The Russian Revolution

8

The February Revolution

Following two mild winters, the winter of 1916–17 turned unseasonably cold: in Petrograd, the temperature in the first three months of 1917 averaged 12.1 degrees below zero centigrade (10 Fahrenheit) compared with 4.4 (40 F) degrees above zero the same time the previous year. In February 1917 it dropped to an average of minus 14.5 degrees (6 F). In Moscow it sank even lower, to 16.7 below zero (2 F).¹ The cold grew so severe that peasant women refused to cart food to towns. Blizzards piled mountains of snow on the railway tracks, where they lay untouched for lack of hands to clear them. Locomotives would not move in the freezing weather and sometimes had to stand in place for hours to build up steam. These climatic conditions aggravated further the serious transport difficulties. In the thirty months of war, the rolling stock had declined from wear and inadequate maintenance. By mid-February 1917, Russia had in operation only three-quarters of its peacetime railway equipment, and much of it stood immobilized by the weather: during the winter of 1916–17, 60,000 railroad cars loaded with food, fodder, and fuel could not move because of the snow—they represented about one-eighth of all the freight cars available.²

The breakdown of supply had a devastating effect on the food and fuel situation in the northern cities, especially Petrograd. The capital seems to have had sufficient stocks of flour: according to General S. S. Khabalov, the city’s military commander, on February 25 the warehouses held 9,000 tons of flour, more than enough for several days.³ But fuel shortages had idled many bakeries. Around February 20, rumors spread that the government was about to introduce bread rationing and limit purchases to one pound per adult. In the panic buying that ensued, the bakery shelves were stripped bare.⁴ Long queues formed: some people braved the freezing weather all night to be first when the bakeries opened. The crowds were irritable and scuffles were not uncommon. Even police agents complained that they could not feed their families.⁵ Fuel shortages also forced factories to close: the Putilov Works shut down on February 21. Tens of thousands of laid-off workers milled on the streets.

Nothing better illustrates the extent to which the government had lost touch with reality than the Tsar’s decision, at this tense and difficult moment, to leave for Mogilev. He intended to stay there one week consulting with Alekseev, who had just returned from a period of convalescence in the Crimea. Protopopov raised no objections. On the evening of February 21, he assured the Tsar he had nothing to worry about and could leave confident that the rear was in good hands.⁶ Nicholas left the following afternoon. He would return two weeks later as “Nicholas Romanov,” a private citizen under house arrest. The security of the capital city was entrusted to very unqualified personnel: the Minister of War, General M. A. Beliaev, who had made his entire career in the military bureaucracy and was known to his colleagues as “dead head” (mertvaia golova); and the city’s military commander, General Khabalov, who had spent his professional life in chanceries and military academies.

30. International Women’s Day in Petrograd, February 23, 1917. The sign reads: “If woman is a slave there will be no freedom. Long live equal rights for women.”

Suddenly, the temperature in Petrograd rose to 8 degrees centigrade (46 F), where it would remain until the end of the month.⁷ People whom the freezing weather had for months kept at home streamed outdoors to bask in the sun. Photographs of the February Revolution show gay crowds under a brilliant sky. The climatic accident played no small role in the historic events of the time.

The day after Nicholas’s departure, disorders broke out in Petrograd: they would not subside until the monarchy was overthrown.

Thursday, February 23/March 8 was International Women’s Day. A procession, organized by the socialists, marched on Nevsky, toward the Municipal Council, demanding equality for women and occasionally clamoring for bread. All around rode Cossacks; here and there, the police dispersed crowds of onlookers. At the same time, a group of workers, variously estimated at between 78,000 and 128,000, went on strike to protest food shortages.⁸ But the day passed reasonably quietly, and by 10 P.M. the streets were back to normal. The authorities, although unprepared for a demonstration of this size, succeeded in containing it without resorting to force. The governor of Petrograd, A. P. Balk, and Khabalov did all they could to avoid clashes with the population out of fear of politicizing what was still a strictly economic protest. The Okhrana, however, reporting on the events of February 23 and the following day, remarked that the Cossacks were reluctant to confront the crowds. Balk made a similar observation.⁹

The atmosphere was exacerbated by the attacks on the government from the halls of Taurida, where the Duma had sat in session since February 14. The February Revolution took place against the steady drumbeat of anti-government rhetoric. The familiar cast was on hand—Miliukov, Kerensky, Chkheidze, Purishkevich—accusing, demanding, threatening. In their own way they behaved as irresponsibly as Protopopov and those officials who treated the riots as a provocation instigated by a handful of agitators.

On February 24, the situation in Petrograd deteriorated. By now between 160,000 and 200,000 workers filled the streets, some striking, others locked out. Having gotten wind of the mood in the industrial quarters across the Neva, the authorities set up barriers on the bridges connecting them with the city’s residential and business centers, but the workers got around them by walking across the frozen river. The catalytic agents were radical intellectuals, mainly the so-called Mezhraiontsy, Social-Democrats who favored the reunification of Bolsheviks and Mensheviks and whose program called for an immediate end to the war and revolution.¹⁰ Their leader, Leon Trotsky, was at the time in New York. All day long skirmishes occurred between rioters and police. The crowds sacked some food stores and inflicted other damage.¹¹ The air was thick with that peculiar Russian air of generalized, unfocused violence—the urge to beat and destroy—for which the Russian language has coined the words pogrom and razgrom. On Nevsky, crowds formed themselves into a procession, shouting “Down with the autocracy!” and “Down with the war!” The Cossacks again displayed a reluctance to obey orders.

Aware of the gravity of the food situation, the authorities held a high-level meeting on the subject in the afternoon of February 24. Present were most members of the Municipal Duma and the ministers, save for Golitsyn, who had not been notified, and Protopopov, who was said to be attending a spiritualist séance.¹² The Petrograd Municipal Council was at long last granted its request to take charge of food distribution.

The following day, the crowds, emboldened by the lack of vigorous repressive measures, grew still more aggressive. The demonstrations on that day were evidently organized, for they assumed a pronounced political coloration. Red banners appeared, with revolutionary slogans, some of which read “Down with the German Woman!” By now, virtually all the industrial plants in the city were closed, and between 200,000 and 300,000 idled workers filled the streets. A crowd of students and workers gathered at Kazan Square, in the middle of Nevsky, shouting slogans and chanting the “Marseillaise.” Not far from there, at the shopping center known as Gostinyi Dvor, three civilians were killed. Elsewhere a grenade was thrown at gendarmes. A crowd separated a police officer from his men and beat him to death. Attacks on policemen occurred especially frequently in the Vyborg District, sections of which the radicals declared “liberated.”¹³

Alexandra recounted the day’s events as follows:

This is a hooligan movement, young people run & shout that there is no bread, simply to create excitement, along with workers who prevent others from working. If the weather were very cold they would probably all stay home. But all this will pass and become calm if only the Duma will behave itself.¹⁴

The socialist intellectuals sensed a revolution in the making. On February 25, the Menshevik Duma deputies discussed convoking a “workers’ soviet.”¹⁵ And still it could be argued that the early disorders in Petrograd—and they had yet to occur in another city—were essentially a golodnyi bunt, a hunger riot, and that the political significance which the Menshevik and Mezhraiontsy intellectuals tried to give it reflected mainly their own aspirations. Such, at any rate, was the opinion of the leading Bolshevik in Petrograd, Alexander Shliapnikov. Told that a revolution was underway, he scoffed: “What revolution? Give the workers a pound of bread and the movement will peter out.”¹⁶

Whatever chance there was of containing the riots was destroyed by the arrival in the evening of February 25 of a telegram from Nicholas to Khabalov demanding that the disorders be suppressed by military force. To understand Nicholas’s action it must be borne in mind that neither he nor the generals in Mogilev realized the gravity of the situation in the capital because Protopopov had instructed the police to “soften” the reports sent to headquarters.¹⁷ The dispatches from Khabalov to Mogilev of February 25 and 26 depicted the turbulence as manageable.¹⁸ As a result, as late as February 26 no one in Mogilev knew how serious the situation really was.¹⁹

On the basis of such information as headquarters had at its disposal, it was not unreasonable to assume that a show of force would restore order. In his telegram, Nicholas wrote that at a time of war, with soldiers freezing in the trenches and about to risk their lives in the spring offensive, unrest in the rear could not be tolerated: “I order you to stop tomorrow the disorders in the capital, which are unacceptable at the difficult time of war with Germany and Austria.”²⁰ Khabalov said later that he was dismayed by the Tsar’s instructions, which called for a military confrontation with the rioters²¹—something he had so far managed to avoid. Obeying orders, he posted two proclamations. One outlawed street gatherings and warned that the troops would fire at crowds. The other ordered striking workers to return to work by February 28: those who failed to obey would have their deferments canceled and be liable to immediate induction for front-line duty.²² Many of these posters were torn down the instant they went up.²³ In one of three communications to her husband on February 25, Alexandra advised against shooting demonstrators. She expressed surprise that rationing was not introduced and that the factories had not been militarized: “This supply question is enough to drive one out of one’s mind.”²⁴

31. Crowds on Znamenskii Square, Petrograd, the scene of the first violence of the February Revolution.

During the night of February 25–26, the authorities lost control of the workers’ quarters, especially in the Vyborg District, where mobs sacked and set fire to police stations.

On Sunday morning, February 26, Petrograd was occupied by military units in combat gear. A total curfew was imposed. The bridges over the Neva were raised. In the morning all was quiet, but at midday thousands of workers crossed the river into the center of the city, milling around and waiting for something to happen. That afternoon, in several districts troops fired at crowds. The bloodiest incident occurred at Znamenskii Square, in the center of which stood Trubetskoi’s famous equestrian statue of Alexander III, a favorite gathering place of political agitators. When the crowd refused to disperse, a company of the Volynskii Guard Regiment opened fire, killing forty and wounding as many.*

Resort to force produced the desired result: by nightfall the capital was calm. Nicholas Sukhanov, the author of the best eyewitness account of 1917 in Petrograd, thought that the government had succeeded in regaining control of the center of the city.²⁵ That evening Princess Radziwill held her soiree, which had had Petrograd society talking for weeks. To the French Ambassador the sight of her brilliantly illuminated palace on Fontanka brought to mind similar scenes in the Paris of 1789.²⁶

To remove the main source of political opposition, Nicholas ordered the Duma to adjourn until April. Golitsyn communicated this news to Rodzianko late at night on February 26.

As night fell, on the surface everything seemed in order. But then a succession of events occurred which to this day astonish with their suddenness and scope: a mutiny of the Petrograd garrison which in twenty-four hours transformed half the troops into rioters and by March 1 had the entire contingent of 160,000 uniformed men in open rebellion.

To understand this development, one must bear in mind the composition as well as living conditions of the Petrograd garrison. It consisted of freshly drafted recruits and superannuated reserves assigned to the reserve battalions of the Guard Regiments normally stationed in Petrograd but now away at the front. They were meant to stay in Petrograd for several weeks of basic training and then leave for the front. Organized into training units, they were heavily overmanned: some reserve companies had more than 1,000 soldiers, and there were battalions with 12,000–15,000 men; 160,000 soldiers were packed into barracks designed to hold 20,000.²⁷ The reservists drawn from the National Militia, many in their thirties and early forties, felt unfairly inducted. In Petrograd, they were subjected to the usual indignities inflicted on Russian soldiers, such as being addressed by officers in the second-person singular and being forbidden to ride inside streetcars.²⁸ Although dressed in uniform, they did not differ in any significant way from the workers and peasants crowding the streets of Petrograd, whom they were now ordered to shoot. Rodzianko, who observed them at close range, said one week after the events:

Unexpectedly for all, there erupted a soldier mutiny such as I have never seen. These, of course, were not soldiers but muzhiki taken directly from the plow who have found it useful now to make known their muzhik demands. In the crowd, all one could hear was “Land and Freedom,” “Down with the Dynasty,” “Down with the Romanovs,” “Down with the Officers.” In many units officers were beaten. This was joined by the workers and anarchy reached its apogee.²⁹

In view of the fact that the February Revolution is often depicted as a worker revolt, it is important to emphasize that it was, first and foremost, a mutiny of peasant soldiers whom, to save money, the authorities had billeted in overcrowded facilities in the Empire’s capital city—in the words of one eyewitness, like “kindling wood near a powder keg.”

The survival of the tsarist regime ultimately depended on the loyalty of the army since the usual forces of order—the police and the Cossacks—did not have the numbers to cope with thousands of rebels. In February 1917, these forces consisted of 3,500 policemen, armed with antiquated Japanese rifles, and Cossack detachments which, for an unaccountable reason, had been divested of nagaiki, their dreaded whips.³⁰ Nicholas showed that he was aware of his dependence on the troops when he assured the British Ambassador the army would save him. But the troops’ loyalty wavered when ordered to fire on unarmed crowds. The Russian army never liked being used against civilians; it liked this role less than ever now because its green recruits shared the grievances of the crowds. Observing the Cossacks and troops during these critical days, Sukhanov felt they were merely looking for a pretext to join the demonstrators.³¹ One of the very last reports filed by the Okhrana on February 26, just before it was shut down by the rioters, shared this assessment:

The movement broke out spontaneously, without preparation and exclusively on the basis of the supply crisis. Inasmuch as the military units did not hinder the crowd and in individual cases even took steps to paralyze the actions of the police, the masses gained confidence that they could act with impunity. Now, after two days of unimpeded movement on the streets, when revolutionary circles have raised the slogans “Down with the war” and “Down with the government,” the people have become convinced that the revolution has begun, that the masses are winning, that the authorities are powerless to suppress the movement by virtue of the fact that the military units are not on their side, that the decisive victory is near because the military either today or tomorrow will come out openly on the side of the revolutionary forces, that the movement which has begun will not subside but grow ceaselessly until ultimate victory and the overthrow of the government.³²

E. I. Martynov, a tsarist general who after October went over to the Bolsheviks, in his excellent account of the role of the army in the February Revolution commented critically on the passivity of the Imperial authorities in the face of fraternization of the Petrograd garrison with the rioters. He contrasted this behavior with the energetic measures of the French President, Adolphe Thiers, in March 1871. As soon as the troops were observed fraternizing with the Parisian mobs, Thiers ordered them to Versailles, from where they later counterattacked and recaptured the capital.³³ Beliaev and Khabalov, by contrast, helplessly watched the rising storm.

The first break in the garrison’s discipline occurred in the afternoon of February 26 in reaction to the shooting on Znamenskii Square. Immediately after the event, a group of angry workers went to the Champs de Mars, where the Pavlovskii Regiment had its billets. They told the men of the 4th Company of the Reserve Battalion that their comrades in the Volynskii Regiment had fired on an unarmed crowd. Incensed, the Pavlovtsy broke into the company arsenal, removed thirty rifles, and took to the streets. One hundred strong, they marched toward Nevsky intending to persuade or compel the Volyntsy on Znamenskii Square to stop the shooting. En route, they ran into a detachment of mounted policemen, with whom they exchanged fire. The leader of the mutineers, a young lieutenant, received a disabling wound. The loss of the commander threw them into confusion. No support came from other garrison units. By nightfall, when the Pavlovtsy returned to their barracks, nineteen of their ringleaders were placed under guard.³⁴ In cables sent to Mogilev that evening, Khabalov and Beliaev alluded to the mutiny of some units, but assured the Tsar they would be suppressed.³⁵

If the February Revolution is to have a date when it began, that date has to be February 27/March 12, 1917, when “worker demonstrations turned into a soldier mutiny”³⁶ and the tsarist authorities lost control of the capital. The most stupendous military revolt in recorded history, it started with the Pavlovskii Regiment. The regiment’s troops held meetings through the night to protest the Znamenskii Square massacre and finally voted to disobey further orders to fire at civilians. Messengers were sent to the Preobrazhenskii and Litovskii Guard Regiments, billeted nearby, which agreed to follow suit. The next morning the three regiments went into the streets. The Pavlovtsy killed one of their officers. Gendarme barracks were attacked and demolished. Pushing aside pro-government pickets, soldiers made their way to the Vyborg District, where they were joined by rebellious workers. The mutinous troops drove around the snow-covered streets in commandeered armored cars, waving their weapons and shouting. Anyone who stood in their way risked being lynched. Other soldiers broke into the Peter and Paul Fortress, releasing prisoners. A mob sacked the Ministry of the Interior. The red flag went over the Winter Palace. Policemen caught in uniform were beaten and killed. In the late afternoon, crowds stormed the Okhrana headquarters, scattering and burning files—Okhrana informers were observed to display particular zeal on this occasion. Arsenals were broken into and thousands of guns removed. There was widespread looting of shops, restaurants, and private residences.

32. Mutinous soldiers in Petrograd: February 1917.

By nighttime, Petrograd was in the hands of peasants in uniform. Of the 160,000-man garrison, half was in full mutiny, while the remainder adopted a “neutral” stance. Khabalov could count on a mere 1,000–2,000 loyal troops, mostly from the Izmailovskii Regiment.³⁷ Only half a dozen public buildings scattered throughout Petrograd still remained in government hands.

The rapidity with which the mutiny spread through the Petrograd garrison on February 27 cannot be explained by specific grievances, although these clearly existed. The progress of the mutiny suggests that nothing could have been done to stop it. It was not really a military mutiny of the kind that broke out during the war in other armies, including the French and German, but a typical Russian bunt, with powerful anarchist overtones.* The rebellious soldiers were, for the major part, peasants born in the 1880s. They carried in their bones three hundred years of serfdom. They obeyed only as long as disobedience carried mandatory punishment: the instant they sensed that they could do what they wished with impunity, they ceased to obey. The chronology of the mutiny indicates that it originated with the Pavlovskii Regiment, which rose during the night of February 26–27 following the aborted rebellion of one company. Beliaev wanted the participants in this rebellion to be court-martialed and those found guilty to be executed, but Khabalov overruled him and ordered instead the arrest of the ringleaders.³⁸ It was a fatal loss of nerve. Trotsky, who in such situations would act with unhesitating brutality, describes as follows the psychology of the Russian on the brink of military rebellion:

The critical hour of contact between the pushing crowd and the soldiers who bar their way has its critical minute. That is when the gray barrier has not yet given way, still holds together shoulder to shoulder, but already wavers, and the officer, gathering his last strength of will, gives the command: “Fire!” The cry of the crowd, the yell of terror and threat, drowns the command, but not wholly. The rifles waver. The crowd pushes. Then the officer points the barrel of his revolver at the most suspicious soldier. From the decisive moment now stands out the decisive second. The death of the boldest soldier, to whom the others have involuntarily looked for guidance, a shot into the crowd by a corporal from the dead man’s rifle, and the barrier closes, the guns go off of themselves, scattering the crowd into the alleys and backyards.³⁹

On February 26, the hand of Imperial authority wavered: once it refused to shoot “the most suspicious soldiers” discipline collapsed and the mutiny spread like fire.

Nicholas still had no idea of the gravity of the situation. He was, therefore, understandably annoyed in the evening of February 26 when shown a cable from Rodzianko, so much at odds with the reassuring messages sent by Khabalov and Beliaev:

Situation serious. In the capital anarchy. Government paralyzed. Transport of food and fuel completely disorganized. Public disaffection growing. On the streets chaotic shooting. Army units fire at each other. It is essential at once to entrust a person enjoying country’s confidence with the formation of new government. There should be no delay. All delay is death. I pray to God that in this hour responsibility not fall on the sovereign.⁴⁰

Nicholas chose to ignore this warning, convinced that Rodzianko spread alarm to extract political concessions for the Duma. The following morning another cable came from the Duma chairman: “Situation deteriorating. Imperative to take immediate steps for tomorrow will be late. The last hour has struck, decisive as the fate of the Fatherland and dynasty.”⁴¹ Nicholas glanced at the message and turned to his aide, Count Fredericks, saying: “That fat fellow Rodzianko has again written me all kinds of nonsense which I shan’t even bother to answer.”⁴²

But as the day went on Nicholas’s equanimity was severely tested, for Rodzianko’s alarmist assessments received confirmation from sources in which he had greater confidence. A cable came from Khabalov to the effect that he could not prevent unauthorized assemblies because the troops were in mutiny and refused to fire on crowds.⁴³ There were several messages from the Empress, in one of which she tersely urged: “Concessions necessary.”⁴⁴ Grand Duke Michael counseled the dismissal of the cabinet and its replacement by one responsible to the Duma under Prince G. Lvov. He offered himself as Regent.* Golitsyn informed the Tsar at 2 p.m. in the name of the cabinet that the raging mobs were out of control and that the cabinet wished to resign in favor of a Duma ministry, preferably chaired by either Lvov or Rodzianko. He further recommended the imposition of martial law and the appointment of a popular general, with combat experience, to take charge of the capital’s security.⁴⁵ Nicholas requested Voeikov to contact the Minister of War, Beliaev, for an assessment. Beliaev confirmed that Petrograd had become unmanageable.⁴⁶ The decisive communication came from Count Paul Benckendorff, the Grand Marshal of the Court, who inquired whether the Tsar wished his wife and children to join him. The children happened to be ill with measles, and since he did not want them to travel, Nicholas decided to return to Tsarskoe: he gave orders to have his train ready for departure that night (February 27–28).⁴⁷

33. Petrograd crowds burning emblems of the Imperial regime: February 1917.

34. Arrest of a police informer; informers were popularly known as “Pharaons.”

At this juncture Nicholas knew there was serious trouble in the capital city, but he did not yet realize its depth and intensity: like Louis XVI on July 14, 1789, he thought he was facing a rebellion, not a revolution. He believed that the disorder could be quelled by force. This is attested to by two decisions. Rejecting the Prime Minister’s request that he and his colleagues be allowed to turn over the reins of administration to a Duma cabinet, he ordered the cabinet to remain at its post.⁴⁸ He accepted, however, Golitsyn’s recommendation to appoint a military dictator in charge of Petrograd security. He chose for this role sixty-six-year-old N. I. Ivanov, a general who had distinguished himself in the Galician campaign of 1914 and had long experience in the Corps of Gendarmes. During dinner that night, looking pale, sad, and worried,⁴⁹ Nicholas drew Ivanov aside for a long talk. Ivanov was to proceed to Tsarskoe Selo at the head of loyal troops to ensure the safety of the Imperial family, and then, as newly-appointed head of the Petrograd Military District, assume command of the regiments ordered from the front to help him. All cabinet ministers were to be subordinated to him.⁵⁰ At 9 p.m. Alekseev wired General Danilov, the chief of staff of the Northern Front in Pskov, to arrange for the dispatch of two cavalry and two infantry regiments composed of “the most stable [and] reliable” troops led by “bold” officers to join Ivanov.⁵¹ Similar orders went out to the headquarters of the Western Front.⁵² The size of the contingent—eight combat regiments augmented by machine-gun units—indicated that Nicholas and his generals envisaged a major operation to put down the mutiny.

35. Workers toppling the statue of Alexander III in the center of Moscow (1918).

Ivanov alerted the battalion of the Knights of St. George, composed of wounded veterans awarded the Cross of St. George for bravery in combat and assigned in Mogilev to guard headquarters. In conversation with friends, he seemed far from confident of the reliability of his men and the success of his mission.⁵³ His contingent of eight hundred troops left Mogilev by train around 11 a.m., heading for Tsarskoe by the most direct route through Vitebsk and Dno. Ivanov himself followed two hours later.

One will never know whether, had Nicholas acted decisively in the days that followed, Ivanov would have succeeded, because his mission was aborted. But his prospects do not seem to have been as hopeless as the politicians and generals, under the politicians’ influence, seemed to believe. On February 27, only Petrograd was in rebellion: save for some sympathy strikes in Moscow, the rest of the country was quiet. Determined action by disciplined frontline troops might have suppressed a revolt that was still primarily a garrison mutiny. But the plan was given up because the politicians had persuaded themselves—mistakenly, as events were to show—that only the Duma was capable of restoring order. They, in turn, convinced the generals, who brought irresistible pressure to bear on Nicholas to give up power. In fact, when they were finally made, political concessions had the opposite effect of the one intended, transforming the Petrograd garrison mutiny into a national revolution.

That the Petrograd garrison had turned into rabble incapable of offering resistance is illustrated by an incident that occurred at the opening session of the newly formed Soviet on February 28. As recalled by Shliapnikov, after Chkheidze had opened the meeting and the Executive Committee given an account of its activity,

comments were heard on the report, a good many of them irrelevant. Soldiers spoke, representatives of regiments, bringing greetings and congratulations on the “people’s victory.” Owing to these speeches, the session of the Soviet quickly transformed itself from a businesslike meeting into a rally.… Near Taurida Palace resounded machine-gun fire. Sounds of the shooting penetrated the hall where the session was underway, reaching the keen ears of the soldiers. Instantly panic broke out. People rushed in a mob to the doors, filling Catherine’s Hall like a wave. Soldiers in that vast space also attempted to reach exits in various directions. Some broke windows to the garden to jump through the broken glass.⁵⁴

The Imperial train—blue with gold trim—left Mogilev at 5 a.m. on February 28, ahead of Ivanov and his troops, preceded by an escort train with staff and military guards. It did not take the most direct line to Tsarskoe, in order not to interfere with Ivanov’s mission.⁵⁵ Instead, it followed a longer, circuitous route, heading initially east, in the direction of Moscow, then at Viazma changing directions northwest, toward Bologoe. This detour was to have grave consequences. Ivanov reached Tsarskoe on schedule, on March 1. Had the Imperial train followed the same route, Nicholas would have been with his wife on March 2, when he came under pressure to abdicate. The Empress was convinced that had she been at his side he would have resisted demands to give up the throne.

The Imperial entourage traveled all of February 28 without incident. But around 1 a.m., as the escort train pulled into Malaia Vishera, 170 kilometers southeast of the capital, an officer came aboard to say that the tracks ahead were under the control of “unfriendly” troops. When the Imperial car reached Malaia Vishera somewhat later, the Tsar was awakened. After a brief consultation, it was decided to return to Bologoe and from there proceed to Pskov, headquarters of the Northern Front, commanded by General N. V. Ruzskii, and the nearest point with a Hughes telegraph. Voeikov, who witnessed this episode, says that Nicholas maintained perfect composure throughout.⁵⁶ The Imperial train pulled into Pskov at 7:05 p.m. on March 1.

On arrival, Nicholas was welcomed by the governor, but to everyone’s surprise and consternation, Ruzskii was missing. He appeared a few minutes later, “stooping, gray, and old, in rubber galoshes … his face pale and sickly, an unfriendly gleam from under his eyeglasses.”⁵⁷ Ruzskii, who was to play a critical role in the events that unfolded, second only to that of Alekseev, was probably the most politicized of the commanding generals. He had often crossed swords with Protopopov over the latter’s handling of food supplies as well as his decision to withdraw the Petrograd Military District from Ruzskii’s command. His sympathies lay wholly with the Duma opposition. He disliked Nicholas and thought the institution of tsarism anachronistic. “Nicholas thus [would spend] the most crucial two days of his life under the influence of the military commander who was most decisively against [him].”⁵⁸ From the moment of the Tsar’s arrival he sought to influence him first to grant concessions to the Duma and then to abdicate.*

Rodzianko was expected in Pskov that evening with a detailed report on the situation in the capital, but the Soviet prevented him from leaving. At 8:41 p.m. Pskov was informed of the fact.⁵⁹

Nicholas had no inkling that he had become irrelevant, as events in the capital were moving under their own momentum. His civil and military officials there had lost all control over the situation. On March 1, the political conflict no longer pitted the Tsar against the Duma, but the Duma against a new contender for power, the Petrograd Soviet.

After the rioters had done their work, the center of attention shifted to Taurida. The Duma leaders had learned the previous night that the Tsar had ordered them to adjourn. Under the pressure of radical deputies, Rodzianko reluctantly scheduled for the following morning a session of the Progressive Bloc and the Council of Elders (Sen’oren Konvent), composed of representatives of the Duma parties.⁶⁰ Now was the chance for the Duma to show its mettle by defying the Tsar’s order and reconvening as a revolutionary assembly. The Duma had so long stood in the forefront of the opposition to tsarism that as chaos spread in the city people’s eyes intuitively turned to it for leadership. The expectation was that it would proceed at once to form a cabinet and take charge of the country’s administration.

But now that it had, at long last, the opportunity to do so, the Duma took refuge in legalities. Nicholas was still sovereign: after he had ordered the Duma adjourned, it no longer had legal existence. Some deputies, from the left and right, urged that the Tsar’s wishes be ignored, but Rodzianko refused: instead, he cabled Nicholas asking authorization for the Duma to form a cabinet. In the early afternoon Rodzianko consented to the Council of Elders deciding on the course of action. The senior statesmen of the Duma were very nervous. They did not want to inflame popular passions and contribute to anarchy by defying the Tsar. At the same time, they thought it impossible to do nothing because mobs were converging on the Duma building, demanding action. On February 27, a crowd of 25,000 filled the space in front of Taurida; some of the demonstrators penetrated the building.

Faced with this predicament, the Elders settled on a weak compromise. Deferring to the Tsar’s wishes, they asked the deputies to assemble at 2:30 p.m. in another chamber of Taurida—the so-called Semicircular Hall—as a “private body.” Present were most members of the Progressive Bloc, with the addition of socialists, but without the conservatives. This is how Shulgin describes the scene:

The room barely accommodated us: the entire Duma was on hand. Rodzianko and the Elders sat behind a table. Around them sat and stood, crowding, the others in a dense mob. Frightened, excited, somehow spiritually clinging to one another. Even enemies of Jong standing suddenly sensed that there was something which was equally dangerous, threatening, repulsive to them all. That something was the street, the street mob.… One could feel its hot breath.… With the street approached She to whom very few then gave any thought, but whom, certainly, very many unconsciously sensed. That is why they were pale, their hearts secretly constricted. Surrounded by a crowd of many thousands, on the street stalked Death …⁶¹

After a chaotic discussion, in the course of which proponents of immediate assumption of power by the Elders clashed with the more cautious adherents of legitimacy, it was decided to form an executive of twelve Duma members, still of a “private” nature, to be known as the “Provisional Committee of Duma Members for the Restoration of Order in the Capital and the Establishment of Relations with Individuals and Institutions.” Chaired by Rodzianko, it initially consisted of representatives of the Progressive Bloc with the addition of two socialists (Kerensky and Chkheidze)—a coalition that extended from the moderate Nationalists to the Mensheviks. The ludicrously cumbersome name given the organization reflected the timidity of its organizers. The revolutionary upheaval which they had so long anticipated had caught them unprepared: experienced at dueling with ministers they had no idea how to handle raging mobs. They did not even know how to claim power. The writer Zinaida Gippius, observing the timidity of the Duma leaders and contrasting it with the resolute behavior of the radical intelligentsia in the Soviet, remarked in her diary on the psychological inhibition that held them back:

36. Provisional Committee of the Duma. Sitting on extreme left, V. N. Lvov, and on extreme right, M. Rodzianko. Standing on extreme left, V. V. Shulgin, and second from right, A. F. Kerensky.

They could only ask “legitimate authority.” The Revolution has abolished this authority without their participation. They did not overthrow it: they have only mechanically remained on the surface, on top—passively, without a prior arrangement. But they are naturally powerless because they cannot take power—it must be given to them and given from above. Until they feel invested with power, they cannot exercise it.⁶²

It has been argued⁶³ that the failure of the Duma to proclaim at once, in an unequivocal manner, the assumption of power had disastrous consequences because it deprived the Provisional Government which issued from it of legitimacy. However, such importance as one can attach to this fact derives less from the legal aspects of sovereignty, which the population at large did not care about, than from the mentality which it revealed—namely, a dread of responsibility. An eyewitness says that the Duma group decided to constitute its Provisional Committee in an atmosphere not unlike that in which, in normal times, the Duma might have appointed a Fisheries Committee.⁶⁴ The onetime head of the Petrograd Okhrana, A. V. Gerasimov, thought that in adhering to the fiction that it was not taking power, but forming a private body to deal with the disorders, the Duma leaders wanted also to protect themselves against criminal prosecution in the event that the crown succeeded in suppressing the rebellion—for in the course of the day they were apprised of the approach of General Ivanov’s punitive expedition.⁶⁵

A Polish proverb has it that where there are no fish crayfish will do. In the eyes of the Petrograd mob, the Duma was the government, and from February 27 to March 1 numerous deputations made their way to Taurida to pledge support and loyalty. Among them were not only workers, soldiers, and intellectuals but also thousands of officers, the military units guarding the Imperial palaces, and, strangest sight of all, a detachment of the Corps of Gendarmes, which marched to Taurida to the strains of the “Marseillaise” bearing red flags.⁶⁶ On March 1, Grand Duke Cyril Vladimirovich, the commandant of the Palace Guard at Tsarskoe Selo and a cousin of Nicholas, announced that he and his men acknowledged the authority of the Provisional Government.* ⁶⁷

The sudden shift of sentiment on the part of the most illiberal elements of Petrograd society—right-wing officers, gendarmes, policemen—who only a few days before were pillars of the monarchy, can only be explained by one factor: fear. Shulgin, who was in the thick of events, had no doubt that the officers in particular were paralyzed with it and sought the protection of the Duma to save their lives from the mutinous troops.⁶⁸

The Provisional Committee sent cables to the commanders of the armed forces informing them that to put an end to the crisis of authority it had assumed power from the old cabinet. Order would soon be restored.⁶⁹

In the evening, Rodzianko visited Prime Minister Golitsyn to inquire whether the Tsar would consent to the formation of a Duma ministry. Golitsyn told him of Nicholas’s negative answer. When Rodzianko returned with this information to Taurida at 10 p.m. there followed lengthy discussions in the Provisional Committee which led to the inexorable conclusion that there was no choice but to assume de facto governmental authority. The alternative was either the complete collapse of order or the assumption of power by a rival and radical body, the Petrograd Soviet, which had come into existence the very same day.⁷⁰

The revival of the Petrograd Soviet was first discussed by the Mensheviks on February 25, but the initiative came from two members of the Central Workers’ Group, who, having been jailed in January on orders of Protopopov, were freed by the insurgent mob on the morning of February 27: K. A. Gvozdev, its chairman, and B. O. Bogdanov, its secretary, both Mensheviks. An appeal was issued to the soldiers, workers, and other inhabitants of Petrograd to elect representatives to an organizing meeting of the Soviet that evening at Taurida. It was signed: “The Provisional Executive Committee of the Soviet of Worker Deputies.”⁷¹ This allowed almost no time for elections, and when the meeting opened that night few elected representatives were on hand. Although according to some accounts as many as 250 people showed up, most were onlookers; only forty to fifty were considered eligible to vote.⁷² The meeting chose a Provisional Executive Committee, or Ispolkom, of eight or nine persons, mostly Mensheviks: Chkheidze took over as chairman, with Kerensky and M. I. Skobelev as deputies. Since no protocols were kept, it cannot be established exactly what transpired. Some soldiers spoke and it was decided to admit soldiers into the Soviet in a separate section. There followed discussions of the food problem, of the need to create a militia to maintain order. It was resolved to publish Izvestiia as the official organ of the Soviet and to ask the Provisional Committee to withhold funds from the Imperial authorities by taking charge of the State Bank and other fiscal institutions.⁷³

37. Troops of the Petrograd garrison assembling in front of the Winter Palace to swear loyalty to the Provisional Government.

38. A sailor removing an officer’s epaulettes.

On February 28 the factories and military units elected representatives to the Soviet. They chose overwhelmingly moderate socialists: the extremist parties (Bolsheviks, SR Maximalists, and Mezhraiontsy) received between them less than 10 percent of the votes.⁷⁴ Voting procedures were chaotic: they followed the traditional practices of Russian popular assemblies, which strove to secure not a mathematically accurate representation of individual opinions but a sense of the collective will. Small shops sent as many representatives as large factories, army units from regiments down to companies did likewise, with the result that the Soviet was overwhelmed by delegates from small enterprises and the garrison. In the second week of its existence, of the Soviet’s 3,000 deputies more than 2,000 were soldiers⁷⁵—this in a city in which industrial workers outnumbered soldiers two or three times. In photographs of the Soviet, military uniforms dominate.

The plenary sessions of the Soviet, the first of which took place on February 28, resembled a giant village assembly: it was as if the factories and barracks had sent their bol’shaki They lacked agendas as well as procedures for arriving at decisions: the practice was through open discussion at which everyone who wished to speak had his say to reach a unanimous verdict. Like a village assembly, the Soviet at this stage resembled a school of fish capable of instantly reversing direction in response to an invisible command. Sukhanov thus describes these early gatherings:

“And what’s going on in the Soviet?” I remember asking someone who had come in from beyond the curtain. He waved his hand in a hopeless gesture: “A palaver! Anyone who wants gets up and says whatever he likes …”

I had several occasions to pass through the meeting hall. At first it looked as it had the night before: deputies were sitting on chairs and benches, at the table inside the room, and along the walls; among those in the seats and the aisles, and at each end of the hall, stood people of every description, creating confusion and disrupting the meeting. Then the crowds of standing people became so dense that it was difficult to get through, and they filled up the room to such an extent that those who had chairs also abandoned them, and the entire hall, except for the first rows, became one confused mass of standing people craning their necks.… A few hours later the chairs had completely vanished from the hall, so as not to take up space, and people, dripping with sweat, stood tightly squeezed together. The “Presidium” itself stood on the table, while a whole crowd of enterprising people who had climbed on the table hovered over the chairman’s shoulders, preventing him from running the meeting. The next day or the day after, the tables too had vanished, except for the chairman’s, and the assembly finally acquired the look of a mass meeting in a riding school.* ⁷⁶

39. K. A. Gvozdev: Menshevik labor leader and one of the founders of the Petrograd Soviet.

Because such a mob could serve no other purpose than to provide a forum for speechmaking, and because, in addition, the intellectuals believed they knew what was best for the “masses,” the decision-making authority of the Soviet quickly shifted to the Ispolkom. This body, however, was not representative of the workers and soldiers, for its members were not elected by the Soviet but, as in 1905, nominated by the socialist parties. Members of the Ispolkom represented not the workers and soldiers but their respective party organizations, and could be replaced at any time by others from these parties. This was a deliberate policy of the radical intellectuals, as the following incident illustrates. On March 19, the Soldiers’ Section voted to enlarge the Ispolkom by adding nine soldiers and nine workers. The Ispolkom rejected this proposal on the grounds that its enlargement would take place at the All-Russian Consultation of Soviets scheduled to meet at the end of the month.⁷⁷ The intellectuals who ran the Ispolkom even sought to keep its composition secret. They released the names of its members only at the end of March, after leaflets appeared on the streets of Petrograd demanding that its composition be made public*

40. Soldier section of the Petrograd Soviet meeting in the State Duma.

Rather than serving as the executive organ of the Soviet, therefore, the Ispolkom was a coordinating body of socialist parties, superimposed on the Soviet and speaking in its name. The Ispolkom’s earliest cooptation occurred on March 6, when it invited the Party of Popular Socialists to send a spokesman. Two days later a Socialist-Revolutionary was added to represent a group calling itself “Republican Officers.” On March 11, the Social-Democratic Party of Poland and Lithuania and that of Latvia were accorded one place each. On March 15, a Bolshevik delegate was added. This manner of staffing the Ispolkom became formalized on March 18 with the adoption of the principle that every socialist party had a right to three seats: two from its Central Committee and one from its local organizations.†

The principle had three consequences. It expanded artificially the representation of the Bolshevik Party, which had a small following among the workers and virtually none among the soldiers. It strengthened as well that of the moderate socialists, which had the effect of giving the Ispolkom a political complexion that in time would put it at odds with the country’s increasingly radical mood. And, most importantly, it bureaucratized the Ispolkom: this self-appointed executive organ of the “worker and soldier masses” became in effect a committee of radical intellectuals, with hardly a worker or soldier in its midst—intellectuals who pursued their own visions and ambitions:

The bureaucratic divestiture for the benefit of organizations proceeded irreversibly. Representation was set by virtue of adherence to an organization, not by virtue of elections, which existed only for show. Yet nothing indicates that these democrats meant consciously to violate or parody democratic procedures. No protest or discussion disturbed the atmosphere of unanimity, except over the number of representatives who were to be admitted and the choice of organizations defined as “representative.” Over this, there developed a veritable political struggle. The Bolshevik proposal was intended to double the number of their representatives, to assure them of a surplus of votes through the addition of Latvian Bolsheviks. The representatives of the other organizations did not object: all in all, this procedure assured the non-Bolsheviks in equal measure of an even more consistent surplus of those elected. In that manner, every tendency and every subtendency of Social Democracy or of the SRs had a right to two representatives in the bureau, even if behind it stood no more than a handful of activists. Conversely, the thousands of soldiers and workers who had really made February, disappeared] forever from the scene. Henceforth, the “representatives” [spoke] in their name.⁷⁸

41. Executive Committee (Ispolkom) of the Petrograd Soviet. In front, holding briefcase, N. D. Sokolov. On his left, leaning forward, N. S. Chkheidze.

Surprisingly, the gatherings of the Ispolkom, although involving small numbers of politically literate persons, were not much more orderly than those of the Soviet at large—at any rate, in the first weeks of its existence. As described by the representative of the Trudoviki, V. B. Stankevich, they also were a madhouse:

At this time, the Ispolkom carried extraordinary weight and importance. Formally it represented only Petrograd, but in fact it was the revolutionary organ of all Russia, the highest authoritative institution which was everywhere listened to with intense attention as the guide and leader of the insurgent people. But this was complete illusion. There was no leadership and there could not have been any.…

The meetings took place daily beginning at 1 p.m., sometimes earlier, and ran late into the night, except when the Soviet was in session and the Ispolkom, usually in a body, went over to join it. The agenda was usually set by the “commune” [mir], but it was very rare not only for all items on it but even for a single issue to be resolved, insofar as during the sessions there always emerged extraneous questions, which had to be dealt with outside the agenda.… Issues had to be resolved under the pressure of an extraordinary mass of delegates and petition-bearers from the Petrograd garrison, from the front, from the backwaters of Russia. All these delegates demanded, no matter what, to be heard at the plenary session of the Ispolkom, for they were unwilling to deal with individual members or commissions. When the Soviet met as an entity or in its Soldiers’ Section, affairs disintegrated catastrophically.…

The most important decisions were often reached by completely accidental majorities. There was no time to think matters over, because everything was done in haste, after many sleepless nights, in confusion. Everyone was physically exhausted. Sleepless nights. Endless meetings. The lack of proper food: people lived on bread and tea, and only occasionally got a soldier’s meal, served without forks or knives.⁷⁹

In this initial period, according to Stankevich, “one could always have one’s way with the Ispolkom if one insisted stubbornly enough.” Under these conditions, rhetoric substituted for analysis and good intentions for reality. Later, toward the end of March, when Irakli Tsereteli, a leading Georgian Menshevik, returned from Siberian exile and took over the chairmanship, the sessions of the Ispolkom acquired a somewhat more orderly appearance, in good measure because its decisions were predetermined at caucuses of the socialist parties.

Thus, in no time, the Petrograd Soviet acquired a split personality: on top, speaking on behalf of the Soviet, a body of socialist intellectuals organized as the Executive Committee; below, an unruly village assembly. Except for its intelligentsia spokesmen, the Soviet was a rural body wedged into the most cosmopolitan city of the Empire. And no wonder: Petrograd had been a predominantly peasant city even before the war, when peasants had formed 70 percent of its population. This rural mass was augmented during the war with 200,000 workers brought in from the countryside to staff the defense industries and 160,000 recruits and reservists, mostly of the same origin.

Consistent with the traditional Menshevik and SR view of the Soviets as organs of “democratic” control over the “bourgeoisie,” the Ispolkom decided on March 1, with a majority of 13–8, not to join the government which the Duma was in the process of forming.* By this decision, the socialist intelligentsia reserved for itself the right to steer and criticize the government without having to bear governmental responsibility: a position very much like the one which the parliamentary opposition had enjoyed vis-à-vis tsarism. As in the case of the Duma leadership’s hesitancy to claim political power, the radical intelligentsia was inspired not only by theoretical but also by personal considerations. The events of February 26–27, 1917, may appear in the eyes of posterity as marking an irreversible break with the past, but this is not how they appeared to contemporaries. At this time, only Petrograd had risen in rebellion—no one else followed its lead. Punitive expeditions from the front could arrive at any moment. A contemporary of these events, and their historian, Serge Melgunov, observes that at this point several thousand well led and armed men could easily have retaken control of Petrograd, after which the lives of the intellectuals would have been at great risk.⁸⁰ It seemed, therefore, more prudent to let the “bourgeois” Duma take charge and manipulate it from behind the scenes.

In this fashion, on February 27, 1917, there emerged in Russia a peculiar system of government called dvoevlastie, or dyarchy: it lasted until October 25–26, when it yielded to the Bolshevik dictatorship. In theory, the Provisional Committee of the Duma—soon renamed the Provisional Government—bore full administrative responsibility, and the Soviet confined itself to functions of control, much as a legislature might in relation to an executive. The reality, however, was very different. The Soviet, or more precisely its Ispolkom, administered and legislated on its own often without so much as informing the government. Second, the partners in this arrangement were unable to cooperate effectively because they had very different objectives in mind. The Duma leaders wanted to contain the Revolution; the Soviet leaders wanted to deepen it. The former would have been happy to stop the flow of events at the point reached by nightfall on February 27. For the latter, February 27 was a mere stepping-stone to the “true”—that is, socialist—revolution.

Having decided they had no alternative but to form a cabinet in defiance of the Tsar’s wishes, the Duma leaders were still inhibited by two considerations: lack of legitimacy and lack of means to control the unruly mobs. The more conservative members of the Provisional Committee, among them Shulgin and Guchkov, were of the opinion that one more attempt should be made to persuade Nicholas to let the Duma name the cabinet. But the majority thought this futile, preferring to seek legitimacy from the Petrograd Soviet, or, more precisely, from the socialist intelligentsia in the Ispolkom.

The decision was curious in the extreme. The Soviet, after all, was a private body, irregularly constituted and directed by representatives of socialist parties whom no one had elected. The best that could be said for it was that it represented the workers and soldiers of the city of Petrograd and environs, at most 1 million citizens in a nation of 170 million. From the point of view of legitimacy, the Fourth Duma—even allowing for the restricted franchise on which it had been chosen—had a better claim to speak for the country at large. But its leaders believed that in numbers lay safety: cooperation with the socialist parties would enable them better to restrain the mobs as well as to cope with a potential counterrevolution. At this point, the Ispolkom was solidly in the hands of Mensheviks, who acquiesced to the Duma’s assuming formal governmental authority. The decision to seek legitimacy from the Soviet, as represented by the Ispolkom, was therefore psychologically understandable. But it hardly provided the new government with the legitimacy it needed. When on March 2 Miliukov, the new Minister of Foreign Affairs, was challenged from the audience which he was addressing, “Who elected you?” he could only answer, “We have been elected by the Russian Revolution”⁸¹—a claim that any other aspirant to power could make with equal right.*

The socialist intellectuals in the Ispolkom had no intention of giving the new government carte blanche. They were prepared to support it only on condition that it accept and implement a program of action to its liking: the Russian formula was postol’ku-poskol’ku (“to the extent that”). To this end, it worked out on March 1 a nine-point program⁸² to serve as a basis of cooperation with the new government. Representatives of the two bodies met at midnight of March 1–2. Miliukov negotiated on behalf of the Duma committee; the Ispolkom was represented by a multiparty delegation headed by Chkheidze. Rather unexpectedly, the Duma committee raised no objection to most of the terms posed by the Ispolkom, in good measure because they sidestepped the two most controversial issues dividing the liberals from the socialists—namely, the conduct of the war and agrarian reform. In the course of negotiations which lasted well into the night, Miliukov persuaded the socialists to drop the demand to have officers elected by the troops. He also succeeded in altering the demand for the immediate introduction of a “democratic republic,” leaving open the possibility of retaining the monarchy, something he ardently desired.⁸³ The two parties reached agreement on what now became an eight-point program, to be issued in the name of the newly formed “Provisional Council of Ministers” with the approval of the Ispolkom, but without its countersignature. The program was meant to serve as the basis of the government’s activity during the brief period that lay ahead until the convocation of the Constituent Assembly. It called for:

1. Immediate amnesty for all political prisoners, including terrorists;

2. Immediate granting of the freedom of speech, association, and assembly, and the right to strike, as promised by the tsarist government in 1906 but never fully implemented;

3. Immediate abolition of disabilities and privileges due to nationality, religion, or social origin;

4. Immediate preparations for the convocation of a Constituent Assembly, to be elected on a universal, secret, direct, and equal ballot;

5. All police organs to be dissolved and replaced by a militia with elected officers, to be supervised by local government;

6. New elections to organs of local self-government on the basis of universal, direct, equal, and secret vote;

7. Military units that had participated in the Revolution to keep their weapons and to receive assurances they would not be sent to the front;

8. Military discipline in the armed forces to be maintained, but when off duty soldiers were to enjoy the same rights as civilians.⁸⁴

This document, drawn up by exhausted politicians in the middle of the night, was to have the direst consequences. The most pernicious were Points 5 and 6, which in one fell swoop abolished the provincial bureaucracy and police that had traditionally kept the Russian state intact. The organs of self-rule—that is, the zemstva and Municipal Councils—which were to replace them had never borne administrative responsibilities and were not equipped to do so. The result was instant nationwide anarchy: anarchy that the new government liked to blame on the old regime but that was, in fact, largely of its own doing. No revolution anywhere, before or after 1917, wreaked such administrative havoc.

Points 1 and 7 were only slightly less calamitous. It was, of course, impossible for a democratic government to keep in prison or exile political activists confined for their opinions. But the blanket amnesty, which covered terrorists, resulted in Petrograd’s being flooded with the most extreme radicals returned from Siberia and abroad. They traveled at the government’s expense, impatient to subvert it. When the British detained Leon Trotsky in Canada as he was making his way home from New York, Miliukov interceded and secured his release. The Provisional Government would issue entry visas to Lenin and his associates returning from Switzerland, who made no secret of the intention to work for its overthrow. The government thus let loose foes of democracy, some of them in contact with the enemy and financed by him—actions difficult to conceive of a more experienced government. And, finally, by allowing the Petrograd garrison to retain weapons and by pledging not to send it to the front, the new government not only surrendered much authority over 160,000 uniformed men but ensconced in the capital city a disgruntled and armed peasantry whom its enemies could turn against it.

Later on March 2, Iurii Steklov, a Mezhraionets, presented on behalf of the Ispolkom the eight-point accord to the Soviet for approval. It was agreed that the Soviet would appoint a “supervisory committee” (nabliudatel’nyi komitet) to keep an eye on the government. After the changes had been renegotiated, the Provisional Committee announced its assumption of power.* At Miliukov’s request, the Ispolkom appealed to the nation to support the new government. The statement was lukewarm in tone and hedged with conditions: democracy should support the new authority “to the extent” that it carried out its obligations and decisively fought the old regime.⁸⁵

Thus, from the moment of its creation, Russia’s democratic government owed its legitimacy to and functioned at the sufferance of a body of radical intellectuals who, by seizing control of the Soviet executive, had arrogated to themselves the right to speak on behalf of “democracy.” Although this dependence was in some measure conditioned by the need to gain the Soviet’s help in calming the insurgent mobs, the liberals and conservatives who formed the first Provisional Government saw nothing wrong with the arrangement. It is they, after all, who requested from the Ispolkom a declaration in support of the government. They also had few objections to the terms on the basis of which the Ispolkom had consented to back them. According to Miliukov, apart from the two points that had been dropped or revised and Point 7, everything in the declaration drafted by the Ispolkom was not only fully acceptable to the Duma committee or allowed an acceptable interpretation but “flowed directly from the newly formed government’s personal views of its tasks.”⁸⁶ Indeed, the demands that the Ispolkom draft formulated under Points 1, 5, and 6 the Kadets had presented to Stolypin as early as 1906.⁸⁷

The new cabinet was hand-picked by Miliukov. Its composition, agreed upon in the evening of March 2, was as follows:

Chairman of the Council of Ministers and Minister of the Interior: Prince G. E. Lvov Minister of Foreign Affairs: P. N. Miliukov Minister of Justice: A. F. Kerensky Minister of Transport: N. V. Nekrasov Minister of Trade: A. I. Konovalov Minister of Public Instruction: A. A. Manuilov Minister of War: A. I. Guchkov Minister of Agriculture: A. I. Shingarov Minister of Finance: M. I. Tereshchenko Controller of State Accounts: I. V. Godnev Procurator of the Holy Synod: V. N. Lvov

All these roles had long been rehearsed, and the names had appeared in the press in 1915 and 1916. The Duma representatives showed the roster of the proposed cabinet to the Ispolkom and asked for approval, but the latter preferred to leave this matter to the discretion of the “bourgeoisie.”⁸⁸

The fifty-six-year-old Lvov was a well-to-do landlord with long experience in the zemstvo movement. During the war, he had chaired the Union of Zemstva and Municipal Councils (Zemgor). According to Miliukov, he had been chosen to head the cabinet because as chairman of Zemgor he came closest to fulfilling the role of society’s “leader,” but suspicions have been voiced that Miliukov chose him because, aspiring to leadership in the government, he saw in Lvov a convenient figurehead.⁸⁹ A less suitable individual to direct Russia’s affairs in this turbulent era would be hard to conceive. Lvov not only had no experience in public administration, but he professed an extreme form of Populism rooted in an unbounded faith in the sagacity and goodwill of the “people.” He considered central government an unmitigated evil. On assuming office, he declared: “The process of the Great Revolution is not yet completed, yet each day that we live through strengthens our faith in the inexhaustible creative powers of the Russian people, its political wisdom, the greatness of its soul.”⁹⁰ Lvov carried democratic and Populist convictions to the point of anarchism. When during the weeks and months that followed, provincial delegations would come to Petrograd for instruction, he received them with invariable attention and respect, but flatly refused to give them directives. When asked to appoint new governors in place of those whom the government had dismissed, he responded: “This is a question of the old psychology. The Provisional Government has removed the old governors and will appoint no one. Let them be elected locally. Such questions must be solved not in the center but by the population itself.”⁹¹ He carried this principle to extremes, believing that in a genuine democracy all decisions were made by the people concerned,⁹² the function of government presumably being confined to record-keeping. Vladimir Nabokov, the cabinet secretary, writes: “I do not recall a single occasion when [Lvov] used a tone of authority or spoke out decisively and definitively … he was the very embodiment of passivity.”⁹³ Devoid of imagination, he was unaware of the magnitude of the events in the midst of which he found himself. But then what could one expect of a man who on a visit to Niagara Falls could think of nothing better to say than: “Really, now, what of it? A river flows and drops. That’s all.”⁹⁴ He trailed this solemn ennui wherever he went.

Lvov was an utter disaster as Prime Minister, his failure aggravated by the fact that he also took over the Ministry of the Interior. After resigning his post in July, he faded from the picture and in 1926 died in Paris a forgotten man.

42. Prince G. Lvov.

Because he was so ineffectual and bland, he was overshadowed by the two most powerful personalities in the cabinet, Paul Miliukov and Alexander Kerensky, Russia’s best known politicians and bitter rivals.

Born in 1859, Miliukov belonged to an older generation than Kerensky. His major strength lay in inexhaustible energy: he could work round the clock, chairing political meetings and negotiating, and still find the time to write books, edit newspapers, and give lectures. He had a vast store of knowledge—his scholarly studies earned him a secure position as one of Russia’s premier historians. He was also an experienced parliamentarian, neither vain nor emotional. What he totally lacked, and what would wreck his career, was political intuition. Struve said of him that he practiced politics as if it were chess, and if it were, Miliukov would have been a grand master. He would time and again arrive at a political position by the process of deduction and persist in it long after it was obvious to everyone else that it was doomed. As Foreign Minister, his insistence first on retaining the monarchy and then on claiming for Russia Constantinople and the Straits reflected this shortcoming.

Kerensky was Miliukov’s opposite: if his rival was all theory and logic, he was all impulse and emotion. Thanks to his feel for the popular mood, he emerged early as an idol of the Revolution; thanks to his emotionalism, he proved incapable of coping with the responsibilities which he had assumed.

Only thirty-six in February 1917, he had long groomed himself to lead the coming revolution. In youth he had displayed no definite ideology: his biography reveals a man of immense ambition in search of a cause. Eventually, he joined the Socialists-Revolutionaries. He first attracted national attention as a defense lawyer in celebrated political trials (e.g., the Beilis case and that of the Lena workers). In the Fourth Duma, he assumed leadership of the amorphous Trudovik faction and thanks to his rhetorical gifts became the spokesman for the entire left. Police reports made public after the February Revolution revealed that in 1915 and 1916 he had led a double life. Taking advantage of parliamentary immunity, Kerensky had traveled throughout Russia to confer with revolutionaries, whom he sought to organize for subversive purposes.⁹⁵ Long before the Revolution he had been regarded—and regarded himself—as a rising star. Aware of a physical resemblance to the French Emperor, he liked to strike Napoleonic poses. He had great theatrical gifts and resorted to gestures and other devices which cooler heads dismissed as melodrama but which the crowds loved. He could arouse and sway the masses as no one else, but the effect of his rhetoric was short-lived. Contemporaries thought he lacked talent forjudging people, a defect which, combined with an impetuous personality, in the end destroyed him politically.

Kerensky wanted to build his career in revolutionary Russia by providing a unique link between the two elements of the dyarchy, the “bourgeoisie” and “democracy,” and in this ambition he to some extent succeeded. In drawing up the Duma cabinet, Miliukov set aside two portfolios for socialist deputies in the Ispolkom: his hope was that they would provide a bridge between the cabinet and the Soviet. Chkheidze was offered a specially created post of Minister of Labor. Faithful to the resolution of the Ispolkom to stay out of the “bourgeois” cabinet, he declined. Kerensky, on the other hand, was desperately eager to take over the Ministry of Justice: a cabinet post combined with membership on the Ispolkom would put him (after Chkheidze’s refusal) in an unrivaled position as intermediary between the two central institutions of the new regime. He asked the Ispolkom for authorization to join the cabinet. When his request was denied, Kerensky went over the head of the Ispolkom to the “masses.” In an impassioned speech to the Soviet he pledged that as minister he would never betray democratic ideals. “I cannot live without the people,” he shouted in his pathetic manner, “and the moment you come to doubt me, kill me!” Having uttered these words, he made ready to faint. It was pure melodrama, but it worked. The workers and soldiers gave him a rousing ovation and carried him to the room where the Duma Provisional Committee was in session. Unable to stand up to this display of mass approval, the Ispolkom consented to Kerensky’s accepting the Justice portfolio, but it never forgave him for the blackmail.⁹⁶ Kerensky now resigned as deputy chairman of the Soviet, but kept his seat on the Ispolkom. In the months ahead, as the authority of the Provisional Government waned, he inexorably rose to the top by virtue of his dual position.

An urgent responsibility of the Provisional Government was dealing with ex-tsarist officials, both those who had been taken into custody by vigilante groups and those who had turned themselves in to the Duma seeking protection. On February 28 and March 1, hundreds of such individuals crowded the halls and chambers of Taurida. Here, Kerensky, as Minister of Justice, came into his own. He would allow no violence: “The Duma sheds no blood” was the slogan he launched and managed to make good on in the face of ugly mobs ready to lynch those whom he himself only weeks before had denounced as traitors. He rescued high tsarist officials from certain death by having them taken into custody. Sometimes he personally snatched them from the hands of mobs bent on murder, including Protopopov and Sukhomlinov. He ordered the officials transferred to the Ministerial Pavilion, located next to Taurida and linked to it by a protected passageway. They sat here, under heavy guard, with strict orders not to converse. During the night of March 1–2, with a show of force to impress the crowds, they were transferred to the Peter and Paul Fortress: the diminutive Protopopov seemed shrunk still smaller from terror as he was driven with a guard’s gun pressed to his head. When space in the fortress ran out, the overflow was put into Mikhailovskii Manege. It is estimated that in the first days of the Revolution, 4,000 persons were arrested or placed in protective custody. Many of them would perish in the Bolshevik “Red Terror.”

43. Alexander Kerensky.

The February Revolution was relatively bloodless. The total number of killed and wounded has been estimated at between 1,300 and 1,450, of whom 169 were fatalities. Most of the deaths occurred at the naval bases in Kronshtadt and Helsinki, where anarchist sailors lynched officers, often on suspicion of “espionage” because of their German-sounding surnames.*

The position of the government was unenviable. It had to share power with the Soviet, controlled by radicals determined to advance the revolution and prepared, in the name of social ideals, to sabotage the very war they wanted to pursue. Nor did it have a clear notion of its function. Ostensibly, it was a mere caretaker government, put in place to keep the country together until the convocation of the Constituent Assembly. “They believe that authority has fallen from the hands of the legal government,” Zinaida Gippius noted in her diary on March 2, “they have picked it up, will safeguard it, and will turn it over to the new legal authority which will bear no resemblance whatever to the old.”⁹⁷ But this attitude proved entirely impractical because the government was at once beset by a multitude of problems that would not wait. In other words, it suffered not only from having to share power with another body but also from confusion as to how to use the power that it was allowed to claim.

Although the Provisional Government had cleared its personnel and program with the Ispolkom, the latter felt no obligation to reciprocate and from the outset legislated on its own. The most striking example of such independence is the notorious Order No. 1, which it issued on March 1 without consulting the Duma, although it concerned the most vital institution of the country in time of war, its armed forces.

One of the myths of the Russian Revolution is that Order No. 1 was dictated by a crowd of grubby soldiers. Sukhanov has left a vivid picture of the Social-Democratic lawyer N. D. Sokolov seated at a table in Taurida and writing down the demands of the troops. There even exists a photograph which seems to lend visual credibility to this version of the order’s origins.† Closer scrutiny, however, reveals that the document had a less spontaneous origin. It was initially formulated, not by rank-and-file soldiers, but by civilians and garrison delegates picked by the Ispolkom, some of them officers and most of them affiliated with the socialist parties. Shliapnikov leaves no doubt that the principal clauses of Order No. 1 were formulated by socialist intellectuals, eager to secure a dominant influence over the garrison.⁹⁸ Although the order reflected some genuine soldier grievances, it was first and foremost a political manifesto. Its authors were well versed in the history of revolutions and aware that traditionally the principal counterrevolutionary threat came from the armed forces. Determined not to allow this to happen in Russia, they wanted to reduce the authority of the officers over the troops and to keep weapons out of their hands. Martynov notes that from the first day of the Revolution the Provisional Government and the Ispolkom engaged in a tug-of-war over the army:

44. N. D. Sokolov drafting Order No. 1: March 1, 1917.

The Provisional Government leaned on the commanding staff and officers, whereas the Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies leaned on the rank-and-file. The celebrated Order No. 1 was, as it were, a wedge inserted into the body of the army, after which it split and began rapidly to fall apart.⁹⁹

The Ispolkom exploited soldiers’ complaints over their ill treatment by officers as a means of subverting the authority of the officer staff, which was not something the troops asked for. Suffice it to say that of the seven articles in Order No. 1 only the last two addressed themselves to the status of the men in uniform; the remainder dealt with the role of the armed forces under the new regime and had as their purpose depriving the “bourgeois” government of the opportunity to use them as Cavaignac had done in 1848 and Thiers in 1871. Some rank-and-file soldiers and sailors had no difficulty understanding this. A sailor, appropriately named Pugachev, who dropped in at the Merezhkovskiis’ after having taken part in the vote on Order No. 1, told them: “Educated folk will read it differently. But we understood it straight: disarm the officers.”¹⁰⁰

The order was addressed to the “Garrison of the Petrograd Military District,” but it was immediately interpreted as applicable to all the armed forces, at the front as well as in the rear.¹⁰¹ Article 1 called for the election in every military unit, from company to regiment, as well as in the navy, of “committees” modeled on the soviets. Article 2 provided for every company to elect one representative to the Petrograd Soviet. Article 3 stated that in respect to all political actions, members of the armed forces were subordinated to the Petrograd Soviet and their committees. Article 4 gave the Petrograd Soviet the authority to countermand orders of the Provisional Government bearing on military matters. Article 5 stipulated that control over all military equipment (rifles, machine guns, armored vehicles, etc.) was to be assumed by company and battalion committees; they were not to be turned over to officers under any conditions. Article 6 accorded off-duty soldiers the same rights as civilians, relieving them of the obligation of saluting and standing at attention. Article 7 abolished the practice of addressing officers by honorary titles and forbade officers to speak to soldiers in a rude or familiar manner.

45. Political meeting at the front: Summer 1917.

It is difficult to believe that when the Ispolkom approved Order No. 1 and distributed it to the armed forces, it did not realize the consequences. It is equally difficult to believe that in approving this extraordinary document it thought it was merely responding to soldier complaints. The order’s inevitable effect was to subvert the authority of the government and the officer corps over the armed forces. As soon as it came to be known to the troops, they formed everywhere, at the front and in the rear, military “committees”: army committees, corps committees, divisional committees, as well as regimental, battalion, and company committees, a bewildering array of overlapping groups. Those functioning at the lower levels (company, battalion, and regiment) were ordinarily staffed by rank-and-file soldiers and resembled, in their structure and procedures, urban soviets. But those operating at the higher echelons immediately fell under the control of Menshevik, Bolshevik, and SR intellectuals, often recently commissioned university students, who used them to advance their political agenda—a military equivalent of the Executive Committee of the Petrograd Soviet. At every military level there now took place endless meetings with interminable discussions, followed by a flood of mandatory “resolutions.” Senior officers came to be treated as class enemies: as their authority waned, the chain of command broke down.

No less damaging was Article 4, which read: “The orders of the Military Commission of the State Duma are to be carried out only in those instances when they do not contradict the orders and resolutions of the Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies.” This clause struck at the very heart of the government’s responsibility for the conduct of the war. The Ispolkom viewed itself as in charge of the armed forces and the Minister of War as its employee: on one occasion (March 6) it even complained that the Minister of War was “disinclined to subordinate himself” to the decisions of the Soviet.¹⁰²

Guchkov, who learned of Order No. 1 only after its publication, sought in vain to have the Soviet retract it. The best he could get was to have the Ispolkom issue Order No. 2, which only compounded the damage. Guchkov wanted the Soviet to state unequivocally that Order No. 1 applied only to the troops in the rear. But Order No. 2, issued on March 5, did not say that. It dealt mainly with the question whether officers should be elected by their men and conveyed the impression that the Ispolkom approved of such a procedure. Nowhere did it state that Order No. 1 did not apply to front-line troops.¹⁰³

On March 9, less than two weeks after the new government had been formed, Guchkov cabled General Alekseev:

The Provisional Government has no real power of any kind and its orders are carried out only to the extent that this is permitted by the Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies, which controls the most essential strands of actual power, insofar as the troops, railroads, [and] postal and telegraph services are in its hands. One can assert bluntly that the Provisional Government exists only as long as it is permitted to do so by the Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies. In particular, in the military department, it is possible at present to issue only such orders as basically do not contradict the decisions of the above-mentioned Soviet.¹⁰⁴

The monarchy played no part in these critical events. Nicholas’s last order of any consequence was his February 25 instruction demanding the suppression of street disorders. Once this order proved unenforceable, the monarchy ceased to matter. After that date, it not only lost control over events but receded into the background as the political conflict began to revolve around the relationship between the Duma and the Soviet.

However, after the Provisional Government had come into being, the question of the monarchy’s future acquired great urgency. Some ministers wanted to retain the monarchy on a strictly limited, constitutional basis. Proponents of this position, mainly Miliukov and Guchkov, felt that some sort of monarchical presence was essential, in part because to the Russian masses the Crown symbolized the “state” and in part because in a multinational empire it was the main supranational, unifying institution. Their opponents argued that the anti-monarchist passions of the crowds had made it unrealistic to expect the monarchy to survive in any form.

The monarchy’s prestige in Russia had reached a nadir in the winter of 1916–17 when even committed monarchists turned against it. Guchkov, for all his royalist sentiments, had to admit that in the first days of the Revolution, “around the throne, there was an utter vacuum.” And Shulgin noted on February 27: “in this whole immense city one could not find a few hundred men sympathetic to the government.”¹⁰⁵ The significance of this fact can scarcely be overestimated: it exerted a critical influence not only on the outbreak of the Revolution but on its whole subsequent course. Centuries of historical experience had inculcated in Russians—that is, the mass of peasants, workers, and soldiers—the habit of viewing the tsar as the khoziain or proprietor of the country. This notion prevented them from conceiving of sovereignty as something distinct from the person of the sovereign. Russia without a true—that is, “terrible” or “awesome”—tsar, let alone without any tsar, in the people’s minds was a contradiction in terms: for them it was the person of the tsar that defined and gave reality to the state, not the other way around. The decline in the prestige of tsardom which had occurred after the turn of the century, as a result of the monarchy’s inability to suppress the opposition and its ultimate surrender of autocratic authority, lowered in their eyes the prestige of the state and its government as well. Without its khoziain, the country, as the people understood it, fell apart and ceased to exist, just as a peasant household fell apart and ceased to exist upon the death of its bol’shak. When this happened, Russia reverted to its original “Cossack” constitution of universal volia, or liberty, understood in the sense of unbridled license, in which the will of the commune was the only acknowledged authority.

In view of this tradition, one might have expected the mass of the population to favor the retention of the monarchy. But at this particular historic juncture two factors militated against such a stand.

The peasantry remained monarchist. Nevertheless, in early 1917 it was not averse to an interlude of anarchy, sensing that it would provide a chance finally to carry out a nationwide “Black Repartition.” Indeed, between the spring of 1917 and the spring of 1918, the communal peasantry would seize and distribute among themselves virtually all the land in private possession. Once this process was completed, its traditional monarchist sentiments would reassert themselves, but then it would be too late.

The other consideration had to do with the fear of punishment on the part of the Petrograd populace, especially the troops. The February events could be seen in different ways: as a glorious revolution or as a sordid military mutiny. If the monarchy survived, even though constitutionally circumscribed, it was likely to view the actions of the Petrograd garrison as mutiny:

The half-conscious revulsion against the monarchy among the [Petrograd] masses seems to have been motivated by a sense of apprehension over what had been done … a revolution that ended with the reestablishment of the old dynasty would essentially turn into a rebellion, participation in which … carried the risk of retribution.¹⁰⁶

When he arrived in Pskov on March 1, Nicholas had no thought of abdicating. On the contrary, he was determined to reassert his authority by force; in his diary the preceding day he noted that he had sent General Ivanov to Petrograd “to introduce [vodvorit’] order.” But in Pskov he fell under the influence of opinions which touched him where he was the most sensitive: his patriotism and love of the army. From a conversation with General Ruzskii shortly after arrival and throughout the twenty-four hours that followed, Nicholas heard from everyone that as long as he remained tsar Russia could not win the war. Nicholas discounted the opinion of politicians as self-serving, but he paid heed to the generals. As the Hughes telegraph at the Northern Front headquarters registered telegram after telegram from the military commanders urging him, for the sake of the country and its armed forces, first to allow the Duma to form the cabinet and then to abdicate, his resolve weakened. Alexandra anticipated the effects of such pressures on him and on March 2 urged him not to sign a “constitution” or some such “horror” (uzhas). She added:

If you are compelled to make concessions, then you are under no conditions obliged to fulfill them, because they have been extracted in an unworthy manner.¹⁰⁷

General Alekseev, who in the Tsar’s absence from Mogilev assumed the duties of Commander in Chief, had sound practical reasons to be worried by the news from Petrograd: the continuation of strikes and mutinies in the capital city threatened to disrupt the railway service and halt the flow of supplies to the front.¹⁰⁸ In the longer run there was the danger of the mutiny spreading to front-line troops. In the morning of February 28 he concluded that there was no hope of suppressing the Petrograd mutiny by force because Khabalov had wired that he had only 1,100 loyal troops left and even they were running out of ammunition.¹⁰⁹ In these circumstances he saw no way of saving the front from collapse other than by granting the political concessions urged by Rodzianko. Having learned of the spread of disorders to Moscow, on March 1 he cabled the Tsar:

A revolution in Russia—and this is inevitable once disorders occur in the rear—will mean a disgraceful termination of the war, with all its inevitable consequences, so dire for Russia. The army is most intimately connected with the life of the rear. It may be confidently stated that disorders in the rear will produce the same result among the armed forces. It is impossible to ask the army calmly to wage war while a revolution is in progress in the rear. The youthful makeup of the present army and its officer staff, among whom a very high percentage consist of reservists and commissioned university students, gives no grounds for assuming that the army will not react to events occurring in Russia.

Insofar as the Duma was trying to restore order in the rear, Alekseev continued, it should be given the opportunity to form a cabinet of national confidence.¹¹⁰ He followed this cable with the draft of a manifesto prepared, at his request, by N. A. Basily, the chief of the diplomatic chancellery at headquarters,¹¹¹ in which Nicholas empowered the Duma to form a cabinet. Alekseev’s recommendation was endorsed by Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich, the Inspector of Artillery and the Tsar’s cousin once removed.

Around 10 p.m., while these messages were en route, Nicholas received General Ruzskii. In response to the Tsar’s request that he give free expression to his opinions, Ruzskii came out in support of a Duma cabinet. Having heard him out, Nicholas explained why he disagreed. As Ruzskii later recounted:

The sovereign’s basic thought was that he wished nothing for himself, in his own interest, that he held on to nothing, but that he did not feel he had the right to transfer the entire task of administering Russia into the hands of people who, being in power today, could inflict grievous harm on the fatherland and tomorrow wash their hands, “handing in their resignation.” “I am accountable to God and Russia for all that has happened and will happen,” the sovereign said. “It is a matter of no consequence that the ministers will be responsible to the Duma and State Council. If I see that they are not acting for Russia’s good, I will never be able to agree with them, consoling myself with the thought that this is not the work of my hands, not my responsibility.”

When Ruzskii urged the Tsar to adopt the formula “The sovereign reigns and the government rules,” Nicholas said that

this formula was incomprehensible to him, that he would have had to be differently brought up, to be reborn.… The Tsar, with remarkable lucidity, ran through the opinions of all those who could, in the near future, administer Russia in the capacity of ministers responsible to the [legislative] chambers, and expressed the conviction that the civic activists who would undoubtedly form the first cabinet had no administrative experience and, having been entrusted with the burden of authority, would prove unable to cope with their task.¹¹²

The conversation with Ruzskii ended around 11:30 p.m., at which time Nicholas was handed Alekseev’s cable with Basily’s draft manifesto. The documents from the highest officer in the armed forces made on him a deep impression. After retiring for a few minutes, Nicholas recalled Ruzskii and told him he had made two decisions. Ruzskii was to inform Rodzianko and Alekseev that he would yield and allow the Duma to form a cabinet. The second order concerned Ivanov. He was to be sent a message reading: “Until my arrival and receipt of your report, please undertake no action.”*

With these instructions, Nicholas gave up the idea of suppressing the Petrograd disorders and took the path of political conciliation. He hoped that his concessions would, in time, have the same calming effect on the country as the Manifesto of October 17, 1905.*

The date was March 2, the time 1 a.m. Nicholas retired to his sleeping car, but he stayed awake through the night, tormented by doubts whether his concessions would work and by worries about his family: “My thoughts and feelings are all the time there,” he wrote in the diary, “how hard it must be on poor Alix to go through all this by herself.” He was still awake at 5:15 a.m.¹¹³ Ruzskii contacted Rodzianko at 3:30 a.m. Their conversation, which lasted four hours, was to have a decisive influence on Nicholas’s decision to abdicate, because from it Ruzskii and, through him, the other commanding generals learned how desperate the situation in Petrograd had grown and realized that the manifesto granting the Duma the power to form a ministry had come too late.¹¹⁴ They, in turn, exerted on Nicholas pressures to abdicate.

Ruzskii advised Rodzianko that the Tsar had consented to the formation of a cabinet appointed by and responsible to the legislature. Rodzianko responded:

It is obvious that His Majesty and you do not realize what is going on here. One of the most terrible revolutions has broken out, which it will not be so easy to quell.… The troops are completely demoralized, they not only disobey but kill their officers. Hatred of Her Majesty has reached extreme limits.… I must inform you that what you propose is no longer adequate, and the dynastic question has been raised point-blank.

In response to Ruzskii’s request for clarification, Rodzianko answered that

troops everywhere are joining the Duma and the people and there is a definite, terrible demand for abdication in favor of the [Tsar’s] son under a regency of Michael Aleksandrovich.†

He recommended that the dispatch of front-line troops to Petrograd be halted “since they will not move against the people.”

As Ruzskii conversed with Rodzianko, the tapes of their exchange were passed on to telegraphists to be forwarded to Alekseev. Alekseev was stunned by what he read. At 9 a.m. (March 2), he wired to Pskov a request that the Tsar be awakened at once (“All etiquette must be set aside”) and shown the Ruzskii-Rodzianko tapes—at stake was the fate not only of the Tsar but of the dynasty and Russia herself.¹¹⁵ A general on the other end of the Hughes telegraph responded that the Tsar had just fallen asleep and that Ruzskii was scheduled to report to him in an hour.

Alekseev and the other generals at headquarters now decided that there was no alternative. Nicholas would have to follow Rodzianko’s advice and abdicate.¹¹⁶ But Alekseev knew the Tsar well enough to realize that he would do so only under the pressure of the military command. So he took it upon himself to communicate the text of the Ruzskii-Rodzianko conversation to the commanders of the fronts and fleets. He accompanied it with a personal recommendation that Nicholas step down in favor of Alexis and Michael, in order to save the armed forces, make it possible to pursue the war, and safeguard Russia’s national integrity as well as the dynasty. He requested the recipients to communicate their views directly to Pskov, with copies to himself.¹¹⁷

Ruzskii reported to Nicholas at 10:45 a.m. bearing the tapes of his conversation with Rodzianko. Nicholas read them in silence. Having finished, he went to the window of his railway car and stood motionless, looking out. When he turned around, he said that he would consider Rodzianko’s recommendation. He added that he thought the people would not understand such a move, that the Old Believers would not forgive him for betraying the coronation oath and the Cossacks for abandoning the front.¹¹⁸ He affirmed

his strong conviction that he had been born for misfortune, that he brought Russia great misfortune. He said that he had realized clearly the night before that no manifesto [about the Duma ministry] would be of help.… “If it is necessary, for Russia’s welfare, that I step aside, I am prepared to do so.”¹¹⁹

At this point, Ruzskii was handed the cable from Alekseev requesting his opinion of Alekseev’s recommendation that Nicholas abdicate. Ruzskii read the message aloud to the Tsar.¹²⁰

Around 2 p.m., Pskov was in receipt of the army commanders’ responses to Alekseev’s cable. All agreed with Alekseev. Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich begged the Tsar “on his knees” to give up the crown to save Russia and the dynasty. General A. E. Evert, who commanded the Western Front, and General A. A. Brusilov, in charge of the Southwestern Front, concurred. General V. V. Sakharov of the Romanian Front thought the Provisional Government “a gang of bandits” but he, too, saw no way of avoiding abdication.*

Ruzskii called on Nicholas again, between 2 and 3:00 p.m., accompanied by Generals Iu. N. Danilov and S. S. Savvich and bearing the cables from Nikolai Nikolaevich and the other front commanders.¹²¹ After perusing them, Nicholas requested the three generals to state their frank opinion. They responded, with much emotion, that in their view, too, the Tsar had no choice but to step down. After a moment of silence, Nicholas crossed himself and said that he was prepared to do so. The generals also made the sign of the cross. Nicholas then retired, reappearing a quarter of an hour later (at 3:05 p.m.) with two messages that he had written by hand on telegraphic blanks, one addressed to Rodzianko, the other to Alekseev. The first read:

There is no sacrifice that I would not make for the sake of the true well-being and salvation of our Mother Russia. For that reason, I am prepared to renounce the throne in favor of My Son, with the understanding that He will remain with Me until attaining maturity, and that My Brother, Michael Aleksandrovich, will serve as Regent.¹²²

The cable to Alekseev was essentially the same except that it made no mention of the regency.¹²³

Nicholas requested headquarters to draft an abdication manifesto. Alekseev entrusted the task to Basily. Drawing on the Code of Laws, Basily drafted the text, which at 7:40 p.m. was wired to Pskov for the Tsar’s signature.¹²⁴

All the evidence indicates that Nicholas abdicated from patriotic motives: the wish to spare Russia a humiliating defeat and to save her armed forces from disintegration. The argument which swayed him was the unanimous opinion of the commanders of the disparate fronts, especially the cable from Nikolai Nikolaevich.* No less significant is the fact that Nicholas carried on talks about his abdication, not with the Duma and its Provisional Government, but with General Alekseev, as if to emphasize that he was abdicating to the armed forces and at their request. If Nicholas’s foremost concern had been with preserving his throne he would have quickly made peace with Germany and used front-line troops to crush the rebellion in Petrograd and Moscow. He chose instead, to give up the crown to save the front.

Although Nicholas showed no emotion throughout this ordeal, abdication was for him an immense sacrifice: not because he craved either the substance of power or its trappings—the one he thought a heavy burden, the other a tedious imposition—but because he felt that by this action he was betraying his oath to God and country.¹²⁵

His trials were not yet over. At the very instant when he was signing the pledge to abdicate, in Petrograd two delegates from the Provisional Committee, Shulgin and Guchkov, were boarding a special train bound for Pskov. They carried their own draft of an abdication manifesto, hoping to extract from Nicholas what, unknown to them, he had already conceded. They were sent by the Provisional Committee, which had decided the preceding night that it required the Tsar’s abdication to begin functioning. The hope of the government was that by acting swiftly it could present the country with a new tsar, the child Alexis, before the Soviet proclaimed Russia a republic.

As he was leaving the Imperial train, Ruzskii was told that Shulgin and Guchkov were on their way. He informed Nicholas and was requested to return the cables to Rodzianko and Alekseev. Ruzskii thought that the two deputies, both known monarchists, could be carrying a message from the Duma that would enable Nicholas to retain the throne.¹²⁶

While awaiting their arrival, Nicholas sent for Professor S. P. Fedorov, the Court physician, to inquire about the prospects of Alexis’s recovery. He told Fedorov of Rasputin’s prediction that upon reaching the age of thirteen—that is, in 1917—Alexis would be completely cured. Was that correct? The physician responded that such a recovery would be a miracle, for medicine knew of no cure for hemophilia. Even so, Alexis could live for many years. He further expressed the personal opinion that it would be inconceivable that after abdicating Nicholas would be permitted to keep his son, now installed as tsar, with him, because he would almost certainly be required to go into exile abroad.¹²⁷ On hearing this, Nicholas changed his mind. He would not part with the boy: therefore, instead of abdicating in favor of Alexis he would hand the crown to Michael.

This impulsive decision was the last gasp of the patrimonial spirit, a reflex that showed how deeply this mentality was still embedded in the Russian monarchy. The order of succession was clearly established: according to Russian constitutional law, the crown automatically descended to the reigning tsar’s eldest son, even if he was a minor and unable to rule.¹²⁸ Nicholas had no authority to abdicate on his son’s behalf and appoint Michael successor: “The Russian throne [was] not the emperor’s private property nor his patrimony [votchina] to dispose of according to his own free will.”¹²⁹ The choice of Michael was doubly irregular in that Michael, having taken for his wife a commoner who was twice married and once divorced, had disqualified himself from the succession in any event.

Shulgin and Guchkov arrived in Pskov at 9:45 p.m. and were immediately taken to the Imperial train. Both were unshaven and dressed in rumpled clothes: Shulgin is said to have looked like a convict.¹³⁰ In the presence of Ruzskii, Count Fredericks, and General Naryshkin, who kept notes, Guchkov presented a somber account of the situation in the capital. Avoiding Nicholas’s eyes, his own fixed on the table before him, he stressed the danger of unrest spilling to the frontline troops and the futility of dispatching punitive expeditions. He insisted that the mutiny was spontaneous: Khabalov’s assistant told him that the troops joined the rebels immediately. According to Ruzskii, Nicholas was shattered when told that his own Guard unit participated in the mutiny: after that, he barely listened to Guchkov.¹³¹ Guchkov went on to say that the Petrograd crowds were passionately anti-monarchist, blaming the Crown for Russia’s recent misfortunes. This called for a drastic change in the manner in which the government was run. The Provisional Committee had been constituted to restore order, especially in the armed forces, but this move had to be accompanied by further changes. The difficulty of having Nicholas keep the throne lay not only in the animosity of the populace toward him and his wife but also in its fear of retribution: “All the workers and soldiers who had taken part in the disorders,” Guchkov said, “are convinced that the retention [vodvorenie] of the old dynasty means punishment, for which reason a complete change is necessary.”¹³² Guchkov concluded that the best solution would be for Nicholas to abdicate in favor of his son and appoint Michael Regent: such was the opinion of the Provisional Committee. This step, if promptly taken, could save Russia and the dynasty.

Shulgin, who kept his eyes on Nicholas as his colleague was speaking, says that the Tsar displayed no emotion. When Guchkov finished, he responded, “calmly, as if it were an everyday matter,” that he had made up his mind earlier in the day to lay down the crown in favor of his son, “but now, having thought the situation over, I have decided that in view of [my son’s illness] I must abdicate simultaneously for him also, since I cannot be separated from him.”¹³³ The crown would pass to Michael. This news left Guchkov and Shulgin speechless. When they recovered from the shock, the legal question was raised: was such procedure legitimate? Since no lawyers were present, it was held in abeyance. Shulgin and Guchkov expressed the opinion that quite apart from the legality of the matter, the assumption of the throne by the young Alexis would have a much better effect on the public: “A beautiful myth could have been created around this innocent and pure child,” Guchkov thought to himself, “his charm would have helped to calm the anger of the masses.”¹³⁴

But Nicholas would not yield. He retired to his private car, where he remained for twenty minutes, in the course of which he revised the abdication manifesto so as to designate Michael his successor. At Guchkov and Shulgin’s request he inserted a phrase asking his brother to take an oath to work in “union” with the legislature. The time was 11:50 p.m., but Nicholas had the document read 3:05 p.m., when he had made the original decision, to avoid giving the impression he had surrendered the throne under the Duma’s pressure.

HEADQUARTERS Copies to all Commanders

To the Chief of Staff

In the days of the great struggle against the external enemy, who has striven for nearly three years to enslave our homeland, the Lord God has willed to subject Russia to yet another heavy trial. The popular disturbances which have broken out threaten to have a calamitous effect on the further conduct of the hard-fought war. The fate of Russia, the honor of our heroic army, the welfare of the people, the whole future of our beloved Fatherland demand that the war be brought at all costs to a victorious conclusion. The cruel foe exerts his last efforts and the time is near when our valiant army, together with our glorious allies, will decisively overcome him. In these decisive days in Russia’s life, WE have deemed it our duty in conscience to OUR nation to draw closer together and to unite all the national forces for the speediest attainment of victory. In agreement with the State Duma, WE have acknowledged it as beneficial to renounce the throne of the Russian state and lay down Supreme authority. Not wishing to separate OURSELVES from OUR beloved SON, WE hand over OUR succession to OUR Brother, the Grand Duke MICHAEL ALEK-SANDROVICH, and give Him OUR BLESSING to ascend the throne of the Russian State. We command OUR Brother to conduct the affairs of state in complete and inviolate union with the representatives of the nation in the legislative institutions on such principles as they will establish, and to swear to this an inviolate oath. In the name of OUR deeply beloved homeland, WE call on all true sons of the Fatherland to fulfill their sacred duty to It by obeying the Tsar in the difficult moment of national trials and to help HIM, together with the representatives of the people, lead the Russian State to victory, prosperity, and glory. May the Lord God help Russia.

Pskov, 2 March 1917

15 hours 5 minutes Nicholas

[Correct]

The Minister of the Imperial Household,

Vladimir Borisovich, Count Fredericks¹³⁵

Two features of this historic document, which ended the three-hundred-year-old reign of the Romanovs, call for comment. One is that the abdication instrument was addressed, not to the Duma and its Provisional Committee, the de facto government of Russia, but to the chief of staff of the armed forces, General Alekseev. Apparently, in Nicholas’s eyes the army command was the one remaining bearer of sovereignty. The second feature, which would be repeated in Nicholas’s farewell address to the armed forces on March 7, was his acknowledgment that Russia was now a constitutional monarchy in the full sense of the word: the abdication instrument provided for the Duma to determine the new constitutional order and the role of the Crown in it.

While a copy of the abdication manifesto was being drawn up for the Duma deputies to take to Petrograd, Nicholas at their request wrote by hand two instructions to the Senate. In one, he appointed Prince Lvov Chairman of the Council of Ministers: this had the effect of legitimizing the Provisional Committee. According to Guchkov, after agreeing to Lvov’s appointment, Nicholas asked what service rank he held. When Guchkov responded that he did not know, Nicholas smiled;¹³⁶ he found it difficult to conceive that a private person, without status on the Table of Ranks, could chair the cabinet. In the other instruction, he appointed Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich his successor as Commander in Chief.¹³⁷ Although the actual time was midnight, both documents were dated 2 p.m., in order to precede the abdication.

This done, Nicholas told Shulgin that he intended to spend several days at headquarters, then visit his mother in Kiev, following which he would rejoin the family at Tsarskoe Selo, staying there until the children had recovered from measles.* The three documents were dispatched to Mogilev by courier for immediate release. Then the Imperial train departed for the same destination. In his diary, Nicholas wrote: “Left Pskov at 1 a.m. with oppressive feelings about events. All around treason and cowardice and deception.” The next day, en route to headquarters, he read “a great deal about Julius Caesar.”

The news of Nicholas’s abdication spread quickly, reaching Tsarskoe Selo in the afternoon of the following day. Alexandra at first refused to believe it: she said that she could not imagine her husband acting in such a hurry. When, in the evening, the rumors were confirmed, she explained that “the Emperor had preferred to abdicate the crown rather than to break the oath which he had made at his coronation to maintain and transfer to his heir the autocracy such as he had inherited from his father.” Then she cried.¹³⁸

In the context of the political situation of the time, Nicholas’s abdication was anticlimactic, since he had been effectively deposed a few days earlier by Petrograd mobs. But in the broader context of Russian political life, it was an act of the utmost significance. For one, Russia’s political and military officials swore the oath of loyalty to the person of the Tsar. By abdicating, Nicholas absolved them from their oath and their duties. Until and unless Michael assumed the throne, therefore, Russian bureaucrats and officers were left to shift for themselves, without a sovereign authority to obey. Second, since the masses of the Russian population were accustomed to identify the person of the monarch with the state and the government, the withdrawal of the monarch spelled to them the dissolution of the Empire.

Shulgin and Guchkov left for Petrograd, at 3:00 a.m. Before departing, they cabled the contents of the three Imperial documents to the government. The abdication manifesto threw the cabinet into disarray: no one had expected Nicholas to abdicate in favor of his brother. The Provisional Committee, fearing that the release of the manifesto as signed by Nicholas would set off even more violent riots, decided, for the time being, to withhold publication.

The committee spent what was left of the night heatedly debating what to do next. The chief protagonists were Miliukov and Kerensky. Miliukov argued on grounds he had often spelled out, that it was essential to retain the monarchy in some form. Kerensky dissented: whatever the merits of Miliukov’s historic and constitutional argument, in view of the mood of the populace such a course was unfeasible. The cabinet sided with Kerensky. It was agreed as soon as possible to arrange a meeting with Michael to persuade him to renounce the crown. Rodzianko conveyed the news to Alekseev and Ruzskii, requesting them for the time being to keep Nicholas’s abdication manifesto confidential.¹³⁹

Under different circumstances, Michael might have made a suitable candidate for the role of a constitutional tsar. Born in 1878, from 1899 to 1904 he was the heir apparent. He disqualified himself in 1912 from any future role in this capacity by marrying in Vienna a divorcée without the Tsar’s permission. For this action, his person and property were placed under guardianship; he was prohibited from returning to Russia and dismissed from the army. Nicholas later relented, readmitted him to the country, and allowed his wife, N. S. Vulfert, to assume the title of Countess Brasova. During the war, Michael served in the Caucasus as commander of the Savage Division and the Second Caucasian Corps. He was a gentle, modest person, not much interested in politics, as weak and irresolute as his elder brother. Though he was in Petrograd during the February Revolution, he proved quite useless to the Duma leaders, who sought his help in restoring order.

46. Grand Duke Michael.

At 6 a.m. the Provisional Committee telephoned Michael at the residence of his friend Prince Putianin, where he happened to be staying. He was told of Nicholas’s decision to pass to him the throne and requested to meet with the cabinet. Michael was both surprised and annoyed with his brother for having placed such responsibilities on him without prior consultation. The encounter between Michael and the cabinet was delayed until later in the morning, apparently because the ministers wanted to hear Shulgin and Guchkov’s report on their mission to Pskov. The two, however, were delayed and reached the Putianin residence just as the meeting was about to begin.¹⁴⁰

Speaking for the majority of the cabinet, Rodzianko told Michael that if he accepted the crown a violent rising would erupt in a matter of hours and, following it, a civil war. The government, without reliable troops at its disposal, could promise nothing. The question of the monarchy was, therefore, best left to the Constituent Assembly to determine. Kerensky spoke in the same vein. Miliukov presented the dissenting opinion, which only Guchkov supported. Refusal to accept the crown would spell the ruin of Russia, he said in a voice hoarse from days of incessant speaking, and continued:

The strong authority required to reestablish order calls for support from a symbol of authority to which the masses are accustomed. Without a monarch, the Provisional Government alone becomes an unseaworthy vessel [utlaia ladia] liable to sink in the ocean of mass unrest. Under these conditions, the country is threatened with the complete loss of the sense of statehood.¹⁴¹

Kerensky broke in:

P. N. Miliukov is wrong. By accepting the throne you will not save Russia! Quite the contrary. I know the mood of the masses … the monarchy now is powerfully resented … The question will cause bloody discord. I beg of you, in the name of Russia, to make this sacrifice.¹⁴²

In an attempt to reconcile the opposing parties and save something of the monarchic principle, Guchkov proposed that Michael assume the title of Regent.¹⁴³

Around 1:00 p.m., Michael, who had listened to these disagreements with growing impatience, expressed a wish to retire for a private talk with Rodzianko. Everyone assented, but Kerensky wanted assurances that the Grand Duke would not communicate with his wife, who had a reputation as a political intriguer. Smiling, Michael assured Kerensky that his wife was at their residence at Gatchina. According to Rodzianko, the main question which Michael posed to him when they were alone was whether the Duma could guarantee his personal safety: Rodzianko’s negative answer decided the issue.¹⁴⁴

When he returned Michael told the ministers that he had made the unalterable decision to abide by the will of the government majority and refuse the crown unless and until the Constituent Assembly were to offer it to him. Then he burst into tears. Kerensky exclaimed: “Your Highness! You are a most noble person. From now on, I shall say this everywhere!”¹⁴⁵

Two jurists, Vladimir Nabokov and Boris Nolde, were sent for to draft Michael’s manifesto renouncing the crown. They spent the afternoon on the task, with occasional assistance from the Grand Duke, who insisted that they stress his desire to abide by the will of the Constituent Assembly. At 6 p.m. the handwritten document was submitted for his signature:

A heavy burden has been placed on Me by the will of My Brother, who has handed Me the Imperial Throne at a time of unprecedented war and popular disturbances.

Inspired by the same thought that permeates the nation, that the well-being of our Fatherland is the supreme good, I have taken the firm decision to accept Sovereign Authority only in the event that such will be the desire of our great nation, which, by means of a national referendum, through its representatives in the Constituent Assembly, is to determine the form of government and the new constitution of the Russian State.

For this reason, calling on the Lord to give us His blessing, I request all Russian citizens to submit to the Provisional Government, created on the initiative of the State Duma and endowed with full authority until such time as the Constituent Assembly, convened with the greatest possible speed on the basis of universal, direct, equal, and secret vote, shall, with its decision concerning the form of government, give expression to the people’s will.¹⁴⁶

Michael signed the document and handed it to Rodzianko, who embraced him and called him the “noblest of men.”

The following day, March 4, the two abdication manifestos—the one from Nicholas in his and his son’s name, the other from Michael—were published on the same broadsheet. According to eyewitnesses, their appearance was joyfully welcomed by the population.¹⁴⁷

Was Miliukov right? Could Michael have saved the country from bloodshed and anarchy had he followed his counsel rather than that of the majority? This is doubtful. The argument that the Russian masses understood statehood only in association with the person of the Tsar was indubitably valid. But this theoretical consideration had been temporarily eclipsed by the mood of the masses, their sense of having been betrayed by the monarchy, to which no one had contributed more than Miliukov himself with his November 1, 1916, Duma speech. Russia would be again ready for the monarchy only after a year of anarchy and Bolshevik terror.

Like the rest of the Imperial family, Michael now withdrew into private life.

The intellectuals who formed Russia’s government had been preparing themselves for this task for many years. It is quite incorrect to say, therefore, as does Kerensky in one version of his memoirs, that the Provisional Government found itself “unexpectedly” at the helm;¹⁴⁸ its members had been clamoring for, indeed demanding, the power to form a cabinet since 1905. Nearly all of them belonged to the Progressive Bloc, and their names had appeared on various unofficial cabinet lists published in Russian newspapers for years. They were familiar to the educated public as the leading opponents of the tsarist regime, and they assumed power almost as if by natural right.

But as Nicholas had noted, none had any administrative experience. Such political expertise as they possessed they had gained in the Duma: politics to them meant battling the Imperial bureaucracy in and out of the halls of Taurida, debating legislative proposals, and in a crisis appealing to the masses. Academics, lawyers, and businessmen, they were qualified to grapple with broad issues of public policy, and in a stable parliamentary democracy they might have acquitted themselves well. But a government, of course, does not merely legislate—first and foremost, it administers: “Administrer, c’est gouverner,” Mirabeau is quoted as having said, “gouverner, c’est régner; tout se réduit là.” Of this principle, they understood nothing, having been accustomed all their lives to leaving the ordinary, day-to-day running of the country to the despised bureaucracy. Indeed, in their zeal to do everything differently, they purposefully did the opposite: just as tsarism sought to reduce politics to administration, they wanted to eliminate administration from politics. The attention of the First Provisional Government centered on rectifying the abuses of the old regime, mainly by means of legislative acts, unhampered by the veto of the Tsar and the upper chamber. Throughout its existence, it showed far more zeal in destroying the legacy of the past than in building something to replace it. It never created a set of new institutions to supplant those which had collapsed either of their own weight or under its assault.

This lack of interest in administering and implementing the laws which poured out of their chanceries, the new leaders rationalized with professions of faith in the wisdom of the “people.” Knowledge of politics derived largely from literary sources habituated the Russian intelligentsia to think of democracy, not as an ideal, attained by patient effort, but as a reality inhibited from asserting itself only by the legacy of tsarism. They were convinced—or perhaps needed to convince themselves—that in order to give democracy a chance, it was essential not to govern. In a country that throughout its history had been accustomed to centralized government and obedience to directives from above, the revolutionary government adopted an extreme form of political laissez-faire—and this in the midst of an unprecedented war, inflation, agrarian stirrings, and a host of other pressing problems.

But even under these circumstances it might have been possible to give the country some sort of rudimentary order had the Provisional Government not promoted anarchy by dissolving the provincial bureaucracy and the police. It is quite misleading of Kerensky to say, in self-justification, that it was the Imperial regime that had destroyed the administrative apparatus of Russia.¹⁴⁹ In fact, this was mainly accomplished by Points 5 and 6 of the eight-point program which the Provisional Committee had adopted on March 1–2 in its agreement with the Ispolkom.¹⁵⁰ On March 5, all governors and deputy governors were dismissed, their authority being transferred to the chairmen of the provincial zemstvo boards (gubernskie zemskie upravy). This action was most perplexing. Although some of the officials had resigned on their own upon learning of the Tsar’s abdication, and others were arrested by local citizens, in many provinces the governors welcomed the new government and took part in ceremonies honoring it.¹⁵¹ The government acted as it did in the belief that the men of the old regime could not be trusted to be loyal to the new order and would sabotage it at the first opportunity.¹⁵² This assumption was of dubious validity because the Provisional Government quickly acquired an aura of legitimacy in the eyes of the tsarist bureaucrats, accustomed to obeying central authority. If the government wanted to make certain of their loyalty, it only had to release Nicholas’s farewell address to the armed forces, in which, as we shall note, he urged Russians to obey the Provisional Government—a document the government chose to withhold from the public. The removal of the governors, the traditional mainstays of Russia’s administration, left a vacuum in the provinces. One can understand why the revolutionary government would have wanted to place its own men in these positions, but it is difficult to see why the old governors could not have been retained at their posts for the short time needed to find their replacements. This action resembled the abolition by the French National Assembly in 1789 of the office of intendant, the principal agent of royal absolutism, which had the immediate effect of depriving Paris of nearly all control over the countryside.¹⁵³ It may even have been modeled on it. But France had much stronger social institutions than Russia as well as a sense of national cohesion that Russia lacked. The effect of these measures in France was, therefore, much less drastic: unlike revolutionary Russia, France never fell apart.

The dissolution of the old provincial bureaucracy proved immensely popular with the intelligentsia, whose rhetoric about the “masses” and “democracy” camouflaged strong careerist impulses. In city after city, usually under the auspices of the local soviet, they set up their offices, complete with staffs of assistants and secretaries, telephones, stationery, and rubber stamps. However, lacking the experience of those whom they replaced, they merely mimicked them.

More understandable, although in the long run no less destabilizing, was the dissolution of the police and gendarmerie, symbols of state authority for the mass of the country’s population. This decision implemented Point 5 of the eight-point accord. The Department of Police was abolished on March 4: the act was a mere formality, since it had ceased to operate on February 27, when a mob sacked its headquarters. On the same day, the government ordered the dissolution of the Okhrana and Corps of Gendarmes. The day after, it sent instructions to the local authorities to form citizens’ militias commanded by elected officers and operating under the authority of zemstva and Municipal Councils. Such militias, to the extent that they were constituted, enjoyed no authority: Nabokov notes that in a number of areas they were even taken over by criminal elements.¹⁵⁴ Two weeks after the Revolution, Russia was without a police force of either a political or a civil kind. When, in April 1917, the government found itself challenged by Bolshevik-led mobs, it had no force on which to rely.

Thus, a task immensely difficult to begin with—to govern a country at war and in the grip of revolutionary euphoria—was rendered impossible by rash actions dictated by a doctrinaire vision of democracy, belief in the wisdom of the people, and distaste for the professional bureaucracy and police. Russia in the spring of 1917 may well represent a unique instance of a government born of a revolution dissolving the machinery of administration before it had a chance to replace it with one of its own creation.

Initially, however, this was not apparent. In the first weeks after its assumption of power, the Provisional Government enjoyed overwhelming support. The entire country swore allegiance to it, including the grand dukes, the generals, and thousands of junior officers. Even the ultras of the United Gentry, headed by the archreactionary Alexander Samarin, voted in its favor.¹⁵⁵ Foreign powers promptly accorded it diplomatic recognition, beginning with the United States (March 9), followed by Britain, France, Italy, and the other Allies. But this display of support from the population and foreign powers was deceptive, encouraging the new cabinet in the illusion that it was firmly in control, whereas it was floating on thin air. Vladimir Nabokov wrote in his memoirs of the Provisional Government: “I primarily remember an atmosphere in which everything experienced seemed unreal.”¹⁵⁶

One of the difficulties in understanding the course of the February Revolution lies in the ambivalent nature of dvoevlastie, or dual power (dyarchy).

In theory, under dvoevlastie the cabinet functioned as the combined executive and legislative, being in both capacities subject to the veto power of the Soviet as represented by the Ispolkom. But in practice, the Soviet not only controlled the Provisional Government but legislated on its own. With Order No. 1, it assumed effective control over the armed forces. As we shall see, it also dictated Russia’s war aims. Thus the government was not even allowed authority in the realm of military and foreign policy. In more mundane matters, such as food supply and labor relations, transport and communications, the Ispolkom acted as the ultimate authority without bothering to coordinate with the government.

The leaders of the Soviet made no secret of the fact that the Provisional Government existed only at their sufferance. At the All-Russian Consultation of Soviets on March 29, Tsereteli, the Menshevik chairman of the Ispolkom, said that the Provisional Government owed its existence to an agreement which the Petrograd Soviet concluded with “the bourgeois privileged [tsen-zovye] elements of society.”¹⁵⁷ Another member of the Ispolkom, the Trudovik V. B. Stankevich, boasted that the Soviet had the power to dismiss the Provisional Government in fifteen minutes by giving it appropriate orders over the phone.¹⁵⁸ The apologists for the system of “dual power” later claimed that the leaders of the Soviet did all they could to bolster the government: far from subverting it, they are said to have provided it with its principal source of support.¹⁵⁹ The historical record does not bear out this claim. It indicates that even as it intervened to help it suppress disorders, the Ispolkom ceaselessly undermined the government’s authority and prestige.

Its leaders delivered speeches which humiliated the government and lowered its standing in the eyes of a population accustomed to seeing authority treated with respect. A good example is the speech of Chkheidze on March 24 to a delegation of students who came to the Soviet with a banner hailing the Provisional Government. Chkheidze addressed them as follows:

I see on your banner the slogan “Greetings to the Provisional Government,” but for you it can be no secret that many of its members, on the eve of the Revolution, were trembling and lacked faith in the Revolution. You extend greetings to it. You seem to believe that it will carry high the new standard. If this is so, remain in your belief. As for us, we will support it for as long as it realizes democratic principles. We know, however, that our government is not democratic, but bourgeois. Follow carefully its activity. We shall support all of its measures which tend toward the common good, but all else we shall unmask because at stake is the fate of Russia.¹⁶⁰

Such remarks by the second most influential political figure in the Soviet and a leading candidate for President of the Russian Republic give lie to the claims of the apologists for the Soviet that they loyally supported the government. By treating it as an inherently counterrevolutionary institution, kept honest only by the Soviet, they played directly into the hands of their enemies on the left who would argue that if that was the case, then the government should be removed and the Soviet assume full authority.

If the Ispolkom shied away from this logical conclusion of its premise, it was because it lacked the courage of its convictions. The socialists who controlled it wanted the Provisional Government to serve as a lightning rod for popular discontent, while they manipulated affairs from behind the scenes: they wanted to rule without reigning. As Trotsky was later to boast, this gave the Bolsheviks the opportunity to seize power by demanding that the Soviet become de jure what it was de facto.

The relationship between the two organs of authority was symbolized by their respective locales. The Soviet and its Executive elbowed their way into Taurida Palace, the seat of the Duma and the center of opposition under tsarism. The Provisional Government installed itself first in Mariinskii Palace, the seat of the Imperial Council of Ministers, and in July moved to the Winter Palace, a tsarist residence.*

The Ispolkom legislated in every field of activity. Yielding to the pressure of workers, it decreed an eight-hour working day in all enterprises, including those working for defense. On March 3 it ordered the arrest of members of the Imperial dynasty, not excepting Nikolai Nikolaevich, the designated Commander in Chief.¹⁶¹ The logic of its self-assigned role as the organ of “democratic control” over the “bourgeoisie” quickly led the Ispolkom to adopt repressive measures reminiscent of the worst days of tsarism. Thus, on March 3, it “authorized” the postal and telegraphic services to function, but subject to “surveillance” by Soviet organs.¹⁶² Press censorship followed. On March 5, the Ispolkom ordered the closing of all publications of a “Black Hundred” orientation, including the right-wing daily Novoe vremia, which had the temerity to come out without securing its permission.¹⁶³ Two days later, the Ispolkom advised newspapers and journals they were not to publish without express authorization from the Soviet—that is, itself.¹⁶⁴ This attempt to restore pre-1905 censorship provoked such an outcry it had to be rescinded.¹⁶⁵ But it is indicative of the rapidity with which the socialist intelligentsia, while professing the most lofty democratic ideals, violated a cardinal principle of democracy—namely, freedom of opinion.

The Ispolkom continued to bureaucratize. As early as March 3, it created a network of “commissions” to deal with pressing problems, such as food supply, railroads, post and telegraphs, and finances—a regular shadow government that duplicated and, through duplication, controlled the operations of the government. The principal institution serving this purpose was the “Contact Commission” of five socialist intellectuals (N. S. Chkheidze, M. I. Skobelev, Iu. M. Steklov, N. N. Sukhanov, and V. N. Filippovskii) created on March 7. Its task was to “inform the Soviet of the intentions and actions of the Provisional Government and the latter about the demands of the revolutionary people, to exert pressure on the government to satisfy all these demands, and to exercise uninterrupted control over their implementation.”¹⁶⁶ Thus, by a verbal sleight of hand, the wishes of a body of intellectuals appointed by the socialist parties became the wishes of the “revolutionary people.” According to Miliukov, initially the government satisfied all the demands of the Contact Commission. Tsereteli concurred, declaring in late March that “there were no instances when, on matters of importance, the Provisional Government did not seek agreement” with the Contact Commission.¹⁶⁷ To make certain this practice continued, on April 21 the Ispolkom asked the Provisional Government to make no “major” political moves without informing it beforehand.¹⁶⁸

For reasons stated, the Ispolkom paid particular attention to the armed forces. “To facilitate contact,” on March 19 it appointed commissars to the Ministry of War, the Army headquarters, and the headquarters of the diverse fronts and fleets. These commissars were to follow instructions sent them by the Ispolkom. In the front-line zone, no orders issued by the military were to go into effect without prior approval of the Ispolkom and its commissars. The latter helped to resolve disputes that arose within the armed forces and between the military command and the civilian population in or near the combat zone. The Minister of War directed the military commanders to assist the Soviet commissars in executing their duties.¹⁶⁹

The Ispolkom kept on expanding. On April 8 nine representatives (all SRs and Mensheviks) from the Soldiers’ Section were added to the ten already in the Ispolkom: they were the first elected members of that body. The ten previously appointed members were reelected: no Bolshevik won a seat. The representatives of the Workers’ Section were handpicked by the Menshevik, Bolshevik, and SR parties.¹⁷⁰

During the first month of its existence, the Petrograd Soviet served only the capital city, but then it expanded its authority over the entire country. The All-Russian Consultation of Soviets, convened in Petrograd in late March, voted to have the Ispolkom admit into its membership representatives of the provincial city soviets and frontline army units, which transformed the Petrograd Soviet into the All-Russian Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies.¹⁷¹ Sixteen delegates from other parts of Russia were added to what now became the All-Russian Central Executive Committee (VTsIK or CEC). By now its membership had grown to seventy-two, among whom were twenty-three Mensheviks, twenty-two SRs, and twelve Bolsheviks.

To direct and systematize its work, the Ispolkom created on March 14 another bureaucratic body, a Bureau. In mid-April, the Bureau had twenty-four members (eleven Mensheviks, six SRs, three Trudoviki, and four “non-faction” Social-Democrats). The Bolsheviks initially refused to join on the grounds that they had been offered insufficient places.¹⁷²

The Ispolkom and its Bureau supplanted the incorrigibly undisciplined Soviet Plenum, which convened less and less frequently; when it did, it was to approve by acclamation the decisions of the Executive. In the first four days of its existence (February 28-March 3), the Plenum met daily. In the rest of March it met four times, in April six. No one paid much attention to its noisy proceedings. The separate Workers’ Section and Soldiers’ Section met somewhat more frequently.

Although the Ispolkom, with its Bureau, and the Soviet, which followed their bidding, posed as the authentic voice of the country’s masses, they had among their members no representatives of peasant organizations. The peasants, 80 percent of the population, had their Peasants’ Union, which kept aloof from the Soviet. The All-Russian Soviet thus spoke for only a fraction of the country’s inhabitants, 10 to 15 percent at best, if allowance is made for the peasantry and the “bourgeoisie,” neither of which was represented.

Operating under such difficult conditions, the Provisional Government concentrated on “democratic” legislation, which was easy to turn out and certain to secure the approval of the Soviet. Cabinet meetings took place in the evening and sometimes late at night. The ministers arrived exhausted and were observed to doze off.

In the weeks that followed its assumption of power, the government passed numerous laws, some designed to rectify the abuses of the old regime, others to implement the eight-point program. Soldiers received full civil rights, and those serving in the rear were no longer subject to courts-martial. All civil disabilities due to religious or ethnic affiliation were lifted. The death penalty was abolished. The right of association and assembly was assured. Poland was promised full independence after the war (although qualified to the extent that it would remain “united with Russia in a free military union”) and Finland was guaranteed the restoration of her constitutional rights. This legislative industry was the most productive sector of the Russian economy.¹⁷³ The trouble was that whereas laws that enhanced freedom were promptly acted upon, no one paid attention to those that imposed new obligations.

On the three issues that mattered most—land reform, the Constituent Assembly, and peace—the government acted in a dilatory manner.

Except for the areas adjacent to the large cities, the news of the Tsar’s abdication traveled at a snail’s pace to the rural districts, held in the grip of a savage winter. Most villages first learned of the Revolution four to six weeks after it had broken out, i.e., in the first half of April, with the onset of the spring thaw.¹⁷⁴ The peasants interpreted the news to mean they were free to resume assaults on private landed property halted ten years earlier by Stolypin. The Black Repartition got underway once again, as the communal peasants, at first cautiously and then with increasing boldness, raided landed property, first and foremost that belonging to fellow peasants who had withdrawn from the commune and taken title to private land. The earliest reports of agrarian disturbances reached Petrograd in the middle of March,¹⁷⁵ but they assumed mass proportions in April. The instigators were often army deserters and criminals released from prison in February; sometimes whole communes fell under their influence. In this initial phase of the agrarian revolution, the peasants attacked mainly isolated households and estates, cutting down trees, stealing seed grain, and chasing away prisoners of war employed as farmhands.¹⁷⁶ As in 1905, physical violence was rare. The government appealed on April 8 to the peasants to desist from illegal seizures. It also appointed a commission under A. I. Shingarev, the Minister of Agriculture, to draft a program of agrarian reform for submission to the Constituent Assembly.¹⁷⁷

The SRs were busy organizing the peasantry. They reconstituted the Peasants’ Union, destroyed after 1905. The Union was favorable to the Provisional Government and its messages to the peasants urged patience and restraint.¹⁷⁸ The appeals from the government and the Peasants’ Union had a calming effect: many peasants concluded that their claim to the land would be more secure if obtained legally rather than by force. But the agrarian disorders subsided only in June, after the socialists had entered the Provisional Government and the SR leader, Victor Chernov, took over the Ministry of Agriculture. Even so, the peasants could not be expected to wait forever: by failing to enact a land reform, the government soon dissipated its popularity with the communal peasantry.

To ensure the cities’ food supply, Petrograd introduced on March 25 a state monopoly on trade in cereals. Under its provisions, peasants were required to turn over to government agents surplus grain at fixed prices. But there were no means of enforcing this law and the peasants ignored it, continuing to dispose of their surplus on the open market.

The early agrarian disturbances had a pernicious effect on the armed forces. News at the front of an imminent Black Repartition stimulated the first mass desertions of soldiers who hurried home from fear of being left out.¹⁷⁹

To stabilize the situation nothing was more urgently required than a speedy convocation of the Constituent Assembly. Only a body elected on a democratic franchise would have enjoyed incontestable legitimacy and, as such, been able to beat back challenges both from the extreme right and from the extreme left. The electoral complexities admittedly were daunting. Still, the matter was of such urgency that practiced politicians would have realized it was better to convene an imperfect Assembly immediately than a perfect one later. When the July Monarchy in France collapsed in 1848, a Constituent Assembly met in two months to choose the new government. In Germany in late 1918 after defeat in the war, in the midst of social upheavals, the authorities who took over would manage to convene a National Assembly in less than four months. The Russian Provisional Government could not do it in the eight months that it stayed in office.

On March 25, the government appointed a commission of seventy jurists to work out the electoral procedures. They immediately got bogged down in technicalities; weeks passed by without anything being accomplished. Nabokov says, probably correctly, there were always more urgent matters to attend to.¹⁸⁰ By postponing the elections, the government not only violated a provision of the eight-point program but laid itself open to charges that it was playing for time until revolutionary passions subsided.¹⁸¹ Its dilatoriness contributed heavily to the government’s eventual overthrow: as we will note, one of the main pretexts the Bolsheviks would use when seizing power in the name of the Soviets was that only a Soviet government could ensure the convocation of a Constituent Assembly.

Then there was the issue of war and peace. In theory, all the leading parties represented in the government and the Soviet, the Bolsheviks excepted, favored continuation of the war until victory. This stand reflected the mood of the population. Contrary to a widespread belief that the February Revolution was brought about by war weariness, anti-German sentiment ran high. The overthrow of the tsarist regime had been in the first place inspired by the beliefs that it was too incompetent to lead the country to victory, it sought a separate peace, and it even betrayed secrets to the enemy. “In the first weeks [of the February Revolution],” observes Sukhanov, “the soldier mass in Petrograd not only would not listen to talk of peace, but would not allow it to be uttered, ready to bayonet any uncautious ‘traitor’ and anyone who ‘opened the front to the enemy.’ ”¹⁸² In March and April, it was common to see soldiers carry placards calling for “War to the End!”¹⁸³ A French historian who had the opportunity to read the messages sent to the Provisional Government and the Soviet in the first two months of the new regime, confirms Sukhanov’s impression. Worker petitions placed at the head of demands the eight-hour working day; only 3 percent called for peace without annexations and contributions. Twenty-three percent of the peasants’ petitions wanted a “quick and just peace,” but even among them this was a secondary issue. As for the soldiers, their petitions indicated they “were likely to treat proponents of immediate peace as supporters of the Kaiser.”¹⁸⁴ The issue was so sensitive that the Bolsheviks, who alone favored such a peace, exercised great caution in public pronouncements. It is indicative of the Petrograd garrison’s animosity toward them because of their war stand that in the elections to the Ispolkom in the Soviet Soldiers’ Section on April 8 no Bolshevik won a seat.¹⁸⁵ Much of the violence perpetrated in February and March was directed against individuals who bore German names and for this reason were suspected of treason. Admiral Kolchak, commander of the Black Sea Fleet, reported that the main disturbances under his command were against officers with German names.¹⁸⁶ The same held true for the naval base of Kronshtadt. When on February 27 a mob set fire to the Petrograd residence of Count Fredericks, the Tsar’s aide (who happened to be of Swedish ancestry), it did so because his name aroused suspicions of pro-German sympathies.¹⁸⁷

47. Officer candidates (iunkers) parading in Petrograd: March 1917. The sign reads: “War for Freedom until Victory.”

Despite the hatred of Germans and the general support of the war against them, the question of war aims acquired great importance in the popular mind due to socialist agitation. It was characteristic of the socialist intellectuals to advocate contradictory policies linked by pious intentions. They wanted war to victory, yet labeled the war “imperialist” and passed legislation (e.g., Order No. 1 and the eight-hour working day) that made the pursuit of the war all but impossible. They wanted national victory, yet in their declarations spoke of the masses of all the belligerent countries sharing a common interest in bringing down the “ruling classes.” In an “Appeal to the Peoples of the World” on March 15, the Ispolkom called on the world’s peoples to rise in revolution:

Turning to all nations, bled white and ruined by the monstrous war, we declare that the time has come to launch the decisive struggle against the rapacious strivings of the governments of all countries. The time has come to take the decision on war and peace into one’s own hands.

Conscious of its revolutionary might, Russian democracy declares that it will resist with all means the rapacious policy of its ruling classes, and calls on the nations of Europe to undertake jointly decisive actions on behalf of peace.…

We shall staunchly defend our own freedom against all reactionary infringements from within and from without. The Russian Revolution will not yield to the bayonets of conquerors and will not allow itself to be crushed by foreign military might.¹⁸⁸

Such rhetoric must have appeared reasonable to the intellectuals who drafted the “Appeal,” but, like the concept of “dual power,” it left the man in the street perplexed. If Russia’s “ruling classes” indeed pursued a “rapacious policy,” why keep them in power and why be “bled white” in their “monstrous war”?

Miliukov, who was in charge of foreign policy, went his own way. He did not share the socialists’ optimism about the peace movement in Germany, and believed that their appeal would evoke no response. From Trepov’s revelations the preceding December, it was known that the Allies had promised Russia Constantinople and the Straits. Miliukov did not wish to renounce these claims for two reasons: such renunciation would raise doubts in the West about Russia’s commitment to stay in the war, and it would open the floodgates to German peace propaganda. His insistence on Russia’s adhering to its territorial claims led to the first clash between the government and the Soviet.

At a press conference on March 22, Miliukov outlined the Government’s war aims. These included “liberation” of the Slavic peoples of Austria-Hungary, the “fusion” of the Ukrainian territories of Austria-Hungary (i.e., Galicia) with Russia, and acquisition of Constantinople and the Straits.¹⁸⁹ Socialist intellectuals interpreted Miliukov’s views as a challenge to their “Appeal,” which demanded the renunciation of “rapacious” acquisitions. Under pressure from the Soviet, and at the insistence of several cabinet members, especially Kerensky, the government agreed to issue an official statement of war aims more in line with the position of the Ispolkom. Approved by the latter with some revisions, it was released on March 27.¹⁹⁰ The statement asserted that Russia had no desire to “lord it over other nations, to deprive them of their national property, to seize by force territories belonging to others”: her objective was a “lasting peace on the basis of national self-determination.” This formula represented a capitulation to the socialists, although Miliukov would later argue that it could have been interpreted to mean Russia’s right to claim enemy territories.¹⁹¹ One month later the controversy over war aims would flare up again, this time causing a major political crisis.

From February 23 until February 28, the Revolution was confined to Petrograd. The country went about its business, as if unaware that anything unusual had occurred. The chronicle of these days¹⁹² indicates that the first city to react was Moscow, which had strikes and demonstrations on February 28 and the following day elected a workers’ soviet. On March 1, meetings took place in several provincial towns, including Tver, Nizhnii Novgorod, Samara, and Saratov. On March 2, other cities followed suit. There was no violence: when the Communist chronicler says that the inhabitants of various cities “joined the Revolution,” he means that crowds held peaceful celebrations in support of the Provisional Government. The slow pace at which the Revolution spread indicates the extent to which its origins were connected with the specific conditions in the capital city—namely, exceptionally severe shortages of food and fuel and grievances of the military garrison. It helps explain why as late as March 2 the generals and politicians could still believe that the Tsar’s abdication would keep the Revolution confined to Petrograd. As it turned out, however, it was the news of Nicholas’s abdication, published on March 3, that made the nation realize it had had a revolution: the result was a rapid breakdown of authority.

In the course of March there emerged in all the cities soviets modeled on that of Petrograd, the executives of which were taken over by socialist intellectuals. In early April, the provincial soviets sent representatives to Petrograd where they entered the Petrograd Ispolkom to form an All-Russian Ispolkom (VTsIK, or CEC).

The Revolution spread across the country peacefully: in the phrase of W. H. Chamberlin, it was “made by telegraph.”¹⁹³ The change of regimes was everywhere accepted as an accomplished fact: no resistance was encountered and therefore no force used. As yet, neither class nor ethnic hostilities emerged to disturb the nearly unanimous relief at the end of the old regime. In some localities, celebrations in honor of the Provisional Government were joined by army officers and ex-tsarist officials.

One of the unanticipated effects of the Revolution and the ideal of democracy which it promoted was the emergence of nationalist movements in areas where the population was predominantly non-Russian. They were led by the indigenous intelligentsia which, in addition to the usual socialist or liberal demands, claimed for their regions some degree of autonomy. The first to be heard from were the Ukrainians, who on March 2 formed in Kiev a soviet called Rada: its initial demands on the government were cultural, but it soon also asked for political powers. Other nationalities followed suit, among them Russia’s scattered Muslims, who in May held an All-Russian Congress.¹⁹⁴

Vasilii Rozanov said of Nicholas’s abdication that the Tsar let it be known he “disowned such a base people.”¹⁹⁵

According to his diary, Nicholas slept soundly the night that followed the signing of the abdication manifesto. He arrived in Mogilev on March 3 in the evening to learn from Alekseev that his brother had renounced the crown and left the fate of the monarchy up to the Constituent Assembly. “God knows who talked him into signing such rot,” he noted. He now drafted yet another abdication manifesto in which he transferred the crown to his son. Alekseev decided not to inform the government of Nicholas’s latest change of mind. He subsequently entrusted the document to General Denikin for safekeeping.¹⁹⁶

The following day, Nicholas sent Prime Minister Lvov a list of requests. He asked to be allowed to proceed to Tsarskoe with his suite and to remain there until the children recovered, following which he wished to take up residence in Port Romanov on the Murmansk coast. Once the war was over, he wanted to retire to the Crimean resort of Livadia. In a coded message to headquarters, the Provisional Government approved these requests.¹⁹⁷

Because the ex-Tsar threatened to become a major issue of contention between the government and the Soviet, the cabinet soon decided that it would be politically more expedient to have Nicholas and family out of the country. In the first week of March, it sounded out the British, Danish, and Swiss governments about the possibility of asylum for the Imperial family. On March 8/21, Miliukov told the British Ambassador that he was “most anxious that the Emperor should leave Russia at once” and would be grateful if Britain offered him asylum, with the proviso that Nicholas “would not be allowed to leave England during the war.”¹⁹⁸ Britain hesitated at first but on March 9/22 the Foreign Secretary, Arthur Balfour, cabled to the British Embassy in Petrograd:

After further consideration it has been decided that it would be better for the Emperor to come to England during the war rather than to a country contiguous to Germany. Apprehension is felt lest, through the influence of the Empress, the residence of the Emperor in Denmark or Switzerland might become a focus of intrigue, and that in the hands of disaffected Russian Generals the Emperor might become the possible head of a counter-revolution. This would be to play into the hands of Germany, and a risk that must be avoided at all costs.¹⁹⁹

This offer, formally conveyed to the Provisional Government on March 13, was reinforced by a personal message from King George V to Nicholas in which he assured him of his undying friendship and extended the invitation to settle in England.*

The government’s plans regarding the Imperial family failed to take into account the feelings of the socialist intellectuals, who feared that once abroad the ex-Tsar would become the center of counterrevolutionary plots. For this reason, they preferred to keep him at home and under their control. As noted, on March 3 the Ispolkom voted to arrest Nicholas and his family. The government promptly capitulated to this demand. On March 7 it announced that the Imperial family would be placed under detention at Tsarskoe, and dispatched to Mogilev four deputies to escort Nicholas home. On March 8, having learned of the negotiations with Britain, the Ispolkom voted again to arrest Nicholas and his family, confiscate their property, and deprive them of citizenship. To prevent Nicholas’s departure for England, it resolved to send its own people to Tsarskoe to ensure that the Imperial family was securely guarded.²⁰⁰

While these developments were taking place, Nicholas was in Mogilev taking leave of the army. On March 8, he wrote a farewell letter to the armed forces in which he urged them to fight until victory and “obey the Provisional Government.”²⁰¹ Alekseev forwarded this document to Petrograd, but Guchkov, acting on instructions from the cabinet, which probably feared antagonizing the Ispolkom, ordered it withheld.²⁰² Later that morning, Nicholas bade goodbye to the officers. He walked up to each and embraced him. Nearly everyone was in tears. When the strain became too great Nicholas bowed and withdrew. “My heart nearly burst,” he wrote in the diary.²⁰³ At 4:45 p.m. he boarded his train, without the two inseparable companions, Voeikov and Fredericks, whom he had to dismiss at the request of Alekseev. Before departure, Alekseev informed him he was under arrest.²⁰⁴

On that same day, March 8, General Lavr Kornilov, the new commandant of the Petrograd Military District (he had been appointed by Nicholas on Rodzianko’s urging shortly before abdication) visited Tsarskoe. He informed the Empress that she was in custody and posted guards in the palace and on its grounds. This measure was taken in response to the demands of the Ispolkom, but it also had the effect of ensuring the safety of the Imperial family, for the Tsarskoe Selo garrison had begun to act in an insolent and threatening manner. According to Benckendorff, Kornilov also advised Alexandra that as soon as practicable the family would be taken to Murmansk to board a British cruiser bound for England.²⁰⁵

Nicholas’s train arrived at Tsarskoe in the morning of March 9. Announced to the guards as “Colonel Romanov,” he was surprised to see guards and patrols posted everywhere and to learn that his and his family’s movements, even within the confines of the palace grounds, were severely restricted. He was not to leave his apartments unless accompanied by an armed soldier.

When it learned that Nicholas had left Mogilev, the socialist intelligentsia grew anxious that he meant to escape abroad: they remembered well the flight of Louis XVI to Varennes. On March 9 the Ispolkom met in a state of great agitation. Chkheidze issued a general alarm that the ex-Tsar, who actually had just arrived at Tsarskoe, was in flight and had to be stopped.²⁰⁶ The Soviet resolved to prohibit Nicholas from leaving Russia “even if this should threaten a break with the Provisional Government”: he was to be incarcerated in the Peter and Paul Fortress.²⁰⁷ An Ispolkom delegation, headed by Chkheidze, met with the government that day and received assurances that Nicholas would not be allowed to leave the country without the Ispolkom’s permission.²⁰⁸

To make certain that Nicholas was in fact at Tsarskoe, as it was now informed, the Ispolkom dispatched later that day (March 9) a detachment of three hundred infantry and one machine gun company to Tsarskoe under the command of S. D. Mstislavskii, an SR officer. On arrival, Mstislavskii demanded that the ex-Tsar be at once “presented to him.” He thought to himself: “Let him stand before me—me, a simple emissary of the revolutionary workers and soldiers, he, the Emperor of All the Russias, Great, Little, and White, the autocrat, like an inmate at an inspection in what used to be his prisons.”

Mstislavskii wore an old sheepskin coat, with the epaulettes of a military official, a fur cap on his head, a saber by his side and a Browning, the handle of which protruded from his pocket. Soon the ex-Tsar appeared in the corridor. He approached the group, apparently wishing to speak with them. But Mstislavskii stood without saluting, without removing his cap, and even without uttering a greeting. The Emperor stopped for a second, looked him straight in the eye, then turned around and went back.*

By virtue of the rules set by General Kornilov²⁰⁹ the Imperial family was cut off from the outside world: no one could enter Tsarskoe without permission, and all letters, telegrams, and phone calls were subject to oversight.

On March 21, Kerensky appeared unexpectedly at Tsarskoe. It was his first opportunity to meet face to face the object of some of his most virulent Duma speeches. His description of the encounter, and the impression which Nicholas made on him, is of considerable interest:

The whole family was standing huddled in confusion around a small table near a window in the adjoining room. A small man in uniform detached himself from the group and moved forward to meet me, hesitating and smiling weakly. It was the Emperor. On the threshold of the room in which I awaited him he stopped, as if uncertain what to do next. He did not know what my attitude would be. Was he to receive me as a host or should he wait until I spoke to him? Should he hold out his hand, or should he wait for my salutation? I sensed his embarrassment at once as well as the confusion of the whole family left alone with a terrible revolutionary. I quickly went up to Nicholas II, held out my hand with a smile, and said abruptly “Kerensky,” as I usually introduce myself. He shook my hand firmly, smiled, seemingly encouraged, and led me at once to his family. His son and daughters were obviously consumed with curiosity and gazed fixedly at me. Alexandra Feodorovna, stiff, proud and haughty, extended her hand reluctantly, as if under compulsion. Nor was I particularly eager to shake hands with her, our palms barely touching. This was typical of the difference in character and temperament between the husband and wife. I felt at once that Alexandra Feodorovna, though broken and angry, was a clever woman with a strong will. In those few seconds I understood the psychology of the whole tragedy that had been going on for many years behind the palace walls. My subsequent interviews with the Emperor, which were very few, only confirmed by first impression.…

I for one do not think he was the outcast, the inhuman monster, the deliberate murderer I used to imagine. I began to realize that there was a human side to him. It became clear to me that he had acquiesced in the whole ruthless system without being moved by any personal ill will and without even realizing that it was bad. His mentality and his circumstances kept him wholly out of touch with the people. He heard of the blood and tears of thousands upon thousands only through official documents, in which they were represented as “measures” taken by the authorities “in the interest of the peace and safety of the State.” Such reports did not convey to him the pain and suffering of the victims, but only the “heroism” of the soldiers “faithful in the fulfillment of their duty to the Czar and the Fatherland.” From his youth he had been trained to believe that his welfare and the welfare of Russia were one and the same thing, so that the “disloyal” workmen, peasants and students who were shot down, executed or exiled seemed to him mere monsters and outcasts of humanity who must be destroyed for the sake of the country and the “faithful subjects” themselves.…

48. Ex-Tsar Nicholas at Tsarskoe Selo, March 1917, under house arrest.

In the course of my occasional short interviews with Nicholas II at Tsarskoe Selo, I tried to fathom his character and, I think, on the whole I succeeded. He was an extremely reserved man, who distrusted and utterly despised mankind. He was not well educated, but he had some knowledge of human nature. He did not care for anything or anyone except his son, and perhaps his daughters. This terrible indifference to all external things made him seem like some unnatural automaton. As I studied his face, I seemed to see behind his smile and charming eyes a stiff, frozen mask of utter loneliness and desolation. I think he may have been a mystic, seeking communion with Heaven patiently and passionately, and weary of all earthly things. Perhaps everything on earth had become insignificant and distasteful to him because all his desires had been so easily gratified. When I began to know this living mask I understood why it had been so easy to overthrow his power. He did not wish to fight for it and it simply fell from his hands. Authority, like everything else, he held too cheap. He was altogether weary of it. He threw off authority as formerly he might have thrown off a dress uniform and put on a simpler one. It was a new experience for him to find himself a plain citizen without the duties or robes of state. To retire into private life was not a tragedy for him. Old Madame Naryshkina, the lady-in-waiting, told me that he had said to her: “How glad I am that I need no longer attend to these tiresome interviews and sign those everlasting documents! I shall read, walk and spend my time with the children.” And, she added, this was no pose on his part. Indeed, all those who watched him in his captivity were unanimous in saying that Nicholas II seemed generally to be very good-tempered and appeared to enjoy his new manner of life. He chopped wood and piled up the logs in stacks in the park. He did a little gardening and rowed and played with the children. It seemed as if a heavy burden had fallen from his shoulders and that he was greatly relieved.²¹⁰

Given the sentiments of the Ispolkom, it was unlikely ever to have approved the government’s plans to allow Nicholas to leave for England. Nevertheless, it came as something of a shock when at the end of March (OS) Britain informed the Provisional Government that she was withdrawing her invitation to the ex-Tsar. It was believed then and for a long time afterward that it was Prime Minister David Lloyd George who had dissuaded George V from following his generous impulses. Lloyd George himself liked to perpetuate this impression.²¹¹ But it has since become known that he did so to protect the King, who had vetoed the earlier decision for fear that it would embarrass the Crown and irritate Labor MPs who were “expressing adverse opinions to the proposal.”²¹² The King’s role in this dishonorable action was kept in strict secrecy: instructions went out “to keep an eye on anything that may be put into the War Cabinet minutes likely to hurt the King’s feelings.”²¹³ It subsequently became Britain’s stated policy not to allow any member of the Russian royal family on her soil while the war was on, with the exception of the Empress Dowager Marie, the Danish-born sister of Edward VII’s widow, Alexandra.*

According to Kerensky, Nicholas was shattered to learn of the British refusal²¹⁴—not because he wanted to leave Russia, but because it was further proof of the “treason and cowardice and deception” with which he felt surrounded. He spent the next four months in forced idleness—reading, playing games, taking walks, and working in the garden.

The February Revolution had many striking features that distinguish it from other revolutionary upheavals. But the most striking of all was the remarkable rapidity with which the Russian state fell apart. It was as if the greatest empire in the world, covering one-sixth of the earth’s surface, were an artificial construction, without organic unity, held together by wires all of which converged in the person of the monarch. The instant the monarch withdrew, the wires snapped and the whole structure collapsed in a heap. Kerensky says that there were moments when it seemed to him that

the word “revolution” [was] quite inapplicable to what happened in Russia [between February 27 and March 3]. A whole world of national and political relationships sank to the bottom, and at once all existing political and tactical programs, however bold and well conceived, appeared hanging aimlessly and uselessly in space.²¹⁵

Rozanov described the phenomenon in his own pungent style:

Russia wilted in two days. At the very most, three. Even Novoe vremia could not have been shut down as quickly as Russia shut down. It is amazing how she suddenly fell apart, all of her, down to particles, to pieces. Indeed, such an upheaval had never occurred before, not excluding “the Great Migrations of Peoples” … There was no Empire, no Church, no army, no working class. And what remained? Strange to say, literally nothing. A base people remained.²¹⁶

By late April, eight weeks after the Revolution had broken out, Russia was foundering. On April 26 the Provisional Government issued a pathetic appeal in which it conceded it was unable to run the country. Kerensky now voiced regrets that he did not die when the Revolution was still young and filled with hope that the nation could manage to govern itself “without whips and cudgels.”²¹⁷

Russians, having gotten rid of tsarism, on which they used to blame all their ills, stood bewildered in the midst of their newly gained freedom. They were not unlike the lady in a Balzac story who had been sick for so long that when finally cured thought herself struck by a new disease.

*According to E. I. Martynov, Tsarskaia armiia v fevral’skom perevorote (Leningrad, 1927), 85, the troops used machine guns, but this is almost certainly wrong. A noncommissioned officer who took part in the incident claimed that the troops fired into the air and that the killing was done by a drunken officer: Byloe, No. 5–6/27–28 (1917), 8–9.

*In April-June 1917, mutinies broke out among French troops on the Western Front. They were fueled by soldier resentment of the heavy casualties suffered in the Nivelle offensive, but the news of the Russian Revolution, which led to a rebellion of Russian units in France, also played a part. Eventually, fifty-four divisions were affected: in May 1917 the French army was incapable of offensive operations. And yet the mutiny, which the French government managed to keep secret for decades, was eventually contained and at no time threatened to bring down the state—a telling commentary on the national and political cohesion of France as compared with that of Russia. See John Williams, Mutiny 1917 (London, 1962), and Richard M. Watt, Dare Call It Treason (New York, 1963).

*Martynov, Tsarskaia armiia, 105; KA, No. 2/21 (1927), 11–12. Michael alone signed the message, but it was the result of the joint efforts of himself, Prime Minister Golitsyn, Rodzianko, Beliaev, and Kryzhanovskii: Revoliutsiia, I, 40.

*Ruzskii was arrested by the Bolsheviks in September 1918 while living in retirement in the North Caucasian city of Piatigorsk, and murdered, along with 136 other victims of terror, the following month. He was very anxious to clear his name of charges that he had pressured Nicholas to abdicate. (Alexandra called him “Judas” in a letter to Nicholas of March 3, 1917: KA, No. 4,1923, 219.) His story, as recounted by S. N. Vilchkovskii, is in RL, No. 3 (1922), 161–86.

*After the Revolution, in emigration, he would proclaim himself successor to the Russian throne.

*“Riding school” apparently refers to the royal manège in Paris, the seat of the National Assembly during the Revolution, notorious for its unruly proceedings.

*A. Shliapnikov, Semnadtsatyi god, III (Moscow-Leningrad, 1927), 173. The secrecy may have been due to embarrassment that so many Ispolkom members were non-Russians (Georgians, Jews, Latvians, Poles, Lithuanians, etc.): V. B. Stankevich, Vospominaniia, 1914–1919 g. (Berlin, 1920), 86.

†B. Ia. Nalivaiskii, ed., Petrogradskii Sovet Rabochikh i Soldatskikh Deputatov: Protokoly Zasedanii Ispolnitel’nogo Komiteta i Biuro Ispolnitel’nogo Komiteta (Moscow-Leningrad, 1925), 59. According to Marc Ferro, Des Soviets au Communisme Bureaucratique (Paris, 1980), 36, the resolution was moved by Shliapnikov. It was by this procedure that in May, on his return from the United States, Leon Trotsky would receive a seat on the Ispolkom.

*N. Sukhanov, Zapiski o revoliutsii, I (Berlin-Petersburg-Moscow, 1922), 255–56. Revoliutsiia, I, 49; T. Hasegawa, The February Revolution: Petrograd 1917 (Seattle-London, 1981) 410–12. The minority consisted of members of the Jewish Bund augmented by some Mensheviks and Mezhraiontsy.

*When on March 18 General Ruzskii asked Rodzianko to explain the chain of authority in the new government, Rodzianko answered that the Provisional Government had been appointed by the Provisional Committee of the Duma, which retained control over its actions and ministerial appointments (RL, No. 3, 1922, 158–59). Since the Provisional Committee had ceased to function by then, this explanation was either delusion or deception.

*According to S. P. Melgunov, Martovskie dni (Paris, 1961), 107, the term “Provisional Government” was not officially used until March 10.

*Martynov, Tsarskaia armiia, 148, gives the total casualties as 1,315. Avdeev’s figures, which seem more accurate, are 1,443 victims, of which 168 or 169 were killed or died from wounds: 11 policemen, 70 military personnel, 22 workers, 5 students, and 60 others, 5 of them children (Revoliutsiia, I, in).

†In this picture (Plate 44) most of the military appear to wear officer’s uniforms.

*Martynov, Tsarskaia armiia, 145. The message to Ivanov was sent at Alekseev’s request: KA, No. 2/21 (1927), 31.

*Ivanov made his way to Tsarskoe Selo, where he met with the Empress (Martynov, Tsarskaia armiia, 148), but his men were stopped at the approaches to Petrograd at Luga by mutinous troops and dissuaded from proceeding with their mission: RL, No. 3 (1922), 126.

†In fact, the “people” were nowhere clamoring for the Tsarevich to assume the throne under a regency: this was wishful thinking on the part of Duma politicians.

*P. E. Shchegolev, ed., Otrechenie Nikolaia II (Leningrad, 1927), 203–5. Admiral A. I. Nepenin, commander of the Baltic Fleet, concurred as well. His telegram came late: he himself was murdered two days later by sailors: N. de Basily, Diplomat of Imperial Russia, 1903–1917: Memoirs (Stanford, Calif., 1973), 121, and RL, No. 3 (1922), 143–44. There was no response from Admiral Alexander Kolchak, who commanded the Black Sea Fleet.

*Martynov, Tsarskaia armiia, 159. Later, when he returned to Tsarskoe, Nicholas showed Count Benckendorff the cables from the front commanders to explain his decision to abdicate: P. K. Benckendorff, Last Days at Tsarskoe Selo (London, 1927), 44–45.

*Martynov, Tsarskaia armiia, 171. According to Voeikov (Padenie, III, 79), Nicholas chose to go to Mogilev rather than proceed directly to Tsarskoe because the road to there was still barred.

*At that time, the Soviet transferred to the Smolnyi Institute, which had housed a finishing school for aristocratic girls.

*Martynov, Tsarskaia armiia, 191; G. Buchanan, My Mission to Russia, II (Boston, 1923), 104–5. Miliukov withheld the King’s message from Nicholas.

* As described in Martynov, Tsarskaia armiia, 198, from the words of Mstislavskii. Benckendorff, who witnessed the scene, says that Mstislavskii was content to see the ex-Tsar pass in the corridor: Benckendorff, Last Days, 49–50.

*Although the daughter of the British Ambassador has gone to great lengths to depict her father as highly upset by his government’s action (Meriel Buchanan, The Dissolution of an Empire, London, 1932, 196–98), English archives show that he endorsed it: Kenneth Rose, King George V (London, 1983), 214.