“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.”