The Empire Must Die: Russia's Revolutionary Collapse, 1900-1917

Chapter 4

in which liberals come into fashion: Peter Struve and Pavel Milyukov become the most popular politicians in the country

THE MOST POPULAR MARXIST

In a Saint Petersburg drawing room a group of young intellectuals is debating a new book, the author of which asserts that humanity is threatened by degeneracy. All agree that the hypothesis is overstated. There is no degeneracy; everything is cyclical. All ages spawn good and bad people alike. Suddenly up jumps a redheaded young man, who tugs on his jug ears and shouts: “What do you mean there’s no degeneracy? Take a look at me! At my ears!” “Peter, stop this nonsense,” says his embarrassed wife. But “Peter” continues to expound upon humanity’s degeneracy with himself as a case study.^*

The incident is described in the memoirs of Ariadna Tyrkova, a young metropolitan journalist and a former classmate of Peter’s unfortunate wife.

The performance is not meant to be ironic or provocative. Everyone knows that the thirty-year-old Peter (Pyotr) Struve is a very serious young man with no sense of humor whatsoever. But that does not prevent him from being a popular figure in Saint Petersburg, whose young people are gripped by Marxism. Struve is the most fanatical adherent of this fashionable new philosophy emanating from Germany. The son of a former governor of Perm and a shining member of the “golden youth,” Struve is well acquainted with all the latest books on the topic, some of which are not even known to many of his peers.

He set up Russia’s first Marxist circle long before this incident, as a twenty-year-old student back in 1890—a time when the future founders of the newspaper Spark (Iskra), the revolutionaries Martov, Lenin, and Potresov, are still far from Marxism.

Struve is lucky. In 1886, another twenty-year-old member of the “golden youth,” Michael Gotz, was arrested and banished to Kolyma for ten years, despite the efforts of his wealthy relatives. But the times are more lenient when Struve catches the Marxist bug.

In 1894 Struve graduates from university and enters the Ministry of Finance. Only then does he end up in trouble. He is arrested by mistake, erroneously identified as a member of the underground movement People’s Will. The error quickly comes to light, and the police release the former governor’s son and even pen a letter to the Ministry of Finance clearing the young man of all charges. But Finance Minister Witte is not convinced and decides in any case to dismiss the young Struve, which ultimately does him good—instead of becoming a civil servant, he becomes a popular journalist.

At the age of twenty-four, Struve writes a book entitled Critical Observations on the Problem of Russia’s Economic Development—the first Russian book about Marxism to become a hit among Saint Petersburg’s youth. The book’s final phrase (“We recognize our lack of culture and shall learn from capitalism”) becomes a mantra.

In January 1895, shortly after the death of Alexander III, the twenty-five-year-old Struve distributes an anonymous open letter that ends with the following warning for the new tsar, the twenty-seven-year-old Nicholas II: “You have begun the struggle, and the struggle will not be long in coming.” Struve reads the letter to some friends before making multiple copies. However, the public attributes authorship not to Struve, but to Fyodor Rodichev, whose recent “Tver Address” prompted the tsar’s “senseless daydreams” speech^* and for which he was removed from the Tver district council, or zemstvo.

Four years later, now twenty-nine years old, Struve publishes the first Russian edition of Marx’s Das Kapital and adds his own preface. His economic lectures are attended by legions of fans; he is a political rock star.

Struve makes the acquaintance of Vladimir Ulyanov (the future Lenin) in 1894 while visiting friends. Struve takes an immediate dislike to the provincial Marxist: “He was too abrupt,” he recalls. “It was something more than mere abruptness, more like mockery, partly deliberate and partly irrepressibly spontaneous, rising from the depths of his being. He immediately sensed that I was an opponent, whereupon he was guided not by reason, but by intuition—what hunters call instinct.”

Struve is repelled by Ulyanov’s behavior: “The terrible thing in Lenin was that combination of actual self-castigation, which is the essence of all real asceticism, with the castigation of other people as expressed in abstract social hatred and cold political cruelty.”

The young Saint Petersburg journalist Ariadna Tyrkova suddenly finds herself surrounded by young Marxist fanatics. And all because of her friends. At school, Ariadna had three best friends: Nina, Lida, and Nadia. All three found politically active husbands. Nina became the wife of Peter Struve, Lida married a member of his circle, the Marxist Mikhail Tugan-Baranovsky (one of the founders of the independent Ukrainian state in 1917 and the first Minister of Finance of Ukraine), while Nadia—Nadezhda Krupskaya—falls for the provincial Vladimir Ulyanov. Deeply in love, according to Ariadna, Nadia becomes his common-law wife. The young atheists do not recognize the institution of church marriage.

Through her friends, Ariadna spends a great deal of time in the company of young Marxists and is amazed by their fanaticism: “They reiterated Marxist axioms with the stubborn obedience of a Muslim preaching the Quran.” Struve and his companions are “unshakable in the belief that their quotes from Das Kapital and Marx and Engels’ personal correspondence will resolve all doubts and disputes. Citing the edition and page number of every work, they assume that only an idiot can object. For these doctrinaires of Marxism, every punctuation mark in the writings of Marx and Engels is sacred. Listening to them, I understand how the Muslim conquerors were able to burn down the Library of Alexandria,” writes Tyrkova.

“DAMN YOUR OPINION”

In 1898, a year after the establishment of the Jewish Bund, the young Marxists decide to unite the country’s numerous circles into a real underground political party, headed by none other than Struve. However, since neither he nor any of his comrades have much organizational experience, the idea barely gets off the ground. Struve does at least come up with a name—the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party (RSDLP)—and writes the party manifesto. The first congress in Minsk is attended by just nine representatives of Marxist circles from different cities (even Struve himself is not there). All are arrested immediately. Struve’s virtual RSDLP is in fact the “grandmother” of the future Communist Party of the Soviet Union (in later Soviet textbooks Lenin is named as the founder of everything; Struve does not even get a mention).

Until now, the only opposition in Russia has been the populists or Narodniks. But for the Marxists, the Narodniks are barbarians who believe in the revolutionary spirit of the Russian folk (i.e., the peasantry), whereas for Marx himself the driving force of the revolution is the proletariat. The Marxists despise the Narodniks as ignorant heathens.

The leading lights of Russian Marxism continue to convene, but the underground groups are constantly targeted by the police, and members are arrested and exiled. This happens to the young Vladimir Ulyanov and Julius Tsederbaum (Martov) in 1895.

By 1895 Ulyanov has managed to pass his exams at Saint Petersburg University as an external student, gaining a law degree and moving to the capital to work as a paralegal. It does not go well: all four court cases assigned to him are unsuccessful. On the other hand, he gets to know Tsederbaum and Potresov, who will become his closest comrades.

The new acquaintances set up a clandestine circle and print seventy leaflets that they intend to distribute to the working classes. That is their undoing. Ulyanov and Tsederbaum are arrested and sent to Siberia. Ulyanov is followed by his devoted Nadia, together with her mother. In 1898 Vladimir and Nadia get married in the village of Shushenskoye in Siberia, this time in a church. (“We had to go through the whole farce,” recalls Krupskaya. Although the newlyweds despise religious ceremonies, the authorities will not allow Nadia to accompany Vladimir into exile without a church marriage certificate.)

Some details of the future Lenin’s exile come from Ariadna Tyrkova via her brother, who is exiled with him. Ulyanov does not hide his contempt for the Narodniks:

“[Ulyanov] did not behave like a comrade. He rudely stated that People’s Will was the past and that the Social Democrats were the future,” Tyrkova retells her brother’s words. “His disdain for the old exiles and their traditions was particularly apparent when an exile escaped, as happened on occasion. Typically, the entire colony helped fugitives and also hid the identities of those who actually supplied money or boots. Ulyanov ignored this unwritten rule and grassed on someone for facilitating an escape, which wasn’t even successful. The ‘accomplice’ was put in a cell for two months. Ulyanov was summoned to a ‘court of comrades’ [a form of collective justice] at which he stated that he didn’t recognize its authority and didn’t give a damn about its opinion.”

While Ulyanov is in exile, Struve is busy lecturing in Saint Petersburg. A theorist, he declines to join the underground organizations, print leaflets, or agitate among the workers, unlike many of his allies.

In February 1900, after his Siberian exile, Vladimir Ulyanov is allowed to return to European Russia, but not the capital. Instead, he takes up residence in Pskov, where he is visited by all the prominent Russian Marxists of the day: Martov, Potresov, Struve, and Tugan-Baranovsky. Ulyanov and Martov want to publish a newspaper, and Potresov is ready to join them. To do so, they need to enlist the support of the Saint Petersburg Marxist elite.

Struve endorses the idea. Understanding that they need material as well as moral support, Struve finds a sponsor in the shape of a rich friend of his—the young, progressive landowner and Marxist aficionado Dmitry Zhukovsky. He finances the three Marxists to begin publishing a newspaper, whereupon they travel to Europe to curry the favor of their idol Georgy Plekhanov.^*

CAPITAL OF RUSSIAN OPPOSITION

A turning point in Struve’s life is the rally at Kazan Cathedral on 4 March 1901, when he first encounters state-sponsored violence and feels the blows of Cossack whips for himself, a truly memorable experience. “How dare they whip me! Me!” he cries. His worldly air of invincibility is shaken to the core.

It is now Struve’s turn to be exiled. Because he is a first-time offender, the penalty is not severe. He is simply prohibited from living in either of Russia’s capitals. Moreover, he is able to choose his place of residence. His eye falls upon Tver.

The choice is not random. Of all the local self-governing authorities in the Russian Empire, the most politically active are Moscow and Tver. Moscow is the cultural and business capital of the empire, home to the richest merchants. Dissidents expelled from Saint Petersburg and Moscow often relocate to Tver—the only major city located between the two capitals. Thus, the turn of the century sees the emergence of a third Russian capital—a city of oppositionists and freedom-lovers.

In 1895 it is the Tver zemstvo that sends the infamous address to Nicholas II, requesting a greater role for society in government, which the young emperor dismisses as “senseless daydreams.”

Struve’s new social circle is the Tver intelligentsia, which leads to a radical change of outlook. Once faithful to the letter and spirit of the law of Marx, his contact with real life outside the capital alters his credo. He departs from Marxism and becomes a moderate liberal.

The system of zemstvos was introduced in Russia back in the 1860s as part of the reforms of Alexander II. Alongside the liberation of the serfs and the introduction of trial by jury, it was a beacon of progress. Over the course of the next three decades, a full-fledged civil society takes root in Russia in the shape of the provincial intelligentsia, which assumes the authority to decide on all economic and humanitarian issues relating to its region.

Unsurprisingly, universal and equal suffrage is not a feature of nineteenth-century Russia. The right to vote depends on one’s social estate. The nobles (1.5 percent of the population), the peasants (77 percent of the population), and the propertied classes outside the nobility each elect their own representatives to the zemstvo assemblies. Voting rights are denied to Jews and persons convicted or under police surveillance. All in all, representatives of the nobility control around 57 percent of the seats in the zemstvo assemblies, with the peasantry and non-noble property owners having roughly 30 percent and 13 percent, respectively.

With equality somewhat lacking, the tone inside the zemstvos is set by the provincial nobles and intelligentsia, who profess, nevertheless, to be the most educated and liberal-minded section of the populace.

Struve spends more than six months in Tver, during which period he is visited by his old friend Dmitry Zhukovsky, the landowning sponsor of Spark, who offers Struve 30,000 roubles^* worth of gold to publish another new magazine on one condition: Ulyanov and his ilk are to be excluded. Zhukovsky is displeased by the Munich-based socialists and their radicalism.

Struve agrees. Denied permission to leave Russia (only his pregnant wife is given a passport), he sneaks across the border illegally. Before decamping abroad, he tours half of Russia in search of potential authors for the future magazine. In winter 1901 he arrives in Crimea, where Russia’s three greatest writers are in residence. Struve does not disturb the gravely ill Tolstoy, but approaches Gorky and Chekhov. The latter promises to contribute to the new magazine.

In early 1902 Struve goes to Munich to explain matters to Ulyanov, who, already au fait with the situation and offended, refuses to meet him. Struve takes up residence near Stuttgart and uses Zhukovsky’s money to set up a magazine entitled Liberation. In just a few months it becomes the most popular and influential Russian-language magazine, both in Europe and Russia. Its circulation reaches seven thousand copies, most of which are smuggled into Russia. The magazine is read by everyone, including the ministers Plehve and Witte and the literary doyens Tolstoy and Chekhov, as well as rank-and-file officials, nobles, merchants, priests, and village intellectuals.

The trick is the editorial board’s ability to import the magazine into Russia, something that Struve and friends are far more adept at than the publishers of Spark and Revolutionary Russia. Liberation succeeds for two reasons: the quality of the content and the unique distribution system. First, it is not a party publication intended for a narrow circle of devotees; it is wide-ranging with something for the entire Russian intelligentsia. Second, although the magazine is banned in Russia, the publishers do deals with purveyors of contraband goods and Finnish nationalists who move freely across the porous Finnish border. Lastly, the magazine is distributed to recipients directly by post. Copies are printed on very thin paper without a dust-cover, and the first page bears the words: “We found your address from open sources and took the liberty of sending a copy of our publication,” which relieves the recipient of wrongdoing in the event of the package being opened by the police.

Struve is not the first journalist to receive the patronage of the liberal investor Zhukovsky. The latter makes a similar offer to Pavel Milyukov, a renowned historian and former professor of Moscow University.

Milyukov’s reputation as a dissident precedes him since his suspension in 1895 from teaching in Moscow for allegedly criticizing autocracy during a lecture. Having spent several years in Bulgaria, he returns to Russia only to land in trouble once more by speaking at a student gathering in memory of the deceased leader of the Narodniks, Pyotr Lavrov. The speech results in his arrest. A search of Milyukov’s apartment reveals a draft document entitled “The Constitution of the Russian State”—a liberal fantasy of what Russia might one day become.

Milyukov spends six months at a detention center before being released, pending trial. Barred from the capital, he moves to Finland.

There, he is visited by an old acquaintance once more in the shape of Dmitry Zhukovsky, who proposes that Milyukov move abroad to become the editor of a new magazine. But he refuses. “I didn’t relish the prospect,” recalls the professor. “Having just returned to Russia, I did not want to risk becoming a permanent émigré detached from my homeland.”

The investigation of Milyukov continues, with all the accompanying legal red tape. The verdict is handed down only in spring 1902, whereupon Milyukov requests a deferral of his prison term, because he wants to spend the summer in England to learn English. Rather bizarrely, the authorities accede to his request, presumably not too bothered if he fails to return.

But in autumn he is back in Saint Petersburg. Having collected his things, he goes to the Kresty jail to serve his sentence. More bizarrely still, it is a Sunday and the prison gates are firmly shut. He has to return the following day.

A few months later, having served more than half his sentence, Milyukov is suddenly shown the door with his coat and other possessions in hand. He is driven to the building of the Ministry of Internal Affairs on the banks of the Fontanka River in Saint Petersburg, where he is led though “some mysterious, empty, dimly lit corridors.” “I even got a little scared,” recalls Milyukov.

Awaiting his arrival is Interior Minister Vyacheslav von Plehve. The minister sits the convict down at a small tea table and starts to talk about Milyukov’s most famous academic work, Sketches in the History of Russian Culture. “His Majesty instructed me to make your acquaintance and to decide whether to release you based on my impression of you as a person,” says Plehve. They discuss Milyukov’s background and his expulsion from Moscow University for “political disloyalty.” Suddenly Plehve poses the question: “What if I were to offer you the post of education minister?” Milyukov replies that he would refuse. “Why?” asks Plehve, surprised. “Because the education minister is powerless. Now, if Your Excellency were to offer me your own position, that would give me pause for thought,” says Milyukov. With that, Plehve ends the meeting, promising to summon the historian again in a few days’ time.

A week later Milyukov is again brought to the Ministry of Internal Affairs, but not to the minister’s office. He is made to sit in the waiting room. Suddenly Plehve appears, recalls Milyukov, this time “with a quite different demeanor, carefully intoning his words as if addressing a suppliant: ‘I have reached a conclusion. I see that you are irreconcilable. But do not wage war with us, or we shall sweep you away.’” Milyukov is released, prohibited only from living in Saint Petersburg. Plehve walks off, without shaking the professor’s hand.

“I felt sorry for him,” says Milyukov. “He seemed like a Don Quixote chained to an obsolete idea, far more intelligent than the Sisyphus-type task of propping up autocracy that he was duty-bound to perform.”

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION

On 23 May 1902, fifty-two members of zemstvo councils from across the country convene in Moscow. It is unprecedented: the first people’s congress in history, and without the prior approval of the Ministry of Internal Affairs at that.

They meet at the home of the head of the Moscow zemstvo, Dmitry Shipov. The hard-nosed representatives’ defiance is driven by the fear that the new interior minister, Vyacheslav von Plehve, intends to dismantle the local government system introduced by Alexander II. Everyone remembers the recent report of Finance Minister Witte asserting that the existence of zemstvos makes the state ungovernable. “To be or not to be, that is the question facing the zemstvos,” writes Shipov.

Shipov is an unlikely choice for the first ever opposition leader in Russian history. A suburban Moscow landowner, the son of a district marshal of the nobility and a law graduate of Saint Petersburg University, he has been an avid Tolstoyan since youth: both an opponent of violence and a deeply religious man. There is no trace of rebellion in his character.

The participants in the “zemstvo congress” not only discuss procedural issues, but also draft their own agrarian program: peasants are to be afforded the same rights as the other estates, including equal voting rights in the election of the zemstvos; and corporal punishment of the peasantry is to be abolished.

The “zemstvo congress” (as it is designated at the first meeting at Shipov’s apartment) is essentially the first opposition convention. Hitherto, all opposition gatherings have been top-secret affairs. But it never even occurs to the zemstvo representatives that they might be anti-government; on the contrary, they plan to discuss the future work in the government committee.

Not all of zemstvo representatives consider themselves oppositionists. Most are guided by the logic that Alexander II’s reforms were not seen through to the end: the liberated serfs did not receive land allotments; society gained no influence over the bureaucracy; and freedom of expression was not guaranteed. All these rights, they assert, are the logical continuation of the “great reforms.” Their only motivation is to encourage Nicholas II to follow the example of his grandfather and not to listen to officials and reactionaries like Pobedonostsev and Plehve. But the government sees it as a challenge to its authority. In its eyes, political matters are beyond the remit of local self-government.

The zemstvo congress lasts three days. The representatives depart and rumors immediately begin to spread. In late June, Plehve summons Shipov to the Ministry of Internal Affairs to inform him that the emperor is deeply angered by the attempt “to set up an illegal public organization” and that all members of the zemstvo congress are to be “severely reprimanded.” At the same time, the minister is unusually courteous. Shipov is quick to assure him that none of the zemstvo representatives has any intention of doing anything illegal. Plehve believes that Shipov is loyal to the idea of autocracy and that the zemstvos are not revolutionary. He advises Shipov: “The zemstvo representatives must show by their deeds that they have no political desire,” in which case he, Plehve, will help them achieve what they want and even involve them in the relevant commissions.

Shipov returns to Moscow satisfied and tells his comrades that the government is ready to listen to them. But nothing changes. There is no dialogue between the local zemstvos and the metropolitan authorities, and Shipov soon notices that his letters and those of his closest colleagues arrive unsealed (i.e., the Ministry of Internal Affairs is now brazenly reading their correspondence). The next meeting between Shipov and Plehve takes place six months later, at which time the interior minister does not hide his hostility: “You continue to lead a public organization with the objective of opposing the government. It is clear that we do not see eye to eye.”

BATTLING THE CENSOR

In the summer of 1902 a troupe from the Moscow Art Theatre arrives in Saint Petersburg. It is not a tour. The theatre directors are in fact slightly edgy. The small but highly popular Moscow theatre is seeking permission to stage a play by Maxim Gorky. The writer himself is in exile in Arzamas in the province of Nizhny Novgorod, so the director Konstantin Stanislavsky, the administrator Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko, and the theatre sponsor Savva Morozov are there without him. Morozov manages to get in touch with Finance Minister Witte, and although the latter once bankrupted Morozov’s friend and partner Savva Mamontov, he does not refuse to help.

Morozov has just finished the construction of a building to house his new theatre on Moscow’s Kamergersky Lane, and Nemirovich-Danchenko is desperate to open its doors with a staging of Gorky’s scandalous new play The Lower Depths, passages from which he read in Crimea, about the inhabitants of a shelter for the destitute. Never before has the Russian stage seen a play about the dregs of society, and the theatre directors know the public reaction will be immense. Everyone is deeply disappointed when, instead, Gorky sends them the text of another drama, far less shocking, entitled The Philistines.

On the eve of the final run-through, the city authorities post police officers at the theatre entrance to keep out ticketless youngsters. Nemirovich-Danchenko asks the officers to leave, explaining that their uniforms are scaring the audience. The next day the governor makes a compromise: he dispatches police dressed in tuxedos. “The final dress rehearsal was attended by all the ‘rulers’ of Saint Petersburg—grand dukes and ministers, all kinds of officials, the entire censorship committee, police chiefs and other heads with their wives and families,” Stanislavsky recalls. “The theatre was encircled by police; the square in front of the building was patrolled by mounted gendarmes. You’d have thought they were gearing up for battle, not a dress rehearsal.”

In the end, the Saint Petersburg censors allow the play to be staged, albeit with some alterations. For example, the words “the merchant Romanov’s wife” are replaced with “the merchant Ivanov’s wife,” according to Stanislavsky, since the surname Romanov openly hinted at the ruling family.

Censorship and suspicion go hand in hand. Savva Morozov’s newspaper Russia, for instance, was closed down by the Ministry of Internal Affairs for an inoffensive satirical piece by Alexander Amfiteatrov entitled “The Obmanov Family,” in which Nicholas II is portrayed as a weak-minded little boy (“Obmanov” is suggestive of “Romanov” and in Russian sounds like “swindler”). Amfiteatrov was exiled and the newspaper banned.

But Savva Morozov is not afraid of the censor and makes every effort to stage Gorky’s plays. In the words of his wife, “He is obsessed with Gorky.”

Shortly after the premiere of The Philistines, Gorky finally puts the finishing touches to the play he sketched out during the Crimean winter, and which failed to impress Tolstoy. He wants to call it “Sunless” or “The Lower Depths of Life,” but director Nemirovich-Danchenko suggests shortening it to “The Lower Depths” (in Russian: “Na Dnye”—literally, “At the Bottom”).

Having just been allowed to return from Arzamas, the writer arrives in Moscow and reads the new work in the presence of the entire Moscow Art Theatre, including Stanislavsky, Nemirovich-Danchenko, Morozov, and the opera singer Chaliapin, a close friend of Gorky. On reaching the culmination—the death of the main heroine—Gorky, overcome with emotion, starts to cry. Lowering the manuscript, the writer looks his audience in the eye: “By God, it’s well written. Even if I say so myself, it’s good, isn’t it?” Everyone looks at him adoringly. According to the actress Maria Andreyeva, the whole theatre loves him, no one more so than Stanislavsky. “No worries,” Chaliapin reassures him. “Keep reading, there’s a good chap.”

Staging a play about homeless people is not easy, since no one in the theatre knows how the characters should speak or behave. So Stanislavsky hires the reporter Vladimir Gilyarovsky, known for his portrayal of beggars and vagrants in the seminal work Moscow and Muscovites, to give them a guided tour of the most depraved area of Moscow—Khitrovsky Market.

The excursion comes to a dramatic conclusion. The actors treat the vagabonds to vodka and sausage, but the feast unexpectedly descends into ugliness: “They turned purple with rage, lost control and ran wild. They started shouting and swearing. Someone grabbed a bottle, another a stool, and they started swinging at each other,” Stanislavsky recalls. “At that moment, in a thundering voice, Gilyarovsky hurled a torrent of invective of such syntactical complexity that it stunned not only us, but the tramps, too. Dumbfounded and delighted, they were in a state of aesthetic rapture. The mood soon changed. Mad laughter and applause broke out for such a brilliant piece of swearing, which saved us from harm or even death.”

On 18 December 1902, the new building of the Moscow Art Theatre stages the long-awaited premiere. The cast includes some major stars: Stanislavsky himself, Chekhov’s wife (Olga Knipper), and the young actress Maria Andreyeva. Public interest is also piqued by the fact that Gorky is officially banned at all imperial (i.e., state) theatres.

Andreyeva, the femme fatale of the Moscow Art Theatre, is having an affair with the co-owner of the theatre Savva Morozov, yet she is also passionately jealous of Olga Knipper, the theatre’s prima donna and the wife of Anton Chekhov. The status of sponsor’s mistress is much lower than wife of living legend. “As an actress, Andreyeva is useful, but Knipper is indispensable,” Stanislavsky characterizes his two stars. Andreyeva cannot accept being second best.

Like many high-society ladies, Andreyeva has a curious streak and keeps up with the latest fads, in particular the new-fangled Marxism. She is even acquainted with Vladimir Ulyanov, the editor of the Munich-based Spark.

The unprecedented success of The Lower Depths turns Gorky into a major celebrity in Moscow. Street sellers tout calendars bearing his picture. Stanislavsky remembers the endless applause when the author was invited on stage after the performance, unprepared for such an ovation: “It was very funny to watch him appear on stage for the first time, with a cigarette hanging between his lips. He just stood there, smiling with embarrassment, unaware that he was supposed to remove his cigarette and bow to the audience.”

The author is congratulated by Andreyeva, known as “Marusya” to her friends. She kisses him on stage, which leaves him totally at a loss.

Wherever he goes, Gorky is met by crowds of admirers. The writer, according to Stanislavsky, is publicity-shy, all the while picking at his moustache and straightening his hair. “Brothers!” he addresses his fans, smiling sheepishly. “You know, it’s all a bit awkward, to be honest.… Why are you staring at me?! I’m not an opera singer or a ballerina.” The situation is particularly tricky when Gorky appears in public with Chekhov, whom nobody recognizes in the flesh. Gorky resorts to shouting: “Look, I’m not a corpse fished out of a river. Stop rubbernecking me!”

The once-penniless Gorky is not only Russia’s most successful writer, but also its richest. Together with his friend Pyatnitsky, he invents a new literary business model. They create a partnership called Znaniye (“Knowledge”), through which writers receive practically all the proceeds from their works, instead of a small percentage.

It is a revolutionary way of paying writers. For his first book, the young Leonid Andreyev receives 5,642 roubles 71 kopecks^* from Znaniye, instead of the 300 roubles^† offered by the publisher Sytin. The enormous sum instantly turns the poor journalist into a wealthy man of letters.

As a popular author himself, and the founder of Znaniye, Gorky earns more than anyone else. However, he elects to give most of his fortune to his revolutionary pals.

Relations inside the Moscow Art Theatre, however, are less than ideal. Savva Morozov, one of the theatre’s shareholders, devotes all his time to it, risking altercations with his wife in the process, yet the company still treats him as a rich patron who dabbles in art without understanding it. Olga Knipper, the leading lady, writes to her husband: “Savva Morozov is in the habit of going to all the rehearsals. He sits up at night, fretting. We joke about it. I think soon he’ll be making his stage debut with us, only no one knows in what role.” Morozov doesn’t notice, but his wife picks up on it. Zinaida is offended by the troupe for treating both her husband and her as a source of money, without any respect. The actor Vishnevsky, for instance, publicly accuses her of spending too much money on outfits, instead of giving it to the theatre.

The worst thing for Zinaida is that her husband does little to conceal his affair with Maria Andreyeva. But Zinaida is mistaken in believing that Andreyeva seduced her husband at the behest of the theatre. It was her own idea, and Stanislavsky for one is deeply annoyed by it. “Your relationship with Savva Timofeevich [Morozov],” the director writes to Andreyeva, “is the kind that ruins lives and forces people to sacrifice themselves. Do you know what sacrilege you are committing? You publicly boast in front of strangers that the painfully jealous Zinaida Grigorievna [Morozova] wants you to control her husband and that he is investing his money at your insistence.… If you could look at yourself, you would agree with me.”

But prudence is not one of Marusya’s virtues. She values Morozov—quite literally, using his money to finance both the theatre and the Social Democratic Party. But once she falls in love with another, she dumps her rich suitor without a second thought. Moreover, her new lover is Morozov’s “obsession,” Maxim Gorky.

In autumn 1903, after the premiere of The Lower Depths, Gorky reaches the peak of his fame. It is also the moment when he offers his long-estranged wife Ekaterina Peshkova a divorce. But it does not happen, and officially they remain man and wife. Gorky’s letters to Ekaterina are the simplest and sincerest texts of his literary heritage, describing his innermost cares and secrets.

At a New Year’s party at the Moscow Art Theatre in December 1903, he and Andreyeva announce that they intend to live together, despite Andreyeva also being married and the mother of a son.

Gorky’s “engagement” gift for his new live-in wife is the text of his latest poem, “The Man.” Andreyeva hands the manuscript to Gorky’s assistant Alexander Tikhonov: “My dear, hide this somewhere safe. I’ve nowhere to put it.” But the text ends up in the hands of Savva Morozov, who reads the inscription: “The author of this poem has such a strong heart that an actress could make the heels of her shoes from it.”

“A New Year’s gift! In love, are you?” says Morozov, glancing at the happy face of his beloved Andreyeva, recalls Tikhonov in his memoirs. Morozov takes out his gold cigarette case and starts to light a cigarette—at the wrong end.

Even when Marusya leaves Morozov for Gorky, she does not lose influence over the tycoon. Morozov continues to take care of her, and still finances the Social Democrats. Nor does he lose his admiration for Gorky. Remarkably, Morozov is perhaps the only one who remains by Gorky and Andreyeva’s side.

Back at the theatre Andreyeva is unhappy. She is furious that all the best roles go to Knipper instead of her. She first threatens to leave and then announces that she is taking a long vacation. “You are renouncing your privileged position, to which the finest provincial actresses aspire, and are voluntarily joining their ranks,” Stanislavsky writes to her in February 1904.

Andreyeva ignores the director’s admonitions. She and Gorky have plans to set up their own theatre, using the money of the eternally loyal Morozov. She even begins to lure actors from Stanislavsky’s troupe, but to no avail. The Moscow Art Theatre’s top-drawer performers stay put.

“HIS NARROW-MINDED VIEWS INFURIATE ME”

Having set up a newspaper in Munich, the Marxists return to the idea of creating a political party, piqued by the fact that their competitors—the Narodniks, rebranded the Socialist-Revolutionaries—have long had one. But whereas the SRs have managed to unite their disparate circles, the Marxists’ wild ambitions cause incessant infighting. Both Plekhanov and the editorial board of Spark direct all their oratory at crushing their archrival Peter Struve, who has recently penned the RSDLP’s manifesto. The dogmatists reproach him for abandoning pure Marxism in favor of wishy-washy liberalism. Most zealous of all in his criticism of Struve is his long-time friend and the editor of Spark, Vladimir Ulyanov. Arriving in Munich, he adopts yet another pseudonym, changing his nom de plume from “Petrov” to “Frey.”

The exiled Marxists begin to write their own party program, adding fuel to the fire. Plekhanov rejects Frey’s draft manifesto, declaring it to be unsatisfactory and telling the editorial board of Spark to make sweeping changes. The ambitious Plekhanov and the equally ambitious Ulyanov take a personal dislike to each other. “I don’t write to Frey. His narrow-minded views infuriate me,” Plekhanov informs his followers.

Frey ignores the advice of his comrades on the Spark editorial board, just as he once ignored the criticism of the Narodniks. He insists that his texts are to be published without amendment. This enrages not only Plekhanov, who is far away in Geneva, but also Martov. The other members of the editorial board even hatch a plan to expel their obstinate colleague, because he is impossible to work with. But he gets wind of their intentions, and prepares a counterattack.

That is the frame of mind in which the Russian Marxists gather for their first meeting, which they call the “second congress of the RSDLP,” a nod to the “first congress” six years earlier in Minsk, at which all nine participants were arrested.

The Marxist congress in Brussels is attended by forty-three people. The chairman is, of course, Plekhanov. One of his deputies is the editor of Spark, real name Ulyanov, pen name Frey, but now going by his latest (and last) pseudonym, Lenin. The meeting immediately turns into a squabble, causing the Belgian authorities to politely ask the Russian revolutionaries to leave the country. They promptly set sail for England, and a week later their slanging match continues in London.

One question lies at the heart of the dispute: Who will be in charge of the party newspaper Spark? Lenin proposes to reduce the editorial board to three members, and receives the unexpected support of Plekhanov, who sees it as an opportunity to weaken Martov by excluding his supporters from the board. If the editorial board consists solely of Martov, Lenin, and Plekhanov, the latter will establish editorial control as the exclusive arbiter in the unending quarrels between Martov and Lenin.

Since Plekhanov is the party leader and enjoys real authority, most of the congress participants support him. The decision is made. Martov is outraged and incites all the now ex-members of the editorial board to walk out of the congress in protest at the lack of trust in him.

This petty altercation will change the course of world history. No one knows it at the time, but it marks a split no less momentous than that between Sunni and Shia, or Catholic and Orthodox.

The Marxists elect their first-ever central committee, the majority of which is made up of supporters of Plekhanov and Lenin. As a result, they adopt the name “Bolsheviks,” from the Russian word for “majority,” leaving the disgruntled Martov and friends with the pejorative label “Mensheviks,” from the word for “minority.” Both terms will soon become known all over the world.

The schism in the party is not due to ideological differences, but personal animosity and three uncompromising egos: the authoritarian Plekhanov, the touchy Martov, and the irascible Lenin. Plekhanov’s support for Lenin is only to dampen Martov’s influence over Spark. Martov’s resentfulness and Lenin’s venom stymie any chance of compromise.

Despite everything, at first no one believes the split is permanent. The words “Bolshevik” and “Menshevik” are not yet in vogue. Lenin calls his opponents “Martovites” or simply the “minority,” while Martov terms Lenin’s supporters “Leninists.”

Many do not take the quarrel seriously. Plekhanov, used to the antics of the hysterical Martov and the insufferable Lenin, is sure that he can reconcile them.

A POLITICAL SOJOURN

In the summer of 1903, at the precise moment when the Marxists are gathering in Brussels, their former comrade Peter Struve is paid a visit by some new friends from Russia. Struve and his sponsor Dmitry Zhukovsky have invited twenty people: ten members of the zemstvo assemblies and ten representatives of the “creative” intelligentsia.

The trip to Europe is no vacation, far from it. They plan to set up Russia’s first liberal opposition party. Zhukovsky outlines the route they are to take: on 2 August, they meet in the Swiss city of Schaffhausen, near the Rhine Falls, a popular tourist trap. Having viewed the waterfall, the liberal travelers head for the resort town of Singen in Germany. The next day they move to Radolfzell, where an entire restaurant is reserved for them. The whole day is spent in lively conversation. On the third day, they move to a third resort: Konstanz on the Bodensee (a.k.a. Lake Constance).

The group is being as surreptitious as possible, with good reason. Unlike the revolutionary Marxists, they have everything to lose. They are not émigrés. They live and work in Russia and do not want to lose their positions in society. Nor are they revolutionaries: “We should be seen as custodians of law and order,” says Prince Dolgorukov, a member of the Moscow zemstvo assembly.

The liberals in Russia have always been moderate opponents of the authorities, yet never before have they consolidated as a political party. Three dinners at three resorts in the area of Lake Constance in Germany in the summer of 1903 change all that. The trip is effectively the first congress of Russian liberals, who, still averse to establishing a party, agree to set up an alliance of independent circles known as the “Union of Liberation.”

The most debated issue is the question of how to treat the other oppositionists, namely the Marxists and the Socialist-Revolutionaries. “We have no enemies on the left,” insists the group’s self-appointed leader, the fifty-nine-year-old Ivan Petrunkevich.

Most of them want to unite all opponents of the regime, which is why they favor the term “union”—to allow other dissidents to join them without leaving their own parties. Struve does not concur. A former “comrade” and a target of the Marxist press, he believes that negotiations with them are futile: “It’s very easy to start a debate, and very tempting, too. But once started, it cannot be stopped. You will be accused of getting cold feet, of losing the argument. Moreover, we are unable to deliver as much verbal abuse as our opponents, especially the Social Democrats.”

The congress draws to a close with the feeling that history is on its side. “Ideologically and organizationally, the ‘Union of Liberation’ is set to unite the broad strata of the Russian population aspiring to freedom and independence,” writes Struve after the meeting. “Ours is not a revolutionary circle, but an organization that resides ineradicably in the minds of all proponents of liberation and manifests itself in their efforts to accomplish, by word and deed, the great national task of the age.”

WAR AND GERMANY

It is striking that the summer of 1903 sees so many gatherings of distinguished Russians in Germany. The members of the newly created Union of Liberation, sojourning on the shores of Lake Constance, and the editors of Spark, a stone’s throw away in Munich, are not the only ones there. Three hundred kilometers to the north, Emperor Nicholas II and his young wife are spending September in the city of Darmstadt at the home of Alexandra’s brother, Ernst Ludwig, Grand Duke of Hesse.

In Saint Petersburg, meanwhile, the talk is of war with Germany. The decision has already been made that, in the event of hostilities between the two empires, Grand Duke Nicholas, the great-uncle of the tsar, will command the German front, while the war minister, General Kuropatkin, will take charge of the Austro-Hungarian front. The two commanders have even managed to fall out with each other during the preparations for this hypothetical war: the grand duke is demanding a new railway to western Russia to supply troops with food; War Minister Kuropatkin is foot-dragging.

This does not prevent the imperial family from going on vacation. In late July, Nicholas II learns that his second cousin, Kaiser Wilhelm, is offended that the Russian tsar has been in Germany for so long without arranging a meeting. Finally, Wilhelm arrives to Darmstadt himself to visit Nicholas.

As usual, Wilhelm urges his second cousin Nicky to be more proactive in the Far East and live up to his provisional title of “Admiral of the Pacific Ocean.” The Russian tsar likes the idea. Success in China has emboldened him. He craves glory, if not the hassle of actual expansion in the Far East, and, according to Finance Minister Sergei Witte, begins to ponder the idea of conquering India or Turkey.

Economic expansion around the Far East governorship is already underway, in which regard the main advocate of “Yellow Russia,” Alexander Bezobrazov, enjoys the total trust of the emperor. Negotiations with Japan, which is still smarting from Russia’s occupation of the Liaodong Peninsula in China, are limping on. No one takes the Japanese seriously. The country is viewed disdainfully as small and backward, unable to vie with Russia, even theoretically. Saint Petersburg acts in accordance with this prejudice, taking months to respond to Tokyo’s communiqués.

Russia’s insouciance is matched by Japan’s anger. Aware of the talks, Japanese society is offended by the fact that the Japanese authorities have to negotiate with a minor official by the name of Alekseyev, who is the tsar’s governor-general in the Far East.

Witte recalls how the naval officer Alekseyev was said to have attained such a high post. As a young man, he allegedly accompanied Grand Duke Alexis (son of Alexander II, uncle of Nicholas II) on a trip around the world. It is said that on one occasion the grand duke sparked a drunken brawl in a Marseilles bordello and was ordered to appear before the authorities. His place was taken by Admiral Alekseyev, who claimed that the fault was his and that the grand duke had been mistakenly summoned due to confusion between the names “Alexis” and “Alekseyev.” The officer was fined, but gained the eternal gratitude of the grand duke, who took command of the Russian Imperial Navy in 1881. With the patronage of the emperor’s uncle, Alekseyev’s career is assured. His first post of governor of the Far East is followed by the position of commander-in-chief, despite being unable to ride and afraid of horses, quips Witte in his memoirs.

“PHEW”

At the end of August 1904 Nicholas II unexpectedly summons Finance Minister Witte to Peterhof, after a long period of disfavor. The emperor informs Witte of his decision to “promote” him to the position of chairman of the Committee of Ministers. Witte thanks the tsar, but says that he will be of greater service in his current job. Everyone knows that the chairman of the Committee of Ministers is a ceremonial figure, with no influence in government matters. The Committee of Ministers rarely convenes as a body, each member reporting to the emperor individually. A transfer from the important role of finance minister to the chair of the Committee of Ministers is tantamount to retirement. This is clearly what Nicholas has in mind.

After his conversation with Nicholas, the out-of-favor minister goes to the tsar’s mother to ask her to intercede on his behalf. The Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna consoles Witte, saying that her husband Alexander III had been very fond of him, but that she can do nothing for him.

Next, Witte endeavors to find out what the emperor actually said to members of his entourage when discussing Witte’s departure. He is told that Nicholas heaved a sigh of relief and emitted one syllable: “Phew.”

Witte turns to his memoirs to express his side of the story, writing that he was removed purely for his views on the Far East, namely his supposed opposition to war and insistence on talks with the Japanese.

Deeply insulted by his transfer to a ceremonial role, Witte is stung even more by the fact that not a single colleague stood up for him. But his greatest antipathy he reserves for the emperor himself. “Deceitfulness, tight-lipped mendacity, the inability to say yes or no, optimism grounded in fear—these are all undesirable qualities in a sovereign,” he writes about Nicholas. “A tsar who lacks a royal character cannot give happiness to his country.”

Enmity between the thirty-five-year-old Nicholas II and the fifty-four-year-old Witte is inevitable. The minister lacks all respect for the tsar. Well aware of this, Nicholas does not trust the ambitious minister. Their fractious relationship will play a crucial role in the history of Russia.

No less important to the country’s future is the animosity between two other men. The age gap is similar, hence a comparable lack of trust and respect. They are the forty-six-year-old Georgy Plekhanov and the thirty-two-year-old Vladimir Ulyanov (Lenin). The “elder” of the Russian émigré community looks askance at the ambitious upstart, who shows a disturbing lack of reverence.

In August 1903 Plekhanov takes the side of Ulyanov-Lenin in his wrangle with Martov. When a few months later he tries to reconcile the implacable enemies, it turns out that Martov is not the only one capable of tantrums. Plekhanov tries to restore the editorial board of Spark to its former composition, but this time it is Lenin who slams the door in his face. “Plekhanov has betrayed us. The feeling in our camp is bitter. Everyone is outraged,” he writes to a comrade. “I have left the editorial board. It might be the end of Spark. The crisis is full-on and ominous. The struggle for the editorial board has been irretrievably lost due to Plekhanov’s treachery.”

Such rhetoric is characteristic of revolutionaries: any opponent is immediately branded a traitor. Like the reformed liberal Struve before him, Plekhanov feels Lenin’s wrath for having reached out to Martov. Lenin abandons Spark once and for all, and as of November 1903 the newspaper is edited by Martov and his team. Lenin, it seems, has lost. His former comrades mock his ambitions, calling him “Little Bonaparte.” Stung by it all, he plots his revenge.

THE LAST BALL

In January 1904 Nicholas II arrives in Saint Petersburg, and the ball season kicks off “as if nothing had happened,” writes Witte. At one of them, the new chairman of the Committee of Ministers is approached (not for the first time) by the Japanese envoy to Russia, who requests that Witte exert pressure on the Russian Foreign Ministry, which is taking an indecently long time to respond to Tokyo’s latest missive, especially given the gravity of the situation. Witte goes to the foreign minister, Count Vladimir Lamsdorf, but the latter simply shrugs: “I can’t help with the negotiations. I’m not the one in charge.”^*

On the evening of 26 January, the Winter Palace hosts a grand ball. It opens with a polonaise from Tchaikovsky’s opera Eugene Onegin, based on the poem by Alexander Pushkin. The ball is attended by War Minister Kuropatkin, who is popular with the press, but not with the beau monde. Kuropatkin does not have an aristocratic title, for which reason no one at the ball deigns to talk to him.

Nevertheless, attired in his general’s tunic, Kuropatkin cuts a fine figure, while the tsar, dressed in the red uniform of a colonel, barely stands out from the crowd. “Nicholas II does not feel like the lord of the realm, more like a guest performing some kind of duty,” recalls Captain Alexei Ignatiev, a young officer, who is “conducting the ball” (i.e., giving instructions to gentlemen on the dance floor not to fall out of step).

The hall is decorated with palm trees in tubs, around which tables are laid for dinner. Wrapped in felt and straw for the journey, the palm trees have been brought specially to the Winter Palace from Saint Petersburg’s Botanical and Tauride Gardens. “Petersburg’s high society is satiated with luxury,” says Ignatiev. “If there aren’t baskets of roses, carnations and lilacs all the way from Nice, it doesn’t count as a ball.”

Yet this will be the last ball of Imperial Russia. The next day, news breaks that Japan has attacked Port Arthur without warning. All soirees are called off during wartime. A few months later the royal family will move from the Winter Palace to Tsarskoye Selo, thirty-five kilometers from the capital, where they lead a reclusive existence. Imperial balls are consigned to history.

The news of the attack on Port Arthur shocks the recently waltzing officers: “Can a foreign navy really attack us without a declaration of war?” Ignatiev recalls the rhetorical question on everyone’s lips. “It seemed so unbelievably monstrous that some were inclined to downplay it as just a serious incident, not the outbreak of war.”

The next morning the capital’s officer corps convenes once more at the Winter Palace. After a prayer service, the emperor appears wearing a modest infantry uniform and, according to Ignatiev’s memoirs, “bearing his usual indifferent look … only paler and more agitated than usual.” Wearing one white glove, he runs the other through his fingers. “We declare war on Japan,” he intones dispassionately. A loud “hurrah” rings out among the officers. Yet Ignatiev notes that the cry is somewhat restrained. It transpires that enthusiasm for the war is low. Very few people volunteer to serve, and those that do see it as a “tour of duty, almost an errand.” The lack of volunteers is such that a month after the outbreak of war Plehve issues a decree promising to pardon prisoners if they join the army.

There are court rumors that, for Nicholas II, war with Japan is a personal vendetta. In 1891, on a trip to Asia, the then-heir to the Russian throne visited Japan. In Otsu, a local nationalist fanatic attacked him with a sabre. The head wound was not serious, but the future emperor required stitches and returned home immediately.

Government ministers use the war to try to win the tsar’s favor. Interior Minister Plehve organizes patriotic rallies across the country, while War Minister Kuropatkin goes for broke, requesting a transfer to the front line. “You know what, that’s probably a good idea,” says Nicholas II, who is normally disinclined to take advice from public officials, including his ministers, whom he views as competitors.

Witte writes that Plehve’s patriotic rallies are not popular. Yet Plehve remains the most powerful official in the country. “Alexei Nikolaevich, you do not understand Russia’s internal situation. To contain the revolution, we need a short victorious war,” Plehve says to Kuropatkin, according to Witte (other sources say that Plehve even used the word voinishka, the diminutive of “war,” basically meaning a “game of toy soldiers”). According to the memoirs of one of his subordinates, during a meeting of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, Plehve once lashed out at his deputy Lopukhin for questioning the chances of success: “Don’t you understand the arithmetic? Which population is greater, 50 million or 150 million?”

It is not known for sure whether Plehve actually uttered the words “short victorious war,” but the phrase became a meme in Russian politics. It is possible that Witte came up with it, since it first appeared in print only after Plehve’s death. Whatever the case, despite the fiasco of the “short victorious war” against Japan, the concept is still alive and well a century later.^*

The Russian-Japanese War is one of the first examples in world history of full-scale information warfare. The entire international press of the day publishes cartoons of Nicholas II and the Russian bear mauling the hapless Japan. Especially zealous is the reaction across the Atlantic. Never before has the American press reacted so sharply to a war in which the United States was not a participant. In this instance, the American audience is invited to sympathize exclusively with the Japanese.

The Western press is full of cartoons, the nature of which changes over the course of the military operation: first the images are of a huge Russian bear (or, oddly, an octopus) attacking little Japan, but later in the campaign, Nicholas II is dressed as a sumo wrestler, hopelessly trying to withstand his far-heavier Japanese opponent.

The Russian press, meanwhile, call the Japanese “monkeys” (the actual word used is “macaques”), and Witte asserts that it was the tsar himself who first used the derogatory term in his handwritten resolutions, saying that they should be “crushed.” The word is picked up by the newspapers, especially state-funded ones.

Patriotism infects even Russian political exiles in Europe. Pavel Milyukov recalls that on 10 February 1904, the day when the first telegrams about the Japanese attack on Port Arthur arrive in England, he goes to Brighton to visit the “patriarch” of the Russian émigré community, the anarchist’s anarchist Peter Kropotkin. The sixty-one-year-old Kropotkin is incensed by the perfidy of the Japanese. “I was taken aback,” says Milyukov. “How could the enemy of Russian politics and state-sponsored war in general be such a flag-waver?”

The jingoistic backdrop is so strong that Nicholas II, as mentioned, decides to send the media-friendly Kuropatkin to the front line, appointing him commander of the army. Yet the emperor employs his usual system of checks and balances by keeping the Far East governor Alekseyev in position as commander-in-chief. In other words, there are two commanders, whose powers are not clearly delineated.

Captain Ignatiev, whose most important duty used to be conducting balls at the Winter Palace, goes to the Far East as a volunteer. According to his memoirs, the army is totally unprepared: “All peacetime items of military clothing and equipment turned out to be useless in conditions of war.” The uniforms and tunics are too narrow for soldiers in the field. There are no pockets. Everything is white, unlike the khaki worn by the Japanese (or, incidentally, the British). Russian officers on the battlefield are easy targets. The overcoats are not warm, and the boots are thin-soled, tear easily, and have no grip. The quality of the military uniforms is such, writes Ignatiev, that after six months of war the entire Russian army resembles a “bunch of ragamuffins.”

Food is also a problem. The Russian food industry does not produce tinned products. Rich officers can afford to buy British goods, but not the rank-and-filers.

The quality of training is not much better, either. Captain Ignatiev says that even he, a military academy graduate, heard the sound of a bursting grenade for the first time there in Manchuria. Officer training is strictly old school. Russia’s military minds still look to the Napoleonic Wars and long to relive them. According to the field manual, for instance, rifle fire should be used only when approaching the enemy in advance of a bayonet charge; at long range, cartridges are to be used sparingly.

Most of the soldiers sent to fight against Japan are illiterate peasants; the rest are largely from the empire’s Far Eastern populations of Buryats and Yakuts, who do not speak Russian. Military operations are carried out on Chinese soil, and the locals are often less than pleased about being occupied by the Russian army.

“The more I gazed at this town [Mukden], the less I understood: what are we doing here in Manchuria?” reflects Ignatiev in his memoirs. “What did we want to trade? Who were we trying to civilize? Any Chinese fanza is more spacious and cleaner than a Russian izba [both are types of hut]. The cleanliness of the local streets and courtyards would be the envy of our towns and cities. And what bridges they have! Made of stone and decorated with ancient sculptures of gray granite! They speak of a civilization that dates back not centuries, but millennia.”

Army HQ is in disarray. The two commanders, Alekseyev and Kuropatkin, cannot stand each other and spend their time mud-slinging and telegraphing Saint Petersburg with their grievances. Alekseyev does not like Kuropatkin’s retreat tactics, and the emperor agrees. He, too, believes that Russian soldiers should only advance victoriously, and says so in his dispatches to the front line.

Nicholas II spends almost the whole of 1904 traveling around the country exhorting his troops before their departure to the front, handing out religious icons left, right, and center. Witte recalls a “joke” doing the rounds at the time: “We will attack the Japanese with images of our saints, they will slaughter us with bullets and bombs.”

On 31 March, two months after the outbreak of war, the Petropavlovsk battleship is blown up by a mine, killing around six hundred and fifty sailors. Only eighty survive, including the wounded Grand Duke Kirill, another cousin of Nicholas II. Twenty years after the revolution and the death of the tsar, he will proclaim himself the Russian emperor in exile.

Russian society reacts badly to the military debacle. No one expected the war to be such a complicated affair. The lack of supplies and decent medical care for the wounded is no secret in the capital cities.

In February 1904, the zemstvos decide to help the troops by collecting funds to provide assistance for the wounded and the families of those killed. The charity initiative is led by the head of the Tula zemstvo Prince Georgy Lvov, a neighbor and family friend of Leo Tolstoy and a die-hard Tolstoyan. He follows his mentor’s example: twenty years earlier, when central Russia was gripped by famine, Tolstoy collected donations, traveled to the afflicted regions, and set up soup kitchens. Lvov does likewise. Tolstoy himself (still alive) condemns the war and supports the actions of Lvov and other zemstvos.

The zemstvo fundraising organization marks the start of Prince Lvov’s political career, which burns brighter than that of most of his colleagues. In 1917 he will head the provisional government of the fledgling Russian state. In 1904, however, he is unknown and very moderate in his views.

Plehve is extremely wary, believing that Lvov and the other zemstvo leaders are above their station. By law, they are obliged to see to their districts, while the war with Japan is a political issue. Hence, the zemstvos are encroaching on the power of the state. Plehve issues a government order prohibiting assistance to the wounded without the prior approval of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. It even prohibits any discussion of the matter without permission. Prince Lvov, who has only just met with Nicholas II, in April 1904, and received the emperor’s gratitude for his charity work, is outraged by Plehve’s order. He calls upon the zemstvos to disobey it.

The interior minister’s war is not actually with Japan, but with the zemstvos; he believes them to be the source of the revolutionary contagion affecting Russian society. Prince Lvov’s act of defiance is a Rubicon moment. The general leader of all the Russian zemstvos, Dmitry Shipov, is targeted. In April 1904, he is once more elected as the head of the Moscow provincial zemstvo. But according to the law, the result of the election must be approved by the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Plehve promptly vetoes Shipov’s candidacy.

There is uproar. From all across the provinces, letters of support for Shipov pour in. The wave of protest spreads around the country; even the remotest district councils communicate their support for Shipov and Lvov boldly in black and white. It is not the reaction of a “small group of troublemakers,” as Plehve believes, but something rather more significant.

In pursuit of the dissidents, the interior minister wants to exile the leader of the Yaroslavl zemstvo, Prince Dmitry Shakhovskoy, a known liberal and publisher of an influential local newspaper. The decision to expel him is not approved by the tsar “out of respect for [Shakhovskoy’s] ancestors.” Instead, Plehve summons the prince to Saint Petersburg and gives him an official rebuke, warning that exile awaits if he continues his activities.

The journalist Ariadna Tyrkova, a childhood friend of Nadezhda Krupskaya and Nina Struve, is employed by Shakhovskoy’s magazine. She recalls that the publisher returns after a conversation with the minister in a rage: “Plehve should be killed,” he says.

PRAYERS, TEA, AND DANCING

After Zubatov’s exile to Vladimir, Georgy Gapon loses his protector, forcing him to act independently. Using money from his former patron, he rents an apartment in the suburb of Saint Petersburg and sets up a workers’ club. Tea and mineral water are served from seven o’clock in the evening until midnight; spirits are prohibited. On Wednesdays and Saturdays workers gather to discuss books and articles, sometimes Gapon lectures on politics and economics (as he sees them), and every meeting begins and ends with a prayer. His club is called the Assembly of Russian Factory Workers of Saint Petersburg. Naturally, he is elected its chairman.

Gapon decides once more to gamble with the authorities, fearing that his unsanctioned tearoom will be closed. He goes to the capital’s governor to register his venture and gain support. Oddly enough, he gets it and even receives sixty roubles^* a month for books and newspapers, provided that the workers only read conservative publications.

Still working as a prison priest, Gapon devotes all his free time to the club. He is very pleased with it: discussions are held before dawn, and some workers go straight from the tearoom to work. “I felt that my life was no longer aimless. I had no time to think about myself. For my prison work I received a salary of around 2,000 roubles^* [per year] and gave it to the cause. My clothes were in rags, but I did not care. Opening the assembly, I told the workers that the foundation of our union would be an epoch in the history of the labor movement in Russia, and that through their efforts and exertions they would become an instrument of salvation for themselves and their comrades,” he recalls.

Gapon soon quarrels with Metropolitan Anthony of Saint Petersburg, his patron, who first restored him to the academy and then, after Zubatov’s exile, found him a new job as a priest in a prison church. Anthony does not approve of Gapon’s organization and wants to remove him as chairman.

“I know,” says Anthony, “that they want to arrange musical evenings with dancing. How can you, a priest and a member of the church, have anything to do with such frivolity?”

“I think that’s exactly what church members should be doing,” retorts Gapon. “You can’t deny that life for our workers is terrible. They have no joy, only drunkenness. They need healthy entertainment if we want them to be sober and morally minded. Almost the entire intelligentsia with influence over the people has left the church. If we don’t start helping the masses, they will leave us too.”

Metropolitan Anthony is unpersuaded. No one from the clergy comes to the workers’ meetings. Gapon seems to get on much better with the police and city authorities than he does with the priesthood. As proof, the new mayor of Saint Petersburg, Ivan Fullon, pays a visit to the tearoom and even poses for a photograph with Gapon and the workers. The police have no doubt about Gapon’s loyalty, for which reason he is offered a large sum to run the organization and open up branches throughout the capital. “I accepted the money to avert suspicion. It was invested anonymously in books for the organization. The money had been taken from the pocket of the people and had to be returned somehow to its rightful owners,” writes Gapon.

A DEATH WARRANT

Meanwhile, Gregory Gershuni is awaiting trial at Shlisselburg Fortress outside Saint Petersburg, the central prison for dangerous political criminals. For several months, he has been agonizing over how to behave at his trial when faced with his betrayers. In February 1904, after nine months of solitary confinement, he is finally allowed to see his lawyer Karabchevsky:

“Is Plehve still in power? Still alive?”

“Yes. But there’s more important news. Do you know that Russia is at war?”

“War?! With whom?”

“Japan. Our cruisers have been destroyed. We’re facing defeat.”

“Like in Crimea? Port Arthur is another Sevastopol?”^*

“Looks like it.”

“Is the country gripped by patriotism and rallying around the ‘almighty leader’?”

“Kind of. But it’s largely inflated. The war is unpopular. No one expected it and no one wants it.”

The trial begins on 18 February. Gershuni is in a tormented state: “My soul was seething … with desire to poison the audience with words of popular hatred.… But scrutinizing the room, I saw not a single intelligent, thoughtful face. Are they really enemies? … Nothing but cold indifference.… The so-called ‘judges’ were bored and doodling pictures of horses.” ^†

The trial lasts for eight days. Grigoriev and Kachura testify against Gershuni, who remains silent.

There in the courtroom is an unlikely onlooker, Grand Duke Andrei, another of the tsar’s long line of cousins. He is the only member of the royal family to attend, simply out of curiosity and to unearth the terrorist movement’s motivation. Gershuni is annoyed by the grand duke, who “sat there the whole week constantly sucking sweets of some sort,” recalls the defendant. But Grand Duke Andrei is profoundly interested in the hearing and afterwards holds a lengthy discussion with the lawyer Karabchevsky. “I realized that they are not villains and believe sincerely in their actions,” says the grand duke.

On the eighth day, the court delivers its verdict: death. Three weeks later the sentence is commuted to life imprisonment. Yet Gershuni is horrified: “The whole of my being, my thoughts and feelings, after such dreadful suffering, were trained in one direction and then suddenly swung around.… To go from death to life is perhaps even more difficult than to go from life to death.”

The trial of Gershuni is monitored closely by his party comrades in Geneva. His arrest has posed the SRs a question: Who will now lead the militant organization? Gotz wants to take up the cause and delegate the running of the newspaper Revolutionary Russia and other organizational issues to Chernov, his assistant. But the remaining members are against, for Gotz’s health has deteriorated after two months in a damp Neapolitan prison.

Gotz longs to return to Russia: “I cannot stand this life,” he says. “You are depriving me of the joy of martyrdom on the scaffold. Dying here peacefully in a comfortable bed is a wretched fate that I do not deserve.”

Back when he was in charge, Gershuni also believed that Gotz belonged in Nice, where he would be of more use to the cause. Gershuni’s departing words were: “If worst comes to worst and I am arrested, the militant organization should be headed by my assistant Yevgeny Azef.”

Worst has come to worst. Viktor Chernov recalls that Gotz was extremely anxious about the fate of the party and the militant organization. For him, Azef’s leadership is a “leap in the dark.” He urges his closest comrades to proceed on the assumption that there is a traitor in the party and that everyone must be verified without prejudice: “All for one, and one for all,” he is fond of saying. Gotz senses the presence of a traitor, but does not suspect anyone in particular. Moreover, he cannot suspect Azef, for he was appointed “interim leader” by his beloved friend Gershuni.

In July 1903, while Gershuni is inside Shlisselburg Fortress, the twenty-four-year-old exile Boris Savinkov flees Vologda and slips across the border. He is an educated young man and the son-in-law of the popular writer Gleb Uspensky. Back in 1902 he was convicted for being a member of the Union of Struggle for the Liberation of the Working Class, an underground organization in Saint Petersburg, and exiled to Vologda, where his revolutionary career takes off. He meets with Babushka and joins the Socialist-Revolutionary Party. His new party comrades help him get to Arkhangelsk, from where he takes a boat to Norway. Via Oslo and Antwerp he eventually reaches Geneva and calls on Gotz.

He tells Gotz that he wants to engage in terror, because he considers it the most important aspect of the revolutionary struggle. Gotz invites Savinkov to remain in Geneva and wait until the time is right. Ever since Gershuni’s arrest, the SRs have had to postpone all terrorist activity.

Savinkov rents an apartment in Geneva and waits patiently for a few months. He is paid the occasional visit by Babushka, who has also moved abroad. Finally, in August 1903, a visitor “around thirty-three years old, rotund, with a broad indifferent face, as if set in stone, and big brown eyes” comes to see him. It is Yevgeny Filippovich Azef.

“He offered me his hand, sat down and said in a lazy manner: ‘I hear that you want to engage in terror. Might I ask why?’” recalls Savinkov.

Savinkov tells Azef that he considers the assassination of Interior Minister Plehve to be a top priority. Thereafter, Azef regularly visits Savinkov, asking numerous questions but saying nothing about himself. A few months later he sends Savinkov back to Russia on a special mission.

The plan to assassinate Plehve belongs to Azef, whose operational approach differs greatly from Gershuni’s. On past assignments Gershuni’s militants generally attempted to shoot their victims—and often missed. Azef decides to play it safe, so to speak, and use only explosives. Moreover, Gershuni’s lone assassins are replaced by operational groups tasked with carefully tracking the victim’s movements. Azef essentially adopts the police tactics applied by Plehve himself and formerly Zubatov, with secret agents and field surveillance.

The plan is as follows. It is known that Plehve lives at the police department building at number 16 on Saint Petersburg’s Fontanka Street and travels weekly to report to the tsar, either at the Winter Palace, Tsarskoye Selo, or Peterhof, depending on the time of year. Since the target is more vulnerable outside than at home, his travel routes and movements are carefully monitored to ascertain the optimum moment at which to throw a bomb under his carriage. The surveillance is meticulous and involves several people: one buys a horse and cab and pretends to be a regular driver, while another obtains a license to sell tobacco in the street. The operation is directed by Savinkov.

Despite the planning, the first attempt to kill Plehve, on 18 March 1904, is unsuccessful. Three terrorists are lying in wait for the minister’s carriage, but it speeds by, leaving no time to throw a bomb.

The militants disperse and later regroup to organize a second attempt. They leave Saint Petersburg and travel around various towns and cities to throw the authorities off the scent in case they are being tracked. Savinkov journeys to Kiev, where he learns that a member of the militant organization, Alexei Pokotilov, has been killed by an explosion inside his hotel room. Manufacturing a bomb in the small hours, he accidentally breaks the flask containing the incendiary mixture. Three-quarters of the group’s stockpile of explosives is lost as a result, leaving enough for just one bomb.

The militants regather in Moscow. Azef draws up a plan for the next attempt. The task of bombing the minister’s carriage falls to two members: Ivan Kalyaev and Yegor Sazonov. Kalyaev listens to Azef’s instructions and then joins in the discussion:

“There’s a way to guarantee it works.”

“What’s that?”

“Throw a bomb under the horses’ hooves.”

“How will you manage that?” asks Azef.

“The carriage rides past. I jump under the horses with a bomb. Even if it doesn’t explode, the horses will be frightened and rear up.”

All are silent. After a long pause, Azef says:

“Yours will probably explode.”

“Of course.”

Kalyaev’s plan seems to guarantee success, but Azef is opposed: “It’s a good plan, but unnecessary. If you have time to get to the horses, you’ll have time to get to the carriage. So you can just throw the bomb under it or through an open window. One guy might be enough.”

Later, Savinkov and Sazonov go for a walk in Moscow. After a long stroll they sit down on a park bench near the Christ the Savior Cathedral. “You know you probably won’t return,” begins Savinkov. “Tell me, what do you think we’ll feel after … after the assassination?”

“Pride and joy,” replies Sozonov.

“Nothing else?”

“Absolutely not.”

The “first” second attempt, scheduled for 9 July 1904, fails before it starts: Sazonov is late. The next try is scheduled for 15 July. Four terrorists line the route to be taken by Plehve. Sazonov throws his bomb into the carriage. An explosion rings out. Savinkov runs to the scene of the crime and sees Sazonov lying in a pool of blood. His comrade is dead, yet Plehve is alive—or so it seems.

Emperor Nicholas II spends the day at Peterhof. In his diary he writes that early in the morning he “received the grave news of Plehve’s assassination.” Usually sparing with emotions, on this occasion the tsar lowers the mask a fraction: “Death was instantaneous. The cab driver was also killed and seven wounded, including the commanding officer of my company, the Semenov Regiment. It’s distressing. In Plehve I have lost a friend and an indispensable interior minister. The Lord has vented His wrath upon us. To lose two such dedicated and valuable servants in such a short space of time! It is His holy will!”

He then reverts to his usual style: “Aunt Marusya had breakfast. I received Muravyov with the details of this vile event. We walked with Mamá. I went for a sail with Misha. We dined on the balcony. It was a lovely evening.”

* For several decades Peter Struve is the “face” of the Russian liberals and the main target of attack for their opponents—not unlike the symbol of Russian liberalism a century later, the equally redheaded Anatoly Chubais.

* See chapter one.

* See chapter three.

* About $395,500 in 2017.

* About $74,390 in 2017.

† About $3,950 in 2017.

* In the early twenty-first century the Ministry of Foreign Affairs also performs a secondary role in everything connected with foreign policy negotiations: all the crucial decisions are made by the Presidential Administration and Security Council. Russian diplomats can only implement the decisions, but not influence the situation themselves.

* The phrase “short victorious war” has been used to describe Russia’s twenty-first-century conflicts in Georgia, Ukraine, and Syria.

* About $791 in 2017.

* About $26,367 in 2017.

* Russian Empire lost the Crimean War (October 1853 to February 1856) to the alliance of Great Britain, France, Ottoman Empire, and Sardinia. The crucial defeat of Russia was the battle of Sevastopol, the major Russian port in Crimea. Russian society was greatly impressed by that humiliation; the Emperor Nicholas I supposedly committed suicide after the defeat became inevitable; after that his successor, Alexander II, decided that Russia needs reforms.

† Russian judges in the twenty-first century demonstrate a similar level of interest in trials. Alexei Navalny in his last plea at the trial on the “Yves Rocher” case in 2014 described the judge and prosecutors as “looking down at the table.”