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.