MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON
FEW functions in life are more disheartening than that of being a wet blanket. Even a dry ,blanket, be it ever so pink and fleecy, is seldom an object of entertainment or romance; but a wet blanket is of all things the most purposeless, cumbersome, unwieldy and unwanted. I have tried all this week to keep my blanket, if not dry, then at least out of sight. I have persuaded myself that the British public, now that Mr. John Strachey is about to stint them of bread, have never been in greater need of circuses. I have told myself that there exists no community in the whole world more deserving of self-congratulation and of self-esteem than the citizens of London. I have contended that in these days of dark uncertainty it is fitting that we should relax for a moment and surrender our- selves to mass-enjoyment. I have considered how right it is that we should take occasion to express publicly to our allies, and to those who in occupied countries helped us by their heroism, the gratitude and admiration which we feel. I have been convinced, or almost convinced, by the thought that it is necessary that contingents from the Dominions, the Dependencies and the Colonies should come to the metropolis and celebrate in unison with the mother country the tremendous victories which we have won. And above all I have tried throughout the week to suppress my own apprehensions and criticisms and not to allow a discordant note of pessimism to intrude upon the fanfare of general rejoicing. Yet all these arguments have failed to reconcile me to the celebration which will occur on June 8. Always I have returned to the inexorable question: " But what exactly is it that we are celebrating?"
* * * Not victory surely; or if victory, then not in the form of some Roman triumph, with its spoils and captives, but in the negative form of thankfulness for the avoidance of defeat. Such thankfulness, and we have every cause for it, should be a solemn private feeling; it accords ill with flags and fireworks. To many people our jubila- tion will seem tasteless and unreal. Tasteless, since it is unfitting, when so many millions in Europe still live in dread and hunger, when many hundred thousand prisoners are still in our midst, for those who have been fortunate to dance in the streets. Unreal, since the only authentic joy of victory must come from the convic- tion of dangers surmounted and safety won. How can we, except in utter thoughtlessness, revel in security when we know that we and others remain terribly insecure? The men and women who on Saturday night will gambol through the flood-lit streets of London will be able, perhaps, to forget that at that very moment a spectre ship, a sinister Noah's ark, is ploughing towards the Pacific freighted with pigs and goats and guinea-pigs, intended victims of the latest atomic bomb. They will forget that in the Mediterranean, in India, and in the Middle East the sources of our wealth and influence and power are rapidly disintegrating. They will forget that Russia, that imponderable and inexplicable force, is now dominant froin the Kurile Islands to Valona, from Konigsberg to Tabriz. They will forget that isolationism in the United States is assuming, as it inevit- ably must assume, an anti-British trend. They will forget that the unity of purpose which during the war cemented the Coalition has now become a disunity of purpose. They will forget that the coun- tries of Western Europe are paralysed by uncertainty and torn with internal dissension. They will forget that the Atlantic Charter has lost its meaning and that U.N.O. has lost its faith. They will forget all these things ; and they will sing and laugh.
* * * * It will be said that it is not victory which we are celebrating, not even security, certainly not triumph. It will be said that we are taking a suitable occasion to express thanks to our allies, to the Dominions and the Colonies, and to the men and women of the fighting and civilian services who strove and suffered during the dark years. That, in truth, is a laudable object. Yet what a small propor- tion of those who brought us victory will, in fact, take part in to- morrow's procession! Many will be absent, and some even will be present who never experienced in their own persons the ardours and endurances of the Second German War. Upon the pavements as they pass will stand men, clad in civilian suits, who fought at Dun- kirk and Alamein; the celebrations, to them, will not seem very authentic. The contingents representing the armies of our allies will, I feel sure, obtain a polite welcome. But the procession will be long, the units not always identifiable, and the London crowd is not by, nature demonstrative ; it is possible even that offence rather than satisfaction may in some cases be caused. For weeks these men, and those who have come here from the Commonwealth and Empire, have endured the inclemency of our English May. Night after night the rain has dripped upon their tents from heavy English trees; the paths to their canteens have been turned into mud; many a blanket in these encampments must have become very wet indeed. Nor is London organised, as Paris is organised, to provide such
visitors with amenities and entertainment. The solid charm of London creates a taste which, once acquired, becomes unalterable ; but it is not a charm which in our variable climate reveals itself in a flash. The rock-buns and tea-urns of English hospitality can scarcely vie with the gay terraces of Parisian cafés.
My mind goes back inevitably to the Fête de la Victoire which was held in Paris in July, 1919. The Treaty of Peace with Germany had by then been signed; Europe, having rid herself of a great menace, was settling down to what seemed a life-time of peace, prosperity and repose. Above the Arc de Triomphe small white clouds chased each other across a sea of blue, sailing from Courbevoie on their way to the distant Vosges. I was seated in the top story of the Hotel Astoria, looking down upon the great arch and upon the Place de l'Etoile. The vast amphitheatre below me was packed with troops, grandstands, presidential tribunes and the victorious people of France.. A massed band played the Chant de Depart with pas-
sionate reiteration. Two tiny figures on the top of the Arc de Triomphe waved a little flag; the bands s:enped suddenly; there was a great hush over Paris; and then, out of the shadow of the arch and into the diagonal sunlight came Foch and Joffre riding together, their horses stepping delicately upon the pavement. A great roar went up towards us ; the flags fluttered in the breeze ; distant handkerchiefs waved repeatedly ; and the long procession passed. How vividly do I recall the moment when Lord Haig, followed by a glittering staff,-passed into that angle of sunlight. The bag-pipes swirled. And then followed the flags of all our regiments, erect as a forest of masts, their heavy brocade hanging stiff with embroidered battles—" Busaco," " Vitoria," " Waterloo." It was, indeed, a triumphant moment. The glories of the past seemed to confound themselves with an assured and powerful future; the world had been made safe for democracy; the cries of happy millions echoed in the summer air.
* *. *
The victory which we then celebrated seemed secure: to-day out sunshine is much dimmed. But were I to be there to-morrow, I should cheer as lustily as ever. I should be thinking of the drawn but resolute faces of London's citizens when they emerged from their shelters; I should be thinking of the sound of shattered glass being swept from the pavements ; I should be thinking of many nights of fear and many days of anxiety; I should be thinking of Calais and Dunkirk; I should be thinking of Churchill. But I should be think- ing also that the men and women of this country triumphed over great danger without vainglory; that we have won much honour in the world; and that having in the nineteenth century achieved poli- tical liberty without revolution we can still show men that economic democracy can be achieved without destruction.
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