July 13, 1936
The first Session of the new Parliament is drawing to its close. May it not also be the close of a chapter in modern history?
Ever since the fall of the Lloyd-George Coalition thirteen years ago we have dwelt under what may be known as the 'Baldwin-MacDonald Regime.' At first in alternation, but for the last five years in political brotherhood, these two statesmen have governed the country. Nominally the representatives of opposing parties, of contrary doctrines, of antagonistic interests, they proved in fact to be more nearly akin in outlook, temperament and method than any other two statesmen who have been Prime Ministers since that office was known to the Constitution. Curiously enough the sympathies of each extended far into the territory of the other. Ramsay MacDonald nursed many of the sentiments of the old Tory. Stanley Baldwin, apart from a manufacturer's ingrained approval of Protecttion, was by disposition a truer representative of mild Socialism than any to be found in the Labour ranks. Especially upon Imperial questions like India, Egypt, the mandated territories, and above all National Defence, his temper and feelings corresponded to what used to be called 'Lib.-Lab.' standards.
Both men excelled in the art of minimising political issues, of frustrating large schemes of change, of depressing the national temperature, and reducing Parliament to a humdrum level. Their ideal of government appears to be well expressed by the noble lord in the Gilbert and Sullivan opera who 'did nothing in particular, but did it very well.' No wonder they agreed so happily when, instead of throwing the ball to one another across the Parliamentary table, they settled down as colleagues side by side. How this remarkable regime will be viewed in history depends upon whether the epoch through which they have guided us was a time for great causes and intense effort by all classes, and for striking and lively action by the State; or whether after the exhaustion of the war Great Britain required a solid period of somnolence and tranquillity. If the supreme need of John Bull after the war and its aftermath was a rest-cure, no two nurses were better fitted to keep silence around a darkened room and protect the patient from anything in the nature of mental stress or strong emotion.
No one should disparage such functions. On the contrary, history may well declare that they met the real need and expressed the undoubted wish of the British people after the frightful experiences they had undergone. The suppression of party spirit, the simultaneous frustration of Toryism and Socialism, the formation of Governments of compromise and of amiable futility, the relaxation of National and Imperial morale, which were part of the treatment, may well have enabled the natural processes of healing and recuperation to work upon a constitution so strong as John Bull's. Indeed, if our island were planted a thousand miles out in the Atlantic Ocean, there is no reason why the rest-cure should not have been indefinitely prolonged, and large majorities of the British electorate have proclaimed the dictum, 'Happy are the nations whose annals are blank in the pages of History.'
Unfortunately, we are only ten minutes by air from the stormy Continent, and the jarring clang of external events has broken up this sleepy, though not necessarily unpleasant or unhappy, scene. When four years ago it began to be apparent that the Teutonic giant was stealthily regathering the weapons with which he had almost conquered the world, a dire change affected the whole situation. This unwelcome-nay, hateful-intrusion of the external upon our two poor eminent friends was received by them at first with inveterate incredulity. So unwilling were they to accept the plainest evidence of danger that they covered themselves contentedly with a cloud of well-meaning platitudes. They closed their eyes to what they did not wish to see. Thus the seasons passed swiftly away, and all the time the sombre processes which were to undermine the peace of Europe hurried forward amain.
By the spring of 1934 incredulity was worn threadbare. It was succeeded by half-measures and dismay. No attempt was made to grapple courageously with the European situation while it could have been controlled. Nor were even those simple precautions taken which would have enabled Great Britain to be placed swiftly in a state of security. A year ago Mr. MacDonald transferred the growing burden with exhausted strength to his co-partner. Mr. Baldwin became for the third time Prime Minister. He appealed to the country most urgently to rearm; but at the same time he stipulated that there should be no large rearmament. It may well be that he sustained the impression at the General Election that he won it himself. In fact it was won by the clear resolve of the British people not, amid multiplying dangers, to entrust their affairs to the weak and discredited Socialist Party.
The new Parliament met at Westminster under the impact of realities. Almost every month it has been smitten by fresh hammer-blows. The country is slowly but undoubtedly awakening to the fact that world peace is menaced, and that our island safety is no longer unquestioned. Gradually it is being understood that whereas four years ago all was sure and easy, all has now become dark, doubtful and hazardous in the extreme. It is this growing comprehension that the times have changed, that woeful miscalculations have been made, that a violent period is drawing near, and that we ourselves are neither ready for it nor even making the exertions which are now possible, that has weakened so profoundly the position of the Prime Minister. No one is more affected by this general feeling than himself. National leaders flourish or fade, and ought to do so, only in proportion as they express and meet the public need. Bold captains are required for perilous seas. However unpalatable it may be to docile adherents of the powers that be, the Baldwin-MacDonald regime is passing out of life into history. There may still be time to turn the affairs of the British Empire to a different fortune.
At the end of July 1936 the increasing degeneration of the Parliamentary regime in Spain, and the strength of the movements for a Communist, or alternatively an Anarchist, Revolution, led to a military revolt which had also been long preparing. A ferocious civil war immediately began, with mass executions, class murders, and proportionate reprisals. The French Government proposed a plan of Non-intervention, whereby both sides would be left to fight it out without any external aid. The British Government accepted this view. The German, Italian and Russian Governments also subscribed to it. In consequence the Spanish Government, now in the hands of the most violent revolutionaries, found itself deprived of the right even to buy the arms it had ordered with the gold which it possessed. It would have been more reasonable to follow the normal course, and to have recognised the belligerency of both sides as was done in the American Civil War (1860–5). Instead, however, the policy of Non-intervention was adopted and solemnly agreed to by all the great powers. Italy and Germany on the one side, and Russia on the other made little pretence of breaking continually their agreement. Great Britain alone observed a strict and impartial neutrality throughout.