found the majority of the audience sympathetic so long as I con?ned myselfto industrial areas. In London, however, the matter was di?erent.Cli?ord Allen,6the chairman of the No Conscription Fellowship, was ayoung man of great ability and astuteness. He was a Socialist, and not aChristian. There was always a certain di?culty in keeping harmonious rela-tions between Christian and Socialist paci?sts, and in this respect he showedadmirable impartiality. In the summer of 1916, however, he was court-martialled and sent to prison. After that, throughout the duration of the War, Ionly saw him during the occasional days between sentences. He was releasedon grounds of health (being, in fact, on the point of death) early in 1918, butshortly after that I went to prison myself.It was at Cli?ord Allen’s police court case when he was ?rst called up that I?rst met Lady Constance Malleson, generally known by her stage name ofColette O’Niel. Her mother, Lady Annesley, had a friendship with PrinceHenry of Prussia which began before the War and was resumed when theWar was over. This, no doubt, gave her some bias in favour of a neutralattitude, but Colette and her sister, Lady Clare Annesley, were both genuinepaci?sts, and threw themselves into the work of the No Conscription Fellow-ship. Colette was married to Miles Malleson, the actor and playwright. He hadenlisted in 1914, but had had the good luck to be discharged on account of aslight weakness in one foot. The advantageous position which he thussecured, he used most generously on behalf of the conscientious objectors,having after his enlistment become persuaded of the truth of the paci?stposition. I noticed Colette in the police court, and was introduced to her. Ithe autobiography of bertrand russell 234found that she was one of Allen’s friends and learned from him that she wasgenerous with her time, free in her opinions, and whole-hearted in herpaci?sm. That she was young and very beautiful, I had seen for myself. Shewas on the stage, and had had a rapid success with two leading parts insuccession, but when the War came she spent the whole of the daytimein addressing envelopes in the o?ce of the No Conscription Fellowship. Onthese data, I naturally took steps to get to know her better.My relations with Ottoline had been in the meantime growing lessintimate. In 1915, she left London and went to live at the Manor Houseat Garsington, near Oxford. It was a beautiful old house which had been usedas a farm, and she became absorbed in restoring all its potentialities. I usedto go down to Garsington fairly frequently, but found her comparativelyindi?erent to me.7I sought about for some other woman to relieve myunhappiness, but without success until I met Colette. After the police courtproceedings I met Colette next at a dinner of a group of paci?sts. I walkedback from the restaurant with her and others to the place where she lived,which was 43 Bernard Street, near Russell Square. I felt strongly attracted,but had no chance to do much about it beyond mentioning that a few dayslater I was to make a speech in the Portman Rooms, Baker Street. WhenI came to make the speech, I saw her on one of the front seats, so I askedher after the meeting to come to supper at a restaurant, and then walkedback with her. This time I came in, which I had not done before. She wasvery young, but I found her possessed of a degree of calm courage as greatas Ottoline’s (courage is a quality that I ?nd essential in any woman whom Iam to love seriously). We talked half the night, and in the middle of talkbecame lovers. There are those who say that one should be prudent, but I donot agree with them. We scarcely knew each other, and yet in that momentthere began for both of us a relation profoundly serious and profoundlyimportant, sometimes happy, sometimes painful, but never trivial and neverunworthy to be placed alongside of the great public emotions connectedwith the War. Indeed, the War was bound into the texture of this love from?rst to last. The ?rst time that I was ever in bed with her (we did not go tobed the ?rst time we were lovers, as there was too much to say), we heardsuddenly a shout of bestial triumph in the street. I leapt out of bed and saw aZeppelin falling in ?ames. The thought of brave men dying in agony waswhat caused the triumph in the street. Colette’s love was in that moment arefuge to me, not from cruelty itself, which was unescapable, but from theagonising pain of realising that that is what men are. I remember a Sundaywhich we spent walking on the South Downs. At evening we came to LewesStation to take the train back to London. The station was crowded withsoldiers, most of them going back to the Front, almost all of them drunk, halfof them accompanied by drunken prostitutes, the other half by wives orthe first war 235sweethearts, all despairing, all reckless, all mad. The harshness and horror ofthe war world overcame me, but I clung to Colette. In a world of hate, shepreserved love, love in every sense of the word from the most ordinary to themost profound, and she had a quality of rock-like immovability, which inthose days was invaluable.After the night in which the Zeppelin fell I left her in the early morning toreturn to my brother’s house in Gordon Square where I was living. I met onthe way an old man selling ?owers, who was calling out: ‘Sweet lovely roses!’I bought a bunch of roses, paid him for them, and told him to deliver them inBernard Street. Everyone would suppose that he would have kept the moneyand not delivered the roses, but it was not so, and I knew it would not be so.The words, ‘Sweet lovely roses’, were ever since a sort of refrain to all mythoughts of Colette.We went for a three days’ honeymoon (I could not spare more from work)to the ‘Cat and Fiddle’ on the moors above Buxton. It was bitterly cold andthe water in my jug was frozen in the morning. But the bleak moors suitedour mood. They were stark, but gave a sense of vast freedom. We spent ourdays in long walks and our nights in an emotion that held all the pain of theworld in solution, but distilled from it an ecstasy that seemed almost morethan human.I did not know in the ?rst days how serious was my love for Colette. I hadgot used to thinking that all my serious feelings were given to Ottoline.Colette was so much younger, so much less of a personage, so much morecapable of frivolous pleasures, that I could not believe in my own feelings,and half supposed that I was having a light a?air with her. At Christmas Iwent to stay at Garsington, where there was a large party. Keynes was there,and read the marriage service over two dogs, ending, ‘Whom man hathjoined, let not dog put asunder.’ Lytton Strachey was there and read us themanuscript of Eminent Victorians. Katherine Mans?eld and Middleton Murrywere also there. I had just met them before, but it was at this time that I got toknow her well. I do not know whether my impression of her was just, but itwas quite di?erent from other people’s. Her talk was marvellous, muchbetter than her writing, especially when she was telling of things that she wasgoing to write, but when she spoke about people she was envious, dark, andfull of alarming penetration in discovering what they least wished knownand whatever was bad in their characteristics.8She hated Ottoline becauseMurry did not. It had become clear to me that I must get over the feeling thatI had had for Ottoline, as she no longer returned it su?ciently to give me anyhappiness. I listened to all that Katherine Mans?eld had to say against her; inthe end I believed very little of it, but I had become able to think of Ottolineas a friend rather than a lover. After this I saw no more of Katherine, but wasable to allow my feeling for Colette free scope.the autobiography of bertrand russell 236The time during which I listened to Katherine was a time of dangeroustransition. The War had brought me to the verge of utter cynicism, and I washaving the greatest di?cult in believing that anything at all was worth doing.Sometimes I would have ?ts of such despair as to spend a number of succes-sive days sitting completely idle in my chair with no occupation except toread Ecclesiastes occasionally. But at the end of this time the spring came, andI found myself free of the doubts and hesitations that had troubled me inrelation to Colette. At the height of my winter despair, however, I had foundone thing to do, which turned out as useless as everything else, but seemed tome at the moment not without value. America being still neutral, I wrote anopen letter to President Wilson, appealing to him to save the world. In thisletter I said:Sir,You have an opportunity of performing a signal service to mankind, sur-passing even the service of Abraham Lincoln, great as that was. It is in yourpower to bring the war to an end by a just peace, which shall do all that couldpossibly be done to allay the fear of new wars in the near future. It is not yettoo late to save European civilisation from destruction; but it may be too lateif the war is allowed to continue for the further two or three years withwhich our militarists threaten us.The military situation has now developed to the point where the ultimateissue is clear, in its broad outlines, to all who are capable of thought. It mustbe obvious to the authorities in all the belligerent countries that no victoryfor either side is possible. In Europe, the Germans have the advantage; outsideEurope, and at sea, the Allies have the advantage. Neither side is able to winsuch a crushing victory as to compel the other to sue for peace. The warin?icts untold injuries upon the nations, but not such injuries as to make acontinuance of ?ghting impossible. It is evident that however the war may beprolonged, negotiations will ultimately have to take place on the basis ofwhat will be substantially the present balance of gains and losses, and willresult in terms not very di?erent from those which might be obtained now.The German Government has recognised this fact, and has expressed itswillingness for peace on terms which ought to be regarded at least as a?ord-ing a basis for discussion, since they concede the points which involve thehonour of the Allies. The Allied Governments have not had the courage toacknowledge publicly what they cannot deny in private, that the hope of asweeping victory is one which can now scarcely be entertained. For want ofthis courage, they are prepared to involve Europe in the horrors of a continu-ance of the war, possibly for another two or three years. This situation isintolerable to every humane man. You, Sir, can put an end to it. Your powerconstitutes an opportunity and a responsibility; and from your previousthe first war 237actions I feel con?dent that you will use your power with a degree of wisdomand humanity rarely to be found among statesmen.The harm which has already been done in this war is immeasurable. Notonly have millions of valuable lives been lost, not only have an even greaternumber of men been maimed or shattered in health, but the whole standardof civilisation has been lowered. Fear has invaded men’s inmost being, andwith fear has come the ferocity that always attends it. Hatred has become therule of life, and injury to others is more desired than bene?t to ourselves. Thehopes of peaceful progress in which our earlier years were passed are dead,and can never be revived. Terror and savagery have become the very air webreathe. The liberties which our ancestors won by centuries of struggle weresacri?ced in a day, and all the nations are regimented to the one ghastly endof mutual destruction.But all this is as nothing in comparison with what the future has in storefor us if the war continues as long as the announcements of some of ourleading men would make us expect. As the stress increases, and weariness ofthe war makes average men more restive, the severity of repression has to becontinually augmented. In all the belligerent countries, soldiers who arewounded or home on leave express an utter loathing of the trenches, adespair of ever achieving a military decision, and a terrible longing for peace.Our militarists have successfully opposed the granting of votes to soldiers;yet in all the countries an attempt is made to persuade the civilian populationthat war-weariness is con?ned to the enemy soldiers. The daily toll of younglives destroyed becomes a horror almost too terrible to be borne; yet every-where, advocacy of peace is rebuked as treachery to the soldiers, though thesoldiers above all men desire peace. Everywhere, friends of peace are metwith the diabolical argument that the brave men who have died must nothave shed their blood in vain. And so every impulse of mercy towards thesoldiers who are still living is dried up and withered by a false and barrenloyalty to those who are past our help. Even the men hitherto retained formaking munitions, for dock labour, and for other purposes essential to theprosecution of the war, are gradually being drafted into the armies andreplaced by women, with the sinister threat of coloured labour in the back-ground. There is a very real danger that, if nothing is done to check the furyof national passion, European civilisation as we have known it will perish ascompletely as it perished when Rome fell before the Barbarians.It may be thought strange that public opinion should appear to support allthat is being done by the authorities for the prosecution of the war. But thisappearance is very largely deceptive. The continuance of the war is activelyadvocated by in?uential persons, and by the Press, which is everywhereunder the control of the Government. In other sections of Society feeling isquite di?erent from that expressed by the newspapers, but public opinionthe autobiography of bertrand russell 238remains silent and uninformed, since those who might give guidance aresubject to such severe penalties that few dare to protest openly, and those fewcannot obtain a wide publicity. From considerable personal experience,reinforced by all that I can learn from others, I believe that the desire forpeace is almost universal, not only among the soldiers, but throughout thewage-earning classes, and especially in industrial districts, in spite of highwages and steady employment. If a plebiscite of the nation were taken on thequestion whether negotiations should be initiated, I am con?dent that anoverwhelming majority would be in favour of this course, and that the sameis true of France, Germany, and Austria-Hungary.Such acquiescence as there is in continued hostilities is due entirely to fear.Every nation believes that its enemies were the aggressors, and may makewar again in a few years unless they are utterly defeated. The United StatesGovernment has the power, not only to compel the European Governments tomake peace, but also to reassure the populations by making itself the guaran-tor of the peace. Such action, even if it were resented by the Governments,would be hailed with joy by the populations. If the German Government, asnow seems likely, would not only restore conquered territory, but also giveits adherence to the League to Enforce Peace or some similar method ofsettling disputes without war, fear would be allayed, and it is almost certainthat an o?er of mediation from you would give rise to an irresistible move-ment in favour of negotiations. But the deadlock is such that no near end tothe war is likely except through the mediation of an outside Power, and suchmediation can only come from you.Some may ask by what right I address you. I have no formal title; I amnot any part of the machinery of government. I speak only because Imust; because others, who should have remembered civilisation and humanbrotherhood, have allowed themselves to be swept away by national passion;because I am compelled by their apostacy to speak in the name of reasonand mercy, lest it should be thought that no one in Europe remembers thework which Europe has done and ought still to do for mankind. It is to theEuropean races, in Europe and out of it, that the world owes most of whatit possesses in thought, in science, in art, in ideals of government, in hopefor the future. If they are allowed to destroy each other in futile carnage,something will be lost which is more precious than diplomatic prestige,incomparably more valuable than a sterile victory which leaves the victorsthemselves perishing. Like the rest of my countrymen I have desired ardentlythe victory of the Allies; like them, I have su?ered when victory has beendelayed. But I remember always that Europe has common tasks to ful?l; that awar among European nations is in essence a civil war; that the ill which wethink of our enemies they equally think of us; and that it is di?cult in time ofwar for a belligerent to see facts truly. Above all, I see that none of the issuesthe first war 239in the war are as important as peace; the harm done by a peace which doesnot concede all that we desire is as nothing in comparison to the harm doneby the continuance of the ?ghting. While all who have power in Europe speakfor what they falsely believe to be the interests of their separate nations, I amcompelled by a profound conviction to speak for all the nations in the nameof Europe. In the name of Europe I appeal to you to bring us peace.The censorship in those days made it di?cult to transmit a document of thissort, but Helen Dudley’s sister, Katherine, who had been visiting her, under-took to take it back with her to America. She found an ingenious method ofconcealing it, and duly delivered it to a committee of American paci?ststhrough whom it was published in almost every newspaper in America. Aswill be seen in this account, I thought, as most people did at that time, thatthe War could not end in a victory for either party. This would no doubt havebeen true if America had remained neutral.From the middle of 1916 until I went to prison in May 1918, I was verybusy indeed with the a?airs of the No Conscription Fellowship. My timeswith Colette were such as could be snatched from paci?st work, and werelargely connected with the work itself. Cli?ord Allen would be periodicallylet out of prison for a few days, to be court-martialled again as soon as itbecame clear that he still refused to obey military orders. We used to gotogether to his courts-martial.When the Kerensky Revolution came, a great meeting of sympathisers withit was held in Leeds. I spoke at this meeting, and Colette and her husbandwere at it. We travelled up in the train with Ramsay MacDonald, who spentthe time telling long stories of pawky Scotch humour so dull that it wasalmost impossible to be aware when the point had been reached. It wasdecided at Leeds to attempt to form organisations in the various districts ofEngland and Scotland with a view to promoting workers’ and soldiers’ coun-cils on the Russian model. In London a meeting for this purpose was held atthe Brotherhood Church in Southgate Road. Patriotic newspapers distributedlea?ets in all the neighbouring public houses (the district is a very poor one)saying that we were in communication with the Germans and signalled totheir aeroplanes as to where to drop bombs. This made us somewhatunpopular in the neighbourhood, and a mob presently besieged the church.Most of us believed that resistance would be either wicked or unwise, sincesome of us were complete non-resisters, and others realised that we were toofew to resist the whole surrounding slum population. A few people, amongthem Francis Meynell, attempted resistance, and I remember his returningfrom the door with his face streaming with blood. The mob burst in led by afew o?cers; all except the o?cers were more or less drunk. The ?ercest wereviragos who used wooden boards full of rusty nails. An attempt was made bythe autobiography of bertrand russell 240the o?cers to induce the women among us to retire ?rst so that they mightdeal as they thought ?t with the paci?st men, whom they supposed to be allcowards. Mrs Snowden behaved on this occasion in a very admirable manner.She refused point-blank to leave the hall unless the men were allowed to leaveat the same time. The other women present agreed with her. This rather upsetthe o?cers in charge of the roughs, as they did not particularly wish toassault women. But by this time the mob had its blood up, and pandemon-ium broke loose. Everybody had to escape as best they could while the policelooked on calmly. Two of the drunken viragos began to attack me with theirboards full of nails. While I was wondering how one defended oneselfagainst this type of attack, one of the ladies among us went up to the policeand suggested that they should defend me. The police, however, merelyshrugged their shoulders. ‘But he is an eminent philosopher’, said the lady,and the police still shrugged. ‘But he is famous all over the world as a man oflearning’, she continued. The police remained unmoved. ‘But he is thebrother of an earl’, she ?nally cried. At this, the police rushed to my assis-tance. They were, however, too late to be of any service, and I owe my life to ayoung woman whom I did not know, who interposed herself between meand the viragos long enough for me to make my escape. She, I am happy tosay, was not attacked. But quite a number of people, including severalwomen, had their clothes torn o? their backs as they left the building. Colettewas present on this occasion, but there was a heaving mob between me andher, and I was unable to reach her until we were both outside. We went hometogether in a mood of deep dejection.The clergyman to whom the Brotherhood Church belonged was a paci?stof remarkable courage. In spite of this experience, he invited me on a sub-sequent occasion to give an address in his church. On this occasion, however,the mob set ?re to the pulpit and the address was not delivered. These werethe only occasions on which I came across personal violence; all my othermeetings were undisturbed. But such is the power of Press propaganda thatmy non-paci?st friends came to me and said: ‘Why do you go on trying toaddress meetings when all of them are broken up by the mob?’By this time my relations with the Government had become very bad.In 1916, I wrote a lea?et9which was published by the No ConscriptionFellowship about a conscientious objector who had been sentenced toimprisonment in de?ance of the conscience clause. The lea?et appearedwithout my name on it, and I found rather to my surprise, that those whodistributed it were sent to prison. I therefore wrote to The Times to state that Iwas the author of it. I was prosecuted at the Mansion House before the LordMayor, and made a long speech in my own defence. On this occasion I was?ned ￡100. I did not pay the sum, so that my goods at Cambridge were soldto a su?cient amount to realise the ?ne. Kind friends, however, bought themthe first war 241in and gave them back to me, so that I felt my protest had been somewhatfutile. At Trinity, meanwhile, all the younger Fellows had obtained commis-sions, and the older men naturally wished to do their bit. They thereforedeprived me of my lectureship. When the younger men came back at the endof the War I was invited to return, but by this time I had no longer any wishto do so.Munition workers, oddly enough, tended to be paci?sts. My speeches tomunition workers in South Wales, all of which were inaccurately reported bydetectives, caused the War O?ce to issue an order that I should not beallowed in any prohibited area.10The prohibited areas were those into whichit was particularly desired that no spies should penetrate. They included thewhole sea-coast. Representations induced the War O?ce to state that they didnot suppose me to be a German spy, but nevertheless I was not allowed togo anywhere near the sea for fear I should signal to the submarines. Atthe moment when the order was issued I had gone up to London for theday from Bosham in Sussex, where I was staying with the Eliots. I had toget them to bring up my brush and comb and tooth-brush, because theGovernment objected to my fetching them myself. But for these variouscompliments on the part of the Government, I should have thrown up paci?stwork, as I had become persuaded that it was entirely futile. Perceiving,however, that the Government thought otherwise, I supposed I might bemistaken, and continued. Apart from the question whether I was doing anygood, I could not well stop when fear of consequences might have seemed tobe my motive.At the time, however, of the crime for which I went to prison, I had ?nallydecided that there was nothing further to be done, and my brother hadcaused the Government to know my decision. There was a little weeklynewspaper called The Tribunal, issued by the No Conscription Fellowship, and Iused to write weekly articles for it. After I had ceased to be editor, the neweditor, being ill one week, asked me at the last moment to write the weeklyarticle. I did so, and in it I said that American soldiers would be employed asstrike-breakers in England, an occupation to which they were accustomedwhen in their own country.11This statement was supported by a SenateReport which I quoted. I was sentenced for this to six months’ imprison-ment. All this, however, was by no means unpleasant. It kept my self-respectalive, and gave me something to think about less painful than the universaldestruction. By the intervention of Arthur Balfour, I was placed in the ?rstdivision, so that while in prison I was able to read and write as much as Iliked, provided I did no paci?st propaganda. I found prison in many waysquite agreeable. I had no engagements, no di?cult decisions to make, no fearof callers, no interruptions to my work. I read enormously; I wrote a book,Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy, a semi-popular version of The Principles ofthe autobiography of bertrand russell 242Mathematics, and began the work for Analysis of Mind. I was rather interested inmy fellow-prisoners, who seemed to me in no way morally inferior to therest of the population, though they were on the whole slightly below theusual level of intelligence, as was shown by their having been caught. Foranybody not in the ?rst division, especially for a person accustomed to read-ing and writing, prison is a severe and terrible punishment; but for me,thanks to Arthur Balfour, this was not so. I owe him gratitude for his interven-tion although I was bitterly opposed to all his policies. I was much cheered,on my arrival, by the warder at the gate, who had to take particulars aboutme. He asked my religion and I replied ‘agnostic’. He asked how to spell it,and remarked with a sigh: ‘Well, there are many religions, but I suppose theyall worship the same God.’ This remark kept me cheerful for about a week.One time, when I was reading Strachey’s Eminent Victorians, I laughed so loudthat the warder came round to stop me, saying I must remember that prisonwas a place of punishment. On another occasion Arthur Waley, the translatorof Chinese poetry, sent me a translated poem that he had not yet publishedcalled ‘The Red Cockatoo’.12It is as follows:Sent as a present from Annam –A red cockatoo.Coloured like the peach-tree blossom,Speaking with the speech of men.And they did to it what is always doneTo the learned and eloquentThey took a cage with stout barsAnd shut it up inside.I had visits once a week, always of course in the presence of a warder, butnevertheless very cheering. Ottoline and Colette used to come alternately,bringing two other people with them. I discovered a method of smuggling