Leaflet advertising Henry Sara’s Lantern Lectures (Warwick Modern Records Centre).
Late last year I was contacted on Twitter by someone who runs the Warwick Modern Records Centre account who told me they thought they had some lantern slides of Bob Stewart in Russia in 1924 – the time he was on the Executive Committee of the Comintern. They were part of the Henry Sara collection – someone I had never heard of before. A brief biography apppears on their website:
“Henry Sara (1886-1953) was attracted early in his life to social ideals, and during his twenties became active within the small British anarcho-syndicalist movement. With the advent of the First World War in 1914 Sara aligned himself with the anti-war movement and, after a campaign of public meetings, was arrested and imprisoned in April 1916 for his refusal to serve in the army. He remained in prison until February 1919, when he was finally released after going on hunger strike.
Henry Sara joined the Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB) in the early 1920s, shortly after its formation, and became a popular speaker within the Party, travelling widely as a representative of the CPGB and associated organisations. His international trips included a lecture tour of the USA on behalf of the Friends of Soviet Russia in 1922; and visits to Germany and France in 1924, Russia / the Soviet Union in 1921, 1925 and 1927 (in 1921, by his own account, he “smuggl[ed] away on a ship from Hull, because he wanted to see for himself”), and China in 1927, where he attended the 5th Congress of the Communist Party of China in Hankow and witnessed the beginnings of the Chinese civil war. Sara’s willingness to criticise Party leaders and association with other Trotskyist “dissidents” resulted in his expulsion from the CPGB in 1932, and he went on to become a leading figure in the British Trotskyist movement of the 1930s.”
Sara used to give lectures and talks about socialist politics and illustrate them with magic lantern slides taken, in the main, from his own travels. The slides, reproduced by the WMRC on their website are exhaustive and fascinating and I’d encourage anyone interesting in Soviet history or the broader sweep of left wing politics in the early twentieth century to view them. An absolutely exhaustive and stunning resource. You can view them here: https://warwick.ac.uk/services/library/mrc/archives_online/digital/sara/
The photos the WMRC sent me on Twitter are reproduced below. The first is a group portrait taken in Faustovo. Henry Sara is the tall, dark haired young man standing on the left while that’s unmistakeably Bob Stewart standing on the right hand side of the picture. He’s roughly my age there (47) but looks odd due to an industrial accident and too many policemen stamping on his face. His wife Margaret in the glasses is sitting on the left and the little girl by his knee I’m pretty sure is their daughter, my dad’s Aunt Nan. Years later in the late 1930s/early 40s she would have to flee Russia with her baby son after her husband was arrested as a Trotskyist. He was shot in 1941 and the full details only came out in 1956. Standing at the back is British Trade Union legend Tom Mann who I’ll be writing about later. Also in this photograph is Rose Cohen – she’s sitting next to Margaret. She was a suffragette and like my great grandad a founder member of the British Communist Party. Standing behind her is probably her soon to be husband David Petrovsky. In 1938 he was arrested and executed and later on Rose was also arrested. There was nothing anyone could do as she had given up her British citizenship. Her trial lasted twenty minutes and then she was taken out and shot. Their child was sent to an orphanage. All of this is described in Francis Beckett’s superb book ‘Stalin’s British Victims’ and in Maurice Casey’s article, ‘The Suffragettes Who became Communists’ which you can read here: https://www.historytoday.com/miscellanies/suffragettes-who-became-communists
Front Row L-R: Margaret Stewart, Rose Cohen (?), Unknown, Unknown, Annie Stewart, Bob Stewart. Back row L-R: Henry Sara, Unknown, David Petrovsky (?), Tom Mann, Unknown.
This next photograph was simply labelled ‘Nan’ and though I don’t know who the older girl and the small boy are that’s definitely Bob and Margaret’s daughter Annie ‘Nan’ Stewart aged about 11 on the right. The picture appears to have been taken in the grounds of the Pushkin School.
Annie Stewart can also be seen in the class photo from the Pushkin School – she’s the little girl standing in the dark dress fifth from the right. Bob and Margaret Stewart can just about be spotted at the back on the left hand side.
The last slide features Bob and Margaret Stewart in Red Square visiting the grave of John Reed- the American journalist who wrote the eyewitness account of the Russian Revolution ‘Ten Days That Shook the World’.
L-R Unknown, Bob Stewart, Margaret Stewart.
If anyone has any more information regarding these images please do get in touch. I’d love to know more. Many thanks to the kind but anonymous person who brought them to my attention. Learning all about Henry Sara was fascinating. Thanks also to Maurice Casey who has always been so helpful.
Brief overview of Bob Stewart’s life taken from the MI5 files held at the National Archives.
I’m going to start serialising Bob’s memoirs ‘Breaking the Fetters’ on this blog as it has long been out of print. It was first published on the author’s ninetieth birthday by Lawrence & Wishart in 1967. As he was beginning to go blind during this time, the memoirs were dictated onto tape and then edited and prepared for the press by Dave and Elizabeth Bowman. The dedication runs as follows:
To the parents who begot me, William Stewart and Georgina Fraser Stewart. To my eight sisters and three brothers, a hard-working, kindly clan.
To all those who struggle to break the fetters that capitalist society has rivetted on public enterprise and social advance.
To my dear comrades the world over who form the vanguard of liberators of human kind from age-old bondage.
Finally, to my beloved wife, Margaret Lang, who in storm and stress was my loyal and loving comrade.
Chapter 1: The Stewart Family.
Recent photos of Balgownie Steading, Angus. In all probability this is the farm where Bob Stewart was born.
I was born on 16th February 1877 in the Parish of Eassie, at the farm of Balgownie in Glen Ogilvie, which is part of the beautiful How O’ Strathmore in County Angus, Scotland.
My father was a grieve (foreman) on the farm and my mother naturally worked in the fields, but to augment the small income she was also a handloom weaver, doing two jobs and rearing a family at the same time. Handlooms were in all the homes and apart from weaving for the families’ own needs, the women also worked for the textile merchants in Glamis and Forfar which are only a few miles from Eassie.
It was the small income and the Stewart family, growing both in number and appetite, that forced us to leave Eassie and seek a better means of livelihood in the town of Dundee, which was known at the time as a woman’s town, because its main industry was jute manufacture and the work of spinning and weaving was done by women.
I was two years old when the move to Dundee took place, so I was of little consequence, but my older brothers and sisters were reaching working age. The flitting to the town was made to secure employment and a bigger income for the family.
In town my father got a job as a carter with one of the delivery firms, driving a horse and lorry. There were no motors at the time. His main work was carrying raw jute, which was shipped from India in 2 cwt. bales, from the harbour to the mills. A hard, arduous job for which he was paid a mere 18s per week.
When we were children, we did not see much of my father, as he left home at five o’ clock in the morning and did not return until seven or eight o’ clock in the evening. He took with him bread, sandwiches and a flask of tea. If funds were good and he had twopence to share he would treat himself to a large bottle of ale, called twopenny, the common beer drink of the period.
My father was not a church goer, Sunday “claes” were expensive, but he religiously adhered to the Scottish sabbath as a day of rest. After six days of back-breaking toil his Sunday consisted of lying abe all day reading the newspapers.
My mother had a hard struggle to make ends meet. To feed a big family like ours, to provide the clothes, was no mean task. Our fare consisted mainly of porridge for breakfast, broth for dinner with an occasional treat of rice pudding, an evening tea of bread, butter and home-made jam. Clothes were handed down from the older to the younger children. Boots were worn only in the winter; in summer we ran barefoot.
Through all her troubles and worries my mother kept a cheery disposition. A lovely singer, she could be heard all day singing to herself as she went about her work.
I am the tenth child of twelve. I had three brothers and eight sisters. My youngest brother Willie was a carter. A hard-working, hard-drinking man. When he got drunk, generally on Saturdays, he wanted to fight policemen, an urge which on many occasions landed him in serious trouble. They say in Dundee that a drunk man is an honest man, so deep down Willie must have had a dislike of the police force- a dislike I have shared on many occasions.
Later in life I persuaded Willie to change his ways. He became a total abstainer and an excellent trade unionist. He was one of the founders of the Dundee Branch of the Scottish Carters’ association, which is now the Scottish Horse and Motormen’s Trade Union. I was quite a youth when the Dundee branch opened but gave what help I could. This was my introduction to the trade union movement.
My eldest brother Jock was a regular soldier. He served for thirty years in the army and fought in the Boer War and in the First World war. He said he was fighting for his country. My sisters used to kid him about this when he was home on leave, asking if he had got his farm yet. They said if he had been fighting for his country all these years, he was surely entitled to a wee farm out of it. No doubt he was, but like millions of other British soldiers who defended the rights of the British imperialists to exploit the world, all the land Jock ever got was the eight feet by three in which he found his last resting place. He could well have agreed with Cynicus’s famous carton of a graveyard: “Your portion: make the best of it. The Landlord’s got the rest of it.”
Brother Jim did a short spell in the Cameron Highlanders and trained in the Militia. The militias were county organisations and were used as army reserves. In times of industrial unrest, a common enough feature of these times, they were handy for the Establishment. Each county had its militia, from Aberdeenshire to the South. The training period for a militia man was usually one month, but when a man was finished in one county, he could move onto another.
Jim went one morning after breakfast and came home a year later at dinner time. In between meals he had sampled training in quite a few militias. Jim also liked his dram but differed from Jock in his drinking habits. Jock said he took his medicine regularly while Jim took his in bouts, one time drinking very heavily and then with periods of total abstinence. My horror of the booze was intensified when I spent anxious nights looking after him when he had the DTs.
My sisters, all eight of them, were hard-working lasses, weavers and spinners in jute manufacture doing a ten -hour working day and six hours on Saturday.
Betsy wed a mill ‘gaffer’ whom I taught to read and write so he that he could qualify for the gaffer’s job. She died when she was ninety-two years of age, a fully paid up member of the Communist Party. Georgina for many years peddled household goods in the country, married and had a family of twelve. One of her daughters Madge Hodgson, is a foundation member of the Communist Party and still does her share of party work. Georgina died when she was ninety years of age.
Mary had a tragic life with her husband, a roving ferocious Scotsman who was often “fou’ wi’” the booze. He was a ship’s stoker, and sailed with the Dundee whaling fleet for many years. Mary died at the age of fifty-three, the first break in the twelve.
Elizabeth was a barmaid, and finally emigrated to South Africa where I met her many years later. A handsome, capable lass who served the South African bourgeoisie well as cook or housekeeper and, I fear, imbibed much of its racial prejudice.
Maggie married a railway engine driver and a number of their family became members of the Communist Party. Jean married a carter, a grand player of the melodeon, who was much in demand for weddings. Many a merry evening was spent at her hospitable fireside.
Agnes, next in age to myself, was a mill weaver. A foundation member of the Communist Party well known in Dundee and a devoted sister and comrade, she was also for many years an active Co-op Guildswoman.
My youngest sister Annie is the only one still alive and has been in the USA for thirty years, married, with one daughter. I refrain from giving their names as it is a crime to be related to such as me in that much-advertised land of the free.
Lawrence Street, Dundee, sometime in the late 19th or early 20th century. (Dundee City Archives).
Our first house in Dundee was at 21 Lawrence Street, in a block of tenements, built like all the others, in close proximity to the jute factories. These tenements were built in flats or platforms very similar to the construction of most prisons. There were four ‘houses’, usually a kitchen with one or two rooms, on each ‘plat’. There were no lavatories, no baths or other essential amenities, but there was running water, naturally only cold.
We entered by a covered entry called a close, which led to a stair winding up to the ‘plats’, again in the best prison design. There was a ground floor and three stories which meant sixteen families to a block, many of them large families such as the Stewarts. In the courtyard stood an open midden for rubbish which was used by the males as a dry closet. The women used a pail indoors and later emptied the contents into the midden. The scavengers emptied the midden weekly, wheeled out the muck and emptied it on the street to wait for a cart to take it and its perfume for disposal.
The tenements from the other side of the street from ours were a bit more classy. They did not have the middens and had a WC on the stair landing. This we called the syrup side and our side the treacle side. Many years after we first moved to Dundee, the Stewart family managed to move to the syrup side.
I went back to the old tenement in 1962, when I was on a visit to Dundee. Eighty-three years had passed but the original tenements complete with ‘plats’ were still standing. The only change was that the midden had gone and one lavatory had been installed for each ‘plat’. That is one lavatory for four families.
Poor as our family was, we kept our heads high. In our kitchen and two rooms the males slept in one room and the females in the other and my parents in the kitchen. As both rooms led off the kitchen, however, the privacy was somewhat restricted. As some of the family married and set up on their own they left more breathing space for the rest.
Such was the Stewart family and its abode. A royal name without a royal income. A royal name without a royal residence. A hard-working family of men and women fighting for a livelihood in a Scottish textile, engineering and ship building town.
In Calton Gaol, may years later, in 1917, I wrote the following:
“In olden days, ‘tis written,
Their sires o’er Scotland ran,
Wi’ shield and spear and sharp claymore,
Made war on many a clan.
Wi’ rieving, robbing, ravaging,
They hewed their bloody way,
Until upon a throne they sat,
To wield their tyrant sway.
But pride o’ place and courtier’s grace
Are little to be trusted,
To brave the force of truth and right,
So the Stuart line was worsted.
And down the centuries grey and old,
New kings, new wars, arrangeth,
But now the Stewarts have wiser grown,
And bestial methods changeth.
Brave and free and fit to dee,
For justice truth and right,
They cannot see that these can be
Maintained by warrior’s might.
A cleaner road, though hard to tread,
They chose to travel through,
To free the earth from lust of war,
And shape the world anew.”
After the last two posts in this series I’ve decided to start putting the poems up here in the order they appear in Bob’s pamphlet. The collection opens with his version of Burns’ ‘A Man’s A Man For A’ That’ which appeared in the previous ‘Prison Rhymes’ post. Next up is this anti-capitalist effort. Just to clarify for younger readers – the LSD referred to in the poem is ‘ Pounds, Shillings and Pence’ rather than anything psychedelic. This is Bob Stewart we’re talking about, not Aldous Huxley.
Alan Stewart.
Dividends Almighty.
Holy! Holy! Holy! Dividends Almighty; Early in the morning the workers toil for Thee, Body, brain, and heart and soul, sacrifice to win Thee; Oh! thou malignant, powerful L. S. D.
Holy! Holy! Holy! modern saints adore Thee, Burying the truth and right beneath Thy golden sea, Prophets of the warring sects in unity uphold Thee, Oh! thou malignant, powerful L. S. D.
Holy! Holy! Holy! kings and emperors court Thee: The fruitful earth they drench with blood in greedy chase of Thee, The lover from the maiden conscripted is to guard Thee, Oh! thou malignant, powerful L. S. D.
Holy! Holy! Holy! Dividends Almighty! Although the eyes of working class Thy glories cannot see, Toilers soon in every land will rise in wrath to smite Thee, And end Thy dominion, powerful L. S. D.
It is the 145th anniversary of Bob Stewart’s birth and to mark the occasion I’d like to present some photographs of an album commemorating Bob’s 70th birthday in 1947. The album was put together by his daughter Annie ‘Nan’ Caplan and contains photographs taken by Edith Tudor-Hart which have rarely been seen. Tudor-Hart was a documentary photographer in the 1930s who was recruited by the Soviets as a spy. Her nephew, Peter Stephan Jungk, directed a wonderful film all about her life called ‘Tracking Edith’ and I cannot recommend it enough. She is also the subject of Charlotte Philby’s book ‘Edith and Kim’ which should be out any day now. Apparently Bob has a walk on part.
The album contains many letters, cards and telegrams from figures central to British Communism and although most of the information they relay about Bob’s life and career is mainly well known I imagine this is the first time they have been put in the public domain. My brother and I also have similar albums from Bob’s 75th and his 90th birthdays and at some point we may donate all of these to the archives of the CPGB at the People’s History Museum in Manchester but we’d just like to hold on to them for a little longer.
The photographs were taken by my friend Jonathan Turner. He’s an excellent photographer who, when not helping a mate out, focuses on social documentary and portraiture. I am very grateful to him. Please have a look at his work on his website: http://www.jonathan-turner.com
Alan Stewart.
Front cover.First page. The album was put together by Bob’s daughter Nan and her husband David Caplan.Birthday greetings from CPGB HQ Page 2 of letter from CPGB HQ.Signed by the staff at King Street. Signatures include Harry Pollitt, Rajani Palme Dutt and Willie Gallacher.Bob Stewart and Harry Pollitt by Edith Tudor-Hart.Personal letter from Harry Pollitt and greetings from Lancashire and Cheshire District Secretary. Bob Stewart and Willie Gallacher MP by Edith Tudor-Hart.Autographs from 70th birthday celebrations including Yvonne Kapp and Edith Tudor-Hart. Note from Sam and Wynne Cohen (?). Note from Robin Stewart, Bob’s grandson – our dad. Birthday telegrams from Bob’s sons Rab and Bill and their families.Bob Stewart and granddaughter Jean by Edith Tudor-Hart.Greetings from the Welsh Committee of the CP and card from Rose and Peter (Kerrigan?).L-R: Emile Burns, Bob Stewart, JR Campbell and Jimmy Shields by Edith Tudor-Hart.Letters from emile Burns, Rajani Palme Dutt and Thomas Islwyn (?)From the Robsons. From the Dunstans. L-R: Bob’s wife Margaret Stewart, Bob Stewart and Jean by Edith Tudor-Hart.Letter from Donna Torr and Walter Holmes. Note from Edith Tudor-Hart about the photographs. L-R: Margaret, grandson Greg, Bob and Jean by Edith Tudor-Hart.Letter from Phyl Bell- widow of Tom BellLetter from George Low.Portrait of Bob Stewart by Walter Woodington.Letter from Dave Donaldson.From sister & brother-in-law in Detroit USA.From Bob Stewart. From Ann and Jack Allenby.From L Jefferies.From Pat Sloan. From Dick Pennifold. Letter from Bill Rust. Portrait of Bob Stewart by Edith Tudor-Hart.Jonathan Turner, complete with lockdown beard- goes about his business. Cheers Jon!
Screenshot of some of the findings from the 1921 census.
The 1921 census, which went online earlier this year, is likely to be an invaluable resource for anyone researching their family history. It has to be said it was fairly easy to find Bob Stewart’s whereabouts on the night it was taken – the 19th June, 1921. My great grandfather was in Cardiff. More specifically in HM Prison Cardiff doing three months hard labour. The relationship to head of the house made me laugh- ‘inmate’. Bob’s occupation is listed as ‘organiser’ and his employer is ‘Communist Party’. However, his place of work was noted as ‘no fixed place’ indicating he was spending much of his time this early on into the CPs existence travelling- something that would characterise the next thirty years. Once he’d got out of the clink of course.
He’d been sentenced to jail for making seditious speeches in Aberdare and Mountain Ash – the most diabolical comments being that miners were treated worse than German prisoners. The hard labour consisted of sewing pillowcases until a prison warder got him turning an old oak prison floor into handmade furniture for the warder’s home. At the end of his sentence Bob had been selected as the Parliamentary candidate for the Communist Party in the Caerphilly by-election – their very first candidate.
This experience is the subject of a highly entertaining chapter from Bob’s memoirs which I’ve reproduced below. Just a few notes on some of the people who make an appearance. Albert Inkpin was the first General Secretary of the Communist Party and Arthur McManus was the first chairman.
Part of the digitised census showing Bob Stewart’s entry.
Chapter 15: In Gaol Again.
In 1921 I was attending the Party’s National Executive in London. It was close to May Day and McManus, who was booked to speak at a May Day meeting in South Wales, said he could not go and asked me if I would like to take his place. “Sure,” I said, “I have never been to South Wales and it will be a new experience.” As it turned out it was.
I went down by train to Aberdare but before reaching there the train stopped at a small station and along the platform came a group of fellows shouting, “Bob Stewart, Bob Stewart!” I stuck my head out of the window and said, “That’s me.” “Can you do a meeting for the Party in Mountain Ash tomorrow night?” they asked. “Yes, I’ll be there.” So, after the meeting in Aberdare I travelled to Mountain Ash. The meeting was in a cinema and was crowded out. As usual at the time, the “splits” were in the boxes taking notes of my speech, but this happened at all meetings so I ignored them. The meeting finished and the local fellows said they were very pleased with the attendance and the effect. The repercussions were then still unknown.
I returned to London, and on the following Saturday, 7th May 1921, came the police raid on the party offices at King Street, Covent Garden, when Inkpin the general secretary was arrested. The raid was made without a warrant, under the Emergency Regulations Act. It was carried out by Detective-Inspector Parker, acting under the instructions, so he said, of the Director for Public Prosecutions.
During the raid all personnel in the office were rounded up from their individual rooms and brought to the general office on the ground floor of the building. The rooms were ransacked and, while this was going on, the homes of the office workers, even those of the girl clerks, were being searched. The police authorities certainly put on all the trimmings to build the raid up into a first-class political scare.
When Inkpin came into the general office and he exploded at Parker for the unwarranted intrusion into private property. “I demand to see your warrant to search these premises,” he said. “I don’t need a warrant,” replied Parker. “I am acting under the Emergency Regulations.” Parker then started to question Inkpin about the publication and sale of the Communist Party pamphlet called The Statutes of the Communist International. “Who wrote the book?” asked Parker. “What do you mean who wrote it?” said Inkpin. “These are the Statutes adopted by the 2nd Congress of the Communist International.” “Where did the books come from?” persisted Parker. “They came from Moscow, from the Communist International,” replied Inkpin. During the interrogation Inkpin again protested to Parker about the manner in which the police were acting, forcing their way into all the rooms in the building, sorting out files of correspondence obviously with the intention of taking them away. But Parker brushed this aside and kept on asking questions about the pamphlet The Statutes of the Communist International. Inkpin continued to answer truthfully this was a record of the decisions of the Communist International which was sent by the International not only to Britain but to most countries throughout the world.
Now Detective-Inspector Parker might have been a good man at detecting crime, but he did not seem to have the elementary knowledge required to comprehend the simple working of an international body. Maybe, of course, he had had his instructions not to try to understand. Anyway, after fifteen minutes of this sham he stopped asking questions and started giving instructions. To Inkpin he said, “I am going to arrest you under the Emergency Regulations Act No. 19. I am further going to search the premises and take possession of anything I think fit under an order signed by the Chief of Police.” He then turned to another detective and said, “Mr Hole, here is the order,” and to “Inkpin, “Come with me.” “What, without a warrant?” said Inkpin. “None necessary,” was the reply and he turned to leave. It was then he spotted me standing in a corner trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, but obviously not succeeding. “Who is that man?” he barked. “That’s Mr Stewart,” said Inkpin. “Get his name and address, and the name and addresses of all the others.” And with that little lesson of how democracy works in this land of the free he turned, taking Inkpin with him, and disappeared out of the door.
The place was alive with police and plain-clothes men. I ran from room to room trying to salvage what I could, but the police ransacked the place, almost everything went, even to the paper and the stencils. There were a number of spare files of our paper Communist and I knew that McManus had some papers ‘filed’ away for safety. I said to the policemen who were carting all the material away for examination., “Here, take these away; they are only in the damned way here. You’ll be doing something useful then.” “We don’t need these,” was the reply, “we have files of them ourselves.” So that saved something. After the raid, in the evening, I went out to try and contact some of the Executive members. I went to the Corner House in the Strand and luckily, I bumped into a few of them and learned that there was to be a meeting at Bill Mellor’s house later to discuss what we could do under the circumstances. After the discussion, I had an argument with McManus because I said I thought that Mellor was deciding to leave us-to get out. McManus said I was a fool, but I was eventually proved right; William Mellor, despite all his thunder and aggressive revolutionary phrases, was afraid of being on the wrong side of the police authorities, and a short time after left the party.
After the meeting, I was sent to get a lawyer for Inkpin, to Torrington square, to see WH Thompson, a lawyer who was on the left. I found him in a strange way. I was ascending the stairs to his place when a young fellow came running past me. Suddenly, he stopped and said, “Jesus Christ! Bob Stewart!” “The latter’s right,” I replied. “What brings you here?” This fellow had been a conscientious objector in Wormwood Scrubs when I was there, so we wore the same old school tie. I explained the position. He worked for WH Thompson. He said, “He’s not here but I’ll tell you where to find him. He has gone to see his girl friend,” and he gave me the address. I found WH, explained the position, where Inkpin was- Snowhill Prison- and he assured me that I could leave everything to him. I returned to my hotel in Villiers Street, near the Strand, a good evening’s work done. As I entered two big fellows ‘took’ me, one on each side. “Your name Stewart, Robert Stewart?” one of them said. “Yes, a good Scottish name.” “Well, we want you, we have a warrant out for your arrest.” Naturally, I thought it was in connection with the raid on the party office, but as soon as I got to Cannon Row Police Station I discovered I was booked at the request of the Welsh police for speeches made in Aberdare and Mountain Ash. So, I was stuck in a cell, arrested for sedition. I was interrogated by an inspector, a very clever fellow, to his own way of thinking. “Ah! I know you,” he said. “I have heard you speaking in Dumbarton.” “Up on the rock?” I asked. “Sure, there was always a big crowd there.” There was never a meeting on Dumbarton Rock in all history, so I continued to kid him but he twigged it and finally closed up.
Next day I was taken to Wales, to the Abercynon Gaol where I rested the night, and the day after I went before the magistrate. He was an old fellow, sitting at his desk. “Your name Robert Stewart?” he asked. “Yes, but what’s going on?” I replied. “You’re in Court.” “What Court? Only you, me and a policeman?” “Yes, and you are remanded to the Assizes.” And that was the strangest court I was ever in, but then the Welsh do many things in strange ways. Back I went to the cell and the policeman said, “I want to take your fingerprints.” “Not mine, I am no criminal, I draw the line at that.” “We’ll see about that,” he said and went off but he did not return for the fingerprints.
In due course I was taken to the Assizes at Pontypridd. A bunch of snuffy magistrates, local publicans and others of that ilk. The prosecutor was a little fellow called Lloyd. The charges were seditious speeches. Little Lloyd had a real go. He built up a terrible case against me, and said I should be ashamed to call myself a British subject, I was an agitator coming into the district in troublesome times stirring up strife and hatred, saying the miners were being treated worse than German prisoners and that Jimmy Thomas was a traitor to the working class- which appeared to be sedition, I don’t know why. In passing I may add that the selfsame Mr Lloyd was some time later pinched for embezzlement , but I suppose that that would not trouble his loyalty to Britain. The witnesses said their piece. The local secretary, who was a canny lad named Foot, was very good. But the other party witness, Billy Picton, undid the good work. Billy was one of the aggressive type; good in an industrial struggle, but not much use in a court of law. Asked about my reference to miners being treated worse than German prisoners, he replied, “Well, it’s bloody true, isn’t it?” – not very helpful in a court in which the scales have already been loaded against you. In the long run the trial came to an end. The magistrate said a lot of wise words, then asked if there was anything known about a past record. Innocent like, of course. Then out came the dossier. Tried, court-martialled; tried, court-martialled, on and on. When he finished reading out the record, I looked at him and said quietly, “A good record.” The magistrate said that this sort of thing must not be allowed to continue, it would not continue, and so on. The sentence would have to be appropriate to the offence. I would be made an example. The sentence was three months’ hard labour. Three months’ hard. You can do that, as the old lags say, on the door knob.
Well, there I was inside again. In Cardiff Gaol. Interesting, because Cardiff being a big seaport the gaol is very cosmopolitan- men from all nationalities are inside and going around the ring at exercise you saw all colours and all kinds of men. For the first three days I sat sewing a pillow case. That was my hard labour, putting in stitches and pulling them out again. Of course, reading the Bible in between. This was the compulsory reading, but a very valuable book for left wing propagandists. One day the artisan warder came to see me. “What the hell are you sewing pillowcases for?” he demanded. “You’re a carpenter, aren’t you?” I told him what I thought about his pillowcases, his prison and his magistrates, but he only laughed. He turned out to be a good sort. He didn’t like clergymen and that was an instant bond between us. The prison chaplain at Cardiff and I could not get on. Charlie Chaplin we called him. This was because of the way he walked, not because of his humour. One day in my cell he said to me, “Mr Stewart, in cases of your kind, it is the wives and children I am sorry for.” I said, “Don’t you try telling my wife you are sorry for her, because if you do you will end up being sorry for yourself.”
The artisan warder stopped the pillowcases lark and took me down to the workshop. There was method in this because part of the prison was being demolished and an old oak floor was being scrapped. “Can you do anything with this, Jock?” he asked me, showing me a bit of the wood. It was a good bit of oak. “You could make some nice things with that,” I said. And I did- bookcases, hallstands, cupboards, small stools and many other pieces of oak furniture found their way into the warder’s home from the floor of the Old Cardiff Gaol. I am quite sure the government got none of it.
One day the warder gave me a shout when I was working. “Come here, Jock, I have a job for you.” So, I picked up my tools. “No, no,” he said, “all you need is an oil can. We’re going round to the execution chamber to oil the joints of the hanging apparatus.” Two men, sentenced to death for murder, were to be hanged the next day. “I’ll not oil your bloody hanging apparatus.” “What! You not in favour of hanging?” “Oh yes I would hand prison warders at a bob a time,” I said; “the trouble is they usually hang the wrong people.” “Well come and see how it works,” he said. So off we went to the execution chamber. He oiled the necessary places then gave me a demonstration of the proper way to operate it by pulling the lever and pointing to the drop. He seemed to take delight in it.
One day towards the end of my term, in came Jock Wilson, the Welsh Party Organiser, to see me; well, really to tell me something- that I had become a parliamentary candidate because Alfred Irons, the MP, had died. A by-election was pending at Caerphilly and the party had decided to contest their first ever parliamentary election as a party and I had been chosen as the candidate. Well, anyway, being in gaol, I couldn’t speak back. There had been quite a barney with the prison authorities. A report in The Communist appeared as follows:
We had expected difficulties to be put in the way of Robert Stewart’s Candidature in the Caerphilly mining constituency. They have already begun, and the Prison Governor has taken a hand. We wished to know when Stewart would be released for the purpose of the election campaign.
The party had sent a letter to the Governor of Cardiff Gaol in the following terms:
Dear Sir,
I should be very much obliged if you would kindly let me know on what date Robert Stewart, the National Organiser of the Communist Party, whom we understand to be present in Cardiff Gaol, will be released.
Yours faithfully
(signed) Fred H. Peat, acting secretary
Back came the reply:
HM Prison,
Cardiff
23rd July, 1921
In reply to your letter of inquiry it is regretted that the information asked for cannot be given.
I am your obedient servant
(signed) HJ Perwin
One night before the end of my time I was pleasantly surprised when the head warder came and asked if I would like to be released a day early. “Fine,” I said. But really the authorities were afraid of a demonstration, because when I had been taken from Pontypridd to Cardiff Gaol to start my sentence there was a bus load of policemen in the front and a bus load of policemen behind all the way. Certainly a good few tons of policemen to hold mine nine stones of communism. No doubt they were also taking no chances when I was leaving.
Out of the gaol, I went to Alf Cook’s house to discuss the political situation, and I had just arrived when a telegram was delivered from Moscow informing us of the death of Bill Hewlett in a monorail accident in Russia. It had been a bad accident and Jim Stewart of Lochgelly was also injured. So, I had the sad task of making arrangements for someone to break the news to Mrs Hewlett.
Today is the 98th anniversary of Lenin’s death. At that time, Bob Stewart was in the Soviet Union working as a member of the Executive Committee of the Comintern. In this role he accompanied Lenin’s body on its journey from Gorky to Moscow and also stood, alongside Georgy Chicherin the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, as a guard of honour during the lying in state. Today’s post presents two pieces by Bob about Lenin’s passing and his funeral. The first article, ‘In Memory of Lenin’ appeared in Pravda shortly after the Bolshevik leader died and the second, ‘From Ch20: Moscow and the Comintern’ is an extract from Stewart’s memoirs ‘Breaking the Fetters’ published in 1967.
Alan Stewart.
In Memory of Lenin.
Front page of Pravda announcing Lenin’s death. 22nd January 1924.
On the eve of the anniversary of the Petrograd massacre of 1905, the proletariat of the world has suffered a cruel blow; the death of our dear Comrade Lenin has removed the greatest figure in revolutionary history since Marx left the field of struggle. It is hard to reconcile oneself to the idea that the voice of Comrade Lenin will no longer sound in our revolutionary councils. Lenin has become for us the absolute ‘symbol’ of communism and the proletarian revolution. No one was more hated by the enemies of the working class than our beloved leader, and no other leader and teacher of the working class ever commanded such power and influence throughout the world. Since 1917 his name has been, as we say in England, a household word. His revolutionary writings and theoretical works have changed the character of socialist organisations in Great Britain and led them out of chaos onto revolutionary lines.
In this hour of great grief our profoundest sympathy goes out to our Russian comrades and to all the peoples of the Union of Soviet Republics. Now that our great leader, Comrade Lenin, can lead us no longer, his works and teaching, his revolutionary vigour and unshakeable realism must guide and inspire us in the revolutionary tasks which confront the proletariat of the world.
May the memory of Comrade Lenin live forever!
Long live the Union of Soviet Republics!
Long live the international proletariat!
Long live the Communist International!
Robert Stewart
Member of the Executive Committee of the Comintern and the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Great Britain.
Pravda, January 24, 1924.
From Chapter 20 of Breaking the Fetters: Moscow and The Comintern.
Transport of Lenin’s body to the Gorky railway station. Bob Stewart will be somewhere in amongst the crowd as a member of the Executive Committee of the Comintern.
“…It was during my time in Moscow that a great tragedy befell the international working-class movement.
Lenin died in January 1924. I remember this well because I was then a member of the Executive Committee of the Comintern which was summoned immediately: firstly, to hear the announcement of Lenin’s death and also to make all the necessary arrangements for the funeral.
Harry Pollitt came over immediately from Britain to represent the British Communist Party at the funeral. It was desperately cold and both Harry and I felt it very much. It was forty degrees below zero. Fires were kindled in the streets and I remember seeing the militiamen’s horses going over and sticking their noses in the fire to melt the icicles. We were as cold as the horses but at least we could pull down our fur caps and peer out occasionally to see where we were going.
I was one of the delegation of the Comintern chosen to go to Gorky, where Lenin had died, to accompany his body back to Moscow. We left by train from Moscow at about 5am and then travelled by peasant sleigh from Gorky Station to Lenin’s house. From the station you could see the house down in the valley, but the road to it so twisted and turned that even by sleigh it took us a long time to reach it. At the house Lenin was laid on a bed wearing an ordinary Red Army man’s uniform with the Order of Lenin pinned to his breast. The house was full of people: leading members of the Russian Communist Party, of the Comintern, delegates from the factories and the professions, and amongst them all wandered a big black cat who had been a very great favourite with Lenin.
The body was placed in the coffin and carried to the station en route for Moscow. Leading men from the party and the factories took turns to carry the coffin. On the journey, at every station, on the way, thousands of people waited to see the train pass. I do not think I ever saw so many tear-stained faces in my life. It was a very moving demonstration of the love the ordinary people for this great man.
When we got to Moscow I realised for the first time in my life what a mass demonstration really meant. Not a demonstration that was called, but one that came. Every conceivable foot of space was occupied. A great mass of people followed the coffin as it was borne from the station to the Dom Soyus (Hall of the Trade Unions), and from every side street and opening, mass upon mass of people converged with the main stream or waited their turn to do so. At the same time the digging was proceeding on the site of the mausoleum, so there was blasting and picking going on. All these streets were crowded with sad-eyed mourners. Every shop and hotel and all central places were ordered to keep open twenty-four hours a day so that people overcome by the cold could go in and thaw out.
Moscow has witnessed many varied scenes in her many centuries of troubled history; her ancient records must be filled with historic incidents, but never had such scenes been witnessed as during the days of Lenin’s lying in state and funeral. The Dom Soyus, a former palace of nobility, once the setting for the glitter and pomp of the aristocratic Tsarist circles, was the place where Lenin lay. Here his own people, the working masses of Russia, could pay their last tribute to the mighty leader of the Russian working class and the world proletariat. “Our Comrade Lenin” everyone said, as if he were a father or a brother.
For four days and nights, for mile after mile, people queued four abreast to pass the bier on which Lenin lay. Along with Harry Pollitt I took a turn on the guard of honour. I remember I was with Chicherin. The bier was surrounded by wreaths of flowers of every description, sent from all over Russia and indeed from all over the world. The magnificent hall with its white marble walls was a blaze of light, contrasting with the deep varied hues of the flowers, and on the balcony the band of the Red Guards played music befitting such a solemn occasion.
Delegations from all over Russia streamed into Moscow, joined the endless queues, and placed their wreaths as they passed the bier. But there were no kings or queens, no aristocrats and their ladies, no great admirals or field marshals with glittering medals. Only the endless stream of workers and peasants, soldiers and sailors with their wives and families. The queues never seemed to get less. Over a million had passed the bier and still the queues remained. It had been decided that on Saturday the doors must close at 12 noon. But on Saturday afternoon there were still hundreds of thousands of people waiting with banners and wreaths, still train after train arrived, pouring the delegations into Moscow from north, south, east and west. Every minute messages from all over the world came, telling the world-wide grief at the passing of this great working-class leader. Certainly, no king, no emperor, no bloody tsar has been honoured as Lenin, the leader of the world working class.
At 7am on Sunday came the final parting. Around the coffin stood the leaders of the Russian Communist Party and the Communist International, and with them, keeping her last vigil, was Krupskaya, Lenin’s wife and constant companion during thirty years of struggle. Lenin’s body was borne to the Red Square. As the coffin was raised the orchestra wailed the funeral march. After this a moment’s silence, then the International burst out, strongly and boldly sung. I thought then, this is the answer to the enemies of Leninism whose death was rekindling the hopes of new triumphs for imperialism. this is the answer of Lenin’s pupils, the Russian workers and peasants.
As the coffin was carried into the streets, crowds formed behind it. Leaders of the Party and trade unions took turns to shoulder the coffin along the Kremlin walls to the centre of the Red Square where the raised tribune was placed. The people filed past in millions until 4pm. Then silence just before the cannons crashed out the salute with a roar which could be heard in every corner of the world; factory sirens in every Russian city and village took up the salute; men, women and children stood still in silent homage. In every country throughout the world the workers paid their last respects to a great leader, who from small groups of Marxists had led the Russian workers forward to the formation of a mighty Communist Party and a mighty workers’ Republic and had laid the foundation by his leadership for a mighty Communist International.
The coffin was carried into the Mausoleum, Lenin’s final resting place. Queues formed again to pass the bier. It went on all night, all the next day and every day since. the years have passed and still the Russian workers and peasants and the visitors to Moscow from foreign lands pass the bier to pay homage to Lenin, the great working-class leader whose genius guided the people of downtrodden Russia and millions far beyond it, to break their chains and march to the not-so-distant communist society.”
There is a wonderful scene in the 1981 film ‘Reds’, the unlikely Hollywood epic about the American left and the impact of the Russian Revolution. Warren Beatty plays John Reed, the author of the definitive eyewitness account of the events in Petrograd ‘Ten Days That Shook the World’. Early on the film, Reed has been invited to speak at a Democrat fundraising dinner about the conflict that has recently engulfed Europe and the question as to whether America should get involved. In their evening dress the attendees drip wealth, although it’s concerned, liberal wealth. Reed is asked, “What is the war for?” The audience are quietly expectant awaiting an impassioned speech about fighting for freedom. They are disappointed. There is silence. Reed, shuffles awkwardly to his feet, looks around the room and replies, “Profits,” before sitting down. It was just such a position that Bob took when addressing a large crowd in Dundee on the day the First World War broke out – though he put it less succinctly but perhaps more forcefully:
“Whatever else may transpire in the coming war, you will all learn in the course of it or in its aftermath that it is a capitalist war. It is not worth sacrificing the bones of your domestic cat, or your pet canary, even less those of your husbands, brothers and sons.”
Bob recognised that many ordinary people joined up for the slaughter not due to patriotic fervour but simply because a soldier’s wage together with the separation allowance for wives was better than a labourer’s earnings. He also saw that the 1915 Munitions of War Act had the effect of ‘handcuffing the workers’ eroding what little employment rights trade unions had fought for. As the war progressed and the supply of young factory and agricultural workers used as cannon fodder began to dry up the government began conscription. Inevitably Bob involved himself with a myriad of organisations in the movement against this and also inevitably, though pushing forty, he was himself eventually conscripted in 1916. Those who refused to fight were tried in civil courts and handed over to the military authorities and if they still refused they were court martialled and sent to prison. He didn’t get out until 1919 months after the war ended. In that time there were three further court martials and he got to know Wormwood Scrubs, Calton and Dundee Gaols and the cells at Edinburgh Castle very well. As I’ve said elsewhere on this site these articles aren’t about hero worship but Bob’s stand does make me proud.
During this time Bob wrote the poems which would be collected in ‘Prison Rhymes’ which were sold to raise funds for his socialist National Prohibition and Reform Party. The photographs that accompany this piece are of a postcard featuring one of the verses included in that pamphlet, an anti-war version of Robert Burns’ ‘A Man’s A Man For A’ That’. Many thanks to Graham Ogilvy who brought them to our attention on Twitter.
If they were asked to recognise the name of Luke Akehurst most sensible people of voting age in the United Kingdom would struggle. How I envy them their Eden-like innocence. Unfortunately for me, I’m one of those people who, without wanting to, seems to possess a perverse desire to keep abreast of every single development of the infighting within the Labour Party forevermore. It is not good for your health. For those of you don’t know Akehurst, he is a figure on the right wing of the party who sits on its NEC whose responsibilities seem to be chiefly to boil the piss of everyone to the left of Liz Kendall. He’s the secretary of a group called ‘Labour to Win’ which is ironic given that his extreme factionalism is likely to steer the party to an even greater electoral disaster than the one Jeremy Corbyn delivered in 2019.
Why even mention the man at all? Distressingly, it’s because earlier this year I found myself in the frankly uncomfortable position of being in agreement with him. Ruined my day to be honest. To elaborate, he had been asked what his problem with the hard left was. Among his reasons was the following:
“…silly exaggerated left rhetoric drives voters away from Labour.”
He’s right. If you’re on the left there are words you’ll use and love. Words such as ‘comrade’, ‘solidarity’ and ‘class struggle’. The problem is, most people who don’t view themselves as left wing- and that’s most voters in the country- loathe this type of thing. The workers of the world may have nothing to lose but their chains but they won’t vote for you in the United Kingdom if your language is couched in socialist tradition. Polling showed many of the policies of Corbyn’s Labour were popular but in no way would many people want to associate themselves with a group whose idea of a good time is a hearty chorus of ‘The Red Flag’.
Where myself and Mr Akehurst differ however is that while I do think ‘left language’ is ill advised when courting the floating voter I think the actual concepts of comradeship, solidarity and class struggle are important for a democratic socialist party. I’m not sure the Secretary of Labour to Win could stretch to that.
At this point you’d be forgiven for wondering what all this has to do with Francis Beckett’s book ‘Enemy Within- The Rise and Fall of the British Communist Party.’ In the first Covid-19 lockdown when I started this project I needed a single volume history of the CPGB to help make sense of all the security files and letters I was poring over. I immediately went for ‘A Centenary For Socialism-Britain’s Communist Party 1920-2020’ which was published by the current version of the party to coincide with its anniversary celebrations. It would be an understatement to say I found it hard going. Having to wade through sentences such as, “Lenin gave added expression to this paradigm of oppression by nations and national colonialism as part of the general struggle of the working class and working people against imperialism” and the general uncritical, almost hagiographic approach to its subject was alienating and exhausting. Perhaps I’m being unfair. After all, it’s hard to write about the CPGB without this kind of language and to be fair the companion volume , ‘Red Lives – Communists and the Struggle for Socialism’ is superb.
After this disappointment my brother recommended Beckett’s book which first came out in 1995 shortly after the CPGB wound up earlier that decade. The contrast was stark. Beckett seems to have achieved the impossible – a book about the far left which is also a pleasure to read. Sympathetic where it’s justified – Harry Pollitt’s activities during the Spanish Civil War and critical when needed – the CPGB’s inability to be independent of Moscow. It is engagingly written throughout and shot through with a dry wit. The history of the CPGB is labyrinth subject but Beckett helps you understand why people were drawn to the Party while also exploring the tragedy at the heart of it. Having read little else other than books on communism over the last couple of years I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this book alongside Raphael Samuel’s ‘The Lost World of British Communism’ as necessary starting points.
Below is an extract from the book describing Bob Stewart at the conference where the Communist Party of Great Britain was formed in 1920.
There was the first stirring of a debate which was to cause a lot of trouble over the next seventy-one years. Did the CP stand for armed revolution or not? One excited delegate proclaimed ‘the historic and revolutionary value of a gun in the hands of a man of the working class’, only to be magisterially rebuked by Bob Stewart of Dundee: ‘A great many people talk about guns who would run away when they saw one. I am more interested in folks having brains in their heads.’ Bob Stewart had spent several years in prison for opposing the First World War, and knew more about hardship and violence than most. He led the smallest and oddest of the groups which formed the CP, the Socialist Prohibition Fellowship. After the main resolution was carried, the stout sincere man with a sober moustache walked solemnly to the platform to ask the new Party to come out in favour of suppressing the manufacture of alcoholic drinks. Few thought much of the idea, but they liked Bob Stewart, so they referred it to the executive for action. In seventy-one years no action was ever taken.
Yet banning the demon drink struck a chord with many Communists. Many hard, poverty-stricken lives were tolerable only through a haze of beer. Three Scottish founder-Communists, Stewart, Jack Murphy and Willie Gallacher, remembered their deprived childhoods being blighted further by drunken fathers. They not only abstained all their lives, but saw abstaining from alcohol as part of their socialism.
“The ultimate hidden truth of the world is that it is something that we make, and could just as easily make differently.”
We admired David Graeber immensely and cannot let the first anniversary of his death pass without remark. His books ‘Debt’ and ‘Bullshit Jobs’ are essential and the quote above strikes us as fundamentally important and true. He is much missed.
At the end of last year I was sorting through a large box of correspondence dating from the 1930s and onwards. In amongst them was a handful of letters addressed to Bill Stewart who was my grandfather. They stood out due to the immaculate clarity of the handwriting and the fierce affection they displayed for my family, in particular Bob. They were all signed by an ‘Yvonne’ who lived in the red enclave of Highgate not too far from the cemetery where Karl Marx is buried. It turned out they were from Yvonne Kapp, not someone I had ever heard of, certainly my father had never told me about her even though he comes in for a great deal of flattery in them. I have to admit that, starting with the letters and then digging deeper, Kapp is someone I’ve become almost infatuated with during the course of my research and I am sad that I never met her. She lived an extraordinary life.
Dating from the early 1970s the overwhelming sense that these letters convey is of age and infirmity. Bill is getting over a serious illness, Yvonne is recovering from a fall, Bob is blind and installed in a care home. There is an acknowledgment of things slowly coming to end and of putting affairs in order. A deep love and attachment is clear though the odd resentment surfaces occasionally. The first, from April 1972 is innocuous enough.
Dear Bill,
Thank you so much for sending the snapshots & your nice letter. The snaps are wonderfully good & I wish Bob could enjoy them. I thoroughly enjoyed meeting Robin on that occasion; what a very nice chap he is.
Unfortunately, I can’t go to see Bob at present as, a fortnight ago, I fell & broke my ankle – both sides of it- & shan’t be able to put that foot to the ground for 6 to 8 weeks. It’s not too painful now, but I’m helplessly moored to the bed. Still, I send letters to Bob by the nice young woman whom we’ve laid on to attend him twice a week.
I’m enclosing the publisher’s announcement of my book which will be out on May 25th. Do ask for it at your local library- & get Robin to do the same at his if you can find the time.
With very best wishes,
Yours ever,
Yvonne.
I’m assuming the snaps were from Bob’s 95th birthday celebrations though try as I might I have not been able to find any copies of these photos so far. Robin is my father, always known by his middle name on his side of the family but as I never really knew any of them I only ever heard him called ‘Mike’ or ‘Michael’ or, of course, ‘Dad’. The book she refers to is the first part of her two volume biography of Eleanor Marx, described by Eric Hobsbawn as, “one of the few unquestionable masterpieces of 20th-century biography.” It’s certainly the work she is best known for, completed in her seventies after ten years researching and writing.
The second letter is dated New Year’s Day 1973- the year of Bob’s death. Things seem far more urgent. Bob is growing frailer and Kapp is urging Bill to make the journey from Colchester to London to see his father before it’s too late. Bill wasn’t in the best of health either. He died in 1978 when I was about four years old. I have few memories of him save for a lovely old man in stripy pyjamas in a hospital bed whose moustache was all tickly when I kissed him. Of a tiny, dark house full of treasures and of long night time drives back from Essex to Suffolk where I only now realise how my own father must have felt whilst leaving an ailing parent as I’ve now made so many similar journeys myself. I think I remember his funeral- a haze of adults’ knees, mumbling and, in my mind, a red flag draped over the coffin. That could just be my imagination. His decorative Indian elephant bell that I adored was given to me afterwards has been a constant companion in every move I’ve made since leaving home – always kept safe.
Dear Bill,
Forgive me for not having been able to answer your letter before. I came back from my “summer holiday” just before Xmas, since when I’ve visited Bob a couple of times, ln the first of which I read him your letter, of course. He was sorry to hear of your illnesses & does hope you are now fully recovered.
He himself is growing very frail, Bill, and I hope that you will make a trip to see him very soon. His courage is unimpaired & he never complains, but feel he has to make an effort to appear as cheerful as he always is when I am there & that underneath it, he feels very tired & rather sad. His muscular strength is reduced; he finds it difficult to move about even in the room & with help & as time passes, he loses his sense of direction in his total blindness. I have never known anyone as brave & as good as Bob, I love him, dearly as you know, but now I worry about him a good deal & I wish I could do more to help him in his lonely old age. Please go and see him when you can manage it.
Wishing you a happy New Year & with Bob’s love to you.
Yours ever,
Yvonne
The next letter was written in March 1974 around sixth months after Bob’s death and his funeral at Golders Green Crematorium. Kapp’s grief is still very raw and her anger at others failing to remember his birthday on the 16th February in commemoration is palpable. She refers to papers and photos that have gone missing and of course it’s impossible to tell what may have been lost but we do at least still have an album of cards and messages from his 90th birthday celebrations that she seems to think has gone forever. The striking thing about this letter for me is her description of Bob as, “the finest human being I have ever known” something she would reiterate when she came to write her memoirs at the close of the 1980s. The letter closes with some comments on the problems of completing the second volume of the Eleanor Marx biography and the difficulties on living on the proceeds of the first. I don’t think much has changed for writers in the almost fifty years since she made those comments.
Dear Bill,
Thankyou for your letter. I was glad to hear from you though sorry that your health is so bad & prevents you getting out and about.
I must say I was rather surprised that, of all people who swilled and guzzled at Bob’s birthday parties year after year, I was the only one, apparently, to remember them with gratitude- or remember him on that occasion, only five months since he has gone. I still miss him very much. Though the last 3-4 months were painful to go through, I would not have foregone my weekly visits to him for anything on earth. Indeed, during the period when he was first moved to the Nursing Home, I went twice a week so that he should not feel too unfamiliar in new surroundings. Bill Brooks- and his family too- was wonderful to the very end & so thoughtful & considerate of Bob’s wellbeing.
It is horrid that his photographs disappeared. For a long time at Fenstauton Avenue, he had them with many other photos & papers of interest at the top of his cupboard & I often asked him whether I shouldn’t take them away to keep them safely: all his 90th birthday greetings cards in a folder & a mass of other stuff. But as long as he was entirely clear in his mind, he wanted them left there. Then, as you know, he was moved to the Home at a rather critical stage when he was rather confused, & I never saw any of those papers again. But I am not very much surprised. After all, if members of his loving family could steal from a blind man a new suit he had only worn 3 or 4 times, on the grounds that he had told them to take a suit – he meant the old one- for “jumble”, then nothing can surprise one.
However, these things – papers, photos, clothes- are not important. It is Bob, the man, the finest human being I have ever known, who remains in one’s loving memory & nothing can add to that or subtract from what he has left behind in one’s heart or what he gave us all in his lifetime.
I am getting on with Vol 2 of Eleanor, but it is a slow task as I’m not so young myself. However, it will be finished before the year is out – quite a long time before, I hope, as it is going quite well. – & in the meantime, the more people you can encourage to read Vol 1 the better, as it is quite a hard struggle to live & work on the proceeds. (Not even a Phase 3 for writers!) At least each time that a library (or anyone) buys a copy – never mind how often it is lent out- I get 45p.
Take care of yourself & when you write to Robin, give him my kind regards. I took to him very much when we met at those famous (forgotten) birthday parties & you have a fine lad there.
With love to you,
Yvonne.
In the final letter I have, the grief remains The target of her anger is Bob’s daughter Nan, who I mentioned in the previous post ‘Prison Rhymes’. Since 1956, while the rest of the family had maintained their commitment to communism, she had travelled further and further away from them politically. The reasons for this are not surprising. In the early 1940s her first husband, a Russian apparatchik and the father of her son Gregory, was shot in one of Stalin’s purges. Nan and her baby son, my dad’s cousin, managed to escape the USSR but almost inexplicably the details of her husband’s fate were unclear and she remained a member of the Communist Party. Everything came out years later in 1956 after the ‘secret speech’ where Khrushchev admitted Stalin’s crimes. The trauma this caused within the family, often overheard by MI5 on tapped phones and bugged offices is the current focus of my research. By 1978, Nan has done the unthinkable. She has become a member of the Conservative Party and Yvonne Kapp is furious.
Dear Bill,
Thank you for your letter and sending me one from the Millers. I was so glad to hear from you and Robin and to know that he is settled in such a pleasant place. One day I shall try to visit him there.
I wish you yourself were feeling stronger and in better health.
The news of Nan’s preposterous move had reached me before you wrote. I’ve heard a few sick jokes in my time but Nan as a member of the Tory party is about the sickest. I’m glad that, whatever your parents suffered at her hands one way and another, they did not live to see this.
It was sad going to Peter Kerrigan’s funeral just before Xmas. What a terrible year the last one was. So many dear friends departed. I suppose that at my age it’s inevitable, but that doesn’t ease the sorrow. Let’s hope that 1978 will have less sadness to record.
Anyway, I wish you all the best for 1978 and – herewith returning the Millers’ kind letter- send you my love,
Yours always,
Yvonne.
1978 was the year my grandfather died. Kapp, born in same year as him lived to the age of 96 – the exact same age Bob was when he died. She passed away on June 22nd 1999. Eric Hobsbawm wrote an admiring obituary in The Guardian in which he described her as “self-reliant, tough, faithful, ladylike and quietly proud to the end” before adding, “She had good reason to be.”
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Clearly, the almost forty year friendship between Yvonne Kapp and Bob Stewart was a profound and important one. It began in 1934 when she was housing refugees who, a year into Hitler’s seizure of power, were already fleeing Nazi Germany for London. One such refugee, as with many in the same position, seemed particularly damaged and traumatised and was proving difficult to cope with. He was arranging for suspicious packages to be sent to her address, ranting about the prospect of being expelled from the German Communist Party, demanding money and threatening suicide. Kapp, at this point an active communist, didn’t know what to do and was frightened his death was potentially on her hands. Someone suggested she should go and see Bob for advice at the party’s headquarters in King Street, Covent Garden. He listened patiently and helped her work out the best course action to take. In her memoir, Time Will Tell, she outlines the “permanent legacy” of this situation.
Bob who had been a joiner and a cabinetmaker in Dundee, was a foundation member of the British Communist Party in 1920. He and his wife, Meg, became honoured guests in my house shortly after that first meeting and we spent many Sundays visiting them. With Meg’s death in the early 1950s and his advancing age- for he was over sixty when I first put my head round his door- his life took a melancholy turn, not made happier by retirement and the gradual onset of blindness, so that I visited him as often as I could and he would come to us on Christmas Day. At one point I took him to see an ophthalmologist who told him that his eyes had done their work and there was no cure for his failing sight.
He was always resolutely cheerful and uncomplaining, put on so brave an air of being in good spirits, took so lively an interest in what was happening in the world and, though unable to read newspapers, held so clear-headed a view of events as they unfolded (including, in 1968, when he was over ninety, telling young people- in their sixties – that the invasion of Czechoslovakia by Russian tanks, was a terrible mistake), that it was an education to be in his company and a privilege to be his friend. As his strong body lost some of its resilience, and to his blindness were added other infirmities, the Party arranged at considerable expense for him to live in a kindly if rather slapdash home for old people. There I went to see him every week during his last years and did so almost to the end though, as ill luck would have it, when he died at the age of ninety-six in 1973, I was away on holiday.
Bob, the wisest of men and also the most generous and great hearted, was the first person I had ever known who was truly good, all through. I could not have had a better teacher. His was the permanent legacy my shifty lodger left me.
(pp185-6 Yvonne Kapp, Time Will Tell, Verso 2003)
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One of the things that I most admire about this friendship is the unexpectedness of it all. Bob was working class Dundee bred joiner who had endured great poverty and left school at twelve. Kapp on the other hand was the privileged bohemian, bisexual daughter of wealthy upper class German Jewish immigrants twenty six years his junior. Reading her memoir the 1920s were a particularly heady time for her. While Bob was organising for worldwide revolution and heading off to Moscow as a representative on the Comintern, she made an early marriage to the artist Peter Kapp; headed off on a walking tour of Europe; wrote scandalous novels under the pseudonym Yvonne Cloud and dived head first into the artistic and literary world of London. In her afterword to Time Will Tell, Charmian Brinson notes:
…there is much about Yvonne’s life that reflects the intellectual, cultural and political climate of the age in which she lived, with Bloomsbury (in the shape of her friend Quentin Bell) juxtaposed with Harry Pollitt or, on an international plane, with Helene Weigel (for some years, Yvonne advised Weigel on English translations of Brecht). Figures as diverse as Rebecca West, Noel Coward, Frances and Vera Meynell, Max Beerbohm, Clifford Allen, John Collier, Melanie Klein, Nancy Cunard, CK Ogden, Rudolf Olden, John Strachey, Paul Robeson, John Heartfield, Kate O’Brien, Herbert Morrison, Jack Tanner, Jocelyn Brooke and Ilya Ehrenburg people these pages.
(p291 Time Will Tell – Charmian Brinson- Afterword-Reflections on Yvonne Kapp)
While I would love more gossip on Noel Coward who regularly came to the Kapp’s for post performance suppers after The Vortex at the Comedy Theatre, my favourite anecdote in Kapp’s memoir involves the future star of Bride of Frankenstein Elsa Lanchester and her husband and fellow screen legend Charles Laughton. The Kapps met Lanchester through joining the 1917 Club and through The Cave of Harmony- a cabaret Elsa ran and performed at. Yvonne and Elsa became close for a number or years but Kapp is scathing in her assessment of Laughton.
In that same year of 1929 Elsa Lanchester married Charles Laughton. She told me he was wonderful but, though prepared to believe her, i found that he seemed to quench her fiery spirit and mocking wit. An adoring wife, she kept the best of herself – like the choicest morsel of food and the heart of the lettuce- for Charles. He, to my irritation, could not so much order a cup of tea without playing the part of a man ordering a cup of tea.
(p86 Yvonne Kaapp, Time Will Tell, Verso)
She goes on to dismiss Laughton as a “great ham” and laments seeing less and less of Elsa until she became a “virtual stranger” who avoided former friends due to her troubled personal life.
As the 1920s gave way to the 1930s Yvonne Kapp became more and more political and her life changed direction. As Hobsbawm notes in his obituary of her:
Hitler and the Nazi tyranny in Germany turned her into a communist and this gave sense and stability to her life. Through her work with refugees it also brought her together with the former member of the Bertolt Brecht collective, Margaret Mynatt, the later inspirer and editor of the English tradition on of the Collected Works of Marx and Engels, with whom she shared her life until Margaret’s death in 1977.
(Eric Hobsbawm – Yvonne Kapp, The Guardian 28th June 1999)
The first volume of the Eleanor Marx biography, Family Life was dedicated to Margaret Mynatt. When it came out in 1976, the second volume, The Crowded Years, was dedicated to the memory of Bob.
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POSTSCRIPT: In learning more about Yvonne Kapp, I found the work of Alison Light, Charmian Brinson and Sally Alexander to be essential. Also, Yvonne Kapp’s Eleanor Marx and Time Will Tell are both published by Verso who, at the present time always seem to have a sale on so it’s worth heading over to http://www.versobooks.com to pick up a bargain.
Breaking the Fetters 