The Golden Notebook (33 page)

August 28th, 1954

Spent last evening trying to find out as much as possible about Quemoy. Very little in my bookshelves or in Molly's. We were both frightened, perhaps this will be the beginning of a new war. Then Molly said: 'How often have we done this, sat here worrying, but in the end there isn't a big war. ' I could see something else was worrying her. Finally she told me: she had been close friends with the Forest brothers. When they 'disappeared' into--presumably-Czechoslovakia, she went down to H. Q. to make enquiries. They suggested she was not to worry, they were doing important work for the Party. Yesterday it was announced they had been in prison three years, just released. She went to H. Q. again yesterday, asked if they had known the brothers were in jail. It turned out it had been known all along. She said to me: 'I am thinking of leaving the Party.' I said: 'Why not see if things don't get better. After all, they're still cleaning up after Stalin.' She said: 'You said last week you were going to leave. Anyway, that's what I said to Hal-yes, I saw the big chief himself. I said: "All the villains are dead, aren't they? Stalin and Beria, etc. etc.? So why are you still going on as usual?" He said it was a question of standing by the Soviet Union under attack. You know, the usual thing. I said: "How about the Jews in the Soviet Union?" He said it was a capitalist lie. I said: "Oh, Christ, not again." Anyway he gave me a long lecture, ever so friendly and calm, about not panicking. Suddenly I felt as if either I was mad or all of them were. I said to him: "Look, you people have got to understand something pretty soon or you'll have no one left in your Party-you've got to learn to tell the truth and stop all this hole-and-corner conspiracy and telling lies about things." He suggested I was very understandably upset because my friends had been in jug. Suddenly I realised I was getting all apologetic and defensive, when I knew quite well I was in the right and he in the wrong. Isn't it odd, Anna? In one minute I'd have started apologising to him? I only just stopped myself. I left quickly. I came home and went up to lie down I was so upset.' Michael came in late. I told him what Molly had said. He said to me: 'And so you're going to leave the Party?' It sounded as if he would be sorry if I did, in spite of everything. Then he said, very dry: 'Do you realise, Anna, that when you and Molly talk of leaving the Party, the suggestion always is that leaving it will lead you straight into some morass of moral turpitude. Yet the fact is that literally millions of perfectly sound human beings have left the Party (if they weren't murdered first) and they left it because they were leaving behind murder, cynicism, horror, betrayal.' I said: 'Perhaps that isn't the point at all?' 'Then what is the point?' I said to him: 'A minute ago I got the impression, if I'd said I'm leaving the Party, you'd have been sorry.' He laughed, acknowledging it; then he was silent for some time and then he said, laughing again: 'Perhaps I'm with you, Anna, because it's nice to be with someone full of faith, even though one hasn't got it oneself.' 'Faith!' I said. 'Your earnest enthusiasm.' I said: 'I would hardly have described my attitude to the Party in those terms.' 'All the same, you are in it, which is more than could be said for-' He grinned, and I said: 'For you?' He seemed very unhappy, sitting quiet, thinking. Finally he said: 'Well we tried. We did try. It didn't come off, but... let's go to bed, Anna.' I dreamed marvellously. I dreamed there was an enormous web of beautiful fabric stretched out. It was incredibly beautiful, covered all over with embroidered pictures. The pictures were illustrations of the myths of mankind but they were not just pictures, they were the myths themselves, so that the soft glittering web was alive. There were many subtle and fantastic colours, but the overall feeling this expanse of fabric gave was of redness, a sort of variegated glowing red. In my dream I handled and felt this material and wept with joy. I looked again and saw that the material was shaped like a map of the Soviet Union. It began to grow: it spread out, lapped outwards like a soft glittering sea. It included now the countries around the Soviet Union, like Poland, Hungary, etc., but at the edges it was transparent and thin. I was still crying with joy. Also with apprehension. And now the soft red glittering mist spread over China and it deepened over China into a hard heavy clot of scarlet. And now I was standing out in space somewhere, keeping my position in space with an occasional down-treading movement of my feet in the air. I stood in a blue mist of space while the globe turned, wearing shades of red for the communist countries, and a patchwork of colours for the rest of the world. Africa was black, but a deep, luminous, exciting black, like a night when the moon is just below the horizon and will soon rise. Now I was very frightened and I had a sick feeling, as if I were being invaded by some feeling I didn't want to admit. I was too sick and dizzy to look down and see the World turning. Then I look and it is like a vision-time has gone and the whole history of man, the long story of mankind, is present in what I see now, and it is like a great soaring hymn of joy and triumph in which pain is a small lively counterpoint. And I look and see that the red areas are being invaded by the bright different colours of the other parts of the world. The colours are melting and flowing into each other, indescribably beautiful so that the world becomes whole, all one beautiful glittering colour, but a colour I have never seen in life. This is a moment of almost unbearable happiness, the happiness seems to swell up, so that everything suddenly bursts, explodes-I was suddenly standing in space, in silence. Beneath me was silence. The slowly turning world was slowly dissolving, disintegrating and flying off into fragments, all through space, so that all around me were weightless fragments drifting about, bouncing into each other and drifting away. The world had gone, and there was chaos. I was alone in chaos. And very clear in my ear a small voice said: Somebody pulled a thread of the fabric and it all dissolved. I woke up, joyful and elated. I wanted to wake Michael to tell him, but I knew, of course, that I couldn't describe the emotion of the dream in words. Almost at once the meaning of the dream began to fade; I said to myself, the meaning is going, catch it, quick; then I thought, but I don't know what the meaning is. But the meaning had gone, leaving me indescribably happy. And I was sitting up in the dark beside Michael, just myself. And I lay down again and put my arms around him and he turned and laid his face on my breasts in his sleep. Then I thought: The truth is I don't care a damn about politics or philosophy or anything else, all I care about is that Michael should turn in the dark and put his face against my breasts. And then I drifted off to sleep. This morning I could remember the dream clearly, and how I had felt. I remembered the words particularly: Somebody pulled a thread of the fabric and it all dissolved. All day the dream has been shrinking and dwindling, so that now it is small and bright and meaningless. But this morning when Michael woke in my arms he opened his eyes and smiled at me. The warm blue of his eyes as he smiled into my face. I thought: so much of my life has been twisted and painful that now when happiness floods right through me like being flooded over with warm glittering blue water, I can't believe it. I say to myself: I am Anna Wulf, this is me, Anna, and I'm happy. [Here was pasted in some scribbled sheets dated 11th November, 1952.] Writers' group meeting last night. Five of us-to discuss Stalin on Linguistics. Rex, literary critic, proposes to take this pamphlet sentence by sentence. George 'proletarian writer' from the 'thirties, pipe-smoking and bluff, says: 'Good God, have we got to? Never was a chap for theory.' Clive, communist pamphleteer and journalist, says: 'Yes, we must discuss it seriously.' Dick, the socialist-realist novelist, says: 'We ought to get hold of the main points, at least.' So Rex begins. He speaks of Stalin in the simple respectful tone that has been familiar for years. I am thinking: Yet every one of us in this room, meeting in a pub, or on the street, would use a very different tone, dry and painful. We are silent while Rex makes a short prefatory speech. Then Dick who has just come back from Russia (he is always on some trip to a communist country somewhere) mentions a conversation he had in Moscow with a Soviet writer about one of Stalin's more savage attacks on a philosopher: 'We must remember that their tradition of polemics is much more rough and knockabout than ours.' His tone the simple, bluff, I-am-a-good-fellow tone which I use myself sometimes: 'Well, of course you have to remember their legal traditions are very different from ours,' etc. I am beginning to be uncomfortable whenever I hear this tone; a few days ago, I heard myself use it, and I started to stammer. I usually don't stammer. We all have copies of the pamphlet. I am discouraged because it seems to me nonsense, but I am not philosophically trained (Rex is) and am afraid of making stupid remarks. But it is more than that. I am in a mood that gets more and more familiar: words lose their meaning suddenly. I find myself listening to a sentence, a phrase, a group of words, as if they are in a foreign language-the gap between what they are supposed to mean, and what in fact they say seems unbridgeable. I have been thinking of the novels about the breakdown of language, like Finnegans Wake. And the preoccupation with semantics. The fact that Stalin bothers to write a pamphlet on this subject at all is just a sign of a general uneasiness about language. But what right have I to criticise anything when sentences from the most beautiful novel can seem idiotic to me? Nevertheless, this pamphlet seems to me clumsy, and I say: 'Perhaps the translation is bad.' I am astounded that my tone is apologetic. (I know if I were alone with Rex it would not be apologetic.) Instantly I see that I have expressed everyone's feeling that the pamphlet is in fact bad. For years, over pamphlets, articles, novels, pronouncements from Russia we've said: 'Well the translation is probably bad.' And now I am having to fight with myself to say: 'This pamphlet is bad.' I am amazed at the strength of my reluctance to say it. (I wonder how many of us come to such meetings determined to express our uneasiness, our disgust, and find ourselves silenced by this extraordinary prohibition once the meeting starts?) Finally-and my tone has a touch of 'the little girl' in it, a note of charm-I say: 'Look, I'm not equipped to criticise it philosophically, but surely this sentence here is a key sentence, the phrase 'neither superstructure nor base'-surely that is either completely out of the Marxist canon, a new thought completely, or it's an evasion. Or simply arrogance.' (I am relieved that as I go on my tone loses its disarming 'charm' and becomes serious, though overexcited.) Rex blushes, turns the pamphlet over and over and says: 'Yes, I must admit that sentence did strike me as rather...' There is a silence and then George says bluffly: 'All this theoretical stuff is just over my head.' And now we all look uncomfortable-except for George. A lot of comrades are now using this rough-and-ready attitude, a sort of comfortable philistinism. It has become so much a part of George's personality now, however, that he is quite happy about it. I find myself thinking: Well, it's justified-he does so much good work for the Party, if that's his way of staying in it, then... Without actually taking a decision that we are not going to discuss the pamphlet, we let it be forgotten; and talk about general matters, communist politics anywhere. Russia, China, France, our own country. All the time I am thinking: Not once does one of us say: something is fundamentally wrong; yet the implication of what we say amounts to that. I can't stop thinking about this phenomenon-that when two of us meet, our discussions are on a totally different level than when there are three people present. Two people, and it is two persons, from a critical tradition, discussing politics as people not communists would discuss them. (By people not communists I mean that they wouldn't be recognised as communists, except for the jargon, by an outsider listening in.) But more than two, and a different spirit altogether is present. This is particularly true of what is said about Stalin. Although I am quite prepared to believe that he is mad and a murderer (though remembering always what Michael says-that this is a time when it is impossible to know the truth about anything), I like to hear people use that tone of simple, friendly respect for him. Because if that tone were to be thrown aside, something very important would go with it, paradoxically enough, a faith in the possibilities of democracy, of decency. A dream would be dead- for our time, at least. The talk became desultory, I offered to make tea, everyone was pleased that the meeting was going to end. I made tea, and then I remembered a story that was sent to me last week. By a comrade living somewhere near Leeds. When I first read it, I thought it was an exercise in irony. Then a very skilful parody of a certain attitude. Then I realised it was serious-it was at the moment I searched my memory and rooted out certain fantasies of my own. But what seemed to me important was that it could be read as parody, irony or seriously. It seems to me this fact is another expression of the fragmentation of everything, the painful disintegration of something that is linked with what I feel to be true about language, the thinning of language against the density of our experience. However, when I'd made the tea, I said I wanted to read them a story. [Here were gummed in several sheets of ordinary lined writing paper torn off a blue writing pad, written over in very neat tidy handwriting.] When Comrade Ted knew that he had been chosen to go on the teachers' delegation to the Soviet Union he felt very proud. At first he could not believe it. He did not feel worthy of such a great honour. But he wasn't going to miss this chance of going to the first workers' country! At last the great day came when with the other comrades he assembled at the airport. There were three teachers on the delegation who were not Party members, and fine chaps they turned out to be too! Ted found the air trip over Europe delightful-his excitement mounted every minute and when he at last found himself in a very expensively appointed bedroom in the hotel in Moscow he was almost beside himself with excitement! It was nearly midnight when the delegation arrived, so the first thrill of
seeing a communist country must wait until the morning! Comrade Ted was seated at the big table-large enough to seat a dozen people at least!-that was provided for him in his bedroom, writing up his notes for the day, for he was determined to keep a record of every precious moment-when there was a knock on the door. He said: 'Please come in,' expecting to see one of the comrades from the delegation, but there were two young chaps wearing cloth caps and workers' boots. One of them said: 'Comrade, please come with us.' They had open simple faces, and I did not ask where they were taking me. (I must confess, to my shame, that I had one bad half-moment, remembering all the stories we had read in the capitalist press-we are all infected by this poison despite ourselves!) I went down in the lift with my two friendly guides. The woman at the reception desk smiled at me and greeted my two new friends. There was a black car waiting. We got into it and sat side by side without speaking. Almost immediately in front of us were the towers of the Kremlin. So it was a short drive. We went through the big gates and the car pulled up outside a discreet side door. My two friends got out of the car, and opened the door for me. They smiled: 'Come with us comrade.' We went up a magnificent marble staircase with works of art on every side and then into a small side corridor that was plain and simple. We stopped outside an ordinary door, a door like any other. One of my guides knocked. A gruff voice said: 'Come in.' Again the two young chaps smiled at me, and nodded. They went off down the passage arm in arm. I went into the room greatly daring, but somehow I knew what I would see. Comrade Stalin sat behind an ordinary desk, that showed much signs of hard use, smoking a pipe, in his shirt-sleeves. 'Come in comrade and sit down,' he said, in a kindly way. I felt at ease, and sat down, looking at the honest kindly face and the twinkling eyes. 'Thank you, comrade,' I said, sitting opposite to him. There was a short silence, while he smiled and examined me. Then he said: 'Comrade, you must forgive me for disturbing you so late at night... ' 'Oh,' I interrupted eagerly, 'but the whole world knows you are a late worker. ' He passed his rough worker's hand across his brow. Now I saw the marks of fatigue and strain-working for us! For the world! I felt proud and humble. 'I have disturbed you so late, comrade, because I have need of your advice. I heard there was a delegation of teachers from your country and I thought I would avail myself of the opportunity. ' 'Anything at all I can tell you, Comrade Stalin... ' 'I often wonder if I am getting the correct advice about our policy in Europe, and in particular, our policy for Great Britain. ' I kept silent, but I was enormously proud-yes, this is a truly great man! Like a real communist leader he is prepared to take advice from even rank and file party cadres like myself! 'I would be grateful, comrade, if you would outline for me what our policy ought to be in Great Britain. I realise that your traditions are very different from ours, and I realise that our policy has not been taking these traditions into account. ' Now I felt at ease to begin. I told him I often felt that there were many errors and mistakes in the Communist Party of the Soviet Union's policy as it affected Great Britain. I felt this was due to the isolation imposed on the Soviet Union due to the hatred of the capitalist powers for the budding communist country. Comrade Stalin listened and smoked his pipe, nodding the while. When I hesitated, he said, more than once: 'Please continue, comrade, do not be afraid to say exactly what is in your mind. ' And so I did. I spoke for about three hours, beginning with a brief analytical account of the historical position of the British C. P. Once he rang a bell, and another young comrade came in with two glasses of Russian tea on a tray, one of which he set before me. Stalin sipped his tea abstemiously, nodding as he listened. I outlined what I considered would be the correct policy for Britain. When I had finished, he said simply: 'Thank you, comrade. I see now I have been very badly advised.' Then he glanced at his watch, and said: 'Comrade, you must forgive me, but I have much work to do before the sun rises.' I rose. He held out his hand. I shook it. 'Good-bye, Comrade Stalin.' 'Goodbye, my good comrade from Britain, and thank you again.' We exchanged a wordless smile. I know my eyes were full--I shall be proud of these tears till I die! As I left Stalin was refilling his pipe, his eyes already on a great pile of papers that awaited his perusal. I went out of the door, after the greatest moment of my life. The two young comrades were waiting for me. We exchanged smiles of profound understanding. Our eyes were wet. We drove back to the hotel in silence. Only once were words spoken: 'That is a great man,' I said, and they nodded. At the hotel they accompanied me to my bedroom door. They wordlessly pressed my hand. Then I went back to my diary. Now I had something to record indeed! And I was at my work until the sun rose, thinking of the greatest man in the world, less than half a mile away, also awake and working, in custody of the destinies of us all! [And now Anna's writing again:] When I had finished reading this, no one said anything until George said: 'Good honest basic stuff.' Which could mean anything. Then I said: 'I remember having that fantasy myself, every word of it, except in my case I put right the policy for Europe as well.' Suddenly there was a roar of uncomfortable laughter, and George said: 'I thought it was a parody at first-makes you think, doesn't it.' Clive said: 'I remember reading something translated from the Russian-early thirties, I think it was. Two young men are in the Red Square, and their tractor has broken down. They don't know what's wrong with it. Suddenly they see a burly figure approaching. He is smoking a pipe. "What's wrong?" he asks. "That's the trouble, comrade, we don't know what's wrong." "So you don't know, eh, that's bad!" The burly man points with the stem of his pipe at some part of the machinery: "Have you thought of that?" The young men try-the tractor roars into life. They turn to thank the stranger who is standing watching them with a fatherly twinkle in his eyes. They realise it is Stalin. But he has already turned away, with a salute of his hand, on his solitary walk through the Red Square to the Kremlin.' We all laughed again, and George said: 'Those were the days, say what you like. Well, I'm off home.' As we separated, the room was full of hostility: we were disliking each other, and knew it. [The yellow notebook continued.]