“THE PARTY” AND THE PEOPLE
If I were asked what feature of the Communist régime I regarded as,
above all, the most conspicuous, the most impressive, and the most
significant, I should say without hesitation the vast spiritual gulf
separating the Communist Party from the Russian people. I use the word
“spiritual” not in the sense of “religious.” The Russian equivalent,
_duhovny_, is more comprehensive, including the psychological, and
everything relating to inner, contemplative life, and ideals.
History scarcely knows a more flagrant misnomer than that of
“government of workers and peasants.” In the first place, the
Bolshevist Government consists not of workers and peasants, but
of typical intellectual bourgeois. In the second, its policy is
categorically repudiated by practically the entire Russian nation,
and it keeps in the saddle only by bullying the workers and peasants
by whom it purports to have been elected. The incongruity between
Russian national ideals and the alien character of the Communists
will naturally not be apparent to outsiders who visit the country to
study the Bolshevist system from the very view-point which least of
all appeals to the Russian, namely, the possibility of its success
as a _Socialist_ experiment. But those foreign Socialist enthusiasts
who adhere to Bolshevist doctrines are presumably indifferent to the
sentiments of the Russian people, for their adherence appears to be
based on the most un-Russian of all aspects of those doctrines,
namely, their internationalism. And this un-Russian international
aspect of Bolshevism is admittedly its prime characteristic.
There is a sense of course in which the psychology of all peoples
is becoming increasingly international, to the great benefit of
mankind. No one will deny that half our European troubles are caused
by the chauvinistic brandishing of national flags and quarrels
about the drawing of impossible frontier lines. But these are the
antics of a noisy few--“Bolsheviks of the right”--and do not reflect
the true desire of the peoples, which is for peace, harmony, and
neighbourliness. Hitherto the immediate aspirations of the Bolsheviks
have been anything but this. Their first principle is world-wide civil
war between classes, and their brandishing of the red flag surpasses
that of the most rabid Western chauvinists. Theirs is not true
internationalism. Like their claim to represent the Russian people, it
is bogus.
The gulf between “the party” and the people yawns at every step,
but I will only mention one or two prominent instances. The most
important institution established by the Bolsheviks is that known
as the “Third International Workers’ Association,” or, briefly, the
“Third International.” The aim of this institution is to reproduce
the Communist experiment in all countries. The First International
was founded in 1864 by Karl Marx. It was a workers’ association not
world-revolutionary in character. Its sympathy, however, with the
Paris Commune discredited it, and it was followed by the Second,
which confined itself to international labour interests. The Third
International was founded in Moscow in the first week of March,
1919, amid circumstances of great secrecy by a chance gathering of
extreme Socialists from about half-a-dozen of the thirty European
States, leavened with a similar number of Asiatics. Subsequently a
great meeting was held, at which the Second, called the “yellow”
International because it is composed of moderates, was declared defunct
and superseded by the “real,” that is, the Communist, International.
The next day this group of unknown but precocious individuals came
to their headquarters at Petrograd, “the Metropolis of the World
Revolution.” I went to meet them at the Nicholas railway station. The
mystery that enshrouded the birth of the Third International rendered
it impossible to be duly impressed with the solemnity of the occasion,
and although I had not come either to cheer or to jeer, but simply to
look on, I could not but be struck by the comicality of the scene.
The day was frosty, and for nearly two hours the members of the Third
International, standing bareheaded on a specially constructed tribune,
wasted time saying exactly the same things over and over again, their
speeches being punctuated by the cacophony of three badly-directed
bands. In spite of their luxurious fur coats the delegates shivered and
their faces turned blue. They did not at all look the desperadoes I had
half anticipated. Some of them were even effeminate in appearance. Only
Zinoviev, the president, with his bushy, dishevelled hair, looked like
an unrepentant schoolboy amid a group of delinquents caught red-handed
in some unauthorized prank.
The orators, with chattering teeth, sang in divers tongues the praises
of the Red régime. They lauded the exemplary order prevailing in Russia
and rejoiced at the happiness, contentment, and devotion to the Soviet
Government which they encountered at every step. They predicted the
immediate advent of the world revolution and the early establishment
of Bolshevism in every country. They all closed their lengthy orations
with the same exclamations: “Long live the Third International!” “Down
with the bourgeoisie!” “Long live Socialism!” (by which they meant
Bolshevism), etc., and no matter how many times these same slogans
had been shouted already, on each occasion they were retranslated at
length, with embellishments, and to the musical accompaniments of the
inevitable “Internationale.”
The position of the Third International in Russia and its relation to
the Soviet Government are not always easy to grasp. The executives both
of the International and of the Government are drawn from the Communist
Party, while every member of the Government must also be a member of
the Third International. Thus, though technically not interchangeable,
the terms Soviet Government, Third International, and Communist Party
merely represent different aspects of one and the same thing. It is in
their provinces of action that they differ. The province of the Third
International is the whole world, including Russia: that of the present
Soviet Government is Russia alone. It would seem as if the Third
International, with its superior powers and scope and with firebrands
like Zinoviev and Trotzky at its helm, must override the Moscow
government. In practice, however, this is not so. For the hard logic of
facts has now proved to the Moscow government that the theories which
the Third International was created to propagate are largely wrong and
unpracticable, and they are being repudiated by the master mind of
Lenin, the head of the home government. Thus two factions have grown
up within the Communist Party: that of Lenin, whose interests for the
time are centred in Russia, and who would sacrifice world-revolutionary
dreams to preserve Bolshevist power in one country; and that of the
Third International, which throws discretion to the winds, and stands
for world revolution for ever, and no truck with the bourgeoisie of
capitalistic States. Hitherto the majority in the party has been on
the side of Lenin, as is not unnatural, for very few rank-and-file
Communists really care about the world revolution, having no conception
of what it implies. If they had, they would probably support him more
heartily still.
At the very moment when the Third International was haranguing for its
own satisfaction outside the Nicholas Station, very different things
were happening in the industrial quarters of the city. There, the
workers, incensed by the suppression of free speech, of freedom of
movement, of workers’ co-operation, of free trading between the city
and the villages, and by the ruthless seizure and imprisonment of their
spokesmen, had risen to demand the restoration of their rights. They
were led by the men of the Putilov iron foundry, the largest works in
Petrograd, at one time employing over forty thousand hands. The Putilov
workers were ever to the fore in the revolutionary movement. They led
the strikes which resulted in the revolution of March, 1917. Their
independent bearing, their superior intelligence and organization,
and their efforts to protest against Bolshevist despotism, aroused
the fears and hatred of the Communists, who quite rightly attributed
this independent attitude to the preference of the workers for the
non-Bolshevist political parties.
The dispute centred round the Bolshevist food system, which was
rapidly reducing the city to a state of starvation. Hoping the storm
would blow over, the Bolshevist authorities allowed it to run its
course for a time, endeavouring to appease the workers by an issue of
rations increased at the expense of the rest of the population. This
measure, however, only intensified the workers’ indignation, while the
hesitation of the Bolsheviks to employ force encouraged them in their
protests. Unauthorized meetings and processions increased in frequency,
the strikes spread to every factory in the city, speakers became more
violent, and all sorts of jokes were made publicly at the expense of
the Bolsheviks. Strolling in the industrial quarters I saw a party
of men emerge from a plant singing the Marseillaise and cheering. At
the same time they carried a banner on which was rudely imprinted the
following couplet:
_Doloi Lamina s koninoi,
Daitje tsarya s svininoi_,
which being interpreted means: “Down with Lenin and horseflesh, give us
a tsar and pork!”
As the disturbances developed, typewritten leaflets began to be
distributed containing resolutions passed at the various meetings.
One of these leaflets was the resolution passed unanimously by 12,000
workers (at that time the entire staff) of the Putilov works, demanding
that the task of provisioning be restored to the former co-operative
societies. The language of the resolution was violent, the Bolshevist
leaders were referred to as bloody and hypocritical tyrants, and
demands were also put forward for the cessation of the practice of
torture by the Extraordinary Commission and for the immediate release
of numerous workers’ representatives.
I knew of this resolution on the day of the meeting, because some
friends of mine were present at it. The proceedings were enthusiastic
in the extreme. The Bolsheviks, however, did not mind that much,
because they were careful that nothing about it should get into the
Press. But when the typed resolutions spread surreptitiously with
alarming rapidity, in exactly the same way as, in December, 1916, the
famous speech by Miliukoff in the Duma against Rasputin was secretly
distributed from hand to hand, then the Bolsheviks saw things were
going too far and took drastic measures to suppress the unrest without
any further delay.
One Sunday between thirty and forty street-cars full of sailors
and guards, the latter of whom spoke a language that workers who
encountered them declared was not Russian, arrived in the vicinity
of the Putilov works and occupied all the entrances. During the next
three days between three and four hundred men were arrested, while in
those cases where the workers were not to be found their wives were
taken in their stead. These arrests are always easily carried out, for
the workers are not allowed to possess arms. It is significant that
among those arrested at one of the shipping yards were two men who had
declared at a meeting that even the English Parliament was superior to
the soviets as the Bolsheviks ran them. These two were among those who
were subsequently shot. When after returning to England I recounted
this incident to the Committee on International Affairs of the British
Labour Party, the gentleman on my right (I do not know his name) found
nothing better to exclaim than, “Serve ’em right.”
The uproar over the arrest of the workers, and especially of their
wives, was terrific. The resolutions having spread all over the city,
you could almost hear people whispering to each other with furtive joy
that there was shortly to be a general insurrection, that Zinoviev and
others were preparing to take flight, and so on. In the course of three
weeks things became so bad that it was deemed advisable to call Lenin
from Moscow in the hope that his presence would overawe the workers,
and a great Communist counter-demonstration was organized at the
_Narodny Dom_.
The _Narodny Dom_ (House of the People) is a huge palace built for the
people by the late Tsar. Before the war it used to be very difficult,
owing to the system of _abonnements_, to obtain tickets to the State
theatres, of which the Marinsky Opera and the Alexandrinsky Theatre
were the chief; so the Tsar, at his own expense, built this palace and
presented it to the people. Besides numerous side shows, it contained
a large theatre where the same dramatic works were produced as in
the State theatres, and the biggest opera house in Russia, where the
Russian peasant Chaliapin, the greatest operatic singer and actor the
world has yet seen, sang regularly to huge audiences of six or eight
thousand lower middle class and working people. In the days when I was
a student of the Conservatoire of Petrograd, eking out a living by
teaching English, I used often to frequent the _Narodny Dom_ opera.
There was free admission to a portion of the hall, while the most
expensive seats were at cinematograph prices. The inevitable deficit
was made up out of the State exchequer. Over the porch of the building
was an inscription: _From the Tsar to His People_. When the Bolsheviks
came into power they removed this inscription, and also abolished the
name of “House of the People,” changing it to “House of Rosa Luxembourg
and Karl Liebknecht.” This building, containing the largest auditorium
in Russia, is now frequently used for special celebrations. As a rule,
on such occasions only the Communist _élite_ and special delegates are
admitted. The common people to whom the Tsar presented the palace are
refused admission.
On the evening of the great Communist counter-demonstration against the
Petrograd strikers, machine-guns barred the entrance to what was once
the House of the People, and the approaches bristled with bayonets. The
former Tsar, when last he visited it, drove up in an open carriage. Not
so the new “Tsar,” the president of the workers’ republic. The moment
of his arrival was a secret, and he arrived literally hedged round with
a special bodyguard of Red cadets.
The audience was a picked one, consisting of the principal Communist
bodies of the city and delegates from organizations such as trade
unions, teachers, and pupils, selected by the Communists. I got in
with a ticket procured by my manager. When Lenin emerged on to the
stage, the audience rose as one man and greeted him with an outburst
of vociferous applause lasting several minutes. The little man, who
has such a hold on a section of his followers, advanced casually to
the footlights. His oriental features betrayed no emotion. He neither
smiled nor looked austere. Dressed in a plain drab lounge suit, he
stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting patiently till the
cheering should subside. Was he indifferent to the welcome, or was he
secretly pleased? He showed no sign and at length held up his hand to
indicate that there had been enough of it.
The orators of the revolution--and they are indeed great orators--all
have their distinctive styles. That of Trotzky, with poised,
well-finished, well-reasoned phrases, is volcanic, fierily hypnotic:
that of Zinoviev, torrential, scintillating with cheap witticisms,
devoid of original ideas, but brilliant in form and expression; that of
Lunacharsky, violent, yet nobly and pathetically impressive, breathing
an almost religious fervour. Lenin differs from all of these. He knows
and cares for no rhetorical cunning. His manner is absolutely devoid of
all semblance of affectation. He talks fast and loudly, even shouts,
and his gesticulations remind one of the tub-thumping demagogue. But he
possesses something the others do not possess. Cold and calculating, he
is not actuated to the extent Zinoviev and Trotzky are by venom against
political opponents and the bourgeoisie. On the contrary, despite his
speeches, which are often nothing more than necessary pandering to the
cruder instincts of his colleagues, Lenin (himself an ex-landlord) has
never ceased to believe not only that the Russian bourgeoisie as a
class is necessary to the State, but that the entire Russian peasantry
is and always will be a class of small property-owning farmers with
the psychology of the _petit bourgeois_. True, in 1918 the attempt
was made, chiefly through the medium of committees of the village
poor, to thrust Communism upon the peasantry by force. But it was soon
relinquished and Lenin headed the retreat. Astonishingly ignorant of
world events and completely out of harmony with Western workers, Lenin
has maintained his position in Russia simply by his understanding of
this single trait of the Russian peasant character and by repeatedly
giving way to it--even to the complete temporary repudiation of
communistic principles.
In all other respects Lenin is a dogmatic disciple of Karl Marx, and
his devotion to the cause of the world revolution is tempered only by
the slowly dawning realization that things in the Western world are
not exactly as enthusiastic Communists describe. But Lenin’s better
understanding of the mind of the Russian peasant gives him an advantage
over his fellows in presenting his case to his followers, bringing him
a little nearer to actualities; so that his speech, while laboured,
abstruse, and free from rhetorical flourish, is straightforward and
carries, to his little-thinking Communist audiences, the conviction
that he must be right. But the “right” refers not to ethics, which does
not enter into Bolshevist philosophy, but only to tactics.
And on the occasion I am describing Lenin spoke mainly of tactics.
The vicious Mensheviks and Socialist-Revolutionaries had agitated
in the factories, and persuaded the workers to down tools and make
preposterous demands which were incompatible with the principles of the
workers’ and peasants’ government. The chief ground of complaint was
the Bolshevist food commissariat. The workers were hungry. Therefore
the workers must be fed and the revolt would subside. A heroic effort
must be made to obtain food for the factories. So the government had
decided to stop the passenger traffic on every railroad in Russia for
the space of three weeks, in order that all available locomotives and
every available car and truck might be devoted to the sole purpose of
transporting to the northern capital supplies of forcibly seized food.
Of the results of these so-called “freight weeks” little need be said
beyond the fact that the experiment was never repeated because of its
complete failure to solve the problem. It is true that the government
supplies did increase very slightly, but the population was in the end
much hungrier than before, for the very simple reason that the stoppage
of the passenger traffic materially interfered with the comings and
goings of “sackmen,” upon whose illicit and risky operations the public
relied for at least half, and the better half, of their food supplies!
The workers’ revolt subsided, not through the better feeding of the
men, but because they were effectually reduced to a state of abject
despair by the ruthless seizure of their leaders and the cruel
reprisals against their wives and families, and because this moment was
chosen by the authorities to reduce their numbers by removing a large
draft of workers to other industrial centres in the interior. Still, on
the occasion of Lenin’s visit, the workers did make a final attempt to
assert themselves. A delegation from the largest factories was sent to
present their demands, as set forth in resolutions, to the president in
person at the _Narodny Dom_. But the delegation was refused admission.
They returned, foiled, to their factories and observed to their
comrades that “it was easier to approach the Tsar Nicholas than it was
to gain access to the president of the ‘Soviet Republic.’” What, I
wondered, would the Third International have thought of such words?
* * * * *
After the experiment of the “freight weeks,” the next expedient
resorted to when the self-same demands were again presented was
a strangely inconsistent but an inevitable one. It was a partial
concession of freedom to “sackmen.” After long and loud clamouring,
a certain percentage of workers were granted the right to journey
freely to the provinces and bring back two poods (72 lb.) of bread
each. Thus they got the nickname of two-pooders and the practice
was called “two-pooding.” As everyone strove to avail himself of
the right the railroads naturally became terribly congested, but
the measure nevertheless had the desired effect. Not only was there
almost immediately more bread, but the price fell rapidly. The workers
travelled to the grain-growing districts, came to terms with the
villagers, who willingly gave up to them what they hid from Bolshevist
requisitioners, and journeyed back, jealously clutching their sacks
of bread. I happened to be travelling to Moscow at this time, and the
sight of swarms of wretched “two-pooders,” filling all the cars and
clambering on to the roofs and buffers, was a pitiful one indeed. But
just at the moment when it seemed that a genuine solution of the food
problem in the capitals had been found, “two-pooding” was summarily
cut short by government edict on the ground that the congestion of the
railways rendered impossible the transport of the government’s supplies.
For over a year more the Bolsheviks strove their utmost to stave off
the inevitable day when it would no longer be possible to forbid the
right of free trading. As the feud between themselves and the peasants
deepened, and the difficulty of provisioning increased, the government
sought by one palliative after another to counteract the effects of
their own food policy. But recently, in the spring of 1921, the fateful
step was taken. In spite of considerable opposition from his followers
Lenin publicly repudiated the communistic system of forced requisitions
and restored, with certain restrictions, the principle of freedom in
the buying and selling of food.
This was adopting a policy of desperation, but it is the most important
event since the Bolshevist _coup d’état_ in November, 1917. For it
is a repudiation of the fundamental plank of the Communist platform,
the first principle of which is the complete suppression of all free
trading, private business initiative, and individual enterprise. There
is no limit to the possibilities opened up by this tragic necessity--as
it must seem to the Communists. But having taken it, however
reluctantly, why do they not release their opponents from prison and
invite their co-operation--those opponents whose chief protest was
against the stupidity of the Bolshevist food system?
The explanation is that with the Bolshevist leaders the welfare of
the workers and peasants, and of humanity in general, is completely
subordinate to the interest of the Communist Party. And this attitude
is inspired not so much by selfish motives as by an amazingly bigoted
conviction that the Bolshevist interpretation of Marxian dogma is the
only formula that will ultimately lead to what they regard as the
“emancipation of all workers.” Astonishing as it may seem in these
days, when the better elements of mankind are struggling to temper
prejudice with reason, theory is all in all to the Bolsheviks, while
facts are only to be recognized when they threaten the dictatorship of
the party. Thus the concession of freedom of trade to the peasantry
does not imply any yielding of principle, but merely adaptation to
adverse conditions, a step “backward,” which must be “rectified” the
moment circumstances permit. That is why, since Lenin’s announcement,
Bolshevist sophists have been talking themselves blue in the endeavour
to prove to home and foreign followers that the chameleon does not and
never will change its colour. “Free trading,” they say, “is only a
temporary unavoidable evil.” Temporary? But can any one who believes
in human nature conceive of a possible return to the system Lenin has
discarded?
* * * * *
One day there occurred in Petrograd a startling event that would have
made foreign protagonists of proletarian dictatorship, had they been
present, sit bolt upright and diligently scratch their heads.
A re-registration of the party took place, the object being to purge
its ranks of what were referred to as “undesirable elements” and
“radishes,” the latter being a happy epithet invented by Trotzky
to designate those who were red only on the outside. A stringent
condition of re-entry was that every member should be guaranteed by
two others for his political reliability, not only upon admission
but in perpetuity. Such were the fear and suspicion prevailing even
within the ranks of the party. The result was that, besides those who
were expelled for misdemeanours, many Communists, disquieted by the
introduction of so stringent a disciplinary measure, profited by the
re-registration to retire, and the membership was reduced by more than
50 per cent. A total of less than 4,000 was left out of a population of
800,000.
Immediately after the purge there were districts of the “metropolis
of the world revolution” where scarcely a Communist was left. The
central committee had been prepared to purge the party of a certain
number of undesirables, but the sudden reduction by over one half was a
totally unexpected blow. Its bitterness was enhanced by the fact that
only three weeks earlier, by means of threats, bribes, trickery, and
violence, the Communists had secured over 1,100 out of 1,390 seats at
the elections to the Petrograd Soviet, which result they were holding
up to the outside world as indicative of the spreading influence of
Bolshevism.
The problem of how to increase the party membership became vitally
urgent. With this end in view a novel and ingenious idea was suddenly
conceived. It was resolved to make an appeal for party recruits
_among the workers_! Amazing though it may seem, the Communist
leaders, according to their own accounts, thought of this course only
as a last resort. To the outsider this is almost incredible. Even in
Russia it seemed so at first, but on second thoughts it appeared less
strange. For ever since the murder in 1918 of the Jewish commissars
Volodarsky and Uritzky, the former by unknown workmen and the latter by
a Socialist-Revolutionary Jew, the Communists had come to regard the
workers in general as an unreliable element, strongly under Menshevist
and Socialist-Revolutionary influence. The small section that joined
the Bolsheviks were elevated to posts of responsibility, and thus
became detached from the masses. But a larger section, openly adhering
to anti-Bolshevist parties, was left, whose spokesmen were constantly
subjected to persecution which only enhanced their prestige in the
workers’ eyes.
Of whom, then, had the Communist Party consisted for the first two
years of the Red régime? The question is not easy to answer, for
the systems of admission have varied as much as the composition of
the party itself. The backbone of the rank and file was originally
formed by the sailors, whom I heard Trotzky describe during the riots
of July, 1917, as “the pride and glory of the revolution.” But a
year or so later there was a good sprinkling of that type of workman
who, when he is not a Communist, is described by the Communists as
“workman bourgeois.” Though these latter were often self-seekers and
were regarded by the workers in general as snobs, they were a better
element than the sailors, who with few exceptions were ruffians.
Further recruits were drawn from amongst people of most varied and
indefinite types--yard-keepers, servant girls, ex-policemen, prison
warders, tradesmen, and the petty bourgeoisie. In rare instances one
might find students and teachers, generally women of the soft, dreamy,
mentally weak type, but perfectly sincere and disinterested. Most women
Communists of the lower ranks resembled ogresses.
In the early days membership of the party, which rapidly came to
resemble a political aristocracy, was regarded as an inestimable
privilege worth great trouble and cost to obtain. The magic word
_Communist_ inspired fear and secured admission and preference
everywhere. Before it every barrier fell. Of course endless abuses
arose, one of which was the sale of the recommendations required
for membership. As workers showed no inclination to join, it
was self-seekers for the most part who got in, purchasing their
recommendations by bribes or for a fixed sum, and selling them in their
turn after admission. These were the “undesirables” of whom the leaders
were so anxious to purge the party.
Various expedients were then devised to filter applicants. Party
training schools were established for neophytes, where devotion
to “our” system was fanned into ecstasy, while burning hatred was
excited toward every other social theory whatsoever. The training
schools were never a brilliant success, for a variety of reasons. The
instruction was only theoretical and the lecturers were rarely able
to clothe their thoughts in simple language or adapt the abstruse
aspects of sociological subjects to the mentality of their audiences,
which consisted of very youthful workers or office employees lured
into attendance by an extra half-pound of bread issued after each
lecture. To attend the whole course was irksome, involving sacrifice
of leisure hours, and the number of _ideiny_ (“idealistic”) applicants
was too small to permit rigorous discipline. The training schools were
gradually superseded by Communist clubs, which devoted their attention
to concerts and lectures, thus resembling the cultural-enlightenment
committees in the army.
Another deterrent to “radishes” was devised by establishing three
degrees for professing converts:
1. Sympathizers.
2. Candidates.
3. Fully qualified Communists.
Before being crowned with the coveted title of “member of the Communist
Party,” neophytes had to pass through the first two probationary
stages, involving tests of loyalty and submission to party discipline.
It was the prerogative only of the third category to bear arms. It
was to them that preference was given in all appointments to posts of
responsibility.
There is one source upon which the Bolsheviks can rely with some
confidence for new drafts. I refer to the Union of Communist Youth.
Realizing their failure to convert the present generation, the
Communists have turned their attention to the next, and established
this Union which all school children are encouraged to join. Even
infants, when their parents can be induced or compelled to part with
them, are prepared for initiation to the Union by concentration in
colonies and homes, where they are fed on preferential rations, at the
expense of the rest of the population, and clothed with clothing seized
from children whose parents refuse to be separated from them. It is the
object of these colonies to protect the young minds from pernicious
non-Communist influence and so to instil Bolshevist ideals that by
the time they reach adolescence they will be incapable of imbibing any
others. According to Bolshevist admissions many of these homes are in
an appalling state of insanitation, but a few are kept up by special
efforts and exhibited to foreign visitors as model nurseries. It is
still too early to estimate the success of this system. Personally I am
inclined to think that, when not defeated by the misery of insanitation
and neglect, the propagandist aims will be largely counteracted by the
silent but benevolent influence of the self-sacrificing intellectuals
(doctors, matrons, and nurses) whose services in the running of them
cannot be dispensed with. The tragedy of the children of Soviet Russia
is in the numbers that are thrown into the streets. But the Union
of Communist Youth, consisting of adolescents, with considerable
license permitted them, with endless concerts, balls, theatre parties
and excursions, supplementary rations and issues of sweetmeats,
processioning, flag-waving, and speech-making at public ceremonies, is
still the most reliable source of recruits to the Communist Party.
It will be readily realized that the party consisted of a medley of
widely differing characters, in which genuine toilers were a minority.
When the novel suggestion was made of inviting workers to join, this
fact was admitted with laudable candour. The Bolshevist spokesmen
frankly avowed they had completely forgotten the workers, and a great
campaign was opened to draw them into the party. “The watchword ‘Open
the party doors to the workers,’” said _Pravda_ on July 25, 1919, “has
been forgotten. Workers get ‘pickled’ as soon as they join”--which
meant they become Communists and entirely lose their individuality as
workers. Zinoviev wrote a long proclamation to toilers explaining who
the Communists were and their objects.
“The Bolshevist Party,” said he, “was not born only a year or two ago.
Our party has behind it more than one decade of glorious activity. The
best workers of the world called themselves Communists with pride....
The party is not a peculiar sect, it is not an aristocracy of labour.
It also consists of workers and peasants--only more organized, more
developed, knowing what they want and with a fixed programme. The
Communists are not the masters, in the bad sense of that word, of the
workers and peasants, but only their elder comrades, able to point out
the right path.... Recently we have purged our ranks. We have ejected
those who in our opinion did not merit the great honour of being called
Communists. They were mostly not workers but people more or less of the
privileged classes who tried to ‘paste’ themselves on to us because we
are in power.... Having done this we open wide the door of the party to
the ranks of labour.... All honest labourers may enter it. If the party
has defects let us correct them together.... We warn everyone that in
our party there is iron discipline. You must harden yourself and at
the call of the party take up very hard work. Our call is addressed
to all who are willing to sacrifice themselves for the working class.
Strengthen and help the only party in the world that leads the workers
to liberty!”
With all formalities, such as probationary stages, removed, and
diffident candidates magnanimously assured that if only they would join
they could learn later what it was all about, the membership of the
party in the northern capital rose in three months to 23,000. This was
slightly less than could have been mustered, prior to the purging, by
combining members, sympathizers, candidates, and the Union of Communist
Youth. The figures in Moscow were approximately the same.
The above remarks apply to the rank and file. Intellectuality in
the party has always been represented largely, though by no means
exclusively, by Jews, who dominate the Third International, edit the
Soviet journals, and direct propaganda. It must never be forgotten,
however, that there are just as many Jews who are opposed to
Bolshevism, only they cannot make their voices heard. I find that those
who utter warnings of a coming pogrom of Jews as a result of the evils
of Bolshevism are liable to meet with the reception of a Cassandra.
But I fear such an occurrence to be inevitable if no modifying foreign
influence is at hand, and it will be promoted by old-régimists the
world over. It will be a disaster, because Jews who have become
assimilated into the Russian nation may play a valuable part in
the reconstruction of the country. There are many who have already
played leading rôles in Russia’s democratic institutions, such as the
co-operative societies and land and town unions, which the Bolsheviks
have suppressed.
The higher orders of the party, whether Jew or Russian, consist of
the same little band of devotees, a few hundred strong, who before
the Revolution were, still are, and presumably ever will be the
Bolshevist party proper. They in their turn are subjected to the
rigid dictatorship of the central party committee, which rules Russia
absolutely through the medium of the Council of People’s Commissars.
As it became increasingly evident that the only people who would join
the party of their own free will and in considerable numbers were
“undesirables,” while a large proportion of the workers who had been
coaxed into it were but indifferent Communists, the tendency grew to
make of the party a closed corporation subject to merciless discipline.
Members, though enjoying material privileges, should have no will of
their own; undesirables should be deterred from joining by imposing
arduous duties upon all members. Such is the position in the capitals
at the present time. The “iron party discipline” is needed for another
reason besides that of barring out black sheep. With demoralization,
famine, and misery on the increase, insubordinate whisperings and
questions are arising, even within the party, especially since the
factor of war has disappeared. These questionings are growing in force
and affect the highest personages in the State. Trotzky, for instance,
no longer able to satisfy his insatiable ambition, is showing an
inclination to branch out on a line of his own in opposition to the
moderate and compromising tendencies of Lenin. The tension between them
has been relieved temporarily by assigning to Trotzky a dominant rôle
in the promotion of the world revolution, while Lenin controls domestic
affairs. But the arrangement is necessarily temporary. The characters
of the two men, except under stress of war, are as incompatible as
their respective policies of violence and moderation.
* * * * *
The number of Communists being relatively so infinitesimal, how is it
that to-day on every public and supposedly representative body there
sits an overwhelming and triumphant Communist majority? I will very
briefly describe the method of election and a single meeting of the
Soviet of Petrograd, whose sittings I attended.
[Illustration: A MEETING OUTSIDE THE TAURIDE PALACE]
Some people still ask: What exactly is a “soviet”?--and the question
is not unnatural considering that the Bolsheviks have been at pains to
persuade the world that there is an indissoluble connection between
_Soviet_ and _Bolshevism_. There is, however, absolutely no essential
association whatsoever between the two ideas, and the connection that
exists in the popular mind in this and other countries is a totally
fallacious one. The Russian word _soviet_ has two meanings: “counsel”
and “council.” When you ask advice you say, “Please give me _soviet_,”
or “Can you _soviet_ me what to do?” Dentists have on their notices:
“Painless extractions. Soviet gratis.” There was a State Soviet (in
the sense of “council”) in the constitution of the Tsar. It was the
upper house, corresponding to the Senate or the House of Lords. It was
a reactionary institution and resembled the Bolshevist soviets in that
only certain sections of the community had a voice in elections to it.
According to the original idea, even as propounded at one time by the
Bolsheviks, the political soviet or council should be a representative
body for which _all_ sections of the working community (whether of
hand or brain) should have an equal right to vote. These soviets
should elect superior ones (borough, county, provincial, etc.), until
a central soviet is constructed, electing in its turn a cabinet of
People’s Commissars, responsible to a periodically convened Congress.
This system exists on paper to this day, but its working is completely
nullified by the simple process of preventing any but Communists from
entering the lowest soviet--the only one that is in direct contact
with the people. This restraint is often effected by force, but the
franchise in any case is limited and has the effect of disenfranchising
four out of every five peasants. Nevertheless, a few non-Bolsheviks
generally manage to get elected, although at risk of gross molestation;
but they are regarded by the Communists as intruders and can exert no
influence in politics.
One might ask why the Bolsheviks, while suppressing all free soviets,
still maintain the farce of elections, since they cause a lot of
bother. “Soviets,” however, in some form or other, are indispensable in
order that the government may continue to call itself for propagandist
purposes the “Soviet” Government. If the soviet or freely elected
council system did work unshackled in Russia to-day, Bolshevism would
long ago have been abolished. In fact one of the demands frequently put
forward during strikes is for a restoration, side by side with the free
co-operative societies, of the soviet system which is now virtually
suppressed. Paradoxical though it be, Bolshevism is in reality the
complete negation of the soviet system. It is by no means impossible
that the downfall of the Communists may result in a healthy effort
being made to set the soviets to work in some form for the first time.
If this book serves no other purpose than to impress this vitally
important fact upon the reader, I shall feel I have not written in vain.
Whenever it is possible, that is, whenever no serious opposition to a
Communist candidate is expected, the Bolsheviks allow an election to
take its normal course, except that the secret ballot has been almost
universally abolished. Before they rose to power the secret ballot
was a cardinal principle of the Bolshevist programme. The argument,
so typical of Bolshevist reasoning, now put forward in justification
of its abolition is that secret voting would be inconsistent in a
proletarian republic that has become “free.”
The number of Communists who are elected without opposition is very
considerable, and, strangely enough, it is upon the bourgeoisie,
engaged in the multifarious clerical tasks of the bureaucratic
administration, that the authorities are able to rely for the least
opposition. Employees of the government offices mostly miss the
elections if they can, and if they cannot, acquiesce passively in the
appointment of Communists, knowing that the proposal of opponents will
lead, at the least, to extreme unpleasantness. A partial explanation
of this docility and the general inability of the Russian people to
assert themselves is to be found in sheer political inexperience. The
halcyon days of March, 1917, before the Bolsheviks returned, was the
only period in which they have known liberty, and at the elections of
that time there was little or no controversy. In any case, political
experience is not to be acquired in the short space of a few weeks.
I will cite but one instance of an election in a thoroughly bourgeois
institution. The return by the Marinsky Opera of a Communist delegate
to the Petrograd Soviet was given prominence in the Bolshevist Press,
and as I had at one time been connected with this theatre I was
interested to elucidate the circumstances. On the election day, of all
the singers, orchestra, chorus, and the large staff of scene-shifters,
mechanics, attendants, caretakers, etc., numbering several hundred
people, not half-a-dozen appeared. So the election was postponed
until another day, when the Communist “cell,” appointed to control
the election, brought in a complete outsider, whom they “elected” as
delegate from the theatre. The staff were completely indifferent and
unaware, until afterwards, that any election had taken place!
Not to the passive bourgeoisie, but to the active workers, do the
Bolsheviks look for opposition in the cities. It is to counteract
and forcibly prevent non-Bolshevist propaganda in the workshops that
their chief energies are devoted. The elections I am describing were
noteworthy because they followed immediately upon an outburst of
strikes, particularly affecting the railwaymen and street-car workers.
At one of the tramway parks bombs had been thrown, killing one worker
and wounding three Communists.
Only one meeting was permitted at each factory or other institution
and the printed instructions stated that it must be controlled by
Communists, who were to put forward their candidates first. Everywhere
where there had been disturbances guards were introduced to maintain
order during the meeting, and spies of the Extraordinary Commission
were sent to note who, if any one, raised his hand against the
Communist candidates. At the Obuhov works the workers were told
straight out that any one who voted against the Communists would be
dismissed without the right of employment elsewhere. At the Putilov
works the election meeting was held without notice being given, so that
scarcely any one was present. Next day the Putilov men heard to their
amazement that they had unanimously elected to the soviet some twenty
Communists!
In the district where I was living the Jewish agitator, of whom I have
previously spoken, was entrusted with the conduct of a much-advertised
house-to-house campaign to impress the workers and especially their
wives with the virtues of the Communists. The reception he received
was by no means universally cordial and the ultimate triumph of the
Communists was to him a matter of considerable relief. It goes without
saying this was the only kind of canvassing. All non-Communist parties
being denounced as counter-revolutionary, the entire populace,
except for a few intrepid individuals who courageously proclaimed
their adherence to non-Bolshevist Socialist parties, sheltered itself
behind the title of “non-partisan,” and having no programme but an
anti-Communist one, put forward none at all. To put one forward was
impossible anyway, for the use of the printing press, the right of free
speech, and the right to use firearms (which played a great part) were
confined exclusively to Communists.
At this particular election the Bolsheviks forgot the women workers,
who turned out to be unexpectedly obstreperous. In one factory on the
Vasili Island, where mostly women were employed, the Communists were
swept off the platform and the women held their own meeting, electing
eight non-partisan members. In several smaller workshops the Communists
suffered unexpected defeat, perhaps because all the available arms were
concentrated in the larger factories, and the ultimate outcome of the
elections, though the Communists of course were in the majority, was a
reduction of their majority from ninety to eighty-two per cent.
On the opening day of the soviet, armed with the order of a guest from
my regiment, I made my way to the famous Tauride Palace, now called
“Palace of Uritzky,” the seat of the former Duma. I pictured to myself,
as I entered the building, the memorable days and nights of March,
1917. There was no such enthusiasm now as there had been then. No, now
there was war, war between a Party and the People. Machine-guns fixed
on motor-cycles were posted threateningly outside the porch and a
company of Reds defended the entrance.
The meeting was scheduled for 5 o’clock, so knowing soviet practices I
strolled in about quarter to six, counting on still having time on my
hands before there would be anything doing. Speaking of unpunctuality,
I remember an occasion in 1918 when I had to make a statement to the
Samara soviet on some work I was engaged in. I wished to secure a hall
for a public lecture on science by an American professor and received
an official invitation to appear at the soviet at 5 P.M. to explain
my object in detail. I attended punctually. At 5.30 the first deputy
strolled in and, seeing no one there, asked me when the sitting would
begin.
“I was invited for 5 o’clock,” I replied.
“Yes,” he said, “5 o’clock--that’s right,” and strolled out again. At 6
three or four workmen were lounging about, chatting or doing nothing to
pass the time.
“Do you always start so unpunctually?” I asked one of them.
“If you have lived so long in Russia,” was the good-natured retort,
“you ought to know us by now.” At 7 everybody was in evidence except
the chairman. That dignitary appeared at 7.15 with the apology that he
had “stopped to chat with a comrade in the street.”
The soviet meeting at Petrograd, scheduled for 5, began at 9, but there
were extenuating circumstances. The still-discontented workmen had been
invited during the day to listen to Zinoviev, who strove to pacify
them by granting them holidays which had been cancelled on account
of the war. The soviet deputies wandered up and down the lobbies and
corridors, while the workmen streamed out talking heatedly or with
looks of gloom on their faces.
The hall within the palace had been altered and improved. The wall
behind the tribune where the portrait of the Tsar used to hang had been
removed and a deep alcove made, seating over 100 people, where the
executive committee and special guests sat. The executive committee
numbered forty people and constituted a sort of cabinet, doing all the
legislation. Its members were always Communists. The soviet proper
never took part in legislation. By its character, and especially by
the manner in which its sittings were held, it was impossible that it
should. The number of deputies was over 1,300, an unwieldy body in
which discussion was difficult in any case, but to make it completely
impossible numerous guests were invited from other organizations of
a Communist character. By this means the audience was doubled. And
one must still add the chauffeurs, street-car conductors, and general
servants of the building who also found their way in. Everybody took
part in the voting, no discrimination being made between members and
bidden or unbidden guests.
At 9 all was ready for the soviet to open. By sitting three at a desk
there were seats for about 2,000 people. The others stood at the back
or swarmed into the balcony. Sailors were very conspicuous. The day was
warm and the air was stifling. Around the walls hung notices: “You are
requested not to smoke.” In spite of this, half-way through the meeting
the room was full of smoke. Following the example of others, I doffed
my coat and, removing my belt, pulled up my shirt and flapped it up
and down by way of ventilation. Performed _en gros_ this operation was
hardly conducive to the purification of the atmosphere.
I secured a seat at the back whence I could see everything. My
neighbour was a woman, a dishevelled little creature who seemed much
embarrassed by her surroundings. Every time any one rose to speak she
asked me who it was. While we waited for the proceedings to begin she
confided to me in answer to my question that she was a guest, like
myself. “I signed on recently as a ‘sympathizer,’” she said.
Suddenly there was a burst of applause. A well-known figure with bushy
hair and Jewish features entered and strolled nonchalantly up to the
tribune. “That is Zinoviev,” I said to my neighbour, but she knew
Zinoviev.
A bell rang and silence ensued.
“I pronounce the Fourth Petrograd Soviet open,” said a tall man in
clothes of military cut who stood at the right of the president’s
chair. “That is Evdokimov, the secretary,” I said to my companion, to
which she replied profoundly, “Ah!”
An orchestra stationed in one corner of the hall struck up the
“Internationale.” Everyone rose. Another orchestra up in the balcony
also struck up the “Internationale,” but two beats later and failed to
catch up. You listened to and sang with the one you were nearest to.
“At the instance of the Communist Party,” proceeded Evdokimov in a
clear voice, “I propose the following members for election to the
executive committee.” He read out forty names, all Communists. “Those
in favour raise their hands.” A sea of hands rose. “Who is against?” To
the general excitement a number of hands were raised--an event unheard
of for many a month. “Accepted by a large majority,” exclaimed the
secretary.
“The Communist Party,” he continued, “proposes the following for
election to the presidium.” He read the names of seven Communists,
including his own. About half-a-dozen hands were raised against this
proposal, to the general amusement.
“The Communist Party proposes Comrade Zinoviev as president of the
soviet,” proceeded the secretary in heightened tones. There was a storm
of applause. One single hand was raised in opposition and was greeted
with hilarious laughter. Zinoviev advanced to the presidential chair
and the orchestras struck up the “Internationale.” The election of the
executive committee, the presidium, and the president had occupied less
than five minutes.
Opening his speech with a reference to the recent elections, Zinoviev
exulted in the fact that of the 1,390 members a thousand were fully
qualified members of the Communist Party, whilst many others were
candidates. “We were convinced,” he exclaimed, “that the working
class of Red Petrograd would remain true to itself and return to the
soviet only the best representatives, and we were not mistaken.” After
defining the tasks of the new soviet as the defence and provisioning
of the city, he spoke of the strikes, which he attributed to agents of
the Allies and to the Mensheviks and Socialist-Revolutionaries. It was
perhaps not such a bad thing, he said in effect, that some rascally
Mensheviks and Socialist-Revolutionaries had got into the soviet,
for it would be the easier to catch them if they were on the side of
the counter-revolutionaries. Continuing, he praised the Red army and
the Baltic fleet and concluded, as usual, with a prediction of early
revolution in western Europe. “Comrades,” he cried, “the tyrannous
Governments of the West are on the eve of their fall. The bourgeois
despots are doomed. The workers are rising in their millions to sweep
them away. They are looking to us, to the Red proletariat, to lead
them to victory. Long live the Communist International!”
He ended amidst tremendous cheering. During his speech the
“Internationale” was played three times and at its conclusion twice
more.
Then Zinoviev took a novel step. He invited discussion. In view of the
increase of the non-partisan element in the soviet there was a distinct
tendency to invite the latter’s co-operation--under strict control, of
course, of the Communists. The permission of discussion, however, was
easy to understand when the next speaker announced by the president
declared himself to be an ex-Menshevik now converted to Communism.
His harangue was short and ended with a panegyric of the Bolshevist
leaders. He was followed by an anarchist, who was inarticulate, but who
roundly denounced the “thieves of the food department.” His speech was
punctuated by furious howls and whistling, particularly on the part of
the sailors. None the less he introduced an anti-Communist resolution
which was scarcely audible and for which a few hands were raised.
Zinoviev repeatedly called for order but looked pleased enough at the
disturbance. The anarchist sat down amidst a storm of laughter and
booing. Zinoviev then closed the discussion.
There then approached the tribune a businesslike-looking little man,
rather stout, round-shouldered, and with a black moustache. “This is
Badaev, commissar of food,” I said to my neighbour. Sitting in front
of us were two young soldiers who seemed to treat the proceedings with
undue levity. When the plump Badaev mounted the tribune they nudged
each other and one of them said, referring to the graded categories
into which the populace is divided for purposes of provisioning:
“Look! what a tub! Ask him what food category he belongs to”--at which
little pleasantry they both giggled convulsively for several minutes.
Badaev spoke well but with no oratorical cunning. He said the food
situation was deplorable, that speculation was rife, and mentioned
decrees which should rectify defects. Badaev could hardly be called
a logician. He said in effect that, though the soup was bad, the
Communist provisioning apparatus would be the most perfect in the
world. He admitted abuses in the communal kitchens. Communists, he
acknowledged regretfully, were as bad as the others. “You must elect
controllers for the eating-houses,” he said, “but you must never let
them stay long in one job. They have a knack of chumming up with the
cook, so you must always keep them moving.”
There were several other speakers who all sang the praises of the
Communist Party and the good judgment of the electorate. At first
attentive, the audience became languid after midnight. Periodically the
“Internationale” was played. Toward the end many people lolled over the
desks with their heads on their arms. Like school-children, they were
not allowed to leave before the end except upon some good pretext.
At last the “Internationale” was played for the very last time, the men
did up their loosened belts and donned their coats and the audience
streamed out into the cool summer air. My head ached violently. I
walked along to the quay of the Neva. The river was superb. The
sky-line of the summer night was tinged with delicate pink, blue, and
green. I looked at the water and leaning over the parapet laid my
throbbing temples against the cold stone.
A militiaman touched my arm. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“I come from the soviet.”
“Your order?”
I showed it. “I am going home,” I added.
He was not a rough-looking fellow. I had a strange impulse to exclaim
bitterly: “Comrade, tell me, how long will this revolution last?” But
what was the good? Though everybody asks it, this is the one question
nobody can answer.
My path lay along the beautiful river. The stream flowed fast--faster
than I walked. It seemed to me to be getting ever faster. It was like
the Revolution--this river--flowing with an inexorable, ever-swifter,
endless tide. To my fevered fancy it became a roaring torrent tearing
all before it, like the rapids of Niagara; not, however, snowy white,
but Red, Red, Red.