My Life

My Life - Oswald Mosleycommitted no crime comparable with modern crimes. Yet since then we havetravelled far down a road whose end was revealed in previous civilisations. Revengetoday pursues not merely individuals but whole peoples, and the flames of animosityare stoked continuously with a propaganda hitherto confined to time of war.It was not long in time from the luminous moment when Caesar wept by the bier ofPompey, although the death of his great rival made him master of the known world, tothe dark hour when the execrable Octavia, wife of Antony, placed a golden coin in themouth of the murdered Cicero with the squalid gibe: 'So much for your golden tongue'.Yet it marked a steep descent on the road to Avernus. When two great friends ofintimate relation were thrown against each other by fate to fight for the world, it was adeep tragedy that one must die. The news of unparalleled victory was lost in sorrow asCaesar kissed the forehead of the fallen Pompey and then retired for several days,prostrated by grief. The extreme contrast with modern behaviour was not due toweakness, for never in the long history of action have the two essential qualities beenso united in one man: the brain of ice and the heart of fire.That is how I like to think of our Europe. I do not refer to the chivalrous wars whenFrederick the Great and Maria Theresa fought for the exchange of a province, withoutany of the deliberate devastation of non-combatant life which returned to warfare withStonewall Jackson in America. There is no need to revert to the moment depicted byVelasquez in the Prado, which shows the Spanish conqueror descending from hishorse and bowing lower than the defeated Netherlander, before he embraces him toshow that he honours a brave enemy. I refer to the young airmen who were mycompanions in Flanders in the early days of the First War; they were of the modernage—its very flower—yet they felt the same high regard for the young enemiesagainst whom they were thrown to death by the folly and failure of the old world.If my generation felt in this way about the finer spirits among our enemies of the firstwar, it is surely right for me to retain no lesser sentiment about my chief opponentamong my fellow-countrymen. With no bitterness and with some appreciation of theinfinite variety of human existence in the tangled but brightly woven pattern of thefates, I recall one of the last evenings in the Other Club when I was sitting oppositeWinston Churchill. He looked across the table and addressed to me a brief butprescient oration which I remember, and for good reason. It began with the simile thatthe river of history was flowing through a quiet and peaceful contemporary scene, socalm that it could even carry on its tranquil bosom the contemptible figures ofBaldwin and MacDonald (his nominal leaders), but soon it would reach the falls, thecataract of destiny, the foam would sparkle, the spray would glitter in the sunshine ofgreat opportunity and—leaning forward in poignant emphasis— 'our time will come'.It did—with him in Downing Street, and me in jail.93 of 424