I Went to Russia

by Liam O'Flaherty

  One is always inclined to judge classes, sects, nationalities and professions by the evil or good impression made by a single individual one has met. For that reason, I have an unreasoning admiration for Quakers because an Englishwoman of my acquaintance belongs to that religious conviction. Her kindness, her breeding, her intelligence, her spiritual beauty seem to me as near perfection as is possible for humanity. So I immediately likened this Russian woman to a Quaker.

  She was between forty and fifty years of age, pale of countenance, with grey hair, frail of body, timid in expression and movement, with a refined and nervous voice. It was obvious at once that she was a woman of good breeding, educated and cultured above the ordinary, one of that class which does not really belong to any country and is to be found in almost every civilised country, women who come very near to attaining the ideal of Christianity, by kindness, humility and good works.

  When I explained to her who I was and the situation in which I found myself, she welcomed me heartily and immediately placed herself at my disposal, until I should ‘get in touch with the competent authorities.’

  ‘Oh! Dear! But why didn’t you notify us that you were coming?’

  I was, of course, ashamed to tell her why I had sneaked into the country without letting anybody know I was coming and more than ever, I wished I had stayed at home; for how could one lie about such a charming woman and in face of such hospitality?

  I shall take you/ she said, ‘to the Bureau of Revolutionary Literature, where everything shall be arranged for you.’

  We set forth into the street. How nervous she was! The least noise made her start and clutch my arm. Crossing a street was an ordeal for her. Yet her conversation was as orderly as her nervous system was the reverse. And her attitude towards life, judging from her conversation, was that of an enthusiast, whose social activities gave full expression to her passion for civilisation and human happiness. She said little and spoke gently, without exaggeration or excitement, without hatred for the bourgeoisie or zeal for the class war, but she inspired me, while I was with her, with an enthusiasm for Communism and for the work being done in Russia to achieve an ideal society. Listening to her speak and feeling the influence of the peace and good-will that emanated from her personality, life seemed a joyous dream and the world a fairyland in which there was no evil, nothing but laughter and singing and love.

  ‘May I call you comrade?’ she said. ‘Thank you. Comrade, you must associate as much as possible with our young people while you stay in Russia. The older generations have been corrupted and embittered by the old life that has passed away. Their nerves are gone and they cannot transmit to their feelings the theory of society which they accept with their intelligence. But the young people have grown up with the new ideal as their reality and it is among them that you may hope to find the essential beauty of the Communist idea. Forgive the old their fanaticism, which is but the outcome of exhaustion and suffering. And among the young also there is a lot to forgive, the arrogance of youth. But even so, how I wish I were young, even to be tactless and arrogant like the young, but to have that vision of a wonderful future. We others must content ourselves with working for that, to prepare the way for the young. Seret prudens agricola arbores, quarumfruges aspiciet nunquam. It is as if one were the mother of a whole generation. Oh! I hope they are going to give us time to finish our work.’

  She turned towards me and said with fear in her eyes:

  ‘Do you think they are really going to make war on us soon, the others?’

  How could I tell this Communist saint that it was my earnest hope that war would break out as soon as possible, to hasten the conquest of Europe by the Bolsheviks, since it was now obvious to me that the latter had a higher idea of civilisation than the Europeans, as well as being younger, fresher and more strong. This woman confused Lenin with Christ and would not understand that her male counterpart, the captain of the ship on which I arrived, that other Bolshevik saint, had somewhat different ideas about the development of the proletarian revolution. Such is life. Timid English Quaker women, who would not willingly shorten the life of a wounded fly, are used by violent, red-faced generals to keep the Indians in subjection. To me they are all equally beautiful, the kind women, the red-nosed generals, the idealists, the enslavers, the Quakers and the brooding fanatics with visions of world conquest and of human equality to be imposed by violence. How could I explain that to her? Or to myself, how could I explain my almost insane incapacity for believing in the topical religions of rampant mankind? They all play their parts and mine is the role of the onlooker in the stalls, who claps his hands in applause or hisses in condemnation, according as they play well or badly, the hero, the villain, the clown and all the different minor characters who flavour the piece with the divers sauces of their actions and philosophies.

  There was nobody in the office of the Bureau of Revolutionary Literature, so the lady brought me to the room of one of the members a long distance away. He was at home and she left me in charge of him. He was a Roumanian Jew and a man of the world, who made me feel at home immediately, treating me with kindness. Although he and his wife had but one room, in which they both lived and where he kept all his books, of which he had a considerable number, by extraordinary ingenuity they contrived to give their lodging an air of luxury and refinement that was exceedingly comfortable. After one glance, he decided that I must have a shave and a bath as soon as possible. He himself had just finished his toilet. While I shaved at his writing desk and had a bath in a large tub behind a screen, I related my adventures since my arrival in Leningrad. He laughed heartily and accused me of incredible eccentricity.

  If you change the word eccentricity into folly you’ll be nearer the point,’ I said. Tndeed my folly borders on insanity, for I have arrived here with eight roubles and with hardly any kit.’

  He laughed again and assured me that I had no need to worry about money or luggage. On the contrary, my eccentricities would but serve to endear me to the Moscow intellectuals, who were rather wearied by the pompousness of European writers.

  ‘Let us hope so,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, I have a habit of becoming wearisome after a little while.’

  It is quite true/ he said. ‘There is nothing more boring than the pose assumed by English writers especially, although the French are nearly as bad. They attach so much importance to themselves that it is impossible for others to attach any further importance, so contempt is attached instead. It is sad that the supply of literary geniuses is not equal to the number of people who wish to assume genius.’

  I was delighted with this man. He told me he had been eight years in Russia and that he had become Russified and intended never to leave the country. He then invited me to have breakfast with him. It was excellent. Residence in France had given him an appreciation of food which I found invaluable at that moment. We had delicious Russian olives, various kinds of fish, eggs and excellent coffee.

  I recommend this kind of fish, especially/ said my host. It comes from the Caspian Sea and is very rare. It is very curious. One had read that the Russians were interested in food, but it is quite the contrary. They have no interest in food.’

  In Ireland during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries/ I replied, ‘food and the eating of it were highly respected, so that it was a country pleasant for travellers and famous for its hospitality, joy of life and gay living. Now the contrary holds good, owing to the disappearance of a leisured aristocracy and the appearance of a bourgeoisie that is not yet prosperous or civilised. The same thing is probably happening in Russia.’

  He shook his head and began to discuss literature, with which he seemed to be conversant to a high degree.

  I find American literature more interesting than modern English, French or German literature,’ he said. ‘Everything seems to have been already written in these latter countries, whereas in America hardly anything has been written. Beginnings are always more interesting than ends, in literature as in love.’
<
br />   ‘And in Russia?’

  ‘Here politics are so interesting that they absorb all the talent of the country. Even those who go in for literature as a form of expression do so from political motives rather than for a love of art for art’s sake. I am a critic and journalist, but I am primarily a Communist. I love literature, but I am more interested in politics. And you? Are you interested in politics or in literature?’

  I am interested in everything,’ I replied. ‘Politics are an aspect of life; that is all. So is horse racing. Literature for me is my means of expressing my personality. Therefore my interest in it is immeasurably greater than my interest in politics. If I were a Russian it might be different. After all, Napoleon began his career as a writer. Were it not for the French Revolution he might have continued as a writer. Even at my age I can understand how delightful it would be to plunge into Russian politics; especially ten years hence. This fish is certainly excellent.’

  I admired the character and appearance of my host. In dress he was somewhat of a dandy, but achieved by tidiness what is usually achieved by consummate tailoring and expensive materials in Western European cities. In that way, he retained the appearance of a proletarian while satisfying his innate love of fashion. In the same way, he affected a harmony between his conservative and essentially middle-class nature and the ideals of revolutionary Communism. How? I can never understand this trick of self-effacement, of being one thing and effectively pretending to be something else, of running with the hare and hunting with the hounds, of being a successful adventurer, of being so useful to everybody that nobody feels inclined to take offence; and at the same time being perfectly mannered, moderately worthy, good company, almost a gentleman, not objectionably cunning.

  After breakfast we set out to the Bureau of Revolutionary Literature.

  Chapter XII

  I State My Position

  We arrived at a little square off the Kusnetsky Most. It was obviously very new. The grass was just sprouting on the grass plots. The garden seats were new and the gravel on the paths was still rough and practically untrodden. But every seat was occupied and there were children already playing on the paths.

  ‘You see this little square?’ said my friend.

  ‘Yes,i I said. It is a pretty little square. It gives me great joy to see people lounging on seats in the heart of a city and children playing. Moscow is a pleasant place, entirely unlike London.’

  ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘But let me tell you that this square is made on the site of a church.’

  ‘How pleasant!’ I cried in rapture. ‘That is entirely in keeping with my idea of civilisation.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he said. ‘You have heard of course in England of the persecution of religion in Soviet Russia.’

  I was pleased to hear of it,’ I replied. I have suffered all my life at the hands of organised religion. To desire revenge is human.’

  ‘But you will find,’ he said, ‘that there is no persecution. The situation is such. In Russia we no longer require the aid of superstitious practices. Except, of course, the old and ignorant and the parasites who made their living out of the old and ignorant, the priests.’

  ‘What is that magnificent new building in process of construction over there?’ I asked, pointing to an interesting red brick house that had already reached its tenth storey and looked like going farther. ‘Is it a new Communist church to take the place of the old Christian church? I have a theory of religion. One God is always deposed by another. He never gives place to vacuum or atheism.’

  ‘That is a romantic theory,’ said my friend, ‘disproved in this case by the fact that that building has nothing whatsoever to do with religion, but is concerned with the very matter-of-fact business of guarding the state and the revolution. That new building is for the workers in the G.P.U., our national police force.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Quite true.’

  ‘But then it has a religious significance.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘What is that other large and ugly building to the left ?’

  ‘That is the Commisariat of Foreign Affairs.’

  ‘And that statue?’

  ‘That is a monument to the memory of Djerjinsky, former chief of the G.P.U.’

  It is an ugly monument and reminds me strangely of the artistic taste of the early Christians, just as the G.P.U. building reminds me of the barracks of the Swiss Guards at Rome and the Foreign Office of the College of Cardinals. Indeed I shall be greatly surprised if history does not prove that God, instead of being annihilated by the Russian Revolution, has merely assumed Russian nationality. I have been convinced for the past ten years that Dostoievsky was the father of the Russian Revolution.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he said.

  I told you I was mad,’ I answered, with a laugh.

  He also laughed and said:

  ‘Here is the bureau, in this building.’

  We entered an office building opposite the new brick house of the Bolshevik Swiss Guards, mounted two flights of stairs and entered the office of the Bureau of Revolutionary Literature. The room was crowded with men and women, who gave me a reception worthy of a worthier person than myself. When I had shaken hands with everybody, I was seated at a table, given a sheet of paper and a pen and asked to state my position should capitalist Europe declare war on the Soviet Union.

  In order to explain the situation to me, I was told that the Bureau had telegraphed to various prominent writers in Western Europe asking similar questions. George Bernard Shaw, when asked what would be his position, telegraphed in reply, ‘The hanging position.’

  ‘This is a nice how d’ye do,’ I said to myself. ‘God bless the Jesuits.’

  For, upon my honour, I have no intention whatsoever of taking part in any war, great or small, in future, unless it be of my own making. I have had enough of war. I loathe war. I consider it a stupid, ungainly and unpleasant business, concerned with hunger, thirst, wet feet, lack of sleep, too much noise, disease, lice, wounds and horrible death. As far as I am concerned, war to end capitalism is war and unpleasant, just as much as the war in which I participated, which was the war to end war. The only people who want war are those who have no intention of taking part in war, people who are protected by their sex or their infirmities or their age or their position in society from ever toting a gun or a pack or a sheepskin. I, on the other hand, am like the wretched fellow whom I saw standing on the brink of the pier at Leningrad, a muit to whom somebody gives a gun and a pat on the back and sends the blighter shuddering but gallant to Hell. Bo! Bo! Catch me at it again. Shaw is too old to fight and I hope he enjoys being hanged; but if there is a cave anywhere, deep enough to withstand air bombs, I’m for it in case of hostilities.

  I looked slyly around the room at the revolutionary writers of Moscow and saw that they were all intelligent above the ordinary, not the sort of people one would be likely to find up to their necks in mud and water on a night of heavy bombardment. Indeed, it was easy to see that they all belonged with one or two exceptions to the race that is chosen, for the last two thousand years, for commerce but not for war.

  ‘Why pick on me?’ I thought. ‘My teeth are bad and my liver is diseased. But still. ... I have only eight roubles and I’m far from home.’

  So I wrote, God forgive me, having no intention of ever again firing a shot at anybody but my creditors:

  ‘Should capitalist Europe declare war on the Soviet Union, I’ll make war on capitalist Europe with every means in my power.’

  This warlike statement was received with deafening applause and I grew rather sorry I was not of the stuff with which they make heroes. But in any case, my answer served its immediate purpose. The cashier at once paid me for a story which had been printed in the Bureau’s magazine five years previously. I was informed that on the following day the State Publishing House would pay me a thousand roubles on account of royalties due to me. Arrangements were made for getting me
a room and I was given a guide to attend to all my wants and comforts.

  I do not wish to infer that I would have been treated with discourtesy had I told the truth, that I would not have been paid my royalties and that I would have been left without a room or a guide. I merely want to point out how ungainly is the Russian method of greasing the palms of writers compared to the methods in vogue in capitalist countries, especially in England. The Russian method rather resembles the French method, where journalists are almost openly and in public subsidised by the government. In England recalcitrant writers are gently allowed to starve, unless they bow their heads to the British gods of good form and imperial expediency. It is much more subtle, the British method, and it does not leave such a bad taste in the mouths of sensitive persons; although it certainly leaves an extreme emptiness in the stomachs of persons who are too sensitive to be bought.

  In the same manner, the whole Bureau of Revolutionary Literature appeared to me a crude and ungainly affair. Under the direction of the Russian Communist Party (the Keepers of the Word, the Communist Hierarchy), this organization aimed at uniting the principal writers of the world under its control, for the purpose of demoralizing capitalism and encouraging the working class of the world to make war on their oppressors. A perfectly laudable and admirable scheme, were it possible or intelligently carried out. But writers, especially creative writers, are curious individuals. They dislike any form of control and are continually at war with their wives, who try to keep them sober, tidy and industrious, with their publishers, who try to rob them, with their editors, who try to curb their passion for obscenity, and with the philistine public, which tries to censor their passion for life. When cthe situation is such’ in Western Europe, where a dying civilization grants liberal privileges to men of talent, how much more difficult must it be to govern men who are by nature anarchists, jealous of governance, by the rules of a community where a nascent civilization is being created in territories inhabited by people who are almost savage and therefore alien to liberal principles? In such a nascent civilization a strict censorship of conduct is necessary as well as a violent personal dictatorship. The citizens are for the most part peasants and submit peaceably to dictatorship, being ignorant of that development of personal initiative which breeds anarchy. Now the fault of the Russian Bureau of Revolutionary Literature is that it tries to govern civilised Europeans on the same principle that it governs uncivilised Russians; it tries to treat Europeans as if they were naive children like the Russians; which is impossible.