15
The meeting took place in Voronezh, a town four hundred fifty kilometers south of Moscow on a tributary of the Don. Here Peter the Great had first begun construction of his great navy almost two centuries earlier.
Paul Yevnovich Burenin marveled at his leader’s ingenuity in getting them to Voronezh on limited funds. It had taken them nearly a week, traveling on fourth-class trains, on the back of farmers’ carts, and finally on foot.
From the moment they arrived, however, Paul sensed that the effort was not in vain. He felt an energy in the air, an enthusiasm, a mounting force and fire. Those crowded into the dingy dockside apartment that served as a makeshift auditorium represented the core group of Russian revolutionaries. Kazan had hinted that this meeting would be momentous, that the most far-reaching decisions of their insurrectionist careers would be made here. And Paul could feel a vigor around him that confirmed the truth of those words.
He found himself surrounded by an odd assortment of characters. In actual fact, he was probably among the most peculiar himself, for there were few other peasants present beside himself. He had been introduced to a couple of working-class men, and a handful from the higher stratus of society and the nobility had come. But the group was comprised primarily of students and the intelligentsia, a term connoting not simply educated, thinking, progressive Russians, but extremists dedicated to the ideals of change—even, at the distant edges of the spectrum, to revolution.
Sophia Perovskaya, a pretty and petite young woman, was energetic and unswerving in her commitment to the purposes of the group. Her father had been a former Governor-General of St. Petersburg. Andrei Zhelyabov, a handsome, intelligent young man, had stumbled into the radical cause more by mischance than design. While pursuing his education, like so many it seemed these days, he ran afoul of Dmitri Tolstoy’s administration by trying to help other students. Paul understood his motives particularly keenly, for he had wound up in this conclave of revolutionaries for precisely the same reason. And Alexander Mikhailov, rather a new face in the company, had already distinguished himself as an able leader, skilled in the conspiratorial aspects of underground activities.
One of the other prominent figures of this assembly Paul had not yet met. What Kazan had told him about this man gave Paul new understanding of the saying that politics make strange bedfellows. The tall, lanky fellow sat at the front with the others of the Executive Committee, his arms folded across his chest, his intense gaze turned strangely inward, as if decisions made here were a mere formality in a path that had been indelibly marked out for him long ago.
“There’s Anickin,” Kazan whispered to Paul. “The fellow I told you about . . . Basil Pyotrovich Anickin!”
This unlikely group formed one of the major forces advocating violent overthrow and change within Russia. They called their loose confederation Land and Liberty. And if numbers alone counted, they would not have amounted to much. The havoc thus far instigated throughout the land had been caused by a relative few, far less than many of the government officials imagined. They were much like David fighting against Goliath, but they had zeal, passion, and an almost frightening loyalty to their cause. These traits gave them utter confidence, even against a Goliath as ponderous as the great and mighty holy Russia.
In many ways Paul envied their single-minded devotion. He wondered if Perovskaya or Zhelyabov ever suffered from any of the same doubts and confusion he did. He did not wonder about Anickin, whose obsession was clearly written across his taut countenance.
Paul believed wholeheartedly in the concept of change, even radical change. But his loyalties became muddled in the question of how far to go in trying either to reform or to undo the Romanov regime. To some of those present, any means were justified in attaining the end goal. But Paul still felt that if the goal was a noble one, it must be realized only through noble means. From all Kazan had said, he had the feeling that today’s meeting would be dominated by this very dilemma.
Kazan leaned toward Paul again, his eyes flashing eagerly at the prospect of what lay ahead. A steady buzz of several different conversations filled the room as the leaders awaited late arrivals.
“A confrontation is coming today, Pavushka, you can be sure of it,” he said. “Look at Plekhanov and Axelrod. They are already gearing up for a fight. You can see the determination building on their faces. They refuse to condone the principle of terror. Propaganda and preaching to the peasants are a dead horse, yet they persist in beating it. Prepare yourself for several hours of debate.”
“And what about you, Kazan?” asked Paul. “Are you still of the same mind as Zhelyabov and Perovskaya?”
Paul hardly needed to ask. He was fairly certain of the answer to his question. He and Kazan had discussed his mentor’s advocacy of violence many, many times. Yet Paul still retained enough optimism to hope his older friend might one day come to moderate his views.
“You know where I stand,” answered Kazan. “It is I who should be asking you that question.”
“It is not easy to repudiate years of teaching.”
“Progress means change, Pavushka.”
“I have been taught that violence is wrong.”
“In an ideal society, I would be the first to agree. But ours is far from ideal. And our oppressors force it upon themselves.”
“Jesus himself taught us to turn the other cheek. My father taught me to respect authority.” Paul sighed inwardly at the mention of his father, and the painful memories that even such a brief reference stirred. “I have long since given up that aspect of my childhood teaching,” he went on, “but to go so much further as some of the things you would do . . .”
He merely shook his head to complete his unresolved dilemma.
“If we all did what Jesus said, we’d still be laboring in serfdom, and worse! And where did it get Him? Nailed to a cross! I tell you, Pavushka, perhaps there is a cross out there for all of us if we don’t strike back. Those mollycoddling teachings of the church have been almost as destructive as the tsar himself! They have bewitched the peasants and lulled them into apathy. Someone has to take action!”
“And that someone is us!” said someone seated nearby, and a couple of others within hearing applauded Kazan’s impassioned words.
“You’d better save that for the meeting,” someone laughed.
“Don’t worry,” returned Kazan jovially as he glanced over his shoulder, “there is more where that came from!”
Turning back to Paul, he added more quietly, “If my paltry words do not convince you, Paul, wait until you hear Mikhailov and Perovskaya. Their words will set the world on fire once they are heard, my friend. You will have a rare opportunity to hear rhetoric at its finest. I doubt you will leave here the same young man.”
Paul sat back and prepared to listen. It was the least he could do.
Perhaps he would change. He had no way to predict what he would think in the future. He had changed so much already that the simple peasant lad he had once been was now a stranger to him. What would a little more change matter?
Only as the meeting progressed did he begin to discover the answer to that very significant question.
16
The meeting opened with colorless preliminaries. But before long, the organizers launched into the primary reason the conclave had been summoned: to debate the direction they should take in the immediate future.
“It is the duty of the Land and Liberty Party,” began Zhelyabov in his stoic manner, “to do as much as it can. If it has sufficient strength to overthrow the despot by means of an insurrection, it must do so; if it has sufficient strength to punish him personally, it must do that; if its strength is not even sufficient for that, it must at least loudly protest. But our strength is unquestionably sufficient, and the more decidedly we act, the more it will grow.”
“What does all that mean in simple terms?” asked a man who was identified with the more moderate camp among those present.
“It means,” put in So
phia Perovskaya firmly, “that we intend to make the imminent disposal of the tsar our immediate and sole focus!”
An excited murmur rippled through the gathering.
“This must be put to a vote!” cried a voice from the audience.
“Down with the tsar!” shouted another.
“The monster must die!”
“Must we become monsters, too?”
Suddenly the shouts and accusations began shooting back and forth, filling the room. Zhelyabov stepped forward and finally was able to restore silence.
“There are many arguments on both sides,” he said, “but they have all been voiced already. We have long known that what Sophia has outlined is the inevitable path we must follow. No lasting reform can come while the Romanovs remain in power. The people, in their ignorance, are too closely bound to him. We must act on behalf of the peasant masses.”
“Think of it,” said a fellow Paul knew only as Ivan. “Only we can give them what they need—a constitution and a National Assembly. Only we can provide what they lack the heart to get for themselves.”
“When the tsar is dead, we will see to it that the blame is laid on the landowners!”
“Then the peasants will eagerly follow.”
“Mass social uprising is the only way to topple St. Petersburg!”
“When the peasants see our power, our strength,” added another, “and the willingness and ability to strike such a blow at the very pinnacle of the corrupt government, they will gladly accept our leadership.”
“This is all madness!” cried Boris Filkin, one of the leading moderates. “The crime of tsaricide as systematic, organized terror is unheard of . . . unthinkable!”
Kazan stood up to answer him.
“We did not invent the idea, Filkin,” he said. “The government came up with the solution of tsaricide long before any of us. Some of you may recall our beloved Herzen’s response to the trial of Karakozov after his attempt on the tsar in 1866. He challenged the tsar’s hangman, Muraviev, on this very subject when the scoundrel attempted to implicate, and thus condemn, the whole company of radicals.”
Kazan paused, took up a pamphlet from a stack of papers he had laid out on the table, then glanced around the room to see if he held the attention of his listeners sufficiently to proceed. Judging from their looks that Herzen’s words would be welcomed, he began to read.
“‘What is unheard of about tsaricide?’ wrote Herzen. ‘Only that the attempt on the tsar did not succeed. Is it possible that Muraviev’s mouthpieces haven’t heard of the murder of the Tsarevich Dmitri in 1591? Or of the murder of Tsar Boris Godunov and his son during the Time of Troubles in 1605? Or of the murder of Peter III by the lovers of his wife, the esteemed Catherine the Great? Or the murder of Ivan Antonovich by the self-same fine lady? Or of the murder of Paul I, in 1801, by the leading general with the participation of his “inconsolable” son, Alexander I? And of the murder of the Tsarevich Aleksei at the command of his most tender parent, Peter the Great? Haven’t Muraviev’s defenders heard of the French saying about an “autocracy limited by assassination”? That was our Magna Carta. Poison, the knife, and the garrote—to this we must add two more limitations upon power: bribes and filth.’”
“Hear, hear!” responded a chorus of enthusiastic voices.
“The government itself provides our example,” added Kazan. “This is the only check and balance it gives us.”
“Again I ask,” countered Filkin, “do we become animals just like our oppressors? Do we not stand for something nobler than their barbarism?”
“By ridding the world of evil,” answered Zhelyabov, “we are not making ourselves into animals, but heroes! We defend right and honor and freedom by eliminating the monsters.”
“And where does it stop?” countered Filkin.
“When the end has been achieved.”
“So you have finally espoused the philosophies of that deceiver Nechaev?” Filkin spat out the name with disdain.
Paul had been only a child when Sergei Nechaev had reached the heyday of his influence in militant circles. What he knew about the man he had learned mostly from Kazan. Nechaev epitomized the radical extremist. His charisma had won—or deceived—many in the late 1860s and early 1870s. To Nechaev, everything had to be subordinated to the revolutionary cause. And he believed any means was acceptable toward that end. He stooped to recruiting followers by threatening to expose them to the police, and thus “radicalizing” them by coercion. He so beguiled the radical emigrant community in Switzerland that he convinced the revered Bakunin to give him a written statement supporting him as leader of the movement. Even Herzen was nearly taken in, and much money from the emigrant fund found its way into Nechaev’s hands.
Finally, however, his philosophy led him to the inevitable consummation of violent men. He murdered a brother in the cause who had the effrontery to dispute his methods. Even such brutality was acceptable to Nechaev. He had declared, “The measure of friendship, devotion, and other duties with respect to such a comrade is defined solely by the degree of his usefulness in the cause of an all-destroying practical revolution.” Here, however, the bulk of the movement parted ways with Nechaev, and he lost influence. In the end he was betrayed by a comrade and arrested.
“We have always repudiated Nechaev, and still do,” rejoined Mikhailov. “His cold-blooded approach will always be abhorrent. To turn on a brother is beneath even the vilest crimes of our oppressors. But do we toss out the babushka with the bath? Nechaev was able to deceive because he so expertly blended truth and lies. We denounce the lies. But truth is truth, regardless of whose mouth utters it.”
“And the truth is,” added Sophia Perovskaya coolly, “that the tsar must die!”
More heated debate followed her cold, angry words.
After a lengthy discussion in which views on all sides continued to be freely exchanged, Plekhanov and Axelrod finally demanded a vote from the convocation.
“Nechaev preached unanimity and solidarity among revolutionaries,” someone declared smugly. “Is that truth or lie?”
“You are not funny,” Sophia shot back.
At this point in the proceedings Anickin seemed to rouse from his trance. His eyes became narrow with purpose and determination.
“You do not understand,” he said, speaking for the first time. “All your arguments of moderation mean nothing. Vote or no vote, the primary agenda for Land and Liberty is the death of the tsar. We will not rest until that end is achieved!”
He glanced around at each of the faces of his adversaries as if challenging them. Paul shivered. It seemed that the ghost of Nechaev himself had come to Voronezh! As long as men like Anickin lived, no Romanov was safe. And perhaps neither were his brother rebels.
Axelrod jumped up. “You give us no choice. Continue on such a course, and we must inform!”
“Do you think even that will stop the hand of fate? Alexander II shall die. It is as much his destiny as it is ours to kill him.”
Anickin’s words took the wind out of the debate, but it did not halt it altogether. The rhetoric droned on for some time, although Paul sensed an air of futility entering into the arguments of the moderate opposition. Finally Axelrod and Plekhanov walked out of the meeting in protest. Several others followed. Someone called after them in derision, “Do what you must! We will serve the will of the people!”
“The people’s will!” repeated several others. “We must serve the people’s will!”
With the leading moderates gone, the final vote was anti-climactic. The few fence-riders left were fearful of countering the passionate insurrectionists, and the vote was unanimous.
The departure of the moderates dissolved the Land and Liberty Party. The remaining hard-liners, wanting an entirely fresh face for their new party, cast about for a name. They did not have to look far. Paul had thought the rallying cry shouted earlier had been a fine one—The People’s Will. It caught the ear of others in the room as well, and thus the new organizati
on, which would be dedicated solely to terrorism, dubbed itself The People’s Will.
Yet Paul could not help wondering how accurate the name was. What “people” did it represent? Surely not the millions of Russian peasants who would have been both appalled and horrified at the mere thought of murdering their beloved “Little Father.” Paul thought of his own father and mother. They would never consider themselves such “people.”
But if the word people stood only for the handful of radicals left in that apartment in Voronezh, the phrase might be accurate. For their will in the end would be the only encouragement necessary to topple a centuries-old regime.
And where did Paul fit into this sinister organization? Did he stand with Kazan, who had become mentor and hero, friend and brother? He admired Boris Filkin, who was a kind and thoughtful man, a rational voice of reason in a sea of extremists. And he had to admit he envied at times the fire and vigor of some of the others.
Yet the final step in his mental evolution, his departure from all he had been taught to believe and respect—this final leap could come from nowhere but deep within his own soul.
The stakes of this dangerous enterprise required more of its members than a mere parroting of the philosophies of others. From within each individual heart must emerge the conviction that the agenda of The People’s Will was indeed the only method to effect the change so desperately needed in their Motherland. Paul was closer than he ever thought he would be to such individuals. For as he had listened to the debates, the more he saw the lame reasoning and helpless futility of the moderates. What Zhelyabov and the others said made sense. The cherished goal was so high, so righteous, so imperative that it became necessary to reach it by any means possible.
As Paul mused quietly over these things, he happened to glance toward the solitary figure of Basil Anickin.
An involuntary chill shuddered through his frame. Was this the end of the violent road he was considering? Would they all become like this eerie man? Could Paul himself hope to maintain his essential self, regardless of the path he chose?
The Russians Collection Page 54