people not to bother if Britain repudiates the huge credit balance
which India has piled up in this country during the war. I wonder what
impression this interview would give to some young Indian student who has
been a couple of years in jail and has dimly heard of Bernard Shaw as one of
Britain’s leading ‘progressive’ thinkers? Is it surprising if even
very level-headed Indians are liable to a recurrent suspicion that ‘all
Englishmen are the same’?
Sitwell’s little book and my remarks on it, brought in an unusually
large amount of correspondence, and some of the points that were raised seem
to need further comment.
One correspondent solved the whole problem by
asserting that society can get along perfectly well without artists. It can
also get along without scientists, engineers, doctors, bricklayers or
road-menders – for the time being. It can even get along without sowing
next year’s harvest, provided it is understood that everyone is going to
starve to death in about twelve months’ time.
This notion, which is fairly widespread and has
been encouraged by people who should know better, simply restates the
problem in a new form. What the artist does is not immediately and obviously
necessary in the same way as what the milkman or the coal miner does. Except
in the ideal society which has not yet arrived, or in very chaotic and
prosperous ages like the one that is just ending, this means in practice
that the artist must have some kind of patron – a ruling class, the Church,
the State, or a political party. And the question ‘Which is best?’
normally means ‘Which interferes least?’
Several correspondents pointed out that one
solution is for the artist to have an alternative means of livelihood. ‘It
is quite feasible,’ says Mr P. Philips Price, ‘to write and devote
oneself to Socialism
whilst accepting the patronage of the B.B.C., M.O.I., Rank or C.E.M.A.
. . . the only way out is some minor form of prostitution, part time.’ The
difficulty here is that the practice of writing or any other art takes up a
lot of time and energy. Moreover, the kind of job that a writer gets in
war-time, if he is not in the Forces (or even if he is – for there is
always P.R.), usually has something to do with propaganda. But this is
itself a kind of writing. To compose a propaganda pamphlet or a radio
feature needs just as much work as to write something you believe in, with
the difference that the finished product is worthless. I could give a whole
list of writers of promise or performance who are now being squeezed dry
like oranges in some official job or other. It is true that in most cases it
is voluntary. They want the war to be won, and they know that everyone must
sacrifice something. But still the result is the same. They will come out of
the war with nothing to show for their labours and with not even the
stored-up experience that the soldier gets in return for his physical
If a writer is to have an alternative profession,
it is much better that it should have nothing to do with writing. A
particularly successful holder of two jobs was Trollope,
who produced two thousand words between seven and nine o’clock every
morning before leaving for his work at the Post Office. But Trollope was an
exceptional man, and as he also hunted three days a week and was usually
playing whist till midnight, I suspect that he did not overwork himself in
his official duties.
Other correspondents pointed out that in a
genuinely Socialist society the distinction between the artist and the
ordinary man would vanish. Very likely, but then no such society yet exists.
Others rightly claimed that State patronage is a better guarantee against
starvation than private patronage, but seemed to me too ready to disregard
the censorship that this implies. The usual line was that it is better for
the artist to be a responsible member of a community than an anarchic
individualist. The issue, however, is not between irresponsible ‘self-
expression’ and discipline; it is between truth and lies.
Artists don’t so much object to aesthetic
discipline. Architects will design theatres or churches equally readily,
writers will switch from the three-volume novel to the one-volume, or from
the play to the film, according to the demand. But the point is that this is
a political age. A writer inevitably writes – and less directly this
applies to all the arts – about contemporary events, and his impulse is to
tell what he believes to be the truth. But no government, no big
organization, will pay for the truth. To take a crude example: can you
imagine the British Government commissioning E.
M. Forster to write A Passage to India? He could only write it
because he was not dependent on State aid. Multiply that instance by
a million, and you see the danger that is involved – not, indeed, in a
centralized economy as such, but in our going forward into a collectivist
age without remembering that the price of liberty is eternal vigilance.