MIA > Archive > Hyndman > Adventurous Life
I used not unfrequently to meet Randolph Churchill, and it is rather strange that, having known well three of the members of the so-called Fourth Party, Sir John Gorst, Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, and Lord Randolph Churchill, I should never have met, nor, so far as I know, have seen Mr. Arthur Balfour. Lord Randolph Churchill’s sudden rise to fame and power was one of the most dramatic political incidents in modern times. Mr. Gladstone’s influence on the House of Commons was so great, even over his opponents, that, after Mr. Disraeli’s withdrawal to the House of Lords, there was no one who could hold his own with “the Grand Old Man.” In fact, the leaders of the Conservative party treated Mr. Gladstone with so much personal deference that it seemed as if individually they agreed with him, and only differed from him as a matter of duty to their party. This was, of course, fatal to a policy of attack. In order to produce any serious effect in a public assembly you must at least seem to be in earnest and lose no opportunity of forcing on a fight.
This Lord Randolph Churchill saw clearly. At first no one took him seriously. It seemed impossible that a comparatively young man, whose previous career in and out of the House of Commons had given no evidence of special aptitude for political life or knowledge of political affairs, should be able, virtually within a few months, to obtain a dominant position in the House of Commons, and be even more feared by his placid and well – informed but somewhat apathetic leaders than by the Government. Yet so it was, and the vein of volcanic arrogance which ran through him, inherited, presumably, from the Vane Tempest blood, actually helped him under the conditions in which he had to work.
That he was utterly indifferent to other men’s feelings so long as he could make a point against them in politics he showed very frequently, and it has always seemed to me that this little anecdote displays that side of his character at its best or worst. Lord Cross was, at the time I speak of, one of the Conservative leaders. Lord Randolph took no pains to disguise his contempt for that highly respectable mediocrity so dear to Queen Victoria. An amendment was unexpectedly and, as some thought, improperly proposed and allowed to be discussed, bearing upon some motion before the House. Lord Randolph rose to speak, and cast ridicule on the whole thing, saying that nobody even knew what the amendment was. Lord Cross scribbled down what the amendment conveyed, and sent on the pencilled chit to Lord Randolph. He looked at it, read it through, and went on with his remarks, only breaking off a little later to say, “Things have indeed come to a pretty pass in this House when amendments are passed round from one member to another on dirty little scraps of paper,” and screwing up the bit of paper, he flipped it contemptuously on to the floor.
But, quite apart from all this, to a large extent, assumed arrogance, Lord Randolph breathed a new spirit into the Conservatives, roused a genuine democratic and progressive spirit in the ranks of his party, and, in my opinion, had his health and nerves been equal to his intellectual vigour and capacity, it is within the bounds of possibility that he might have broken down the Capitalist prejudices of his own faction and have entered peacefully upon the path of social regeneration. I say “within the bounds of possibility,” but even this with some hesitation; because in this queer country, with its huge mass of ignorance and prejudice, both above and below, it is exceedingly hard to get the people to move, and, no matter how gifted a leader may be, he cannot, unless by some accident he is a despot with a determination to force on obviously needed reforms for the benefit of the next generation, carry out his projects. And Churchill was no Trajan or Diocletian.
I knew Lord Randolph before he achieved notoriety and fame. He was then careless of his health, and singularly indifferent to the effect which he produced upon others. Self-control was at no period the strong point in his character. He had such great confidence in his own judgment at times that it was surprising to note how he hesitated at others. It was generally thought that the only man whose opinion he would ever take in preference to his own was his brother, the Duke of Marlborough, who was unquestionably quite as able as himself and less neurotic. However that may be the development of his political career seems to me to have been almost entirely his own.
Sir John Gorst who, of course, knew him intimately and saw his career in the House of Commons close at hand, which I did not, holds, I am aware, a different view, and considers that he was deeply indebted to others for the information and opportunities of which he took immediate advantage. But others had their chances at the same time, and were supposed to be at least equally clever men; yet somehow they failed at the critical moment to show that remarkable brilliancy and power of decisive action which gave Churchill the lead; while none of them ever exhibited that very genius of unscrupulous manipulation of the means at his disposal which enabled him to use the group system, then in its infancy, to his own advantage. No doubt he had more than one great family behind him; and that touch of aristocratic arrogance, not to say impertinence, which he not unfrequently exhibited, rather endeared him than otherwise to our, at bottom, undemocratic and lord-loving people. But I believe in his heart he was only too conscious of his own deficiencies, and even regretted the lack of self-control in more than one direction which told so heavily on his nerves.
There was in the man something of Mirabeau in more than one respect, though he had a keener sympathy with the people than that powerful Frenchman ever felt. Gifted with an extraordinarily retentive memory, which enabled him to carry his speeches almost word for word in his head, and a very powerful voice that seemed could scarcely belong to so slight a frame, he was an extremely effective platform speaker, though his speeches read more tellingly than they sounded. The impression that he was short was quite erroneous, as he was fully five feet nine inches in height, and looked taller than he was. In private life he could be very agreeable, and I myself always found him so. Nor did he display, in speaking of himself to me, any of that exceeding self-appreciation of his own powers with which he has been credited. Talking about his first appearance at the Indian Council when he was Secretary of State for India, he declared that he felt horribly nervous when he took his seat in the Presidential Chair, knowing, as he said, very little indeed about the duties he had to perform, with all these grey-headed and imposing-looking old chaps seated solemnly around him. And my opinion is that he really felt as he said he did.
Of course, being a, progressive and even a democratic Tory, Lord Randolph Churchill was not likely to gain the approval of a reactionary old Whig rhetorician like Lord Rosebery, who tries to make up for his own congenital incapacity to handle anything but words by erecting a statue to Cromwell, eulogising Bismarck and proclaiming his admiration for Lord Chatham. But in his short biographical pamphlet on Lord Randolph, he seems unable to comprehend that his criticism to the effect that the subject of his sketch became more democratic, as he became more thoroughly habituated to public life, is really a striking compliment to the natural intelligence of the man whom he belittles. Lord Rosebery also quotes with approval Mr. Chamberlain’s statement that I had persuaded him to adopt my Socialist suggestions. I do not believe myself that Lord Randolph needed much persuading, when once he had begun to look into the subject, as he did, he told me, after reading my England for All. But I discussed with him fully how a complete social transformation could be brought about peacefully in this country by the adoption of collectivist measures leading onwards by degrees to a general acceptance of the new state of things; and I argued that, whereas the leading Conservatives would oppose such proposals, as a matter of business, if fathered by the Liberals, the Liberals could not afford to resist them, if proposed by the Conservatives, for fear of losing popularity. This view, I believe with Lord Rosebery, Churchill did adopt.
One day, when Chancellor of the Exchequer, he asked to meet me alone at luncheon, and we went up afterwards into Lady St. Helier’s drawing-room and talked for a long time. He suddenly told me he thought of resigning. I expressed my astonishment, as this appeared to me a deliberate knocking down of all he had striven to build up, and a forfeiture of his right to take the lead in a great and beneficent movement from the top. Thereupon I set to work to argue out the whole question of social revolution and social reform from the economic standpoint, endeavouring to show that there was no time to be lost if we were to check the increasing deterioration of our population, and create new openings for the rising generation at home. Churchill listened attentively enough and then said: “It is all very well for you to go on in this way, Mr. Hyndman; you have been studying these things all your life. I have to get them up as I go along. And then,” after a pause, “you must bear in mind I am only one man in the Cabinet, and cannot hope to impose my opinions upon my colleagues.” “Better one than none,” I naturally answered, and I again begged him to think very seriously, and then give up the idea altogether. But he gave no indication that his intention would change.
The last words he said as we parted were, “You may rely upon me to do all I can in office or out of office to help on your palliative programme.” I thanked him, and we went our ways. When he resigned so precipitately and injudiciously, as all thought at the time, I imagined that his promise to me had no further significance. I was wrong. Months afterwards, in a long speech at Walsall, he fulfilled his pledge as far as was possible, and did his utmost to give a lift to immediate Socialistic reforms such as those the Social-Democratic Federation had formulated and pushed to the front since 1882.
One incident of an amusing yet, as Churchill seemed to think, of a serious character, I must recall. Lord Randolph was on his trip through India, and it was announced that a meeting had taken place between himself and Holkar, the Maharajah of Indore. I was writing at the time a series of imaginary interviews between well-known people in a journal much read by the literary class, and I thought this was a good opportunity for excogitating one of them. Accordingly, what Lord Randolph Churchill was supposed to have said to Holkar and Holkar might have stated to Churchill duly appeared. In London the interview was read, as it was intended to be read, as a colourable invention of what might conceivably have passed between the two men. As I knew what Churchill’s private opinions were, and could form a pretty shrewd guess at what Holkar thought at the back of his mind, I dare say, as then my own thoughts were very full of India, what I wrote was fairly near the mark. For what followed, I admit I was not prepared. No sooner did the paper in which the interview was published reach India, than Holkar sent off a telegram, followed by a special messenger, to the Viceroy to declare solemnly that he never said anything of the sort. That was not bad as a beginning.
What occurred later was still better. No sooner did Churchill get back to England than he went straight to the editor of the journal referred to, and asked him, “Who the — wrote that infernal interview between Holkar and me?” The editor told him. Half an hour afterwards Lord Randolph’s name was brought in to me at home, and I went into the drawing-room to see him. He was furiously angry, and wouldn’t see the humorous side of it at all. Though I had a hard matter of it to keep from laughing myself, I listened patiently to his objurgations. He was much more concerned for Holkar than he was about his own share in the dialogue. He would not even see that the whole thing being purely and obviously quite imaginary and appearing anonymously, nobody could really be hurt. Eventually, however, he took a calmer view of the matter, and admitted that Holkar was not likely to lose a single gun from his salute, or a pice from his savings by what had happened; possibly even that had he refrained from displaying such exceeding eagerness to excuse himself in regard to words he never uttered, his position might have been more dignified.
The last I saw of Lord Randolph Churchill was at Dover on his final journey home. My wife and I were on the Admiralty Pier, not knowing that he was coming by the boat which was then making the harbour. We heard as we went up that he was on board, and in a worse condition than had been represented. This was undoubtedly true, and it was sad to see one whom we had last met apparently in good health and spirits utterly broken down, and obviously done for. A mournful close to a most promising career followed soon after, and with his disappearance the last hope of a useful constructive social policy from the Tory side came to an end.
Marxists’ Internet Archive | Hyndman Archive
Last updated on 30.7.2006