William Morris and the Early Days of the Socialist Movement/8
CHAPTER VIII
A RED-LETTER DAY
SUNDAY, March 25, 1888, was a memorable day for our Socialist League group in Glasgow. Then it was that Morris, who had come on one of his lecturing visits, spent a whole day long with us in our branch rooms, giving us such a full feast, so to speak, of himself, his Socialism, and his outlook on life, that the occasion has remained for myself and many who were present one of our most delightful memories of the Socialist movement. I must, therefore, try to make some record of it, though I cannot hope to do more than convey in outline the impression which the day's experience had upon our minds, for so much of the pleasure and inspiration which we derived from it depended on the intense glow of Morris' personality, on his spoken words, and on his striking modes of expression and manner, which my pen cannot reproduce.
Our gathering consisted of about a couple of dozen of the active workers in the branch, together with a few outside sympathisers. Among the latter were D.M. (now Sir Daniel) Stevenson and his brother R.A.M. Stevenson, the artist, J.P. Macgillivray, sculptor, Craibe Angus, art dealer, W.R.M. Thomson, patent agent, Dr. Dyer, late Principal of an engineering college in Japan, and William Jolly, H.M. Inspector of Schools.
It was a cold, wettish, wintry morning, and the occasional flakes of snow boded ill for our public meeting in the evening. Nevertheless, when we were all gathered together about 10.30 in the morning in the branch room with a blazing fire, cheerfulness filled the place. A long table ran the length of the room, at the head of which Morris sat under the window. Our conversation began at once. We appointed no chairman, but Mavor offered our guest a few words of welcome on behalf of the meeting, and invited him to speak. Whereupon Morris rose and gave a short address on the principles of the Socialist League, and on its doings in London, particularly with reference to the Free Speech troubles which were then exciting political interest. This done, Morris invited those present to ply him with questions as freely as they wished, either on the matter of his address or on any aspect of Socialism or the movement. 'I shall,' he said, 'most gladly answer any question put to me, if I can; if I cannot, I hope some other of our comrades will try his hand at it. But I also want you, on your part, to tell me something about the movement in Scotland: what your special difficulties are in getting people to accept Socialism; and what your ideas are about how to push the movement ahead.'
There was no lack of questions. At first the topics bore closely on Socialism—the policy of the League, and the more puzzling objections to Socialism which Socialists had to encounter in those days—but soon the scope of enquiry broadened out into the whole field of industry, politics, history, art, and literature. Whatever the nature of the question, Morris replied with unfailing willingness, even when, as in some instances, the question was of a directly personal nature, such as 'Why don't you carry out your Socialist principles in connection with your own business?' 'Why does the firm of Morris & Co. object to advertise its manufactures?' 'Do you dress unconventionally as you do in a blue-serge suit and discard white linen on principle as a Socialist or as a craftsman, or simply as a matter of personal taste?'—these latter questions coming from the visitors.
For fully two hours Morris submitted himself to this interrogation with the utmost good-nature; constantly refilling and lighting his pipe and occasionally taking a few puffs from it. At times he would rise from his seat and bestride himself in front of the fireplace, restlessly, as was his custom, balancing himself now on one foot, now on the other. It were vain my attempting to give even the substance of what was in fact a two hours' discourse. Nor can I, as I have said, attempt to convey any adequate impression of the richness of ideas, the variety of illustrations from history and his own experiences, the amusing sallies, and occasional fiery outbursts against existing conditions of civilisation which outpoured in his replies. How unfailingly humane and generous were all his views of life! how idealistic his hopes of what Society might be, and yet how rightdown practical were all his references to the actual means and measures of changing the present system!
As an example of how closely he tackled the argumentative side of questions, I might instance his reply to the question 'Does not revolutionary Socialism involve Anarchism?' It was one of the longest of his replies, and the subject was one concerning which he felt strongly. I give as nearly as I can recall the actual words he used.
'I call myself a revolutionary Socialist,' said Morris, 'because I aim at a complete revolution in social conditions. I do not aim at reforming the present system, but at abolishing it; and I aim, therefore, not at reforms, either on their own account, or as a means of bringing about Socialism as the eventual outcome of a series of palliations and modifications of Capitalistic society:—I aim at bringing about Socialism itself right away, or, rather, as soon as we can get the people to desire and will to have it. But, mark you again, what I aim at is Socialism or Communism, not Anarchism. Anarchism and Communism, notwithstanding our friend Kropotkin, are incompatible in principle. Anarchism means, as I understand it, the doing away with, and doing without, laws and rules of all kinds, and in each person being allowed to do just as he pleases. I don't want people to do just as they please; I want them to consider and act for the good of their fellowsfor the commonweal in fact. Now what constitutes the commonweal, or common notion of what is for the common good, will and always must be expressed in the form of laws of some kind—either political laws, instituted by the citizens in public assembly, as of old by folk-moot, or if you will by real councils or parliaments of the people, or by social customs growing up from the experience of Society. The fact that at present many or the majority of laws and customs are bad, does not mean that we can do without good laws or good customs. When I think of my own work and duties as a citizen, a neighbour or friend, a workman or an artist, I simply cannot think of myself as behaving or doing right if I shut out from my mind the knowledge I possess of social customs or decrees concerning what is right-doing or wrong-doing. I am not going to quibble over the question as to the difference between laws and customs. I don't want either laws or customs to be too rigid, and certainly not oppressive at all. Whenever they so become, then I become a rebel against them, as I am against many of the laws and customs to-day. But I don't think a Socialist community will require many governmental laws; though each citizen will require to conform as far as possible to the general understanding of how we are to live and work harmoniously together. But, frankly and flatly, I reckon customs, if they are bad customs, to be always more oppressive and difficult to get rid of than political laws. If you violate political laws you have the policeman and the soldiers, maybe, against you, but when you violate social customs you have the whole of the community against you. In the one case you may be regarded as a criminal and fined, imprisoned, or even put to death, any of which contingencies is bad enough no doubt; but in the other case you are regarded as a churl, a kill-joy, a bigot, a humbug, and unless you are a thick-skinned wretch, or are sustained by a powerful sense of conscience and duty, as you can only be on really very big matters, your life may be made wholly tasteless and intolerable both to you and your friends. And what is life worth then? In a word then, I tell you I am not an anarchist, and I had as lief join the White Rose Society, or the so-called "Liberty and Property Defence League," as join an anarchist organisation.'
When delivering this exposition of his views on anarchism Morris walked about the floor, and spoke as in the heat of debate. It was a subject which, as has already been said, caused him no end of bother at that period, as there was already growing up in the League a strong anarchist faction—a faction which eventually succeeded, in fact, in driving Morris from the editorship of the Commonweal, and splitting and destroying the Socialist League.
The multitude of the topics dealt with by him in his replies was, I have said, remarkable. Some idea of their range and variety may be gathered from the following synopsis which I noted at the time:—Did he believe in 'Scientific' as opposed to 'Utopian' Socialism? Did he accept the Marxist or the Jevonian theory of value? What was the real point of difference between him and Mr. Hyndman? and were they still personal friends? Did he regard the Fabians as being genuine Socialists? Did he not think that the Socialist agitation would strengthen reaction, by detaching working men from the Liberal Party and frightening middle-class people into the Tory ranks? Was it consistent for Socialists to ally themselves, as they virtually were doing, with the Irish Party, seeing the latter sought to establish Peasant Proprietorship, which would make Land Nationalisation more difficult? Did he not think the Henry George Single Tax proposal an adequate solution of the economic problem? Did he think Trade Unionism was a help towards Socialism? Was it consistent for Socialists to be capitalists? Why did he not consider St. Paul's Cathedral beautiful? Was it true that he preferred Chaucer to Shakespeare, and did not admire Milton? What did he think of Michael Angelo? Was Swinburne likely to become a Socialist? Was Burne-Jones a Socialist? And (inevitably) how did Robert Burns rank as a poet?
This last question afforded Morris an opportunity of breaking from the fetters of the inquisition. 'Don't you know,' he replied adroitly, 'that I am constitutionally incapable of giving an opinion on your national bard? So at least a Scotch friend of mine, and one of the best linguists and best informed literary men I know of, tells me. No man, he says, but a Scotchman can really understand and appreciate Burns, and I have the misfortune not to be a Scotchman, but a pock-pudding Englishman. He tells me that were I a Scotchman and able to appreciate the real greatness of Burns' genius, I should set him above Shakespeare, Dante, Virgil, and Homer. But it is perhaps just as well, after all, don't you think, that I am not a Scotchman, for in that case I should not have been William Morris, and should not have had the pleasure of meeting you to-day, and inflicting a two hours' Socialist sermon on you.'
As the day advanced the weather had not improved. A cold, drizzling sleet was falling, and the sky had become quite dusk. It was now after one o'clock, and most of those present were already late for their dinner or lunch. To our delight, Morris announced that he would willingly spend the afternoon with us, and we decided to adjourn the meeting, on the understanding that those who cared to do so, or were able to do so, should return at 2.30. Whereupon, our gathering broke up, and I took Morris off to lunch at a restaurant—MacArthur's in the Trongate, the solitary dining establishment then open in Glasgow on Sundays.
When we returned to the rooms, a regular snowstorm had begun, and only some seven or eight of the branch members had returned to join our afternoon's symposium. So dark was it that we had to light the gas. But although all was dark and wild without, we were bright and merry within.
Morris was evidently pleased to find himself in a smaller company, and especially, so I thought, on discovering that those present belonged to the working class. He seemed, curiously enough, as I then and on many other occasions noted, when in the company of strangers, to feel more at home and freer in his manner when among working men than when among men of his own class. He chatted in a chummy way with those around him, asking about their employment, and surprising us all by his acquaintance with the practical skill and usages of their crafts. He told amusing stories of his experiences in speaking at meetings in workmen's clubs in London—'sometimes to less than a dozen listeners after travelling right across London, and spending a whole evening on the job.'
'But now,' he said, 'you asked me this morning why I became a Socialist; suppose I in turn ask some of you chaps to tell me what brought you to Socialism? I confess I cannot help wondering, when I find myself in a group of comrades, why they particularly have heard the word gladly while the mass of their fellows have turned from it with deaf ears.'
Rather shyly one or two of us recounted, as best we could, the circumstances that had led us to leave the accustomed paths of politics. Our replies seemed almost as though we were each reciting the same story by rote. We had all, it appeared, from our boyhood days felt, without knowing why, the injustice of the existing system of leisure and riches on the one hand, and hard toil and poverty on the other. Our reading—and in most instances Burns and Shelley, Carlyle and Ruskin were among the authors mentioned—had further aroused our minds on the subject. Then had come the Highland Crofters' revolt, and Henry George's 'Progress and Poverty' and 'Land for the People' agitation. Lord Beaconsfield's 'Sybil,' Kingsley's 'Alton Locke,' Mrs Lynn Linton's 'Joshua Davidson,' and Victor Hugo's 'Les Misérables' were also mentioned among the books that had proved stepping-stones out of the old ways of thought.
Morris expressed surprise that none of us appeared to have read More's 'Utopia' or any writings of the more definite pre-Marxian Socialist thinkers—Robert Owen, St. Simon, Fourier, Louis Blanc, and the like. 'As for Marx,' he said, 'his writings were, of course, hardly known in this country outside the foreign revolutionary groups in London until Hyndman drew attention to them. Besides, until a couple of years or so ago, even his "Capital" was published only in German and French, and is of such an analytical character that it had practically no influence in creating Socialist thought in this country. I am not, however, so much surprised to find down here in Scotland that you working chaps apparently found each your own way to Socialism without even being in contact, as we in London were, with foreign revolutionary influences, as that you have all come the same road, so to speak, and that road has simply been the road of the reading and political experience common to the more thoughtful of the Scotch working class generally. Our comrade, the Rev. Dr. Glasse of Edinburgh, tells me practically the same thing. It looks as though one and all of you have been what is called "born" Socialists—Socialists, that is to say, by nature or temperament to begin with—and that, I suppose, is true of the majority of us who are as yet in the Socialist ranks, especially those who feel impelled to become apostles of the Cause.'
'The truth is,' Morris added, 'that there has always been a making of Socialists, and a making of Society towards Socialism, going on since human history began. I have recently been looking a good deal into the literature of the Middle Ages and earlier periods of European history, and have been struck with the definiteness of Socialist feeling, and even Socialist customs, among the people and monkish sects of those days. I am writing some chapters for Commonweal on the Revolt of Ghent, and on John Ball and the Peasants' Revolt in England in Richard II's day, in which I hope to make this better understood in the movement.'
This theme seemed to call his thoughts back to olden times, and he told us many stories and sayings illustrative of the Socialist ideas and customs of bygone days. He repeated to us the verses 'Mine and Thine' translated by him from the Flemish of the fourteenth century, which were afterwards published in the Commonweal and in his 'Poems by the Way.' One of the stories which he told with great relish was of two monks in the early Church who were discussing the causes of enmity and war amongst mankind. 'It is all owing to private property,' said one of the two monks. 'But what is private property?' asked the other. His companion explained to him that private property was any kind of thing which one person alleged belonged to himself, and which no one else had any right to, but there was always someone else who would be claiming possession of it, and thus the two claimants would fall fighting each other for it. 'Dost thou now understand, brother?' asked the first monk. 'Nay, brother, I do not,' replied the other. 'Well, let me show thee. It is this way: Thou shalt say to me that the missal which is in thine hand is thine, and I shall say "Nay, brother, it is mine," and shall seek to take it from thee. Thereupon thou must refuse to let me take it: and forthwith thou and I shall strive against each other for it. Now, brother, let us begin. I now say to thee that the missal which is in thine hand is mine, and therefore thou must give it to me.' Whereupon the other monk, instead of refusing him the missal and withholding it, replied 'Why, brother, if the missal be thine, surely thou shalt have it,' and so saying he yielded up the missal ungrudgingly. And thus the good monk's object-lesson all came to naught.
Morris chuckled gleefully in telling this story. He then suggested that we should have some singing; he wanted, he said, to hear some of our old Scottish songs.
Luckily two of our comrades were good singers. James Thomson (a great-grandson of the poet Burns), who had a delightfully pure tenor voice, sang Burns' 'I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen' and 'Mary Morrison.' McKechnie, a young West-Highlander with a capital baritone range and an endless repertory, sang one or two Gaelic songs and several Scottish humorous songs, including 'The barrin' o' the door,' 'The wee Cooper o' Fife,' and 'Phairshon swore a feud.' Morris was greatly taken with McKechnie's singing, and joined with us in the choruses. McKechnie then sang Greave's Irish song 'Ballyhooly,' heard by us for the first time.
Sung as it was with great Celtic gusto, the song fairly captivated Morris, and again and again he hummed over the rollicking refrain 'And they call it lemonade in Ballyhooly!' A month or two later, when I visited him in London, he chanted snatches of the song as I sat with him while he was designing some tapestry piece in the library.
It was now evening. The outside world was dark and deep in snow, and our hopes of having a crowded meeting at the evening lecture had completely vanished. There was only just time for a cup of tea, which was served in the rooms, before going to the meeting. We then linked hands together and sang 'Auld Lang Syne,' hailed the coming of the revolution and International Socialism, and marched forth on our tramp through the ankle-deep snow to the Waterloo Hall.
At the hall we had to distribute among us the details of manning the pay-box, selling literature, and acting as stewards. To our pleasant surprise, notwithstanding the snowstorm, quite a good audience turned up for the lecture, at least 500—a couple of hundred more would have crowded the hall. The subject of the lecture was 'Art and Industry in the Fourteenth Century,' which, needless to say, Morris wrought into a magnificent vindication of the aims and hopes of Socialism. He was in excellent trim on the platform, notwithstanding his exhausting all-day-long session with us in the rooms, and he agreed without a grumble after the lecture to return with us to the rooms for a final rally with the comrades.
And thus ended our memorable day with Morris 'all to ourselves' in Glasgow. Walking home at midnight (for it was nigh midnight by the time one or two of us had seen Morris back to his hotel), a workman comrade then attending the university, who knew more of Morris' writings than any other of us then did, said to me with great earnestness, as he bid me good-night: 'This is the greatest day of my life, and I can never hope to see the like again. I no longer doubt the possibility of an earthly Paradise. I feel as if Balder the Beautiful were become alive again and had been with us to-day. If one can speak of a God amongst men, we can so speak of William Morris as he has been with us this day in Glasgow.'
Note.—In Commonweal, June 5, 1888, Morris gave an account of his Scottish tour on this occasion. The tour included the following itinerary: Thursday (Mar. 21), Kilmarnock; Friday, Edinburgh; Saturday, West Calder; Sunday, Glasgow; Monday, Edinburgh again; Tuesday, Dundee; and Wednesday, Aberdeen. Here is his note on his Glasgow visit:—
'On Sunday I went to Glasgow, and here I had every reason to damn "the nature of things" as Porson did when he hit his head against the door-post; for it came on to snow at about one o'clock and snowed to the time of the meeting harder than I ever saw it snow, so that by 7.30 Glasgow streets were more than ankledeep in half-frozen slush, and I made up my mind to an audience of fifty in a big hall; however, it was not so bad as that, for it mustered over 500, who passed nem. con. a resolution in favour of Socialism. Owing to the weather, our comrades could not attempt the preliminary open-air meetings which they had intended to do; so I passed the day with them in their rooms in John St. very much to my own pleasure, as without flattery, they were, as I have always found them, hearty good fellows and thorough Socialists.'