No More Learning

One in the slums of Wigan, used as a playground, looks like a choppy sea suddenly
frozen; ‘the flock mattress’, it is called locally. Even centuries hence when the plough
drives over the places where coal was once mined, the sites of ancient slag-heaps will still
be distinguishable from an aeroplane.

I remember a winter afternoon in the dreadful environs of Wigan. All round was the lunar
landscape of slag-heaps, and to the north, through the passes, as it were, between the
mountains of slag, you could see the factory chimneys sending out their plumes of
smoke. The canal path was a mixture of cinders and frozen mud, criss-crossed by the
imprints of innumerable clogs, and all round, as far as the slag-heaps in the distance,
stretched the ‘flashes’ — pools of stagnant water that had seeped into the hollows caused
by the subsidence of ancient pits. It was horribly cold. The ‘flashes’ were covered with
ice the colour of raw umber, the bargemen were muffled to the eyes in sacks, the lock
gates wore beards of ice. It seemed a world from which vegetation had been banished;
nothing existed except smoke, shale, ice, mud, ashes, and foul water. But even Wigan is
beautiful compared with Sheffield. Sheffield, I suppose, could justly claim to be called
the ugliest town in the Old World: its inhabitants, who want it to be pre-eminent in
everything, very likely do make that claim for it. It has a population of half a million and
it contains fewer decent buildings than the average East Anglian village of five hundred.
And the stench! If at rare moments you stop smelling sulphur it is because you have
begun smelling gas. Even the shallow river that runs through the town is-usually bright
yellow with some chemical or other. Once I halted in the street and counted the factory
chimneys I could see; there were thirty-three of them, but there would have been far more
if the air had not been obscured by smoke. One scene especially lingers in my mind. A
frightful patch of waste ground (somehow, up there, a patch of waste ground attains a
squalor that would be impossible even in London) trampled bare of grass and littered
with newspapers and old saucepans. To the right an isolated row of gaunt four-roomed
houses, dark red, blackened by smoke. To the left an interminable vista of factory



chimneys, chimney beyond chimney, fading away into a dim blackish haze. Behind me a
railway embankment made of the slag from furnaces. In front, across the patch of waste
ground, a cubical building of red and yellow brick, with the sign ‘Thomas Grocock,
Haulage Contractor’.

At night, when you cannot see the hideous shapes of the houses and the blackness of
everything, a town like Sheffield assumes a kind of sinister magnificence. Sometimes the
drifts of smoke are rosy with sulphur, and serrated flames, like circular saws, squeeze
themselves out from beneath the cowls of the foundry chimneys. Through the open doors
of foundries you see fiery serpents of iron being hauled to and fro by redlit boys, and you
hear the whizz and thump of steam hammers and the scream of the iron under the blow.
The pottery towns are almost equally ugly in a pettier way. Right in among the rows of
tiny blackened houses, part of the street as it were, are the ‘pot banks’ — conical brick
chimneys like gigantic burgundy bottles buried in the soil and belching their smoke
almost in your face. You come upon monstrous clay chasms hundreds of feet across and
almost as deep, with little rusty tubs creeping on chain railways up one side, and on the
other workmen clinging like samphire-gatherers and cutting into the face of the cliff with
their picks. I passed that way in snowy weather, and even the snow was black. The best
thing one can say for the pottery towns is that they are fairly small and stop abruptly.
Less than ten miles away you can stand in un-defiled country, on the almost naked hills,
and the pottery towns are only a smudge in the distance.

When you contemplate such ugliness as this, there are two questions that strike you. First,
is it inevitable? Secondly, does it matter?

I do not believe that there is anything inherently and unavoidably ugly about
industrialism. A factory or even a gasworks is not obliged of its own nature to be ugly,
any more than a palace or a dog-kennel or a cathedral. It all depends on the architectural
tradition of the period. The industrial towns of the North are ugly because they happen to
have been built at a time when modem methods of steel-construction and smoke-
abatement were unknown, and when everyone was too busy making money to think
about anything else. They go on being ugly largely because the Northerners have got
used to that kind of thing and do not notice it. Many of the people in Sheffield or
Manchester, if they smelled the air along the Cornish cliffs, would probably declare that



it had no taste in it. But since the war, industry has tended to shift southward and in doing
so has grown almost comely. The typical post-war factory is not a gaunt barrack or an
awful chaos of blackness and belching chimneys; it is a glittering white structure of
concrete, glass, and steel, surrounded by green lawns and beds of tulips. Look at the
factories you pass as you travel out of London on the G. W. R. ; they may not be aesthetic
triumphs but certainly they are not ugly in the same way as the Sheffield gasworks. But
in any case, though the ugliness of industrialism is the most obvious thing about it and
the thing every newcomer exclaims against, I doubt whether it is centrally important. And
perhaps it is not even desirable, industrialism being what it is, that it should learn to
disguise itself as something else. As Mr Aldous Huxley has truly remarked, a dark
Satanic mill ought to look like a dark Satanic mill and not like the temple of mysterious
and splendid gods. Moreover, even in the worst of the industrial towns one sees a great
deal that is not ugly in the narrow aesthetic sense. A belching chimney or a stinking slum
is repulsive chiefly because it implies warped lives and ailing children. Look at it from a
purely aesthetic standpoint and it may, have a certain macabre appeal. I find that anything
outrageously strange generally ends by fascinating me even when I abominate it. The
landscapes of Burma, which, when I was among them, so appalled me as to assume the
qualities of nightmare, afterwards stayed so hauntingly in my mind that I was obliged to
write a novel about them to get rid of them. (In all novels about the East the scenery is the
real subject-matter. ) It would probably be quite easy to extract a sort of beauty, as Arnold
Bennett did, from the blackness of the industrial towns; one can easily imagine
Baudelaire, for instance, writing a poem about a slag-heap. But the beauty or ugliness of
industrialism hardly matters. Its real evil lies far deeper and is quite uneradicable. It is
important to remember this, because there is always a temptation to think that
industrialism is hannless so long as it is clean and orderly.

But when you go to the industrial North you are conscious, quite apart from the
unfamiliar scenery, of entering a strange country. This is partly because of certain real
differences which do exist, but still more because of the North-South antithesis which has
been rubbed into us for such a long time past. There exists in England a curious cult of
Northemness, sort of Northern snobbishness. A Yorkshireman in the South will always
take care to let you know that he regards you as an inferior. If you ask him why, he will
explain that it is only in the North that life is ‘real’ life, that the industrial work done in
the North is the only ‘real’ work, that the North is inhabited by ‘real’ people, the South



merely by rentiers and their parasites. The Northerner has ‘grit’, he is grim, ‘dour’,
plucky, warm-hearted, and democratic; the Southerner is snobbish, effeminate, and
lazy — that at any rate is the theory. Hence the Southerner goes north, at any rate for the
first time, with the vague inferiority-complex of a civilized man venturing among
savages, while the Yorkshireman, like the Scotchman, comes to London in the spirit of a
barbarian out for loot. And feelings of this kind, which are the result of tradition, are not
affected by visible facts. Just as an Englishman five feet four inches high and twenty-nine
inches round the chest feels that as an Englishman he is the physical superior of Camera
(Camera being a Dago), so also with the Northerner and the Southerner. I remember a
weedy little Yorkshireman, who would almost certainly have run away if a fox-terrier had
snapped at him, telling me that in the South of England he felt Tike a wild invader’. But
the cult is often adopted by people who are not by birth Northerners themselves. A year
or two ago a friend of mine, brought up in the South but now living in the North, was
driving me through Suffolk in a car. We passed through a rather beautiful village. He
glanced disapprovingly at the cottages and said:

‘Of course most of the villages in Yorkshire are hideous; but the Yorkshiremen are
splendid chaps. Down here it’s just the other way about — beautiful villages and rotten
people. All the people in those cottages there are worthless, absolutely worthless. ’

I could not help inquiring whether he happened to know anybody in that village. No, he
did not know them; but because this was East Anglia they were obviously worthless.
Another friend of mine, again a Southerner by birth, loses no opportunity of praising the
North to the detriment of the South. Here is an extract from one of his letters to me:

I am in Clitheroe, Lanes. . . . I think running water is much more attractive in moor and
mountain country than in the fat and sluggish South. ‘The smug and silver Trent,’
Shakespeare says; and the South-er the smugger, I say.

Here you have an interesting example of the Northern cult. Not only are you and I and
everyone else in the South of England written off as ‘fat and sluggish’, but even water
when it gets north of a certain latitude, ceases to be H20 and becomes something
mystically superior. But the interest of this passage is that its writer is an extremely
intelligent man of ‘advanced’ opinions who would have nothing but con-tempt for



nationalism in its ordinary form. Put to him some such proposition as ‘One Britisher is
worth three foreigners’, and he would repudiate it with horror. But when it is a question
of North versus South, he is quite ready to generalize. All nationalistic distinctions — all
claims to be better than somebody else because you have a different-shaped skull or
speak a different dialect — are entirely spurious, but they are important so long as people
believe in them. There is no doubt about the Englishman’s inbred conviction that those
who live to the south of him are his inferiors; even our foreign policy is governed by it to
some extent. I think, therefore, that it is worth pointing out when and why it came into
being.

When nationalism first became a religion, the English looked at the map, and, noticing
that their island lay very high in the Northern Hemisphere, evolved the pleasing theory
that the further north you live the more virtuous you become. The histories I was given
when I was a little boy generally started off by explaining in the naivest way that a cold
climate made people energetic while a hot one made them lazy, and hence the defeat of
the Spanish Armada. This nonsense about the superior energy of the English (actually the
laziest people in Europe) has been current for at least a hundred years. ‘Better is it for us’,
writes a Quarterly Reviewer of 1827, ‘to be condemned to labour for our country’s good
than to luxuriate amid olives, vines, and vices. ’ ‘Olives, vines, and vices’ sums up the
nonnal English attitude towards the Latin races. In the mythology of Garlyle, Creasey,
etc. , the Northerner (‘Teutonic’, later ‘Nordic’) is pictured as a hefty, vigorous chap with
blond moustaches and pure morals, while the Southerner is sly, cowardly, and licentious.
This theory was never pushed to its logical end, which would have meant assuming that
the finest people in the world were the Eskimos, but it did involve admitting that the
people who lived to the north of us were superior to ourselves. Hence, partly, the cult of
Scotland and of Scotch things which has so deeply marked English life during the past
fifty years. But it was the industrialization of the North that gave the North-South
antithesis its peculiar slant. Until comparatively recently the northern part of England was
the backward and feudal part, and such industry as existed was concentrated in London
and the South-East. In the Civil War for instance, roughly speaking a war of money
versus feudalism, the North and West were for the King and the South and East for the
Parliament. But with the increasing use of coal industry passed to the North, and there
grew up a new type of man, the self-made Northern business man — the Mr Rouncewell
and Mr Bounderby of Dickens. The Northern business man, with his hateful ‘get on or



get out’ philosophy, was the dominant figure of the nineteenth century, and as a sort of
tyrannical corpse he rules us still. This is the type edified by Arnold Bennett — the type
who starts off with half a crown and ends up with fifty thousand pounds, and whose chief
pride is to be an even greater boor after he has made his money than before. On analysis
his sole virtue turns out to be a talent for making money. We were bidden to admire him
because though he might be narrow-minded, sordid, ignorant, grasping, and uncouth, he
had ‘grit’, he ‘got on’; in other words, he knew how to make money.

This kind of cant is nowadays a pure anachronism, for the Northern business man is no
longer prosperous. But traditions are not killed by facts, and the tradition of Northern’
grit’ lingers. It is still dimly felt that a Northerner will ‘get on’, i. e. make money, where a
Southerner will fail. At the back of the mind of every Yorkshireman and every
Scotchman who comes to London is a sort of Dick Whittington picture of himself as the
boy who starts off by selling newspapers and ends up as Lord Mayor. And that, really, is
at the bottom of his bumptiousness. But where one can make a great mistake is in
imagining that this feeling extends to the genuine working class. When I first went to
Yorkshire, some years ago, I imagined that I was going to a country of boors. I was used
to the London Yorkshireman with his intenninable harangues and his pride in the
supposed raciness of his dialect (’ “A stitch in time saves nine”, as we say in the West
Riding’), and I expected to meet with a good deal of rudeness. But I met with nothing of
the kind, and least of all among the miners. Indeed the Lancashire and Yorkshire miners
treated me with a kindness and courtesy that were even embarrassing; for if there is one
type of man to whom I do feel myself inferior, it is a coal-miner. Certainly no one
showed any sign of despising me for coming from a different part of the country. This
has its importance when one remembers that the English regional snobberies are
nationalism in miniature; for it suggests that place-snobbery is not a working-class
characteristic.

There is nevertheless a real difference between North and South, and there is at least a
tinge of truth in that picture of Southern England as one enonnous Brighton inhabited by
lounge-lizards. For climatic reasons the parasitic divi-dend-drawing class tend to settle in
the South. In a Lancashire cotton-town you could probably go for months on end without
once hearing an ‘educated’ accent, whereas there can hardly be a town in the South of
England where you could throw a brick without hitting the niece of a bishop.



Consequently, with no petty gentry to set the pace, the bourgeoisification of the working
class, though it is taking place in the North, is taking place more slowly. All the Northern
accents, for instance, persist strongly, while the Southern ones are collapsing before the
movies and the B. B. C. Hence your ‘educated’ accent stamps you rather as a foreigner
than as a chu nk of the petty gentry; and this is an immense advantage, for it makes it
much easier to get into contact with the working class.

But is it ever possible to be really intimate with the working class? I shall have to discuss
that later; I will only say here that I do not think it is possible. But undoubtedly it is easier
in the North than it would be in the South to meet working-class people on approximately
equal tenns. It is fairly easy to live in a miner’s house and be accepted as one of the
family; with, say, a fann labourer in the Southern counties it probably would be
impossible. I have seen just enough of the working class to avoid idealizing them, but I
do know that you can learn a great deal in a working-class home, if only you can get
there. The essential point is that your middle-class ideals and prejudices are tested by
contact with others which are not necessarily better but are certainly different.

Take for instance the different attitude towards the family. A working-class family hangs
together as a middle-class one does, but the relationship is far less tyrannical. A working
man has not that deadly weight of family prestige hanging round his neck like a
millstone. I have pointed out earlier that a middle-class person goes utterly to pieces
under the influence of poverty; and this is generally due to the behaviour of his family —
to the fact that he has scores of relations nagging and badgering him night and day for
failing to ‘get on’. The fact that the working class know how to combine and the middle
class don’t is probably due to their different conceptions of family loyalty. You cannot
have an effective trade union of middle-class workers, be-cause in times of strikes almost
every middle-class wife would be egging her husband on to blackleg and get the other
fellow’s job. Another working-class characteristic, disconcerting at first, is their plain-
spokenness towards anyone they regard as an equal. If you offer a working man
something he doesn’t want, he tells you that he doesn’t want it; a middle-class person
would accept it to avoid giving offence. And again, take the working-class attitude
towards ‘education’. How different it is from ours, and how immensely sounder!
Working people often have a vague reverence for learning in others, but where
‘education’ touches their own lives they see through it and reject it by a healthy instinct.



The time was when I used to lament over quite imaginary pictures of lads of fourteen
dragged protesting from their lessons and set to work at dismal jobs. It seemed to me
dreadful that the doom of a ‘job’ should descend upon anyone at fourteen. Of course I
kn ow now that there is not one working-class boy in a thousand who does not pine for the
day when he will leave school. He wants to be doing real work, not wasting his time on
ridiculous rubbish like history and geography. To the working class, the notion of staying
at school till you are nearly grown-up seems merely contemptible and unmanly. The idea
of a great big boy of eighteen, who ought to be bringing a pound a week home to his
parents, going to school in a ridiculous uniform and even being caned for not doing his
lessons! Just fancy a working-class boy of eighteen allowing himself to be caned! He is a
man when the other is still a baby. Ernest Pontifex, in Samuel Butler’s Way of All Flesh,
after he had had a few glimpses of real life, looked back on his public school and
university education and found it a ‘sickly, debilitating debauch’. There is much in
middle-class life that looks sickly and debilitating when you see it from a working-class
angle.

In a working-class home — I am not thinking at the moment of the unemployed, but of
comparatively prosperous homes — you breathe a warm, decent, deeply human
atmosphere which it is not so easy to find elsewhere. I should say that a manual worker,
if he is in steady work and drawing good wages — an ‘if which gets bigger and bigger —
has a better chance of being happy than an ‘educated’ man. His home life seems to fall
more naturally into a sane and comely shape. I have often been struck by the peculiar
easy completeness, the perfect symmetry as it were, of a working-class interior at its best.
Especially on winter evenings after tea, when the fire glows in the open range and dances
mirrored in the steel fender, when Father, in shirt-sleeves, sits in the rocking chair at one
side of the fire reading the racing finals, and Mother sits on the other with her sewing,
and the children are happy with a pennorth of mint humbugs, and the dog lolls roasting
himself on the rag mat — it is a good place to be in, provided that you can be not only in it
but sufficiently of it to be taken for granted.

This scene is still reduplicated in a majority of English homes, though not in so many as
before the war. Its happiness depends mainly upon one question — whether Father is in
work. But notice that the picture I have called up, of a working-class family sitting round
the coal fire after kippers and strong tea, belongs only to our own moment of time and



could not belong either to the future or the past. Skip forward two hundred years into the
Utopian future, and the scene is totally different. Hardly one of the things I have
imagined will still be there. In that age when there is no manual labour and everyone is
‘educated’, it is hardly likely that Father will still be a rough man with enlarged hands
who likes to sit in shirt-sleeves and says ‘Ah wur coomin’ oop street’. And there won’t be
a coal fire in the grate, only some kind of invisible heater. The furniture will be made of
rubber, glass, and steel. If there are still such things as evening papers there will certainly
be no racing news in them, for gambling will be meaningless in a world where there is no
poverty and the horse will have vanished from the face of the earth. Dogs, too, will have
been sup-pressed on grounds of hygiene. And there won’t be so many children, either, if
the birth-controllers have their way. But move backwards into the Middle Ages and you
are in a world almost equally foreign. A windowless hut, a wood fire which smokes in
your face because there is no chimney, mouldy bread, ‘Poor John’, lice, scurvy, a yearly
child-birth and a yearly child-death, and the priest terrifying you with tales of Hell.

Curiously enough it is not the triumphs of modem engineering, nor the radio, nor the
cinematograph, nor the five thousand novels which are published yearly, nor the crowds
at Ascot and the Eton and Harrow match, but the memory of working-class interiors —
especially as I sometimes saw them in my childhood before the war, when England was
still prosperous — that reminds me that our age has not been altogether a bad one to live
in.


SPILLING THE SPANISH BEANS (1937)

The Spanish war has probably produced a richer crop of lies than any event since the
Great War of 1914-18, but I honestly doubt, in spite of all those hecatombs of nuns who
have been raped and crucified before the eyes of DAILY MAIL reporters, whether it is
the pro-Fascist newspapers that have done the most harm. It is the left-wing papers, the
NEWS CHRONICLE and the DAILY WORKER, with their far subtler methods of
distortion, that have prevented the British public from grasping the real nature of the
struggle.



The fact which these papers have so carefully obscured is that the Spanish Government
(including the semi-autonomous Catalan Government) is far more afraid of the revolution
than of the Fascists. It is now almost certain that the war will end with some kind of
compromise, and there is even reason to doubt whether the Government, which let Bilbao
fail without raising a finger, wishes to be too victorious; but there is no doubt whatever
about the thoroughness with which it is crushing its own revolutionaries. For some time
past a reign of terror — forcible suppression of political parties, a stifling censorship of the
press, ceaseless espionage and mass imprisonment without trial — has been in progress.
When I left Barcelona in late June the jails were bulging; indeed, the regular jails had
long since overflowed and the prisoners were being huddled into empty shops and any
other temporary dump that could be found for them. But the point to notice is that the
people who are in prison now are not Fascists but revolutionaries; they are there not
because their opinions are too much to the Right, but because they are too much to the
Left. And the people responsible for putting them there are those dreadful revolutionaries
at whose very name Garvin quakes in his galoshes — the Communists.

Meanwhile the war against Franco continues, but, except for the poor devils in the front-
line trenches, nobody in Government Spain thinks of it as the real war. The real struggle
is between revolution and counter-revolution; between the workers who are vainly trying
to hold on to a little of what they won in 1936, and the Liberal-Communist bloc who are
so successfully taking it away from them. It is unfortunate that so few people in England
have yet caught up with the fact that Communism is now a counter-revolutionary force;
that Communists everywhere are in alliance with bourgeois refonnism and using the
whole of their powerful machinery to crush or discredit any party that shows signs of
revolutionary tendencies. Hence the grotesque spectacle of Communists assailed as
wicked ‘Reds’ by right-wing intellectuals who are in essential agreement with them. Mr
Wyndham Lewis, for instance, ought to love the Communists, at least temporarily. In
Spain the Communist-Liberal alliance has been almost completely victorious. Of all that
the Spanish workers won for themselves in 1936 nothing solid remains, except for a few
collective farms and a certain amount of land seized by the peasants last year; and
presumably even the peasants will be sacrificed later, when there is no longer any need to
placate them. To see how the present situation arose, one has got to look back to the
origins of the civil war.



Franco’s bid for power differed from those of Hitler and Mussolini in that it was a
military insurrection, comparable to a foreign invasion, and therefore had not much mass
backing, though Franco has since been trying to acquire one. Its chief supporters, apart
from certain sections of Big Business, were the land-owning aristocracy and the huge,
parasitic Church. Obviously a rising of this kind will array against it various forces which
are not in agreement on any other point. The peasant and the worker hate feudalism and
clericalism; but so does the ‘liberal’ bourgeois, who is not in the least opposed to a more
modem version of Fascism, at least so long as it isn’t called Fascism. The ‘liberal’
bourgeois is genuinely liberal up to the point where his own interests stop. He stands for
the degree of progress implied in the phrase ‘la carriere ouverte aux talents’. For clearly
he has no chance to develop in a feudal society where the worker and the peasant are too
poor to buy goods, where industry is burdened with huge taxes to pay for bishops’
vestments, and where every lucrative job is given as a matter of course to the friend of the
catamite of the duke’s illegitimate son. Hence, in the face of such a blatant reactionary as
Franco, you get for a while a situation in which the worker and the bourgeois, in reality
deadly enemies, are lighting side by side.
This uneasy alliance is known as the Popular
Front (or, in the Communist press, to give it a spuriously democratic appeal, People’s
Front). It is a combination with about as much vitality, and about as much right to exist,
as a pig with two heads or some other Barnum and Bailey monstrosity.

In any serious emergency the contradiction implied in the Popular Front is bound to make
itself felt. For even when the worker and the bourgeois are both fighting against Fascism,
they are not lighting for the same things; the bourgeois is fighting for bourgeois
democracy, i. e. capitalism, the worker, in so far as he understands the issue, for
Socialism. And in the early days of the revolution the Spanish workers understood the
issue very well. In the areas where Fascism was defeated they did not content themselves
with driving the rebellious troops out of the towns; they also took the opportunity of
seizing land and factories and setting up the rough beginnings of a workers’ government
by means of local committees, workers’ militias, police forces, and so forth. They made
the mistake, however (possibly because most of the active revolutionaries were
Anarchists with a mistrust of all parliaments), of leaving the Republican Government in
nominal control. And, in spite of various changes in personnel, every subsequent
Government had been of approximately the same bourgeois-refonnist character. At the
beginning this seemed not to matter, because the Government, especially in Catalonia,



was almost powerless and the bourgeoisie had to lie low or even (this was still happening
when I reached Spain in December) to disguise themselves as workers. Later, as power
slipped from the hands of the Anarchists into the hands of the Communists and right-
wing Socialists, the Government was able to reassert itself, the bourgeoisie came out of
hiding and the old division of society into rich and poor reappeared, not much modified.
Henceforward every move, except a few dictated by military emergency, was directed
towards undoing the work of the first few months of revolution. Out of the many
illustrations I could choose, I will cite only one, the breaking-up of the old workers’
militias, which were organized on a genuinely democratic system, with officers and men
receiving the same pay and mingling on terms of complete equality, and the substitution
of the Popular Army (once again, in Communist jargon, ‘People’s Army’), modelled as
far as possible on an ordinary bourgeois army, with a privileged officer-caste, immense
differences of pay, etc. etc. Needless to say, this is given out as a military necessity, and
almost certainly it does make for military efficiency, at least for a short period. But the
undoubted purpose of the change was to strike a blow at equalitarianism. In every
department the same policy has been followed, with the result that only a year after the
outbreak of war and revolution you get what is in effect an ordinary bourgeois State,
with, in addition, a reign of terror to preserve the status quo.

This process would probably have gone less far if the struggle could have taken place
without foreign interference. But the military weakness of the Government made this
impossible. In the face of France’s foreign mercenaries they were obliged to turn to
Russia for help, and though the quantity of arms sup — plied by Russia has been greatly
exaggerated (in my first three months in Spain I saw only one Russian weapon, a solitary
machine-gun), the mere fact of their arrival brought the Communists into power. To
begin with, the Russian aeroplanes and guns, and the good military qualities of the
international Brigades (not necessarily Communist but under Communist control),
immensely raised the Communist prestige. But, more important, since Russia and Mexico
were the only countries openly supplying arms, the Russians were able not only to get
money for their weapons, but to extort tenns as well. Put in their crudest form, the terms
were: ‘Crush the revolution or you get no more arms. ’ The reason usually given for the
Russian attitude is that if Russia appeared to be abetting the revolution, the Franco-Soviet
pact (and the hoped-for alliance with Great Britain) would be imperilled; it may be, also,
that the spectacle of a genuine revolution in Spain would rouse unwanted echoes in



Russia. The Communists, of course, deny that any direct pressure has been exerted by the
Russian Government. But this, even if true, is hardly relevant, for the Communist Parties
of all countries can be taken as carrying out Russian policy; and it is certain that the
Spanish Communist Party, plus the right-wing Socialists whom they control, plus the
Communist press of the whole world, have used all their immense and ever-increasing
influence upon the side of counter-revolution.

In the first half of this article I suggested that the real struggle in Spain, on the
Government side, has been between revolution and counter-revolution; that the
Government, though anxious enough to avoid being beaten by Franco, has been even
more anxious to undo the revolutionary changes with which the outbreak of war was
accompanied.

Any Communist would reject this suggestion as mistaken or wilfully dishonest. He would
tell you that it is nonsense to talk of the Spanish Government crushing the revolution,
because the revolution never happened; and that our job at present is to defeat Fascism
and defend democracy. And in this connexion it is most important to see just how the
Communist anti-revolutionary propaganda works. It is a mistake to think that this has no
relevance in England, where the Communist Party is small and comparatively weak. We
shall see its relevance quickly enough if England enters into an alliance with the
U. S. S. R. ; or perhaps even earlier, for the influence of the Communist Party is bound to
increase — visibly is increasing — as more and more of the capitalist class realize that
latter-day Communism is playing their game.

Broadly speaking, Communist propaganda depends upon terrifying people with the (quite
real) horrors of Fascism. It also involves pretending — not in so many words, but by
implication — that Fascism has nothing to do with capitalism. Fascism is just a kind of
meaningless wickedness, an aberration, ‘mass sadism’, the sort of thing that would
happen if you suddenly let loose an asylumful of homicidal maniacs. Present Fascism in
this fonn, and you can mobilize public opinion against it, at any rate for a while, without
provoking any revolutionary movement. You can oppose Fascism by bourgeois
‘democracy, meaning capitalism. But meanwhile you have got to get rid of the
troublesome person who points out that Fascism and bourgeois ‘democracy’ are
Tweedledum and Tweedledee. You do it at the beginning by calling him an impracticable



visionary. You tell him that he is confusing the issue, that he is splitting the anti-Fascist
forces, that this is not the moment for revolutionary phrase-mongering, that for the
moment we have got to fight against Fascism without inquiring too closely what we are
fighting for. Later, if he still refuses to shut up, you change your tune and call him a
traitor. More exactly, you call him a Trotskyist.

And what is a Trotskyist? This terrible word — in Spain at this moment you can be thrown
into jail and kept there indefinitely, without trial, on the mere rumour that you are a
Trotskyist — is only beginning to be bandied to and fro in England. We shall be hearing
more of it later. The word ‘Trotskyist’ (or ‘Trotsky-Fascist’) is generally used to mean a
disguised Fascist who poses as an ultra-revolutionary in order to split the left-wing
forces. But it derives its peculiar power from the fact that it means three separate things.
It can mean one who, like Trotsky, wished for world revolution; or a member of the
actual organization of which Trotsky is head (the only legitimate use of the word); or the
disguised Fascist already mentioned. The three meanings can be telescoped one into the
other at will. Meaning No. I may or may not carry with it meaning No. 2, and meaning
No. 2 almost invariably carries with it meaning No. 3. Thus: ‘XY has been heard to speak
favourably of world revolution; therefore he is a Trotskyist; therefore he is a Fascist. ’ In
Spain, to some extent even in England, ANYONE professing revolutionary Socialism
(i. e. professing the things the Communist Party professed until a few years ago) is under
suspicion of being a Trotskyist in the pay of Franco or Hitler.

The accusation is a very subtle one, because in any given case, unless one happened to
know the contrary, it might be true. A Fascist spy probably WOULD disguise himself as
a revolutionary. In Spain, everyone whose opinions are to the Left of those of the
Communist Party is sooner or later discovered to be a Trotskyist or, at least, a traitor. At
the beginning of the war the POUM, an opposition Communist party roughly
corresponding to the English ILP. , was an accepted party and supplied a minister to the
Catalan Government, later it was expelled from the Government; then it was denounced
as Trotskyist; then it was suppressed, every member that the police could lay their hands
on being flung into jail.

Until a few months ago the Anarcho-Syndicalists were described as ‘working loyally’
beside the Communists. Then the Anarcho-Syndicalists were levered out of the



Government; then it appeared that they were not working so loyally; now they are in the
process of becoming traitors. After that will come the turn of the left-wing Socialists.
Caballero, the left-wing Socialist ex-premier, until May 1937 the idol of the Communist
press, is already in outer darkness, a Trotskyist and ‘enemy of the people’. And so the
game continues. The logical end is a regime in which every opposition party and
newspaper is suppressed and every dissentient of any importance is in jail. Of course,
such a regime will be Fascism. It will not be the same as the fascism Franco would
impose, it will even be better than Franco’s fascism to the extent of being worth fighting
for, but it will be Fascism. Only, being operated by Communists and Liberals, it will be
called something different.

Meanwhile, can the war be won? The Communist influence has been against
revolutionary chaos and has therefore, apart from the Russian aid, tended to produce
greater military efficiency. If the Anarchists saved the Government from August to
October 1936, the Communists have saved it from October onwards. But in organizing
the defence they have succeeded in killing enthusiasm (inside Spain, not outside). They
made a militarized conscript army possible, but they also made it necessary. It is
significant that as early as January of this year voluntary recruiting had practically
ceased. A revolutionary army can sometimes win by enthusiasm, but a conscript army
has got to win with weapons, and it is unlikely that the Government will ever have a large
preponderance of arms unless France intervenes or unless Germany and Italy decide to
make off with the Spanish colonies and leave Franco in the lurch. On the whole, a
deadlock seems the likeliest thing.

And does the Government seriously intend to win? It does not intend to lose, that is
certain. On the other hand, an outright victory, with Franco in flight and the Germans and
Italians driven into the sea, would raise difficult problems, some of them too obvious to
need mentioning. There is no real evidence and one can only judge by the event, but I
suspect that what the Government is playing for is a compromise that would leave the
war situation essentially in being. All prophecies are wrong, therefore this one will be
wrong, but I will take a chance and say that though the war may end quite soon or may
drag on for years, it will end with Spain divided up, either by actual frontiers or into
economic zones. Of course, such a compromise might be claimed as a victory by either
side, or by both.



All that I have said in this article would seem entirely commonplace in Spain, or even in
France. Yet in England, in spite of the intense interest the Spanish war has aroused, there
are very few people who have even heard of the enonnous struggle that is going on
behind the Government lines. Of course, this is no accident. There has been a quite
deliberate conspiracy (I could give detailed instances) to prevent the Spanish situation
from being understood. People who ought to know better have lent themselves to the
deception on the ground that if you tell the truth about Spain it will be used as Fascist
propaganda.

It is easy to see where such cowardice leads. If the British public had been given a
truthful account of the Spanish war they would have had an opportunity of learning what
Fascism is and how it can be combated. As it is, the News Chronicle version of Fascism
as a kind of homicidal mania peculiar to Colonel Blimps bombinating in the economic
void has been established more firmly than ever. And thus we are one step nearer to the
great war ‘against Fascism’ (cf. 1914, ‘against militarism’) which will allow Fascism,
British variety, to be slipped over our necks during the first week.


MARRAKECH (1939)

As the corpse went past the flies left the restaurant table in a cloud and rushed after it, but
they came back a few minutes later.

The little crowd of mourners-all men and boys, no women — threaded their way across the
market-place between the piles of pomegranates and the taxis and the camels, wailing a
short chant over and over again. What really appeals to the flies is that the corpses here
are never put into coffins, they are merely wrapped in a piece of rag and carried on a
rough wooden bier on the shoulders of four friends. When the friends get to the burying-
ground they hack an oblong hole a foot or two deep, dump the body in it and fling over it
a little of the dried-up, lumpy earth, which is like broken brick. No gravestone, no name,
no identifying mark of any kind. The burying-ground is merely a huge waste of
hummocky earth, like a derelict building-lot. After a month or two no one can even be
certain where his own relatives are buried.



When you walk through a town like this — two hundred thousand inhabitants, of whom at
least twenty thousand own literally nothing except the rags they stand up in — when you
see how the people live, and still more how easily they die, it is always difficult to
believe that you are walking among human beings. All colonial empires are in reality
founded upon that fact. The people have brown faces — besides, there are so many of
them! Are they really the same flesh as yourself? Do they even have names? Or are they
merely a kind of undifferentiated brown stuff, about as individual as bees or coral
insects? They rise out of the earth, they sweat and starve for a few years, and then they
si nk back into the nameless mounds of the graveyard and nobody notices that they are
gone. And even the graves themselves soon fade back into the soil. Sometimes, out for a
walk, as you break your way through the prickly pear, you notice that it is rather bumpy
underfoot, and only a certain regularity in the bumps tells you that you are walking over
skeletons.

I was feeding one of the gazelles in the public gardens.

Gazelles are almost the only animals that look good to eat when they are still alive, in
fact, one can hardly look at their hindquarters without thinking of mint sauce. The gazelle
I was feeding seemed to know that this thought was in my mind, for though it took the
piece of bread I was holding out it obviously did not like me. It nibbled rapidly at the
bread, then lowered its head and tried to butt me, then took another nibble and then butted
again. Probably its idea was that if it could drive me away the bread would somehow
remain hanging in mid-air.

An Arab navvy working on the path nearby lowered his heavy hoe and sidled towards us.
He looked from the gazelle to the bread and from the bread to the gazelle, with a sort of
quiet amazement, as though he had never seen anything quite like this before. Finally he
said shyly in French:

“/ could eat some of that bread. ”


I tore off a piece and he stowed it gratefully in some secret place under his rags. This man
is an employee of the Municipality.



When you go through the Jewish quarters you gather some idea of what the medieval
ghettoes were probably like. Under their Moorish rulers the Jews were only allowed to
own land in certain restricted areas, and after centuries of this kind of treatment they have
ceased to bother about overcrowding. Many of the streets are a good deal less than six
feet wide, the houses are completely windowless, and sore-eyed children cluster
everywhere in unbelievable numbers, like clouds of flies. Down the centre of the street
there is generally running a little river of urine.

In the bazaar huge families of Jews, all dressed in the long black robe and little black
skull-cap, are working in dark fly-infested booths that look like caves. A carpenter sits
cross-legged at a prehistoric lathe, turning chair-legs at lightning speed. He works the
lathe with a bow in his right hand and guides the chisel with his left foot, and thanks to a
lifetime of sitting in this position his left leg is warped out of shape. At his side his
grandson, aged six, is already starting on the simpler parts of the job.

I was just passing the coppersmiths’ booths when somebody noticed that I was lighting a
cigarette. Instantly, from the dark holes all round, there was a frenzied rush of Jews,
many of them old grandfathers with flowing grey beards, all clamouring for a cigarette.
Even a blind man somewhere at the back of one of the booths heard a rumour of
cigarettes and came crawling out, groping in the air with his hand. In about a minute I
had used up the whole packet. None of these people, I suppose, works less than twelve
hours a day, and every one of them looks on a cigarette as a more or less impossible
luxury.

As the Jews live in self-contained communities they follow the same trades as the Arabs,
except for agriculture. Fruit-sellers, potters, silversmiths, blacksmiths, butchers, leather-
workers, tailors, water-carriers, beggars, porters — whichever way you look you see
nothing but Jews. As a matter of fact there are thirteen thousand of them, all living in the
space of a few acres. A good job Hitler isn’t here. Perhaps he is on his way, however.
You hear the usual dark rumours about the Jews, not only from the Arabs but from the
poorer Europeans.



“Yes, MON VIEUX, they took my job away from me and gave it to a Jew. The Jews!
They’re the real rulers of this country, you know. They’ve got all the money. They
control the banks, finance — everything. ”

“But,” I said, “isn’t it a fact that the average Jew is a labourer working for about a penny
an hour? ”

“Ah, that’s only for show! They’re all money-lenders really. They’re cunning, the Jews. ”

In just the same way, a couple of hundred years ago, poor old women used to be burned
for witchcraft when they could not even work enough magic to get themselves a square
meal.

All people who work with their hands are partly invisible, and the more important the
work they do, the less visible they are. Still, a white skin is always fairly conspicuous. In
northern Europe, when you see a labourer ploughing a field, you probably give him a
second glance. In a hot country, anywhere south of Gibraltar or east of Suez, the chances
are that you don’t even see him. I have noticed this again and again. In a tropical
landscape one’s eye takes in everything except the human beings. It takes in the dried-up
soil, the prickly pear, the palm-tree and the distant mountain, but it always misses the
peasant hoeing at his patch. He is the same colour as the earth, and a great deal less
interesting to look at.

It is only because of this that the starved countries of Asia and Africa are accepted as
tourist resorts. No one would think of running cheap trips to the Distressed Areas. But
where the human beings have brown skins their poverty is simply not noticed. What does
Morocco mean to a Frenchman? An orange-grove or a job in government service. Or to
an Englishman? Camels, castles, palm-trees, Foreign Legionnaires, brass trays and
bandits. One could probably live here for years without noticing that for nine-tenths of
the people the reality of life is an endless, back-breaking struggle to wring a little food
out of an eroded soil.

Most of Morocco is so desolate that no wild animal bigger than a hare can live on it.
Huge areas which were once covered with forest have turned into a treeless waste where
the soil is exactly like broken-up brick. Nevertheless a good deal of it is cultivated, with



frightful labour. Everything is done by hand. Long lines of women, bent double like
inverted capital Ls, work their way slowly across the fields, tearing up the prickly weeds
with their hands, and the peasant gathering lucerne for fodder pulls it up stalk by stalk
instead of reaping it, thus saving an inch or two on each stalk. The plough is a wretched
wooden thing, so frail that one can easily carry it on one’s shoulder, and fitted underneath
with a rough iron spike which stirs the soil to a depth of about four inches. This is as
much as the strength of the animals is equal to. It is usual to plough with a cow and a
donkey yoked together. Two donkeys would not be quite strong enough, but on the other
hand two cows would cost a little more to feed. The peasants possess no harrows, they
merely plough the soil several times over in different directions, finally leaving it in
rough furrows, after which the whole field has to be shaped with hoes into small oblong
patches, to conserve water. Except for a day or two after the rare rainstorms there is never
enough water. Along the edges of the fields channels are hacked out to a depth of thirty
or forty feet to get at the tiny trickles which run through the subsoil.

Every afternoon a file of very old women passes down the road outside my house, each
carrying a load of firewood. All of them are mummified with age and the sun, and all of
them are tiny. It seems to be generally the case in primitive communities that the women,
when they get beyond a certain age, shrink to the size of children. One day a poor old
creature who could not have been more than four feet tall crept past me under a vast load
of wood. I stopped her and put a five-sou piece (a little more than a farthing) into her
hand. She answered with a shrill wail, almost a scream, which was partly gratitude but
mainly surprise. I suppose that from her point of view, by taking any notice of her, I
seemed almost to be violating a law of nature. She accepted her status as an old woman,
that is to say as a beast of burden. When a family is travelling it is quite usual to see a
father and a grown-up son riding ahead on donkeys, and an old woman following on foot,
carrying the baggage.

But what is strange about these people is their invisibility. For several weeks, always at
about the same time of day, the file of old women had hobbled past the house with their
firewood, and though they had registered themselves on my eyeballs I cannot truly say
that I had seen them. Firewood was passing — that was how I saw it. It was only that one
day I happened to be walking behind them, and the curious up-and-down motion of a
load of wood drew my attention to the human being underneath it. Then for the first time



I noticed the poor old earth-coloured bodies, bodies reduced to bones and leathery skin,
bent double under the crushing weight. Yet I suppose I had not been five minutes on
Moroccan soil before I noticed the overloading of the donkeys and was infuriated by it.
There is no question that the donkeys are damnably treated. The Moroccan donkey is
hardly bigger than a St Bernard dog, it carries a load which in the British army would be
considered too much for a fifteen-hands mule, and very often its pack-saddle is not taken
off its back for weeks together.