Labour’s righteous leaders (1965)

From the July 1965 issue of the Socialist Standard

From Attlee to Wilson

When they came in in 1945 the Labour Government, believing themselves to be righteous, were bold as lions. “We are the masters now!” roared the new Attorney General Sir Hartley Shawcross. Their ecstasy was described by the late Lord Dalton in his memoirs:

There was exhilaration among us. Joy and hope, determination and confidence. We felt exalted, dedicated, walking on air, walking with destiny.

Six years, and innumerable crises, later it was a very different story. Of the leaders who walked on air that July day in 1945, Bevin was dead and Cripps was dying. Attlee and Morrison had suffered grave illnesses. The future of the Labour Party was to be one of intrigue and dissent; of Attlee delaying his resignation until Morrison was too old to succeed him; of Bevan listening for the cue which was never called; of Gaitskell taking his chance, and leading the party to an unprecedented defeat.

In 1945 the leaders of the Labour Party had already rendered good service to British capitalism, in Churchill’s wartime coalition. It was here that many of their reputations were made, and none more so than Ernest Bevin’s. When Churchill called upon him, Bevin had already become famous as a blunt trade union leader, a skilful negotiator and a scourge of Labour Party rebels. Probably nobody had the confidence of the trade unions like Bevin. Churchill made him Minister of Labour, obviously hoping that his experience would be enough to stop most industrial trouble before it started. Like one of his successors as Secretary of the Transport and General Workers’ Union—Frank Cousins— Bevin was given a safe seat in Parliament so that he could join the government.

Attlee surprised a number of people by naming Bevin as his Foreign Secretary. But Bevin soon established himself as one of the Labour government’s few popular successes—so zealous and determined was his championing of British capitalism's interests in the diplomatic battles—largely against the Russians—after the war. Few people now remember him for his failures. He once said that he would stake his reputation on solving the problem of Palestine. He was quite unable to prevent Russian expansion into Europe. And we all know what happened to what he described as the most important objective of his foreign policy: “ . .. to be able to go down to Victoria Station and take a ticket to where the hell I like without a passport.”

The failures of Ernest Bevin were not coincidences. That rough tongued, hard headed son of the masses had no more idea of how to control capitalism than the pampered aristocrats who are traditionally supposed to be born diplomats. Bevin once claimed that a Labour victory was essential after the war because it would be vital to have a government which could understand the Russians. The Tories, he said, were not equipped for this; Left must talk to Left. The Russians, who probably even then had a good idea of what the post war situation was going to be like, must have had a good laugh—or at least a grim smile—at these words.

Bevin was no more prescient in economic affairs. In November 1947 he wrote to Dalton that he “ . . . intuitively felt that we were beginning to get through . . .” Intuitively! This was before the convertibility crisis, the dollar gap emergency, potato rationing, devaluation .. . problems which were obviously overlooked by the Foreign Secretary's intuition.

The other Labour leaders were no better. Morrison, for example, did not try to solve the problems of British capitalism, by intuition. In his view, the whole thing was caused by Hugh Dalton—by “ . . . faulty administration at the Treasury for which Dalton must be responsible . . . he had little flair for administration and there was evidence that he was unaware of the financial crisis of 1947 until he was in the midst of it.” Morrison does not explain why the crisis continued long after Dalton had left the Treasury. The situation was, in fact, at its worst when Stafford Cripps was Chancellor—and it was Morrison who, in the Thirties, had invited Cripps to join the Labour Party.

Just as Morrison criticised Dalton, other Labour leaders were critical of Morrison. Bevin was constantly feuding with him. Attlee later said “Perhaps (Morrison) was unwise to take the Foreign Secretaryship because he was not quite so well qualified.” (Some readers may need to be reminded here that it was Attlee who, as Prime Minister, gave the Foreign Secretaryship to Morrison rather than Morrison who took the job.)

Such back biting was typical of the Attlee government. Some of it reached an incredibly low level, for grown men who were supposed to be upholding the dignity of capitalism’s established institutions. Hugh Dalton, holder of the ancient and respected offices of Chancellor of the Exchequer and later Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, took exception to the self-important manner of Sir Hartley Shawcross, holder of the ancient and revered offices of Attorney General and later President of the Board of Trade, and consequently dubbed Shawcross “Sir Peacock”.

Dalton (who as a child was described by Queen Victoria as a horrid boy with a loud voice) started off in 1945 full of bounce but was soon deflated. His Budgets, he claimed, were popular in the City:

The Stock Exchange boomed—and went on booming for days. (First Budget.)

In the City the Stock Exchange rejoiced. (Second Budget.)

He did not explain how somebody who claimed to be a Socialist could make the City rejoice; he was too busy, at the traditional Lord Mayor's Banquet, making the traditional promises to the capitalist class;

I shall aim to make my forthcoming Budget . . . fit into a series . . . a consistent and developing financial plan, which shall assist our industry and trade . . . (3/10/45).

It was not long before the Labour government abandoned all intention of producing any plans which were “consistent and developing”. They were soon rushing out emergency Budgets, imposing restrictions, desperately juggling with capitalism's financial mechanisms. But however many fingers they plugged into the holes, the dyke crumbled about them and the cold waters washed them away.

After Dalton's enforced resignation. Attlee had to look around for a successor. Sir Stafford Cripps had once said that the Treasury was not his line of country, so of course he was made Chancellor of the Exchequer. This was the last act in the moving story of the reform of Cripps the firebrand, the man who had been expelled from the Labour Party over his advocacy of the Popular Front, who had advised the workers to refuse to make armaments, who had warned that a Labour government would have to deal with opposition from the Palace. (He was also the man who, shortly after this last speech, was heard by Morrison to murmur “The King, God bless him” when drinking the loyal toast.)

Perhaps some of Cripps’ pre-war followers expected him to do something startling at the Treasury. If so, they were soon disappointed. Cripps continually exhorted the working class to tighten their belts, to forego wage increases, to work harder. He fought his hardest to build up the exports of the British capitalist class. He became associated with the whole concept of austerity; his grim face (even his smile was like a wintry wind) and his abstemious habits were one of the Conservatives’ favourite propaganda weapons. Cripps was a deeply religious man and an unrelenting moralist, but this did not prevent him denying his intention to devalue the pound, when he knew that the plans for devaluation were all cut and dried. He worked mightily for British capitalism, and in the end he wore himself out.

All these men, and the lesser fry, were presided over by dry, shrewd, Clement Attlee. The Prime Minister was fond of sending the trouble makers in his party short, stinging letters which usually ended “Yours ever, Clem.” In Cabinet, it was his habit to sit quietly doodling while the battle raged about his head, then dismiss the matter under discussion with a few words of summing up. This method had its uses; Morrison later complained that Attlee applied it in double crossing him over a compromise on steel nationalisation.

Attlee cultivated the art of the menacing understatement; “It’s awkward to have to sack a man . . .” “It (the Berlin crisis of 1948) was quite a danger.” His self-effacing manner was useful in the ruthless job of administering British capitalism—and in the end, apparently, it turned out to be a vote winner as well.

Harold Wilson was only a minor figure in the Attlee government, but he managed to chill a few spines:

Nye’s little dog .. . he did not seem to have much warmth or strength of character. (Dalton).

Perhaps the most realistic classification for this able economist and clever debater is that he is a Wilsonite. (Morrison).

Attlee expressed surprise that Wilson should have resigned with Bevan in 1951; “He ought to have had more understanding of the economic position.”

Perhaps none of them realised what Wilson signified for the Labour Party. When Wilson became leader, Labour had a long history to live down—a history based on its origins, and fashioned by its reckless propaganda when it was far, far from power. The Labour Party once used, albeit in a distorted version, the theories of Marx; they once adored Keir Hardie’s cloth cap. ’’Somehow”, wrote Morrison, “we have managed to give the impression that the (Labour) Party is anti-British and pro-every foreign country . . .”

If they were ever to rival the Conservatives as an established ever ready alternative government for British capitalism, the Labour Party had to exorcise its ghosts and cast out its devils. They could no longer afford the luxuries of idealists and theorists. They could not afford another young Cripps with his wild speeches, or a Strachey with his learned, troublesome books, or a Bevan with a perpetual mine shaft on his shoulder. The modern Labour Party had to aim first at getting power; its election programme had to fit both the needs of Britain’s ruling class and the prejudices of the mass electorate, with no nonsense about a new social order of equality. This had to be a massive act of exorcism, and Wilson was ready with bell, book and candle.

We were able to see how Wilson had done his job, in the election last October. Certain things were obvious. Firstly, he had snuffed out all controversy in the Labour Party’s ranks. Secondly, he had no intention of reminding the electorate of the record of the Attlee government, and offering it as in incentive to vote Labour again. Thirdly, he produced a programme with glamour, promise and a specious humanity, the cynicism of which sickened only the enlightened, whose votes were too few to worry about.

Wilson’s was a high pressure, modern campaign. He did not miss a trick—seen on television shaving in an hotel room, he was using an electric razor. He fastened on to every one of his opponent’s mistakes and made sure of his own publicity. It was summed up by Anthony Howard of the New Statesman:

. . . without anyone really noticing it (Wilson) has already transformed the Labour Party from being primarily an ideological movement into being an election-minded organisation (Sunday Times 6/9/64).

Presumably, this is supposed to be an achievement which we should all applaud. What seemed to be overlooked by the Labour Party was that if they won the election they would be faced with the same insoluble problems of capitalism which laid low their predecessors in 1945. Wilson has not been able to master-mind these problems out of existence. The record of his government so far has been one of scratching their way from one emergency to another, of cynically modifying their programme and what they once called their principles. Housing, immigration, nuclear weapons, taxation policy, arc only a few of the issues on which the Labour Party now stands four square the opposite way to last October.

Although it is common for capitalist parties to break their promises, this does not save them from defeat. The Labour Party are already losing much of the support which put them in power nine months ago. The results of by elections, and of local elections, are going against them. At the time of writing, The Economist is convinced that the Labour government is going down.

This, if you like, is the achievement of Harold Wilson and his colleagues in the smart, modern Labour Party. Like the men of 1945 they came in bold as righteous lions but now, their best laid schemes agley, they are more like frantic, hunted mice. Soon, perhaps, they will be sent scuttling away behind the mouldering wainscot.

Ivan