Birth of Our Power by Victor Serge Richard Greeman

“Any comrades who see themselves as future ministers … any dictators-in-embryo, whatever service they may have performed, will have to be crushed!” And he would look straight in front of him into the emptiness of a dirty mirror. If there were any angry outbursts, he would say dryly: “I’m not pointing at any individuals. History is there, comrades, to show us the danger.” He listened to Dario with a sort of ostentatious deference. And his question fell, like a stone in deep water, radiating countless ripples:
    â€œWill we take power, yes or no?”
    Dario was forced to explain himself: We are not power seekers. We are libertarians. But we have to take practical necessities into account. We will accept full responsibility for the consequences of our acts. The Committee would be a temporary revolutionary organ expressing the will of the Confederation, and not a government.” Dario was well aware that he was becoming entangled, that he was playing with words, not daring to come to the point or to call things by their right name. A dull desire fermented within him to smash his fist down on the table, releasing all his pent-up brutality, and to cry out: “We’ll do whatever must be done,
Madre de Dios de Madre de Dios!
and our sacrosanct principles won’t be any the worse for it!” But that would have been a victory for calm, collected Portez, who would immediately have quoted Kropotkin, the bylaws of the Confederation, its conventions, Spartacus, Baboeuf, Anselmo Lorenzo, and carried the majority on a vote of no confidence. At moments like this, Dario became ugly, his large body slackened, his relatively small head hung awkwardly on a wrinkled, vaguely grayish neck, his eyes turned colorless. His words and gestures—evasively acquiescent—were delivered with half-hearted cunning. Portez pushed home his advantage by proposing the creation of a Control Commission authorized to relieve members of the Committee of their authority if they overstepped their mandates … Dario voted “for” with indifference.
    â€œBack to the agenda,” murmured old Ribas, the chairman, without raising his white head.
    Now it was Dario’s turn to take the offensive. He was never one for arguing on general principles … “The men at Granollérs haven’t yet received any weapons. What’s going on? … Sans is twenty Brownings short … Perez Vidal of the barbers’ is an
agent provocateur:
this has been known for several days and he is still alive … Why has the Committee’s envoy to Paris not left yet? … Things will never be ready for the nineteenth.”
    Heated voices rose to answer him. The room was, filled with hubbub. A young woman wearing a gold-colored scarf on her head appeared in the doorway and whispered, smiling:
    â€œComrades, you can be heard outside in the courtyard!” That golden smile, that voice—like a fresh-water stream among their voices—calmed the men.
    â€œLet’s get back to the question of rents,” said Ribas.

    I would meet Dario sometimes in the evenings, in a tiny lodging which was dark and cool. The air and the noise of the street wafted in through the balcony. On extremely hot days, the gray shadow of the high wall of a medieval convent lent shade to that house, our refuge in the evening. There was wine in big glasses on the unvarnished wooden table. Some tomatoes, red peppers, and onions lying nearby in a dish where everybody took what he wanted made it even more like a room in an inn. Dario would gulp down his wine. His narrow greenish eyes were now relaxed; the faint ugliness of his features seemed to disappear; he spoke about the coming insurrection with an infectious confidence. “Oh, sure, all those readers of
La Conquête du pain
don’t really believe we can win. Hold out one week for history’s sake, that’s the main thing as far as they’re concerned.