I Went to Russia

by Liam O'Flaherty

  In any case, the Bureau was manned almost entirely by Jews and that race is notoriously dogmatic and fanatical. An organisation governed entirely by Jews is sure to be full of sound and fury, unless it has to deal entirely with Jews who love sound and fury. And Jews have never been able to understand the creative passion. No doubt they have given great artists to the world, but as a rule, Jewish men of genius are critics like Marx and fanatics like Jesus Christ rather than poets like Shakespeare. They prefer to push their genius down throats with violence and bitterness rather than let it enter passionately through the pores into the blood, in the intoxicating manner preferred by less intense races.

  Jews analyse life. They document. They catalogue. They treat life as if it were a warehouse, stocked with goods for sale. They are bitten by the gad-fly of hysteria, whose poison they seek to eject from their system by continual appeals to one god after another; and in despair at the failure of their gods to cure them, they reject their gods almost as soon as they have created them. Whereas the lazy gentiles worship beauty for her own sake and are loath to dissect her and hold up her entrails to the microscope.

  So here was this Bureau of Revolutionary Literature in Moscow, trying to harness literature to the wheels of Communism and trying to enrol me as one of its progandists. I said nothing against the idea. What the devil had it got to do with me? You can put a uniform on anybody but you cannot make him march unless his brain wills to move his feet.

  I was put in charge of a comrade, who spoke English very well. He was a very charming fellow, very intense and very enthusiastic, eminently learned in literature, master of some six or seven languages, an ardent communist, twenty-five years of age, Levit by name. He at once proceeded to explain to me the construction and objective of the Bureau. He was slim and tall. He had a pale, intellectual countenance and he wore pince-nez, and spoke as if he were at the telephone trying to explain to a police-sergeant that his house had just been robbed.

  ‘Comrade,’ he said, ‘the situation is such. This Bureau is such a place. It is the centre of a world organisation to co-ordinate the activities of proletarian writers. This is the foreign section of the Bureau. We have centres, similar to this, in Tchecho-Slovakia, Germany, France and in many other countries. All foreign writers coming into Russia come to us and we give them information, and guidance, except such as are entirely bourgeois, which go to the society for cultural relations. Such people, which we cannot very well forbid to come, are nevertheless brought around by that other society, so that they may see what is best and be unable to tell too many lies.’

  ‘Good God!’ I thought. If he only knew my real purpose!’

  In the same way,’ he continued, ‘all foreign books translated into Russian pass through our hands and such books are translated as we consider useful to the proletarian revolution and only such. We also publish in our magazine such stories and articles by foreign writers as are useful for our proletariat. The situation is such. There is also, of course, in Russia, the Bureau of Proletarian Writers, which is under the direction of this Bureau, because all writers must be organised and literature must play a revolutionary role in building up the Soviet Union and also help greatly with the Five Year Plan. Later you shall see all that. Now we shall go at first to a cinema with all the comrades and then arrange about your room and other things.’

  However, I had to remain in the room while a long argument went on about something which I could not understand. This lasted an hour and there seemed to be no reason why it should not last for ever. Everybody talked at once and there seemed to be nobody in charge, although there was a secretary and treasurer and various other officials present. This intrigued me, especially as every once in a while somebody approached and jocularly told me in bad French what an anarchist I was and that I would do well to study a little proletarian discipline. What damned humbug!

  The noise got on my nerves to such an extent that I felt utterly dazed when they all finally dashed out of the Bureau into the street, on the way to the Sovkino studio, where the film was to be shown. On the way we met a troupe of German actors and actresses who were also going to the film. It was, in fact, shown for their benefit. They were playing in Moscow just then. We all went together.

  Moving in the same anarchical fashion, with a great deal of shouting and laughter, we arrived finally at the showroom (I could not for the life of me say where it was or how we got there, for even though I enquired several times as to names of streets and other things, the last thing one can get in Russia is a plain answer to a plain question). Still shouting and laughing, we all sat down and the film was thrown on the screen. The shouting and the laughter continued.

  I love this new art of the cinematograph. No other art can give such a respite from reality, which is sometimes a torture, being the consciousness of poverty, sorrow or pain. In the gloom of the cinema theatre one can dream in peace, in silence, although one is surrounded by people, while the farthest ends of the earth are brought to one’s immediate vision. In the theatre where living actors are on the stage, the dream illusion is not sufficiently strong, as the flesh and blood of the actors thrust themselves into the foreground. But on the screen all is an illusion, everything is remote and completely detached from one’s immediate environment. One is spying on an imitation of life, concealed and unknown.

  For that reason, I hate films that are educational or dogmatic and I hate being spoken to when in a film theatre. The dream illusion is destroyed. For that reason also, I cannot understand the craze of our intellectuals for the modern Russian film. All of them that I have seen amuse me less than the wild films of cowboy life which used to be such a popular export from the Hollywood studios; certainly much less interesting than the early comic films of Chaplin and the serious products of the German studios.

  All modern Russian films that I have seen are based on a theory of some sort. Art, on the other hand, is not based on a theory, nor on any preconceived dogma; but it springs out of life and is brought to life by a vision in the mind of the artist, which, in itself, comes into the mind from a wild fever in the bowels and is inexplicable. To me this Russian deification of the mass as the sole material for artistic creation is atavistic drivel, the child of mediocrity, which, in its jealousy of genius, throws itself on the bosom of the mob. Neither is it anything new, but an intense form of the decadent theories current in western European capitals in the years immediately preceding the War. In art, ambitious theories are always a sign of impotence and laziness and mediocrity.

  Here a film was thrown on the screen dealing with the naval revolt at Kronstadt during the revolution of 1917. Its sole importance was that it dealt with the revolution of 1917, which is an historical event of great importance. Even so, I was prepared to enjoy it, but my friend Levit insisted on translating the sub-titles in a loud voice, right into my ear. At the same time two other guides were translating the sub-titles into German for the benefit of the Germans, while still another guide was translating the sub-titles into Japanese for the benefit of a Japanese visitor. The others, at the same time, were carrying on conversations, passing loud remarks on the film and laughing. The guides tried to shout one another down and sometimes argued about the translations. I tried to stop my guide, saying I was not interested in the sub-titles. But he refused to stop, being obviously solely interested in shouting down his rivals and showing off his knowledge of English. Finally, in order to escape, I whispered in his ear that I wanted to go to the lavatory.

  ‘But certainly,’ said comrade Levit, ‘we shall go-’

  Straightaway, we fetched my kit from the Grand Hotel and brought it to The House of the East, where a room had already been found for me. I was given a magnificent room, larger than most flats in London and Paris. In fact, it was a suite of rooms all in one, for there were two large alcoves, curtained off, one containing two small beds and the other being a dressing room. The main room was furnished as a sitting room. I appreciated the civilised motives which inspired the two beds; as i
f the management understood that I might very easily get married at any moment during the day or night.

  It was seven o’clock by the time we had finished arrangements about my room and as I had eaten nothing since breakfast, I suggested a meal.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said my friend. ‘We shall eat at the House of the Press.’

  He had no objection to Isvostiks, so I was at last able to satisfy my craving for a ride in one. I found it very pleasant. One is almost on a level with the street, not enclosed in any way, able to observe the pedestrians and the scenery in comfort, owing to the extremely slow motion of the horse, and yet persuaded that the journey is being made at the greatest possible speed by the furious oaths and whippings of the driver. On the way my friend told me a great deal about himself.

  ‘You see,’ he said, pointing at Moscow with a circular wave of his arms, ‘this city is not suitable for the building of socialism. It is, like many European writers, a mass of nonsense, all twists and turns and very much irregularity. All this very probably must be torn down and a new city built in its place. All the streets must be torn up, the cobble stones taken away and the holes filled up and the surface covered with asphalt. The districts must be organised on a rational basis. Communal housing systems must be made, department stores built, everything on a mass scale as is necessary for socialism, and the ideas of proletarian culture and hygiene, put into practice by the introduction of so-tospeak rus in urbe and local facilities for the satisfaction of the mass craving for art and such things of the intellect. So you see, the situation is such, immense work is to be done, not only here but in all the Union. And we all look upon ourselves as soldiers in this great, and I may say holy, war, to build a beautiful life, which is socialism. It is an immense work. Sometimes I shudder and sweat when I think of this immense work.’

  Here he shuddered and put his hand on his heart.

  ‘But already,’ he cried, ‘the work has begun.’

  At that moment the cab jolted violently and the horse, whipped fiercely, dashed aside to avoid a huge hole in the ground.

  ‘See,’ cried my friend excitedly. ‘This hole was not there this morning but already during the day it has been made. Wonderful.’

  We turned a corner and halted. Instead of a thoroughfare there was a great mountain of earth and stones. The driver cursed and turned back to go another way.

  ‘Everywhere,’ cried my friend excitedly, ‘holes are made and streets torn up in order to put down asphalt. It is wonderful. In two years Moscow shall be all asphalt. In ten years every sign of the old city shall be swept away and a new socialist city shall be built. Wonderful. Hey!’

  We were thrown into one another’s arms and one wheel went into the air, as the cab escaped another hole by the skin of its teeth. Before we could recover our balance another cab dashed into ours and a furious whipping and cursing began, which lasted for three minutes, ending in the victory of our driver over his enemy, who fled in confusion.

  It’s terrible,’ cried my friend. ‘Why don’t they get Ford taxis and abolish this anarchy?’

  But almost immediately he became enthusiastic once more as our cab found a street that was not torn up and jolted along peacefully at the rate of a mile an hour.

  I must talk to you about your books,’ he continued. I like them. They are very good, but here in Russia you must learn a new ideology. Then they shall be better. You must now begin to write for the revolution. Otherwise, literature is useless. For myself, I am such a person, what you call a bookworm, a critic. I am such a man, who reads everything, a walking bookshop. My speciality is English literature of the nineteenth century. But I also have studied English literature of the eighteenth and seventeenth centuries. But especially the nineteenth century is interesting for us in Russia, as it was in that period that England became an industrial country. Therefore, the literature of that period must bear a relation to our present needs, when we are building our industries. You see that among us everything is intelligently organised. That bloody fellow! What is he doing?’

  This time the cab had got into a hole and was trying to get out again; but that was difficult as one of the wheels kept slipping along a tram track that had been exposed by the street excavations. A number of workmen engaged in digging the street looked on with amusement; but finally a couple of them helped the driver to lift the wheel on to the untorn surface. We moved on.

  ‘You see,’ said my friend, ‘the Five Year Plan is everywhere, in the streets as well as in the factories and fields.’

  ‘Don’t you find it uncomfortable?’ I said. ‘I mean, in order to carry out the Five Year Plan, you have to put up with all sorts of discomfort, in moving from one place to another, in the matter of food and cigarettes and clothes.’

  ‘Comrade,’ he cried, ‘the situation is such. For all good citizens of the Soviet Union, these discomforts and hardships are a pleasure. And more especially for citizens like myself. I must tell you I was not always a proletarian. My parents belonged to the bourgeoisie. Even I myself was such a dreadful type, that I opposed the revolution when the time of the great famine came. Then I realised that my position was incorrect, seeing that the whole capitalist world was in league with the whites and the social revolutionaries against the Communists. So I have since been a Bolshevik. I am not a member of the Party and therefore cannot call myself a Communist. But I hope one day, perhaps, the proletariat is going to forgive me my ancestry and my past errors and take me into the Party. To that end I work hard and try to annihilate in my nature all defects. I try all the time to annihilate my personality and to become absorbed in the mass. I try very hard to cease to be an individual and to become a unit in the broad bosom of the masses. I try to forget completely that I am such a one, Theodore Levit, and I would like just to call myself by a number and to work without recognition, work day and night, all the time, until my death, so that finally, this great crime shall be forgiven and I shall become completely a brother of the lowest and most humble proletarian, who is greater than I, even though he does nothing but stand so, with his arms folded, greater because he has not sinned like I and he is a pure proletarian.’

  ‘Christ!’ I thought. ‘How little it has changed in two thousand years, this religion of seeking God through self-effacement!’

  ‘Therefore comrade,’ he continued, almost in a state of frenzy, ‘the situation is such. To suffer is a pleasure for me. And very many Russian intellectuals are like, being of bourgeois ancestry. In our Bureau there are many such. They also struggle to annihilate their personality and to learn how to suffer with the masses. For us it is even necessary to be more eager than the masses, because we are on trial. In that way, we are watch dogs of the revolution, as somebody has said. One day, on a tramcar, I heard three workers talking about the shortage of food in a loud voice, complaining in a counter-revolutionary manner that it was difficult to get butter. At the next stop I called a militia man and these three men were brought to the militia post where I made a statement against them. In such a way we are the watch dogs of the revolution. But now we have arrived and eating shall take place.’

  The House of the Press, or as we should call it, the Press Club was open to everybody connected with journalism and publishing in Moscow. Here the members could have their meals and amuse themselves at billiards and other games. It was not a very ornate place, its restaurant being rather like those foreign restaurants in Bloomsbury frequented by the younger intellectuals. But the food was excellent and the atmosphere was pleasant. Over some excellent soup, roast goose and vodka, my friend continued to enlighten me on the subject of Soviet intellectuals.

  In Russia we have no use for the bohemian writer,’ he said. ‘We look upon the writer as a worker, like a carpenter or a dock labourer. Therefore he is paid by the number of words he writes and he must write a certain number of words every month in order to live. Just as the carpenter must make a fixed number of chairs or tables. It is better so.’

  It is difficult to believe that,’ I s
aid. ‘Do novelists, for instance, all write a certain number of words a month and do they get paid by the word?’

  ‘All get paid that way,’ he said. ‘A novel is paid for at the rate of one thousand roubles for six typographical pages. It does not matter if the writer is famous or not, all get paid alike. In England it is different.’

  ‘But do all writers get paid just one thousand roubles for the complete rights of their books?’

  ‘Oh! No,’ he said. ‘The situation is such. This money is paid on publication. Then if another edition is published another thousand roubles is paid. Each edition counts as one book. Also in Russia there is no monopoly. A writer may sell his book several times, if he can find publishers for it.’

  ‘But that amounts to the same thing as in England/ I said. ‘The popular writer can get rich while the unpopular writer merely gets one thousand roubles per book.’

  It is so,’ he said. ‘But there are other means of preventing the popular writer from getting too rich.’