The Last Tsar: Emperor Michael II

12. POISONING THE CHALICE

HIS discussion on the wire with Rodzyanko was the first time that Ruzsky knew that the crisis in Petrograd had moved beyond demands for a constitutional monarchy to that of the abdication of Nicholas. He therefore sent on Rodzyanko’s taped message to Alekseev at Supreme Headquarters and at 9 a.m. that Thursday morning Alekseev cabled his reply: ‘my deep conviction that there is no choice and that the abdication should now take place…it is very painful for me to say so, but there is no other solution.’¹

Having made his own views clear, at least to Ruzsky, Alekseev — less pained than he pretended — did not wait for a reply but sent out his own telegrams to his other army commanders and to the admirals commanding the Baltic and Black Sea fleets. Russia had a war to fight and Alekseev was determined that the revolution in Petrograd should not undermine the frontline armies waiting to begin their spring offensive. He summarised the discussions between Ruzsky and Rodzyanko, putting the case in black and white and more bluntly than the Duma president had done himself. ‘The dynastic question has been put point-blank’, he told his commanders. ‘The war may be continued until its victorious end only provided the demands regarding the abdication from the throne in favour of the son and under the regency of Grand Duke Michael Aleksandrovich are satisfied. Apparently the situation does not permit another solution…’²

His cables went out at 10.15 am. Four hours later, at 2.15 p.m., he wired the Emperor at Pskov giving him the first three replies. They would prove decisive.

Nicholas had been given a transcript of the early-morning tapes when he arose in the late morning, and he also read the cable from Alekseev recommending abdication. There was ‘a terrible moment of silence,’ Ruzsky remembered, as Nicholas absorbed the shock,³ but he gave no sign of his inner turmoil when he went for a walk along the station platform with Ruzsky at lunch-time. A few hours earlier he had assumed that in conceding a responsible ministry he had given more than enough; now he was being asked to contemplate the unthinkable: that he should give up the throne. Later it would be said by those who deplored his abdication that Ruzsky bullied him into it, shouting at him and thumping the table with his fist, saying ‘Will you make up your mind to go!’⁴

No, he was not bullied and Ruzsky had no reason to do so knowing that the decision depended on the replies awaited from the commanders. There was no comfort for Nicholas there in the cable from Alekseev, which incorporated the first three responses.

The reply from Grand Duke Nicholas — ‘Uncle Nikolasha’, the former Supreme Commander sacked in 1915, and now commander on the Caucasus front could not be more frank:

As a loyal subject I feel it my necessary duty of allegiance in the spirit of my oath, to beg Your Imperial Majesty on my knees to save Russia and your heir, being aware of your sacred feelings of love for Russia and for him. Make the Sign of the Cross and hand over to him your heritage. There is no other way…

The second was from Brusilov, Michael’s former commander-in-chief, and the most successful fighting general in the army:

At the present time the only solution… is the abdication in favour of the heir Tsarevich under the Regency of Grand Duke Michael Aleksandrovich. There is no other way out; speed is necessary, so that the popular conflagration, which has grown to large proportions, can be rapidly extinguished otherwise it will result in incalculable catastrophic consequences. By these acts the dynasty itself would be saved in the person of the lawful heir.

The third was from General Aleksei Evert, the commander on the western front: Under the conditions which have been created and not seeing any other answer I implore Your Majesty to make a decision which would be in agreement with the declaration of the President of the State Duma…as the only measure which apparently can stop the revolution and thus save Russia from the horrors of anarchy.⁵

Ruzsky, armed with these, and backed by two of his generals, went back to the Emperor in his railway carriage. He handed over the text, letting it speak for itself. Nicholas, smoking one cigarette and then lighting another, read it and then put it down on the table before rising and going to the window, staring out unseeingly. He could have contempt for politicians, and ignore his brother, but he could not defy his generals and they had just passed a vote of no confidence in him, both as Tsar and Supreme Commander. He could not sack them, as he could sack politicians, nor could he argue with them.

Suddenly he turned and said calmly: ‘I have decided. I shall renounce the throne’. He made the sign of the Cross and the three generals, realising the enormity of what had just been said, followed suit.⁶

Two short telegrams were drafted for Nicholas — the first to Rodzyanko.

There is no sacrifice which I would not bear for the sake of the real welfare and for the salvation of our own dear Mother Russia. Therefore I am ready to abdicate the throne in favour of my son, provided that he can remain with me until he comes of age, with the Regency of my brother the Grand Duke Michael Aleksandrovich.

That was the response that was hoped for by the Duma men — Nicholas gone, a boy Emperor, Michael as Regent. His second telegram, to Alekseev, was in similar terms.⁷

Ruzsky was just about to send these off when an unexpected cable arrived from Petrograd announcing that two members of the Temporary Committee, Guchkov and Shulgin, were on their way to Pskov to meet the Tsar and were leaving at 3.35 p.m.

Not knowing the significance of this, Ruzsky held up despatch of the abdication cables and went back to Nicholas with the unexpected news of the two deputies.⁸ Could they be coming with some offer that would make the abdication unnecessary? Was Nicholas II in fact to be reprieved?⁹

However, fifteen minutes later, reality returned to the imperial carriage. The frontline commanders had spoken and that being so Nicholas could not remain Emperor. His original abdication cables were handed back to Ruzsky, Nicholas telling him to send them out to Rodzyanko and Alekseev. The time was 3.45 p.m.¹⁰

At that moment Nicholas ceased to be Tsar, Alexis was the new emperor; and Michael was Regent. Or so it was assumed when his cables were circulated by Alekseev to the military commanders and Rodzyanko spread the word in the Duma. Indeed, his abdication was so generally known that in London his cousin King George V that night wrote in his diary: ‘Heard from Buchanan that the Duma had forced Nicky to sign his abdication and Misha had been appointed Regent…’ The king was in no doubt about the reason: ‘I fear Alicky (the Empress) is the cause of it all and Nicky has been weak’.¹¹

What was not taken into account was that his abdication cable contained a condition in respect of Alexis— ‘provided that he can remain with me until he comes of age’ — which would have been more than three years later, in August 1920.

It was disregarded firstly because no discussion or thought had yet been given to that particular question, but more significantly because it was deemed irrelevant to the fact of his abdication. To say as he did that he was ‘ready to abdicate’ concealed the reality that he had been forced off the throne, after being abandoned on all sides. He was in no position to ‘abdicate conditionally’ or dictate the terms of his going; he was finished. And that being so, his son Alexis automatically succeeded him, for that was the law.

Moreover, the question of his future over the next three years was not the issue in the crisis engulfing the capital and thus the wider nation. The sole imperative was that with an innocent boy on the throne and the constitutionally-minded Michael as Regent, the monarchy could be secured, which is what mattered to all but the socialists in the Soviet.

To say as he did in his cable that There is no sacrifice which I would not bear for the sake of the real welfare and for the salvation of our own dear Mother Russia meant nothing at all if immediately contradicted by his saying except for having to part with my son.

But that, it turned out, was precisely what he was saying. Millions of fathers had lost their sons to the war, and if order was not restored, tens of thousands of others would lose theirs in the resulting chaos. Nicholas hoped to be not among them. Their sacrifice was not to be his.

MICHAEL was keeping closely in touch with developments at the Tauride Palace and on that Thursday, March 2, there were constant comings and goings at Millionnaya Street as Duma emissaries arrived with news. Michael had known the night before that while ‘all the power is now in the hands of the Temporary Committee’, the Duma men ‘are in difficulties because of the strong pressure by the Committee of Deputies of Workers and Soldiers’.¹²

Early that morning he knew that his brother had, belatedly, offered a responsible ministry under Rodzyanko — disregarding his own advice that it should be under Prince Lvov — but he also knew that this was no longer enough. It was frustrating sitting in Millionnaya Street, unable to do anything to help. Should he go to the Tauride Palace and declare his support for such a new government? Rodzyanko, who knew the mood there among the socialists, thought that potentially dangerous. The arrival of the red-bowed Kirill at the Tauride Palace had created more astonishment than uproar in the Soviet, for it had seemed to them a surrender of the imperial family, though it had also strengthened the standing of the Duma men who appeared now to be able to command even a Grand Duke.

There was less interest when, later that same day, Bimbo turned up and also offered the Duma his support. Bimbo had only just arrived back at his Millionnaya Street palace having taken the revolution as signal that he could end the exile imposed upon him on New Year’s Day by the Tsar. Tall, bald, fat and still a bachelor at 58, Bimbo was a gossip who had never concealed his contempt for Nicholas and Alexandra; as a young man in the Chevalier Gardes he had been known as ‘Phillipe Egalité’ because he insisted on calling his soldiers ‘my friends’.¹³ At the Tauride Palace his support for the Duma was acknowledged, but not thought of having any political significance. As for the Soviet, they hardly knew he was there.

But Michael was neither an eccentric Grand Duke nor the discredited Kirill. The Soviet might take his appearance as political interference, as an attempt to put his name behind the Duma and forestall the Soviet’s demands for a ‘democratic republic’. While the Duma men might earn credit for having two Grand Dukes signal their support for them, Michael was a different story: if he turned up, the revolutionaries might well be tempted to keep him there, as hostage for their own necks. In the event, by the time Rodzyanko got round to replying to Michael, to dissuade him from going to the Duma, he knew that Nicholas had abdicated, and that Michael was Regent. That being so, it was not his place to go to the Duma; it was for the Duma to come to him.

SHARING the Tauride Palace, the Duma Committee and the Soviet shared little else. Both were the product of revolution, but both hoped for different outcomes. The Duma was intent upon a constitutional monarchy, the Soviet for a republic. The question was not now whether Nicholas could remain on the throne, but whether the throne itself remained in being.

The struggle for the future of Russia began in the meeting room of the Duma Committee just after midnight and would go on for the next twenty hours of Thursday, March 2, so that it began with the expectation of Nicholas’s abdication, but ended with it being known that he had.

The Soviet executive, led by their chairman, Nikolai Chkheidze, a 53-year-old Georgian schoolmaster and socialist deputy, included many radical members of the intelligentsia, as well as political prisoners just released from the Kresty prison across the Neva. With the exception of Kerensky, none of the Soviet members thought of themselves as sufficiently politically experienced to be thought of as competent ministers in any new government. Nevertheless, they were determined to fashion its agenda.

Political convictions apart, the great difference between the Duma and the Soviet was that the members of the latter had their necks at stake. If the revolution ended in failure, the gallows beckoned for its leaders as well as many of the soldiers who thronged the Catherine Hall. Kerensky would escape, for he had saved the lives of the prominent men taken into ‘protective custody’. The ‘gentlemen of the Duma’ would also emerge unscathed for they would be needed if order was to be restored.

Even if Nicholas abdicated, and they did not know yet that he would, the monarchy with Michael as Regent would want a reckoning with those who had murdered for the revolution. Officers and mutineers who had killed policemen or their fellow soldiers could expect no mercy.

In August 1916, when mutineers in the 2nd Brigade murdered their colonel, 20 men were shot. Three months later, when two regiments, called to a strike at the Renault factory fired on police, 150 men were executed.¹⁴

So as part of its deal with the Duma Committee the Soviet demanded a complete amnesty for all revolutionaries, soldiers as well as any others accused of terrorism or murder. The Soviet and the rebel troops both know that if they did not hang together now, they would hang together later.

So, as part of its agenda, the Soviet sought guarantees that the garrison in Petrograd would not be dispersed into the army as a whole, to be picked off later, or disarmed. With these and other measures, the Soviet aim was to continue to hold a loaded pistol at the head of a new government, should it later be tempted to seek revenge. It had already shown that, whatever might be agreed, it knew who was boss. The day before, in its Order No 1, it had stated in its Point 4 that The orders of the Military Commission of the State Duma shall be executed only in such cases as do not conflict with the orders and resolution of the Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies. The message was that the Duma Committee could have all the attributes of government, provided that it did not do anything of which the Soviet disapproved. It could bark, but it should remember that it was on a short lead.

When the Soviet delegates filed into the Duma Committee with their agenda they found Rodzyanko at a far table, drinking soda water. Facing him, at another table, was the white-haired Pavel Milyukov, sitting behind a pile of papers, notes and telegrams. Across the floor the other Committee members, including Prince Lvov, occupied a row of chairs and armchairs, with other deputies standing around them.¹⁵ After desultory conversation, the Soviet executive read out its conditions for supporting the Duma as government. The most difficult over the next 40 hours would be their ‘Point Three’: in effect, the future of the monarchy.

The man who would have nothing to do with their demands for a republic was Milyukov, though he was prepared to yield on the other issues, including an amnesty. ‘He spoke for the entire Duma Committee; everyone considered this a matter of course,’ noted a Soviet member. ‘It was clear that Milyukov here was not only a leader but the boss of the right wing.’ He would not yield on the monarchy and on this the ‘bourgeois leader was irreconcilable’.

Milyukov attempted to make a reformed monarchy appear utterly harmless, without power or influence, a fig leaf for those who did rule. It could not affect the kind of government which Russia would enjoy, and it could not threaten the safety of those who had joined the revolution. There was nothing the Soviet need fear, for Alexis was ‘a sick child’ and Michael if he became Regent was ‘a thoroughly stupid man’.¹⁶

This ploy, judged ‘naive’ by one,¹⁷ did not impress the three men staring back at him. An army general, twice decorated for gallantry in the battlefield, married to a woman known for her strong political opinions — whatever he was, he was not stupid.

By eight o’ clock on Thursday evening, with all now knowing that Nicholas had abdicated that afternoon, the issue of the monarchy was still not settled. It was then that Milyukov played his trump card, by announcing that if there was no Tsar, then he would not be in government. ‘Now, if I am not here, there is no government at all. And, if there is no government, then… you yourselves can understand…’¹⁸

An ultimatum or a bluff? The Soviet could not know which, but if it was a bluff it was one they did not dare call. Reluctantly, and unhappily, the Soviet gave way, grudgingly agreeing that the status of Russia should be decided by a future elected Constituent Assembly, leaving Russia as a monarchy until then. However, it made clear that it would ‘engage without delay in a broad struggle for a democratic republic’.¹⁹

The monarchy had been reprieved, but only just. Russia could have its sickly boy Emperor, with Michael as figurehead Regent. And with that, surely, the revolution after six tempestuous days was now all but over. Russia was set on a new course.

That afternoon the shape of the new government had become clear. It comprised many of the same men who would have been in any government designed to have public confidence. Milyukov, perched on a table, had jotted their names down on a sheet of paper and distributed the portfolios with little discussion.

The prime minister was to be Prince Lvov, the man Michael had recommended to his brother on Monday night ‘as the only possible candidate’. Rodzyanko, whom Nicholas thought he had appointed prime minister that morning, was not even in the twelve-man Cabinet, though he continued to head the Duma. Milyukov was foreign minister; Guchkov, then on his way to Pskov, was war minister. Kerensky, the only member of the Soviet included in the Cabinet, was justice minister.

As the meeting with the Soviet came to a close that evening, the name of this self-appointed government was chosen almost casually. Milyukov suggested ‘The Provisional Committee of the Duma’; the Soviet member Nikolai Sukhanov suggested instead that it be called more simply ‘The Provisional Government’. Milyukov nodded, and scratched that name down.²⁰

By 10 p.m., with everything seemingly settled, The Provisional Government was born. However, almost at that same moment, Nicholas in Pskov was to throw everything into turmoil again. There was to be no boy emperor, and no Regent. He had changed his mind.