supersensitive and unreasonable. At least that is the rule, and
Tchicherin is no exception. The deliberate misinterpretation abroad,
during long hard years, of every effort of the Soviet Government at
peace or reconstruction or defense or negotiations, has got under his
skin. So while he insisted on the strictest adherence to the truth
in all reports sent over the government wire, at the same time he
permitted himself a mild dissipation in extravagant adjectives by way
of retaliation, in his too long and too complicated “notes.” He allowed
even more unrestrained language in _Vestnik_. _Vestnik_ is the official
bulletin of the Soviet Government--very much like the bulletin issued
by the Bureau of Public Information during the war. The young man who
edited this sheet was a talented and educated Russian but his idea of
an unemotional government report was very much like that of our own
George Creel. I used to tease him about his passion for such words as
“scurrilous” in reference to capitalists or White Guards. But it never
made any impression. He confessed that he found my cables flat and
uninteresting.
Besides my radios to American papers, which were transmitted by way of
Berlin, and the government bulletin which was sent out to the whole
world and rarely used by anybody, there was also a wire to London
for the _Daily Herald_. Every one of these telegrams had to be read
and corrected by Tchicherin himself and I shared the unhappy fate of
sitting around all night until he found time to do it. So many nights
my telegrams went in the waste-basket because they contained too much
American “punch” or a little “news value” or “human interest” which
Tchicherin considered gossip, that for a while I regarded Tchicherin
as just a fussy old man, and I almost forgot the Herculean tasks he
performed in his various interlacing Eastern treaties. Or again, if
one reads his correspondence with the old and settled governments
of Europe, one will be startled to see how he has outclassed his
adversaries. No Foreign Minister ever inherited a more difficult post
and, everything considered, no Foreign Minister ever stuck to his post
with more dignity and honor. It was characteristic of Tchicherin, as
it is of most Russians, not to be able to strike a balance; when he
did let the bars down, he let them down completely. A few months ago,
we were having battles over adjectives; now reporters are given a free
hand; even in Washington they do not dare criticize the government so
openly. It is amusing to note that the more freedom they have the fewer
harsh criticisms they find it necessary to make.
Mr. Tchicherin is a bachelor; women manifestly have no place in his
dreams of a millennium. How this came to be is a secret which perhaps
will never out. I am not presuming that there never was any romance in
Mr. Tchicherin’s life. Just to illustrate how wrong I should be if I
did, I recall an incident which occurred in a fashionable Berlin café.
Some Americans were discussing Tchicherin. One remarked that she often
regretted that there is no room for chivalry in a Socialist State; that
equality does not recognize gallantry. Another claimed that while Lenin
seems to have a way of treating women no better and no worse than men,
Tchicherin simply overlooks the whole feminine sex; if he is conscious
of women at all, it is only through a slight annoyance.
Now, when the company had finally arrived at these conclusions, they
suddenly became aware of a very aristocratic and beautiful old lady
at the next table who was regarding them disdainfully through a gold
lorgnette. Presently she exclaimed in Russian, “How absurd you are! Mr.
Tchicherin was an old sweetheart of mine.” So saying, she arose and
swept grandly away, rustling in her lavender silks, as delicate as a
Dresden china doll. So life repeats itself; there is always an Elaine
for every Launcelot. And Launcelot inevitably deserts his lady for some
vague “Light” beyond the stars.
Tchicherin is a many-sided character. When one sees him on the street
of an afternoon blinking and confused, with an old umbrella under his
arm, rain or shine, he appears pitiful and frail and incapable.... But
if one sees him also, as I once saw him, in an ancient, resurrected
dress-suit, at the head of a long conference table in a gold and white
hall, under glittering candelabra, speaking in flowery and perfect
French to the suave Turkish delegates, one gets quite another idea; he
appears fine, selfless, determined.
And it is like him to admire Secretary of State Hughes, and call him a
“fine, high-minded man” without realizing that Hughes’ high-mindedness
is that of a stern, religious brother who refuses to admit again into
the family of nations the erring and prodigal Soviet Republic; that
it was Hughes who stood out alone against the Genoa conference until
he stampeded other members of the Cabinet and even overpowered the
President. Hughes regards Communism as immoral as Tchicherin regards
capitalism. Both men possess that unbending, cold objectiveness, that
unattractive righteousness of attitude towards those who disagree with
them, which we know in America as Puritanism. Both would have made
excellent bishops.
One evening last spring I happened to be present when Tchicherin was
nearly assassinated. A man flourishing a revolver appeared in the
reception room and called out for the Foreign Minister. This roused a
Red soldier half asleep in a comfortable chair near the door leading to
Tchicherin’s private office. A scuffle ensued and the soldier succeeded
in getting the pistol before any harm was done.
Tchicherin refused to discuss the incident and remained obviously
tranquil. He was annoyed when the Cheka tried to put extra guards at
his door and absolutely balked at the suggestion that the Foreign
Office be made a place difficult to enter. He simply asked every one to
forget the whole incident.
I always believed that he secretly dislikes the Cheka. I remember the
night that Santieri Nuorteva was arrested. It happened at midnight and
was rather spectacular. Tchicherin liked Nuorteva. He was visibly upset
and for a whole week he would not talk to a soul.
The confusion of the Foreign Minister’s desk is a national scandal.
In midwinter I have seen his summer hat still lying there, crushed
under a pile of papers. I have seen papers piled high on all the
chairs and sofa and gray with the dust of months. He has a fearful
habit of misplacing important telegrams and then sending out a search
call. Those are terrible moments in the Foreign Office. All other work
stops. After everything is turned upside down some subordinate gets the
courage to ask, “Comrade Tchicherin, perhaps it is on your own desk.”
And there it invariably is, almost on his nose, like grandmother’s
proverbial spectacles.
It was his habit to give a short talk about once a month to the
personnel of the Foreign Office. We would meet about eight o’clock in
the Foreign Office Club. Tchicherin was persistently late, sometimes
one, sometimes two or even three hours. From time to time someone would
whisper, “He has lost another telegram!” There would be suppressed
laughter running around the room. Then suddenly the Foreign Minister
would appear glancing shyly about him, clear his throat and before he
began his address would explain in his high plaintive voice how sorry
he was to be tardy but he had somehow misplaced a telegram....
People at home have often said to me that they could not comprehend
the “fascination” of the Russian revolution for an American; they
have pointed out that they would find anything possible to endure
except such unpleasant facts as lice and filth and lack of soap.
Most of us, quite correctly, imagine ourselves capable of the larger
tragedies of life and entirely lacking in the courage to face the
million little miseries of an economic breakdown. It is true that
any man with delicate sensibilities who has stood the test of the
Russian revolution has stood the test of fire. I have always believed
that we are too sentimental about the romances of the Middle Ages. My
opinion is that not much really that happened then was fine or good
or beautiful; certainly over it all hovered no scent of the attar of
roses. King Arthur’s knights probably never marched away with any more
noble visions before them than did those little awkward peasant boys
of the Red Army. The Communists are undoubtedly the knights errant of
the twentieth century and their slogan of “internationalism” is but a
revival of that old, old banner of “Brotherhood.” It is not altogether
curious that such a whirlwind has swept into its heart a few men like
Tchicherin.
In 1917, when Trotsky was Foreign Minister, I well remember a strike of
his entire diplomatic corps. How it paralyzed that arm of the state! At
that particular moment Tchicherin was under arrest in London. Workers
with muddy boots tramped in and out of the Foreign Office with a desire
to help. They were loyal to Trotsky but they were ill at ease; entirely
incomprehensible to them was this intricate business of diplomacy. It
is well for those same workers and peasants and soldiers that a quiet,
aloof person by the name of George Tchicherin presently arrived to
arrange all this business for them.
But what a paradox! Here is Mr. Tchicherin, member of one of the oldest
and most aristocratic families in Russia, for four years now guiding
with such delicate hands and careful brain the affairs of state, in
order that all that once was, which gave his family their wealth and
power, might never be again.
MAXIM LITVINOV, ASSISTANT COMMISSAR, LEONID KRASSIN AND SUBORDINATES
Litvinov, more than Tchicherin, has been Lenin’s spokesman to the
outside world in the past three years. Litvinov is closer to Lenin;
he knows how Lenin will react on most situations, while Tchicherin is
usually in doubt. This knowledge gives Litvinov power to make immediate
decisions. Litvinov has worked with Lenin since the Communist party was
created, while Tchicherin actually only came into the Communist ranks
after the revolution--he was formerly connected with another group and
his allegiance is naturally a little more conservative.
Litvinov makes a striking contrast to Tchicherin, the aesthete.
Litvinov is hale, hearty and loves the fleshy things of life. He
fairly bursts with a florid, extravagant energy, like a man who has
just emerged from a hot bath, dressed in haste and is late for an
appointment. He is big and burly, wearing his clothes loosely with a
sort of unkempt but smooth-shaven air. He is a great worker and, when
he has the opportunity, a man who enjoys life greatly.
Abroad he likes to eat good food, drink old wines and roll around
in a new, expensive automobile with a small red flag on the hood.
All this not because he craves ease or ostentation but because of a
sort of obvious patriotism for the Soviets which wants to shout to a
hostile world, “We too can do things with a flourish.” There is nothing
subservient about Litvinov.
He has been accused of undue extravagance by the other embassies in
Reval, but in Russia he goes about like any peasant with a piece of
black bread in his pocket, works furiously from eleven in the forenoon
until two or three in the morning to accommodate Tchicherin and never
has a moment for recreation. He never looks tired and seems to begin
each task with the same enthusiasm.
The Assistant Minister of Foreign Affairs is immensely human, and
has an ear for jokes and gossip and knows how to hate. He has a wife
and three children living in Copenhagen and maintains a perfectly
conventional household. One day last winter I interviewed him while he
was eating his lunch, and he said, with a sigh, that he wished he could
arrange his work somehow so as to get away for a few days to visit his
family. His wife had just had a baby.
“Boy or girl?” I asked.
Litvinov reddened and laughed. “The telegram didn’t say,” he said, “and
God knows when I’ll have a chance to run over and find out.”
A moment later he was deep in a discussion of the attitude of the
American press towards Russia. I remarked his ability to put out of
mind circumstances he could not change; it is the same saving quality
which keeps Litvinov from breaking under strain.
When Litvinov is interviewed his thoughts run along smoothly with no
break in the thread of them; he is extremely capable and intelligent
but one feels at once that he is a politician. Perhaps it would be
better to say that he is a practical Communist, just as one would
say that Mr. Penrose was a practical Republican and Mr. Underwood
is a practical Democrat. Most successful public men are practical
politicians and reporters learn early to weigh their words; they have
a way of using the press, through subtle suggestions, to their own
advantage.
No practical politician is above intrigue. Tchicherin is above it and
that is probably why he does not see it when it is all around him.
There was a moment when the clashing of personalities and ambitions
nearly ruined the staff of Mr. Tchicherin. The whole matter centered
round the English trade negotiations begun by Litvinov and David
Rothstein and finished by Krassin.
Rothstein had pinned his hope on those negotiations; he believed that
their successful termination would make him Ambassador to England. It
is easy to comprehend his feelings and even his actions in this matter.
Rothstein is ambitious without either the intelligence or the foresight
of Litvinov. It is astounding that Litvinov allied himself, however
briefly, in a petty intrigue against Krassin.
Rothstein has lived many years in London, his home is there, his family
and his wife. No doubt it would have been very pleasant for him to
have been appointed Ambassador to England. But logically, and through
peculiar circumstances, that office seemed to be about to be bestowed
upon Mr. Krassin. Thus Rothstein set about to remove Krassin from his
path.
Both Litvinov and Rothstein had cause for deep annoyance against the
British Government. Rothstein was “allowed” to accompany Litvinov to
Moscow when Litvinov was “returned” to his government; he was refused
permission to go back. Feeling himself tricked, he pointed a suspicious
finger at Krassin who came and went so freely. He managed to play upon
Litvinov’s wounded personal vanity. Between them they almost ruined
Krassin’s work.
Litvinov was sent out of England with all the indignity of a man being
kicked down stairs. No one could blame him for a perfectly human desire
to go back some day and sit at a conference table facing the very men
who were once so unjust to him. This desire has probably been entirely
appeased at Genoa.
The world is full of tantalizing prejudices, which direct events more
than we realize. Krassin and Litvinov are both charter members of the
Communist party, but Litvinov just happens to be England’s idea of a
Bolshevik while Krassin does not.
Because Krassin came from the same class that Lord Curzon did, England
does not feel so much panic in dealing with him. Krassin is obviously
a gentleman and official England can never quite ignore a gentleman.
Krassin is as polished and as coldly polite and as well dressed as if
he were in the House of Lords. He is tall, middle aged, fine featured
and has great personal charm.
All this would not mean much in America, but in England to establish
one’s social equality with the home office is an especially strong
point for any visiting diplomat. This acknowledgment of caste is true
all over Europe. Tchicherin, the aristocrat, had a much better chance
at Genoa because of his background.
If such conferences are ever held in America, Litvinov might prove
the most popular of the group. Any country which is satisfied with
the familiar type of our middle western Congressmen will not reject
an intelligent proletarian like Litvinov. Some of our rough-and-ready
Senators will surely feel much more at home with his bluntness than
with Krassin’s smooth, impenetrable Old Worldliness.
Litvinov reminds one of a successful mining man from Alaska or a lumber
king from the West. Krassin is more like those quiet, powerful, coldly
intelligent men who manage railroads, Wall Street and the world’s
finance.
Krassin, who once managed the great Putilov factory and was considered
one of the most able engineers in Russia, is now pretty generally
conceded the strongest man next to Lenin. As a force for stability
and reconstruction he is immensely valuable to the Soviets. He has
maintained a mental equilibrium which many of the other Commissars
have lost. Contact with men of different political opinions is a great
dissolver of mental cobwebs. Krassin’s continual coming and going has
probably helped him to maintain his perspective. When one remains too
long in Russia, the outside world often appears incomprehensible just
as Russia appears incomprehensible to the outside world.
I remember a conversation I had with him during the blockade. “Whenever
Russia,” he said, “ceases to be a country visited only by ‘brave’ and
‘adventuresome’ and ‘occasional’ travelers, the Russian people and the
Russian government will be no more interesting and no more evil than
the governments and the people of the rest of the world; it will no
longer be necessary for writers to exaggerate about us.”
David Rothstein is a deep and thorough student of Socialism.
Theoretically, he believes that he knows the only true way to cure the
wounds of humanity; he reverences Marx as some men do Mohammed. But in
real life he is fussy, narrow, selfish and without personal loyalty. He
cannot imagine applying his doctrines to his immediate surroundings,
and so he fundamentally fails.
Fresh from London, he spent his time ordering suits from the Soviet
tailor and fuming because they did not fit perfectly; this in a country
literally of rags. He was more worried about his son’s dismissal from
Oxford than about the thousands of young men being slaughtered on the
various Russian fronts. He exclaimed generously, “We must have victory
no matter how many men it takes!” But he kept his own sons in England.
He could never see anything in Wells’ articles for American papers
except the flippant remarks about Marx which made him writhe in mental
agony.
At present Rothstein is Ambassador to Persia, and Litvinov and Krassin
are working in harmony.
There are many other men in the Foreign Office of interesting and
varied character; very few are workmen or peasants. I will take for
example, four typical men: Weinstein, Karakhan, Florinsky and Axionov.
Weinstein was one of the Editors of the Russian daily paper _Novy Mir_,
in New York, and secretary to Ludwig Martens, who directed the Soviet
Bureau on Fortieth Street. He was deported with Martens. Immediately
upon his arrival in Moscow he became head of the Anglo-American
Department of the Foreign Office. Almost his entire staff are
ex-Americans. English is more generally spoken among them than Russian.
Michael Karakhan is head of the Eastern Department when Tchicherin is
in Russia; when Tchicherin attends the conferences, he is elevated to
Tchicherin’s place. Karakhan is an Armenian and, more through favorable
circumstances than any astonishing ability, has achieved his high
official position.
I always think of him as getting into or out of an automobile. During
the first days of the revolution he “requisitioned” Rasputin’s car, a
gorgeous affair which had been the gift of the Empress and was made
especially for the mysterious priest. Karakhan never walks anywhere
and his car is always waiting for him in front of his home or the
Foreign Office. An evidence of his cleverness was his ability to keep
for himself the whole lower floor of the most lovely private palace in
Moscow, while Lenin and Tchicherin lived as meagerly as workmen.
He is a faultless dresser. And he has the rather dubious distinction of
being the only Commissar who divorced his wife under the new marriage
laws. He immediately married again.
Karakhan is one of those surprising figures of the revolution who,
without possessing marked talents or great idealism, nevertheless rose
to power.
Mr. Florinsky and Mr. Axionov represent the old order. Florinsky was a
Consul in America under the Tsar. He is now a Communist and wears his
red button with all the grace of an old beau wearing the ribbon of the
Legion of Honor. He was the only man in Russia last year who wore spats
and a monocle.
Axionov is the Cheka man--a former Tsarist officer and a poet of
distinction. I was never present when he arrested anyone. He was always
pounding out free verse poems between reports. Often in dull moments he
read them to us.
He has the manner of a courtier and used to embarrass the American
stenographers by kissing their hands. He was forever bowing and
continually good-natured. Sinister rumors used to float round about
his activities which caused us to vow never to “talk” or to criticize
anything or anybody in his presence, but we invariably forgot our
resolutions simply because he was so pleasant.
Axionov wore a beard which was fiery red. His head was absolutely bald,
but he usually kept it covered by a high peaked cap with a large red
star on the front. No other country but Russia could have produced such
a character.
THE END