The House of Government

by Slezkine, Yuri

  Most of those who shared Valentin’s vision were organized into groups located along the free will–predestination continuum. None was fully “objectivist” (the Mensheviks prepared for the inevitable by organizing trade unions), and none was free from “historical inevitability.” They knew themselves to be closely related (as former members of the same reading circles and fellow “politicals” in prison and exile) and routinely accused each other of deliberate misrepresentation. They referred to themselves as “parties” but rejected meaningful comparisons to other political organizations. Lenin called the Bolsheviks “a party of a new type.” Valentin abandoned the term altogether. “What sort of party are we?” he asked. “Parties are what they have in the West and in America. None of them, including the socialists, go beyond the legal struggle for reforms. We, on the other hand, are an army, men of fire and sword, warriors and destroyers.”80

  Parties are usually described as associations that seek power within a given society (or, in Max Weber’s definition, “secure power within an organization for its leaders in order to attain ideal or material advantages for its active members”). None of the three main socialist groups in early-twentieth-century Russia were interested in securing power within the Russian state or society, however construed. Their purpose was to await and, to a greater or lesser degree, bring about, that society’s replacement by a “kingdom of freedom” understood as life without politics. They were faith-based groups radically opposed to a corrupt world, dedicated to “the abandoned and the persecuted,” and composed of voluntary members who had undergone a personal conversion and shared a strong sense of chosenness, exclusiveness, ethical austerity, and social egalitarianism. They were, by most definitions, sects.81

  “Sects” are usually defined in opposition to “churches” (described as bureaucratic, specialized, world-accepting, all-inclusive, elite-friendly organizations into which most members are born) or to societies that they attempt to flee or undermine. Lists of attributes (voluntary, exclusive, egalitarian) are sometimes replaced by a continuum representing degrees of tension with the surrounding world, from a few hunted fugitives at one end to well-integrated institutions at the other. All scholarly definitions characterize sects as “religious” groups, but since the determination of whether a group is religious concerns the nature of the faith, not the degree of tension with the world, it is irrelevant to the sect/party distinction. The main three socialist groups in early-twentieth-century Russia can safely be called sects because no usable definition relies on doctrinal criteria (unless one counts group members who classify heretics in relation to a particular orthodoxy) and because all three decisively rejected the world and possessed the main structural features associated with world-rejection (and conventionally assumed to be sectarian).82

  Membership in such a group gave one a great sense of purpose, power, and belonging (especially for the Bolsheviks, who stood out among the socialists as the only sect rigidly organized around a charismatic leader). But the radical abandonment of most conventional attachments, the continual sacrifice of the present for the sake of the future, and the violent casting out of money changers came—as all heroic commitments do—at the cost of recurring doubt. What if the discarded attachments were the true ones? What if the future came too late for there ever to have been a present? What if the “philistines” were only human? What if all the years in prison and exile were in vain? “What is my strength, that I should wait, and what is my end, that I should endure?” Job’s plight is inherent in all forms of submission to a force presumed to be both all-powerful and benevolent. (“If it is a matter of strength, he is mighty! And if it is a matter of justice, who will summon him? Even if I were innocent, my mouth would condemn me; if I were blameless, it would pronounce me guilty.”) It is particularly acute, however, among those who emphasize self-study and self-improvement as much as selflessness. A self that has been painstakingly worked on is not easy to sacrifice—especially if the work relies on as eclectic a reading list as Bukharin’s or Voronsky’s.83

  Bukharin’s autobiographical alter ego, Kolia, has his first “profound spiritual crisis” when his little brother dies. “Is there anything that is worth one of Andriusha’s little tears? What is the point of all the actions, virtues, exploits, and expiations, if the past cannot be brought back?” The answer comes from the same source as the question:

  One day, Kolia was sitting quietly by himself reading Dostoevsky when, suddenly, he hit upon a passage that shook him to the depths of his being. It was the passage in The Adolescent that described how the people of the future … would live without the consolation of their thousand-year faith. The great idea of immortality would disappear, and would have to be replaced with something else, and all of the great excess of love for Him who had embodied immortality would be transferred to nature, the world, the people in it, to every little blade of grass. They would love life and the earth irrepressibly, insofar as they would gradually become aware of their own temporality and finitude, and it would be a special, different kind of love.84

  Voronsky’s autobiographical narrator has his first spiritual crisis when his sister dies:

  How could this happen, I kept thinking, how could this happen? I yearn for universal happiness, I worry about the welfare and prosperity of others, and here I was, not noticing, not knowing anything about the life and hopes of my own sister…. In this way, won’t I end up establishing universal fraternity by squashing and trampling over everything ruthlessly and coldly, not noticing not only clear enemies, but human life in general: children, brothers, sisters? Or is this a necessary stage, because you can’t win unless your teeth are clenched, your heart steeled, and your head, clear and cold? Could it be so?85

  This monologue leads up to the book’s central episode. The narrator goes to see his uncle, Father Nikolai.

  In the dusty courtyard, cluttered with a cart, traveling carriage, and droshky, the guard dog Milka and a dirty pink piglet lay head-to-head in front of the kennel. Both were sleeping. The piglet was dreamily wagging the taut end of its little tail.

  “Trough happiness,” I said.

  Father Nikolai, a stout, calm, deliberate priest and a good farmer, glanced at the piglet and Milka, smiled, adjusted the silver cross on his chest, and continued on his way.

  The narrator catches up with him, and they walk up a hill behind the village.

  The lukewarm, watery sun slid toward the amber edge of the sky. To the right of the hill was a lush green meadow. Herds of cows and sheep plodded slowly and distractedly toward the village, casting long shadows behind them. We could hear the foolish bleating of the sheep and the dry cracking of the shepherds’ whips. Two colts galloped by, bucking and shaking their flowing manes. The light-colored river lay tranquil, its gentle curves gleaming with copper flashes. Beyond the river, the fields stretched into the distance. Little hamlets dotted the hills. Behind them lay the silent, solemn pine forest. The cadenced tones of distant church bells floated lazily through the air.

  “What a blessing,” said Father Nikolai, stopping and leaning on his long staff. “Back in the courtyard, you said something about trough happiness. It may be the trough kind, but it’s real…. Vegetation is at the root of all creation: the grass, the trees, the beasts of all kinds, the huts, the peasants, the birds, you and I…. Everything you see around you,” he gestured broadly and unhurriedly with his hand, “has been created by vegetation, by trough happiness, as you call it.”

  “But vegetation is mindless and elemental,” I objected.

  Father Nikolai took off his wide-brimmed hat, ran his hand across his hair, and said:

  “Indeed it is…. ‘In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread. Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.’”86

  They go on to argue about whether life is a miracle or a play of “blind and malicious forces,” and whether “the real miracle” is life as we know it or the human desire and ability to subdue and transform it.

  Father Nikolai ga
ve it some thought, rolled up the sleeve of his cassock, and said:

  … “Man needs to plow, sow, breed cattle, tend gardens, and raise children. That’s the most important thing. Everything else is secondary. You, who are ‘looking for the city that is to come,’ do not know and cannot understand the joy of a farmer when he sees a brood of chickens, or the care with which he prunes and grafts an apple tree. You believe he only thinks of profit, but he doesn’t always think of profit, and sometimes he doesn’t think of profit at all: instead, he feels the joy of ‘vegetation,’ sees the fruit of his labor and takes pleasure in life…. Life is huge. It’s like a mountain that can’t be moved.”

  “We’ll dig tunnels through it, Uncle.”

  “You think life is different on the other side? It’s the same, the same.”87

  This dialogue—internal, external, or both—runs through Voronsky’s book and, in one way or another, through most Bolshevik memoirs, from Kon’s story of his grandfather presiding over a transformed Passover prayer to Kuibyshev’s story of his father crying like a child in his son’s prison cell. Could it be that it was inherent in human life?

  “Have you ever read Ibsen’s Peer Gynt and Brand?” I asked Valentin.

  “I have. Why?”

  “They represent two types, two psychological models. Peer Gynt lacks integrity; he is scattered and disorganized. All he can be is raw material for something else, but nothing human is alien to him. He lulls, comforts, and deceives his dying mother…. He has no principles, but his heart is open. Brand, on the other hand, is a fighter, he is all of a piece. He desires with his whole being. His motto is “all or nothing,” but his heart is closed to human joys and woes; he is ruthless. He takes from his wife Agnes the little cap, her last memory of her dead child, and refuses to go to his mother’s deathbed to offer a few words of consolation.”88

  Every true Bolshevik has a purer, more consistently sectarian doppelgänger—an all-or-nothing Brand to his self-doubting underground man. Ulianov has Lenin, Dzhugashvili has Stalin, Skriabin has Molotov, Arosev has Z, and Voronsky has his Valentin.89

  “There are millions of Peer Gynts. They are needed as manure, as fertilizer. But don’t you think, Valentin, that the Brand principle is becoming too dominant among us? We are becoming harder, tougher; we are turning into the revolution’s promoters and apprentices; we are separating ourselves from everything ‘human all too human.’”

  Fidgeting under his blanket, Valentin lit a match, drew on his cigarette, and declared:

  “That’s the way it should be in our era. We must become more efficient and more resolute, we must give all of ourselves to our ideal. We cannot show weakness and float in the wake of divergent and contradictory emotions. We are warriors.”90

  In Voronsky’s world, the real-life one as well as the fictional, there is never an escape from dualism—even in his favorite refuge, a cottage in a pine forest outside Tambov that belongs to Feoktista Yakovlevna Miagkova, his older friend and socialist mentor. (She—also the child of a priest—is the “mysterious revolutionary” who gave him his very first stack of illegal leaflets when he was a seminarian.) Miagkova has three little daughters. “This girls’ world attracted me. Their pure, innocent eyes, the braids tied with bright ribbons, the ink-stained notebooks, the stickers, dolls, flowers, short colorful dresses, the carefree, inimitable, contagious laughter, loud chatter, games, and all the running around helped me forget my troubles and misfortunes.” Two of the sisters love to listen to the silly stories he makes up, but the third one, “the olive-skinned Tania,” has a “critical frame of mind” and refuses to play along. “You didn’t really buy a parrot, and you didn’t really see a scary man, and he didn’t really run after you—you just made it all up.” Voronsky may, in fact, have been chased by a plainclothes policeman, but Tania isn’t having any of it—she needs proof. “Valentin” is Voronsky’s fictional Brand-like alter ego. Tania was a real all-or-nothing twelve-year-old. She would go on to join the Bolsheviks at the age of twenty.91

  ■ ■ ■

  Voronsky and Arosev may have been more self-consciously literary and programmatically self-reflexive than most Bolsheviks, and their memoirs may have absorbed some of the doubts and discoveries of the 1920s and early 1930s, but it seems clear—and was, for a while, universally accepted—that they were faithful chroniclers, not odd exceptions. Yakov Sverdlov, who never published anything other than articles on party politics and reports on Siberian social conditions, faced the same dilemmas and discussed them endlessly in his letters. What is the relationship between the coming general happiness and the present-day lives of individual believers? Which part of Father Nikolai’s “vegetation” should be renounced as irredeemably philistine? What is to be done about the fact that—as Sverdlov writes apropos of the great mystery of his son’s future life—“we mortals are not granted the ability to lift the veil of individual fate; all we can do is foresee the future of mankind as a whole”?92

  The more terrible the trials, the greater the uncertainty and the temptations. “You cannot imagine [wrote Sverdlov to Novgorodtseva in January 1914], how badly I want to see the children. Such a sharp, piercing pain. Adka’s photograph is on the table in front of me. So is yours. I stare and stare, for hours on end, and then I close my eyes and try to imagine little Vera, but I can’t, really. I think until my head hurts. My eyes grow wet, and I am ready to burst out sobbing. My dear, dear, sweet little children…. Oh Kadia, Kadia! My darling, my love…. What will our future bring?”93

  Sometimes it seems that their future life will bring nothing but trials: “There’s much, much suffering ahead,” he wrote in August 1914. Voronsky, the former seminarian, quotes the original passage from the confession of the Old Belief martyr, Archpriest Avvakum, who jouneyed to Calvary accompanied by his wife: “I came up, and the poor dear started in on me, saying, ‘Will these sufferings go on for a long time, Archpriest?’ And I said: ‘Markovna, right up to our very death.’ And so she sighed and answered, ‘Good enough, Petrovich, then let’s be getting on.’” (According to Voronsky’s daughter, “let’s be getting on” was his favorite saying.) But of course neither Sverdlov nor Voronsky is an Archpriest Avvakum. Or rather, they are, in the sense of being prepared to endure suffering for the sake of their faith, but they do not relish martyrdom or asceticism as virtues in their own right. As Sverdlov puts it in a letter to a young friend, “I also like Ibsen, but Brand’s ‘all or nothing’ motto is not to my taste, for I consider it rootless and anarchist.”94

  Sverdlov’s and Voronsky’s faith, unlike Avvakum’s, is to be strengthened by reading as broadly as possible. In Sverdlov’s view, once a Marxist “consciousness” has been acquired, everything, without exception, becomes proof of its truth. “The greater the knowledge and the more wideranging it is, the vaster the space, the broader the horizons for creativity and, most important, the more conscious that creativity is.” In 1916, with “the light of the kerosene lamp shining through the frozen glass and casting a pale reflection on the snow drifts” outside his house in Monastyrskoe, Sverdlov wrote to a young friend:

  For a better understanding of Ibsen, I would recommend reading everything by him, in a particular order. The best edition is the Skirmunt, reprinted by Znanie in eight volumes, in Hansen’s translation. That is the best edition. It should be read in the order in which it was published, although you don’t have to read the last volume: it’s his correspondence, which, as I recall, is of little interest. But before you get started, it would be a good idea to read something appropriate about the history of Sweden and Norway over the last thirty or forty years, in order to become familiarized with the development of social relations there during this period. Such familiarity will help you understand Ibsen. For the same purpose, it would be good to read Lunacharsky’s article [“Ibsen and Philistinism”] in the 1907 issue of Obrazovanie, the brochure about him by Roland-Holst, and Plekhanov’s article in, I think, Sovremennyi mir, also from 1907.95

  “Putting books
to the test of life and putting life to the test of books” is hard work and requires constant vigilance and self-examination. In this sense, Sverdlov’s faith is similar to Archpriest Avvakum’s. “I watch myself very closely sometimes. You know my habit of self-analysis. I see clearly every fleeting movement of my soul. And right now I cannot detect any dangerous symptoms. There is none of the intellectual laziness and mental torpor that haunted me for a while. There is only a desire to study, to learn.”96

  But what if self-analysis revealed some dangerous signs of moral torpor? What happens when endless suffering breeds doubt, and doubt is deepened by reading and self-analysis? Are the Bolsheviks in danger of falling, one by one, into the chasm separating their ability to “foresee the future of mankind as a whole” and their all-too-human inability to “lift the veil of individual fate”? Sverdlov’s answer is a thoughtful but resolute no. In 1913, he started writing to Kira Egon-Besser, the fourteen-year-old daughter of his close friends from Ekaterinburg, Aleksandr and Lydia Besser. Like many intelligentsia adolescents at the time, Kira suffered from chronic “pessimism” and occasional thoughts of suicide. Sverdlov’s advice to her is remarkably consistent. “We were born at a good time,” he wrote in January 1914, “in the period of human history when the final act of the human tragedy is at hand…. Today only the blind and those who do not want to see fail to notice the growing force that is fated to play the main part in this final act. And there is so much beauty in the rise of this force, and it fills one with so much energy, that, truly, it is good to be alive.” Universal redemption is the key to personal fulfillment. “Allow me to kiss you on both cheeks when we meet,” he wrote in May 1914, “for I have no doubt that I will see you and L. I. again. I’ll kiss you in any case, whether you like it or not.”97