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Title: Some Reminiscences of Kropotkin Author: Alexander Berkman Language: en Topics: obituary, PĂ«tr Kropotkin Source: Retrieved on June 2, 2009 from http://dwardmac.pitzer.edu/Anarchist_Archives/bright/berkman/reminiscences/reminiscences.html][dwardmac.pitzer.edu]]. Proofread online source [[http://www.revoltlib.com/?id=1254, retrieved on November 18, 2020.
It was about 1890, when the anarchist movement was still in its infancy
in America. We were just a handful then, young men and women fired by
the enthusiasm of a sublime ideal, and passionately spreading the new
faith among the population of the New York Ghetto. We held our
gatherings in an obscure hall in Orchard Street, but we regarded our
efforts as highly successful. Every week greater numbers attended our
meetings, much interest was manifested in the revolutionary teachings,
and vital questions were discussed late into the night, with deep
conviction and youthful vision. To most of us it seemed that capitalism
had almost reached the limits of its fiendish possibilities, and that
the Social Revolution was not far off. But there were many difficult
questions and knotty problems involved in the growing movement, which we
ourselves could not solve satisfactorily. We longed to have our great
teacher Kropotkin among us, if only for a short visit, to have him clear
up many complex points and to give us the benefit of his intellectual
aid and inspiration. And then, what a stimulus his presence would be for
the movement!
We decided to reduce our living expenses to the minimum and devote our
earnings to defray the expense involved in our invitation to Kropotkin
to visit America. Enthusiastically the matter was discussed in group
meetings of our most active and devoted comrades; all were unanimous in
the great plan. A long letter was sent to our teacher, asking him to
come for a lecture tour to America and emphasizing our need of him.
His negative reply gave us a shock: we were so sure of his acceptance,
so convinced of the necessity of his coming. But the admiration we felt
for him was even increased when we learned the motives for his refusal.
He would very much like to come — Kropotkin wrote — and he deeply
appreciated the spirit of our invitation. He hoped to visit the United
States sometime in the future, and it would give him great joy to be
among such good comrades. But just now he could not afford to come at
his own expense, and he would not use the money of the movement even for
such a purpose.
I pondered over his words. His viewpoint was just, I thought, but it
could apply only under ordinary circumstances. His case, however, I
considered exceptional, and I deeply regretted his decision not to come.
But his motives epitomized to me the man and the grandeur of his nature.
I visioned him as my ideal of revolutionist and Anarchist.
Years later, while I was in the Western Penitentiary of Pennsylvania,
the hope of seeing our Grand Old man Kropotkin for a moment illumined
the darkness of my cell. Friends had notified me that Peter had come to
the States on his way to Canada, where he was to participate in some
Congress of scientists. Peter intended to visit me, I was informed, and
I counted the days and the hours waiting for the longed-for visit. Alas,
the fates were against my meeting my teacher and comrade. Instead of
being called to see my dear visitor, I was ordered into the Warden’s
office.* He held in his had a letter, and I recognised Peter’s small and
neat handwriting. On the envelope, after my name, Kropotkin had written,
“Political Prisoner”.
The Warden was in a rage. “We have no political prisoners in our free
country!” he roared. And then he tore the envelope into pieces. I became
enraged at such desecration. There followed a hot argument on American
freedom in the course of which I called the Warden a liar. That was
considered lese majesté and he demanded an apology. I refused. The
result was that instead of meeting Peter I was sentenced to 7 days in
the dungeon, which was a cell 2 feet by four, absolutely dark and 15
feet underground, one small slice of bread as my daily ration.
That was about the year 1895. In the years following Peter Kropotkin had
repeatedly visited America, but I never got a chance to see him, because
I was mostly in punishment in prison and for ten years I was deprived of
visits and not allowed to see any one. A quarter of a century passed
before I could at last take the hand of my old comrade in mine. It was
in Russia, in March 1920, that I first met Peter. He lived in Dmitrov, a
small town 60 verats from Moscow. I was in Petrograd (Leningrad) then,
and the railroad conditions were such that traveling from the North to
Dmitrov was out of the question. Later on I had a chance to go to Moscow
and there I learned that the Government had made special arrangements to
enable George Lansbury, the editor of the London Dail Herald, and one of
his contributors, to visit Kropotkin in Dmitrov. I took advantage of the
opportunity, together with our comrades Emma Goldman and A. Schapiro.
Meeting “celebrities” is generally disappointing: rarely does reality
tally with the picture of our imagination. But it was not so in the case
of Kropotkin; both physically and spiritually he corresponded almost
exactly to the mental portrait I had made of him. He looked remarkably
like his photographs, with his kindly eyes, sweet smile and generous
beard. Every time Kropotkin entered the room it seemed to light up by
his presence. The stamp of the idealist was so strikingly upon him, the
spiriturality of his personality could almost be sensed. But I was
shocked at the sight of his emaciation and feebleness.
Kropotkin received the academic pyock which was considerably better than
the ration issued to the ordinary citizen. But it was far from
sufficient to support life and it was a struggle to keep the wolf from
the door. The question of fuel and lighting was also a matter of
constant worry. The winters were severe and wood very scarce; kerosene
difficult to procure, and it was considered a luxury to burn more than
one lamp in the house. This lack was particularly felt by Kropotkin; it
greatly handicapped his literary labors.
Several times the Kropotkin family had been dispossessed of their home
in Moscow, their quarters being requistioned [sic] for government
purposes. They they decided to move to Dmitrov. It is only about half a
hundred verats from the capital, but it might as well be a thousand
miles away, so completely was Kropotkin isolated. His friends could
rarely visit him; news from the Western world, scientific works, or
foreign publications were unattainable. Naturally Kropotkin felt deeply
the lack of intellectual companionship and mental relaxation.
I was eager to learn his views on the situation in Russia, but I soon
realised that Peter did not feel free to express himself in the presence
of the English visitors. The conversation was therefore of a general
character. But one of his remarks was very significant and gave me the
key to his attitude. “They have shown,” he said, referring to the
Bolsheviki, “how the Revolution is not to be made.” I knew, of course,
that as an Anarchist Kropotkin would not accept any Government position,
but I wanted to learn why he was not participating in the economic
up-building of Russia. Though old and physically weak, his advice and
suggestions would be most valuable to the Revolution, and his influence
of great advantage and encouragement to the Anarchist movement. Above
all, I was interested to hear his positive ideas on the conduct of the
Revolution. What I had heard so far from the revolutionary opposition
was mostly critical, lacking helpful constructiveness.
The evening passed in desultory talk about the activities on the front,
the crime of the Allied blokade in refusing even medicine to the sick,
and the spread of disease resulting from lack of food and unhygenic
conditions. Kropotkin looked tired, apparently exhausted by the mere
presence of visitors. He was old and weak; and I feared he would not
live much longer under those conditions. He was evidently
undernourished, though he said that the Anarchists of the Ukraina had
been trying to make his life easier by supplying him with flour and
other products. Makhno, also, when still friendly with the Bolsheviki,
had been able to send him provisions. Not to tire Peter too much, we
left early.
Some months later I had another opportunity to visit our old comrade. It
was summer-time and Peter seemed to have revived with the resurrection
of Nature. He looked younger, in good health and full of youthful
spirit. Without the presence of outsiders, like the former English
visitors, he felt more at home with us and we talked freely about
Russian conditions, his attitude and the outlook for the future. He was
the genial Old Peter again, with a fine sense of humor, keen observation
and most generous humanity. At first he chided me solemnly on my stand
against the War, but he quickly changed the subject into less dangerous
channels. Russia was our main point of discussion. The conditions were
terrible, as everyone agreed, and the Dictatorship the greatest crime of
the Bolsheviki. But there was no reason to lose faith, he assured me.
The Revolution and the masses were greater than any political Party and
its machinations. The latter might triumph temporarily, but the heart of
the Russian masses was uncorrupted and they would rally themselves to a
clear understanding of the evil of the Dictatorship and of Bolshevik
tyranny. Present Russian life, he said, was an artificial condition
forced by the governing class. The rule of a small political Party was
based on false theories, violent methods, fearful blunders and general
inefficiency. They were suppressing the very expression of the people’s
will and initiative which alone could rebuild the ruined economic life
of the country. The stupid attitude of the Allied Powers, the blockade
and the attacks on the Revolution by the interventionists were helping
to strengthen the power of the Communist regime. But things will change
and the masses will awaken to the realisation that no one, no political
Party or governmental clique must be permitted in the future to
monopolise the Revolution, to control or direct it, for such attempts
inevitably result in the death of the Revolution itself.
Various other phases of the Revolution we discussed on that occasion.
Kropotkin particularly emphasised the constructive side of revolutions,
and especially that the organisation of the economic life must be dealt
with as the first and greatest necessity of a revolution, as the
foundation of its existence and development. This thought he wanted to
impress most forcibly upon our own comrades for our guidance in the
coming great struggles of the international proletariat.
My visits to our dear Peter were a treat, intellectually and
spiritually. I was leaving for the Ukraina for a long tour in behalf of
the Petrograd Museum of the Revolution, but I hoped for many more visits
to our old, brave teacher of the wonderful brain and heart. It was not
to be. He died some months later, on February 8, 1921. I could reach his
bedside in time only to say my last farewell to the dead. A great Man, a
great Anarchist had departed.