BURNLEY IN 1913.

[Stanley]

BURNLEY IN 1913.

[An extract from ‘JOURNEY INTO THE PAST’ by Ivan Maisky who became Soviet Ambassador to the UK 1932-1943.]



During my wanderings in Lancashire and Yorkshire I kept a diary. Most of it was lost during the First World War but part has survived. Perhaps it will be best if I quote two extracts from notes I made at the time. [The other note alluded to is on Sheffield.]

Burnley. Middle of September, 1913.

'What a town!

At one time, 100 to 150 years ago, Lancashire must have been a delightful part of the world, as even now you can see here and there remains of its great natural beauties. There are soft green hills, swathed, as ever in England, in a thin mist, and small woods and coppices nestling in dark patches on the slopes and between the hills. Quiet streams amble down the bottoms of peaceful little valleys. In some places you see toy-like, narrow white bridges thrown across the rivulets, among them perhaps an old "Roman bridge" of somewhat unusual style. This visitor from days of long ago will be grey and weather-beaten, but standing at its post like some sentry from the times of the Caesars. And over hills, woods and streams there is always the wide vault of the low, pale, tranquil sky, which never beckons or draws the eye upwards. It must always have been like that, whether a hundred years ago or in the days of the Romans ....

Yes, Lancashire was lovely then. But now ...

Imagine a long, level street with a row of low, two-storey houses on each side. They are not really houses but stocky brick barracks. Each barrack forms a whole row. The interior is divided by partitions into "separate homes", to suit English individualism. Two windows and a door, two windows and a door. I counted more than twenty such "houses" in one row. The smooth walls were of uniform, drab brick without any attempt at ornament. The windows were all alike, small and admitting little light. Each door had a number and an iron knocker instead of a bell. All the numbers and knockers were exactly alike. Porches, shrubs and grass are conspicuous by their absence.

A wilderness of stone. Stone walls, slippery stone pavements, stone setts in the uneven roads. And soot everywhere! The houses are covered with a thick layer of soot, even exuding from the pores of the brick. Under one's feet grimy flagstones; above one's head thick, black clouds of smoke slowly rising from tall chimneys and hanging suspended in the raw, murky air. The sun seems to be a dim red globe and the people hurrying along the streets look like pale shadows with smoke-begrimed faces. When you blow your nose you leave a black mark on your handkerchief. You look down these grim, drab streets and a feeling of terror creeps into your heart.

Next you must realise that there are hundreds of other streets exactly like this, all crossing and interlacing, a most fantastic maze. Amongst this chaotic tangle of brick barracks you see the huge factories with their giant chimneys. They are even blacker and more gloomy than the barracks, which are at least lived in. Somewhere in the middle there is a little square with a melancholy town hall, thickly coated with coal dust. At various points the steeples of a few churches, themselves not altogether unlike giant chimneys, rise from the surface of this frozen ocean of masonry...Imagine all this and you get some idea of this town which I am visiting. With its smoke, fumes and the ceaseless roar of machinery, it is just like a stone dragon lurking in a hollow and belching forth smoke and flames at the peaceful, green-clad hills around.

'Such is Burnley, one of the principal textile centres of Great Britain. It is a town of a hundred thousand people. What are they, like?

Yesterday and today I have been wandering about freely, studying the crowds in the streets. Grimy faces, calloused hands, awkward figures. Dark colours almost universal. A gay dress or a fancy tie is a rarity. Few silk hats. Old shirts of the type worn by labourers, scarves knotted round the neck instead of ties, flat caps. Another curious detail: at every step you hear a strange tapping on the pavement. Wooden clogs are very common in the industrial north.

From outward appearances you can conclude with certainty that this is the kingdom of the proletariat, and this is not surprising. The rich bourgeoisie, the owners of the works and factories, do not live in black, smoke-begrimed Burnley. From the blood and sweat of these tens of thousands of workers comes their hard cash. The "normal" course of this cruel process is greedily supervised by a whole crowd of directors, managers and executives of various kinds. The flow of gold never ceases, but it is spent not in the industrial towns of Lancashire but in London, the south-coast watering-places, on the Riviera or in Egypt, under hot suns and far from the blackened barracks of the
Lancashire workers. Yes, Burnley is a workers' town. That can be seen at every step. Hundreds of little shops, pubs, cinemas, fun palaces are all adapted to the needs of working people.

When the evening sirens sound the factory gates open and a noisy human flood suddenly pours into the long, gloomy streets; the workers are going home. There is a buzz of conversation and they cheerfully jostle along, whistle popular tunes and fire jokes at one another. I always like watching the English proletarian crowd. There is an idea in Russia, and all over the continent, that the English are a prim, dry, stiff-shirt race. This is because the English who go abroad are usually members of the ruling class who look down with contempt on all the "poor foreigners". From them continentals get their notions of English people and the English character. But the ordinary Englishman, especially the workman, is a very different person on his own ground.

The English workman is very courteous and obliging and has a kindly sense of humour. If he accidentally knocks into you in passing he will stop and apologize. If you do not know the way he will willingly direct you and even make sure that you have understood him properly. If you have run into some slight unpleasantness he will certainly try to brush it off with a joke of some sort; the English are very fond of jokes. They prize a joke above everything else. A man's ranking as a speaker here is determined very largely by his ability to introduce flashes of sceptical humour into his speeches. The English workman is extremely fond of children and they can get anything they want from him. No, there is nothing rude, stiff or standoffish about him, at any rate when you meet him in his own country. You can see that for yourselves in Burnley.

'I am very comfortably situated here, staying with Willie Jameson whom I met at the 'Socialist Camp". He and his sister are warm-hearted folk and quite touching in their attentions to their “Russian Comrade”. Jack Bailby, another friend from the same camp is also very helpful. They know everyone and everything in their town, and all their connections and acquaintances are at my service. They have given me a great deal of interesting information about local customs and practices and the workers' movement here. It is true that their socialism is very “pink” (judged by English standards) and of course we often disagree, but I am extremely grateful for their friendly help.

I am very interested in the spiritual outlook of the workman. In Manchester I met what I might call the general staff of the British proletariat, its leaders and upper crust. Here in Burnley I meet the working masses. What are they like? What do they think about? Do they realise, and to what extent, the great mission of liberation which history has entrusted to the working class?

When you get to close quarters with the English working man the first thing that strikes you is his indifference to books and politics. I have been in dozens of workmen's homes, here in Burnley, and elsewhere. I have hardly seen a book, apart from books of a devotional character and books about football.

Newspapers? Yes, the workman reads newspapers, both the local and the London papers, but they are all bourgeois and only poison his mind. Even the bourgeois papers he reads in his own way; he starts with the last page, which gives the sporting news, and then goes on to the "sensations"-murders, court cases, scandalous divorces, etc., leaving the rest to the end. Usually there is no time or energy left for the "rest".

Labour organizations? Yes, they do something to rouse the political conscience of the proletariat. Both the Independent Labour Party and the Labour Party produce their own papers, but even apart from their contents one can see that their circulation is small and they do not have much influence on the masses. What about the trade unions? But here perhaps it is better that I should refer to my talk with Ashton yesterday.

He is the general secretary of the powerful Miners' Federation. He had come to Burnley on business. I happened to meet him at the local branch of the Federation and took advantage of the opportunity to make his acquaintance and discuss the English workers' movement. A picturesque figure is Ashton.
He has a fine head of grey hair and in every word and gesture there is boundless self-confidence and a sort of special trade-union dignity. I put a number of questions to him: among others:

"How do you account for the fact that the Miners' Federation, with more than seven hundred thousand members, does not have its own paper?"

Ashton gave me a look of condescending surprise.

'"What use would our own paper be to us? We are a purely industrial organization and pursue no political aims whatever. Why on earth should a limited company or insurance company need its own paper?"

I admit that I was dumbfounded, so unexpected did I find his argument, especially coming from one of the most distinguished leaders of English trade unionism.... Well, if that is their attitude towards the political education of the masses it is no good expecting much.

'But if books and politics play no real part in the life of the average workman, what are his interests?

To some extent this question is answered by the amount of spare time available to a workman (based on an average nine hour working day and a forty-two-hour break, from one o'clock on Saturday to 7 a.m. on Monday). How does he spend his leisure?

Basing my conclusions on what I have myself observed and what I have been told locally, it would seem that it is devoted mainly to three things-the “public bar", the club and sport.

Let me begin with the "public bar". Some time ago I read in a statistical reference book that on an average every Englishman drinks every year two gallons of pure spirits-a very eloquent figure. Here in Burnley at every step I see striking illustrations to the abstract figures in the statistics. At every street corner there is a public house, sometimes two in a quite small block. At the bar you see whiskey, beer, ale, gin, brandy. You merely have to ask for what you want. You can always find someone in a public house, but it is particularly crowded and noisy in the evenings, when the grim factories are silent after the hard day's work, and before and during holidays. But what happens then! The glass doors of the “public bar" never stop slamming and the place is packed so tight that there would not be room for a pin.

Din of every kind, shouting, loud laughter, grey-blue clouds of smoke. The fat face (it might be a compound of blood and beer) of a barman juggling with amazing skill with a whole battery of taps, tankards and bottles. Amidst such surroundings the working man spends long hours, pushing his way through the crowd, drinking, smoking, talking to his friends, arguing over the last football match or guessing the results of forthcoming races.

It is a melancholy picture, and becomes even more melancholy when you look closer and suddenly see that one of the most conspicuous figures is a woman. Yes, a woman! A prostitute? Certainly not. All these women are workers or the wives of workers. With a slight stagger and uncertain steps they force their way through to the door. just outside there are perambulators with tiny infants in them, while older children are running about and shouting. They are waiting for their mothers, who have disappeared into the depths of the hospitable establishment.

Now for the club. In Russia what we mean by "club", especially a workers' club, is associated with the idea of a wide range of cultural and educational activities, popular lectures on science, political gatherings, a well-assorted library, various kinds of mental recreation.

In England it is quite different. The whole country is covered with a network of institutions called the Working Men's Club and Institute, usually established and maintained by philanthropic societies, municipalities or employers. Their official ambitions are high-sounding-the social education of working-class youth, the raising of its intellectual level, the promotion of the principles of citizenship, etc., etc.

But in fact? A few days ago Jack Bailby took me to see the "Burnley Youth Club" in which he had grown up. He was most enthusiastic about it. The club was housed in a large stone building, had several hundred members and, as its manager proudly explained, engaged in all kinds of vigorous activities. What kind of activities? The following dialogue will show:

Myself: "Is there a library?"

Manager: “No. We have no library. Why should we? Our members come to the club not to learn but for amusement and recreation. There are some local and London papers in the hall. That's all we need."

Myself. "Do you arrange lectures, excursions, conferences?"

Manager: “No, not as a rule. But every Saturday we have dances for the members and they can bring friends.”

Myself. “Do you do anything else?"

'Manager: "We have billiard tables, special rooms for card games, dominoes, chess. A few play games-football, cricket and so on."

Myself. "Do you sell spirituous liquors in the club?"

Manager: "Of course. How can you run a club without drinks? No one would come. Have a look."

He led me to a big room with a bar and an array of bottles, taps and glasses, and even a fat barman-just as in an ordinary public house.

When we came out Bailby asked me what I thought of the club of his young days. I told him quite frankly. He was obviously offended. But what else could I do? I could not call black white.

Lastly-sport. Of course sport in itself is a good thing, but here in England it plays a big political role, and a negative one at that. Awakening overwhelming passions in the worker's mind (and the passions are really fierce) it distracts his will and attention from the business of the class struggle. This became particularly clear to me here in Burnley.

On the day of my arrival Bailby took me to a football match somewhere on the outskirts of the town. I had never seen a football field before and everything about it aroused my curiosity. I deluged him with questions which were probably very naive from his point of view, though he answered them willingly and in great detail.

It was the crowd which struck me most of all. It was huge, running into ten thousand, positively colossal in a town of about a hundred thousand inhabitants. The spectators were all working class people, genuine workers. The most remarkable thing of all was their behaviour. What had become of the legendary English phlegm and self-control? The place was like a boiling cauldron. At every turn of fortune on the football field a wave seemed to sweep over the serried ranks, engulfing them in the same delirium. They shouted, booed, clapped, laughed, roared, frequently rising from their seats and frantically waving their hats and caps. They all seemed like men possessed and I could not help thinking: "If the English working man put into the political battle the passion he puts into football, what a wonderful country Great Britain would become!"

Transcribed by SCG/13 November 2007.