‘Oh! Let them die of hunger,’ I cried in rage.
Really, she would have turned the mildest of Manchester Liberals into a man-eating Fascist. I never met, previously, an individual so capable of inspiring hostility towards her creed in everybody with whom she came in contact.
I have had enough of this city,’ I said to myself, as we walked in silence back to my hotel.
So I bought a ticket to Moscow immediately on entering, at the Intourist Bureau. Then I again suggested a meal to the doctor’s sister-in-law and to the fanatic. Neither offered any opposition. Indeed the fanatic’s hatred of food proved to be entirely intellectual, as she proved herself to be an excellent trencher-woman. I myself became a little more reasonable with the help of a bottle of Crimean wine. Then I looked more charitably at the fanatic and saw that she was just as pathetic as the doctor’s sister-in-law.
She was plain.
I bid good-bye to the doctor’s family, but was unable to find the doctor himself, that wonderful man who had given me such an insight into cthe situation.’ The sister-in-law accompanied me to the station.
As we were on our way in a cab, my irritability was chastened by the loneliness one always feels on quitting a strange city, probably never to return. And I realised how kind everybody had been to me, and how I would have been entranced by the wonderful life of the city had I not decided on my arrival that it was a melancholy tomb, in which I could not possibly find anything but death. But arrival at the railway station cured me of this mood and plunged me once more into the mood of violent irritation necessary for writing Lies About Russia.
Night had fallen. The station was practically in darkness, its gloom having merely to contend with an occasional lamp. As we had to wait for an hour, I suggested to my friend that we should go into the station restaurant and have a bottle of beer.
‘Yes,’ she said dolefully.
We entered and sat down at a table. The room was very large but it was crowded. It strongly reminded me of a railway station in London during the war, when there were soldiers everywhere with their kits, some lying on the floor or on benches, asleep, others eating, others drinking, some going to the front, others returning, dirty and almost in rags, strangely accoutred. Here the effect was the same, except that there were more civilians than soldiers. They squatted on the floor and they carried their kit in bundles, or strapped to their backs. Officers and private soldiers and sailors ate together, cheek by jowl with bearded peasants, who wore bast shoes and sheepskins.
Where were they all going? Where had they come from? I felt that I wanted to stay for a year in that restaurant and watch these people coming and going, in order to learn the secret of the wild thoughts their presence inspired in me. For in that room, for the first time I had seen a real sign of that mighty movement of a people which I had until then merely imagined.
Ho! Ho! My comfortable bourgeois friends, you were beginning to chuckle when you found that Leningrad was merely a stinking tomb inhabited by feckless idiots. But mark you well, a dead Leningrad is more dangerous to you than a live Leningrad. The closing of that marshy mouth of Mother Russia has but opened wider her other fanged maws that open upon China and upon India and upon Poland and Bessarabia and Persia, mouths that shall belch upon Europe not flabby Slavs, effete with melancholy, but fierce, lean Cossacks and Tatars with hawk’s eyes and savage Siberians whose veins hold rivers of dark blood.
Whither go these hordes if not towards the south, to mass among the unknown valleys of the Caucasus and upon the plains of Samarkand, greater than the hosts of Ghengiz Khan, that king of one hundred thousand camels?
The diseased condition of Leningrad cannot cheer the good bourgeois of Western Europe, for history proves that all conquests have been predatory, inspired by the desire to acquire loot and not by an altruistic desire to force upon less civilised people a superior civilisation as a gift. Gloomy and debauched Leningrad shall serve to hasten the conquest rather than stay it. For they shall come not with gospel according to Karl Marx open on their bosom, crying: ‘Lo! All ye who are enslaved and hungry and oppressed, enter ye into the paradise which is Russia.’ They shall come with fire and sword, lousy, hungry, thirsty, rampant, to take by plunder what is lacking in their territories. So, woe to Europe. Greater woe when Leningrad is in ruins than when the Tsar and his merry courtiers jigged their dance of death therein.
I lit a cigarette. Almost at once a policeman came up and began to shout at me, waving his arms. I looked at him in amazement, not understanding one word of what he said. My friend got very excited and began to talk in Russian also. I looked at her, utterly dumbfounded. Her face wore an expression of terror that amazed me.
‘What on earth is the matter?’ I cried.
She gasped and managed to mutter, pointing at my cigarette:
It is not permitted to . . . to . . . to smoke here.’
‘Oh!’ I said.
I crushed the cigarette under my foot. The policeman still went on talking.
‘My dear fellow,’ I said, ‘you’re making a fool of yourself.’
‘Hush!’ cried my friend in terror, clutching my arm. ‘Don’t speak to him. It is always better to keep silent.’
I gaped at her. At last the policeman went away, after having examined my passport. My friend was trembling.
‘But what’s the matter?’ I said. I don’t understand. Why couldn’t he tell me politely that smoking was not allowed? And why were you afraid?’
Poor girl! She was an utter wreck.
‘Unpleasant conquerors these fellows are going to be.’ I thought. I pity the good ladies of Kensington.’
‘Come,’ said my friend, ‘let us leave here.’
We went out and began to look for my train. Although we had half an hour to do so, we found it with very little to spare. It was impossible to get information and my friend was in such a state of nervousness that I had to lead her instead of her leading me. When we found the train, it was still difficult to find my carriage. Those to whom I showed my ticket merely stared at it stupidly and told me to go on farther. In this way I went to the end of the train. The doorkeeper of the last carriage, a worthy with drooping moustaches and a small lanthorn, being unable to send me farther, as the train ended with him, had to examine my ticket more seriously. He turned it upside down and back to front, scratching his head and chewing the ends of his moustaches. Then he shrugged his shoulders and told me to enter his carriage.
I bid goodbye to my friend. She burst into tears, so I gave her my typewriter, just as one gives a toy to a child. She stopped crying. I went aboard. It was what corresponds to a third class carriage in France, whereas I had booked a berth in a pullman. The occupants of the carriage looked very exciting, people similar to those I had seen in the restaurant. I should have loved to spend the night with them but I wanted to sleep. So I came out again.
Now I began to shout, cursing the Soviet Union lock, stock and barrel. Immediately, as if by magic, several personages approached me, examined my ticket, took charge of my luggage and helped me into the next carriage, which proved to be the pullman. Having installed myself I descended once more to the platform. We had still a few minutes.
To my surprise, I found the doctor’s wife on the platform with her sister. She was dazzingly beautiful in a black fur coat and a hat of which a fashionable Frenchwoman would have been proud. Her face was wreathed in smiles. Her eyes danced with excitement. Her movements were full of energy. I was amazed and enraptured.
Beside her, my melancholy friend drooped, with hanging lip, trembling slightly, a little person with her long black hair swept straight back from her white forehead, weary of living.
Chapter X
The Keepers Of The Satchel
I Walked up and down the corridor several times after the train had left the station. I observed that nearly all the passengers carried portfolios.
‘Ha!’ I thought. ‘Who are these people? A Government commission of some sort returning to Moscow?’
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They were all young Russian men, except a few foreigners whom I noticed and two young women, very richly dressed, apparently film actresses.
I grew curious about the portfolios. At last I managed to get into conversation with a young fellow who was lounging before the door of my compartment apparently trying to pick up the actresses who occupied the compartment next door. When the actresses closed their door, preparing to go to sleep, this young man banged the window with his fist and said the Russian equivalent of ‘damn’. Then he winked at me. He was a tall fellow, well built, seemingly devoid of melancholy and fanaticism.
‘Are you English?’ he said.
‘Irish,’ I replied.
‘Shake hands,’ he said. I love the Irish. I was ten years in the United States. I had numbers of Irish friends there. Yours is a very revolutionary race.’
‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘The Irish are the most reactionary people in Europe, except, perhaps, the Spaniards and the Albanians.’
‘But how?’ he said. ‘They were the first people to revolt against the war. They have fought bravely against British Imperialism.’
It all depends,’ I said, ‘on what you mean by the word revolutionary’.
‘You are interesting,’ he said. I propose to sit in your compartment and discuss these questions with you.’
‘With pleasure,’ I said. ‘And I want to ask you why everybody carries a portfolio.’
Another gentleman (or rather comrade) was in the compartment. He occupied the lower bunk.
‘My name is Shatov,’ said the first. ‘This is Kotpov.’
‘My name is O’Flaherty,’ I said.
‘Are you an engineer or a journalist?’ said Mr. Kotpov.
I am a novelist,’ I answered.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Please tell me what is the reaction of English intellectuals to the Indian situation.’
I am afraid,’ I said, ‘that I have not taken the trouble to find out.’
‘Too bad,’ said Mr. Kotpov, ‘because the Indian situation interests us very much in Russia.’
Mr. Kotpov was a slight and very exquisite young man with a little, trimmed moustache. He smelt of perfume and his hands were beautifully manicured. He spoke English correctly, though with a French accent.
It is extraordinary,’ said Mr. Shatov, ‘but he says that the Irish are not a revolutionary race. Please explain that to us.’
‘Ah! The Irish,’ said Mr. Kotpov, ‘have an interesting folk literature and of course Mr. Shaw. There are also in that country very interesting stone buildings of great antiquity. I have read of them in a German publication of some importance. But please tell me what is the attitude of Irish intellectuals towards our treatment of national minorities. You must understand that in our Union we have developed local languages and have, indeed, organised languages among minorities which had previously dialects.’
‘Shut up Alyosha,’ said Mr. Shatov. I want to know what he means by saying the Irish are not revolutionary. I hate the English. Don’t you hate the English?’
‘That is ridiculous,’ said Mr. Kotpov. It is utterly impossible to hate such a large human aggregation as the English. Also it is uncivilised. The English are a great race. You will agree with me Mr. Flaxy?’
‘Taken as a whole,’ I said, ‘it is probable that the English are the most remarkable people the world has yet seen.’
‘Damn lie,’ said Mr. Shatov. It is a shame to hear an Irishman say that. You are Anglicised.’
‘You are a ridiculous fellow Sascha,’ said Mr. Kotpov. It is firmly established among intellectuals all over the world that the achievements of the English in culture are unequalled by the achievements of any other race. Also in the matter of commerce, industry and government they have led the world for several hundreds of years. And even in such things as sport they have continued the policy of the Greeks. And even by their creation of that remarkable human being “the gentleman,” they are outstanding.’
‘But British Imperialism,’ said Mr. Shatov, ‘is the most cruel tyranny the world has ever seen. Shut up Alyosha. I want to ask him what he means by the word revolutionary and whether he supports British Imperialism.’
‘Judging the question purely from an intellectual point of view,’ said Mr. Kotpov, ‘we must admit that the English were acting in accordance with the morality of the time when they began their career of plunder and the oppression of other races. But. . . .’
‘Let him speak,’ said Mr. Shatov. ‘What do you mean by revolutionary?’
‘Well!’ I said. I consider that a race is revolutionary when its social activities tend to increase man’s power over the forces of nature and to widen his comprehension of the universe. Examined from this point of view it will be seen that the English are extremely revolutionary, at least until quite recently. As Mr. Kotpov has stated, they led the world for a long time in culture, as well as in commerce, industry, and the science of government.’
‘But that is not revolutionary,’ said Mr, Shatov. ‘That is another word, progressive.’
‘But as far as you are concerned,’ I replied, ‘since, I presume, you are a Russian Bolshevik, the word progressive is contained in the word revolutionary. The Russian Revolution, in the mind of every Russian Bolshevik, means not only the overthrow of one government and the establishment of another, but the progressive evolution of human society from an inferior state of civilisation to a superior state of civilisation.’
‘That is so,’ said Mr. Kotpov.
‘A political revolution may be reactionary as well as progressive.’
‘That is so,’ said Mr. Kotpov.
‘But for the purpose of our discussion we are not concerned with merely political revolutions but with the development of the human race. And under the heading of revolutions I would place the discovery of the steam engine as of equal importance with the overthrow of monarchy in favour of republicanism.’
‘You are getting mixed up,’ said Mr. Kotpov. ‘You are getting away from the point. Are you prepared to defend British Imperialism or do you condemn it? That is the point.’
I want to get this point cleared up first,’ I said. ‘From my point of view a race living under an autocracy may be as revolutionary as one living under a constitution as democratic and libertarian as the present Russian constitution.’
‘That is entirely ridiculous,’ said Mr. Shatov.
‘Not if you remember my definition of the word revolutionary.’
‘You are playing with words,’ said Mr. Shatov.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Kotpov. ‘Although I have an unprejudiced mind when dealing with intellectual ideas, I must say that in this instance I must differ with you. The existence of autocracy is always a bar to progress.’
‘Shut up Alyosha,’ said Shatov.
‘Allow me to continue,’ I said. ‘Ah forms of government are, in themselves, equally useful as far as progress, in our sense, is concerned. The form of government of a community depends entirely on the community’s state of development and forms of government in a single community almost invariably change in accordance with the community’s development. Indeed, all the forms of government that we know, from Communism to autocracy, existed at one time or other during the last twenty thousand years. It is also quite possible that the same forms of government, monarchy, Communism, republicanism, will exist twenty thousand years hence. But the total of man’s knowledge is, materially, greater now than it was twenty thousand years ago and twenty thousand years from now it shall be still greater. That is what is of importance.’
‘But classes,’ cried Shatov, ‘and the exploitation. . . .’
‘Hold on a moment,’ I said. I shall ask you a question about classes and about portfolios later. Let us finish with the question of British Imperialism. We find that in all periods of recorded history a community with more energy, cunning and intelligence than its neighbour set up a hegemony in the course of its development and expansion. Some, like the Romans, established an empire by con
quest. Others, like the Greeks, built up an Empire by commercial exploitation. But in all cases, the Imperial communities built up great civilisations and cultures. Indeed, imperialism and culture and civilisation have been until now inseparable and almost synonymous. Even the Italian republics of the Renaissance period were little commercial empires who paid Crusaders to make trade routes to the East. In fine, when you accuse the British Empire of being cruel and tyrannical, it is just the same as accusing an oak tree of being a cruel tyrant, because the destruction of neighbouring smaller plants is necessary to its growth. One might say that the exploitation and oppression of India’s millions was necessary for the production of Darwin, Newton and Shelley, by providing that luxury and leisure and pride of being which are the background to the flowering of genius. Nor should I, as an Irishman, deplore the conquest of Ireland if that conquest helped to inspire the proud genius of Shakespeare.’
‘What amazing logic!’ said Mr. Shatov. ‘You are a reactionary. You believe, then, in the justice of capitalism, in the exploitation of one class by another, as well as the oppression of one country by another?’
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Tell me the meaning of the portfolios which I see in this carriage.’
‘Oh! This,’ said Mr. Kotpov, touching his portfolio. In Russia it is usual for officials, clerks, journalists and such middle class people. . .
‘Shut up Alyosha,’ said Shatov. ‘There is no middle class. . . .’
‘But it is simply to explain to this foreigner,’cried Kotpov, ‘that. . . .’
I see,’ I cried. ‘Then you two are officials?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Kotpov. ‘We are what you call civil servants.’
‘Then already in the Soviet Union,’ I cried, ‘classes have come into existence.’
‘How do you mean?’ cried the now furious Shatov.
‘Well! There are two classes on this train. I looked into the lower class carriage and it was rather dreadful, whereas this first class carriage is very comfortable. You fellows with portfolios travel in one. The class without portfolios travels in the other.’
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