He ordered the clerk to prepare a “little paper” for me, and he signed it, remarking that there was much work in the Foreign Office, and that he hoped I would help with translations.
When I looked at the document I saw that it referred in very favorable terms to the “well-known American revolutionist,” but that there was no mention of my being an Anarchist. Was that term avoided purposely, I wondered? What cause would there be for it in Soviet Russia? I felt as if a veil were stealthily drawn over my personality.
Later in the day I visited Karakhan. Tall, good-looking, and well-groomed, he sat leisurely in a sumptuous office, his feet resting on a fine tiger skin. His appearance justified the humorous characterization I heard of him in the anteroom. “A Bolshevik who can wear white gloves gracefully,” someone had said.
Karakhan asked me to converse in Russian. “Nature has given me no talent for languages,” he remarked. We discussed the labor situation abroad, and he expressed himself confident of the speedy bankruptcy of international capitalism. He was enthusiastic about the “growing influence of the Communist Party in England and America,” and seemed much displeased when I pointed out that his optimism was entirely unjustified by the actual state of affairs. He listened with a smile of well-bred incredulity as I spoke of the reaction following the war and the persecution of radicalism, in the States. “But the workers of England and America, inspired by the Communists, will presently force their governments to lift the blockade,” he insisted. I sought to impress him that Russia must make up her mind to rely upon herself for the reconstruction of her economic life. “Of course, of course,” he assented, but there was no conviction in his tone.
“Our hope is in the lifting of the blockade,” he said again, “and then our industries will develop quickly. At present we are handicapped by the lack of machinery and skilled labor.”
Referring to the peasantry, Karakhan asserted that the farmer profited by the Revolution more than any other part of the population. “Why,” he exclaimed, “in the villages you will find upholstered furniture, French mirrors, graphophones, and pianos, all given to them by the city in exchange for food. The luxuries of the mansion have been transferred to the hovel,” he laughed, pleased with his bon mot and gracefully stroking his well-trimmed black beard. “We have declared ‘war to the palaces, peace to the huts,’ ” he continued, “and the muzhik lives like a barin2 now. But the Russian peasant is backward and deeply imbued with the petty bourgeois spirit of ownership. The kulaki3 often refuse to contribute of their surplus, but the Army and the city proletariat must be fed, of course. We have therefore been compelled to resort to the razvyorstka4—an unpleasant system, forced upon us by the Allied blockade. The peasants must do their share to sustain the soldiers and the workers who are the vanguard of the Revolution, and on the whole they do so. Occasionally the muzhiki resist requisition, and in such cases the military is called upon. Unfortunate occurrences, but not very frequent. They usually happen in the Ukraine, our richest wheat and corn region—the peasants are mostly kulaki there.”
Karakhan lit a cigar and continued: “Of course, when requisition is made, the Government pays. That is, it gives the peasant its written obligation, as proof of its good faith. Those ‘papers’ will be honored as soon as civil war is over, and our economic life put in order.”
The conversation turned to the recent arrests in Moscow in connection with a counterrevolutionary conspiracy unearthed by the Cheka. “Oh, yes,” Karakhan smiled, “they are still plotting.” He grew thoughtful for a moment, then added: “We abolished capital punishment, but in certain cases exceptions have to be made.”
He leaned comfortably back in his armchair and continued:
“One mustn’t be sentimental. I remember how hard it was for me, way back in 1917, when I myself had to arrest my former college chums. Yes, with my own hands”—he held out both hands, white and well-cared for—“but what will you? The Revolution imposes stern duties upon us. We mustn’t be sentimental,” he repeated.
The subject changed to India, Karakhan remarking that a delegate had just arrived from that country. The movement there was revolutionary, though of nationalistic character, he thought, and could be exploited to keep England in check. Learning that while in California I was in touch with Hindu revolutionists and Anarchists of the Hindustan Gadar organization, he suggested the advisability of getting in communication with them. I promised to look after the matter.
VII
The Market
I like the feel of the hard snow singing under my feet. The streets are alive with people—a striking contrast to Petrograd, which gave me the impression of a graveyard. The narrow sidewalks are crooked and slippery, and everybody walks in the middle of the street. Rarely does a streetcar pass, though an auto creaks by occasionally. The people are better dressed than in Petrograd and do not look so pale and exhausted. More soldiers are about and persons clad in leather. Cheka men, I am told. Almost everybody carries a bundle on his back or pulls a little sleigh loaded with a bag of potatoes dripping a blackish fluid. They walk with a preoccupied air and roughly push their way ahead.
Turning the corner into the Miasnitskaya Street, I noticed a large yellow poster on the
