Liam O'Flaherty - I Went to Russia

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.

We arrived at a little square off the Kusnetsky Most. It was obviously very new. The grass was just sprouting on the grass plots. The garden seats were new and the gravel on the paths was still rough and practically untrodden. But every seat was occupied and there were children already playing on the paths.

‘You see this little square?’ said my friend.

‘Yes,i I said. It is a pretty little square. It gives me great joy to see people lounging on seats in the heart of a city and children playing. Moscow is a pleasant place, entirely unlike London.’

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘But let me tell you that this square is made on the site of a church.’

‘How pleasant!’ I cried in rapture. ‘That is entirely in keeping with my idea of civilisation.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he said. ‘You have heard of course in England of the persecution of religion in Soviet Russia.’

I was pleased to hear of it,’ I replied. I have suffered all my life at the hands of organised religion. To desire revenge is human.’

‘But you will find,’ he said, ‘that there is no persecution. The situation is such. In Russia we no longer require the aid of superstitious practices. Except, of course, the old and ignorant and the parasites who made their living out of the old and ignorant, the priests.’

‘What is that magnificent new building in process of construction over there?’ I asked, pointing to an interesting red brick house that had already reached its tenth storey and looked like going farther. ‘Is it a new Communist church to take the place of the old Christian church? I have a theory of religion. One God is always deposed by another. He never gives place to vacuum or atheism.’

‘That is a romantic theory,’ said my friend, ‘disproved in this case by the fact that that building has nothing whatsoever to do with religion, but is concerned with the very matter-of-fact business of guarding the state and the revolution. That new building is for the workers in the G.P.U., our national police force.’

‘Really?’

‘Quite true.’

‘But then it has a religious significance.’

‘How?’

‘What is that other large and ugly building to the left ?’

‘That is the Commisariat of Foreign Affairs.’

‘And that statue?’

‘That is a monument to the memory of Djerjinsky, former chief of the G.P.U.’

It is an ugly monument and reminds me strangely of the artistic taste of the early Christians, just as the G.P.U. building reminds me of the barracks of the Swiss Guards at Rome and the Foreign Office of the College of Cardinals. Indeed I shall be greatly surprised if history does not prove that God, instead of being annihilated by the Russian Revolution, has merely assumed Russian nationality. I have been convinced for the past ten years that Dostoievsky was the father of the Russian Revolution.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he said.

I told you I was mad,’ I answered, with a laugh.

He also laughed and said:

‘Here is the bureau, in this building.’

We entered an office building opposite the new brick house of the Bolshevik Swiss Guards, mounted two flights of stairs and entered the office of the Bureau of Revolutionary Literature. The room was crowded with men and women, who gave me a reception worthy of a worthier person than myself. When I had shaken hands with everybody, I was seated at a table, given a sheet of paper and a pen and asked to state my position should capitalist Europe declare war on the Soviet Union.