I knew of this resolution on the day of the meeting, because some friends of mine were present at it. The proceedings were enthusiastic in the extreme. The Bolsheviks, however, did not mind that much, because they were careful that nothing about it should get into the Press. But when the typed resolutions spread surreptitiously with alarming rapidity, in exactly the same way as, in December, 1916, the famous speech by Milyukov in the Duma against Rasputin was secretly distributed from hand to hand, then the Bolsheviks saw things were going too far and took drastic measures to suppress the unrest without any further delay.
One Sunday between thirty and forty streetcars full of sailors and guards, the latter of whom spoke a language that workers who encountered them declared was not Russian, arrived in the vicinity of the Putilov works and occupied all the entrances. During the next three days between three and four hundred men were arrested, while in those cases where the workers were not to be found their wives were taken in their stead. These arrests are always easily carried out, for the workers are not allowed to possess arms. It is significant that among those arrested at one of the shipping yards were two men who had declared at a meeting that even the English Parliament was superior to the soviets as the Bolsheviks ran them. These two were among those who were subsequently shot. When after returning to England I recounted this incident to the Committee on International Affairs of the British Labour Party, the gentleman on my right (I do not know his name) found nothing better to exclaim than, “Serve ’em right.”
The uproar over the arrest of the workers, and especially of their wives, was terrific. The resolutions having spread all over the city, you could almost hear people whispering to each other with furtive joy that there was shortly to be a general insurrection, that Zinoviev and others were preparing to take flight, and so on. In the course of three weeks things became so bad that it was deemed advisable to call Lenin from Moscow in the hope that his presence would overawe the workers, and a great Communist counter-demonstration was organized at the Narodny Dom.
The Narodny Dom (House of the People) is a huge palace built for the people by the late Tsar. Before the war it used to be very difficult, owing to the system of abonnements, to obtain tickets to the State theatres, of which the Marinsky Opera and the Alexandrinsky Theatre were the chief; so the Tsar, at his own expense, built this palace and presented it to the people. Besides numerous side shows, it contained a large theatre where the same dramatic works were produced as in the State theatres, and the biggest opera house in Russia, where the Russian peasant Chaliapin, the greatest operatic singer and actor the world has yet seen, sang regularly to huge audiences of six or eight thousand lower middle class and working people. In the days when I was a student of the Conservatoire of Petrograd, eking out a living by teaching English, I used often to frequent the Narodny Dom opera. There was free admission to a portion of the hall, while the most expensive seats were at cinematograph prices. The inevitable deficit was made up out of the State exchequer. Over the porch of the building was an inscription: “From the Tsar to His People.” When the Bolsheviks came into power they removed this inscription, and also abolished the name of “House of the People,” changing it to “House of Rosa Luxembourg and Karl Liebknecht.” This building, containing the largest auditorium in Russia, is now frequently used for special celebrations. As a rule, on such occasions only the Communist élite and special delegates are admitted. The common people to whom the Tsar presented the palace are refused admission.
On the evening of the great Communist counter-demonstration against the Petrograd strikers, machine-guns barred the entrance to what was once the House of the People, and the approaches bristled with bayonets. The former Tsar, when last he visited it, drove up in an open carriage. Not so the new “Tsar,” the president of the workers’ republic. The moment of his arrival was a secret, and he arrived literally hedged round with a special bodyguard of Red cadets.
The audience was a picked one, consisting of the principal Communist bodies of the city and delegates from organizations such as trade unions, teachers, and pupils, selected by the Communists. I got in with a ticket procured by my manager. When Lenin emerged on to the stage, the audience rose as one man and greeted him with an outburst of vociferous applause lasting several minutes. The little man, who has such a hold on a section of his followers, advanced casually to the footlights. His oriental features betrayed no emotion. He neither smiled nor looked austere. Dressed in a plain drab lounge suit, he stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting patiently till the cheering should subside. Was he indifferent to the welcome, or was he secretly pleased? He showed no sign and at length held up his hand to indicate that there had been enough of it.
The orators of the revolution—and they are indeed great orators—all have their distinctive styles. That of Trotsky, with poised, well-finished, well-reasoned phrases, is volcanic, fierily hypnotic: that of Zinoviev, torrential, scintillating with cheap witticisms, devoid of original ideas, but brilliant in form and expression; that of Lunacharsky, violent, yet nobly and pathetically impressive, breathing an almost religious fervour. Lenin differs from all of these. He knows and cares for no rhetorical cunning. His manner is absolutely devoid of all semblance of affectation. He talks fast and loudly, even shouts, and his gesticulations remind
