In valedictory speeches, and in one or two obituaries of E. H. Carr, the authors—independently of each other—described him as enigmatic. This struck me, and I asked myself why this very English historian seemed so enigmatic to some of his close professional colleagues. In Britain he became, towards the end of his life, something of a monument to scholarship, recognized, admired, if somewhat grudgingly, and a little neglected. But he knew long years of hostility and even ostracism not only by British Academia but also by the Establishment as a whole.

When I first met him some thirty-six years ago Carr was in the political and academic wilderness and was just embarking on his great History of the Soviet Union. It was at that time that the intellectual friendship between him and Isaac Deutscher was formed. At first sight their personal amity might seem puzzling: on one side, a self-educated former member of the Polish Communist Party—Marxist by conviction, Jewish by origin—who was a refugee from Hitler and Stalin stranded in London; and, on the other side, an English historian who was an unmistakable product of Cambridge, a former member of the Foreign Office, schooled in a diplomatic service famous as a bastion of British traditionalism. But they were both under attack (if an attack veiled by formal respect), and both were debarred from academic posts. They were also both engaged in the study of the Soviet Union—albeit from two quite different angles: one a historian of institutions and policies, increasingly under Marxist influence; the other an unrepentent Marxist, analysing movements and ideas, surveying a society in turmoil torn by ideological battles. The ‘enigma’ of that friendship, and of the personality of Carr himself, becomes perhaps less perplexing once one understands the degree to which Carr was in the British tradition and yet was not quite of it; the extent to which he was an intellectual expatriate from the world of diplomacy, a rebel against his own tradition, criticizing it—as it were—from within.

When the two men first got to know each other, the cold war was just closing in. Carr had the reputation of having been an ‘appeaser’ before the War, and then a ‘fellow-traveller’ during or after it—a stigma that was, of course, a politically much more serious one at the time. It was true that, carried away by indignation against the injustices and stupidities of the Versailles settlement, he had seen Germany for long—for too long—as nothing but a defenceless victim of that settlement, and had tended to view Hitler as a run-of-the-mill statesman in revolt against it. His diplomatic training predisposed him to concentrate his attention on the state rather than to observe society, and he did not perceive the degree to which German society became degraded and corrupted by fascism. Not until 1938 did he become alerted to the dangers which Hitler’s ideology and militarism presented to Europe and the world. Too much of a realist not to be aware that British antagonism to both Germany and Russia was untenable, he then turned his eyes towards the Soviet Union—which had already aroused his interest in the early 1920s. The spectacle of the Stalinist purges of 1936–1938 may have been revolting to him, but it became somewhat blurred by the undoubted economic achievements of the ussr and by the Five Year Plans which seemed to deal so effectively with the anarchy of capitalism in crisis in the West. With Russian entry into the War, the might of the Red Army could not but impress and inspire the admiration of the ex-diplomat who still remembered the sorry sight of Russia on the morrow of the First World War. Now the Soviet Union was, and would remain, an ally whose blemishes could be disregarded or excused. It was respectable to discount these while the brunt of the fighting was borne by the Russian armies in the East. But when the cease-fire sounded and our gallant ally became the villain of the peace, those who opposed the reversal of alliances were derided as fellow-travellers; and as the cold war intensified, this label became more and more damaging. Hence the isolation in which Carr started on his immense work on the ussr in these years.

What eventually turned the young diplomat into the famous historian of the Soviet Union? The origins of his interest in the outcome of the October Revolution went back to his early days in the Foreign Office; for, according to his own account, it was the Revolution which decisively gave him a sense of history. By a ‘lucky hunch’, and also from his esprit de contradiction, he was one of those exceptional British diplomats who right from the beginning did not think the Petersburg upheaval was a flash in the pan, but believed that the Bolsheviks had come to stay. He regarded the Western reaction to this prospect as—I quote from an unpublished autobiographical memoir—‘narrow, blind, and stupid’. ‘I had some vague impression of the revolutionary views of Lenin and Trotsky, but knew nothing of Marxism; I had probably never heard of Marx.’

It was, however, nineteenth-century Russian literature which presented him with an ideological challenge at this time. Reading Dostoevsky, Herzen and others, he perceived for the first time ‘that the liberal moralistic ideology in which I had been brought up was not, as I had always assumed, an Absolute taken for granted by the modern world, but was sharply and convincingly attacked by very intelligent people living outside the charmed circle, who looked at the world through very different eyes. . . This left me in a very confused state of mind: I reacted more and more sharply against the Western ideology, but still from a point somehow within it. (Perhaps I have never quite escaped from this dilemma.)’