November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  “But all is not yet lost, Vladimir Ilyich,” said Parvus, consoling, encouraging, from across the table. He took his gold watch from his vest pocket and nodded at it approvingly. “We’ll postpone the revolution until 22 January 1917! But let’s do it together! Shall we be together this time?”

  Why on earth shouldn’t they? The perspicacious Parvus simply couldn’t see it.

  Lenin could not keep his end up in this conversation. He was lost for an answer. How could he talk about entering or not entering into an alliance, when his position was so ridiculously weak? Dignified concealment of his impotence was what he must aim at: hiding the fact that he had no functioning organization, no underground in Russia. If it existed at all it was a law unto itself, and he had no control over its actions or their timing. He simply did not know what was there—he was not in uninterrupted communication with Russia, had no means of sending instructions or receiving a reply. He was only too glad if Shlyapnikov, who was all by himself, managed to pitch a bundle of Social Democrats over the frontier. His sister Anya was in Petersburg, doing whatever she could, and they had corresponded in invisible ink, but even this link had snapped. How could he stir up rebellion among the national minorities? It would be something if he could preserve a fragment of his own party …

  Parvus, flabbily draped over his creaking chair, had not exhausted his generosity.

  “How do your collaborators cross the Russian frontier? Surely not on their own feet, or in rowboats? That’s all out-of-date, nineteenth-century stuff. It’s time you forgot all that! If you like, we’ll provide them with splendid documents and they can travel first-class, like my people …”

  Parvus, no doubt, was ugly—as seen by women, or a public meeting. But his colorless, watery eyes were irresistibly clever—and cleverness was something Lenin appreciated.

  If only he could get away from them. Parvus must not guess the truth.

  Must not guess that action was just what Lenin could not manage. All the rest he knew how to do. But one thing he could not do: bring the great moment nearer, make it happen.

  Parvus, with his millions, with his weapons probably already in the ports, with his conspiratorial skill, with various factories already securely in his grip—Parvus clapped his hands, the hands of a man of action, white and pudgy though they were, and continued his interrogation.

  “What are you waiting for, Vladimir Ilyich? Why don’t you give the signal? How long do you intend to wait?”

  Lenin was waiting for—for something to happen. For some favorable tide of affairs to carry his little boat home—to a fait accompli.

  Ludicrously, all the ideas on which Lenin had based his life could neither change the course of the war, nor transform it into a civil war, nor force Russia to lose.

  The little boat lay like a toy on the sand, and there was no tide to float it …

  All this time the letter on expensive greenish paper lay there asking him: What do you say, then, Vladimir Ilyich? Will your people cooperate or won’t they? Where are your meeting points? Who takes delivery of weapons? Tell me what you have there of any real use.

  Precisely the question Lenin could not answer, since he had nothing. Switzerland was on one planet, Russia on another. What he had was … a tiny group, calling itself a party, and he could not account for all its members—some might have split off. What he had was … What Is to Be Done?, Two Tactics, Empiriocriticism, Imperialism. What he had was … a head, capable at any moment of providing a centralized organization with decisions, each individual revolutionary with detailed instructions, and the masses with thrilling slogans. And nothing more, no more today than he had had eighteen months ago. So that tactical caution and simple pride alike forbade him to reveal his weak spot to Parvus, any more than he had eighteen months ago.

  But Parvus hung over the table, his fishy eyes full of mockery, his brow no less steeply terraced than Lenin’s, and awaited, demanded an answer.

  He had very cleverly seized the initiative, asking question after question so that he need do no explaining himself. But he must have his own reasons for this approach at this particular time, after eighteen months of silence.

  Avoiding the puzzled hovering gaze from under Parvus’s upturned hairless eyebrows, rolling his head as he perused the letter, Lenin tried to think how he could refuse help without giving offense, without losing an ally, how to conceal his own secret while divining that of his companion. Skipping what was in the letter and looking for what was not there.

  Lenin was always eager above all to seize on weaknesses which offset his own. If there was no chink in Parvus’s armor, why was he making this second approach, and so insistently? Had his strength failed him? Or his funds perhaps? Had his network broken down? Or perhaps the German government was no longer paying so well? They made you work for your money, once they had you hooked.

  How good it was to be independent! Oh no, we’re not so weak as you think! Not nearly as weak as some!

  His right hand as usual made pencil marks in preparation for his reply—straight lines, wavy lines, squiggles, question marks, exclamation marks … While his left hand restlessly rubbed his forehead, and his forehead gathered in the points he would make.

  Trotsky’s complaints against his former mentor—that he was frivolous, lacked stamina, and abandoned his friends in time of trouble—were so much sentimental rubbish. These were all pardonable faults, and need not stand in the way of an alliance. If only Parvus had not committed gross political errors. He should not have exposed himself publicly by rushing at a mirage of revolution. He should not have made The Bell a cesspool of German chauvinism. The hippo had wallowed in the mire with Hindenburg—and destroyed his reputation. Destroyed himself as a Socialist once and for all.

  It was sad. There were not many Socialists like him!

  (But although he had destroyed himself, there was no sense in quarreling. Parvus might still be enormously helpful.)

  Regaining his confidence, Lenin raised his eyes from the letter, from the edge of the table, and looked at his indefatigable rival. The contours of his head, shapeless enough at the best of times, and of his pudgy shoulders blurred and trembled.

  Trembled as though they were shaking with grief. Grief that even with Lenin he could not make himself fully understood.

  His features faded, till he was no more than a lengthening streak of bluish mist. He bowed, drifted across the room, and seeped through the window.

  But while there was still barely time Lenin shouted after him, not crowing over him, but just so that the truth should not go untold: “Let myself be tied to someone else’s policy? Not for anything in the world! That’s where you made your mistake, Izrail Lazarevich! I’ll take what I need from others—of course! But tie my own hands? No!!! It would be absurd to speak of an alliance which meant tying my own hands!”

  The whole scene vanished like smoke, leaving no trace of Sklarz or of his case. His hat, too, belatedly whisked itself off the table and flung itself after them.

  Lenin had proved to be the more farsighted of the two! Though he had made no revolution, though he was helpless and ineffectual, he knew that he was right, he had not let himself be misled: ideas are more durable than all your millions, I can soldier on without them. Never fear, even the conferences for women and deserters will prove to have been worthwhile. Under the crimson flag of the International I can wait another thirty years if need be.

  He had preserved his greatest treasure—his honor as a Socialist.

  No, it’s too soon to think of surrender! Too soon to leave Switzerland. A few more months of purposeful work, and the Swiss Party will be split.

  Soon after that—we will start the revolution here!

  And from Switzerland the flame of revolution will be kindled throughout Europe!

  Document No. 2

  7 November

  Tsarskoye Selo

  To His Majesty.

  My own angel, once again we are parting! … Seeing you in our home environment after a
six-month absence—thank you for this quiet joy!

  I hate letting you go there to all those torments, and anxieties and worries. And now there’s this business with Poland. But God does all for the best, and so I want to believe that this too will be for the best. Their troops won’t want to fight against us, mutinies will break out, a revolution, who knows what—that is my opinion. I shall ask our Friend what he thinks.

  I don’t like Nikolasha coming to GHQ. I only hope he won’t cause trouble, with his adherents! Don’t let him go calling anywhere, let him return to the Caucasus, otherwise the revolutionary party will be cheering for him again. They have gradually begun to forget him.

  I am very heavy at heart. But in my soul I am constantly with you and I love you dearly.

  Forever, my dear, my darling, your old

  Wifey

  8 November

  Mogilev

  To Her Majesty.

  My priceless, beloved darling! With all my loving old heart I thank you for your dear letter. We both felt so sad when the train moved out. I prayed with Baby and played dominoes for a bit. We went to bed early. …

  Aleksei’s cat ran away and hid under a big pile of planks. We put our overcoats on and went looking for her. The sailor found her immediately with the help of an electric torch, but it took us a long time to make the wretched creature come out, she wouldn’t obey Baby.

  Oh, my treasure, my love! How I miss you. It was such genuine happiness—those six days at home!

  God keep you and the girls.

  For ever and ever, My Sunny, all yours, your old

  Nicky

  [51]

  On the train back to Moscow the wonderful lightheartedness which had kept Vorotyntsev afloat through those nine days in Petersburg gradually left him. His triumphant mood had evaporated before he reached Moscow and he was having to drug himself more and more heavily with tobacco smoke.

  He stepped out onto the platform with feet that seemed numb. He felt dejected, anxious, full of confused forebodings.

  Why this heaviness? He had nothing at all to fear. His unease could not be a presentiment of disaster. He wasn’t even late for Alina’s birthday: he’d arrived as expected, on the eve. Late in the day, to be sure.

  He was, though, beginning to realize that he would soon have to shoulder a crushing burden: the need to dissemble. His smile, his eyes, his words must proclaim that nothing out of the ordinary had happened in Petersburg, that this was just one of those holdups you come to expect.

  They were economizing on street lighting in Moscow and the city was quite dark in places. But trams trundled by like glittering chariots, and some shopwindows were radiant.

  He sensed a certain unease abroad in the streets. The cabby went fast. They always did when the fare was an officer. Hopeless trying to slow him down.

  She could not possibly know. So I’m late. That’s the army for you.

  He could explain, defuse the situation. And, after all, he was back in time for her birthday.

  His feet, so light on the Pesochnaya Embankment and on Aptekarsky Island, dragged like iron weights as he climbed the stairs to his third-floor home.

  Alina came out to meet him in the hall, looking as if she had been lying down with a bad headache. Perhaps she really was ill.

  With one foot over the threshold, still in his overcoat, he took her by her fragile elbows instead of embracing her, and asked in alarm what was wrong. He had always felt her aches and indispositions as if they were his own.

  Pale-faced, eyebrows raised, she said, “I would think you know better than I do.” And looked at him searchingly. There was a deathly finality in her manner, an air about her of having gone beyond all possible limits.

  He quickly bent down to kiss her. His lips found first her forehead, then an ear.

  She could not possibly have heard, and there was nothing to give him away, but for one moment he was assailed by a feeling that she did know, and that he might as well not try to hide it. He must not give in to that feeling, must not let it show in his words or his looks.

  “Are you ill?” he asked anxiously. He had never felt so awkward with her, so guilty, and so sorry for her all at once.

  She threw back her head and stared at him silently, from half-closed eyes, as though he was lost to her.

  “Yes,” she said. “Because of you.” And walked away without waiting for him to take off his sword and greatcoat.

  “But I’m here now, I’m home in time!” Georgi called after her.

  His protestation went unanswered.

  He took off his sword and coat quickly, hung his coat any which way on a hook, and quickly followed her.

  Alina was standing at the dressing table, with her back half turned to him, rummaging in one of those big chocolate boxes she liked to collect and find a use for later, looking for some small object. With her back to him, and her head bent so that her neck looked pathetically vulnerable below those newly curled ringlets. Even her shoulder expressed her hurt.

  Georgi had been so intoxicated with happiness those last few days—why had it never occurred to him that she was having such a hard time? And why, oh why, couldn’t he have managed to write her just one decent letter? When she had begged him to write every day, and always looked forward so much to hearing from him.

  He had never once taken pity on her. On that defenseless neck.

  But, still supposing that it was no worse than that, he took her by the shoulders, gently, so that she would not twist out of his grasp, and repeated from behind her, “Alina, my dear, don’t be angry. Don’t upset yourself. Please forgive me.”

  She half turned, looked at him sorrowfully, and answered, emphasizing every syllable, “You have disgraced me!”

  Georgi was shaken. This couldn’t be a coincidence. She knew!

  She slowly turned her head away. And stood with the back of her neck to him again.

  She knew! How, though?

  Still she didn’t try to free her shoulders.

  Which must mean that she didn’t know after all!

  Whatever else was wrong could not be as terrible as that.

  He stood looking at her neck, at her delicately sculpted ear. She had beautiful ears.

  It had sometimes happened that he had carelessly or clumsily or impatiently done something to hurt her, put himself in the wrong without being aware of it. And the best way to get out of these upsets and back into smoother waters was simply to beg forgiveness. Saying sorry was a ritual that had always worked for them. But this time his guilt was too great for that. It would be better to distract her with some powerful excuse. Alina always listened readily to powerful excuses.

  First, though, he needed to know exactly what the situation was.

  “Look, Alina, my love,” he murmured, “I did get back on time.”

  She flared up, flung down the chocolate box, and turned on him. “On time? You call this on time? After three telegrams! And four letters! I expect you’ll say they didn’t reach you!”

  Alina’s eyes blazed, and her face was suddenly younger, and no longer looked languid and unwell. Her face always changed with remarkable rapidity! At least she wasn’t ill! So he was late—was that all there was to it?

  He held her by her shoulders, facing him, feeling more sure of himself.

  It had been ten days instead of four, yes. But those dunderheads on the General Staff had lost touch with the army in the field, and didn’t seem to want to know about it. (Not enough to account for a whole week.) At the ministry too, they kept promising to see me, and putting it off. (Still not enough.) Then Svechin kept me waiting, telegraphed saying he was on his way to Petrograd, and it would be worth my while to wait. To discuss a possible assignment to GHQ. (Would this mention of GHQ cheer her up? Not one little bit. And she still had to be told that because of GHQ he would be leaving earlier.)

  Georgi spoke fervently, gazing innocently into her eyes, trying hard not to look shifty. It was the first time that anything like this had happened to hi
m, and it was unbearable. He felt himself blushing, blushing so that she could not fail to notice.

  It’s all over, then! She’s guessed …

  The corners of her eyes narrowed. Ironically? Suspiciously?

  “I telegraphed telling you to come—when?”

  “At least one day early.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Came one day early.”

  “You call this one day early? This is the night before, not the day before.”

  She was wounded, she was suffering acutely, poor girl, but—oh!—Georgi was relieved of his first, stupefying impression that she knew everything.

  If all I’ve done to upset her is arriving late on the eve of her birthday—that’s easily fixed.

  “I thought when you said the day before you meant not on the day itself… Forgive me!” He raised her delicate, weightless hands, and put his lips to each in turn.

  Yes, her birthday was a great, joyous day (her name day meant less to her, she did not like her saint) but there were another half dozen great and joyous and truly sacred days in their calendar, a whole string of them. And he had never missed one!

  She smiled wryly.

  “So here you are! Thank you! Now that I’ve canceled the guests.”

  Nothing terrible had happened after all.

  “Well, it still isn’t too late—why not invite them again first thing tomorrow?”

  The hurt helplessness in her bright eyes gave way to a look that pierced him to the depths of his soul.

  “Not too late? You really think so?”

  “Couldn’t you have written just once to encourage your ‘little pearl’? Why were your letters so short and offhand?”

  Well, yes. Common prudence should have told him that writing would have made things easier. He was certainly at fault there. Which made it all the more easy for him to ask forgiveness now.

  He asked, but without using his hands too much, without drawing her close and kissing her. Now that he knew she did not know he was sickened by a sudden thought: I’m beginning to feel sleepy, and we should be going to bed soon. The very idea was bizarre, revolting, unnatural.