The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

Here in sleepy, manure-strewn Efremov, one felt especially cut off from the world. The Moscow newspapers arrived three days late, and even they were not very numerous. In the evenings, the dogs howled on the Slobodka, and the watchmen lazily beat their clappers. It seemed as if nothing had changed in this town since the sixteenth century, that there was no railroad, no telegraph, no war, no Moscow, and that nothing ever happened.

And now—the revolution! Everyone’s thoughts flew about in confusion, but only one thing was clear: something great had happened, something that could not be stopped by anyone or anything. It had happened just now, on this seemingly very ordinary day—precisely that which people had been anticipating for more than a century.

“What should we do?” Osipenko was asking frantically. “We must do something immediately.”

Then Rachinskii pronounced the words that instantly exculpated all his sins:

Konstantin Paustovskii, Save Your Strength

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“We must print this appeal. And post it around town. And get in touch with Moscow. Come on!”

The three of us took off: Osipenko, Rachinskii, and myself. Only Varvara Petrovna and the fortune-teller remained at home. Varvara Petrovna stood in front of the icon-case, rapidly crossing herself again and again while whispering: “Dear God, it’s come. Dear God, it’s come.” Just as before, the fortune-teller stayed motionless in her armchair.

Somebody ran towards us along the deserted street. Under the faint light of a street lamp I noticed that he had neither a hat nor coat and was barefoot. He carried a shoemaker’s last in his hand. The man dashed up to us.

“My dear friends!” he cried and grabbed me by the hand. “Have you heard? The tsar is no more! Only Russia is left.”

He kissed each of us heartily and rushed on, sobbing and muttering something under his breath.

“But why haven’t we congratulated each other?” said Osipenko.

We too stopped for a moment and kissed each other heartily.

Rachinskii went to the telegraph office to follow all the news from Petro-grad and Moscow, while Osipenko and I searched for a small, out-of-the-way printing shop, where they published notices, announcements, and decrees from the military commander.

The printing shop was closed. While we were trying to break off the lock, a fidgety man with a key appeared, opened the shop and turned on the lights. He turned out to be the only typesetter and printer in all of Efremov. We did not ask why or how he had turned up at the printing shop.

“Go over to the font case and start composing!” I said.

I began dictating the text of the appeal to the typesetter. He set type, pausing now and then to wipe with his sleeve the tears which were welling up in his eyes.

Soon another piece of news arrived: an order from Nekrasov, the transportation minister of the Provisional Government,—to everyone, everyone, everyone!—for the detention of the imperial train, wherever it might be found.

Events were bearing down on Russia like an avalanche.

As I read the first off-print of the appeal, the letters jumped and blurred before my eyes.

The printing shop was now full of people who had somehow found out that the announcement of the revolution was being printed here. They would take stacks of appeals, run out into the streets and glue them up on walls, fences, and lamp posts.

It was already 1:00 AM, a time when Efremov was usually fast asleep.

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Chapter Thirteen

Suddenly, at this unearthly hour, a short and vibrant clang of the cathedral bell rang out. Then a second and a third. The ringing gradually increased. A taut pealing was already audible all over the little town, and soon the bells of all the surrounding churches joined in.

Lights came on in all the houses. The streets filled up with people. The doors of many houses stood flung open. Complete strangers embraced each other, weeping.

The solemn and joyous whistles of steam locomotives soared from the direction of the railroad station. Somewhere in the distance people began singing the Marseillaise.2 First their singing was barely audible but increasingly it grew in volume:

Let’s renounce the old world, Let’s stamp its dust off our feet.

Then the resounding notes of a brass band burst into the choir of voices:

We’ll go to our suffering brothers, To the starving people we’ll go!

On a table smeared with printer’s ink, Osipenko was writing the first decree of the Provisional Revolutionary Committee of the town of Efremov. No such committee had been organized. Nobody knew, or could know, who its members were because there were no members. Osipenko himself was improvising the decree.

“Until the government of liberated Russia appoints new authorities in the town of Efremov and in Efremov Township, the Provisional Revolutionary Committee of Efremov appeals to all citizens to maintain complete order and thus decrees: