A never-ending story.
There exist, in this world, two young men -- as beautiful as a morning in May, and as charming as fairy-tale princes.
They are Martov and Abramovich.
They are SDs. They publish a newspaper called The Socialist Herald. And it is even rumored that somebody, somewhere, actually reads this newspaper.
Its circulation is higher in the summer than in the winter. In the summer, it can be very useful for fly-swatting purposes.
But if one approaches this newspaper as reading material, the reader achieves a sensation similar to that felt by a hungry dog when a mischievous boy, after feeding it a piece of meat tied to one end of a string, starts pulling on the other end.
I imagine that under those circumstances, the dog has a strong desire to turn itself inside out, just to get rid of this sensation that has been forced on it.
The same emotions are experienced by a reader who decides to swallow Martov and Abramovich's appetizing publication.
One day, I read in their newspaper a vigorous and touching protest against executions performed by the Soviet government.
Martov and Abramovich categorically stated that shooting SDs is an outrageous abuse of power, and that the Bolsheviks do not have the right to shoot SDs.
Non-Socialists were not mentioned: apparently, it's OK to shoot them.
Similarly, right-wing SRs protested against executions of right-wing SRs; and left-wing SRs protested as well -- against executions of left-wing SRs.
It somehow turns out that -- since I'm neither an SR nor an SD -- any bastard can decide to shoot me, and neither the SRs nor the SDs will let out as much as a peep.
Well, not being a member of any party, I intend to narrow this principle even further: since my name is Arkadiy, I will issue a proclamation to the entire world, protesting against executions of any Arkadiys. If a man bears the poetic name Arkadiy -- don't touch him, you swine! Shoot Gennadiys and Appolinariys instead, if you absolutely must.
Other people can also organize themelves according to their distinguishing characteristics: the dark-haired will denounce executions of the dark-haired, redheads will defend redheads, the cross-eyed will support the cross-eyed, and the usual cretins... Actually, never mind that last part -- it's already done.
However, as the French say, let us return to our sheep -- to Martov and Abramovich.
So, they vigorously protest against executions of SDs, against the stifling of the SD press, and against the exclusion of the SDs from the ruling class.
Now, imagine the following scenario: Martov and Abramovich are at their editorial office, quietly, peacefully putting out The Socialist Herald -- and suddenly, in comes a delegation of Russian peasants, falls to their knees before them, and begs:
"Our land is large and plentiful, the Bolsheviks have been exterminated -- come rule and govern us!"
The SRs in Prague will turn green with envy that they weren't the ones invited, but Martov and Abramovich have better things to worry about: who cares about poor relatives?
"We win!" Martov will gleefully yell out, while glancing at Abramovich and thinking, "Gee, I wish you'd drop dead -- I don't need any partners anymore, do I?"
Whereas Abramovich will offer Martov a hearty handshake, and the thought will cross his bright mind, "If only I could be squeezing not your hand, but your throat! I know -- the moment I go to Moscow, you'll drag yourself along after me!"
But, outwardly, they will both be beaming; and, as they stuff their plump suitcases, they will promise the delegation:
"Since you are transferring power to our SD hands -- all abuses and violence will stop! Down with press restrictions, down with executions and the Cheka!"
And so, Moscow unfurls its beauty before the new Rurik and Sineus.
"Where shall we start?" asks the energetic Abramovich. "We must form a coalition government."
Martov frowns. "You mean, with the SRs and the Cadets?"
"Why on earth would we do that? Don't we have enough Mensheviks available? Let's stock our cabinet with left-wing Mensheviks, right-wing Mensheviks, and Mensheviks kinda sorta."
Abramovich comes to see Martov, looking as if he'd seen a ghost:
"Listen to this insolence! The SRs criticized us in their paper for not including them in the cabinet. Can you believe this -- they called me a talentless slug! I think this filthy rag of theirs should be shut down once and for all."
"Well," smirks Martov, "that's not exactly a sufficient reason."
"They also called you a fat Caligula with the temperament of a castrated money-changer."
"Hmmmm... I see. In that case, I suppose that's reason enough. Please prepare the court order."
Again, Abramovich runs in to see Martov. His face is a tragic mask.
"Listen! After we closed the SR and Cadet papers, those thugs have really gone off the deep end: I have received information that they are organizing a plot to overthrow us."
"Never!" Martov exclaims, with a regal gesture. "We must create a special agency that will guard public safety and uncover such plots."
"An Extraordinary Commission?"
"You dolt! How can we revive the Cheka, and bring back to life the dark legacy of Bolshevism? No, we need to create an Ordinary Commission."
"So, the Obka?"
"Yes, Obka. That sounds perfectly harmless."
A year later, two Russians meet abroad.
"Why did you leave Russia?"
"I fled from the horrors of the Obka."
I am not a moralist; I merely wanted to show the readers what one-party rule means. He who takes the first step must inevitably take the next steps, as well.
When all of Russia is being shot, but Blockhead Ivanovich protests only against executions of Blockhead Ivanoviches -- then such a person in power would be the worst kind of Nero, minus the fiddling skills.
Party activists resemble mediocre, yet painfully vain, actors. And it has been said:
"Not every emperor, in Nero's position, would have become an actor; but any actor, in an emperor's position, will become a Nero."