RUSSIA FROM THE INSIDE

To the " spate " of books on Russia there is no end. I have long abandoned the struggle to keep pace with this torrent. I find it increasingly difficult to take seriously the views of men and women who, however eminent they may be in their own walk of life, never saw the pre-Bolshevik Russia and have no -knowledge either of the Russian language or of the Russian people. It is therefore a pleasant coincidence that the same week should give us two books which, being written by men who played an active part in the drama of the Russian revolution, have a commanding claim on our attention.

Sir Paul Dukes's The Story of "ST 25" is the narrative of those strenuous months in 1919 when he was head of the British Intelligence Service in Russia. I do not share his unqualified respect for the brains of the Secret Service. Admittedly, the discovery of concrete facts about the enemy is of inestimable value in war-time. But the political opinions of spies and agents, who, more often than not, have no political experience and no political background, are frequently misleading, and in trying to determine the relative advantages and disadvan- tages of secret service one could make out almost as good a case for its abolition (as a measure of self-defence) as for its retention.

For the courage of secret service agents I have nothing but admiration. The story of Sir Paul Dukes's courage is one of the great epics of the War. I met him first in 1917. He was then working for the Anglo-Russian Commission in St. Petersburg. He looked what he was then and what I believe he still is—an artist with a strong streak of mysticism in his character. He had beautiful hands, a high, intellectual fore- head, and deep-set eyes that burnt with the flame of the higher purpose. Although our business was comparatively unimportant, I was interested in a young man who even then had renounced his musical career, because music demanded a full allegiance and the four years of interruption caused by the War could never be recaptured. In July, 1914, he was chief assistant to Albert Coates at the Marinsky Theatre. I felt that he should still be there. It would have been hard to imagine anyone less like the ordinary run of British secret service agent.

Yet a secret service agent Dukes became. At tie end of 1918, when the British had to scuttle from Russia and the atmosphere was as hostile as it could be, he accepted a com- mission to go back and to supply his country with the informa- tion which it could obtain from no other British source. He had to adopt numerous disguises and obtain all kinds of false papers. He became, in turn, an agent of the Cheka, a soldier of the Red Army, and of course a member of the Communist Party. He was helped by his remarkable knowledge of Russian and also, I think, by that affection for Russia and for the Russian people which he shares with nearly every Englishman who measures his period of residence in Russia by years and not by days.

But the dangers which he faced daily—and nightly—were ever-perilous and ever-present. He slept in tombs. He could never be sure if he was talking to a friend or to an agent provocateur. Only a fatalist or a man who believes, as Sir Paul believes, in the intervention of a supervising Providence could have run such risks without losing his nerve. Yet these risks he increased voluntarily. In addition to his dangerous official work of sending home reports, he undertook the infinitely more dangerous, unofficial task of organising the escape of the men and women who befriended him and who at times held his own safety in their hands.

To a large extent his book is the story of his adventures. In their kaleidoscopic variety and in their seeming improba- bilities these adventures exceed the wildest flights of fancy ever conceived by the imagination of a William le Queux er a Valentine Williams. But they do not make this impression on the reader. Sir Paul tells his tale modestly, almost without a trace of excitement. It is the only secret service story which has ever convinced me of its absolute truth. Perhaps that is why it lacks some of the tingle of other less truthful spy stories. The author does not obtrude his personal opinions with violence. Throughout his narrative one feels his almost religious devotion to the Russian people. At the end. he proclaims his faith in a resurrected Russia.

The book itself will not solve the riddle of Russia for the bewildered British reader. But it will remain for all time as a valuable historical document, not only for its documented record of an amazingly brave endeavour, but also because it conveys more convicingly than any book I know the atmosphere of cowardice, courage, corruption, cruelty and chaos which pervaded those early years of the Bolshevik revolution.

Mr. Ranald MacDonell's And Nothing Long bears no resemblance to Sir Paul's sober recital. His book is not wholly concerned With Russia nor is it wholly serious. It is, in fact, the humorous and good-humoured autobiography of a man who has been, by turn, bank clerk, tea-planter in Ceylon, applicant for the throne of Albania, oil company manager, British Vice-Consul, temporary Foreign Office official, owner of a grocer's shop, and Fleet Street reporter. And just because Mr. MacDonell has taken the caresses and the buffets of fortune with equanimity and because he has never lost his curiosity about the adventure of life, he has written an attractive and captivating book. He is never dull. He touches on almost every side of life, sometimes with humour, sometimes with pathos, and always wit': modesty. He laughs at himself, and the reader laughs with him.

This recommendation, however, does but partial justice to Mr. MacDonell's book. The best and, I feel sure, the happiest years of his life were spent in Russia. Like Sir Paul Dukes, he has a genuine affection for Russia, and he has a happy knack of being able to analyse the Russian character in a few aphorisms. " Russia was totally devoid of vulgarity ; that perhaps is because Russia is the East and vulgarity is a product peculiar to the West." " Russians arc often depressed, but never boring." These are fundamental truths which may have been said before but never quite so pithily. Take again his summary of the Russian passion for words : " Childlike they feel that words are greater than deeds and deeds can only be born of words ; they know the comforting joy of the nice things said and the tragedy of harsh words beyond recall." One feels that if Mr. MacDonnell loves his Russians he also understands them.

He was also a remarkably shrewd judge of a political situation.

During the War he was not only British Vice-Consul in Baku, but also political adviser to the various British military missions and, finally, armed forces which sought to intervene with constant heroism but varying success in the conflicting turmoils of the Caucasus.

Mr. MacDonell knew the virtues and the weaknesses of these various Caucasian races whom the British wished to organise into an anti-Bolshevik front. Conscientious Red-tabs inundated the War Office with reports in which they indicated their preferences. Mr. MacDonell gives you the whole picture in a few strokes of his pen : " the Armenians were sullen and uninclined to work with the Georgians ; the Georgians were uninclined for any work at all. As long as the women and wine lasted, they were content to enjoy them. When these ran out, they preferred the usual elegant suicide."

With the establishment of the Bolshevik regime Mr.

MacDonell had to leave Russia. He was put in charge of a new Transcaucasian section in the Foreign Office. He wrote a few reports in which he ventured to call Lord Curzon's attention to the dangers of intervention. He recommended leaving the Russians to their own affairs and " confining ourselves to assisting the Caucasian Republics and other border States which, whatever might happen, would always remain anti-Russian."

But the Foreign Office was then very India-minded. More- over, all people who mattered were convinced that Bolshevik Russia was the most temporary of post-War spectres. As Mr. MacDonell writes, " they felt sure of those better elements anxiously waiting for the advent of Denikin, Mr. Winston Churchill, and the new Tsar."

For his services the Foreign Office appointed Mr. MacDonell Consul in Tiflis and then, when the Bolsheviks would not accept him, retired him under the Geddes axe. The Foreign Office's loss has been the public's gain. Although I heard his praises sung by many diplomdtists, I never met Mr. MacDonell in Russia. Now that I have read his book, I want to know and hear more about him. It is a wish which I am confident every reader of And Nothing Long will share.

R. H. BRUCE LOCRHART.