This is a book by Arkady Averchenko, a White Guard officer driven nearly to madness by his bitter resentment: “A Dozen Knives in the Back of the Revolution.” Paris, 1921. It is fascinating to observe how this toweringly talented work—burning with hatred to the point of boiling over—yields both remarkably powerful passages and strikingly weak ones. When the author tackles subjects that lie beyond his grasp, the results fall short of artistic excellence. Take, for example, the story that attempts to depict Lenin and Trotsky in their private lives. There is plenty of venom in these pages—but it simply doesn’t ring true, dear citizen Averchenko! I assure you that Lenin and Trotsky were far from perfect, even in their most intimate moments—and indeed, in every aspect of their lives, including their domestic routines. To write about them with genuine artistry, one must first know them intimately; yet you do not know them at all.
But the greater part of the book is devoted to themes that Arkady Averchenko knew all too well—themes he had lived through, thought deeply about, and felt keenly in his own soul. With astonishing skill, he captures the impressions and moods of a representative of old Russia: the landed gentry, the factory owners, the wealthy elite—those who had grown fat on abundance, only to be consumed by their own excesses. In this way, the revolution appears to the representatives of the ruling classes precisely as it ought to appear: blazing with fiery hatred, yet at times—indeed, most of the time—so vividly rendered as to leave the reader utterly transfixed. Some of his pieces are truly masterful—for instance, “Grass Trampled Under Boots,” which explores the psychology of children who have endured—and continue to endure—the horrors of civil war.

Yet it is only when the author turns to the subject of food that he rises to genuine heights of pathos. How the rich dined in old Russia; how they snacked in Petrograd—not Petrograd, but St. Petersburg—at prices ranging from fourteen and a half rubles to fifty rubles, and so on. The author describes these scenes with a kind of sensual delight: here is what he knows, what he has lived through and felt in his very being—here, at last, he cannot afford to err. His profound knowledge of the subject, combined with an unshakable sincerity, sets him apart.
In the final story, “Fragments Shattered to Pieces,” we find a former senator—who “had been rich, generous, and well connected”—now working at an artillery depot, where he spends his days unloading and sorting shells by the day. And there is the former director of a massive metallurgical plant, once hailed as the foremost factory on the Vyborg Side; now he serves as a clerk in a consignment shop, where he has recently acquired a certain expertise in appraising worn ladies’ bonnets and plush teddy bears brought in for sale on commission.
The two old men reminisce about the past—about St. Petersburg’s twilight hours, its streets, its theaters, and of course, about the fine dining at the “Bear,” the “Vienna,” and the “Little Yaroslavets,” and so forth. But their memories are punctuated by exclamations: “What did we ever do to them? Who did we ever trouble?”… “What could possibly have bothered them about all of this?”… “Why do they treat Russia this way?”…
Arkady Averchenko cannot fathom the reason. But workers and peasants, it seems, understand without difficulty—and need no further explanation.
In my view, several of these stories deserve to be reprinted. Talent must be encouraged.
“Pravda,” No. 263, November 22, 1921

Signed: N. Lenin

Printed according to the text of the newspaper “Pravda.”