She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not
The Soviet Government, though dedicated by its dogmas to promoting discord between nations, races and classes, likes to have, as it were, a small saving bet on the horse of goodwill. At the moment this country (a fortnight ago it was France) enjoys the Kremlin's favour. The Russian press and radio lire full of our cultural achievements; Lord Byron—a rebel if not exactly a revolutionary—is being rammed down the throats of the Uzbeks, Othello and Dombey and Son are about to be televised. Prominence is being given to the fact that during the last four months Moscow has been visited by 100 British businessmen—a total which would be reasonably impressive if Moscow were the capital of Liberia. The Russians are being told a lot about the London triumphs of the Beryozka dancers, Russian whalers saluted the Royal Yacht in the Mediterranean and on VE Day Marshal Zhukov mentioned Field Marshal Montgomery as having been among those present on the Western front. Our promotion from hyena-dom, however temporary it may prove, is gratifying; but I often wonder why the Russians indulge in this push-button bonhomie. To be told, for a time, that the British are not nearly as bad as had hitherto been supposed is no doubt agreeable for the Russian people, who are not born xenophobic but have xenophobia thrust upon them; and it makes a nice change for the British to be treated with civility. But whether these lapses into affability produce results commensurate with the trouble they must take to arrange I rather doubt; you can't, as the American said, organise friendship.
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