across the room, where he lay curled up like a half-dead snake. "You
dirty little Englishman!" cried Venko. "Go back home and make your
own revolution and don't stay in Russia to insult a real Communist."
McManus picked himself up and began shouting: "I am not a Communist, I
am an Anarchist! Anarchist! Anarchist!" A comrade clapped his hand over
McManus' mouth, and lifting him up like a kid, carried him out of the
room.
I couldn't understand the meaning of McManus' outburst, except perhaps
that he, like some of the other visiting comrades, was afflicted with
spy mania. The company settled down again to drinking and toasting and
the singing of revolutionary songs.
The carousel ended with me again uplifted in glory. Venko had shed
every vestige of the murderous brutality of a moment before and was
acting like a commanding master of ceremonies. With strong exuberant
gestures he toasted me to the company. Always a poet in action, he
became a poet in words: "Comrade McKay, you must stay in Russia. We
want you. All Russia loves you, not we Communists only, but even
the damned bourgeoisie. Tell us, Comrade McKay, why is it you have
bewitched us? Tell us, Comrade McKay, what is it? Is it the black
magic we have heard about? Comrade McKay, we are bewitched, men, women
and children. We all love you, we all want you. Oh, do stay with us
forever! Comrade McKay, you must leave Moscow and see Russia. We
want you everywhere.... Comrade McKay, my heart is bold"--here Venko
brutally beat his breast with his enormous fist--"and my back is broad
and strong"--Venko bent himself over. "Get up on my back and I will
carry you all over Russia: from Moscow to Kazan, from Kazan to Samara
and all the way down the Volga we will go until we reach the Caspian
Sea...."
With a great shout I was hoisted up into the air. And McManus, awaking
from his drunken anarcho-communist nightmare, came zigzagging into
the room just as I was being carried out upon the shoulders of that
gloriously tipsy crew down the stairs and into the street and put into
a _droshky_ and conveyed to my hotel. My mind was too stimulated and
excited to go to sleep, with Venko's picturesque phrases burning in my
brain and creating a tumult of thought. I also had under consideration
an invitation to join a caravan of comrades from different countries
who were planning a tour of Russia with the Caucasus as the ultimate
destination. Should I go? Although I had been only in Moscow and
Petrograd, I had traveled already so extensively from triumph to
triumph. Should I go further and risk anti-climax, or should I make my
exit in éclat, cherishing always the richness of my golden souvenir?
The thought of leaving seemed to be the most logical. I knew myself
enough to know that I was not of the stuff of a practical pioneer, who
could become a link in that mighty chain of the upbuilding of the great
Russian revolution. And also I reflected like a stoic poet that it was
best not to be too popular. When I contemplated the overwhelming snow
of Russia, it appeared not like snow anywhere else, but like a thing
everlasting, petrified like an ocean of ivory. Yet soon even it would
disappear when the season changed. And somewhere from far away beyond
the cold Russian nights, glorious like fields of white lilies, another
season was coming.
Soon after that, Sen Katayama sent me an invitation to visit the
Eastern University. I spoke to a group of students, and then proceeded
to visit the dormitories. The rooms, in which the students prepared
light meals, appeared somewhat like those of Moslem students in the
_medersas_ of Morocco. Imagine my surprise, as I was passing through a
dormitory, to hear a familiar voice call my name. I looked back and it
was Mrs. Slova, reclining on a cot. Mrs. Slova had been charming to me
when I was in London, frequently inviting me to her house for high tea.
She was a seamstress and she and her three pretty daughters were always
smartly dressed. Some of the captious comrades styled her the bourgeois
lady. At that time she was wildly enthusiastic about Russia and just
biding her time to get there.
"But what are you doing here?" I asked.
"Don't you know? I am a student going to school again," she said. Mrs.
Slova had gone to Russia with her daughters immediately following
my return to New York from London. She was glad once more to be in
the land of her birth, where formerly she was ostracized because she
belonged to the Jewish group. But her three daughters, who were
born and reared in comparative comfort in London, were frightened of
the confusion of the new burgeoning society. Mrs. Slova quickly and
expertly arranged a _mariage de convenance_ for each of her daughters
with English comrades visiting Russia and sent them back to London. But
she remained in Moscow.
I asked if she did not miss her children. "I raised them right, until
now they are of age to act for themselves," she said. "They couldn't
fit into the new conditions here. Young people are not like us older
heads." I said I thought the Communist movement was primarily the
movement of youth, and if she in middle age could adapt herself to the
changed life, it should have been easier for her daughters.
"Pooh!" Mrs. Slova exclaimed. "Youth is all right when guided and led
by older heads. They act more from enthusiasm than from thinking and
will rush headlong into anything when they are excited, for youth is
the time of excitement. That is why they are preferred as soldiers.
But they soon get sulky when there is no more excitement to feed
on. All the great statesmen are middle-aged experienced men, even
in Red Russia." I was amazed at Mrs. Slova. I never considered her
bourgeois because she dressed well, but I always thought that she was
oversentimental and romantic. But after all she was a wise person.
She had no desire to return to England. Communally living in a
dormitory, sleeping on a cot with her belongings in a locker, she did
not hanker after her comfortable middle-class home in London. She
was studying languages in the Eastern University, with the intention
of entering the eastern diplomatic service. She didn't think any
revolution was going to take place in Western Europe for a long time,
she said. The Bolshevik leaders would at last wake up to that fact.
She believed in the East, the future of Russia in the East, and that
was why she had become a student at the Eastern University.
XIX
A Great Celebration
Of all the big Bolshevik leaders, I had desired most to have a personal
word from Lenin. I had been amazed in 1920, when I received in London
a message from John Reed informing me that Lenin had brought the Negro
question before the Communist Congress and inviting me to visit Moscow.
I had not gone to Moscow then because I did not consider myself
qualified to do what John Reed had asked, which was to represent the
American Negro group. But now that I was there, I was anxious to get
Lenin's opinion out of his own mouth. But Lenin apparently had become
very ill again after his couple of speeches at the Communist and Soviet
Congresses in the late fall of 1922. At one of the sessions of the
Communist Congress I was seated directly behind Krupskaya, Lenin's
wife, and I was introduced to her by Clara Zetkin (the first woman
member of the Reichstag), who was very friendly and affectionate to
me. I seized the chance to ask Krupskaya if it were possible to have
an interview with Lenin. She said she would see. But nothing came of
that. Some time after I visited the office of _Pravda_ with a Communist
sympathizer. He was acquainted with Lenin's sister, who held a position
on the staff, and he introduced me to her. I told her that I would like
to have a word from Lenin himself and she said frankly that it was
impossible, for Lenin was very sick.
Krupskaya was an extremely plain woman, really ugly. Max Eastman was
so appalled when he saw her that he said, "Lenin would probably get
well if he had a pretty girl!" So I said, "Like the Shunamite virgin,
who warmed up King David of Israel in his old age, eh?" But we did not
think that Lenin was that type of warrior.
I tried to reach some of the other leaders whom I had not yet met. One
day as I was passing through the grounds of the Kremlin with Andreyev,
one of the young officials of the Foreign Office, he pointed out to
me a strikingly big man wearing high black boots. That, he said, was
Stalin, who was chairman of the Committee on National Minorities. It
was the first time I heard the name of Stalin, and the information was
extremely important. I asked Andreyev if I could meet Stalin. Andreyev
said that that was difficult, for Stalin was one of the big Bolsheviks
and it was not easy to meet him. But he promised to approach Karakhan
about it. Perhaps Andreyev was tardy or unsuccessful in his _démarche_;
at any rate I heard no more of it, and my request vanished from my
thoughts when I came in contact with the magnetic personality of
Trotsky.
Trotsky, although apparently so formidable a character, was, with
Bukharin, the most approachable of the big Bolsheviks. I was told that
any message sent to Trotsky would be certain to receive his personal
attention. So I sent in a request to meet the Commissar of War. In a
couple of days I got an answer making an appointment and saying that an
aide would call to convey me to the Commissary of War.
Exactly at the appointed hour the following day, as I descended the
stairs of the hotel, an official automobile drove up with a military
aide and I was escorted to the war department. I passed through a
guard of Red sentries and was ushered immediately into Trotsky's
office. Trotsky was wearing a commander's uniform and he appeared
very handsome, genial and gracious sitting at his desk. He said he was
learning English and would try to talk to me in that language.
Trotsky asked me some straight and sharp questions about American
Negroes, their group organizations, their political position, their
schooling, their religion, their grievances and social aspirations
and, finally, what kind of sentiment existed between American and
African Negroes. I replied with the best knowledge and information at
my command. Then Trotsky expressed his own opinion about Negroes, which
was more intelligent than that of any of the other Russian leaders.
He did not, like Steklov, the editor of _Izvestia_, imagine Negroes
as a great army for cannon fodder. And unlike Radek, he was not quick
to make deductions about the causes of white prejudice against black.
Indeed, he made no conclusions at all, and, happily, expressed no
mawkish sentimentality about black-and-white brotherhood. What he said
was very practical and might sound reformist in the ears of radical
American Negroes.
Trotsky said in effect that the Negro people constituted a backward
group, socially, politically and economically, in modern civilization.
I remember distinctly that he used the word "backward." And he stressed
the point that Negroes should be educated, should receive not merely
academic education, but a broad spreading-out education in all phases
of modern industrial life to lift themselves up as a group to a level
of equality with the whites. I remember again that he used the word
"lift" or "uplift." And he urged that Negroes should be educated about
the labor movement. Finally, he said he would like to set a practical
example in his own department and proposed the training of a group of
Negroes as officers in the Red army.
Before I left, Trotsky asked me to make a summary of my ideas, in
writing, for him. This I did, and he wrote out a commentary on it and
published both either in _Izvestia_ or in _Pravda_. Unfortunately I
lost the original article and its English translation among other
effects somewhere in France. But the gist of it all is given above.
Also, Trotsky gave me a permit to visit some of the training schools
of the Soviet forces. I had not the slightest idea that that meant
a passport to a series of inspections and elaborate receptions. I
thought I was going to make perhaps a couple of quiet and unobtrusive
visits to the military schools. What transpired was amazing, but also
embarrassing, for, except for the martial music, I have never been
vastly thrilled by military demonstrations.
For about a month I was fêted by the military forces. I was introduced
to military and naval officers and experts. I was shown the mechanism
of little guns and big guns. I did a little target practice. I passed
through reviews, receptions and banquets, a glamorous parade of
militant Red from Moscow to Petrograd.
It started in Moscow. First I was taken on a visit to the crack Kremlin
military schools; then to an ordinary soldiers' barracks where the men
were resting or on fatigue duty, and also to an extraordinary one where
everything and everybody was shipshape as if for an inspection by the
highest authorities. Next I visited the tactics school, the infantry
school, the cavalry school, the artillery school. It was almost three
weeks before I got through my Moscow military itinerary. There were
intervals of days between the various visits, of course. And there was
a continuous big feeding, until I thought my belly would burst. I ate
in the soldiers' mess. I ate in the officers' mess. I ate with the
military professors. I asked for _kasha_ and was grandly served, with
officers and Communist controllers, an elaborate and most appetizing
dish comparable to _arroz Valenciana_ or Moroccan _cous-cous_. While
I was eating it I remembered a long sentimental poem by Rose Pastor
Stokes which we had published in _The Liberator_, in which she sang
of her desire to share the Russian peasant's bowl of _kasha_. Yet as
I remember, her first picturesque gesture in Moscow was the buying of
a marvelous mink coat and cap, and she was the smartest woman in the
Congress.... Thus I learned something new about _kasha_: that it wasn't
only the peasant's staple food, but a national food, eaten by all kinds
of people, and one which, like rice, may be served in many different
and appetizing ways.
The experience of my military induction ended in a mighty students'
celebration of the anniversary of the Red army. The vast audience
flamed to the occasion as if it were charged through and lit up by one
great electric current. Many notables appeared before the illuminated
demonstration. And at last I was called to the stage. I made a brief
martial speech and was applauded for more. But I hadn't the Russian
genius for improvising great appropriate phrases. Someone demanded
a poem, and I gave, "If We Must Die." I gave it in the same spirit
in which I wrote it, I think. I was not acting, trying to repeat the
sublime thrill of a supreme experience. I was transformed into a rare
instrument and electrified by the great current running through the
world, and the poem popped out of me like a ball of light and blazed.
Now, thought I, the amazing military sensation is ended. It was an
enjoyable excitement, but it was also a pleasurable relief to be over
and done with it. But this audacious adventurer had reckoned without
the Red fleet. From Petrograd came an invitation from the Red fleet,
which apparently meant to rival the Red army in its reception. And so
I entrained for Petrograd, accompanied by a military cadet. That was
my third going to Petrograd. And each time the city appeared better,
revealing more of its grandeur. For, unlike Moscow, Petrograd does not
start immediately with color and mazy movement and life compact with a
suggestion of Oriental lavishness rioting and ringing upon the senses
like the music of golden bells.
Petrograd is poised and proud, with a hard striking strength like the
monument of Peter the Great, and a spaciousness like the Neva. In its
somber might it appeared brooding and a little frowning of aspect
at first. Many streets were desert stretches, and massive buildings
still bore the gaping wounds of the revolution. But when one became
a little more acquainted with the city, the great half-empty spaces
became impressive with a lonely dignity and beauty. And the Petrograd
people were splendid, too, in that setting, outlined more clearly than
the Moscow folk. They were like clumps of trees growing together for
protection at intervals in a vast plain.
We arrived in Petrograd on the eve of the celebration of the
twenty-fifth anniversary of the Russian Communist Party. That night I
went to the Marinsky Theater to see _Prince Igor_ for the first time,
and the thumping performance of the ballet stirred me like strokes
of lightning with great claps of thunder. It was so much more wildly
extravagant than the Eugen Onegin one I saw in Moscow. In New York I
had attended two performances of the Pavlova ballet (I think in 1916),
and now I compared them with this Petrograd magnificence. The Pavlova
ballet was like birds flying with clipped wings, but the Petrograd
_Prince Igor_ was like free birds in full flight. Although I did admire
immensely the dainty precious Pavlova herself, her company appeared so
restrained. I never could work up any enthusiasm for the modernistic
contempt of the Russian ballet. The technical excellencies alone thrum
on the emotional strings of anyone who has a feeling for geometric
patterns.
Isadora Duncan and I argued and disagreed on this subject for a whole
evening at her studio in Nice. She said the Russian Revolution should
have abolished the ballet and established the free-limbed dance. I
said I preferred to see both schools of dancing have the same freedom
for expression. Isadora was even more severe on Negro dancing and its
imitations and derivations. She had no real appreciation of primitive
folk dancing, either from an esthetic or an ethnic point of view.
For her every movement of the dance should soar upward. She spoke
beautifully about that uplifted upward movement, although it was all
wrong. But when she danced for me it was all right. I had never seen
her in her great glory and couldn't imagine that she could still be
wonderful when she was so fat and flabby. But what she did that night
was stupendous. I was the only audience besides the pianist. And she
danced from Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Wagner and Beethoven. Her face was a
series of different masks. And her self was the embodiment of Greek
tragedy, _un être_ endowed with divinity.
The day following the performance of _Prince Igor_, I paid my
respects to the commander of the Baltic fleet. He was a kindly man,
and presented me with his photograph. He took me around to the naval
preparatory school, the naval gymnasium and the naval academy. The
young cadets demanded that I say something. So I told them briefly
that I felt singularly honored and happy that my first contact with
any fleet should be with the first Red fleet of the world. And that
although it was a strange life of which I was entirely ignorant, I
thought that, if I had to be a fighter, I would rather enlist in the
navy than in the army.
The applause I received was astounding, since what I said was so brief
and simple. But quite unwittingly I had stirred the traditional rivalry
between army and navy, which may be a little different but no whit less
even though they may be Red. But my military escort from Moscow (the
only soldier among that fine body of proud and eager young sailors) was
not enthusiastic about my quip. I suppose I should have been a little
more tactful about the army, since it had first celebrated me as a
guest.
That night started the celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary
of the Russian Communist Party. The opening meeting was held in the
Marinsky Theater. Zinoviev presided. The place was packed. As soon as I
appeared in the entrance a group of young cadets bore down on me and,
hoisting me upon their shoulders, carried me down the length of the
aisle and onto the platform, while great waves of cheers rolled down
from the jammed balconies and up from the pit. Zinoviev made a great
show, greeting me demonstratively on the stage. The Russians are master
showmen.
From then on the days of my official visit to Petrograd were a progress
of processions and speeches and applause and reviews and banquets. The
next day marked my visit to the naval base at Kronstadt. Early in the
morning an aviator's fur-lined leather coat and cap and gloves--fit to
protect one against the bitterest Siberian blizzard--were brought to my
hotel. I breakfasted and togged myself out. Soon afterward a young Red
commander called for me in an automobile and we drove to the Petrograd
air field. Besides the naval and air officials and photographers,
there was quite a crowd gathered to see me take off. I posed for the
photographers with some of the officers and sailors, with the pilot,
and also with McManus, of the British Communist Party, who had come to
Petrograd for the anniversary.
Then I climbed up into the airplane. The man who had once save Lenin's
life (so I was informed) fixed me in place, and the plane sped over
the vast field of snow and up into the air. A snowstorm was raging,
but I was perfectly protected and felt no fear. Only I could not see
anything. The pilot missed his bearings and got a little lost in the
storm and we had to come down far from our landing place. The pilot
and I got out of the plane and started to walk toward the naval base.
The blizzard blew hard and we could see nothing. But it was a fine
exhilarating tramp, and, warm in my great boots and fur clothes, I
enjoyed the sensation of thinking I was doing a little Arctic stunt.
At last an automobile came rolling over the hard snow and took us
to our landing place. They had been scouting for us, knowing that
something must have happened when we did not arrive. At the landing
place I found that a crack squad of sailors, fine handsome fellows, had
been waiting for us for hours in the blizzard. They were not rigged
out, like myself and the pilot, against the bad weather, and were cold.
For the life of me I couldn't understand why a squad of men should have
been detailed to await my arrival at the air base, when I was no kind
of official. And I had been told that my visit was an informal thing.
Right there I remembered my experience in the Pennsylvania railroad
service--how often, in the cold steel car out on the track, our crew
waited for hours in biting zero weather until the late train arrived
and steamed us out. And sometimes we were frost-bitten.
My interpreter said that the sailors were expecting a speech. So I said
that although I anticipated with joy my visit among them in Kronstadt,
I felt sorry that it had been necessary for them to wait for me all
those hours in the cold. All the official routine ceremonials were
extremely tiresome to me. Even though they were the expression of the
workers' and peasants' united authority and were therefore simplified,
they were nevertheless tedious. I can work up no enthusiasm for
official ritual, however necessary, whether it be red or pink or black
or white. In Russia I was alertly aware that it was something different
from anything that ever was, that officially it was the highest
privilege I could have in the world, to be shown the inside working
of the greatest social experiment in the history of civilization. I
was fired and uplifted by the thundering mass movement of the people,
their boisterous surging forward, with their heads held high, their
arms outstretched in an eager quest for more light, more air, more
space, more glory, more nourishment and comfort for the millions of
the masses. But the bureaucratic control left me unmoved. Yet I was
conscious that it was the axis of the mighty moving energy of the
people, that without it their movement would be futile.
So I was actually in Kronstadt, the first fortress fired by the signal
of the revolution. The features of the fort were covered up with snow,
but the splendid men holding it showed me the inside of battleships and
submarines, the loading of big guns, and I saw also the educational
classes, Communist meetings, recreation halls with motion pictures and
feats of gymnastics and dancing, the new revolutionary spirit animating
men and officers alike, the simple dignified discipline of rank and
precedence, organization and work.