A Bolshevik Commissar

IN October, 1917, I was asked to go to visit an old man who was sick unto death. The interior of the hut would be familiar to any who have read the Russian novelists. On the bed (the only bed) lay the old peasant whom I had come to see; he was about seventy and was grimy, weary, and ill. On the stove lay three of his grandchildren and one of his sisters; on a low shelf by the stove lay his wife, nearly doubled up with rheumatism and suffering from tuberculosis. The room was well furnished for a hut: besides the bed and the table there was a writing-desk — carefully pointed out as a suitable place for me to sit at to write prescriptions; there were five books in the house, and a Singer sewing-machine. The kitchen utensils — which by experience proved good marks of the degree of civilization of the occupants —were crude and consisted of two iron pots, a frying-pan, three earthenware eating-bowls, a few cups, and about half-a-dozen wooden spoons. This family had in addition two knives, three metal forks, and two or three metal teaspoons.

Awaiting my judgment on the old man’s condition were his five sons. One was a forester, two were agriculturists (plain moujiks), two were officers. One of the latter wore a gorgeous Caucasian uniform — a captain of cavalry; the other, an ‘under-major’ of artillery, who had received the officers’ cross of St. George from Nicholas II. On the latter this article is written.

The father began telling me of his sons, and of how popular they were in the village; but of none was he so proud as of the two who were farmers, because they were the best-natured; this was spoken, of course, aloud and in the hearing of all five. My discomfort at hearing these gentle family discriminations in Russia was slowly vanishing, because they appeared to be signs of solidarity and unity in the family, rather than signs of bitterness.

I asked why he was not proud of his officer sons. He said the country could be proud of them because their worth was shown in the country’s wars; but his home-staying sons had shown their worth in the village and the home therefore he was proudest of them because he was a plain villager himself.

I soon got to know the artillery officer and had many talks with him, chiefly on politics. He said he had left the army because the war had died out, and he thought of doing something for his village, as a secretary to the Mir or assistant at the school. I pointed out that his university career was wasted in a village; that he should go to a big town and work there. He said that his heart was in his village, and he would live where his interests lay. I told him that, if he had children, he could not earn enough here to send them to his University (Kiev), but with town work lie might afford it. He said that he had no children, but if he had, he would not have them different from the village children; if his sons were clever, the village would send them to a secondary school, and if they got scholarships the village would help them through the University. He thought that, as a matter of fact, the more he did for his village, the more the village would do for him; but he would not put his children in a position which was out of the reach of, say, his nephews.

His opinion of the Bolsheviki was that they were turning too much attention to distribution, to equalizing the people, and too little to production, or to improving the people; but he said that Russians at the moment do not see this, so we must humor them and lead them gradually to see the importance of production.

Nominally, he was a Bolshevist official, but his point of view was SocialRevolutionist. He said that he thought the country was going too rapidly to the ‘Left,’ and he feared a reaction to the ‘Right’; for his part he would prefer a middle course, but felt it to be the best thing to follow the popular movement to the Left, and to steady it, in order to prevent or diminish the risk of reaction. He feared the Right more than the Left.

In December, 1917, he was made secretary of his Mir, and in January, 1918, President of the Council of the Village, as the Mir was called under the Soviet (Council) form of government.

From this time onward he was to be seen at all times of the day, and often far into the night, at work gently guiding the counsels and the minds of his fellow villgers. From village chief he was made volost chief (called, under the old regime, starshina). Under his presidency the villagers requisitioned the library of a landlord who had not visited his estates for over two years. The people wanted to divide the spoils; after great efforts of persuasion, he induced them to come to the point of looking at the requisition, of which he approved, as good only if the village as a whole, and not as individuals, were to benefit by the change. It took weeks to convince them. He used no high-handed methods; it would neither have paid him to do so, nor have agreed with his principle of relying on the force of persuasion and an appeal to the communal instincts of his associates. His uniform and decorations were laid aside; he dressed as a peasant and lived on their miserable fare; he identified himself with the peasants as far as possible, and seemed to raise them to a higher level of culture by so doing.

He used to call on us and bring extracts from the Russian newspapers which quoted the English press, and ask if all English people in England thought along the lines that were set out in our newspapers. Did English people really think that ruin and chaos was all that was left in Russia? How was it that the English, who were such a liberal people and friends of progress and democracy, could allow their papers to sneer at the Revolution? Was it because Russia could not fight?

He said that such criticisms in the foreign press made it so hard for Russians of his way of thought to work among the people; that the work they had in hand contained intrinsic discouragements enough, but the querulousness of foreigners and their complete lack of faith in the efforts of men such as himself seemed to take the heart out of life and almost make them doubt if they could accomplish anything at all. The peoples to whom they had looked for encouragement sneered; those from whom they had hoped for guidance showed them a sword.

We told him that in America and England there were imaginative people to whom the Revolution was one of the greatest and most ennobling events in history, and that the hearts of these people turned with love and gratitude to Russia.

He wept. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘we see a vision together; we have to get our peoples to see it, too.’

In May the hospital of which I was the only medical officer closed down, among other reasons, for lack of funds. A letter was sent to all headmen of villages, stating that the medical work was being brought to a close, but giving no reasons. Some of the villagers of Vaceelooka came to hear of our lack of funds, and sent a deputation of four men — three village elders and my friend. I was checking a list of stores at the time, and asked what I could do for them. The three moujiks and the artillery officer replied that they had come to help me who had so often helped them. So they lifted boxes about, and read off the lists, and rearranged the storeroom.

I was puzzled at all this, and said that it was work best done at odd times, and it was not proper for men in the busy time of ploughing and sowing to do such work in the middle of the afternoon. They then said they had come to tell me how sorry they were that I was going and that we needed money; they had been considering it in the Mir, and had found that the village could afford a hundred roubles a month and a horse and food, fuel, and a house, if we would stay. This offer we had to decline, with great regret. They said that, if we must part, we must part as brothers; they brought the blessing of God on our journey, and asked that we would remember them to our friends in England and America. ‘And if at any time you return, the lamp will be lit and the samovar set, and there will be a place at the table, for we love you and would like you to be one of us.’

Thus we parted from a commissar and his friends.