16

Tolstoy once told the story of how he was walking along a country road when, in the distance, he noticed a man squatting in the middle of the road, waving and flailing his arms about frantically. Tolstoy decided the fellow was a madman. When he drew near, however, he saw that the man was actually sharpening a knife on a stone.

The activities of Paul Yevnovich Burenin often bore a great similarity to Tolstoy’s story—even on this warm, hazy summer day when Mathilde had insisted they take a break from their work and have a picnic in the country. As he lay on a blanket upon the grass, he watched his wife picking a bouquet of daisies, looking so carefree and relaxed. The idle time seemed only to make Paul’s mind work harder, thinking about things that perhaps were best ignored.

No wonder Tolstoy’s little anecdote came to mind. It not only seemed to mirror his personal life, but that of the revolutionary movement as well. Sometimes it all seemed crazy, disjointed, purposeless. For a hundred different revolutionists there were a hundred different agendas. They debated and argued constantly, falling out over insignificant trifles. And Paul all too often felt caught in the middle, being pulled back and forth, and flailing his own arms desperately about.

Only Vladimir Ilyich Lenin demonstrated uncanny focus. He was sharpening his knife with unfailing precision. And for that reason, Paul had been drawn to Lenin and had remained with him even though, ideologically, they were often worlds apart. Lenin was so single-minded, almost to the point of being obsessed, that it was inconceivable he would fail at anything he set his mind to. Paul recalled Lenin’s wife, Krupskaya, relating how as a young student Lenin had loved to ice-skate; but when he saw it made him too tired to study, he gave up skating. It had been the same with chess—and even Latin, which Lenin loved. He gave them up because they interfered with his all-important studies.

Paul had followed Lenin into European exile. He worked with him on Iskra, the radical newspaper he published and smuggled into Russia. Paul and Mathilde had been with him in London for several months. Their attempts at learning English together made Paul laugh. None of them had ever heard English spoken before, though all except Mathilde had taught themselves to read the language. How comical they had sounded trying to form the awkward foreign words! They had spent hours visiting Hyde Park and listening to the soapbox speakers, until they could finally render the language with some ability. But Lenin, in his way, was obsessed with learning everything he could about the English.

Paul wondered what his papa Yevno would have thought of the socialist church they had attended in London. The preacher sermonized about how the Exodus of the Jews from Egypt was symbolic of the deliverance of the proletariat from the kingdom of capitalism to the kingdom of socialism. They sang a hymn that intoned: “Almighty God, put an end to all kings and all rich men.”

In London they met Lev Bronstein, also known as Trotsky. Fresh from Siberian exile, the twenty-three-year-old Jewish revolutionary with his vivid blue eyes and thick shock of black hair had made an immediate impression. He had been called a young eagle, and Paul, one of the elders of the group, saw that the appellation fit Trotsky well. His writing talents were put to work on Iskra, which had become the prominent voice of the Social Democratic Party.

Last spring they had returned to Geneva from London in preparation for the Second Congress of the Social Democratic Party. Lenin had opposed the move, probably in part because he wished to operate Iskra away from the interference of the venerable Plekhanov, who was considered by many to be the leader of the party. Lenin had had many disagreements with Plekhanov over the years. Even in London there had been conflict, of course—clashes with others over such fundamental issues as whether change and reform could happen in Russia without a revolution. Lenin’s all-or-nothing attitude was bound to ignite controversy anywhere.

The stress of all the controversy, however, took its toll on Lenin. He ended up with a horrible case of shingles and spent the first two weeks in Geneva in bed. Yet as he recovered he became optimistic and enthusiastic about the upcoming congress that would be held in Brussels.

The congress got off to a fine start in the summer of 1903. Plekhanov was elected chairman and Lenin was one of the vice-chairmen. There were about sixty in attendance, quite a large number compared to the First Congress with only eight. But when some delegates to the Second Congress were expelled from Belgium by the police, it was feared there might be danger to others, so the congress was moved to London. When the meetings resumed a week later, they were plagued by tensions and conflict.

If only Lenin had been able to bend a little, to compromise on something. But that simply was not his nature. Martov, Lenin’s chief adversary, wanted a party of a broad scope with more appeal to the masses, one that entailed more participation with the Russian people themselves. Lenin insisted on a party controlled by a “Central Committee,” a very small, elite group of leaders.

Trotsky had commented to Lenin during one of the breaks, “What you are promoting sounds a lot like a dictatorship.”

“That is the only way,” Lenin had replied.

After much maneuvering and some of the opposition withdrawing, Martov’s faction, the Mensheviks, or minority, found itself with slightly less support than Lenin’s opposing group, the Bolsheviks, or majority. It helped that Plekhanov, in spite of their many conflicts, stood with Lenin.

“I am reminded of Napoleon,” Plekhanov said, “who had a penchant for insisting that his marshalls divorce their wives. Some of them actually did, regardless of the fact that they loved their wives. Well, I will not divorce Lenin, and I hope he has no intention of divorcing me.”

Laughing, Lenin had assured Plekhanov of his fidelity with a shake of the head.

Paul recalled that little interchange vividly, because he had at the time been deeply struck by his own sense of infidelity. He had voted for Lenin, but his heart was divided. He knew Lenin planned on being a dictator in the government of the new Russia—of course there was little question in his mind that Lenin would be the leader of Russia after the revolution. But Paul had probably read too much Jefferson and Paine to be completely comfortable with the dictatorial style of government. He did have to admit to himself, however, that Russia—with its millions of illiterate, grossly poor peasants—might not be capable of the kind of democracy found in America. At least not by the time the revolution occurred. In that case, wasn’t a man like Lenin best equipped for leadership? Only a man of such vision, drive, and charisma could direct the sweeping—yes, radical—changes that must occur in Russia.

Ironically, Lenin himself was a democrat. He once wrote, “Whoever tries to approach socialism by any other path than that of political democracy will inevitably arrive at the most absurd and reactionary conclusion.” At best, he saw a dictatorship as temporary, until the proletariat attained economic and social prominence. At the worst, there would be in Russia a kind of democratic dictatorship, in that it represented the overwhelming majority of the population.

Paul was willing to bend to achieve a worthy goal. But he wasn’t sure how much bending he could do without breaking. He simply was not the kind of diehard Marxist Social Democrat that Lenin usually surrounded himself with.

But Paul was not surrounding Lenin much at all these days. Claiming poor health as an excuse, Paul had, since the congress, curbed his activities in the organization. His health, in fact, could be better, but it wouldn’t have proved a burden if he had been in a mental state to work in the way he knew was expected of him.

If only—

“Paul, you have that faraway look in your eyes again.”

Paul’s head jerked up sharply. Mathilde’s approach had startled him, and he grinned sheepishly.

“I made no promises,” he said.

“Yes, but I had hoped this little excursion would help you lay aside your worries and inner debates for a while.”

“Believe me, that’s what I want also. My endless thinking only seems to lead me around in a circle.”

“Come with me—we’ll walk those thoughts out of your head.”

“Or, talk them out?”

“We shall see.”

They walked for half an hour by the little stream, its gentle gurgling, mixed with the occasional rustling of leaves, providing an idyllic and relaxing setting for the couple’s afternoon stroll. Paul truly wanted nature to work its calming magic upon him. But he sensed the tension within him had a purpose that he must respect.

A time of decision was coming—he must finally make the choice he had been putting off for years. Either he would stand wholeheartedly with Lenin, or . . .

Well, if he knew what else, his decision would not be nearly as difficult.