November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  Shingarev meanwhile had glimpsed a still darker prospect in the wake of fixed prices. “If the war drags on, it will be too late to talk about voluntary initiatives and about private trade: I’m afraid we might have to say what proportion of his stocks each particular person must sell.”

  Minervin raised a forbidding finger toward his forbidding pince-nez, just as if he was speaking in the Duma, and seemed to shake his words out of it: “Ne-ver, ne-ver, ne-ver! Such a curtailment of freedom …!”

  Shingarev, quite sure of himself, replied, “Be careful—even Protopopov uses the words ‘freedom of trade.’ Nowadays the Minister of the Interior makes solemn pronouncements on freedom of trade. But what he means is freedom for predators, and we are in fact in favor of regulation in the people’s own interests. That’s the paradox. What would become of Russia if in obedience to the principle of freedom we left the call-up to private initiative? It’s the same with agriculture. War demands sacrifices. We ought to keep one eye on the enemy and take a leaf out of his book. The Germans tell a joke about us: which country has everything and yet has nothing? In Russia poor organization has turned abundance into shortage. In their country perfect organization means that in spite of shortages everybody has enough. Mobile kitchens distribute cheap meals throughout Germany. The state can take everything, but it can also give everything. When we recaptured the Pinsk Marshes this year we found them provided with the roads we hadn’t gotten around to building in a hundred years.”

  Who wouldn’t warm to him? And his voice could, when he wished, ring out imperiously. No wonder he was at the top of the political tree.

  “If we want to win we must inevitably introduce organs of coercion, as all European countries have. War is nothing but coercion, and there’s no getting around it, we shall be drawn into the sort of ‘war socialism’ that has taken over Germany. Grain, sugar, tea, kerosene, everything will have to be brought under central control if we’re to get through the war. The Germans have conscription of labor from sixteen to sixty—and if we want to win we can’t avoid it ourselves.”

  “Only”—Vorotyntsev couldn’t help interrupting—"only, in Germany society and the government are allies, not enemies as they are here.”

  Nobody seemed to notice his demurrer. Shingarev had evidently bolted down a path of his own, at an angle to the party line. Pavel Nikolaevich had not arrived in time to scotch this heresy, but Mili Izmailovich had enough heavy artillery of his own.

  “Am I to understand, Andrei Ivanovich, that you’re taking the government’s side?” A chill breeze passed around the table, causing the Kadet diners to reel back in horror.

  “It’s the government that contemplates regimenting labor, to prevent unwanted strikes. ‘Workers, fall in at your benches!’ “ Minervin raised an expressively trembling hand, drip, drip, dripping his expressive phrases from the tip of a finger. “But our party cannot accept dictatorship as the price of victory. Serfdom all over again? Strip the people of the last vestige of freedom, for the sake of victory? Russia does not need victory at that price! We all, every one of us, have a burning desire for freedom, indeed we do! But victory as we understand it includes winning civic rights for the people!!!”

  Vorotyntsev eagerly absorbed this argument, hearing all their voices, even the background chorus, at once. He was amazed by this combination of high culture and the decisiveness needed in those who govern.

  The others, it seemed, were all on Minervin’s side, but Shingarev was undeterred.

  “No, they’re on the right track, the only track. Labor conscription is an inevitable stage in the course of events. It’s a universal requirement of modern war, compelling us to deviate from the ideal of freedom. Even if a government enjoying society’s confidence is set up tomorrow, it will be forced to do the same thing!”

  “You think so? Never!!” Minervin accompanied a sharp look through his pince-nez with a sharp little laugh. “And if you dare say such a thing from the Duma tribunal you’ll become unpopular overnight!”

  As though he was indeed on the rostrum and not in his own living room Andrei Ivanovich retorted, steppe dweller’s eyes flashing, “I shall dare to say it just the same. I can’t help it. Yes, fellow countrymen, the time has come to make sacrifices! Peasants, the state needs your bread! Fellow citizens, the state needs the labor of your hands! And if enlightened persons who truly love their people come to power, there will be such an upsurge of enthusiasm! The workers will stand at their benches without a murmur! Grain will flood in! The people will give its grain as it has given its children.”

  His voice failed. Overcome by emotion, he had to pause for breath.

  They all raised their voices at once. The senior lady with the solid elbows gave her verdict without waiting to hear the balance of opinion.

  “Well, of course, if we had a responsible government even dictatorship would be tolerable! As things are, the government is deliberately creating supply problems to get Russia out of the war.”

  The younger lady, with the slender, graceful arms (covered, however, to the wrist by the filmy fabric of her blouse), was not too shy to correct her. “We have been warned against the term ‘responsible government.’ It could expose us to attack by Black Hundreds agitators. We’re supposed to say ‘government trusted by the people.’ “ Her blouse was dark green, with mysterious flecks of brown. “Government by proxy, you might say.”

  It slipped out so glibly, almost as if such a government existed already, its membership generally known, man by man and post by post, a wonderfully heroic government into the bargain. Only Vorotyntsev, marooned in the trenches, had somehow failed to notice. Asking would have embarrassed him—even if they had left room for questions.

  What was obvious was their certainty that such a government would be generally welcomed, popular, and salutary. To that sort of government, Vorotyntsev gathered, all things were permissible, whereas from the present government no gift was acceptable.

  “The Progressive Bloc will assuredly lead Russia out of the impasse!”

  “Educated society surely could not manage things worse than the thickheaded bureaucrats! Russia is governed by the thickest of the thick!”

  “What is Russian society supposed to do with such a government? Educate the idiots? Impossible. Change their idiotic minds? Impossible. You live for decades completely at the mercy of idiots, and the moment you offer a helping hand they shush you: watch what you’re doing, you’ll have us all in the hole!”

  “But how can we muzzle ourselves? We have no court of appeal.”

  “They have declared war on the whole people! As long ago as the 1860s!”

  “A government of Asiatic despots, of bloodthirsty cannibals!”

  “A policy of moderation toward it is as criminal as a policy of betrayal!”

  “Milyukov imagines you can operate in starched cuffs, like Europeans!”

  “There’s a rule even doormen and yardmen know: start sweeping from the top of the steps!”

  “The Kadet Party can save Russia—but only by abandoning its moderate stance to some extent, only in contact with the left.”

  “We should have lined up with the left, not the right, from the start!”

  “Society will not be satisfied with just a change of ministers. What is wanted is a general amnesty! And the repeal of Jewish disabilities.”

  The whole discussion—with all of them, Vera included, taking part—sped dizzily into the distance, or fragmented, as the talk became more voluble and louder.

  They were evidently only just beginning, but with every word they became more remote from the man who wanted only to determine how he himself should act for the best. The carousel was spinning at bewildering speed, there was no way of slowing it down, no way not to be dragged around with it.

  Through the wordy deluge one note rang out clearly: those present understood the people’s needs, had made them their own, and could infallibly satisfy them. Something the government could never do. Left helpless by their dizzyin
g self-assurance, Vorotyntsev slumped silently in his chair.

  “Our parliamentary methods are ineffectual against this insane regime!”

  “No, gentlemen, no! Parliamentary means are the only ones! In our country might will never be recognized as right!”

  “For two years now we’ve been longing for news of victories! And we get fobbed off with some ship sunk in the Gulf of Riga!”

  “We in the Duma are partly to blame. We’ve always done our best not to kick up a fuss, we’ve been too careful not to damage the prestige of the army.”

  “Russia’s old vice, Russia’s vice through the ages—suffering in silence.”

  Shingarev too was a different man in this company. What is it that always forces us to adapt to the general tone? The whirl left Vorotyntsev dazed, like a ram staring at a new gate. He tried not to show even by his expression how much he disagreed.

  “Never forget that the government is not honest with society!”

  (No, and neither are you with the government. You say one thing and mean another.)

  “No, no, with a Tsar like ours victory is impossible!”

  “To go against the people and the Duma with the invader already deep inside the country is to play his game!”

  “The international alignment favors a Russian victory as never before. Our ancient enemy England is with us, our recent enemy Japan is with us …!”

  Ah, but what about our allies’ idiotic Dardanelles operation? Vorotyntsev wondered. No good, though, trying to get a word in. They were all greater patriots than he was. They would settle for nothing short of total victory.

  “If we’re to save Russia from the Germans we need an immediate radical change of regime!”

  “It’s perfectly obvious they are deliberately aggravating the economic situation to give them an excuse for getting out of the war!”

  A snag in the smooth surface of the carousel. Something wrong here! Weren’t you saying the very opposite before 1914—that they were deliberately inviting war, to get out of what was supposed to be a difficult economic situation?

  He still hadn’t the nerve to object, helpless against the compelling force of the carousel. He couldn’t help noticing, though, that they argued in generalities. When it came to details they were much less knowledgeable than Fyodor Kovynev. Words at the ready, filling chests and mouths to overflowing, gushing out to stop the least little crack, though by now no one had anything novel or surprising to say.

  “Russia is just one big lunatic asylum!”

  “The new ministers haven’t even bothered to move into their state apartments: they’ll all be dismissed in a month anyway.”

  “The guards are planning a coup—everybody knows that! There will be a coup—take my word for it!”

  Vorotyntsev was all ears. What was this coup everybody seemed to be babbling about?

  “It’s bound to come! Public discontent is greater now than it ever was in 1905!”

  “Heavens above, they’re going to let Sukhomlinov out of the Peter and Paul Fortress! What more do you need?”

  “There’s no dodging it! Revolutionary action must be planned now, to forestall a flare-up of popular discontent!”

  Vorotyntsev found himself eyed more and more closely: this is right up his alley! If he really is a progressive officer, what has he to tell us?

  Vorotyntsev had—or hadn’t he?—catapulted himself there for that very purpose, to lend a hand. But he saw now that he was probably in the wrong place. He felt annoyed with himself for giving way so feebly, for his inability to resist or contradict at any point.

  There were three kinds of jam on the table, all from Grachevka, all homemade. They had reached the tea stage, and the little girls were on their way out. They had sat in silence throughout the conversation. No doubt they were used to hearing such things day in and day out.

  There was a ring at the door. Pavel Nikolaevich maybe? They all braced themselves, strained their ears. Shingarev jumped up smartly and went to the door. They listened eagerly. No—it was a woman’s voice. Musical, measured, dignified.

  “Strange.” Minervin seemed surprised.

  She didn’t go away, she was obviously taking her coat off, but she and her host didn’t join the company.

  Vera, sitting next to her brother, whispered, “Professor Andozerskaya—the cleverest woman in Petersburg, so they say.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “You know how it is—both capitals like to claim fifty or so ‘cleverest women’ each. …”

  “With all their prohibitions and restrictions and suspicions they drive people to the left …”

  “They … they … are less afraid of Germany than of yielding to public opinion in their own country. As far as they are concerned, Zemgor and the War Industry Committees are subversive organizations—they see revolution everywhere! If they can suspect an independent and disinterested body like Zemgor …”

  Vorotyntsev had held back as long as he could, but this touched a raw nerve in him. He had to distance himself. “Look, it’s all very well, but you can’t honestly call them disinterested.”

  The moment he said it, just that one little thing, they were all on their guard. They fell silent, as they had been speaking, in unison, and their silence was aimed at the colonel. The lecturer straightened his horn-rims, the older lady put on her tortoiseshells and became more forbidding, her quick, chunky elbows more menacing than ever. They were all waiting for an explanation.

  He had started it—he had to go through with it. (Vera was looking at him anxiously.)

  “At the front” (he wanted to get it across as precisely as possible) “you hear all sorts of different opinions about Zemgor. They do quite a bit, but it’s strange, just to take one thing, that their medical effort is left to amateurs, who don’t belong to any unit. They do quite a bit … but their staffs are too large, far too large. And every post is for some reason filled not by old men or discharged soldiers but by men liable to military service. Most of them young members of the intelligentsia. They employ deserters as medical orderlies …”

  He knew already that he was up against a solid wall of disapproval.

  The older lady was the first to react. “Just think of all the good they’re doing,” she burst out. “They’re working for victory!”

  Even before the protests began, before the tense, disapproving silence was broken, Vorotyntsev felt himself blushing. Talking in their presence was, he found, not at all easy. If you just listened they all prattled away merrily, but somehow, if you tried to say something yourself, however clear your thoughts were, you looked ridiculous.

  “The train providing ablution facilities doesn’t go as far as it might, and digging wells fifteen versts from the front line, or draining marshes, could wait for the end of the war … They aren’t satisfying the army’s real needs, but imaginary ones. They don’t look after the wounded properly.” But, under the pressure of their disapproval, he added, “I myself don’t actually think …”

  He had lied, prevaricated, betrayed his beliefs. Why couldn’t he manage it? Say this is my opinion. This is what I think! Why was he so feeble? Why couldn’t he put his thoughts into words? And the color in his cheeks—what a disgrace! Such a tense, unreceptive atmosphere. When he had attacked generals he had not been afraid. There he had been the revolutionary. Here he was afraid; his behavior was reactionary, and that was the most damning word of all.

  He was tempted to tell them Zherber’s story about the fictitious labels of origin on munition crates—but that would never do! He couldn’t possibly say that here! Anyway, they wouldn’t believe it and would be at his throat.

  Minervin raised a portentous finger. “You’re omitting the morale factor. Last year, during the ‘great retreat,’ at a time of national desperation, the forces of society burned with a sacred fire and breathed it into the ranks of our wavering army.”

  Vorotyntsev took this insult to the army personally and spoke more sharply than before. “They breathed nothing
into us. And it would be better if instead of trying to, they …”

  You’ve been longing for fifty years to “go to the people.” So go to the people. The people are the infantry.

  But he couldn’t get it out. Instead he said, “The least they could do is to try not to create chaos. You can’t operate three different military supply systems simultaneously.”

  He was wrong, quite wrong, they clamored. The colonel didn’t understand, he’d swallowed government propaganda hook, line, and sinker. The fact was that the fatheaded government was gunning for Zemgor, accusing it of carrying on propaganda among the troops, and even of espionage, for which reason soldiers were forbidden to have anything to do with Zemgor personnel. Spies were planted in Zemgor tearooms, buffets, barbershops …

  Those tearooms were in fact the main disseminators of malicious rumor and inciters of revolution. But Vorotyntsev made no comment.

  “Bah—the government itself is a gang of filthy spies! Andrei Ivanovich will be back in a moment, and he’ll tell you that they wouldn’t even authorize the dispatch of doctors to cholera-stricken units in 1905—they were always arresting ‘cholera personnel’ on suspicion of encouraging peasants to loot gentry estates. They’re less afraid of epidemics than of revolution!”

  Vorotyntsev still didn’t protest. How much did he remember of 1905 anyway? He had never thought about it properly. He gave ground, held his peace. Not because he felt he was wrong, but out of fear of saying something reactionary. Yes, divisions received such instructions—officers were to keep an eye on Zemgor activists, because they carried on subversive propaganda and were working for a revolution. Well, they did carry on propaganda. What was to stop them? They had ensconced themselves, made themselves at home, they felt safe, so what was to stop them from assaulting the soldier’s mind? But why then should the government be forbidden to defend its army? The inviolability of the person was all very well, but what about the inviolability of the fatherland? And something of that sort went on in anticholera units too: in the heat of revolution wouldn’t you expect conceited half-educated medical orderlies to fan the flames?