In Leningrad I had been advised that the Grand Hotel at Moscow was the best place for me to stay, so I set forth from the station to look for it. There were a number of cabs, but the doctor had terrified me to such an extent that I was loath to celebrate my arrival in Moscow by the counter-revolutionary conduct of riding in one. In any case, I was shrewdly aware that I had only eight roubles and it might cost that and more to go as far as the hotel in a cab. So I boarded the first tram I saw and told the conductor where I wanted to go. He put me down in a large square some distance away.
‘Grand Hotel?’ I asked him.
He shrugged his shoulders and the tram moved off. I walked over to the pavement, put down my suitcase, sighed and looked about me.
‘Certainly,’ I thought, ‘this city looks exciting. If Leningrad looked like a tomb, this looks like a bee-hive in a state of violent excitement. What crowds! What extraordinary buildings! What bizarre costumes! The very air is odd and charged with a form of neurasthenia which makes one forget everything, except the necessity to do something violent! Bo! Bo! How happy one could be here if one had a million roubles in one’s pocket and one knew the language. But I have only eight roubles and I don’t know the language. I have no friends. I don’t know why I’m here. What am I to do?’
After some thought, I remembered that I had letters of introduction to various people, English and Russian, but a curious form of shyness which I have never been able to conquer prevents me from presenting a letter of introduction in order to make an acquaintance, especially under the peculiar circumstances in which I found myself. On the other hand, no writer suffers from feelings of delicacy about his publishers. I decided to throw myself on the protection of my publishers, after first getting rid of my suitcase, which bothered me.
‘That is the cause of my melancholy,’ I thought, ‘this suitcase. The possession of baggage is always responsible for the irritation felt by travellers. I shall get a room and leave my baggage there. I might even get a meal.’
By continual questioning I reached the Grand Hotel. At the desk, an official looked at me and said in perfect English:
‘You want a room? Have you booked? I’m afraid, sir, it’s utterly impossible. Every room in Moscow is taken at this moment. You should have made arrangements beforehand at this time of the year.’
‘Well! Could I at least find a corner in your cloak room for my kit?’
‘With pleasure,’ he said.
Having got rid of my suitcase and my overcoat I sallied forth to look for my publishers. I was so glad to get rid of my suitcase that I forgot to ask the official for the address of my publishers and I was gone a long way before I realised that I did not know the address. By that time I could not find my way back to the hotel. I was completely lost.
‘Never mind,’ I thought. ‘This is fun. Let’s see whether I can find the place without knowing the language.’
I asked twenty-seven citizens without success. Then I wandered into a bookshop, where I found behind a counter a young man who spoke English. But it was difficult to get him to give me the information I desired. He asked me my nationality and then began to question me about the political situation in Ireland, about Irish revolutionaries whom he had met in Moscow and about the attitude of the Irish proletariat to the Five Year Plan. He shook hands with me five times, invited me to come to the theatre with him and treated me with a great deal of affectionate courtesy, even holding forth for ten minutes on the history of his life, describing in great detail the suffering of his family on arrival as immigrants in the United States of America, the corruption of officials in the American Federation of Labour, the possibility of organising Russian industry without the assistance of foreign capital, through the agency of skilled American workers of revolutionary integrity, detailing his conception of world civilisation one hundred years after the final disappearance of classes, and hinting that he had a scheme for the overthrow of world capitalism through the development of a certain branch of science, which at the moment was considered inopportune by the comrades with whom he had discussed the idea.
There were now some ten citizens waiting to be served at his counter, but that did not prevent the young man from spending a further twenty-five minutes in an excited fashion telling me about his conception of the ‘social basis’ of literature. Trembling, I began to chew a slip of paper which I found on the counter and listened to an extraordinary theory that world literature from the earliest times has been inspired by the revolt of the masses against exploitation. While my new acquaintance was explaining to me that the philosophic idea in Hamlet was typical of the demoralizes sation of Western European intellectuals, principally in their attitude towards the re-organisation of the family, I became absorbed in the examination of the theory of insanity. Was I insane or was he insane? Was my chewing a slip of paper caused by my hunger or by the weakening of my senses, so that I was no longer able to establish the difference between nourishing food and paper? Did I really want to get to my publishers? Was I in Moscow or in London?
However, he finally wrote down the required address on a slip of paper and was handing it to me, when he suddenly swore and said that he was doubtful if that was the address I required. But I grabbed it from him, shook his hand with violence and dashed from the shop. I showed it to three policemen whom I met as I hurried along. It made no impression on them. I was at last on the point of giving up the effort to find the place when I heard two men in front of me talking English. I seized one of them by the shoulder and begged him to help me. He was an American engineer and the man with him was his Russian guide.
The American pointed to his guide and said to me:
‘Get hold of one of these birds and stick to him, otherwise you’re lost in this town. And say, when you have time come around and have a drink with me. Give this bird the address. Now lead on, Russky, at full speed to that address. Say, this bird knows the town. I don’t know how he does it, but he can get around. I’ve been here a month, but I can hardly find my room at the hotel. Whoever made this town must have been in the rats, it’s all so mixed up I can’t see the difference between one street and another. And as for finding the number of any particular house in a street, it’s certainly impossible. Say, look. He’s got it already. The man is a wonder. What did I tell you? Well! See you later.’
Leaving me in front of a building, the American and his guide dashed off in a hurry that is typical of Moscow. I entered, walked up a stairway and interrogated a man whom I met on a landing. He shook his head after I had spoken for some ten minutes. Then he tried to escape, but I seized him by the arm and held him. He shook his head once more and brought me into a large room, where a number of people were seated at desks. A middle-aged lady came over and asked me what I wanted in French, which language she spoke almost as badly as myself. But as soon as I saw her I felt at home and much happier than I had done since my arrival in Russia.
One is always inclined to judge classes, sects, nationalities and professions by the evil or good impression made by a single individual one has met. For that reason, I have an unreasoning admiration for Quakers because an Englishwoman of my acquaintance belongs to that religious conviction. Her kindness, her breeding, her intelligence, her spiritual beauty seem to me as near perfection as is possible for humanity. So I immediately likened this Russian woman to a Quaker.
She was between forty and fifty years of age, pale of countenance, with grey hair, frail of body, timid in expression and movement, with a refined and nervous voice. It was obvious at once that she was a woman of good breeding, educated and cultured above the ordinary, one of that class which does not really belong to any country and is to be found in almost every civilised country, women who come very near to attaining the ideal of Christianity, by kindness, humility and good works.
When I explained to her who I was and the situation in which I found myself, she welcomed me heartily and immediately placed herself at my disposal, until I should ‘get in touch with the competent authorities.’
‘Oh! Dear! But why didn’t you notify us that you were coming?’
I was, of course, ashamed to tell her why I had sneaked into the country without letting anybody know I was coming and more than ever, I wished I had stayed at home; for how could one lie about such a charming woman and in face of such hospitality?
I shall take you/ she said, ‘to the Bureau of Revolutionary Literature, where everything shall be arranged for you.’
We set forth into the street. How nervous she was! The least noise made her start and clutch my arm. Crossing a street was an ordeal for her. Yet her conversation was as orderly as her nervous system was the reverse. And her attitude towards life, judging from her conversation, was that of an enthusiast, whose social activities gave full expression to her passion for civilisation and human happiness. She said little and spoke gently, without exaggeration or excitement, without hatred for the bourgeoisie or zeal for the class war, but she inspired me, while I was with her, with an enthusiasm for Communism and for the work being done in Russia to achieve an ideal society. Listening to her speak and feeling the influence of the peace and good-will that emanated from her personality, life seemed a joyous dream and the world a fairyland in which there was no evil, nothing but laughter and singing and love.
‘May I call you comrade?’ she said. ‘Thank you. Comrade, you must associate as much as possible with our young people while you stay in Russia. The older generations have been corrupted and embittered by the old life that has passed away. Their nerves are gone and they cannot transmit to their feelings the theory of society which they accept with their intelligence. But the young people have grown up with the new ideal as their reality and it is among them that you may hope to find the essential beauty of the Communist idea. Forgive the old their fanaticism, which is but the outcome of exhaustion and suffering. And among the young also there is a lot to forgive, the arrogance of youth. But even so, how I wish I were young, even to be tactless and arrogant like the young, but to have that vision of a wonderful future. We others must content ourselves with working for that, to prepare the way for the young. Seret prudens agricola arbores, quarumfruges aspiciet nunquam. It is as if one were the mother of a whole generation. Oh! I hope they are going to give us time to finish our work.’
She turned towards me and said with fear in her eyes:
‘Do you think they are really going to make war on us soon, the others?’
How could I tell this Communist saint that it was my earnest hope that war would break out as soon as possible, to hasten the conquest of Europe by the Bolsheviks, since it was now obvious to me that the latter had a higher idea of civilisation than the Europeans, as well as being younger, fresher and more strong. This woman confused Lenin with Christ and would not understand that her male counterpart, the captain of the ship on which I arrived, that other Bolshevik saint, had somewhat different ideas about the development of the proletarian revolution. Such is life. Timid English Quaker women, who would not willingly shorten the life of a wounded fly, are used by violent, red-faced generals to keep the Indians in subjection. To me they are all equally beautiful, the kind women, the red-nosed generals, the idealists, the enslavers, the Quakers and the brooding fanatics with visions of world conquest and of human equality to be imposed by violence. How could I explain that to her? Or to myself, how could I explain my almost insane incapacity for believing in the topical religions of rampant mankind? They all play their parts and mine is the role of the onlooker in the stalls, who claps his hands in applause or hisses in condemnation, according as they play well or badly, the hero, the villain, the clown and all the different minor characters who flavour the piece with the divers sauces of their actions and philosophies.
There was nobody in the office of the Bureau of Revolutionary Literature, so the lady brought me to the room of one of the members a long distance away. He was at home and she left me in charge of him. He was a Roumanian Jew and a man of the world, who made me feel at home immediately, treating me with kindness. Although he and his wife had but one room, in which they both lived and where he kept all his books, of which he had a considerable number, by extraordinary ingenuity they contrived to give their lodging an air of luxury and refinement that was exceedingly comfortable. After one glance, he decided that I must have a shave and a bath as soon as possible. He himself had just finished his toilet. While I shaved at his writing desk and had a bath in a large tub behind a screen, I related my adventures since my arrival in Leningrad. He laughed heartily and accused me of incredible eccentricity.
If you change the word eccentricity into folly you’ll be nearer the point,’ I said. Tndeed my folly borders on insanity, for I have arrived here with eight roubles and with hardly any kit.’
He laughed again and assured me that I had no need to worry about money or luggage. On the contrary, my eccentricities would but serve to endear me to the Moscow intellectuals, who were rather wearied by the pompousness of European writers.
‘Let us hope so,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, I have a habit of becoming wearisome after a little while.’
It is quite true/ he said. ‘There is nothing more boring than the pose assumed by English writers especially, although the French are nearly as bad. They attach so much importance to themselves that it is impossible for others to attach any further importance, so contempt is attached instead. It is sad that the supply of literary geniuses is not equal to the number of people who wish to assume genius.’
I was delighted with this man. He told me he had been eight years in Russia and that he had become Russified and intended never to leave the country. He then invited me to have breakfast with him. It was excellent. Residence in France had given him an appreciation of food which I found invaluable at that moment. We had delicious Russian olives, various kinds of fish, eggs and excellent coffee.
I recommend this kind of fish, especially/ said my host. It comes from the Caspian Sea and is very rare. It is very curious. One had read that the Russians were interested in food, but it is quite the contrary. They have no interest in food.’
In Ireland during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries/ I replied, ‘food and the eating of it were highly respected, so that it was a country pleasant for travellers and famous for its hospitality, joy of life and gay living. Now the contrary holds good, owing to the disappearance of a leisured aristocracy and the appearance of a bourgeoisie that is not yet prosperous or civilised. The same thing is probably happening in Russia.’
He shook his head and began to discuss literature, with which he seemed to be conversant to a high degree.
I find American literature more interesting than modern English, French or German literature,’ he said. ‘Everything seems to have been already written in these latter countries, whereas in America hardly anything has been written. Beginnings are always more interesting than ends, in literature as in love.’
‘And in Russia?’
‘Here politics are so interesting that they absorb all the talent of the country. Even those who go in for literature as a form of expression do so from political motives rather than for a love of art for art’s sake. I am a critic and journalist, but I am primarily a Communist. I love literature, but I am more interested in politics. And you? Are you interested in politics or in literature?’
I am interested in everything,’ I replied. ‘Politics are an aspect of life; that is all. So is horse racing. Literature for me is my means of expressing my personality. Therefore my interest in it is immeasurably greater than my interest in politics. If I were a Russian it might be different. After all, Napoleon began his career as a writer. Were it not for the French Revolution he might have continued as a writer. Even at my age I can understand how delightful it would be to plunge into Russian politics; especially ten years hence. This fish is certainly excellent.’
I admired the character and appearance of my host. In dress he was somewhat of a dandy, but achieved by tidiness what is usually achieved by consummate tailoring and expensive materials in Western European cities. In that way, he retained the appearance of a proletarian while satisfying his innate love of fashion. In the same way, he affected a harmony between his conservative and essentially middle-class nature and the ideals of revolutionary Communism. How? I can never understand this trick of self-effacement, of being one thing and effectively pretending to be something else, of running with the hare and hunting with the hounds, of being a successful adventurer, of being so useful to everybody that nobody feels inclined to take offence; and at the same time being perfectly mannered, moderately worthy, good company, almost a gentleman, not objectionably cunning.
After breakfast we set out to the Bureau of Revolutionary Literature.