THE FIRST OF MAY IN PETROGRAD
In 1890 the First of May was for the first time celebrated in America
as Labour's international holiday. May Day became to me a great,
inspiring event. To witness the celebration of the First of May in a
free country--it was something to dream of, to long for, but perhaps
never to be realized. And now, in 1920, the dream of many years was
about to become real in revolutionary Russia. I could hardly await the
morning of May First. It was a glorious day, with the warm sun melting
away the last crust of the hard winter. Early in the morning strains of
music greeted me: groups of workers and soldiers were marching through
the streets, singing revolutionary songs. The city was gaily decorated:
the Uritski Square, facing the Winter Palace, was a mass of red, the
streets near by a veritable riot of colour. Great crowds were about,
all wending their way to the Field of Mars where the heroes of the
Revolution were buried.
Though I had an admission card to the reviewing stand I preferred to
remain among the people, to feel myself a part of the great hosts that
had brought about the world event. This was their day--the day of their
making. Yet--they seemed peculiarly quiet, oppressively silent. There
was no joy in their singing, no mirth in their laughter. Mechanically
they marched, automatically they responded to the claqueurs on the
reviewing stand shouting "Hurrah" as the columns passed.
In the evening a pageant was to take place. Long before the appointed
hour the Uritski Square down to the palace and to the banks of the Neva
was crowded with people gathered to witness the open-air performance
symbolizing the triumph of the people. The play consisted of three
parts, the first portraying the conditions which led up to the war and
the rôle of the German Socialists in it; the second reproduced the
February Revolution, with Kerensky in power; the last--the October
Revolution. It was a play beautifully set and powerfully acted, a play
vivid, real, fascinating. It was given on the steps of the former
Stock Exchange, facing the Square. On the highest step sat kings and
queens with their courtiers, attended by soldiery in gay uniforms.
The scene represents a gala court affair: the announcement is made
that a monument is to be built in honour of world capitalism. There is
much rejoicing, and a wild orgy of music and dance ensues. Then from
the depths there emerge the enslaved and toiling masses, their chains
ringing mournfully to the music above. They are responding to the
command to build the monument for their masters: some are seen carrying
hammers and anvils; others stagger under the weight of huge blocks
of stone and loads of brick. The workers are toiling in their world
of misery and darkness, lashed to greater effort by the whip of the
slave drivers, while above there is light and joy, and the masters are
feasting. The completion of the monument is signalled by large yellow
disks hoisted on high amidst the rejoicing of the world on top.
At this moment a little red flag is seen waving below, and a small
figure is haranguing the people. Angry fists are raised and then flag
and figure disappear, only to reappear again in different parts of the
underworld. Again the red flag waves, now here, now there. The people
slowly gain confidence and presently become threatening. Indignation
and anger grow--the kings and queens become alarmed. They fly to the
safety of the citadels, and the army prepares to defend the stronghold
of capitalism.
It is August, 1914. The rulers are again feasting, and the workers are
slaving. The members of the Second International attend the confab
of the mighty. They remain deaf to the plea of the workers to save
them from the horrors of war. Then the strains of "God Save the King"
announce the arrival of the English army. It is followed by Russian
soldiers with machine guns and artillery, and a procession of nurses
and cripples, the tribute to the Moloch of war.
The next act pictures the February Revolution. Red flags appear
everywhere, armed motor cars dash about. The people storm the Winter
Palace and haul down the emblem of Tsardom. The Kerensky Government
assumes control, and the people are driven back to war. Then comes the
marvellous scene of the October Revolution, with soldiers and sailors
galloping along the open space before the white marble building.
They dash up the steps into the palace, there is a brief struggle,
and the victors are hailed by the masses in wild jubilation. The
"Internationale" floats upon the air; it mounts higher and higher into
exultant peals of joy. Russia is free--the workers, sailors, and
soldiers usher in the new era, the beginning of the world commune!
Tremendously stirring was the picture. But the vast mass remained
silent. Only a faint applause was heard from the great throng. I was
dumbfounded. How explain this astonishing lack of response? When I
spoke to Lisa Zorin about it she said that the people had actually
lived through the October Revolution, and that the performance
necessarily fell flat by comparison with the reality of 1917. But my
little Communist neighbour gave a different version. "The people had
suffered so many disappointments since October, 1917," she said, "that
the Revolution has lost all meaning to them. The play had the effect of
making their disappointment more poignant."