Talks with Communists and Others
The peasants form more than three-quarters of the population of
Russia, and one of the greatest friends of the peasants, who was also
an intimate of Tolstoy’s, kindly invited three of us to his home, and
came to the hotel to fetch us. His name is Tcherkoff, and for some
years he lived in England as head of a tiny Co-operative Colony near
Bournemouth. He is extremely interested in Co-operation which, in his
view, is the right line of social development, particularly for a
country like Russia. It is said there were eighty-eight million members
of the Russian Co-operative Societies before the war.
An amusing little episode occurred as we prepared to leave the hotel.
A second car was filling with other Delegates, bound to a great
propaganda meeting under the auspices of Madame Balabanov. As this car
left ours behind, Madame Balabanov waved her hand and shouted for all
to hear, pointing at Tcherkoff:
“We are going to life. They are going to death,” which I take it
was her pleasant way of characterising the anti-government, pacifist
philosophy of our friend and host.
Tcherkoff lives with his wife and family in a house on the outskirts
of Moscow. Madame Tcherkoff is a great invalid, and apologised for
not being able to rise from her chair to receive us. She is a gentle
little lady, of very frail and delicate appearance. Her husband is
magnificently tall, grey-haired and pale, with beautiful hands. They
both looked under-nourished. Being non-workers in the Communist sense
they probably come in the lowest category for food. I was told that
they must have died of sheer hunger but for the packets of biscuit
and other food surreptitiously sent to them by unknown peasant
friends. They gave us of their scanty supply of tea, and we had a most
delightful talk.
There were, perhaps, ten persons present, all conscientious objectors
to war in any and every circumstance. A newspaper rumour that one
pacifist member of our Delegation had denied his principles had
sincerely disturbed these good men, who, by the way, included Paul
Birukoff, the biographer of Tolstoy. It was sought to reassure them
on this point, and then we proceeded to ask questions for our own
information.
According to their replies we learnt that though the present Government
is bad, as from their point of view all governments must be,
especially highly centralised ones, this Government was better than the
preceding one, and they would do nothing to add to its difficulties
till better times came.
At the same time they deplored the restrictions upon liberty, which
they declared were more and worse than under the Czars. They spoke
with quiet dignity of the killing of conscientious objectors, of whom
fifteen, personally known to members of this group, and certified by
Tcherkoff’s Committee as genuine objectors, had been shot, some of
them in their cells. Nobody who has come into personal contact with
Tcherkoff would believe for one moment that such a man could lie.
We talked much and long about peace and non-resistance, and our
half-frozen minds melted again under the kindly, human tones of the
voices of gentle dreamers who to the world would seem mad, but whose
way, the way of personal gentleness and kindly toleration, the world
will have to take ultimately if it is to be saved. They sent us away
with cheers and words of blessing; and I, at least, and I think the
others also, felt that we had indeed been blessed.
The Theosophical Society in Petrograd has had its headquarters closed
as being a counter-revolutionary organisation; but in Moscow it still
meets on occasion for the mutual comfort and help of its members. Some
of its people have brought themselves within the law and have paid the
penalty. For giving aid to the Government’s enemies by sheltering an
agent of Koltchak, who was also a personal friend, two members of the
society, one an old woman, have been shot. Technically in the wrong,
one wonders how much of it was ignorance on the part of these unhappy
people, and if the country’s interests would not have been better
served if a warning had been given (with a term of imprisonment if
thought fit) instead of the drastic action that actually was taken.
Amongst those who are not of the Government but are doing nothing to
hinder or hamper it we met Emma Goldman, the famous American anarchist
deportee. For the life of me I was unable to discover why so mild
a little woman should have been sent out of America. Her opinions,
compared with those of the average Communist in Russia, appeared to
be as water is to strong wine. She reminded me of nobody so much as a
typical member of the Women’s Co-operative Guild or of a Woman’s Social
Service Club in the United States. She is certainly not happy where she
is, and ought to be allowed to return if she wishes. She complained
that very many anarchists, known to her, had been shot in Petrograd for
counter-revolutionary activity. She was very bitter about this. It
will come as a shock of surprise to many people to learn that violent
anarchism is not tolerated by the Bolsheviki; not at any rate when
directed against themselves. Anarchism is the negation of the Bolshevik
aim and ideal. I do not know what Emma Goldman’s exact record is. I
only know that to me she seemed a kind, motherly little woman who would
as soon think of cutting off her own nose as throwing a bomb at anybody
else.
Of the humbler folk of the city and of the second rank of Communist
leaders I saw much and learnt greatly from them. It is idle to say
that there are no class divisions in Communist Russia. The differences
may not be so wide, but they are clearly marked. Even the generous
use of the word comrade (_tovarisch_) cannot cover up the fact that
class distinctions exist. The comrades who waited upon us at table
and who looked after our rooms and drove us about in cars were called
_tovarisch_, but I did not observe that the courtesy due to equals was
shown to them. I have never seen servants anywhere treated with less
consideration. They began their work early in the morning, at seven or
eight, and they were frequently working at one and two o’clock the next
morning. People never came at the time they promised to their meals,
and put them to any amount of inconvenience. Drivers were left sitting
on their cars for interminable hours. I never saw any of them thanked
by any Russian in the place. The typists who were sent to serve us were
ordered to eat in a little back kitchen until one of the Delegates
intervened. The waiters on train and ship appeared to be incessantly
on duty. It may of course be the Russian way, and I am bound to say
I heard no complaints. But then one does not question the members of
the household of one’s host about their working conditions. I simply
say that the way in which those who did the hard, unpleasant work were
treated would have sent British domestics on strike in battalions and
left the bourgeois citizens of England servantless.
Two private talks with members of the intelligent rank and file of
Socialism in Russia gave me much light on the situation. One was an
elderly man of very keen understanding who still refused to believe
that human beings would not answer to the reasoned appeal, responding
only to the whiplash of politics. He had been a lifelong revolutionary
and had served many years in Siberia. He was frankly disappointed
in the present Government and deplored many of its tendencies. This
no doubt explained the fact that no position of power is held by
this man, for on grounds of sheer ability and training as well as of
revolutionary ideal he could have been of enormous service. He is a
member of the Communist party, but believes in the obligation of trying
to keep it pure and wholesome through criticism.
“Why are you disappointed with Soviet Russia?” I enquired, eager to be
instructed on the point.
“Chiefly because it is not carrying out Socialism,” was his reply.
“In theory the land is nationalised, in practice we have a system of
peasant proprietorship. In theory classes have been abolished, in
practice there is a new bourgeoisie and a new proletariat springing
up. In theory it is a ‘Peasants and Workers Government,’ in practice
there is no political equality and no democracy; for the peasants,
the biggest part of the population, have only one vote where the
townspeople have five. The peasants are making themselves rich by the
sale of their produce for goods. These they will store until such a
time as they can sell for big prices. They will be the new capitalists.”
“But is not all this inevitable, considering the war and the continued
existence of Capitalism in other countries,” I queried?
“Perhaps. But they must not call it Communism, nor even Socialism. My
quarrel with them is that they misname the thing. It is an autocracy,
with a fresh group of autocrats. It is a bureaucracy very much
like the old one for greed, incompetence and corruption. And if the
personnel were reduced by fifty per cent, the work would be done just
as well.”
I could see he was almost bitter in his disappointment.
“But education will remedy that in time,” I said hopefully.
“I doubt it. The nation is being rapidly militarised. The whole thing
will harden into a system. The ground is being prepared for a new Czar
or a Napoleon. I am full of grave fear for the future.” So the old man
talked.
“Let us hope you are wrong,” I said, and left him to talk to a bright
girl who had called for a good pair of boots I was able to spare.
But I must frankly say that this note was very frequently struck. By
some it was regarded as the way of deliverance; by others, like my old
friend, as the death-knell of all their hopes.
“They ought never to have attempted the experiment,” said another
distinguished servant of the Republic, speaking of the Bolsheviki, “if
they had no more promise of success than this. It was a crime against
the nation, for the Allies would not have made war against a National
Assembly chosen by the whole people, and the people of Russia would now
have been a long way on the road to reconstruction and happiness.”
My girl friend was a Manchester lass who was working in a Soviet
office. I asked her if she was happy, and she looked wistful and said
she was hungry a good deal and that she could “do very well with some
stockings and underclothes,” but that she liked her work, which was
translating, and had no complaints on that score.
“But,” I said, “why don’t you go home? Are you being kept here against
your will?”
“Oh no,” she replied very quickly, “I could go home if I wanted to,
but--” and here a deep, red blush spread over her pretty face and told
me her story without further words. She will not leave until her lover
can come too. As a productive worker he cannot be spared at present. So
the two stay and work and love and hope together.
I find these complications not uncommon. There is an English colony in
Petrograd, suffering greatly from lack of means, and anxious to have
the British Government send out a Commissioner to help them in various
ways. They have full leave from the Russian Government to repatriate
their members. But domestic tangles lie in the way. A mother has two
daughters, one British and the other (perhaps by marriage) Russian.
She cannot bear to go away and leave one child behind, and the Russian
child is not at present acceptable to the British Government. Or a
lover is involved as in the case of Miss W----. Or a dead husband
has left his wife bound in the chain of his Russian nationality. One
Government or the other refuses to give the necessary papers.
What the sufferings of the citizens of Petrograd and Moscow must
have been in the early days of the Revolution, and during the whole
of the period of the first Revolution, chiefly from the general
disorganisation and the advantage taken of it by disorderly bands of
soldiers and ordinary thieves and criminals it is impossible properly
to imagine.
One young Communist told me something of the experiences of himself and
his wife. He told the story quietly, in the passive Russian fashion,
as if it were the kind of tale one tells at the nursery fire to a
sleepy child. This fatalism is the most amazing quality of the Russian
character.
“We had our little house in Petrograd, my wife and I. We expected
our first baby very soon. We were very happy in each other, but cold
and hungry all the time. That didn’t matter. We were happy.” Here he
stopped and gave a despairing look.
“I blame myself bitterly,” he said. “My wife is an English girl. We
were married in England the year before the War. I brought her to
Russia. Russia was England’s ally then. How could I foresee the war
that very few wiser people foresaw? How could I know that revolution
would come when it did, and that it would make so many differences?”
There was a long pause. “Poor girl, she was not used to such
sufferings. And I brought them on her.” He showed me a photograph.
“Look,” he said, “and please take this. I have put the address of her
brother and sister in England on the back. I have sent her and the
little baby to Helsingfors. She is very ill. Her spine is packed in
plaster of Paris. I sold everything that was left and gave her fourteen
pounds, all I could raise. I sent her to England to her family. I hope
she will arrive safely.”
I looked incredulous at the courage and, I must confess, what looked
like the folly of it. “Has she a British passport?” I asked. “She is
now a Russian, you know, since her marriage with you, and she may have
difficulties in getting into England. They are frightened of Bolsheviks
in England.” “No, she has no passport,” he said, “but I am sure the
British Consul will be kind and help her home. I am sure of it. She
too has absolute confidence in her country’s Government, and would be
utterly amazed to receive any unkindness from it.”
With my own experience of passport difficulties in mind I marvelled at
such faith. I have since learnt that it has been amazingly justified,
and that the poor girl is safe at home. Her husband also learnt it
before we left him. “But go back to your story of Petrograd,” I said,
very interested.
“Well, we lived happily in our little house, selling first one thing
and then another for food. One night, a gang of men forced their way
in, showed Soviet passports, and took a great many of our valuable
things. We were glad our lives were spared. Three times this thing
happened, and we had very little left. One night, when my brother was
with us, there came another intruder in the name of the Government.
He tried to kill my brother. I shot him in the legs. He crawled to my
feet and begged for his life. My brother and I left to hide. We were in
hiding four months. The man I shot in the legs really was a Commissar.
All the others were thieves with forged warrants. My wife was tormented
every day to make her tell where I was. She did not know. She nearly
died of suffering. And the little baby came.” He looked dreamily away.
“If she had stayed in Petrograd for the coming winter she would have
died. It was the only way.”
“She shall come to me in England if she needs a home,” I said. And with
this promise, that any human being would have given, he was greatly
comforted.