PETROGRAD
I arrived at the Nicolai station in Petrograd on the 24th of September,
from Moscow, and went at once to the Astoria hotel on St. Isaac’s Square
at the farther end of Nevsky Prospekt. As we drove along the
thoroughfare I noticed workmen tearing out the wooden paving-blocks
which covered that famous street, and recalled having read in New York
papers that whole streets in Petrograd had been torn up and used for
fuel. This seemed credible enough, even desirable, I thought, as I
recalled the shivering nights I had spent in Russia. When my droshky
came nearer to the crew of workers I saw worn and broken blocks piled to
one side; in their places new blocks had been put in. Two days later I
walked along this same thoroughfare from one end to the other, still
looking for unmended gaps in the paving. My search was vain. And the
pavements of the side streets, on which I walked miles during my stay in
Petrograd, were in good condition.
Many of the shops along Nevsky Prospekt were closed and boarded up, and
those that remained open had but few wares on their shelves. The large
stores, however, now converted into Soviet stores, were all open and
contained a goodly supply of various commodities, but the bright-colored
toys that used to fill the shop windows of Petrograd had entirely
disappeared. Apparently the peasants of Russia, busy with weightier
matters, had found no time to carve grotesque wooden figures and
charming dolls and the other gayly-colored toys they know so well how to
make. The Russian child who does not have these toys left over from the
old days has to do without.
Whatever beautiful things Russia still had, however, were placed in the
stores along with the necessities. They were not regarded as luxuries
for the few. Art belongs to every one in Soviet Russia.
I learned that the high wall which used to surround the Winter Palace of
the Czar had been torn down, and when I asked why this had been done,
was told that there was a beautiful garden back of this wall, and since
“beauty should not be hidden from the people,” they had torn down the
wall so that all might see the garden. The palace itself was unoccupied.
Its art treasures had been removed to Moscow, and placed in museums
there. It was planned to make a museum of the palace later.
On my second day in Petrograd I went out to Smolny Institute, a large
stone structure overlooking the Neva, formerly a school for the
daughters of the aristocracy, now the office building of the officials
and workers of the Northern Commune and Petrograd Soviet.
In front of the institute there was set up a large statue of Karl Marx.
It looked impressive enough from a distance. But when I passed on my way
into the building and looked back at the statue I discovered Karl Marx—a
silk hat in his hand. I have not yet been able to get over my memory of
the great economist standing there, heroically erect, before the
headquarters of the workingmen’s government, holding a silk hat.
In Smolny Institute I met Zinovieff, president of the Petrograd Soviet,
a curly-haired, impetuous Jew, full of energy and with a deep
understanding of the Russian revolutionary movement. He has been a
life-long friend of Lenin and was his companion in exile. I found him
distrustful at first, but very cordial when convinced that my intentions
were honest.
“Do you still talk about nationalization of women in America?” he asked
me with a broad grin. He was the only official in Soviet Russia who ever
mentioned the subject to me.
Later in the day I attended a meeting of the Petrograd Soviets which
included representatives of all unions, army, navy and peasants. They
were assembled in the Tauride Palace, where the Duma met formerly. A
decree for compulsory education for adults was under consideration, and
Zinovieff spoke for the adoption of the decree. I could not, of course,
understand his impassioned address, which subsequent translation
revealed to be a clear analysis of the whole educational problem. He has
a high-pitched voice, which grated on my ears sometimes, but rang with
earnestness and conviction. The decree, which is now in effect, was
passed by a practically unanimous vote.
It provided that after November 1, 1919, all adults of the Northern
Commune unable to read and write would have to attend public school
classes two hours daily for six months, at the end of which time those
unable to pass the examinations were to be denied the right to work. For
their hours of study the decree provided that they be paid wages at the
rate in effect in their branches of industry.
For those illiterates in occupations requiring eight hours labor, the
working day was reduced to six, giving them the opportunity to spend the
full two hours in school. The six-hour day in force in the hazardous
occupations was reduced to four hours.
Soviet officials informed me that passage of the decree did not mean
that those who were unable to assimilate knowledge would be denied the
right to work. That disciplining would be invoked only for those capable
ones who wilfully refused to study. The measure was but one of the
efforts of the Soviet Government to hasten the development of the
intellectual side of the people’s life and to raise culture in general.
Under Czars there were few public schools, and these were inefficiently
conducted. Seventy-five percent of the people could not read or write.
I inquired about the “Red Terror” in Petrograd. “Yes,” I was informed,
“there were two or three days of Red Terror in August, 1918, when Lenin
was shot, in Moscow.” The rank and file were devoted to this man, and
when they heard of the attempt on his life they turned loose, and it
took three days of hard work on the part of the government officials and
the government party members to stop the rush of the mob. Probably two
thousand were killed, and during the six weeks that Lenin lay between
life and death great crowds of working people watched the bulletins from
his physicians that were posted on walls in all parts of the city from
day to day. I was told that quite aside from his value to the government
itself, it was a godsend to Russia that he survived, because his death
would have meant an uprising that would have spared no human being
believed to be in opposition to Lenin and the Soviet Government. Even
Zinovieff is reported to have lost his head for a little time, when he
heard of the precarious condition of his old friend and comrade.
A Russian friend of mine in America had asked me to look for his father
who lived two or three blocks from St. Isaac’s Square when last heard
from four years before.
I found the old man in his place of business—a picture frame store. He
lived with his wife in two or three rooms in the rear. He had been in
business for years, and was one of the bourgeoisie of the olden days.
When I asked him if he had been disturbed by the Bolsheviki he said that
during the two years since the revolution his store had been visited
once by the authorities—an officer came to inquire for the address of
some person living in the immediate neighborhood.
I asked him how he liked the new regime. “I don’t like it because food
is scarce and prices high.” He showed me a small picture frame. “Before
the war I could sell this for 70 kopecks, now I must charge 40
rubles,—but then maybe it was the war and not the revolution that caused
the high prices,—I don’t know.”
He took me down the street three blocks to visit his daughter, so that
when I returned to America I could assure my friend that his sister,
too, was safe. She and her husband were both working for the Soviet
Government and had but one complaint to make, “scarcity of food.” She
was a teacher in one of the Soviet schools. They had two beautiful boys;
the elder was studying sculpture in a Soviet art school, the younger was
still in the grades. I asked this most intelligent and refined woman
whether the Bolshevists had broken up the homes in Petrograd. She smiled
and said, “Do they believe that in America?” When I had to answer that
“some do,” she replied, “Please tell them it does not show intelligence
to believe such things.”
I talked to three or four of the business men along the Nevsky Prospekt
who were still clinging to their little shops, with their pitiful stocks
of goods. These people have remained undisturbed for reasons I have
already explained. In substance they all said the same thing: “It is
terrible,—terrible. Before long we must quit business. The Bolshevists
are setting up what they call ‘Soviet’ stores. The people don’t come to
us now,—only a few of our old customers. The Soviet stores control the
products and undersell us. Russia is doomed. We want to go away. How is
it in America?”
The last cry of the private shopkeeper in Russia! Some day when the war
is over and Russia is doing business with the rest of the world, these
same shopkeepers will probably find the Soviet stores more attractive
even than their own. They may remember, with no regret, their constant
struggle to survive competition. Doubtless they will get behind the
counters of the Soviet stores, as many of their kind have already done,
and there find security of employment and compensation, and in the
knowledge that they are rendering a real service to the New Russia they
will find an adequate substitute for the stimulation of “private
enterprise.”
With the removal of the capital to Moscow, the sending of thousands of
workers to the army, the voluntary emigration to the villages of
thousands of others, and the exodus of the bourgeoisie to Scandinavia,
France, England and even America, Petrograd has probably one half the
population it had under the Czar. Moscow had gained, however, during the
same period in greater proportion than Petrograd lost.
[Illustration:
CHICHERIN
Commissar of Foreign Affairs
]
Tram cars were running more regularly than in Moscow, so far as I could
observe. The streets were poorly lighted, as in Moscow, and for the same
reason. All automobiles had been requisitioned by the army and were used
mostly for trucking. The city was policed by women in daytime, by men at
night. It was rather startling to encounter a woman policeman with a
rifle on her shoulder, but the people took it for granted, and I was
told that the women were quite as efficient as the men. In spite of poor
lighting, Petrograd is as safe as Moscow at night—or as safe as New York
or Chicago, for that matter. Prostitution has lost its clientele.
Thousands of women from the streets have found decent employment in
various institutions of the Soviet Government, and are able to lead
independent, normal lives.
I visited one of the large textile industries, which was in full
operation, employing probably three thousand men and women. They were
making civilian suits and overcoats and winter coats for the soldiers.
Motor lorries drove up and carried away thousands of these winter coats
for shipment to the soldiers at the front.
Some of the factories were closing down through lack of fuel. I asked
what would become of the workers who were thrown out of employment, and
was told that pending their re-employment they would be given “out of
work” cards showing that their idleness was not voluntary, and the
government would continue to pay them their regular wages.
I visited Maxim Gorky in his modest apartment near the Fortress of Peter
and Paul. Gorky is typical of a large class of the intellectuals. Two
years ago he was a bitter opponent of Bolshevism, and his writings
violently attacked the government.
Of artistic rather than political temperament, and strongly pacifist, he
was sickened by the killing on both sides. Since then, however, he has
come to the support of the Soviet Government. His tribute to the
constructive ability of the Soviet leaders was issued over his signature
a year ago, and has been widely circulated.
I had been told that Maxim Gorky was suffering from tuberculosis, and
after all the misery I had seen in Soviet Russia because of the lack of
food, I expected to find him emaciated. Instead, he was vigorous and
healthy. He stood before me tall, powerful, with a slight bend in his
shoulders. He seemed with his mass of gray hair like some huge and
fearless animal.
There was sadness in his voice and his gray eyes when he spoke of
Russia’s suffering. Gorky himself was a child of the streets, and he
feels keenly the suffering of the people.
But it was when he spoke of the future of his country that he was the
true Russian. He told me he believed in the invincible spirit of the
Russian masses and their determination to defend “their revolution.” He
dwelt with pride upon the accomplishments of individual workers, whose
native genius had been set free from the old bondage. I was surprised to
find the interest he took in the industries. In one factory just outside
of Petrograd, he told me, they were extracting sugar from the sawdust of
certain woods by a process discovered by a workman. With equal
enthusiasm he told me of another worker who had perfected a method of
preserving fish nets so that their durability had been increased four
hundred percent.
He told me a manifesto would soon be issued to the world, coming from a
number of Russian scientists of established reputation, setting forth
the scientific achievements accomplished under Soviet rule.
“Under two years of Soviet rule,” Gorky said, “there have been more
discoveries made in Russia and there has been more progress in general
than previously in twenty years under Czarism.”
The greatest joy that Gorky finds in his work for the Soviet Government
is in the tremendous task of preserving the art of old Russia and
creating new art. Even in the throes of the revolution when Gorky
opposed the Bolshevik rule, he was working with the government to
preserve the old art.
Under his direction a museum was established in a fine structure,
wherein were stored thousands of art treasures recovered during the
revolution. Bourgeoisie who fled to other countries left their
unoccupied homes full of beautiful things. The Soviet Government took
possession of these homes at once and removed valuable art to the
museum. Manifestos were sent broadcast appealing to the people to
preserve these things which were now theirs. In Petrograd the following
bulletin, under the title “Appeal for the Preservation of Works of Art,”
appeared:
“Citizens! The old landlords have gone. Behind them remains a tremendous
inheritance. Now it belongs to the whole people. Guard this inheritance;
take care of the palaces. They will stand as the palaces of the art of
the whole people. Preserve the pictures, the statues, the
buildings—these are a concentration of the spiritual force of yourselves
and of your forefathers. Art is that beauty which men of talent have
been able to create even under the lash of despotism. Do not touch a
single stone, safeguard monuments, buildings, ancient things, and
documents. All these are your history, your pride.”
“But it was impossible to save everything,” Gorky told me. “There were
the soldiers and the peasants, who had never had a chance to see any of
these beautiful things in the past. The people did not wish to destroy
these things. They only threw away what seemed worthless to them. One
priceless painting was found in a garbage can. But it was found and
brought back by the people themselves. And now it is in the museum where
every one may see it.”
Gorky is head of the “World Literature Publishing House,” a vast
institution organized by the Soviet Government to publish the best
literary and scientific productions of all countries in popular editions
for the Russian masses. A great staff of literary and professional men
and women are enrolled in this work. Already about six hundred books
have been edited and are ready for publication, although only thirty
volumes had been printed when the work had to stop on account of the
lack of paper. As soon as paper is available they hope to begin printing
millions of volumes in editions which will be within the reach of all
the Russian people.
In addition to this work Gorky has been devoting much time to the
preparation of a series of motion-picture scenarios, composed with
scientific historical exactness, showing the history of man from the
Stone Age down through the Middle Ages to the time of Louis XVI of
France, and finally to the present day. This work was begun in July
1919, and when I talked with Gorky in September of the same year, he
told me that they had already finished twenty-five scenarios. He
described the extraordinary difficulties under which the work was going
forward; the actors and actresses who were often undernourished,
persevered over all obstacles, inspired by an enthusiasm which Gorky
thought would have been impossible in any other country. The Soviet
Government was aiding the production in every way. The best actors and
actresses in the country had been enlisted in this work along with
historians and scientists. The films were being sent into the remote
towns and villages, and thousands of small theatres already were being
built.
The motion picture theatres in general in Petrograd were not showing the
ordinary romances that we see in this country in films. The motion
picture was used largely for educating the people and showing the
development of industry, the proper care of children and the advantages
of sanitary conditions. Russia is in great need of education so far as
sanitation is concerned. In the large cities the sanitation is modern,
but in smaller towns and in the villages the people have no idea of a
sewage system.
The theatre of Soviet Russia had already been organized throughout the
country at the time of my visit. The production of plays and scenarios
was included in the educational program of the government. The theatres
were organized into one corporation and subsidized by the Soviet
Government, which did not, however, interfere in any way with the
artistic work of the producers. I saw Schiller’s “Robbers” and Gorky’s
“Lower Depths” produced wonderfully. The people crowded to the theatres.
The first four performances each week are set aside for the Soviet
workers.
Gorky assured me that the elements opposed to Soviet rule “do not find
any support among the rank and file. The working class strongly supports
the Soviets, and most of the peasants approve, although the village
youth is still indifferent.”
The Jewish people were playing an important part in the revolutionary
reconstruction of the country, Gorky said, but added that he did not
mean the class of Jews who had been influential in the old régime. The
Jews who had come forward under the revolution were the ones who had
formerly been kept within the pale. They felt that a new freedom had
been offered them by the Soviet Government, that they would be treated
as brothers, and so they were rendering valuable constructive service.
“If they would only leave us alone,” he cried out bitterly. “Tell
America for the sake of humanity to leave Russia alone.” His words
fairly burned as he sat there and talked, emphasizing each phrase with a
gesture of his clenched fists. “Tell them to leave us alone. I know
quite well that there are many persons in America who have no vision of
this Russia, who have no comprehension of what Russia is. But after all,
you have a few enlightened people in America. Please tell them that
Russia is not Central Africa, without civilization or statesmanship.
Russia is well able to take care of herself.”
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