All these conversations were of no interest to anyone not directly involved, and did nothing to inspire respect. There was no talk of Russia’s fate—of her past or future. These people seemed entirely unconcerned by everything that had aroused the indignation of earlier generations of revolutionaries; they had no interest in the principles for which earlier generations had been willing to pay with their lives. Life simply passed them by. Often some important event, a strike in a big factory or some other major disturbance, would take them completely unawares. They would quickly send their men to the scene, but of course, their men would arrive too late. In this way they failed to anticipate the importance of Father Gapon’s movement,[16] and remained blind to much else besides—failures that would later be a source of embarrassment to them.
Real life held no interest for these people. They were up to their ears in their congresses, co-optations and resolutions.
But there was one thoroughly bourgeois character, Pyotr Rumyantsev. Cheerful, witty, a ladies’ man and a lover of good food, he often went to the “Vienna” literary restaurant and liked to tell amusing stories about his comrades. How he fitted in among these other comrades was hard to understand; it was equally hard to believe in his iron resolve.
“One of our ships has sunk with a cargo of arms,” he would announce cheerfully. “Bad news, I’m afraid.” Then he would add with a sigh, “Let’s go and have a good breakfast at the ‘Vienna’. The workers’ movement still needs our strength.”
What could we do? If our strength was still needed, then we needed to keep it up. Far be it from us to shirk our civic responsibilities.
Finn-Yenotaevsky was someone I saw only occasionally. But once he appeared unexpectedly with some strange news.
“Tomorrow there will be a mass demonstration by the proletariat. We’re setting up a first-aid station in the editorial office of Life Questions[17] on Saperny Lane. There will be a medical orderly there, and materials for bandaging the dead and wounded.”
I was somewhat taken aback. Why were they planning to bandage the dead?
But Finn-Yenotaevsky saw nothing odd about any of this. He fumbled in his wallet and pulled out ten roubles.
“This is for your expenses. Be at the first-aid station at three o’clock sharp. In addition, I’d like you to go to Liteyny Street, to house number five, and tell Dr Prunkin that he must be in Saperny Lane, in the editorial office of Life Questions, at three o’clock sharp, without fail. Don’t forget now, and don’t mix anything up. Prunkin, Liteyny, ten—I mean, five. Prunkin Street.”
“And what did you say the ten roubles are for?”
“For expenses.”
“And will K.P. be there too?”
“He should be. So don’t forget, don’t mix anything up. And be punctual. We need discipline, my friends, or everything will be ruined! So. Five o’clock sharp—to Dr Liteyny. Don’t write anything down. You need to remember it.”
And he dashed off, his spirals chiming.
I knew the editorial staff of Life Questions and had even been invited to work on the paper. As far as I remember, the editors were Nikolai Berdyaev and Sergei Bulgakov (Father Sergius as he later became). Our friend Georgy Chulkov was the secretary and Alexei Remizov was the business manager. Remizov’s wife, Serafima Pavlovna, proofread the manuscripts. In short, they were people I knew. I remember Berdyaev once saying to me, “So you’re keeping company with the Bolsheviks, are you? I’d advise you to stay away from them. I know that crowd. We were in exile together. I wouldn’t have any dealings with them if I were you.”
As I was not exactly having “dealings” with them, Berdyaev’s warning had not bothered me.
Now, however, an undeniably Bolshevik first-aid station was to be set up in Berdyaev’s editorial office. If it was being organized by Finn-Yenotaevsky, there was no doubt about its Bolshevik credentials. Or was Finn-Yenotaevsky merely acting in the capacity of a member of some medical committee for the bandaging of dead people? I was reassured by the thought that K.P. would be there. He would explain everything to me. It was all a little strange, of course, but there was no going back now. I had ten roubles in my hand and an important mission to carry out. I had to act.
I went to Liteyny Street.
But it turned out that there was no doctor to be found—neither at number five, nor at number ten. I made enquiries, thinking there might be a doctor who wasn’t called Prunkin. Or a Prunkin who wasn’t a doctor. But there was no one at all. No doctor—and no Prunkin. I returned home quite dismayed.
For the first time in my life, the proletariat had entrusted me with an important mission, and I had achieved nothing. If my aristocratic elders and betters ever found out, they would look on me with scorn. Only one thing reassured me—my old friend K.P. would be at the first-aid station too. He would protect me.
The following morning I listened out carefully—was there any shooting to be heard? No, there was nothing. It was all quiet. At three o’clock sharp (“Discipline, my friends, above all!”) I entered the building. At the door of the editorial office I ran into K.P.
“Well?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Nothing. Nothing and nobody.”
A girl came in, carrying a packet of hygroscopic cotton wool. She sat there for five minutes and then went away again, taking the cotton wool with her.
The next day, Finn-Yenotaevsky appeared.
“You know,” I said, “I couldn’t find any doctor at all on Liteyny Street, either at number five or at number ten.”
“You couldn’t?” he said, without the least surprise. “Well, you won’t help us bring about the revolution. Give me back the ten roubles.”
“So, if I had found a doctor, you’d have brought about a revolution?”
But he just gave a toss of his spirals and dashed off.
“I’m sick of all your friends,” I said to K.P. “Can’t we put them off somehow?”
“Wait a little longer,” he replied. “Lenin will be here soon. Only don’t tell a soul. He’s coming illegally. Once he’s here, things will get interesting. Do please wait a little.”
And so I began waiting for Lenin.
Maxim Gorky came to me with a request.
He told me he often received communications from the provinces, which were of interest only to himself and his friends, and of no interest whatsoever to anybody else. At that time, anyone receiving too much correspondence was liable to attract the attentions of the police, and then their letters would be intercepted and begin to go missing. However, if the correspondence was sent to an editorial office, it wouldn’t attract any attention at all. The head of the provincial affairs desk at the Stock Exchange Gazette was a man of very liberal views by the name of Linyov.[18] I was to ask Linyov for a favour: not to print any letters he received from the provinces in which the date was underlined twice. Apparently, the contents of these letters (which were quite innocuous and, actually, pure fabrication) were intended only for Gorky and his friends. Instead of printing the letters, Linyov was to pass them to me, as I often came in to the editorial office. And then Gorky’s friends would pick them up from me.
It was all quite clear and simple.
16
A Russian Orthodox workers’ organization. In January 1905 a peaceful workers’ demonstration led by Father Gapon ended with the Imperial Guard firing on demonstrators, killing about 200 people and wounding about 800. The day went down in history as “Bloody Sunday”.
18
Linyov worked on