Byzantium Endures: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  Rasputin deserved his death. He preached ignorance, not knowledge. True Faith is gained through wisdom alone. He corrupted the Tsar. God punished them all, perhaps as they deserved. The Tsar was deceived. When he came back to Christ, Christ was sleeping. It was too late. In despair, the Tsar abdicated. His prayers had become garbled and thickened by the teachings of a womanising charlatan who was possibly in the pay of International Zionism. The Tsar was responsible only to Christ, and Christ could not advise him. So Nicholas abdicated, precipitating the Terror, destroying the Future, robbing me of so much.

  Unaware of this, I was very excited about my forthcoming travels. I was in love with England. For me it was populated by beautiful ladies and fine, haughty gentlemen. All my impressions came from popular Russian stories and from my Pearson’s magazines. I knew poverty existed, from reading Wells, but it was not like our Russian poverty. It was a comfortable poverty. Nobody in Britain or America has ever witnessed true poverty as we knew it. I see nothing wrong with poverty, either. Give the baby too much milk, and he has nothing to strive for, as they say in Siberia.

  I began to read everything I could find again in English. I spoke English with Kolya (whose grasp of ordinary speech was not so good, but who knew far more about literature). I polished my vocabulary and my grammar. Not a day went by without me taking out my new passport, which included my photograph, supplied by Uncle Semya (it was another of those which he had had taken in Odessa) and delighting in it.

  The passport was in the name of Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski. Things had become rather over-complicated, but I was in such a good mood nothing really bothered me. As soon as possible I visited Mr Green. He told me I should be going to Liverpool, via Helsinki. I would take the train through Finland, get a ship from there, and probably return by the same route. I might have to travel via Gothenburg, or even Denmark. Merchant shipping was having trouble with German submarines.

  I did not worry about the risks. The prospect of seeing my beloved England outweighed anything else. As it happened I would not see England until Bolshevism and Zionism, ironically, had taken root in the mental soil imported from my own country.

  Throughout January I relaxed. Then I became concerned as no news arrived from the Polytechnic about my Diploma. I grew agitated. Next, Mr Green told me that the international situation had become difficult. The package he had originally wanted me to deliver was lost. It would be a little while before he could get another. Inaction distresses me. My attempts to see Lena and Marya were rebuffed. The silly minxes had become frightened of me. Lena had a bruise on her face. She told me I had caused it, but I certainly had no memory of hitting her there.

  Mr Green at last informed me that another package was ready. I could not leave just then, because of a sea battle between the English and German fleets which might ease the blockade. He said it would be best to wait a couple of weeks. The package contained secret letters between my Uncle Semya’s firm, Mr Green’s office, and the firm of Rawlinson and Gold, who had a branch in Liverpool. Their main offices, I was told, were at Whitechapel, London. I wished I might be going to Whitechapel. Mr Green said it was important I got to Liverpool and returned on an early ship. I would be a ‘secret courier’ for him, travelling as a student searching for émigré relatives. Soon, of course, I expected secret couriers to be carrying my own plans between friendly governments. I wrote to Professor Vorsin asking about my Diploma. I received a courteous note telling me that the Diploma was in preparation. They were writing to my father to inform him of my success. My ‘father’ was, of course, the priest whose son was currently undergoing TB treatment in Switzerland. It was to be hoped he would know how to respond. Now I had a letter which at least confirmed my right to the Diploma. I began going out again with Kolya. But an increasing number of revolutionaries were taking over our favourite cabarets. I saw Mrs Cornelius once or twice. She said she was getting ‘fed up’ with everything and would like to leave Peter. I told her I would soon be visiting Liverpool. She suggested we travel together. She knew Liverpool, she said, ‘fairly well’. This was good news indeed. I told her what my route would probably be. I promised to find out about train- and sailing-times.

  More and more strikes took place, particularly in the industrial suburbs. There were by now far too many voices raised in sympathy. I heard my landlady had had trouble (her house was on the Vyborg side where armed deserters were not above holding up ‘boorzhoo’ women and robbing them). Wounded soldiers with bitter faces talked quite openly about the state of the War, complaining against God and the Tsar, and nobody arrested them.

  On 14 February 1917 I received another letter from Professor Vorsin. The Diploma would be prepared and sent to me. He was not sure the Polytechnic could teach me anything further. He would be pleased to meet me there or at my lodgings to discuss the matter. I wrote back saying I would appreciate the talk. It might be best if he recommended me for a government post at once. I received a rather brief reply, signed by his secretary. The contents of my letter had been noted. The professor was giving it his earliest possible attention. I was much cheered up. By the time the Tsar left for Mogilev, to supervise the progress of the War, I was as good as ready to hold the Petrograd fort for him.

  There is no need for me to describe what happened later in February 1917. In spite of all, we were taken by surprise. Strikes, mutinies, the Tsar’s abdication, the setting up of Prince Lvov’s Provisional Government, the wild rumours, the wholesale chaos in the streets. Our enemies, Reds and Jews alike, celebrated their wonderful achievement while the people went on starving and the soldiers went on mutinying, and crime ranged the capital unchecked. Professor Vorsin fled Petrograd with half the staff of the Polytechnic. Mr Green was winding up his office. He told me he now planned to take the package to England himself, ‘not that there was a lot of point now’. Kolya joined the Socialist Revolutionary Party. I was left alone and bewildered.

  Petrograd became an alien, crazy city. Every day there were demonstrations and meetings. People were openly rude to their superiors. Decent men and women could not go abroad without being molested. Here was democracy and socialism in action. Everything was pulled down. The Tsar was living in virtual exile with his family. Those who had any sense were already taking their money abroad. And still the Provisional Government claimed it could continue to fight a War. They were anxious, of course, not to lose the friendship or loans of countries like England and France. They knew Russia would fall apart without them.

  I visited the Polytechnic and found Professor Matzneff back in charge. This, at least, was something. I told him of my problem. He assured me that he knew of my case and would do all he could to see I was properly looked after. Many records had become lost. He suspected some of the academics of destroying them. It would probably be better if I went home for a while until things became normal. Eventually the Institute would be functioning as usual. I could return and he would help me sort everything out.

  ‘I was promised a Special Diploma,’ I explained. ‘Can I still expect it?’

  ‘Of course. But the times are so uncertain. With the paper shortages it’s hard to get things printed.’

  ‘It is important to me. I had a letter from Professor Vorsin. He assured me the Diploma was being prepared. I had hoped to show it to my mother.’

  ‘Well, the letter will do, eh, for the moment?’

  I agreed the letter was absolute confirmation. I would leave my address with him (I gave him my proper name) and would wait until I heard from him. I would be prepared to make a special visit to Petrograd to collect the Diploma. It would be unsafe to trust the mails in the present crisis. I had heard of postmen, for instance, dumping their bags into the snow or the garbage at the announcement of the Tsar’s abdication. I think my old friend Matzneff also had some intimation of the difficulties lying ahead and was trying to save me from the worst. Within a few months the Bolsheviks would be in control. Civil War would be laying our vast country waste, wreaking far more damage than anythi
ng the Germans might have done.

  I shook hands with Matzneff, wished him luck, hoped he would be able to run the Polytechnic through what he termed the ‘interim confusion’. I repeated my offer, as I felt I should, to help teach if necessary. He said he appreciated this but that teachers of routine experience were what were currently needed. He was trying to attract Vorsin and a few of the others back. They had lost some of their nervousness and might return.

  I am glad I decided to take his advice. If I had not, I should almost certainly, like Vorsin, have become a victim of the Cheka. I bade him an affectionate farewell. I returned to the apartment to say goodbye to Kolya. He promised to send for me as soon as things were stable. He had acquired sudden political influence. When he was Prime Minister, he said, he would appoint me Minister of Science. It was a consolation. Even if the revolutionaries had taken over, it was as well to have well-placed friends. Things might not be so difficult in the long term.

  I went to The Harlequinade and asked after Mrs Cornelius. The place was packed. Some mixture of poetry-reading and political meeting was taking place. Red bunting was stuck everywhere. It was a madhouse. I pressed through the crowd (I had already learned to address all and sundry as ‘comrade’). I searched for Mrs Cornelius. She was not there. I left a message with a mutual acquaintance. My English trip was delayed. I would try to contact her soon. In the streets there, were groups of students waving huge red flags. The Marseillaise was being played on every sort of instrument, on gramophones, by military bands. Trams and buses trundled by, full of yelling students and drunken soldiers. It reminded me of the Paris Commune. I remembered what had happened to that particular ‘social experiment’. I prayed Kolya would have the sense to moderate his views and policies.

  I stayed the night in Kolya’s apartment. There were political newspapers and posters, all the junk of Revolution littered about. My friend was attending a meeting of the Duma and did not return. In the morning I packed my bags, borrowed Kolya’s supply of cocaine, two bottles of Polish vodka and a few silver roubles, and walked to Mr Green’s. I found the office in complete confusion. Everyone was leaving. Only Mr Parrot was to remain. He looked unhappy. I told Mr Green I needed some money. He was evidently reluctant to part with what he had, but gave me some paper roubles. He said they would be enough to get me to Kiev. I must write direct to Uncle Semya if I needed any more. I thanked him for his help. I still had my passport and would be glad to act as his courier if he needed someone in the future. He nodded and said he would remember my offer.

  Through misty snow I walked to the station. It was in complete chaos. Deserters, released prisoners, cripples, touts, pimps, honest artisans, bohemians, aristocrats, businessmen and students were all trying to flee the city. There was no question of a luxury journey home. By paying three times the proper price I was lucky to get a third-class ticket. I found myself crowded into a carriage which already had one window broken (‘for some fresh air’ as an unshaven soldier told me). There were tiers of smelly bunks. These were full of gypsies, Jews, Tatars, Armenians, Poles and drunks making the compartment reek of foul tobacco, cheap vodka and vomit. I clung on to my bags, forced myself to be agreeable to an old Jew in a black overcoat and a young soldier with one arm, who was also trying to get to Kiev, and squeezed in between them.

  Eventually the train moved slowly from the station. St Petersburg was a miserable shadow, occupied at last by the forces of Chaos. We left it behind us. Then a white wind blew through the broken pane, making it impossible to see the countryside beyond. I consoled myself that, after all, I had achieved far more in the capital in a shorter time than I had thought possible. I would be returning home with some honour!

  * * * *

  EIGHT

  FOUR DAYS LATER THE train arrived in Kiev. By the time I struggled from the freezing compartment into the afternoon gloom I had been robbed of some books, a couple of inexpensive figurines bought for my mother, and a pair of gloves. Luckily I had some fur mittens of Kolya’s. I put these on before gripping my bags and setting off on foot in the direction of Kirillovskaya and my mother’s flat.

  My city was occupied by every kind of scum: deserters who had killed their officers, peasants who had murdered their masters, workers who had stolen from their employers; all had come to Kiev to spend their gold on drink and women. In the train I had met a great many Petrograd businessmen, nobles and intellectuals, and similar individuals in flight from Moscow. They were hoping to get to Yalta or Odessa or anywhere on the coast. I do not know where they expected to go from there. Turks and Germans blockaded us on every sea. Perhaps those places were less infected with Revolutionary madness. Here red banners hung between buildings; there were proclamations on walls (some in Ukrainian, which baffled me); meetings were carried on at every corner; and bands were playing Shevchenko’s The Ukraine Will Never Die as well as La Marseillaise. The floors of the train had been filthy with expectorated sunflower seeds and with every other sort of inanimate and animate rubbish. There was no difference here, either on pavements or in parks. Incompetents had taken charge. Kiev had collapsed as a civilised city. Trams had ceased to run on time; cabs had disappeared; bands of drunken brigands in sailors’ uniforms and army greatcoats roamed about at will, demanding money, drink, food, cigarettes, from passers-by. Because the democratic Rada had not defined it, police and Cossack militia were uncertain of their authority. Should they try to arrest the brigands? Should they merely ask them to leave other comrades alone? Should they shoot on sight? Should they simply ignore the activities of the new aristos? The deserters and convicts were armed to the teeth, cheerfully willing to kill anyone who frustrated them: a typical situation in all Russia’s cities during Kerenski’s days. It would get worse. The Bolsheviks would merely legalise the terror and give it moral justification. Every murder victim became a liquidated bourgeois just as nowadays they are all listed as traffic accidents. It looked as if half the city was drunk and the other half sunk into dejection. I passed by Podol. The whole ghetto had turned Red: the Jews were celebrating their conquests. I bought a Voice of Kiev. It had already taken on a nationalist note.

  By the time I reached our quiet, unlit street, I had realised I must support any authority, even if it were socialist. My arms and back ached horribly. I tugged the bags up the dark, smelly staircase to our landing. I knocked at the apartment door. There was silence. I went up a flight and pulled Captain Brown’s bell. Soon the old Scot stood quivering in the opening. His breath was heavy with homemade vodka. His eyes were scarcely able to focus.

  ‘It is I.’

  He coughed in surprise. He wiped at his untrimmed moustache as if it were a piece of food he had found adhering to his lip. ‘Your mother will be very pleased.’

  ‘Mother isn’t in.’

  ‘Bring your bags.’ He gestured a welcome. ‘Thieves everywhere. You might have been murdered. The envious wretches will kill anyone with a hint of refinement.’ He stumbled down after me and tried to pick up a suitcase. He failed. I had never seen him so helpless. He was old and pathetic.

  We entered his hollow flat. Through all my childhood it had been a piece of the Britain I loved: trophies on the walls, English pictures and books. Even the carpets had seemed English. Now the captain had sold everything of value. I was appalled. I wished someone had warned me of his decline. He sat on a bare table and apologised. ‘Hard times. The War. Your mother works late at the laundry. They had to release half the staff. Others have gone off God knows where. Into the countryside, probably, to join the looting. The government’s trying to stop it. Could be worse. The first days were horrifying.’ He poured cloudy vodka into a glass. ‘A dram?’

  I accepted. It looked poisonous. He said, ‘With luck things will soon be normal. Prince Lvov isn’t interested in Ukrainian independence and Kerenski wants us to go on fighting the Germans.’