BOOKS.

A POLITICAL PILGRIM IN EUROPE.* IT is difficult for a reader to guess exactly what Mrs. Philip Snowden's motive was when she wrote these reminiscences of her political tours in Europe. Did she want merely to entertain her readers, or did she want to enlist them in the cause of Socialism before they were aware of what was happening by surrounding them with the electrical and exhilarating atmosphere in which she habitually moves ? Whatever may be the answer, whether her intention was serious or light, she has given us a book of delightful recollections. It is a book of personal gossip on a background of Socialistic conferences. If we tried to analyse Mrs. Snowden's habit of thought, we should say that she is a collector of revolutionary notorieties. Some people collect books, others pictures, others china, others stamps ; Mrs. Snowden collects the leaders of revolutions. She sticks her pin through their bodies, transfixing them with her penetrating verbal method, and there they are, all set out for you to see like a lot of butterflies on a board.

Not that she is very revolutionary herself. A moderate

strain runs through her. It was that moderation which made her revolt from the excesses of Bolshevism and record her condemnation in another book. She is rather the old-fashioned Socialist, as types are reckoned to-day. She is professedly a Christian ; she believes in the traditional virtues ; she deplores the decline of thrift and domestic strictness. Yet she is very human and has a keen sense of humour. There is a well-known story of a leading Socialist who when ho went to the theatre invariably took a box. When some of his less affluent Socialist friends protested that this habit might be misunderstood and was not good propaganda for Socialism, he replied, " Ah 1 but we have got to level up." His idea was to raise every theatre-goer to the box level; and judging from Mrs. Snowden's frank enjoyment of well-served food and wine in first-class restaurants, we suppose that she would like to raise everybody to the first-class restaurant level. Although she has much humour, she apparently has little compartments in her mind to which humour has not access. Her credulity is great about the number and ubiquity of spies employed by British Legations abroad. Probably we are not wrong in

thinking that she revelled in believing that she was continually pursued. Thus she added to the importance and the excitement of her missions. But we record thankfully that she turns a spicy sarcasm against the absurdities of some of her pacifist and revolutionary acquaintances quite as much as against the alleged excesses of her black beasts—Imperialists.

M. Renaudel, the editor of L'Humanite, asked her why English Socialists never used the word " comrade " in speaking to each other. Mrs. Snowden's reply was shattering:— "'The word comrade is often used in England also,' I replied. I rarely use the word myself, and if you want to lmow why, my reason is very simple. It is a very beautiful word, but it • d Pe itkai Pilgrim in Europe. By Mrs. Ph1lID Snnwden. London : Lb. Gd. net.) has been frightfully misused and has lost a good deal of its value. I have heard it so often in the mouths of people who have no more comradely feeling for me than a nest of mosquitoes, that it is now no guarantee to me of real friendship. On the contrary, .I am suspicious of those who use it most. It is like that even more beautiful word " love," which has been cheapened and vulgarized by its misuse until now it means exactly nothing on the lips of most. What value would you attach to the love of somebody who in the same breath expressed the same fervent devotion to a jam tart ? " Comrade " means nothing. - It is a mere form of expression, a hackneyed formulary. I keep this word for those I know to be truly my friends.' I told Renaudel of an acquaintance of mine, a Trade Union leader who received a post card from an angry fellow unionist, with a skull and cross-bones at the head. ' Dear Comrade,' it began, What do you mean by selling out like you did ? You are getting something good for yourself out of this. You are a liar and a scoundrel ! You ought to be shot 1 Just you wait till I catch you out by yourself I Look out for your dirty hide 1 You filthy dog 1 Yours fraternally, B. S.' "

Very good reading, too, is Mrs. Snowden's account of the Second International which she attended in Switzerland:—

" Disorderly interruptions are frequent, and sometimes quite terrifying. On this occasion the French and German Majoritaires raged at each other across the heads of the delegates. But then so did the French Majoritaires and their Minoritairee. These last were just as bitter and violent as the first two sections. Similarly with the German and Austrian Majorities and Minorities. When feeling ran high the hall became a veritable bear garden. The one astonishing thing to those of us who expected every minute an ink-bottle or a book to come hurtling across our heads at one or another of the combatants, was that these furious men never came to blows. Infuriate rage and cheerful good humour followed each other with the suddenness and regularity of sunshine and rain in an English April. But it was all very tiresome to those of us who were more concerned with the future than the past. Just when we were about to settle down, as we thought, to something really con- structive, up would jump Albert Thomas, bursting with rage and quivering like a jelly, shaking his long hair and roaring like a mad bull ; or Renaudel shrieking in a high-pitched voice like the enraged tenor at Covent Garden when lie sees his lady- love in the arms of the villain ; provoking the plethoric Wels to an apoplectic fit of frenzy, and the angry Muller to an ironic reply shouted above the heads of the lesser partisans on either side, whose fearful and monotonous yells ; You are guilty ! They are guilty 1 We are not guilty ! We are right ! You are wrong ! ' almost made the tops of our heads come off ! "

The present writer, on the strength of all this, has almost made up his mind that he will try to go to one of these Inter- nationals—if ho can get in. They must be very good fun. And when it is remembered that this conference which Mrs. Snowden describes was only that of a Second International, and that Moscow has a Third International, which is more extreme and therefore probably still more furious, it will be seen that there may be even better performances than those Mrs. Snowden has described.

We will now quote Mrs. Snowden's description of the notorious Adler, who visited the Second International:-

" We were somewhat listlessly pursuing our debates when suddenly there appeared on the platform a short square figure of a man with broad humped-up shoulders and a shock of fair wavy hair. Ho still wore his travelling coat. His short- sighted eyes peered through a pair of largo spectacles. His nervous hands fidgeted with his coat. He began to speak, quietly and distinctly, with a slight pleasant drawl. It was Friedrich Adler, ' the man who killed Count Sturgkh,' who made this dramatic appearance towards tho end of the Conference. We were told ho was on his way some days before. Then we heard he had been detained on the Austrian frontier by the Swiss police, who refused to permit him to enter Switzerland on account of his political crime. Curious, that the men who applaud William Tell and teach their children with pride the story of tho tyrant Gessler and the apple, objected to the Austrian version of their national story. Moreover, the Emperor Charles had pardoned Adler. Knowing the dilatoriness of officials all hope of seeing him at the Conference in timo to take part in the debates had tied. At the sight and sound of him the delegates sprang to their foot electrified. Adler 1 Adler ! ' they shouted. For several minutes they cheered without intermission. Wave after wave of genuinely passionate pleasure was expressed in shouted greetings and thunderous applause. It was remarkable ; the most astonishing thing that happened at the Conference ! To see the French and German antagonists, and the Majoritaires and Minoritaires of the various countries allied in a moment to render tribute to this one man was as delightful as it was puzzling to the simple soul whose quarrels are not so easily set aside. But the explanation was really very simple. It was not what it looked like, a company of pacifists illogically applauding a murderer. It was the spontaneous tribute of his comrades of all lands to a man whose consistency to his ideals called for their devotion. Very few men in that gathering had remained true during the war to the central idea of the International. Henderson had been a member of the British War Cabinet Branting had taken the side of the Allies : Willer had supported Germany ; Thomas had been a French ' patriot '—all, or almost all, had taken aides and had forgotten their international

obligations and their peace ideals in the overwhelming disaster of the war. Adler had stood firm."

Nevertheless, Adler is a murderer. It is really a little difficult to reconcile Mrs. Snowden's enthusiasm for Adler with her old- fashioned principles. Another strange character who was present at the Second International was Mr. John de Kay. He was a mystery man. Mrs. Snowden tells us that he had a castle in Switzerland, another in France and an estate in Mexico, and that he was persona grata with several revolutionary governments. His bust has been sculptured by Rodin ; Mme. Sarah Bernhardt had appeared in one of his plays. He was a multi-millionaire and kept a marvellous suite of rooms at the Bernerhof. We like this sort of revolutionary ; he was well worth collecting ; he might have appeared worthily as the chief ironic figure in R. L. Stevenson's The Dynamiter.

Evidently Mrs. Snowden was considerably affected herself by the majestic figure. However, she leaves the mystery unsolved. She cannot tell us much more than that Mr. John de Kay was anxious to finance the publicity work of the Second International and actually contributed large sums. But, alas I with his largest schemes something always went amiss. The millions were never forthcoming. Mrs. Snowden does not assure us that her friends were unwilling to accept the millions. Rather she implies their disappointment. Did they ask where the money came—or would have come—from ?

Mrs. Snowden's heights of irony and humour are reached in her description of Frau Rosika Schwimmer. This remarkable woman appeared at the Second International in a smart black dress over which she wore a valuable sealskin coat. She was the first woman Minister in Hungary. The fun becomes fast and furious when we are told how Frau Schwimmer organized during the war the peace mission which was financed by Mr. Henry Ford, the American motor-car manufacturer. Mrs. Snowden spoke at a meeting in Washington in favour of " a negotiated peace." She then continues :-

" In a sumptuous suite of apartments at the Great Washington Hotel sat the great man. And in another equally sumptuous sat Rosika, with her army of secretaries. Her rooms were filled with costly flowers. Her meals were served privately by waiters specially chosen for the work. Messengers whose sole business appeared to be to attend to Frau Schwimmer's every wish ran in and out in a constant stream. Newspaper men waited in the ante-room for such crumbs of news as she was disposed to scatter. Well-dressed and important-looking men and women left their cards. Busy, intense, energetio life thrilled through the whole of the hotel. Something more than the usual was afoot. What could it be ? It sprang from a source which kept itself hidden, except when at one dramatio moment in the theatre a thin, clean-shaven man with a keen, sensitive face leapt to his feet and declared in a loud, drawling voice : I never made a speech before in my life. All I want to say is this : We'll have those boys out of the trenches by Christmas.' It was Henry Ford, the great manufacturer of automobiles. He meant every word he said and really believed it possible to do what he wished. It was this generous, warm-hearted man who was finding the money for Rosika's lavish expenditure. It was he who secured us the talk with President Wilson. It was he who had even then been involved by the dominating Rosika in the idea of the peace ship—the wonderful ship full of peacemakers which should sail to every neutral land in Europe and invite their Governments to persuade the warriors to make the peace. As an advertisement for the peace idea the scheme had some value ; but knowing something of the temperamental Rosika and her lack of staying power as well as of her extrava- gance, as anything more serious than that the plan was bound to fail. I felt an enormous pity for Mr. Ford, whom I failed to see after the meeting ; but I doubt if at that time anyone could have convinced him that an ambitious woman was using him and his dollars in the most foolish and reckless enterprise that was instigated through the Great War."

Most of Mrs. Snowden's quick and sparkling sketches are so lifelike that we hardly doubt their truth, and yet, and yet—. At the end of the book she describes a visit to Ireland, and her account of the situation there is, as we think, so hopelessly prejudiced and unreal—Ulstermen the real rebels, Sinn Fein murderers hardly murderers at all—that we wonder after all (with much reluctance) whether we can trust Mrs. Snowden's judgment about other people. Must we really sacrifice the picture of Mr. John de Kay, and—a still harder thing to do—

that of Frau Schwimmer ? Well, we shall go on hoping for the best.