L
Moscow by day was more squalid, but more cheerful, than Moscow by night.
The Kremlin as seen from Bertram’s “billet” in the Sugar King’s palace was still magnificent and glittering under the sun’s rays, but lost some of its mystery and fantasy as he had seen it under moonlight. The streets were no longer deserted, but crowded with every type of Russian life, with Asiatics among them, as they existed after a revolution which had destroyed one of the richest, most luxurious, and most corrupt aristocracies in Europe.
In Europe geographically, but Oriental in character and race. It did not need Christy’s remark, “This is the East and not the West, which explains a lot,” for Bertram to see that. Many of the people in the streets of Moscow were Eastern types, Slav and Tartar, and Semitic. The typical peasants of Moscow had blue eyes and straw-coloured hair, but the flatness of cheek-bone did not belong to Western physiognomy. Some of them were Mongolian in the slant of their eyes, in the blackness of their hair, and the sparseness of their beards. They wore shaggy goatskin caps brought far back behind their heads, with a mass of mangy hair,—distinguished from the fur cap of the usual Russian peasant. Men from the Caucasus, wearing the astrachan fez passed by, with Cossacks of the Don in long black coats, square cut across the shoulders and falling to their feet.
These crowds were tramp-like in their way of dress, careless of rags and broken boots. It was difficult to distinguish any difference of class or caste among them, except that Red Army officers and officials were smarter than the rest, with top boots more weather tight, and fur caps less shaggy. In the coldness of early autumn, when the first snow began to fall, every one in Moscow was muffled up to the ears with shawls or bits of fur, and those who had no boots swathed their legs around with wrapping over sandals or clogs and seemed warm enough, and well enough shod for the mud and slush.
There was no visible sign of hunger in the faces of the passers-by, and the children especially looked fairly plump and healthy, surprisingly well.
“There’s no famine here—yet,” said Christy. “There’s an old proverb, ‘All things roll down to Moscow.’ It holds good now. This is the seat of the Administration. It’s stuffed with Soviet officials. They’ve a call on the supplies of the country. And the kids get first serve. It’s fair to say that.”
Christy was scrupulously fair to the Soviet Republic, and Bertram thought he erred on the side of generosity. He accused him even, though not seriously, of having been “converted” to the black cult of Bolshevism.
But Christy in that long night talk had been illuminating, and impartial. He had studied the Bolshevik theory and practice, as he had seen it working, with a penetrating vision. Theoretically, he thought there was a lot to be said for the Communist idea. What was it, after all, but an endeavour to carry out the commands of Christ to His apostles who had “all things in common”? It was a fanatical revolt against the crimes of Capitalism and Individualism—Sweated Labour, Profiteers, Warmongers, the blackguardism of Trusts, the corruptions and cruelties of Caste.
“We can’t deny these things,” said Christy. “We can’t pretend that all is well with Western civilisation. As we know, Pollard, it stinks with iniquity!”
The Soviet system was simple—in theory. In return for service to the state, the citizen would receive food, shelter, clothing, education, all the elementary needs of life, and even its arts, graces, and amusements. Service to the state was recognised by the membership of a Trade Union. Once a man had his “ticket,” whatever his class of work—it applied, of course, to women too—he drew his ration of food, clothes, and so on, received his opera and theatre passes, was entitled to all the culture and gifts of the state.
“Very much like a soldier in the British Army or any other,” said Christy.
The Soviet Government was made up of a body of men elected as the Central Executive Committee by a series of Soviets starting with the villages and sending one of their members to a big and more important body. They elected members in their turn to still more important groups, until finally the Central Committee was reached.
“Very indirect,” said Bertram.
“Precisely. Not democratic. A weak point in the system. The Central Executive is as far removed from the people as the Greek tyrants.”
Theoretically, however, the idea of common reward for common service, thought Christy, was the ideal towards which mankind had always been groping.
“And actually,” said Bertram, “how has it worked?”
“It hasn’t,” answered Christy. “It’s failed to work, hopelessly. It’s landed them all into an unholy ruin. They admit, with reservations, their own ghastly failure.”
The chief cause of failure, beyond any doubt, was the resistance of the peasant to the system of requisition. To ration every citizen, it was, of course, necessary to commandeer the peasant’s labour and produce. All that he produced over and above his own needs belonged to the State. Red soldiers went down to his farmstead to remind him of the fact, and to collect his grain, potatoes, flax, butter, vegetables, eggs, poultry, and milk. The peasant said, “Why should I sow that others should reap?” He concealed his produce, bartered it secretly for jewels, furs, trinkets, any old thing, with city folk who didn’t find their daily ration enough for daily life. When caught, he was shot or imprisoned. When many had been shot, the others ceased to sow, undercultivated their fields,—even burnt their grain!
This peasant revolt against Communism broke the country, already ruined by war, revolution, and counter-revolutionary armies. The Central Executive could not get their supplies to ration the city folk. Factory workers, not getting food, abandoned the factories for the fields. No more engines could be made or repaired. The transport system broke down. It became more difficult to convey food to the cities. They disintegrated. In Petrograd there were three million people at the beginning of the war. There were now seven hundred and fifty thousand. All industry had ceased. No spades, ploughs, reaping machines could be replaced. The whole machinery of Russian life had collapsed. Now the Famine on the Volga threatening twenty-five million people with starvation, had hit the only class which was comparatively comfortable, the peasants of Russia.
“How much is the famine due to Bolshevism?” asked Bertram.
Christy pondered.
“It’s due to the drought. Last year and this. An act of God, as men say, though I don’t believe it, if there is a God, and He is kind. But its severity was increased by the System. The Bolsheviks requisitioned the peasants’ reserves to feed the Red Army defending Russia against Koltchak, Denikin, Wrangel, and the rest. There were droughts and famines in Russia before. The peasants expected them, and kept reserves of grain for a lean year. Now there are no reserves. In that way Bolshevism is responsible for the famine. But in no other way. Let’s be fair.”
“You’re too damned fair,” said Bertram. “How about the atrocities—the inhuman cruelties—the Chinese tortures?”
Christy lowered his voice. They were talking in the palace of the Sugar King, infested with secret police.
“I’ve no personal knowledge. The Cheka keeps its secrets. There have been many executions—in batches. Men and women, without mercy. Perhaps in Eastern Russia Mongols have done the dirty work. But I’ll say just this—to be fair again. All Governments, especially in time of Revolution, are ruthless against those who challenge their authority and seek to overthrow their power. So it would be in any country in some degree. These people hold their place against hordes of enemies, within and without. They proclaimed the Reign of Terror against all plotters and counter-revolutionaries. Fear made them cruel. Fear made them kill the Czar, as the French killed poor old Louis and Marie Antoinette. Now there are no more counter-revolutions, and the Terror has abated.”
“Why have counter-revolutions ceased?” asked Bertram.
“The people are sick of bloodshed. The game’s too dangerous. And Russia is so stricken that even the last of the old régime, who still linger on in holes and corners, believe that the overthrow of the Soviet Republic would be the last blow to the life of Russia. At least it functions. It makes a train move, now and then. It gets some supplies from the peasants. It sends some seeds to the Volga valley. It works. . . . And it has abandoned Communism.”
“What’s that?” asked Bertram, astounded.
“The whole thing has been scrapped by Lenin, its chief, author and organiser. On October the eighteenth he ‘blew the gaff’ on the whole show, confessed the utter breakdown of the Communist system—for the reasons I’ve given, and some others. ‘We’ve suffered a terrible defeat on the Economic front,’ he said. ‘The only way by which we may save ourselves is by a strategic retreat on prepared positions. He’s restored private property, to a great extent, and the right of private trading, as you’ll see. He has abandoned rationing, and re-established money for wages and payment. The kind of money I paid to our isvostchik last night—the droschke driver! Four hundred thousand roubles to the English pound. One has to carry a carpet-bag instead of a purse.”
“God!” said Bertram. “An awful mess!”
“The worst mess in the world. The greatest tragedy in modern history. Another experiment in human progress has ended in disaster to a hundred and fifty million people. Famine has stricken them, and will creep even to the edge of Moscow before the winter is out. Pestilence sweeps them like a scourge. And Lenin, in the Kremlin, is trying to think of some way out of ruin. I think he’s found a way, which at least he will try.”
“Tell me.”
Christy lowered his voice still further.
“Alliance with Germany. Red soldiers in exchange for railway engines. Arsenals in return for economic aid. A threat of war to France and Poland, with all the Continent afire, unless Europe comes to her aid. International blackmail.”
“That’s Hell,” said Bertram.
“If it happens,” answered Christy. “You’ve just come in time to see the transition from Communism to Capitalism. You’ll find it interesting before you get down to the Famine. This city is a melodrama, if you keep your eyes open.”
Bertram kept his eyes open, and his ears. Building on Christy’s outline of information, he was able to fill in the details of Russian life from personal observation, and plunged into it.