by A J Allen
Nicolai had a personal compulsion not just to be right but to be recognised as being right, and to stand in judgement on those who disagreed with him. His London alias – Dr. Richter – revealed more than it hid. Nicolai also believed that personal relationships of any sort were of secondary importance to the work of the Revolution. Long standing friendships were of no account. As for romantic love – pah! At best, such liaisons were a distraction; more often, an impediment to effective revolutionary action.
And there was the other thing. Nicolai and Nadezhda not only worked more hours than Jules and Vera in the service of the revolution, they were more cunning. Through self-discipline, self-sacrifice and unremitting hard work the couple had not only conquered the shiftless patterns of émigré life, they had also established control of the Party’s intelligence network at Holford Square. It was not to be wondered that Nicolai so often carried the initiative at the Iskra editorial meetings, as he always possessed advance news of developments in Russia and elsewhere from the messages that Nadezhda had decoded the night before. Once or twice Trotsky even suspected the older man of holding back intelligence from Party activists so that he could make a prediction that would be borne out a few days later by the outcome of events, but he could never prove this. Yet perversely it was Nicolai whom he strove to impress and in whose high opinion he sought to be held, knowing all the while how tenuous that position would prove.
If Vera had sensed that her ‘Young Eagle’ was gently pulling away from her and tactfully distancing himself from her orbit, she had not appeared to mind. Her heart was large; too large, Nicolai had hinted more than once, for the work that lay before them. She and Trotsky had remained friends and it was to her that Trotsky had turned when he had, inevitably, over-reached himself.
It had been his own fault; nobody else could be blamed. Subject to Nicolai’s persistent flow of critical praise and not wishing to appear inadequate to his mentor, he had foolishly agreed to give a public lecture in Whitechapel and had compounded his error by exaggerating his experience in public speaking. He now confessed to Vera that he had never spoken in public before. Once years ago, she learned, he had tried to impress Alexandra by haranguing his group of friends in Shivorgsky’s market garden but it had been a wretched performance; a complete fiasco. He had crept away and wept and had sworn never to attempt such a thing again. And now this engagement in Whitechapel! A public lecture in front of comrades outlining the current situation in Russia and arguing Iskra’s position that the struggle called for the creation of a new type of Party, radically different from anything that had gone before. He was dreading it, but what could he do? Patting his arm, she had told him not to worry. She would find a way to help him get over his nerves.
On the day of the lecture he had spent the morning in his room working on his speech. On one side of his desk lay a single sheet, containing a neatly enumerated list of topics that Nicolai had suggested he should address, broken down into headings and sub headings. In front of him, a sheaf of pages, already stained and curling at the edges from his moist palms, was covered with short paragraphs that he had written, scored out and then rewritten. Discarded balls of crumpled paper littered the floor of his room.
It was hopeless, he told himself.
Resigning himself to humiliation, he persevered, working and shaping the words until at last he felt that, if nothing else, he could recite them without faltering. He was writing the final sentence when he heard the sound of a church clock chiming one o’clock and, almost simultaneously, a knock on his bedroom door. Vera appeared. Without speaking, she motioned him to follow and to bring his speech with him. Taking his hand, she led him ceremoniously down the few short steps to the common room.
To his surprise he saw that the room had been tidied and the linoleum covering the floor had been scrubbed clean. Gone was the rickety table and in its place stood Vera’s own personal flat-topped writing desk, over which was draped a freshly laundered and pressed tablecloth. Seeing the table was set with only one place, he started to protest, but, still unspeaking, she pointed to the empty seat waiting for him. As he took his place she crossed over to the small stove in the corner upon which the contents of an array of pots and pans bubbled and sizzled, and began to serve him his lunch. She sat opposite him, watching as he spooned up the borscht and looked genuinely pleased when he told her it was delicious. She thanked him for the compliment, adding in an almost offhand way that his opinion mattered, not only about her cooking but also on other things. His speech, for instance. Could she read it? Unwillingly he pushed his notes across the table to her. Taking away his bowl she replaced it with a plate full of katushki, prepared, she told him, the way Plekhanov himself liked.
While he devoured the fish balls and wiped up the rich sauce with a rough-cut slice of bread, she read the dozen or so pages he had given her, nodding once or twice. For dessert she had prepared a cold cherry kissel, and only when this too had been consumed had she given her verdict on what she had read. His speech, she declared, was good: an intelligent and coherent analysis of the contemporary state of Russian affairs and a persuasive argument for a reorganised Party structure. There was no doubt in her mind that he would be an outstanding success. His timid spirits began to rise, bolstered by the meal and her praise.
After they had cleared away the table, Vera sprang her second surprise, announcing that they had a busy afternoon ahead of them. Their first port of call would be the new shops in Oxford Street. Brushing aside his reservations – he still needed to review his notes – she insisted on his accompanying her and within the hour, they had joined the hundreds of pedestrians that thronged the pavement of the busy thoroughfare. Some of the shop windows were already dressed for the coming celebration of Christmas, a fact that scandalised Vera since December had barely started. The purpose of their visit was revealed only when she again took him by the hand and led him inside an emporium specialising in men’s clothing.
The young gentleman, she told the floorwalker in her heavily accented English, required a new shirt and collar: one that was ready to wear. Despite his glaring looks as an assistant fussed over him with a measuring tape, Trotsky had allowed his benefactor to have her way. After his choice was selected, wrapped and paid for, Vera once more took charge and led him circuitously towards the whirlpool of Piccadilly Circus. With the aid of a burly policeman, a gap was found in the flow of cabs and trader’s vehicles, and they hurriedly crossed, diving once more into the security of the relatively quiet side streets. Vera’s step did not falter as she led him briskly past the rows of public houses, in the doorways of which garishly painted, sad-faced prostitutes watched their approach with sharp predatory eyes. Momentarily uneasy, he was relieved when they stopped in front of not a brothel, but the brightly painted facade of a Palais de Varieties where Vera bought two tickets from the box office and, pushing him in front of her, directed him towards the upstairs auditorium.
From his seat in the first row of the balcony, he saw at once that the narrow frontage of the theatre had been deceptive. The interior was more than twice, if not three times, the width; its walls and balconies were covered in red plush material and opulently decorated with mirrors and gilded woodwork. Despite it being only a matinee, the house was more than half full. Here and there he could make out the tanned necks and faces of soldiers back from the Cape, their khaki uniforms contrasting with the sober navy blue tunics of the sailors on shore leave. On either side of Vera and himself sat parties of jolly women chattering animatedly, paying little attention to the troupe of hefty chorus girls that were performing on stage.
Consulting her programme, Vera expressed her satisfaction: they had arrived just in time. The next act was a monologue by a popular performer: he should pay strict attention to it. When he had told her that he doubted his English was good enough to follow more than one tenth of the recitation, she had snorted. The words were nothing, she said, he already had those. It was the tone that mattered.
And she had been rig
ht. As soon as the portly figure onstage had begun to declaim, the audience fell silent, listening with respect to the ringing tones that carried to the furthermost reaches of the house. It was evident that some of them, such as the lady sitting to his immediate left, knew the words almost by heart, for she mouthed them to herself as if she was giving a response in a church, and she joined in the enthusiastic applause that swept like wave after wave from all parts of the theatre at the conclusion of the piece.
With a wan smile, he turned to Vera, who gave his arm an answering squeeze of encouragement. More dancers followed and after them a shrill chanteuse waving flags, and after her a troupe of moustachioed acrobats-cum-jugglers, dressed in spangled tights. Just as he was becoming restless, Vera brought his attention to the act that was to close the first half of the bill. After that, she promised him, they would leave the English to their enjoyment. But first he must study the comedian.
The small pit orchestra struck up a jaunty tune and the curtains opened to reveal a painted backdrop depicting what Trotsky supposed was meant to represent a London street scene, though it looked nothing like the Pentonville he knew. From the wings a man strolled nonchalantly to the centre of the stage. Dressed as a beggar, he looked an improbable sight with his battered bowler hat and the flapping soles of his kipper-mouth boots. The audience greeted him with joyous derision and the orchestra played on, but he affected not to notice either. Instead, rummaging in his pockets, he produced with an ostentatious flourish the stub of a cigar which he proceeded to light by the simple expedient of striking a match against the ragged seat of his pants. The match flared, the audience laughed. He had yet to speak a word, yet he already had the theatre in the palm of his hand.
Leaning forward in his seat Trotsky watched, fascinated, as the comic began to work the house. Like the monologist that had appeared earlier, most of the man’s patter remained incomprehensible to him, yet the cleverness that drove the crowd to respond lay not in the words he used, but in the pauses in between the lines. Gradually a pattern emerged: the man was working in pulses of three. Time after time his dry, almost laconic delivery brought forth at first titters, then guffaws and finally gales of laughter, until a single word or gesture had Trotsky’s neighbour weeping almost uncontrollably. When, with a last careless backward kick of his heels, he disappeared into the wings, the applause was thunderous and Trotsky found himself on his feet along with the rest of the audience, clapping furiously.
The house lights went up and the applause died. As good as her word, Vera led him out of the theatre. Clutching his now almost forgotten speech and the brown paper parcel which contained his new shirt and collar, he chatted excitedly to her as they made their way back through the narrow streets towards the Circus. It was barely four o’ clock yet already the sun’s light was fading in the wintry sky. Shivering, they walked up Shaftesbury Avenue until a vacant cab hove into view. Vera hailed it. It was time they were making their way to Whitechapel.
As they headed eastwards, they discussed the two acts that had impressed him. At last he fell silent.
“A copeck for your thoughts,” said Vera.
He shrugged and smiled sadly.
“Watching them reminded me of someone I knew a long time ago,” he told her.
“Who?”
“Just a woman.”
“Never say just a woman, Lev. It’s unkind. Anyway, you should be thinking of more serious things. Who was she?”
“Giuseppina Uget,” he replied with a sigh. “She was a coloratura soprano who used to sing in the Italian opera at Odessa.”
Vera gave a low whistle.
“Opera, eh? Is that what made you join the movement?”
“Don’t mock me,” he warned her. “She was my first love.”
Unbidden, the memory of Natalya Sedova, the beautiful stranger, formed in his mind.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
“My God, it gets worse,” Vera was teasing him. “And how old were you when this Venus came into your life?”
“Only a schoolboy. I used to scrimp and save to be able to see her on stage. The costumes, the lights... you know…”
“A frustrated actor as well as a writer. It hardly seems fair.”
He laughed guiltily.
“An actor, no. Frustrated, maybe.”
“And now? If someone handed you a play to read, could you do it?”
“I suppose so. But,” he added, picking up the speech which lay on his lap, “to hold an audience like that I would need a better script than this.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” Vera assured him. “Your own script is just fine. You know all the facts. All you have to do is to remember to speak up and not to gabble. Give people time to digest what you have said, otherwise they won’t be able to follow you and that’s when they stop listening. Above all, don’t care about yourself so much.”
“But I do care!” he protested.
“Then you’re a fool,” she said, laughing. “At the beginning, the secret of public speaking is not to worry about whether they like you or not, but to change as many of their minds as you can. If you start worrying about what sort of figure you are cutting, it will only get in your way. Sing it if you like, or recite it like poetry; we won’t care, much less the audience. If they don’t agree with you, too bad! They are hardly likely to start throwing things, now are they? The worse you can expect is a ripple of indifferent applause. Anyway,” she added with a sniff, “come the time, you won’t care much either way. Since it looks as if we shall arrive at least an hour before the meeting is due to start, we shall have time for a few drinks.”
“Good idea! I need at least two brandies before I go in.”
“You’ll have beer and like it,” she admonished him. “Brandy is for heroes.”
Whether it had been the alcohol that had strengthened his confidence, or the cool luxury of the new shirt against his back, or the sudden rush of gratification at the response produced by his flashes of humour, he could not say, but the evening had been a success. It was true that the audience that had listened attentively to him in the seedy room above the public house in Plumbers Road probably had had more to drink and less to eat than he had… And certainly a new face amongst them was as welcome as a window thrown open to the summer breeze… But when all was said and done, it was an indisputable fact that his lecture was a success. Even the unexpected sight of Nicolai at the back of the room clutching a bundle of the latest issue of Iskra had not thrown him. Nicolai’s presence was indeed unexpected as he rarely ventured so far eastwards, preferring the more mannered population around Bloomsbury, but his journey was not wasted. Helped by his oratory, Iskra was in demand and Trotsky had the great satisfaction at the end of the evening of knowing that all but four of the copies had been sold. As he, Vera and Nicolai left the crowded downstairs bar and made their way back towards Aldgate, Trotsky was elated. As he explained airily, oratory was a gift; either one had it or one hadn’t.
Whatever his private views, Nicolai had apparently shared his newfound confidence for the following morning he had suggested to Vera and Jules that their Young Eagle should immediately be sent abroad on a short lecture tour of other groups of RSDLP supporters. Originally Nicolai had himself intended to speak at the meetings, but there was still so much to be done in London that he could not afford to be absent. Let Vera’s Young Eagle try his wings. Despite Trotsky’s own misgivings, the editors had agreed.
Standing over his protégé as he unhappily packed and repacked his battered travelling case, Nicolai had told Trotsky that he owed it to himself, to Iskra, and above all to Vera Zasulich who had helped him to unlock his talent for oratory, to go. After all, Nicolai had enquired, their political viewpoints were identical, weren’t they? The editorial board of Iskra believed he could be trusted to present the correct analysis to the paper’s wavering supporters, and bring in more recruits from the ranks of the uncommitted.
Naturally, Nicolai had added, there would be other dutie
s he would be asked to perform; duties that were part and parcel of the work of any revolutionary movement. He would be expected to act as a courier extraordinaire and to interview and report back on the activities of the local Iskra cells and their methods of circulation. He was also to meet and assess the capacities of various individuals in whom Nicolai was interested, and upon his return report his impressions privately to him. A fresh age demanded a fresh eye: a thorough and objective observer who could detect hidden strengths and weaknesses in an organisation. It was an important assignment.
Although his tour had only consisted of three stops at Bruxelles, Liege and Paris, by the time he had arrived again at the bar in the nineteenth arrondissement one week later to meet his contact, Trotsky had felt exhausted. Nothing had changed; the same morose-looking man was serving behind the bar. Seeing him enter, the bartender drew him a half litre of blonde biere and, without speaking, pushed it across the marble counter. Experience had taught Trotsky caution and he had left the biere untouched as he casually surveyed the faces of the clientele. Only when he was satisfied that the drink was not the signal that would spring a trap for the gendarmes did he slowly reach for it.
As he raised the biere to his mouth, a hand fell lightly onto his shoulder. He froze, the glass still inches from his lips.
“Hello,” she had said, “are you looking for Denis?”
For a second, hearing a woman’s voice had taken him by surprise. Slowly lowering the glass, he turned to face his contact. The dark eyes of Natalya Sedova, the beautiful stranger, regarded him watchfully.
“No,” he told her. “I am waiting for my cousin Jaques.”
“Jaques is walking in the park.”
The parole completed, she relaxed and gave him a smile.
“Welcome back. Finish your drink and then come with me.”