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The Practice and Theory
of Bolshevism
Bertrand Russell
LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD.
RUSKIN HOUSE, 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. 1
_First published November 1920_
_Reprinted February 1921_
(_All rights reserved_)
PREFACE
The Russian Revolution is one of the great heroic events of the
world's history. It is natural to compare it to the French Revolution,
but it is in fact something of even more importance. It does more to
change daily life and the structure of society: it also does more to
change men's beliefs. The difference is exemplified by the difference
between Marx and Rousseau: the latter sentimental and soft, appealing
to emotion, obliterating sharp outlines; the former systematic like
Hegel, full of hard intellectual content, appealing to historic
necessity and the technical development of industry, suggesting a view
of human beings as puppets in the grip of omnipotent material forces.
Bolshevism combines the characteristics of the French Revolution with
those of the rise of Islam; and the result is something radically new,
which can only be understood by a patient and passionate effort of
imagination.
Before entering upon any detail, I wish to state, as clearly and
unambiguously as I can, my own attitude towards this new thing.
By far the most important aspect of the Russian Revolution is as an
attempt to realize Communism. I believe that Communism is necessary to
the world, and I believe that the heroism of Russia has fired men's
hopes in a way which was essential to the realization of Communism in
the future. Regarded as a splendid attempt, without which ultimate
success would have been very improbable, Bolshevism deserves the
gratitude and admiration of all the progressive part of mankind.
But the method by which Moscow aims at establishing Communism is a
pioneer method, rough and dangerous, too heroic to count the cost of
the opposition it arouses. I do not believe that by this method a
stable or desirable form of Communism can be established. Three issues
seem to me possible from the present situation. The first is the
ultimate defeat of Bolshevism by the forces of capitalism. The second
is the victory of the Bolshevists accompanied by a complete loss of
their ideals and a régime of Napoleonic imperialism. The third is a
prolonged world-war, in which civilization will go under, and all its
manifestations (including Communism) will be forgotten.
It is because I do not believe that the methods of the Third
International can lead to the desired goal that I have thought it
worth while to point out what seem to me undesirable features in the
present state of Russia. I think there are lessons to be learnt which
must be learnt if the world is ever to achieve what is desired by
those in the West who have sympathy with the original aims of the
Bolsheviks. I do not think these lessons can be learnt except by
facing frankly and fully whatever elements of failure there are in
Russia. I think these elements of failure are less attributable to
faults of detail than to an impatient philosophy, which aims at
creating a new world without sufficient preparation in the opinions
and feelings of ordinary men and women.
But although I do not believe that Communism can be realized
immediately by the spread of Bolshevism, I do believe that, if
Bolshevism falls, it will have contributed a legend and a heroic
attempt without which ultimate success might never have come. A
fundamental economic reconstruction, bringing with it very
far-reaching changes in ways of thinking and feeling, in philosophy
and art and private relations, seems absolutely necessary if
industrialism is to become the servant of man instead of his master.
In all this, I am at one with the Bolsheviks; politically, I criticize
them only when their methods seem to involve a departure from their
own ideals.
There is, however, another aspect of Bolshevism from which I differ
more fundamentally. Bolshevism is not merely a political doctrine; it
is also a religion, with elaborate dogmas and inspired scriptures.
When Lenin wishes to prove some proposition, he does so, if possible,
by quoting texts from Marx and Engels. A full-fledged Communist is not
merely a man who believes that land and capital should be held in
common, and their produce distributed as nearly equally as possible.
He is a man who entertains a number of elaborate and dogmatic
beliefs--such as philosophic materialism, for example--which may be
true, but are not, to a scientific temper, capable of being known to
be true with any certainty. This habit, of militant certainty about
objectively doubtful matters, is one from which, since the
Renaissance, the world has been gradually emerging, into that temper
of constructive and fruitful scepticism which constitutes the
scientific outlook. I believe the scientific outlook to be
immeasurably important to the human race. If a more just economic
system were only attainable by closing men's minds against free
inquiry, and plunging them back into the intellectual prison of the
middle ages, I should consider the price too high. It cannot be denied
that, over any short period of time, dogmatic belief is a help in
fighting. If all Communists become religious fanatics, while
supporters of capitalism retain a sceptical temper, it may be assumed
that the Communists will win, while in the contrary case the
capitalists would win. It seems evident, from the attitude of the
capitalist world to Soviet Russia, of the Entente to the Central
Empires, and of England to Ireland and India, that there is no depth
of cruelty, perfidy or brutality from which the present holders of
power will shrink when they feel themselves threatened. If, in order
to oust them, nothing short of religious fanaticism will serve, it is
they who are the prime sources of the resultant evil. And it is
permissible to hope that, when they have been dispossessed, fanaticism
will fade, as other fanaticisms have faded in the past.
The present holders of power are evil men, and the present manner of
life is doomed. To make the transition with a minimum of bloodshed,
with a maximum of preservation of whatever has value in our existing
civilization, is a difficult problem. It is this problem which has
chiefly occupied my mind in writing the following pages. I wish I
could think that its solution would be facilitated by some slight
degree of moderation and humane feeling on the part of those who enjoy
unjust privileges in the world as it is.
The present work is the outcome of a visit to Russia, supplemented by
much reading and discussion both before and after. I have thought it
best to record what I saw separately from theoretical considerations,
and I have endeavoured to state my impressions without any bias for or
against the Bolsheviks. I received at their hands the greatest
kindness and courtesy, and I owe them a debt of gratitude for the
perfect freedom which they allowed me in my investigations. I am
conscious that I was too short a time in Russia to be able to form
really reliable judgments; however, I share this drawback with most
other westerners who have written on Russia since the October
Revolution. I feel that Bolshevism is a matter of such importance that
it is necessary, for almost every political question, to define one's
attitude in regard to it; and I have hopes that I may help others to
define their attitude, even if only by way of opposition to what I
have written.
I have received invaluable assistance from my secretary, Miss D.W.
Black, who was in Russia shortly after I had left. The chapter on Art
and Education is written by her throughout. Neither is responsible for
the other's opinions.
BERTRAND RUSSELL
_September, 1920._
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 5
PART I
THE PRESENT CONDITION OF RUSSIA
I. WHAT IS HOPED FROM BOLSHEVISM 15
II. GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS 24
III. LENIN, TROTSKY AND GORKY 36
IV. ART AND EDUCATION 45
V. COMMUNISM AND THE SOVIET CONSTITUTION 72
VI. THE FAILURE OF RUSSIAN INDUSTRY 81
VII. DAILY LIFE IN MOSCOW 92
VIII. TOWN AND COUNTRY 99
IX. INTERNATIONAL POLICY 106
PART II
BOLSHEVIK THEORY
I. THE MATERIALISTIC THEORY OF HISTORY 119
II. DECIDING FORCES IN POLITICS 128
III. BOLSHEVIK CRITICISM OF DEMOCRACY 134
IV. REVOLUTION AND DICTATORSHIP 146
V. MECHANISM AND THE INDIVIDUAL 157
VI. WHY RUSSIAN COMMUNISM HAS FAILED 165
VII. CONDITIONS FOR THE SUCCESS OF COMMUNISM 178
PART I
THE PRESENT CONDITION OF RUSSIA
I
WHAT IS HOPED FROM BOLSHEVISM
To understand Bolshevism it is not sufficient to know facts; it is
necessary also to enter with sympathy or imagination into a new
spirit. The chief thing that the Bolsheviks have done is to create a
hope, or at any rate to make strong and widespread a hope which was
formerly confined to a few. This aspect of the movement is as easy to
grasp at a distance as it is in Russia--perhaps even easier, because
in Russia present circumstances tend to obscure the view of the
distant future. But the actual situation in Russia can only be
understood superficially if we forget the hope which is the motive
power of the whole. One might as well describe the Thebaid without
mentioning that the hermits expected eternal bliss as the reward of
their sacrifices here on earth.
I cannot share the hopes of the Bolsheviks any more than those of the
Egyptian anchorites; I regard both as tragic delusions, destined to
bring upon the world centuries of darkness and futile violence. The
principles of the Sermon on the Mount are admirable, but their effect
upon average human nature was very different from what was intended.
Those who followed Christ did not learn to love their enemies or to
turn the other cheek. They learned instead to use the Inquisition and
the stake, to subject the human intellect to the yoke of an ignorant
and intolerant priesthood, to degrade art and extinguish science for a
thousand years. These were the inevitable results, not of the
teaching, but of fanatical belief in the teaching. The hopes which
inspire Communism are, in the main, as admirable as those instilled by
the Sermon on the Mount, but they are held as fanatically, and are
likely to do as much harm. Cruelty lurks in our instincts, and
fanaticism is a camouflage for cruelty. Fanatics are seldom genuinely
humane, and those who sincerely dread cruelty will be slow to adopt a
fanatical creed. I do not know whether Bolshevism can be prevented
from acquiring universal power. But even if it cannot, I am persuaded
that those who stand out against it, not from love of ancient
injustice, but in the name of the free spirit of Man, will be the
bearers of the seeds of progress, from which, when the world's
gestation is accomplished, new life will be born.
The war has left throughout Europe a mood of disillusionment and
despair which calls aloud for a new religion, as the only force
capable of giving men the energy to live vigorously. Bolshevism has
supplied the new religion. It promises glorious things: an end of the
injustice of rich and poor, an end of economic slavery, an end of war.
It promises an end of the disunion of classes which poisons political
life and threatens our industrial system with destruction. It promises
an end to commercialism, that subtle falsehood that leads men to
appraise everything by its money value, and to determine money value
often merely by the caprices of idle plutocrats. It promises a world
where all men and women shall be kept sane by work, and where all work
shall be of value to the community, not only to a few wealthy
vampires. It is to sweep away listlessness and pessimism and weariness
and all the complicated miseries of those whose circumstances allow
idleness and whose energies are not sufficient to force activity. In
place of palaces and hovels, futile vice and useless misery, there is
to be wholesome work, enough but not too much, all of it useful,
performed by men and women who have no time for pessimism and no
occasion for despair.
The existing capitalist system is doomed. Its injustice is so glaring
that only ignorance and tradition could lead wage-earners to tolerate
it. As ignorance diminishes, tradition becomes weakened, and the war
destroyed the hold upon men's minds of everything merely traditional.
It may be that, through the influence of America, the capitalist
system will linger for another fifty years; but it will grow
continually weaker, and can never recover the position of easy
dominance which it held in the nineteenth century. To attempt to
bolster it up is a useless diversion of energies which might be
expended upon building something new. Whether the new thing will be
Bolshevism or something else, I do not know; whether it will be better
or worse than capitalism, I do not know. But that a radically new
order of society will emerge, I feel no doubt. And I also feel no
doubt that the new order will be either some form of Socialism or a
reversion to barbarism and petty war such as occurred during the
barbarian invasion. If Bolshevism remains the only vigorous and
effective competitor of capitalism, I believe that no form of
Socialism will be realized, but only chaos and destruction. This
belief, for which I shall give reasons later, is one of the grounds
upon which I oppose Bolshevism. But to oppose it from the point of
view of a supporter of capitalism would be, to my mind, utterly
futile and against the movement of history in the present age.
The effect of Bolshevism as a revolutionary hope is greater outside
Russia than within the Soviet Republic. Grim realities have done much
to kill hope among those who are subject to the dictatorship of
Moscow. Yet even within Russia, the Communist party, in whose hands
all political power is concentrated, still lives by hope, though the
pressure of events has made the hope severe and stern and somewhat
remote. It is this hope that leads to concentration upon the rising
generation. Russian Communists often avow that there is little hope
for those who are already adult, and that happiness can only come to
the children who have grown up under the new régime and been moulded
from the first to the group-mentality that Communism requires. It is
only after the lapse of a generation that they hope to create a Russia
that shall realize their vision.
In the Western World, the hope inspired by Bolshevism is more
immediate, less shot through with tragedy. Western Socialists who have
visited Russia have seen fit to suppress the harsher features of the
present régime, and have disseminated a belief among their followers
that the millennium would be quickly realized there if there were no
war and no blockade. Even those Socialists who are not Bolsheviks for
their own country have mostly done very little to help men in
appraising the merits or demerits of Bolshevik methods. By this lack
of courage they have exposed Western Socialism to the danger of
becoming Bolshevik through ignorance of the price that has to be paid
and of the uncertainty as to whether the desired goal will be reached
in the end. I believe that the West is capable of adopting less
painful and more certain methods of reaching Socialism than those that
have seemed necessary in Russia. And I believe that while some forms
of Socialism are immeasurably better than capitalism, others are even
worse. Among those that are worse I reckon the form which is being
achieved in Russia, not only in itself, but as a more insuperable
barrier to further progress.
In judging of Bolshevism from what is to be seen in Russia at present,
it is necessary to disentangle various factors which contribute to a
single result. To begin with, Russia is one of the nations that were
defeated in the war; this has produced a set of circumstances
resembling those found in Germany and Austria. The food problem, for
example, appears to be essentially similar in all three countries. In
order to arrive at what is specifically Bolshevik, we must first
eliminate what is merely characteristic of a country which has
suffered military disaster. Next we come to factors which are Russian,
which Russian Communists share with other Russians, but not with other
Communists. There is, for example, a great deal of disorder and chaos
and waste, which shocks Westerners (especially Germans) even when they
are in close political sympathy with the Bolsheviks. My own belief is
that, although, with the exception of a few very able men, the Russian
Government is less efficient in organization than the Germans or the
Americans would be in similar circumstances, yet it represents what is
most efficient in Russia, and does more to prevent chaos than any
possible alternative government would do. Again, the intolerance and
lack of liberty which has been inherited from the Tsarist régime is
probably to be regarded as Russian rather than Communist. If a
Communist Party were to acquire power in England, it would probably be
met by a less irresponsible opposition, and would be able to show
itself far more tolerant than any government can hope to be in Russia
if it is to escape assassination. This, however, is a matter of
degree. A great part of the despotism which characterizes the
Bolsheviks belongs to the essence of their social philosophy, and
would have to be reproduced, even if in a milder form, wherever that
philosophy became dominant.
It is customary among the apologists of Bolshevism in the West to
excuse its harshness on the ground that it has been produced by the
necessity of fighting the Entente and its mercenaries. Undoubtedly it
is true that this necessity has produced many of the worst elements in
the present state of affairs. Undoubtedly, also, the Entente has
incurred a heavy load of guilt by its peevish and futile opposition.
But the expectation of such opposition was always part of Bolshevik
theory. A general hostility to the first Communist State was both
foreseen and provoked by the doctrine of the class war. Those who
adopt the Bolshevik standpoint must reckon with the embittered
hostility of capitalist States; it is not worth while to adopt
Bolshevik methods unless they can lead to good in spite of this
hostility. To say that capitalists are wicked and we have no
responsibility for their acts is unscientific; it is, in particular,
contrary to the Marxian doctrine of economic determinism. The evils
produced in Russia by the enmity of the Entente are therefore to be
reckoned as essential in the Bolshevik method of transition to
Communism, not as specially Russian. I am not sure that we cannot even
go a step further. The exhaustion and misery caused by unsuccessful
war were necessary to the success of the Bolsheviks; a prosperous
population will not embark by such methods upon a fundamental economic
reconstruction. One can imagine England becoming Bolshevik after an
unsuccessful war involving the loss of India--no improbable
contingency in the next few years. But at present the average
wage-earner in England will not risk what he has for the doubtful gain
of a revolution. A condition of widespread misery may, therefore, be
taken as indispensable to the inauguration of Communism, unless,
indeed, it were possible to establish Communism more or less
peacefully, by methods which would not, even temporarily, destroy the
economic life of the country. If the hopes which inspired Communism at
the start, and which still inspire its Western advocates, are ever to
be realized, the problem of minimizing violence in the transition must
be faced. Unfortunately, violence is in itself delightful to most
really vigorous revolutionaries, and they feel no interest in the
problem of avoiding it as far as possible. Hatred of enemies is easier
and more intense than love of friends. But from men who are more
anxious to injure opponents than to benefit the world at large no
great good is to be expected.
II
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS
I entered Soviet Russia on May 11th and recrossed the frontier on June
16th. The Russian authorities only admitted me on the express
condition that I should travel with the British Labour Delegation, a
condition with which I was naturally very willing to comply, and which
that Delegation kindly allowed me to fulfil. We were conveyed from the
frontier to Petrograd, as well as on subsequent journeys, in a special
_train de luxe_; covered with mottoes about the Social Revolution and
the Proletariat of all countries; we were received everywhere by
regiments of soldiers, with the Internationale being played on the
regimental band while civilians stood bare-headed and soldiers at the
salute; congratulatory orations were made by local leaders and
answered by prominent Communists who accompanied us; the entrances to
the carriages were guarded by magnificent Bashkir cavalry-men in
resplendent uniforms; in short, everything was done to make us feel
like the Prince of Wales. Innumerable functions were arranged for us:
banquets, public meetings, military reviews, etc.
The assumption was that we had come to testify to the solidarity of
British Labour with Russian Communism, and on that assumption the
utmost possible use was made of us for Bolshevik propaganda. We, on
the other hand, desired to ascertain what we could of Russian
conditions and Russian methods of government, which was impossible in
the atmosphere of a royal progress. Hence arose an amicable contest,
degenerating at times into a game of hide and seek: while they assured
us how splendid the banquet or parade was going to be, we tried to
explain how much we should prefer a quiet walk in the streets. I, not
being a member of the Delegation, felt less obligation than my
companions did to attend at propaganda meetings where one knew the
speeches by heart beforehand. In this way, I was able, by the help of
neutral interpreters, mostly English or American, to have many
conversations with casual people whom I met in the streets or on
village greens, and to find out how the whole system appears to the
ordinary non-political man and woman. The first five days we spent in
Petrograd, the next eleven in Moscow. During this time we were living
in daily contact with important men in the Government, so that we
learned the official point of view without difficulty. I saw also what
I could of the intellectuals in both places. We were all allowed
complete freedom to see politicians of opposition parties, and we
naturally made full use of this freedom. We saw Mensheviks, Social
Revolutionaries of different groups, and Anarchists; we saw them
without the presence of any Bolsheviks, and they spoke freely after
they had overcome their initial fears. I had an hour's talk with
Lenin, virtually _tête-à-tête_; I met Trotsky, though only in company;
I spent a night in the country with Kamenev; and I saw a great deal of
other men who, though less known outside Russia, are of considerable
importance in the Government.
At the end of our time in Moscow we all felt a desire to see something
of the country, and to get in touch with the peasants, since they form
about 85 per cent, of the population. The Government showed the
greatest kindness in meeting our wishes, and it was decided that we
should travel down the Volga from Nijni Novgorod to Saratov, stopping
at many places, large and small, and talking freely with the
inhabitants. I found this part of the time extraordinarily
instructive. I learned to know more than I should have thought
possible of the life and outlook of peasants, village schoolmasters,
small Jew traders, and all kinds of people. Unfortunately, my friend,
Clifford Allen, fell ill, and my time was much taken up with him. This
had, however, one good result, namely, that I was able to go on with
the boat to Astrakhan, as he was too ill to be moved off it. This not
only gave me further knowledge of the country, but made me acquainted
with Sverdlov, Acting Minister of Transport, who was travelling on the
boat to organize the movement of oil from Baku up the Volga, and who
was one of the ablest as well as kindest people whom I met in Russia.
One of the first things that I discovered after passing the Red Flag
which marks the frontier of Soviet Russia, amid a desolate region of
marsh, pine wood, and barbed wire entanglements, was the profound
difference between the theories of actual Bolsheviks and the version
of those theories current among advanced Socialists in this country.
Friends of Russia here think of the dictatorship of the proletariat as
merely a new form of representative government, in which only working
men and women have votes, and the constituencies are partly
occupational, not geographical. They think that "proletariat" means
"proletariat," but "dictatorship" does not quite mean "dictatorship."
This is the opposite of the truth. When a Russian Communist speaks of
dictatorship, he means the word literally, but when he speaks of the
proletariat, he means the word in a Pickwickian sense. He means the
"class-conscious" part of the proletariat, _i.e._, the Communist
Party.[1] He includes people by no means proletarian (such as Lenin
and Tchicherin) who have the right opinions, and he excludes such
wage-earners as have not the right opinions, whom he classifies as
lackeys of the _bourgeoisie_. The Communist who sincerely believes the
party creed is convinced that private property is the root of all
evil; he is so certain of this that he shrinks from no measures,
however harsh, which seem necessary for constructing and preserving
the Communist State. He spares himself as little as he spares others.
He works sixteen hours a day, and foregoes his Saturday half-holiday.
He volunteers for any difficult or dangerous work which needs to be
done, such as clearing away piles of infected corpses left by Kolchak
or Denikin. In spite of his position of power and his control of
supplies, he lives an austere life. He is not pursuing personal ends,
but aiming at the creation of a new social order. The same motives,
however, which make him austere make him also ruthless. Marx has
taught that Communism is fatally predestined to come about; this fits
in with the Oriental traits in the Russian character, and produces a
state of mind not unlike that of the early successors of Mahomet.
Opposition is crushed without mercy, and without shrinking from the
methods of the Tsarist police, many of whom are still employed at
their old work. Since all evils are due to private property, the evils
of the Bolshevik régime while it has to fight private property will
automatically cease as soon as it has succeeded.
These views are the familiar consequences of fanatical belief. To an
English mind they reinforce the conviction upon which English life has
been based ever since 1688, that kindliness and tolerance are worth
all the creeds in the world--a view which, it is true, we do not apply
to other nations or to subject races.
In a very novel society it is natural to seek for historical
parallels. The baser side of the present Russian Government is most
nearly paralleled by the Directoire in France, but on its better side
it is closely analogous to the rule of Cromwell. The sincere
Communists (and all the older members of the party have proved their
sincerity by years of persecution) are not unlike the Puritan
soldiers in their stern politico-moral purpose. Cromwell's dealings
with Parliament are not unlike Lenin's with the Constituent Assembly.
Both, starting from a combination of democracy and religious faith,
were driven to sacrifice democracy to religion enforced by military
dictatorship. Both tried to compel their countries to live at a higher
level of morality and effort than the population found tolerable. Life
in modern Russia, as in Puritan England, is in many ways contrary to
instinct. And if the Bolsheviks ultimately fall, it will be for the
reason for which the Puritans fell: because there comes a point at
which men feel that amusement and ease are worth more than all other
goods put together.
Far closer than any actual historical parallel is the parallel of
Plato's Republic. The Communist Party corresponds to the guardians;
the soldiers have about the same status in both; there is in Russia an
attempt to deal with family life more or less as Plato suggested. I
suppose it may be assumed that every teacher of Plato throughout the
world abhors Bolshevism, and that every Bolshevik regards Plato as an
antiquated _bourgeois_. Nevertheless, the parallel is extraordinarily
exact between Plato's Republic and the régime which the better
Bolsheviks are endeavouring to create.
Bolshevism is internally aristocratic and externally militant. The
Communists in many ways resemble the British public-school type: they
have all the good and bad traits of an aristocracy which is young and
vital. They are courageous, energetic, capable of command, always
ready to serve the State; on the other hand, they are dictatorial,
lacking in ordinary consideration for the plebs. They are practically
the sole possessors of power, and they enjoy innumerable advantages in
consequence. Most of them, though far from luxurious, have better food
than other people. Only people of some political importance can obtain
motor-cars or telephones. Permits for railway journeys, for making
purchases at the Soviet stores (where prices are about one-fiftieth of
what they are in the market), for going to the theatre, and so on,
are, of course, easier to obtain for the friends of those in power
than for ordinary mortals. In a thousand ways, the Communists have a
life which is happier than that of the rest of the community. Above
all, they are less exposed to the unwelcome attentions of the police
and the extraordinary commission.
The Communist theory of international affairs is exceedingly simple.
The revolution foretold by Marx, which is to abolish capitalism
throughout the world, happened to begin in Russia, though Marxian
theory would seem to demand that it should begin in America. In
countries where the revolution has not yet broken out, the sole duty
of a Communist is to hasten its advent. Agreements with capitalist
States can only be make-shifts, and can never amount on either side to
a sincere peace. No real good can come to any country without a bloody
revolution: English Labour men may fancy that a peaceful evolution is
possible, but they will find their mistake. Lenin told me that he
hopes to see a Labour Government in England, and would wish his
supporters to work for it, but solely in order that the futility of
Parliamentarism may be conclusively demonstrated to the British
working man. Nothing will do any real good except the arming of the
proletariat and the disarming of the _bourgeoisie_. Those who preach
anything else are social traitors or deluded fools.
For my part, after weighing this theory carefully, and after admitting
the whole of its indictment of _bourgeois_ capitalism, I find myself
definitely and strongly opposed to it. The Third International is an
organization which exists to promote the class-war and to hasten the
advent of revolution everywhere. My objection is not that capitalism
is less bad than the Bolsheviks believe, but that Socialism is less
good, not in its best form, but in the only form which is likely to be
brought about by war. The evils of war, especially of civil war, are
certain and very great; the gains to be achieved by victory are
problematical. In the course of a desperate struggle, the heritage of
civilization is likely to be lost, while hatred, suspicion, and
cruelty become normal in the relations of human beings. In order to
succeed in war, a concentration of power is necessary, and from
concentration of power the very same evils flow as from the capitalist
concentration of wealth. For these reasons chiefly, I cannot support
any movement which aims at world revolution. The damage to
civilization done by revolution in one country may be repaired by the
influence of another in which there has been no revolution; but in a
universal cataclysm civilization might go under for a thousand years.
But while I cannot advocate world revolution, I cannot escape from the
conclusion that the Governments of the leading capitalist countries
are doing everything to bring it about. Abuse of our power against
Germany, Russia, and India (to say nothing of any other countries) may
well bring about our downfall, and produce those very evils which the
enemies of Bolshevism most dread.
The true Communist is thoroughly international. Lenin, for example, so
far as I could judge, is not more concerned with the interests of
Russia than with those of other countries; Russia is, at the moment,
the protagonist of the social revolution, and, as such, valuable to
the world, but Lenin would sacrifice Russia rather than the
revolution, if the alternative should ever arise. This is the orthodox
attitude, and is no doubt genuine in many of the leaders. But
nationalism is natural and instinctive; through pride in the
revolution, it grows again even in the breasts of Communists. Through
the Polish war, the Bolsheviks have acquired the support of national
feeling, and their position in the country has been immensely
strengthened.
The only time I saw Trotsky was at the Opera in Moscow. The British
Labour Delegation were occupying what had been the Tsar's box. After
speaking with us in the ante-chamber, he stepped to the front of the
box and stood with folded arms while the house cheered itself hoarse.
Then he spoke a few sentences, short and sharp, with military
precision, winding up by calling for "three cheers for our brave
fellows at the front," to which the audience responded as a London
audience would have responded in the autumn of 1914. Trotsky and the
Red Army undoubtedly now have behind them a great body of nationalist
sentiment. The reconquest of Asiatic Russia has even revived what is
essentially an imperialist way of feeling, though this would be
indignantly repudiated by many of those in whom I seemed to detect it.
Experience of power is inevitably altering Communist theories, and men
who control a vast governmental machine can hardly have quite the same
outlook on life as they had when they were hunted fugitives. If the
Bolsheviks remain in power, it is much to be feared that their
Communism will fade, and that they will increasingly resemble any
other Asiatic Government--for example, our own Government in India.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See the article "On the rôle of the Communist Party in the
Proletarian Revolution," in _Theses presented to the Second Congress
of the Communist International, Petrograd-Moscow, 18 July, 1920_--a
valuable work which I possess only in French.
III
LENIN, TROTSKY AND GORKY
Soon after my arrival in Moscow I had an hour's conversation with
Lenin in English, which he speaks fairly well. An interpreter was
present, but his services were scarcely required. Lenin's room is very
bare; it contains a big desk, some maps on the walls, two book-cases,
and one comfortable chair for visitors in addition to two or three
hard chairs. It is obvious that he has no love of luxury or even
comfort. He is very friendly, and apparently simple, entirely without
a trace of _hauteur_. If one met him without knowing who he was, one
would not guess that he is possessed of great power or even that he is
in any way eminent. I have never met a personage so destitute of
self-importance. He looks at his visitors very closely, and screws up
one eye, which seems to increase alarmingly the penetrating power of
the other. He laughs a great deal; at first his laugh seems merely
friendly and jolly, but gradually I came to feel it rather grim. He
is dictatorial, calm, incapable of fear, extraordinarily devoid of
self-seeking, an embodied theory. The materialist conception of
history, one feels, is his life-blood. He resembles a professor in his
desire to have the theory understood and in his fury with those who
misunderstand or disagree, as also in his love of expounding, I got
the impression that he despises a great many people and is an
intellectual aristocrat.
The first question I asked him was as to how far he recognized the
peculiarity of English economic and political conditions? I was
anxious to know whether advocacy of violent revolution is an
indispensable condition of joining the Third International, although I
did not put this question directly because others were asking it
officially. His answer was unsatisfactory to me. He admitted that
there is little chance of revolution in England now, and that the
working man is not yet disgusted with Parliamentary government. But he
hopes that this result may be brought about by a Labour Ministry. He
thinks that, if Mr. Henderson, for instance, were to become Prime
Minister, nothing of importance would be done; organized Labour would
then, so he hopes and believes, turn to revolution. On this ground, he
wishes his supporters in this country to do everything in their power
to secure a Labour majority in Parliament; he does not advocate
abstention from Parliamentary contests, but participation with a view
to making Parliament obviously contemptible. The reasons which make
attempts at violent revolution seem to most of us both improbable and
undesirable in this country carry no weight with him, and seem to him
mere _bourgeois_ prejudices. When I suggested that whatever is
possible in England can be achieved without bloodshed, he waved aside
the suggestion as fantastic. I got little impression of knowledge or
psychological imagination as regards Great Britain. Indeed the whole
tendency of Marxianism is against psychological imagination, since it
attributes everything in politics to purely material causes.
I asked him next whether he thought it possible to establish Communism
firmly and fully in a country containing such a large majority of
peasants. He admitted that it was difficult, and laughed over the
exchange the peasant is compelled to make, of food for paper; the
worthlessness of Russian paper struck him as comic. But he said--what
is no doubt true--that things will right themselves when there are
goods to offer to the peasant. For this he looks partly to
electrification in industry, which, he says, is a technical necessity
in Russia, but will take ten years to complete.[2] He spoke with
enthusiasm, as they all do, of the great scheme for generating
electrical power by means of peat. Of course he looks to the raising
of the blockade as the only radical cure; but he was not very hopeful
of this being achieved thoroughly or permanently except through
revolutions in other countries. Peace between Bolshevik Russia and
capitalist countries, he said, must always be insecure; the Entente
might be led by weariness and mutual dissensions to conclude peace,
but he felt convinced that the peace would be of brief duration. I
found in him, as in almost all leading Communists, much less eagerness
than existed in our delegation for peace and the raising of the
blockade. He believes that nothing of real value can be achieved
except through world revolution and the abolition of capitalism; I
felt that he regarded the resumption of trade with capitalist
countries as a mere palliative of doubtful value.
He described the division between rich and poor peasants, and the
Government propaganda among the latter against the former, leading to
acts of violence which he seemed to find amusing. He spoke as though
the dictatorship over the peasant would have to continue a long time,
because of the peasant's desire for free trade. He said he knew from
statistics (what I can well believe) that the peasants have had more
to eat these last two years than they ever had before, "and yet they
are against us," he added a little wistfully. I asked him what to
reply to critics who say that in the country he has merely created
peasant proprietorship, not Communism; he replied that that is not
quite the truth, but he did not say what the truth is.[3]
The last question I asked him was whether resumption of trade with
capitalist countries, if it took place, would not create centres of
capitalist influence, and make the preservation of Communism more
difficult? It had seemed to me that the more ardent Communists might
well dread commercial intercourse with the outer world, as leading to
an infiltration of heresy, and making the rigidity of the present
system almost impossible. I wished to know whether he had such a
feeling. He admitted that trade would create difficulties, but said
they would be less than those of the war. He said that two years ago
neither he nor his colleagues thought they could survive against the
hostility of the world. He attributes their survival to the jealousies
and divergent interests of the different capitalist nations; also to
the power of Bolshevik propaganda. He said the Germans had laughed
when the Bolsheviks proposed to combat guns with leaflets, but that
the event had proved the leaflets quite as powerful. I do not think he
recognizes that the Labour and Socialist parties have had any part in
the matter. He does not seem to know that the attitude of British
Labour has done a great deal to make a first-class war against Russia
impossible, since it has confined the Government to what could be done
in a hole-and-corner way, and denied without a too blatant mendacity.
He thoroughly enjoys the attacks of Lord Northcliffe, to whom he
wishes to send a medal for Bolshevik propaganda. Accusations of
spoliation, he remarked, may shock the _bourgeois_, but have an
opposite effect upon the proletarian.
I think if I had met him without knowing who he was, I should not have
guessed that he was a great man; he struck me as too opinionated and
narrowly orthodox. His strength comes, I imagine, from his honesty,
courage, and unwavering faith--religious faith in the Marxian gospel,
which takes the place of the Christian martyr's hopes of Paradise,
except that it is less egotistical. He has as little love of liberty
as the Christians who suffered under Diocletian, and retaliated when
they acquired power. Perhaps love of liberty is incompatible with
whole-hearted belief in a panacea for all human ills. If so, I cannot
but rejoice in the sceptical temper of the Western world. I went to
Russia a Communist; but contact with those who have no doubts has
intensified a thousandfold my own doubts, not as to Communism in
itself, but as to the wisdom of holding a creed so firmly that for its
sake men are willing to inflict widespread misery.
Trotsky, whom the Communists do not by any means regard as Lenin's
equal, made more impression upon me from the point of view of
intelligence and personality, though not of character. I saw too
little of him, however, to have more than a very superficial
impression. He has bright eyes, military bearing, lightning
intelligence and magnetic personality. He is very good-looking, with
admirable wavy hair; one feels he would be irresistible to women. I
felt in him a vein of gay good humour, so long as he was not crossed
in any way. I thought, perhaps wrongly, that his vanity was even
greater than his love of power--the sort of vanity that one associates
with an artist or actor. The comparison with Napoleon was forced upon
one. But I had no means of estimating the strength of his Communist
conviction, which may be very sincere and profound.
An extraordinary contrast to both these men was Gorky, with whom I had
a brief interview in Petrograd. He was in bed, apparently very ill and
obviously heart-broken. He begged me, in anything I might say about
Russia, always to emphasize what Russia has suffered. He supports the
Government--as I should do, if I were a Russian--not because he thinks
it faultless, but because the possible alternatives are worse. One
felt in him a love of the Russian people which makes their present
martyrdom almost unbearable, and prevents the fanatical faith by which
the pure Marxians are upheld. I felt him the most lovable, and to me
the most sympathetic, of all the Russians I saw. I wished for more
knowledge of his outlook, but he spoke with difficulty and was
constantly interrupted by terrible fits of coughing, so that I could
not stay. All the intellectuals whom I met--a class who have suffered
terribly--expressed their gratitude to him for what he has done on
their behalf. The materialistic conception of history is all very
well, but some care for the higher things of civilization is a relief.
The Bolsheviks are sometimes said to have done great things for art,
but I could not discover that they had done more than preserve
something of what existed before. When I questioned one of them on the
subject, he grew impatient, and said: "We haven't time for a new art,
any more than for a new religion." Unavoidably, although the
Government favours art as much as it can, the atmosphere is one in
which art cannot flourish, because art is anarchic and resistant to
organization. Gorky has done all that one man could to preserve the
intellectual and artistic life of Russia. I feared that he was dying,
and that, perhaps, it was dying too. But he recovered, and I hope it
will recover also.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Electrification is desired not merely for reorganizing industry,
but in order to industrialize agriculture. In _Theses presented to the
Second Congress of the Communist International_ (an instructive little
book, which I shall quote as _Theses_), it is said in an article on
the Agrarian question that Socialism will not be secure till industry
is reorganized on a new basis with "general application of electric
energy in all branches of agriculture and rural economy," which "alone
can give to the towns the possibility of offering to backward rural
districts a technical and social aid capable of determining an
extraordinary increase of productivity of agricultural and rural
labour, and of engaging the small cultivators, in their own interest,
to pass progressively to a collectivist mechanical cultivation" (p. 36
of French edition).
[3] In _Theses_ (p. 34) it is said: "It would be an irreparable error
... not to admit the gratuitous grant of part of the expropriated
lands to poor and even well-to-do peasants."
IV
ART AND EDUCATION
It has often been said that, whatever the inadequacy of Bolshevik
organization in other fields, in art and in education at least they
have made great progress.
To take first of all art: it is true that they began by recognizing,
as perhaps no other revolutionary government would, the importance and
spontaneity of the artistic impulse, and therefore while they
controlled or destroyed the counter-revolutionary in all other social
activities, they allowed the artist, whatever his political creed,
complete freedom to continue his work. Moreover, as regards clothing
and rations they treated him especially well. This, and the care
devoted to the upkeep of churches, public monuments, and museums, are
well-known facts, to which there has already been ample testimony.
The preservation of the old artistic community practically intact was
the more remarkable in view of the pronounced sympathy of most of them
with the old régime. The theory, however, was that art and politics
belonged to two separate realms; but great honour would of course be
the portion of those artists who would be inspired by the revolution.
Three years' experience, however, have proved the falsity of this
doctrine and led to a divorce between art and popular feeling which a
sensitive observer cannot fail to remark. It is glaringly apparent in
the hitherto most vital of all Russian arts, the theatre. The artists
have continued to perform the old classics in tragedy or comedy, and
the old-style operette. The theatre programmes have remained the same
for the last two years, and, but for the higher standard of artistic
performance, might belong to the theatres of Paris or London. As one
sits in the theatre, one is so acutely conscious of the discrepancy
between the daily life of the audience and that depicted in the play
that the latter seems utterly dead and meaningless. To some of the
more fiery Communists it appears that a mistake has been made. They
complain that _bourgeois_ art is being preserved long after its time,
they accuse the artists of showing contempt for their public, of being
as untouched by the revolutionary mood as an elderly _bourgeoise_
bewailing the loss of her personal comfort; they would like to see
only the revolutionary mood embodied in art, and to achieve this
would make a clean sweep, enforcing the writing and performance of
nothing but revolutionary plays and the painting of revolutionary
pictures. Nor can it be argued that they are wrong as to the facts: it
is plain that the preservation of the old artistic tradition has
served very little purpose; but on the other hand it is equally plain
that an artist cannot be drilled like a military recruit. There is,
fortunately, no sign that these tactics will be directly adopted, but
in an indirect fashion they are already being applied. An artist is
not to blame if his temperament leads him to draw cartoons of leading
Bolsheviks, or satirize the various comical aspects--and they are
many--of the Soviet régime. To force such a man, however, to turn his
talent only against Denikin, Yudenitch and Kolchak, or the leaders of
the Entente, is momentarily good for Communism, but it is discouraging
to the artist, and may prove in the long run bad for art, and possibly
for Communism also. It is plain from the religious nature of Communism
in Russia, that such controlling of the impulse to artistic creation
is inevitable, and that propaganda art alone can flourish in such an
atmosphere. For example, no poetry or literature that is not orthodox
will reach the printing press. It is so easy to make the excuse of
lack of paper and the urgent need for manifestoes. Thus there may
well come to be a repetition of the attitude of the mediæval Church to
the sagas and legends of the people, except that, in this case, it is
the folk tales which will be preserved, and the more sensitive and
civilized products banned. The only poet who seems to be much spoken
of at present in Russia is one who writes rough popular songs. There
are revolutionary odes, but one may hazard a guess that they resemble
our patriotic war poetry.
I said that this state of affairs may in the long run be bad for art,
but the contrary may equally well prove to be the truth. It is of
course discouraging and paralysing to the old-style artist, and it is
death to the old individual art which depended on subtlety and oddity
of temperament, and arose very largely from the complicated psychology
of the idle. There it stands, this old art, the purest monument to the
nullity of the art-for-art's-sake doctrine, like a rich exotic plant
of exquisite beauty, still apparently in its glory, till one perceives
that the roots are cut, and that leaf by leaf it is gradually fading
away.
But, unlike the Puritans in this respect, the Bolsheviks have not
sought to dig up the roots, and there are signs that the paralysis is
merely temporary. Moreover, individual art is not the only form, and
in particular the plastic arts have shown that they can live by mass
action, and flourish under an intolerant faith. Communist artists of
the future may erect public buildings surpassing in beauty the
mediæval churches, they may paint frescoes, organize pageants, make
Homeric songs about their heroes. Communist art will begin, and is
beginning now, in the propaganda pictures, and stories such as those
designed for peasants and children. There is, for instance, a kind of
Rake's Progress or "How she became a Communist," in which the Entente
leaders make a sorry and grotesque appearance. Lenin and Trotsky
already figure in woodcuts as Moses and Aaron, deliverers of their
people, while the mother and child who illustrate the statistics of
the maternity exhibition have the grace and beauty of mediæval
madonnas. Russia is only now emerging from the middle ages, and the
Church tradition in painting is passing with incredible smoothness
into the service of Communist doctrine. These pictures have, too, an
oriental flavour: there are brown Madonnas in the Russian churches,
and such an one illustrates the statistics of infant mortality in
India, while the Russian mother, broad-footed, in gay petticoat and
kerchief, sits in a starry meadow suckling her baby from a very ample
white breast. I think that this movement towards the Church tradition
may be unconscious and instinctive, and would perhaps be deplored by
many Communists, for whom grandiose bad Rodin statuary and the crudity
of cubism better express what they mean by revolution. But this
revolution is Russian and not French, and its art, if all goes well,
should inevitably bear the popular Russian stamp. It is would-be
primitive and popular art that is vulgar. Such at least is the
reflection engendered by an inspection of Russian peasant work as
compared with the spirit of _Children's Tales_.
The Russian peasant's artistic impulse is no legend. Besides the
carving and embroidery which speak eloquently to peasant skill, one
observes many instances in daily life. He will climb down, when his
slowly-moving train stops by the wayside, to gather branches and
flowers with which he will decorate the railway carriage both inside
and out, he will work willingly at any task which has beauty for its
object, and was all too prone under the old régime to waste his time
and his employer's material in fashioning small metal or wooden
objects with his hands.
If the _bourgeois_ tradition then will not serve, there is a popular
tradition which is still live and passionate and which may perhaps
persist. Unhappily it has a formidable enemy in the organization and
development of industry, which is far more dangerous to art than
Communist doctrine. Indeed, industry in its early stages seems
everywhere doomed to be the enemy of beauty and instinctive life. One
might hope that this would not prove to be so in Russia, the first
Socialist State, as yet unindustrial, able to draw on the industrial
experience of the whole world, were it not that one discovers with a
certain misgiving in the Bolshevik leaders the rasping arid
temperament of those to whom the industrial machine is an end in
itself, and, in addition, reflects that these industrially minded men
have as yet no practical experience, nor do there exist men of
goodwill to help them. It does not seem reasonable to hope that Russia
can pass through the period of industrialization without a good deal
of mismanagement, involving waste resulting in too long hours, child
labour and other evils with which the West is all too familiar. What
the Bolsheviks would not therefore willingly do to art, the Juggernaut
which they are bent on setting in motion may accomplish for them.
The next generation in Russia will have to consist of practical
hard-working men, the old-style artists will die off and successors
will not readily arise. A State which is struggling with economic
difficulties is bound to be slow to admit an artistic vocation, since
this involves exemption from practical work. Moreover the majority of
minds always turn instinctively to the real need of the moment. A man
therefore who is adapted by talent and temperament to becoming an
opera singer, will under the pressure of Communist enthusiasm and
Government encouragement turn his attention to economics. (I am here
quoting an actual instance.) The whole Russian people at this stage in
their development strike one as being forced by the logic of their
situation to make a similar choice.
It may be all to the good that there should be fewer professional
artists, since some of the finest work has been done by men and groups
of men to whom artistic expression was only a pastime. They were not
hampered by the solemnity and reverence for art which too often
destroy the spontaneity of the professional. Indeed a revival of this
attitude to art is one of the good results which may be hoped for from
a Communist revolution in a more advanced industrial community. There
the problem of education will be to stimulate the creative impulses
towards art and science so that men may know how to employ their
leisure hours. Work in the factory can never be made to provide an
adequate outlet. The only hope, if men are to remain human beings
under industrialism, is to reduce hours to the minimum. But this is
only possible when production and organization are highly efficient,
which will not be the case for a long time in Russia. Hence not only
does it appear that the number of artists will grow less, but that the
number of people undamaged in their artistic impulses and on that
account able to create or appreciate as amateurs is likely to be
deplorably small. It is in this damaging effect of industry on human
instinct that the immediate danger to art in Russia lies.
The effect of industry on the crafts is quite obvious. A craftsman who
is accustomed to work with his hands, following the tradition
developed by his ancestors, is useless when brought face to face with
a machine. And the man who can handle the machine will only be
concerned with quantity and utility in the first instance. Only
gradually do the claims of beauty come to be recognized. Compare the
modern motor car with the first of its species, or even, since the
same law seems to operate in nature, the prehistoric animal with its
modern descendant. The same relation exists between them as between
man and the ape, or the horse and the hipparion. The movement of life
seems to be towards ever greater delicacy and complexity, and man
carries it forward in the articles that he makes and the society that
he develops. Industry is a new tool, difficult to handle, but it will
produce just as beautiful objects as did the mediæval builder and
craftsman, though not until it has been in being for a long time and
belongs to tradition.
One may expect, therefore, that while the crafts in Russia will lose
in artistic value, the drama, sculpture and painting and all those
arts which have nothing to do with the machine and depend entirely
upon mental and spiritual inspiration will receive an impetus from the
Communist faith. Whether the flowering period will be long or short
depends partly on the political situation, but chiefly on the rapidity
of industrial development. It may be that the machine will ultimately
conquer the Communist faith and grind out the human impulses, and
Russia become during this transition period as inartistic and soulless
as was America until quite recent years. One would like to hope that
mechanical progress will be swift and social idealism sufficiently
strong to retain control. But the practical difficulties are almost
insuperable.
Such signs of the progress of art as it is possible to notice at this
early stage would seem to bear out the above argument. For instance,
an attempt is being made to foster the continuation of peasant
embroidery, carving, &c., in the towns. It is done by people who have
evidently lost the tradition already. They are taught to copy the
models which are placed in the Peasant Museum, but there is no
comparison between the live little wooden lady who smiles beneath the
glass case, and the soulless staring-eyed creature who is offered for
sale, nor between the quite ordinary carved fowl one may buy and the
amusing life-like figure one may merely gaze at.
But when one comes to art directly inspired by Communism it is a
different story. Apart from the propaganda pictures already referred
to, there are propaganda plays performed by the Red Army in its spare
moments, and there are the mass pageant plays performed on State
occasions. I had the good fortune to witness one of each kind.
The play was called _Zarevo_ (The Dawn), and was performed on a
Saturday night on a small stage in a small hall in an entirely amateur
fashion. It represented Russian life just before the revolution. It
was intense and tragic and passionately acted. Dramatic talent is not
rare in Russia. Almost the only comic relief was provided by the
Tsarist police, who made one appearance towards the end, got up like
comic military characters in a musical comedy--just as, in mediæval
miracle plays, the comic character was Satan. The play's intention was
to show a typical Russian working-class family. There were the old
father, constantly drunk on vodka, alternately maudlin and scolding;
the old mother; two sons, the one a Communist and the other an
Anarchist; the wife of the Communist, who did dressmaking; her
sister, a prostitute; and a young girl of _bourgeois_ family, also a
Communist, involved in a plot with the Communist son, who was of
course the hero of the play.
The first act revealed the stern and heroic Communist maintaining his
views despite the reproaches of father and mother and the nagging of
his wife. It showed also the Anarchist brother (as might be expected
from the Bolshevik hostility to Anarchism) as an unruly, lazy,
ne'er-do-well, with a passionate love for Sonia, the young
_bourgeoise_, which was likely to become dangerous if not returned.
She, on the other hand, obviously preferred the Communist. It was
clear that he returned her love, but it was not quite clear that he
would wish the relation to be anything more than platonic comradeship
in the service of their common ideal. An unsuccessful strike, bringing
want and danger from the police, together with increasing jealousy on
the part of the Anarchist, led up to the tragic dénouement. I was not
quite definite as to how this was brought about. All violent action
was performed off the stage, and this made the plot at times difficult
to follow. But it seemed that the Anarchist in a jealous rage forged a
letter from his brother to bring Sonia to a rendezvous, and there
murdered her, at the same time betraying his brother to the police.
When the latter came to effect his arrest, and accuse him also, as the
most likely person, of the murder, the Anarchist was seized with
remorse and confessed. Both were therefore led away together. Once the
plot is sketched, the play calls for no comment. It had not great
merit, though it is unwise to hazard a judgment on a play whose
dialogue was not fully interpreted, but it was certainly real, and the
link between audience and performers was established as it never
seemed to be in the professional theatre. After the performance, the
floor was cleared for dancing, and the audience were in a mood of
thorough enjoyment.
The pageant of the "World Commune," which was performed at the opening
of the Third International Congress in Petrograd, was a still more
important and significant phenomenon. I do not suppose that anything
of the kind has been staged since the days of the mediæval mystery
plays. It was, in fact, a mystery play designed by the High Priests of
the Communist faith to instruct the people. It was played on the steps
of an immense white building that was once the Stock Exchange, a
building with a classical colonnade on three sides of it, with a vast
flight of steps in front, that did not extend the whole width of the
building but left at each side a platform that was level with the
floor of the colonnade. In front of this building a wide road ran
from a bridge over one arm of the river to a bridge over the other, so
that the stretches of water and sky on either side seemed to the eye
of imagination like the painted wings of a gigantic stage. Two
battered red columns of fantastic design, that were once light towers
to guide ships, stood on either side midway between the extremities of
the building and the water, but on the opposite side of the road.
These two towers were beflagged and illuminated and carried the
limelight, and between and behind them was gathered a densely packed
audience of forty or fifty thousand people. The play began at sundown,
while the sky was still red away to the right and the palaces on the
far bank to the left still aglow with the setting sun, and it
continued under the magic of the darkening sky. At first the beauty
and grandeur of the setting drew the attention away from the
performers, but gradually one became aware that on the platform before
the columns kings and queens and courtiers in sumptuous conventional
robes, and attended by soldiers, were conversing in dumb show with one
another. A few climbed the steps of a small wooden platform that was
set up in the middle, and one indicated by a lifted hand that here
should be built a monument to the power of capitalism over the earth.
All gave signs of delight. Sentimental music was heard, and the gay
company fell to waltzing away the hours. Meanwhile, from below on the
road level, there streamed out of the darkness on either side of the
building and up the half-lit steps, their fetters ringing in harmony
with the music, the enslaved and toiling masses coming in response to
command to build the monument for their masters. It is impossible to
describe the exquisite beauty of the slow movement of those dark
figures aslant the broad flight of steps; individual expressions were
of course indistinguishable, and yet the movement and attitude of the
groups conveyed pathos and patient endurance as well as any individual
speech or gesture in the ordinary theatre. Some groups carried hammer
and anvil, and others staggered under enormous blocks of stone. Love
for the ballet has perhaps made the Russians understand the art of
moving groups of actors in unison. As I watched these processions
climbing the steps in apparently careless and spontaneous fashion, and
yet producing so graceful a result, I remembered the mad leap of the
archers down the stage in _Prince Igor_, which is also apparently
careless and spontaneous and full of wild and irregular beauty, yet
never varies a hair-breadth from one performance to the next.
For a time the workers toiled in the shadow in their earthly world,
and dancing continued in the lighted paradise of the rulers above,
until presently, in sign that the monument was complete, a large
yellow disc was hoisted amid acclamation above the highest platform
between the columns. But at the same moment a banner was uplifted
amongst the people, and a small figure was seen gesticulating. Angry
fists were shaken and the banner and speaker disappeared, only to
reappear almost immediately in another part of the dense crowd. Again
hostility, until finally among the French workers away up on the
right, the first Communist manifesto found favour. Rallying around
their banner the _communards_ ran shouting down the steps, gathering
supporters as they came. Above, all is confusion, kings and queens
scuttling in unroyal fashion with flying velvet robes to safe citadels
right and left, while the army prepares to defend the main citadel of
capitalism with its golden disc of power. The _communards_ scale the
steps to the fortress which they finally capture, haul down the disc
and set their banner in its place. The merry music of the _Carmagnole_
is heard, and the victors are seen expressing their delight by dancing
first on one foot and then on the other, like marionettes. Below, the
masses dance with them in a frenzy of joy. But a pompous procession of
Prussian legions is seen approaching, and, amid shrieks and wails of
despair, the people are driven back, and their leaders set in a row
and shot. Thereafter came one of the most moving scenes in the drama.
Several dark-clad women appeared carrying a black pall supported on
sticks, which they set in front of the bodies of the leaders so that
it stood out, an irregular pointed black shape against the white
columns behind. But for this melancholy monument the stage was now
empty. Thick clouds of black smoke arose from braziers on either side
and obscured the steps and the platform. Through the smoke came the
distant sound of Chopin's _Marche Funèbre_, and as the air became
clearer white figures could be dimly seen moving around the black pall
in a solemn dance of mourning. Behind them the columns shone ghostly
and unreal against the glimmering mauve rays of an uncertain and
watery dawn.
The second part of the pageant opened in July 1914. Once again the
rulers were feasting and the workers at toil, but the scene was
enlivened by the presence of the leaders of the Second International,
a group of decrepit professorial old men, who waddled in in solemn
procession carrying tomes full of international learning. They sat in
a row between the rulers and the people, deep in study, spectacles on
nose. The call to war was the signal for a dramatic appeal from the
workers to these leaders, who refused to accept the Red Flag, but
weakly received patriotic flags from their respective governments.
Jaurès, elevated to be the symbol of protest, towered above the
people, crying in a loud voice, but fell back immediately as the
assassin's shot rang out. Then the people divided into their national
groups and the war began. It was at this point that "God Save the
King" was played as the English soldiers marched out, in a comic
manner which made one think of it as "_Gawd_ save the King." Other
national anthems were burlesqued in a similar fashion, but none quite
so successfully. A ridiculous effigy of the Tsar with a knout in his
hand now occupied the symbolic position and dominated the scene. The
incidents of the war which affected Russia were then played.
Spectacular cavalry charges on the road, marching soldiers, batteries
of artillery, a pathetic procession of cripples and nurses, and other
scenes too numerous to describe, made up that part of the pageant
devoted to the war.
Then came the Russian Revolution in all its stages. Cars dashed by
full of armed men, red flags appeared everywhere, the people stormed
the citadel and hauled down the effigy of the Tsar. The Kerensky
Government assumed control and drove them forth to war again, but soon
they returned to the charge, destroyed the Provisional Government, and
hoisted all the emblems of the Russian Soviet Republic. The Entente
leaders, however, were seen preparing their troops for battle, and the
pageant went on to show the formation of the Red Army under its emblem
the Red Star. White figures with golden trumpets appeared foretelling
victory for the proletariat. The last scene, the World Commune, is
described in the words of the abstract, taken from a Russian
newspaper, as follows:--
Cannon shots announce the breaking of the blockade against
Soviet Russia, and the victory of the World Proletariat. The
Red Army returns from the front, and passes in triumphant
review before the leaders of the Revolution. At their feet lie
the crowns of kings and the gold of the bankers. Ships draped
with flags are seen carrying workers from the west. The
workers of the whole world, with the emblems of labour, gather
for the celebration of the World Commune. In the heavens
luminous inscriptions in different languages appear, greeting
the Congress: "Long live the Third International! Workers of
the world, unite! Triumph to the sounds of the hymn of the
World Commune, the 'International'."
Even so glowing an account, however, hardly does it justice. It had
the pomp and majesty of the Day of Judgment itself. Rockets climbed
the skies and peppered them with a thousand stars, fireworks blazed on
all sides, garlanded and beflagged ships moved up and down the river,
chariots bearing the emblems of prosperity, grapes and corn, travelled
slowly along the road. The Eastern peoples came carrying gifts and
emblems. The actors, massed upon the steps, waved triumphant hands,
trumpets sounded, and the song of the International from ten thousand
throats rose like a mighty wave engulfing the whole.
Though the end of this drama may have erred on the side of the
grandiose, this may perhaps be forgiven the organizers in view of the
occasion for which they prepared it. Nothing, however, could detract
from the beauty and dramatic power of the opening and of many of the
scenes. Moreover, the effects obtained by movement in the mass were
almost intoxicating. The first entrance of the masses gave a sense of
dumb and patient force that was moving in the extreme, and the
frenzied delight of the dancing crowd at the victory of the French
_communards_ stirred one to ecstasy. The pageant lasted for five hours
or more, and was as exhausting emotionally as the Passion Play is said
to be. I had the vision of a great period of Communist art, more
especially of such open-air spectacles, which should have the grandeur
and scope and eternal meaning of the plays of ancient Greece, the
mediæval mysteries, or the Shakespearean theatre. In building,
writing, acting, even in painting, work would be done, as it once was,
by groups, not by one hand or mind, and evolution would proceed slowly
until once again the individual emerged from the mass.
In considering Education under the Bolshevik régime, the same two
factors which I have already dealt with in discussing art, namely
industrial development and the communist doctrine, must be taken into
account. Industrial development is in reality one of the tenets of
Communism, but as it is one which in Russia is likely to endanger the
doctrine as a whole I have thought it better to consider it as a
separate item.
As in the matter of art, so in education, those who have given
unqualified praise seem to have taken the short and superficial view.
It is hardly necessary to launch into descriptions of the crèches,
country homes or palaces for children, where Montessori methods
prevail, where the pupils cultivate their little gardens, model in
plasticine, draw and sing and act, and dance their Eurythmic dances
barefoot on floors once sacred to the tread of the nobility. I saw a
reception and distributing house in Petrograd with which no fault
could be found from the point of view of scientific organization. The
children were bright-eyed and merry, and the rooms airy and clean. I
saw, too, a performance by school children in Moscow which included
some quite wonderful Eurythmic dancing, in particular an
interpretation of Grieg's _Tanz in der Halle des Bergkönigs_ by the
Dalcroze method, but with a colour and warmth which were Russian, and
in odd contrast to the mathematical precision associated with most
Dalcroze performances.
But in spite of the obvious merit of such institutions as exist,
misgivings would arise. To begin with, it must be remembered that it
is necessary first to admit that children should be delivered up
almost entirely to the State. Nominally, the mother still comes to see
her child in these schools, but in actual fact, the drafting of
children to the country must intervene, and the whole temper of the
authorities seemed to be directed towards breaking the link between
mother and child. To some this will seem an advantage, and it is a
point which admits of lengthy discussion, but as it belongs rather to
the question of women and the family under Communism, I can do no more
than mention it here.
Then, again, it must be remembered that the tactics of the Bolsheviks
towards such schools as existed under the old régime in provincial
towns and villages, have not been the same as their tactics towards
the theatres. The greater number of these schools are closed, in part,
it would seem, from lack of personnel, and in part from fear of
counter-revolutionary propaganda. The result is that, though those
schools which they have created are good and organized on modern
lines, on the whole there would seem to be less diffusion of child
education than before. In this, as in most other departments, the
Bolsheviks show themselves loath to attempt anything which cannot be
done on a large scale and impregnated with Communist doctrine. It goes
without saying that Communist doctrine is taught in schools, as
Christianity has been taught hitherto, moreover the Communist teachers
show bitter hostility to other teachers who do not accept the
doctrine. At the children's entertainment alluded to above, the dances
and poems performed had nearly all some close relation to Communism,
and a teacher addressed the children for something like an hour and a
half on the duties of Communists and the errors of Anarchism.