DISTURBING THOUGHTS
Life went on. Each day brought new conflicting thoughts and emotions.
The feature which affected me most was the inequality I witnessed in my
immediate environment. I learned that the rations issued to the tenants
of the First House of the Soviet (Astoria) were much superior to those
received by the workers in the factories. To be sure, they were not
sufficient to sustain life--but no one in the Astoria lived from these
rations alone. The members of the Communist Party, quartered in the
Astoria, worked in Smolny, and the rations in Smolny were the best in
Petrograd. Moreover, trade was not entirely suppressed at that time.
The markets were doing a lucrative business, though no one seemed able
or willing to explain to me where the purchasing capacity came from.
The workers could not afford to buy butter which was then 2,000 rubles
a pound, sugar at 3,000, or meat at 1,000. The inequality was most
apparent in the Astoria kitchen. I went there frequently, though it was
torture to prepare a meal: the savage scramble for an inch of space on
the stove, the greedy watching of the women lest any one have something
extra in the saucepan, the quarrels and screams when someone fished
out a piece of meat from the pot of a neighbour! But there was one
redeeming feature in the picture--it was the resentment of the servants
who worked in the Astoria. They were servants, though called comrades,
and they felt keenly the inequality: the Revolution to them was not a
mere theory to be realized in years to come. It was a living thing. I
was made aware of it one day.
The rations were distributed at the Commissary, but one had to fetch
them himself. One day, while waiting my turn in the long line, a
peasant girl came in and asked for vinegar. "Vinegar! who is it calls
for such a luxury?" cried several women. It appeared that the girl was
Zinoviev's servant. She spoke of him as her master, who worked very
hard and was surely entitled to something extra. At once a storm of
indignation broke loose. "Master! is that what we made the Revolution
for, or was it to do away with masters? Zinoviev is no more than we,
and he is not entitled to more."
These workingwomen were crude, even brutal, but their sense of justice
was instinctive. The Revolution to them was something fundamentally
vital. They saw the inequality at every step and bitterly resented
it. I was disturbed. I sought to reassure myself that Zinoviev and
the other leaders of the Communists would not use their power for
selfish benefit. It was the shortage of food and the lack of efficient
organization which made it impossible to feed all alike, and of course
the blockade and not the Bolsheviki was responsible for it. The Allied
Interventionists, who were trying to get at Russia's throat, were the
cause.
Every Communist I met reiterated this thought; even some of the
Anarchists insisted on it. The little group antagonistic to the Soviet
Government was not convincing. But how to reconcile the explanation
given to me with some of the stories I learned every day--stories of
systematic terrorism, of relentless persecution, and suppression of
other revolutionary elements?
Another circumstance which perplexed me was that the markets were
stacked with meat, fish, soap, potatoes, even shoes, every time that
the rations were given out. How did these things get to the markets?
Everyone spoke about it, but no one seemed to know. One day I was in
a watchmaker's shop when a soldier entered. He conversed with the
proprietor in Yiddish, relating that he had just returned from Siberia
with a shipment of tea. Would the watchmaker take fifty pounds? Tea
was sold at a premium at the time--no one but the privileged few could
permit themselves such a luxury. Of course the watchmaker would take
the tea. When the soldier left I asked the shopkeeper if he did not
think it rather risky to transact such illegal business so openly.
I happen to understand Yiddish, I told him. Did he not fear I would
report him? "That's nothing," the man replied nonchalantly, "the Tcheka
knows all about it--it draws its percentage from the soldier and
myself."
I began to suspect that the reason for much of the evil was also within
Russia, not only outside of it. But then, I argued, police officials
and detectives graft everywhere. That is the common disease of the
breed. In Russia, where scarcity of food and three years of starvation
must needs turn most people into grafters, theft is inevitable. The
Bolsheviki are trying to suppress it with an iron hand. How can they
be blamed? But try as I might I could not silence my doubts. I groped
for some moral support, for a dependable word, for someone to shed
light on the disturbing questions.
It occurred to me to write to Maxim Gorki. He might help. I called
his attention to his own dismay and disappointment while visiting
America. He had come believing in her democracy and liberalism, and
found bigotry and lack of hospitality instead. I felt sure Gorki would
understand the struggle going on within me, though the cause was not
the same. Would he see me? Two days later I received a short note
asking me to call.
I had admired Gorki for many years. He was the living affirmation of my
belief that the creative artist cannot be suppressed. Gorki, the child
of the people, the pariah, had by his genius become one of the world's
greatest, one who by his pen and deep human sympathy made the social
outcast our kin. For years I toured America interpreting Gorki's genius
to the American people, elucidating the greatness, beauty, and humanity
of the man and his works. Now I was to see him and through him get a
glimpse into the complex soul of Russia.
I found the main entrance of his house nailed up, and there seemed
to be no way of getting in. I almost gave up in despair when a woman
pointed to a dingy staircase. I climbed to the very top and knocked
on the first door I saw. It was thrown open, momentarily blinding me
with a flood of light and steam from an overheated kitchen. Then I
was ushered into a large dining room. It was dimly lit, chilly and
cheerless in spite of a fire and a large collection of Dutch china on
the walls. One of the three women I had noticed in the kitchen sat
down at the table with me, pretending to read a book but all the while
watching me out of the corner of her eye. It was an awkward half hour
of waiting.
Presently Gorki arrived. Tall, gaunt, and coughing, he looked ill and
weary. He took me to his study, semi-dark and of depressing effect.
No sooner had we seated ourselves than the door flew open and another
young woman, whom I had not observed before, brought him a glass of
dark fluid, medicine evidently. Then the telephone began to ring;
a few minutes later Gorki was called out of the room. I realized
that I would not be able to talk with him. Returning, he must have
noticed my disappointment. We agreed to postpone our talk till some
less disturbed opportunity presented itself. He escorted me to the
door, remarking, "You ought to visit the Baltflot [Baltic Fleet]. The
Kronstadt sailors are nearly all instinctive Anarchists. You would
find a field there." I smiled. "Instinctive Anarchists?" I said, "that
means they are unspoiled by preconceived notions, unsophisticated, and
receptive. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes, that is what I mean," he replied.
The interview with Gorki left me depressed. Nor was our second meeting
more satisfactory on the occasion of my first trip to Moscow. By
the same train travelled Radek, Demyan Bedny, the popular Bolshevik
versifier, and Zipperovitch, then the president of the Petrograd
unions. We found ourselves in the same car, the one reserved for
Bolshevik officials and State dignitaries, comfortable and roomy. On
the other hand, the "common" man, the non-Communist without influence,
had literally to fight his way into the always overcrowded railway
carriages, provided he had a _propusk_ to travel--a most difficult
thing to procure.
I spent the time of the journey discussing Russian conditions with
Zipperovitch, a kindly man of deep convictions, and with Demyan
Bedny, a big coarse-looking man. Radek held forth at length on his
experiences in Germany and German prisons.
I learned that Gorki was also on the train, and I was glad of another
opportunity for a chat with him when he called to see me. The one thing
uppermost in my mind at the moment was an article which had appeared in
the Petrograd _Pravda_ a few days before my departure. It treated of
morally defective children, the writer urging prison for them. Nothing
I had heard or seen during my six weeks in Russia so outraged me as
this brutal and antiquated attitude toward the child. I was eager to
know what Gorki thought of the matter. Of course, he was opposed to
prisons for the morally defective, he would advocate reformatories
instead. "What do you mean by morally defective?" I asked. "Our young
are the result of alcoholism rampant during the Russian-Japanese War,
and of syphilis. What except moral defection could result from such a
heritage?" he replied. I argued that morality changes with conditions
and climate, and that unless one believed in the theory of free will
one cannot consider morality a fixed matter. As to children, their
sense of responsibility is primitive, and they lack the spirit of
social adherence. But Gorki insisted that there was a fearful spread
of moral defection among children and that such cases should be
isolated.
I then broached the problem that was troubling me most. What about
persecution and terror--were all the horrors inevitable, or was there
some fault in Bolshevism itself? The Bolsheviki were making mistakes,
but they were doing the best they knew how, Gorki said drily. Nothing
more could be expected, he thought.
I recalled a certain article by Gorki, published in his paper, _New
Life_, which I had read in the Missouri Penitentiary. It was a scathing
arraignment of the Bolsheviki. There must have been powerful reasons to
change Gorki's point of view so completely. Perhaps he is right. I must
wait. I must study the situation; I must get at the facts. Above all, I
must see for myself Bolshevism at work.
We spoke of the drama. On my first visit, by way of introduction, I had
shown Gorki an announcement card of the dramatic course I had given
in America. John Galsworthy was among the playwrights I had discussed
then. Gorki expressed surprise that I considered Galsworthy an artist.
In his opinion Galsworthy could not be compared with Bernard Shaw. I
had to differ. I did not underestimate Shaw, but considered Galsworthy
the greater artist. I detected irritation in Gorki, and as his hacking
cough continued, I broke off the discussion. He soon left. I remained
dejected from the interview. It gave me nothing.
When we pulled into the Moscow station my chaperon, Demyan Bedny, had
vanished and I was left on the platform with all my traps. Radek came
to my rescue. He called a porter, took me and my baggage to his waiting
automobile and insisted that I come to his apartments in the Kremlin.
There I was graciously received by his wife and invited to dinner
served by their maid. After that Radek began the difficult task of
getting me quartered in the Hotel National, known as the First House of
the Moscow Soviet. With all his influence it required hours to secure a
room for me.
Radek's luxurious apartment, the maidservant, the splendid dinner
seemed strange in Russia. But the comradely concern of Radek and the
hospitality of his wife were grateful to me. Except at the Zorins
and the Shatovs I had not met with anything like it. I felt that
kindliness, sympathy, and solidarity were still alive in Russia.