The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Russian Turmoil, by Anton Ivanovich Denikin

THE RUSSIAN TURMOIL

The Stavka Quartermaster-General’s Branch. Standing on the pathway, from left to right (centre): Generals Denikin (Chief of Staff), Alexeiev (Supreme C.-in-C.), Josephovitch and Markov (first and second Quartermasters-General).

[CONTENTS]

The old banner

And the new.

[LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS]

[LIST OF DIAGRAMS AND MAPS]

[FOREWORD]

In the midst of the turmoil and bloodshed in Russia people perish and the real outlines of historical events are obliterated. It is for this reason that I have decided to publish these memoirs, in spite of the difficulties of work in my present condition of a refugee, unable to refer to any archives or documents and deprived of the possibility of discussing events with those who have taken part in them.

The first part of my book deals chiefly with the Russian Army, with which my life has been closely linked up. Political, social and economic questions are discussed only in so far as I have found it necessary to describe their influence upon the course of events.

In 1917 the Army played a decisive part in the fate of Russia. Its participation in the progress of the Revolution, its life, degradation and collapse should serve as a great warning and a lesson to the new builders of Russian life. This applies not only to the struggle against the present tyrants. When Bolshevism is defeated, the Russian people will have to undertake the tremendous task of reviving its moral and material forces, as well as that of preserving its sovereign existence. Never in history has this task been as arduous as it is now, because there are many outside Russia’s borders waiting eagerly for her end. They are waiting in vain. The Russian people will rise in strength and wisdom from the deathbed of blood, horror and poverty, moral and physical.

[The Russian Turmoil]

[CHAPTER I.]
The Foundations of the Old Power: Faith, the Czar and the Mother Country.

The inevitable historical process which culminated in the Revolution of March, 1917, has resulted in the collapse of the Russian State. Philosophers, historians and sociologists, in studying the course of Russian life, may have foreseen the impending catastrophe. But nobody could foresee that the people, rising like a tidal wave, would so rapidly and so easily sweep away all the foundations of their existence: the Supreme Power and the Governing classes which disappeared without a struggle; the intelligencia, gifted but weak, isolated and lacking will-power, which at first, in the midst of a deadly struggle, had only words as a weapon, later submissively bent their necks under the knife of the victors; and last, but not least, an army of ten million, powerful and imbued with historic traditions. That army was destroyed in three or four months.

This last event—the collapse of the army—was not, however, quite unexpected, as the epilogue of the Manchurian war and the subsequent events in Moscow, Kronstadt and Sevastopol were a terrible warning. At the end of November, 1905, I lived for a fortnight in Harbin, and travelled on the Siberian Railway for thirty-one days in December, 1907, through a series of “republics” from Harbin to Petrograd. I thus gained a clear indication of what might be expected from a licentious mob of soldiers utterly devoid of restraining principles. All the meetings, resolutions, soviets—in a word, all the manifestations of a mutiny of the military—were repeated in 1917 with photographic accuracy, but with greater impetus and on a much larger scale.

It should be noted that the possibility of such a rapid psychological transformation was not characteristic of the Russian Army alone. There can be no doubt that war-weariness after three years of bloodshed played an important part in these events, as the armies of the whole world were affected by it and were rendered more accessible to the disintegrating influences of extreme Socialist doctrines. In the autumn of 1918 the German Army Corps that occupied the region of the Don and Little Russia were demoralised in one week, and they repeated to a certain extent the process which we had already lived through of meetings, soviets, committees, of doing away with Commanding Officers, and in some units of the sale of military stores, horses and arms. It was not till then that the Germans understood the tragedy of the Russian officers. More than once our volunteers saw the German officers, formerly so haughty and so frigid, weeping bitterly over their degradation.

“You have done the same to us; you have done it with your own hands,” we said.

“Not we; it was our Government,” was their reply.

In the winter of 1918, as Commander-in-Chief of the Volunteer Army, I received an offer from a group of German officers to join our army as volunteers in the ranks.

The collapse of the army cannot be explained away as the psychological result of defeats and disasters. Even the victors experienced disturbances in the army. There was a certain amount of disaffection among the French troops occupying, in the beginning of 1918, the region of Odessa and Roumania, in the French fleet cruising in the Black Sea, among the British troops in the region of Constantinople and Transcaucasia. The troops did not always obey the orders of their Commanding Officers. Rapid demobilisation and the arrival of fresh, partly volunteer elements, altered the situation.

The Grand Duke Nicholas distributes Crosses of St. George.

What was the condition of the Russian Army at the outbreak of the Revolution? From time immemorial the entire ideology of our soldiers was contained in the well-known formula: “For God, for the Czar and for the Mother Country.” Generation after generation was born and bred on that formula. These ideas, however, did not penetrate deeply enough into the masses of the people and of the army. For many centuries the Russian people had been deeply religious, but their faith was somewhat shaken in the beginning of the Twentieth Century. The Russian people, as the Russian saying goes, was “the bearer of Christ”—a people inwardly disposed towards Universal Brotherhood, great in its simplicity, truthfulness, humility and forgiveness. That people, Christian in the fullest sense of the word, was gradually changing as it came under the influence of material interests, and learnt or was taught to see in the gratifying of those interests the sole purpose of life. The link between the people and its spiritual leaders was gradually weakening as these leaders were detached from the people, entered into the service of the Governing powers, and shared the latter’s deficiencies. The development of this moral transformation of the Russian people is too deep and too complex to fall within the scope of these memoirs. It is undeniable that the youngsters who joined the ranks treated questions of the Faith and of the Church with indifference. In barracks they lost the habits of their homes, and were forcibly removed from a more wholesome and settled atmosphere, with all its creeds and superstitions. They received no spiritual or moral education, which in barracks was considered a matter of minor importance, completely overshadowed by practical and material cares and requirements. A proper spirit could not be created in barracks, where Christian morals, religious discourses, and even the rites of the Church bore an official and sometimes even compulsory character. Commanding Officers know how difficult it was to find a solution of the vexed question of attendance at Church services.

War introduced two new elements into the spiritual life of the army. On the one hand, there was a certain moral coarseness and cruelty; on the other, it seemed as if faith had been deepened by constant danger. I do not wish to accuse the orthodox military clergy as a body. Many of its representatives proved their high valour, courage and self-sacrifice. It must, however, be admitted that the clergy failed to produce a religious revival among the troops. It is not their fault, because the world-war into which Russia was drawn was due to intricate political and economic causes, and there was no room for religious fervour. The clergy, however, likewise failed to establish closer connection with the troops. After the outbreak of the Revolution the officers continued for a long time to struggle to keep their waning power and authority, but the voice of the priests was silenced almost at once, and they ceased to play any part whatsoever in the life of the troops. I recall an episode typical of the mental attitude of military circles in those days. One of the regiments of the Fourth Rifle Division had built a camp Church quite close to its lines, and had built it with great care and very artistically. The Revolution came. A demagogue captain decided that his company had inadequate quarters and that a Church was a superstition. On his own authority he converted the Church into quarters for his company, and dug a hole where the altar stood for purposes which it is better not to mention. I am not surprised that such a scoundrel was found in the regiment or that the Higher Command was terrorised and silent. But why did two or three thousand orthodox Russians, bred in the mystic rites of their faith, remain indifferent to such a sacrilege? Be that as it may, there can hardly be any doubt that religion ceased to be one of the moral impulses which upheld the spirit of the Russian Army and prompted it to deeds of valour or protected it later from the development of bestial instincts. The orthodox clergy, generally speaking, was thrown overboard during the storm. Some of the high dignitaries of the Church—the Metropolitans—Pitirim and Makarius—the Archbishop Varnava and others, unfortunately were closely connected with the Governing bureaucracy of the Rasputin period of Petrograd history. The lower grades of the clergy, on the other hand, were in close touch with the Russian intellectuals.

I cannot take it upon myself to judge of the extent to which the Russian Church remained an active force after it came under the yoke of the Bolsheviks. An impenetrable veil hangs over the life of the Russian Church in Soviet Russia, but there can be no doubt that spiritual renaissance is progressing and spreading, that the martyrdom of hundreds, nay, thousands, of priests is waking the dormant conscience of the people and is becoming a legend in their minds.

THE CZAR.

It is hardly necessary to prove that the enormous majority of the Commanding Officers were thoroughly loyal to the Monarchist idea and to the Czar himself. The subsequent behaviour of the higher Commanding Officers who had been Monarchists was due partly to motives of self-seeking, partly to pusillanimity and to the desire to conceal their real feelings in order to remain in power and to carry out their own plans. Cases in which a change of front was the result of the collapse of ideals, of a new outlook, or was prompted by motives of practical statesmanship, were rare. For example, it would have been childish to have believed General Brussilov when he asserted that from the days of his youth he had been “a Socialist and a Republican.” He was bred in the traditions of the Old Guards, was closely connected with circles of the Court, and permeated with their outlook. His habits, tastes, sympathies and surroundings were those of a barin.[1] No man can be a lifelong liar to himself and to others. The majority of the officers of the Regular Russian Army had Monarchist principles and were undoubtedly loyal. After the Japanese war, as a result of the first Revolution, the Officers’ Corps was, nevertheless, placed, for reasons which are not sufficiently clear, under the special supervision of the Police Department, and regimental Commanding Officers received from time to time “black lists.” The tragedy of it was that it was almost useless to argue against the verdict of “unreliability,” while, at the same time, it was forbidden to conduct one’s own investigation, even in secret. This system of spying introduced an unwholesome spirit into the army. Not content with this system, the War Minister, General Sukhomlinov, introduced his own branch of counter-spies, which was headed unofficially by Colonel Miassoyedov, who was afterwards shot as a German spy. At every military District Headquarters an organ was instituted, headed by an officer of the Gendarmerie dressed up in G.H.Q. uniform. Officially, he was supposed to deal with foreign espionage, but General Dukhonin (who was killed by the Bolsheviks), when Chief of the Intelligence Bureau of the Kiev G.H.Q. before the War, bitterly complained to me of the painful atmosphere created by this new organ, which was officially subordinate to the Quartermaster-General, but in reality looked on him with suspicion, and was spying not only upon the Staff, but upon its own chiefs.

Life itself seemed to induce the officers to utter some kind of protest against the existing order. Of all the classes that served the State, there had been for a long time no element so downtrodden and forlorn or so ill-provided for as the officers of the Regular Russian Army. They lived in abject poverty. Their rights and their self-esteem were constantly ignored by the Senior Officers. The utmost the rank and file could hope for as the crowning of their career was the rank of Colonel and an old age spent in sickness and semi-starvation. From the middle of the nineteenth century the Officers’ Corps had completely lost its character as a class and a caste. Since universal compulsory service was introduced and the nobility ceased to be prosperous the gates of military schools were opened wide to people of low extraction and to young men belonging to the lower strata of the people, but with a diploma from the civil schools. They formed a majority in the Army. Mobilisations, on the other hand, reinforced the Officers’ Corps by the infusion of a great many men of the liberal professions, who introduced new ideas and a new outlook. Finally, the tremendous losses suffered by the Regular Officers’ Corps compelled the High Command to relax to a certain extent the regulations concerning military training and education, and to introduce on a broad scale promotions from the ranks for deeds of valour, and to give rankers a short training in elementary schools to fit them to be temporary officers.

These circumstances, characteristic of all armies formed from the masses, undoubtedly reduced the fighting capacity of the Officers’ Corps, and brought about a certain change in its political outlook, bringing it nearer to that of the average Russian intellectual and to democracy. This the leaders of the Revolutionary democracy did not, or, to be more accurate, would not, understand in the first days of the Revolution. In the course of my narrative I will differentiate between the “Revolutionary Democracy”—an agglomeration of socialist parties—and the true Russian Democracy, to which the middle-class intelligencia and the Civil Service elements undoubtedly belong.

The spirit of the Regular Officers was, however, gradually changing. The Japanese War, which disclosed the grave shortcomings of the country and of the Army, the Duma and the Press, which had gained a certain liberty after 1905, played an important part in the political education of the officers. The mystic adoration of the Monarch began gradually to vanish. Among the junior generals and other officers there appeared men in increasing numbers capable of differentiating between the idea of the Monarchy and personalities, between the welfare of the country and the form of government. In officer circles opportunities occurred for criticism, analysis, and sometimes for severe condemnation.

It is to be wondered that in these circumstances our officers remained steadfast and stoutly resisted the extremist, destructive currents of political thought. The percentage of men who reached the depths and were unmasked by the authorities was insignificant. With regard to the throne, generally speaking, there was a tendency among the officers to separate the person of the Emperor from the miasma with which he was surrounded, from the political errors and misdeeds of the Government, which was leading the country steadily to ruin and the Army to defeat. They wanted to forgive the Emperor, and tried to make excuses for him.

In spite of the accepted view, the monarchical idea had no deep, mystic roots among the rank and file, and, of course, the semi-cultured masses entirely failed to realise the meaning of other forms of Government preached by Socialists of all shades of opinion. Owing to a certain innate Conservatism, to habits dating from time immemorial, and to the teaching of the Church, the existing régime was considered as something quite natural and inevitable. In the mind and in the heart of the soldier the idea of a monarch was, if I may so express it, “in a potential state,” rising sometimes to a point of high exaltation when the monarch was personally approached (at reviews, parades and casual meetings), and sometimes falling to indifference. At any rate, the Army was in a disposition sufficiently favourable to the idea of a monarchy and to the dynasty, and that disposition could have easily been maintained. But a sticky cobweb of licentiousness and crime was being woven at Petrograd and Czarskoe Selo. The truth, intermingled with falsehood, penetrated into the remotest corners of the country and into the Army, and evoked painful regrets and sometimes malicious rejoicings. The members of the House of Romanov did not preserve the “idea” which the orthodox monarchists wished to surround with a halo of greatness, nobility and reverence. I recall the impression of a sitting of the Duma which I happened to attend. For the first time, Gutchkov uttered a word of warning from the Tribune of the Duma about Rasputin.

“All is not well with our land.”

The House, which had been rather noisy, was silent, and every word, spoken in a low voice, was distinctly audible in remote corners. A mysterious cloud, pregnant with catastrophe, seemed to hang over the normal course of Russian history. I will not dwell on the corrupt influences prevailing in Ministerial dwellings and Imperial palaces to which the filthy and cynical impostor found access, who swayed ministers and rulers.

The Grand Duke Nicholas is supposed to have threatened to hang Rasputin should he venture to appear at G.H.Q. General Alexeiev also disapproved strongly of the man. That the influence of Rasputin did not spread to the old Army is due entirely to the attitude of the above-named generals. All sorts of stories about Rasputin’s influence was circulated at the front, and the Censor collected an enormous amount of material on the subject, even from soldiers’ letters from the front; but the gravest impression was produced by the word “TREASON” with reference to the Empress. In the Army, openly and everywhere, conversations were heard about the Empress’ persistent demands for a separate peace and of her treachery towards Lord Kitchener, of whose journey she was supposed to have informed the Germans. As I recall the past, and the impression produced in the Army by the rumour of the Empress’ treason, I consider that this circumstance had a very great influence upon the attitude of the Army towards the dynasty and the revolution. In the spring of 1917 I questioned General Alexeiev on this painful subject. His answer, reluctantly given, was vague. He said: “When the Empress’ papers were examined she was found to be in possession of a map indicating in detail the disposition of the troops along the entire front. Only two copies were prepared of this map, one for the Emperor and one for myself. I was very painfully impressed. God knows who may have made use of this map.”

History will undoubtedly throw light on the fateful influence exercised by the Empress Alexandra upon the Russian Government in the period preceding the Revolution. As regards the question of treason, this disastrous rumour has not been confirmed by a single fact, and was afterwards contradicted by the investigations of a Commission specially appointed by the Provisional Government, on which representatives of the Soviet of workmen and soldiers served.

We now come to the third foundation—the Mother Country. Deafened as we were, alas! by the thunder and rattle of conventional patriotic phrases, endlessly repeated along the whole length and breadth of Russia, we failed to detect the fundamental, innate defect of the Russian people—its lack of patriotism. It is no longer necessary to force an open door by proving this statement. The Brest-Litovsk Treaty provoked no outburst of popular wrath. Russian society was indifferent to the separation of the Border States, even those that were Russian in spirit and in blood. What is more, Russian society approved of this dismemberment. We know of the agreement between Poland and Petlura, between Poland and the Soviet. We know that Russian territorial and material riches were sold for a song to international, political usurers. Need we adduce further proofs?

There can be no doubt that the collapse of Russian Statehood as manifested in “self-determination” was in several instances caused by the desire to find a temporary safeguard against the Bedlam of the Soviet Republic. Life, however, unfortunately does not stop at the practical application of this peculiar “sanitary cordon,” but strikes at the very idea of Statehood. This occurred even in such stable districts as the Cossack provinces, not, however, among the masses, but among the leaders themselves. Thus at Ekaterinodar in 1920, at the “High Krug” (Assembly) of the three Cossack armies, the mention of Russia was omitted after a heated discussion from the proposed formula of the oath....

Is Crucified Russia unworthy of our love?

What, then, was the effect of the Mother Country idea upon the conscience of the old Army? The upper strata of the Russian intellectuals were well aware of the reasons for the world conflagration, of the conflict of the Powers for political and economic supremacy, for free routes, for markets and colonies—a conflict in which Russia’s part was merely one of self-defence. On the other hand, the average number of the Russian intelligencia, as well as officers, were often satisfied merely with the immediate and more obvious and easily comprehensible causes. Nobody wanted the war, except, perhaps, the impressionable young officers yearning for exploits. It was believed that the powers-that-be would take every precaution in order to avoid a rupture. Gradually, however, the fatal inevitability of war was understood. There was no question on our part of aggressiveness or self-interest. To sympathise sincerely with the weak and the oppressed was in keeping with the traditional attitude of Russia. Also, we did not draw the sword—the sword was drawn against us. That is why, when the war began, the voices were silenced of those who feared that, owing to the low level of her culture and economic development, Russia would be unable to win in the contest with a strong and cultured enemy. War was accepted in a patriotic spirit, which was at times akin to enthusiasm. Like the majority of the intellectuals, the officers did not take much interest in the question of war aims. The war began; defeat would have led to immeasurable disaster to our country in every sphere of its life, to territorial losses, political decadence and economic slavery. Victory was, therefore, a necessity. All other questions were relegated to the background. There was plenty of time for their discussion, for new decisions and for changes. This simplified attitude towards the war, coupled with a profound understanding and with a national self-consciousness, was not understood by the left wing of the Russian politicians, who were driven to Zimmerwald and Kienthal. No wonder, therefore, that when the anonymous and the Russian leaders of the Revolutionary democracy were confronted in February, 1917, before the Army was deliberately destroyed, with the dilemma: “Are we to save the country or the Revolution?” they chose the latter.

Still less did the illiterate masses of the people understand the idea of national self-preservation. The people went to war submissively, but without enthusiasm and without any clear perception of the necessity for a great sacrifice. Their psychology did not rise to the understanding of abstract national principles. “The people-in-arms,” for that was what the Army really was, were elated by victory and downhearted when defeated. They did not fully understand the necessity for crossing the Carpathians, and had, perhaps, a clearer idea of the meaning of the struggle on the Styr and the Pripet. And yet it found solace in the thought: “We are from Tambov; the Germans will not reach us.” It is necessary to repeat this stale saying, because it expresses the deep-rooted psychology of the average Russian. As a result of this predominance of material interests in the outlook of “the people-in-arms,” they grasped more easily the simple arguments based on realities in favour of a stubborn fight and of victory, as well as the impossibility of admitting defeat. These arguments were: A foreign German domination, the ruin of the country and of the home, the weight of the taxes which would inevitably be levied after defeat, the fall in the price of grain, which would have to go through foreign channels, etc. In addition, there was some feeling of confidence that the Government was doing the right thing, the more so as the nearest representatives of that power, the officers, were going forward with the troops and were dying in the same spirit of readiness and submission as the men, either because they had been ordered to do so, or else because they thought it their duty. The rank and file, therefore, bravely faced death. Afterwards when confidence was shaken, the masses of the Army were completely perplexed. The formulas, “without annexations and indemnities,” “the self-determination of peoples,” etc., proved more abstract and less intelligible than the old repudiated and rusty idea of the Mother Country, which still persisted underneath them. In order to keep the men at the front, the well-known arguments of a materialistic nature, such as the threat of German domination, the ruin of the home, the weight of taxes, were expounded from platforms decorated with red flags. They were taught by Socialists, who favoured a war of defence.

Thus the three principles which formed the foundations of the Army were undermined. In describing the anomalies and spiritual shortcomings of the Russian Army, far be it from me to place it below the level of armies of other countries. These shortcomings are inherent in all armies formed from the masses, which are almost akin to a militia, but this did not prevent these armies or our own from gaining victories and continuing the war. It is necessary, however, to draw a complete picture of the spirit of the Army in order to understand its subsequent destiny.

[CHAPTER II.]
The Army.

The Russo-Japanese war had a very great influence upon the development of the Russian army. The bitterness of defeat and the clear consciousness that the policy governing military affairs was disastrously out of date gave a great impulse to the junior military elements and forced the slack and inert elements gradually to alter their ways or else to retire. In spite of the passive resistance of several men at the head of the War Ministry and the General Staff, who were either incompetent or else treated the interests of the army with levity and indifference, work was done at full speed. In ten years the Russian army, without of course attaining the ideal, made tremendous progress. It may be confidently asserted that, had it not been for the hard lessons of the Manchurian campaign, Russia would have been crushed in the first months of the Great War.

Yet the cleansing of the commanding personnel went too slowly. Our softness (“Poor devil! we must give him a job”), wire-pulling, intrigues, and too slavish an observance of the rules of seniority resulted in the ranks of senior commanding officers being crowded with worthless men. The High Commission for granting testimonials, which sat twice a year in Petrograd, hardly knew any of those to whom these testimonials were given. Therein lies the reason for the mistakes made at the outbreak of war in many appointments to High Commands. Four Commanders-in-Chief (one of them suffered from mental paralysis—it is true that his appointment was only temporary), several Army Commanders, many Army Corps and Divisional Commanders had to be dismissed. In the very first days of the concentration of the Eighth Army, in July, 1914, General Brussilov dismissed three Divisional and one Army Corps Commanders. Yet nonentities retained their commands, and they ruined the troops and the operations. Under the same General Brussilov, General D., relieved several times of his command, went from a cavalry division to three infantry divisions in turn, and found final repose in German captivity. Most unfortunately, the whole army was aware of the incompetence of these Commanding Officers, and wondered at their appointments. Owing to these deficiencies, the strategy of the entire campaign lacked inspiration and boldness. Such, for example, were the operations of the North-Western front in East Prussia, prompted solely by the desire of G.H.Q. to save the French Army from a desperate position. Such, in particular, was Rennenkampf’s shameful manœuvre, as well as the stubborn forcing of the Carpathians, which dismembered the troops of the South-Western front in 1915, and finally our advance in the spring of 1916.

The last episode was so typical of the methods of our High Command and its consequences were so grave that it is worth our while to recall it.

When the armies of the South-Western front took the offensive in May, the attack was eminently successful and several Austrian divisions were heavily defeated. When my division, after the capture of Lutsk, was moving by forced marches to Vladimir Volynsk, I considered—and we all considered—that our manœuvre represented the entire scheme of the advance, that our front was dealing the main blow. We learnt afterwards that the task of dealing the main blow had been entrusted to the Western front, and that Brussilov’s armies were only making a demonstration. There, towards Vilna, large forces had been gathered, equipped with artillery and technical means such as we had never had before. For several months the troops had been preparing places d’armes for the advance. At last all was ready, and the success of the Southern armies that diverted the enemy’s attention and his reserves also promised success to the Western front.

Almost on the eve of the contemplated offensive the historical conversation took place on the telephone between General Evert, C.-in-C. of the Western front, and General Alexeiev, Chief of Staff of the Supreme Commander-in-Chief. The gist of the conversation was the following:

A. Circumstances require an immediate decision. Are you ready for the advance and are you certain to be successful?

E. I have no certainty of success. The enemy’s positions are very strong. Our troops will have to attack the positions against which their previous attacks have failed.

A. If that is the case, you must give immediate orders for the transfer of troops to the South-Western front. I will report to the Emperor.

So the operation, so long awaited and so methodically prepared, collapsed. The Western Army Corps, sent to reinforce us, came too late. Our advance was checked. The senseless slaughter on the swampy banks of the Stokhod then began. Incidentally, the Guards lost the flower of their men in those battles. Meanwhile, the German Eastern front was going through a period of intense anxiety. “It was a critical time,” says Ludendorff in his Mes Souvenirs de Guerre. “We had spent ourselves, and we knew full well that no one would come to our assistance if the Russians chose to attack us.”

An episode may be mentioned in this connection, which occurred to General Brussilov. The story is not widely known, and may serve as an interesting sidelight on the character of the General—one of the leaders of the campaign. After the brilliant operations of the Eighth Army, which ended in the crossing of the Carpathians and the invasion of Hungary, the C.-in-C., General Brussilov, suffered a curious psychological breakdown. Under the impression that a partial reverse had been sustained by one of the Army Corps, he issued an order for a general retreat, and the Army began rapidly to roll back. He was haunted by imaginary dangers of the enemy breaking through, surrounding our troops, of attacks of enemy cavalry which were supposed to threaten the G.H.Q. Twice General Brussilov moved his H.Q. with a swiftness akin to a panicky flight. The C.-in-C. was thus detached from his armies and out of touch with them.

We were retreating day after day in long, weary marches, and utterly bewildered. The Austrians did not outnumber us, and their moral was no higher than ours. They did not press us. Every day, my riflemen and Kornilov’s troops in our vicinity delivered short counter-attacks, took many prisoners, and captured machine-guns.

The Quartermaster-General’s branch of the Army was even more puzzled. Every day it reported that the news of the retreat was unfounded; but Brussilov at first disregarded these reports, and later became greatly incensed. The General Staff then had recourse to another stratagem: they approached Brussilov’s old friend, the veteran General Panchulidzev, Chief of the Army Sanitation Branch, and persuaded him that, if this retreat continued, the Army might suspect treason and things might take an ugly turn. Panchulidzev visited Brussilov. An intensely painful scene took place. As a result, Brussilov was found weeping bitterly and Panchulidzev fainted. On the same day, an order was issued for an advance, and the troops went forward rapidly and easily, driving the Austrians before them. The strategical position was restored as well as the reputation of the Army Commander.

It must be admitted that not only the troops but the Commanders were but scantily informed of the happenings of the front, and had hazy ideas on the general strategical scheme. The troops criticised them only when it was obvious that they had to pay the price of blood for these schemes. So it was in the Carpathians, at Stokhod, during the second attack on Przemyshl in the spring of 1917, etc. The moral of the troops was affected chiefly by the great Galician retreat, the unhappy progress of the war on the Northern and Western fronts—where no victories were won—and by the tedious lingering for over a year in positions of which everyone was sick to death.

I have already mentioned the cadres of commissioned officers. The great and small shortcomings of these cadres increased as the cadres became separated. No one expected the campaign to be protracted, and the Army organisation was not careful to preserve the cadres of officers and non-commissioned officers. They were drafted wholesale into the ranks at the outbreak of war. I remember so well a conversation that took place during the period of mobilisation, which was then contemplated against Austria alone. It occurred in the flat of General V. M. Dragomirov, one of the prominent leaders of the Army. A telegram was brought in announcing that Germany had declared war. There was a dead silence. Everyone was deep in thought. Somebody asked Dragomirov:

“How long do you think the war will last?”

“Four months.”

Companies went to the front sometimes with five to six officers. Regular officers, and later the majority of other officers, invariably and in all circumstances gave the example of prowess, pluck and self-sacrifice. It is only natural that most of them were killed. Another reliable element—the N.C.O.’s of the Reserve—was also recklessly squandered. In the beginning of the war they formed sometimes 50 per cent. of the rank and file. Relations between officers and men in the old army were not always based upon healthy principles. It cannot be denied that there was a certain aloofness caused by the insufficient attention paid by the officers to the spiritual requirements of the soldier’s life. These relations, however, gradually improved as the barriers of caste and class were broken down. The war drew officers and men ever closer together, and in some regiments, mostly of the line, there was a true brotherhood in arms. One reservation must here be made. The outward intercourse bore the stamp of the general lack of culture from which not only the masses but also the Russian intellectuals suffered. Heartfelt solicitude, touching care of the men’s needs, simplicity and friendliness—all these qualities of the Russian officer, who lay for months on end in the wet, dirty trenches beside their men, ate out of the same pot, died quietly and without a murmur, was buried in the same “fraternal grave”—were marred by an occasional roughness, swearing, and sometimes by arbitrariness and blows.

There can be no doubt that the same conditions existed within the ranks, and the only difference was that the sergeant and the corporal were rougher and more cruel than the officers. These deplorable circumstances coupled with the boredom and stupidity of barrack life, and the petty restrictions imposed upon the men by the military regulations, gave ample scope for underground seditious propaganda in which the soldier was described as the “victim of the arbitrariness of the men with golden epaulettes.” The sound feeling and naturally healthy outlook of the men was not mentioned while the discomforts of military life were insisted on in order to foster a spirit of discontent.

This state of affairs was all the more serious because during the war the process of consolidating the different units became more and more difficult. These units, and especially the infantry regiments, suffering terrible losses and changing their personnel ten or twelve times, became to some extent recruiting stations through which men flowed in an uninterrupted stream. They remained there but a short time, and failed to become imbued with the military traditions of their unit. The artillery and some other special branches remained comparatively solid, and this was due in some measure to the fact that their losses were, as compared with the losses suffered by the infantry, only in the proportion of one to ten or one to twenty.

On the whole the atmosphere in the Army and in the Navy was not, therefore, particularly wholesome. In varying degrees, the two elements of the Army—the rank and file and the commanding cadres—were divided. For this the Russian officers, as well as the intellectuals, were undoubtedly responsible. Their misdeeds resulted in the idea gaining ground that the barin (master) and the officer were opposed to the moujik and the soldier. A favourable atmosphere was thus created for the work of destructive forces.

Anarchist elements were by no means predominant in the Army. The foundations, though somewhat unstable, had to be completely shattered; the new power had to commit a long series of mistakes and crimes to convert the state of smouldering discontent into active rebellion, the bloody spectre of which will for some time to come hang over our hapless Russian land.

Destructive outside influences were not counteracted in the Army by a reasonable process of education. This was due partly to the political unpreparedness of the officers, partly to the instinctive fear felt by the old régime of introducing “politics” into barracks, even with a view to criticising subversive doctrines. This fear was felt not only in respect of social and internal problems but even in respect of foreign policy. Thus, for example, an Imperial order was issued shortly before the war, strictly prohibiting any discussion amongst the soldiers on the subject of the political issues of the moment (the Balkan question, the Austro-Serbian conflict, etc.). On the eve of the inevitable national war, the authorities persistently refrained from awakening wholesome patriotism by explaining the causes and aims of the war, and instructing the rank and file on the Slav question and our long-drawn struggle against Germanism. I must confess that, like many others, I did not carry out that order, and that I endeavoured properly to influence the moral of the Archangel regiment which I then commanded. I published an impassioned article against the order in the Military Press, under the title Do not quench the spirit. I feel certain that the statue of Strassbourg in the Place de la Concorde in Paris, draped in a black veil, played an important part in fostering the heroic spirit of the French Army.

Propaganda penetrated into the old Russian Armies from all sides. There can be no doubt that the fitful attempts of the ever-changing governments of Goremykin, Sturmer, Trepov, etc., to arrest the normal course of life in Russia, provided ample material for propaganda and roused the anger of the people, which was reflected in the Army. Socialist and defeatist writers took advantage of this state of affairs. Lenin first contrived to introduce his doctrines into Russia through the Social Democratic party of the Duma. The Germans worked with even greater intensity.

It should, however, be noted that all this propaganda from outside and from within affected chiefly the units of the rear, the garrisons and reserve battalions of the main centres, and especially of Petrograd, and that, before the Revolution, its influence at the front was comparatively insignificant. Reinforcements reached the front in a state of perplexity, but under the influence of a saner atmosphere, and of healthier, albeit more arduous, conditions of warfare, they rapidly improved. The effect of destructive propaganda was, however, noticeable in certain units where the ground was favourable, and two or three cases of insubordination of entire units occurred before the Revolution, and were severely repressed. Finally, the bulk of the Army—the peasantry—was confronted with one practical question which prompted them instinctively to delay the social revolution: “THE LAND WOULD BE DIVIDED IN OUR ABSENCE. WHEN WE RETURN WE SHALL DIVIDE IT.”

The inadequate organisation of the rear, the orgy of theft, high prices, profiteering and luxury, for which the front paid in blood, naturally afforded material for propaganda. The Army, however, suffered most heavily from the lack of technical means, especially of ammunition.

It was only in 1917 that General Sukhomlinov’s trial disclosed to the Russian Army and to public opinion the main causes of the military catastrophe of 1915. Plans for replenishing the Russian Army stores had been completed, and credits for that purpose assigned as early as in 1907. Curiously enough, these credits were increased on the initiative of the Commission for National Defence, not of the Ministry of War. As a rule, neither the Duma nor the Ministry of Finance ever refused war credits or reduced them. During Sukhomlinov’s tenure of office the War Ministry obtained a special credit of 450 million roubles, of which less than 300 millions were spent. Before the war, the question of providing the Army with munitions after the peace-time stores were exhausted was never even raised. It is true that the intensity of firing reached, from the very outbreak of war, unexpected and unheard-of proportions, which upset all the theoretical calculations of military specialists in Russia and abroad. Naturally, heroic measures were necessary in order to deal with this tragic situation.

Meanwhile, the supplies of ammunition for the reinforcements that came to the front—at first only 1/10th equipped, and later without any rifles at all—were exhausted as early as in October, 1914. The Commander-in-Chief of the South-Western front telegraphed to G.H.Q.: “The machinery for providing ammunition has completely broken down. In the absence of fresh supplies, we shall have to cease fighting, or else send troops to the front in an extremely precarious condition.” At the same time (the end of September) Marshal Joffre inquired “whether the Imperial Russian Army was adequately supplied with shells for the uninterrupted conduct of war.” The War Minister, General Sukhomlinov, replied: “The present condition of the Russian Army in respect of ammunition gives no ground for serious apprehension.” Orders were not placed abroad, and Japanese and American rifles were refused “in order to avoid the inconvenience due to different calibres.”

When the man who was responsible for the military catastrophe faced his judges in August, 1917, his personality produced a pitiful impression. The trial raised a more serious, painful question: “How could this irresponsible man, with no real knowledge of military matters, and perhaps even consciously a criminal, have remained in power for six years?” How “shamelessly indifferent to good and evil,” according to Pushkin’s saying, the military bureaucracy must have been, that surrounded him and tolerated the sins of omission and commission, which invariably and systematically injured the interests of the State.

The final catastrophe came in 1915.

I shall never forget the spring of 1915, the great tragedy of the Russian Army—-the Galician retreat. We had neither cartridges nor shells. From day to day, we fought heavy battles and did lengthy marches. We were desperately tired—physically and morally. From hazy hopes we plunged into the depths of gloom. I recall an action near Przemyshl in the middle of May. The Fourth Rifle Division fought fiercely for eleven days. For eleven days the German heavy guns were roaring, and they literally blew up rows of trenches, with all their defenders. We scarcely replied at all—we had nothing to reply with. Utterly exhausted regiments were beating off one attack after another with bayonets, or firing at a close range. Blood was flowing, the ranks were being thinned, and graveyards growing. Two regiments were almost entirely annihilated by firing.

I would that our French and British friends, whose technical achievement is so wondrous, could note the following grotesque fact, which belongs to Russian history:

Our only six-inch battery had been silent for three days. When it received FIFTY SHELLS the fact was immediately telephoned to all regiments and companies, and all the riflemen heaved a sigh of relief and joy.

What painful, insulting irony there was in Brussilov’s circular, in which the C.-in-C., incapable of providing us with ammunition, and with a view to raising our spirits and our moral, advised us not to lay too much stress upon the German superiority in heavy guns, because there had been many cases of the Germans inflicting but small losses in our ranks by spending an enormous amount of shells....

On May 21st, General Yanushkevitch (Chief of the Staff of the Supreme C.-in-C., the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicholaievitch) telegraphed to the War Minister: “The evacuation of Przemyshl is an accomplished fact. Brussilov alleges a shortage of ammunition, that bête noire, yours and mine ... a loud cry comes from all the armies: ‘Give us cartridges.’”

I am not inclined to idealise our Army. I have to speak many sad truths about it. But when the Pharisees—the leaders of the Russian Revolutionary Democracy—endeavour to explain away the collapse of the Army for which they are mainly responsible, by saying that the Army was already on the verge of collapse, they are lying.

I do not deny the grave shortcomings of our system of appointments to the High Command, the errors of our strategy, tactics and organisation, the technical backwardness of our Army, the defects of the Officers’ Corps, the ignorance of the rank and file, and the vices of barrack life. I know the extent of desertions and shirking, of which our intellectuals were hardly less guilty than the ignorant masses. The Revolutionary Democracy did not, however, devote special attention to these serious defects of the Army. It could not remedy these evils, did not know how to cure them, and, in fact, did not combat them at all. Speaking for myself, I do not know that the Revolutionary Democracy has cured or even dealt seriously and effectively with any one of these evils. What of the famous “Freedom from Bondage” of the soldier? Discarding all the exaggerations which this term implies, it may be said that the mere fact of the Revolution brought about a certain change in the relations between the officers and the men. In normal circumstances, and without coarse and malicious outside interference, this change might have become a source of great moral strength, instead of a disaster. It was into this sore that the Revolutionary Democracy poured poison. The very essence of the military organisation: its eternal, unchangeable characteristics, discipline, individual authority, and the non-political spirit of the Army, were ruthlessly assailed by the Revolutionary Democracy. These characteristics were lost. And yet it seemed as if the downfall of the old régime opened new and immense possibilities for cleansing and uplifting the Russian people’s Army and its Command morally and technically. Like people, like Army. After all, the old Russian Army, albeit suffering from the deficiencies of the Russian people, had also the people’s virtues, and particularly an exceptional power of endurance in facing the horrors of war. The Army fought without a murmur for nearly three years. With extraordinary prowess and self-sacrifice the men went into action with empty hands against the deadly technique of the enemy. The rivers of blood shed by the rank and file atoned for the sins of the Supreme power, the Government, the people, and of the Army itself.[2]

Our late Allies should never forget that in the middle of January, 1917, the Russian Army was holding on its front 187 enemy divisions, or 49 per cent. of the enemy’s forces operating on the European and Asiatic fronts.

The old Russian Army was still strong enough to continue the war and to win victories.

[CHAPTER III.]
The Old Army and the Emperor.

In August, 1915, the Emperor, influenced by the entourage of the Empress and of Rasputin, decided to take the Supreme Command of the Army. Eight Cabinet Ministers and some politicians warned the Emperor against this dangerous step, but their pleadings were of no avail. The official motives they adduced were, on the one hand, the difficulty of combining the tasks of governing the country and commanding the Army, and, on the other, the risk of assuming responsibility for the Army at a time when it was suffering reverses and retreating. The real motive, however, was the fear lest the difficult position of the Army be further imperilled by the lack of knowledge and experience of the new Supreme C.-in-C., and that the German-Rasputin clique that surrounded him, having already brought about the paralysis of the Government and its conflict with the Duma, would bring about the collapse of the Army.

There was a rumour, which was afterwards confirmed, that the Emperor came to this decision partly because he feared the entourage of the Empress, and partly because of the popularity of the Grand Duke Nicholas, which was growing in spite of the reverses suffered by the Army.

On August 23rd, an order was issued to the Army and Navy. To the official text, the Emperor added a note in his own hand, a facsimile of which is reproduced overleaf:

This decision, in spite of its intrinsic importance, produced no strong impression upon the Army. The High Commanding Officers and the lower grades of Commissioned Officers were well aware that the Emperor’s personal part in the Supreme Command would be purely nominal, and the question in everyone’s mind was:

“Who will be the Chief of Staff?”

The appointment of General Alexeiev appeased the anxiety of the officers. The rank and file cared but little for the technical side of the Command. To them, the Czar had always been the Supreme Leader of the Army. One thing, however, somewhat perturbed them: the belief had gained ground among the people years before that the Emperor was unlucky.

Translation:—“With firm faith in the grace of God, and with unshaken assurance of final victory, let us fulfil our sacred duty of defending Russia till the end, and let us not bring shame to the Russian land.—Nicholas.”

In reality, it was General M. V. Alexeiev who took command of the armed forces of Russia. In the history of the Russian war and the Russian turmoil, General Alexeiev holds so prominent a place that his importance cannot be gauged in a few lines. A special historical study would be necessary in order to describe the career of a man whose military and political activities, which some have severely criticised and others extolled, never caused anyone to doubt that (in the words of an Army Order to the Volunteer Army) “his path of martyrdom was lighted by crystalline honesty and by a fervent love for his Mother Country—whether great or downtrodden.”

Alexeiev sometimes did not display sufficient firmness in enforcing his demands, but, in respect of the independence of the “Stavka” (G.H.Q.) from outside influences, he showed civic courage which the High Officials of the old régime, who clung to their offices, completely lacked.

One day, after an official dinner at Mohilev, the Empress took Alexeiev’s arm, and went for a walk in the garden with him. She mentioned Rasputin. In terms of deep emotion she tried to persuade the General that he was wrong in his attitude towards Rasputin, that “the old man is a wonderful saint,” that he was much calumniated, that he was deeply devoted to the Imperial family, and, last but not least, that his visit would bring luck to the “Stavka.”

Alexeiev answered dryly that, so far as he was concerned, the question had long since been settled. Should Rasputin appear at G.H.Q., he would immediately resign his post.

“Is this your last word?”

“Yes, certainly.”

The Empress cut the conversation short, and left without saying good-bye to the General, who afterwards admitted that the incident had an ill-effect upon the Emperor’s attitude towards him. Contrary to the established opinion, the relations between the Emperor and Alexeiev, outwardly perfect, were by no means intimate or friendly, or even particularly confidential. The Emperor loved no one except his son. Therein lies the tragedy of his life as a man and as a ruler.

Several times General Alexeiev, depressed by the growth of popular discontent with the regime and the Crown, endeavoured to exceed the limits of a military report and to represent to the Emperor the state of affairs in its true light. He referred to Rasputin and to the question of a responsible Ministry. He invariably met with the impenetrable glance, so well-known to many, and the dry retort:

“I know.”

Not another word.

In matters of Army administration, the Emperor fully trusted Alexeiev, and listened attentively to the General’s long, and perhaps even too elaborate, reports. Attentively and patiently he listened, but these matters did not seem to appeal to him. There were differences of opinion in regard to minor matters, appointments to G.H.Q., new posts, etc.

No doubt was left in my mind as to the Emperor’s complete indifference in matters of high strategy after I read an important record—that of the deliberations of a Military Council held at G.H.Q. at the end of 1916, under the chairmanship of the Emperor. All the Commanders-in-Chief and the high officials of G.H.Q. were present, and the plans of the 1917 campaign and of a general advance were discussed.

Every word uttered at the conference was placed on record. One could not fail to be impressed by the dominating and guiding part played by General Gourko—Chief of the General Staff pro tem.—by the somewhat selfish designs of various Commanders-in-Chief, who were trying to adapt strategical axioms to the special interests of their fronts, and finally by the total indifference of the Supreme C.-in-C.

Relations similar to those just described continued between the Emperor and the Chief of Staff when General Gourko took charge of that office while Alexeiev, who had fallen seriously ill in the autumn of 1916, was undergoing a cure at Sevastopol, without, however, losing touch with G.H.Q., with which he communicated by direct wire.

Meanwhile, the struggle between the progressive block of the Duma and the Government (General Alexeiev and the majority of the Commanding Officers undoubtedly sympathised with the former) was gradually becoming more and more acute. The record of the sitting of the Duma of November 1st, 1916 (of which the publication was prohibited and an abridged version did not appear in the Press till the beginning of January, 1917), when Shulgin and Miliukov delivered their historical speeches, was circulated everywhere in the Army in the shape of typewritten leaflets. Feeling was already running so high that these leaflets were not concealed, but were read and provoked animated discussions in officers’ messes. A prominent Socialist, an active worker of the Union of Towns, who paid his first visit to the Army in 1916, said to me: “I am amazed at the freedom with which the worthlessness of the Government and the Court scandals are being discussed in regiments and messes in the presence of Commanding officers, at Army Headquarters, etc., and that in our country of arbitrary repression ... at first it seemed to me that I was dealing with ‘agents provocateurs.’”

The Duma had been in close connection with the Officers’ Corps for a long time. Young officers unofficially partook in the work of the Commission of National Defence during the period of the reorganisation of the Army and revival of the Fleet after the Japanese War. Gutchkov had formed a circle, in which Savitch, Krupensky, Count Bobrinski and representatives of the officers, headed by General Gourko, were included. Apparently, General Polivanov (who afterwards played such an important part in contributing to the disintegration of the Army, as Chairman of the “Polivanov Commission”) also belonged to the circle. There was no wish to “undermine the foundations,” but merely to push along the heavy, bureaucratic van, to give impetus to the work, and initiative to the offices of the inert Military Administration. According to Gutchkov, the circle worked quite openly, and the War Ministry at first even provided the members with materials. Subsequently, however, General Sukhomlinov’s attitude changed abruptly, the circle came under suspicion, and people began to call it “The Young Turks.”

The Commission of National Defence was, nevertheless, very well informed. General Lukomski, who was Chief of the Mobilisation Section, and later Assistant War Minister, told me that reports to the Commission had to be prepared extremely carefully, and that General Sukhomlinov, trivial and ignorant, produced a pitiful impression on the rare occasions on which he appeared before the Commission, and was subjected to a regular cross-examination.

In the course of his trial, Sukhomlinov himself recounted an episode which illustrates this state of affairs. One day, he arrived at a meeting of the Commission when two important military questions were to be discussed. He was stopped by Rodzianko,[3] who said to him:

“Get away, get away. You are to us as a red rag to a bull. As soon as you come, your requests are turned down.”

After the Galician retreat, the Duma succeeded at last in enforcing the participation of its members in the task of placing on a proper basis all orders for the Army, and the Unions of Zemstvos and Towns were permitted to create the “General Committee for provisioning the Army.”

The hard experience of the war resulted at last in the simple scheme of mobilising the Russian industries. No sooner did this undertaking escape from the deadening atmosphere of military offices than it advanced with giant strides. According to official data, in July, 1915, each Army received 33 parks of artillery instead of the requisite 50, whereas, in September, the figure rose to 78, owing to the fact that private factories had been brought into the scheme. I am in a position to state, not only on the strength of figures, but from personal experience, that, at the end of 1916, our Army, albeit falling short of the high standards of the Allied armies in respect of equipment, had sufficient stores of ammunition and supplies wherewith to begin an extensive and carefully-planned operation along the entire front. These circumstances were duly appreciated in the Army, and confidence in the Duma and in social organisations was thereby increased. The conditions of internal policy, however, were not improving. In the beginning of 1917, out of the extremely tense atmosphere of political strife, there arose the idea of a new remedy:

“REVOLUTION.”

Representatives of certain Duma and social circles visited Alexeiev, who was ill at Sevastopol. They told the General quite frankly that a revolution was brewing. They knew what the effect would be in the country, but they could not tell how the front would be impressed, and wanted advice.

Alexeiev strongly insisted that violent changes during the war were inadmissible, that they would constitute a deadly menace to the front, which, according to his pessimistic view, “was already by no means steady,” and pleaded against any irretrievable steps for the sake of preserving the Army. The delegates departed, promising to take the necessary measures in order to avert the contemplated revolution. I do not know upon what information General Alexeiev based his subsequent statement to the effect that the same delegates afterwards visited Generals Brussilov and Ruzsky, and after these generals had expressed an opposite view to his, altered their previous decision; but the preparations for the revolution continued.

It is as yet difficult to elucidate all the details of these negotiations. Those who conducted them are silent; there are no records; the whole matter was shrouded in secrecy, and did not reach the bulk of the army. Certain facts, however, have been ascertained.

Several people approached the Emperor, and warned him of the impending danger to the country and the dynasty—Alexeiev, Gourko, the Archbishop Shavelski, Purishkevitch (a reactionary member of the Duma), the Grand Dukes Nicholas Mikhailovitch and Alexander Mikhailovitch, and the Dowager Empress. After Rodzianko’s visit to the Army in the autumn of 1916, copies of his letter to the Emperor gained circulation in the Army. In that letter the President of the Duma warned the Emperor of the grave peril to the throne and the dynasty caused by the disastrous activities of the Empress Alexandra in the sphere of internal policy. On November 1st, the Grand Duke Nicholas Mikhailovitch read a letter to the Emperor, in which he pointed out the impossible manner, known to all classes of society, in which Ministers were appointed, through the medium of the appalling people who surrounded the Empress. The Grand Duke proceeded:

“... If you could succeed in removing this perpetual interference, the renascence of Russia would begin at once, and you would recover the confidence of the vast majority of your subjects which is now lost. When the time is ripe—and it is at hand—you can yourself grant from the throne the desired responsibility (of the Government) to yourself and the legislature. This will come about naturally, easily, without any pressure from without, and not in the same way as with the memorable act of October 17th, 1905.[4] I hesitated for a long time to tell you the truth, but made up my mind when your mother and your sisters persuaded me to do so. You are on the eve of new disturbances, and, if I may say so, new attempts. Believe me, if I so strongly emphasise the necessity for your liberation from the existing fetters, I am doing so not for personal motives, but only in the hope of saving you, your throne, and our beloved country from irretrievable consequences of the gravest nature.”

All these representations were of no avail.

Several members of the right and of the liberal wing of the Duma and of the progressive bloc, members of the Imperial family, and officers, joined the circle. One of the Grand Dukes was to make a last appeal to the Emperor before active measures were undertaken. In the event of failure, the Imperial train was to be stopped by an armed force on its way from G.H.Q. to Petrograd. The Emperor was to be advised to abdicate, and, in the event of his refusal, he was to be removed by force. The rightful heir, the Czarevitch Alexis, was to be proclaimed Emperor, and the Grand Duke Michael, Regent.

At the same time, a large group of the progressive bloc of the Duma, of representatives of Zemstvos and towns—well versed in the activities of the circle—held several meetings, at which the question was discussed of “the part the Duma was to play after the coup d’état.”[5] The new Ministry was then outlined, and of the two suggested candidates for the Premiership, Rodzianko and Prince Lvov, the latter was chosen.

Fate, however, decreed otherwise.

Before the contemplated coup d’état took place, there began, in the words of Albert Thomas, “the brightest, the most festive, the most bloodless Russian Revolution.”

[CHAPTER IV.]
The Revolution in Petrograd.

I did not learn of the course of events in Petrograd and at G.H.Q. until some time had elapsed, and I will refer to these events briefly in order to preserve the continuity of my narrative. In a telegram addressed to the Emperor by the members of the Council of the Empire on the night of the 28th February, the state of affairs was described as follows:—

“Owing to the complete disorganisation of transport and to the lack of necessary materials, factories have stopped working. Forced unemployment, and the acute food crisis due to the disorganisation of transport, have driven the popular masses to desperation. This feeling is further intensified by hatred towards the Government and grave suspicions against the authorities, which have penetrated deeply into the soul of the nation. All this has found expression in a popular rising of elemental dimensions, and the troops are now joining the movement. The Government, which has never been trusted in Russia, is now utterly discredited and incapable of coping with the dangerous situation.”

Preparations for the Revolution found favourable ground in the general condition of the country, and had been made long since. The most heterogeneous elements had taken part in these activities; the German Government, which spared no means for Socialist and defeatist propaganda in Russia, and especially among the workmen; the Socialist parties, who had formed “cells” among the workmen and in the regiments; undoubtedly, too, the Protopopov Ministry, which was said to have been provoking a rising in the streets in order to quell it by armed force, and thus clear the intolerably tense atmosphere. It would seem that all these forces were aiming at the same goal, which they were trying to reach by diverse means, actuated by diametrically opposed motives.

At the same time, the progressive block and social organisations began to prepare for great events which they considered inevitable, and other circles, in close touch with these organisations or sharing their views, were completing the arrangements for a “Palace coup d’état” as the last means of averting the impending Revolution.

Nevertheless, the rebellion started as an elemental force and caught everybody unawares. Several days later, when General Kornilov visited the Executive Committee of the Petrograd Soviet of Workmen and Soldiers’ Deputies, prominent members of that body incidentally explained that “the soldiers mutinied independently of the workmen, with whom the soldiers had not been in touch on the eve of the rebellion,” and that the “mutiny had not been prepared—hence the absence of a corresponding administrative organ.”

As regards the circles of the Duma and the social organisations, they were prepared for a coup d’état, but not for the Revolution. In the blazing fire of the outbreak they failed to preserve their moral balance and judgment.

The first outbreak began on February 23rd, when crowds filled the streets, meetings were held, and the speakers called for a struggle against the hated power. This lasted till the 26th, when the popular movement assumed gigantic proportions and there were collisions with the police, in which machine-guns were brought into action. On the 26th an ukaze was received proroguing the Duma, and on the morning of the 27th the members of the Duma decided not to leave Petrograd. On the same morning the situation underwent a drastic change, because the rebels were joined by the Reserve battalions of the Litovski, Volynski, Preobrajenski, and Sapper Guards’ Regiments. They were Reserve battalions, as the real Guards’ Regiments were then on the South-Western Front. These battalions did not differ, either in discipline or spirit, from any other unit of the line. In several battalions the Commanding Officers were disconcerted, and could not make up their minds as to their own attitude. This wavering resulted, to a certain extent, in a loss of prestige and authority. The troops came out into the streets without their officers, mingled with the crowds, and were imbued with the crowds’ psychology. Armed throngs, intoxicated with freedom, excited to the utmost, and incensed by street orators, filled the streets, smashed the barricades, and new crowds of waverers joined them. Police detachments were mercilessly slaughtered. Officers who chanced to be in the way of the crowds were disarmed and some of them killed. The armed mob seized the arsenal, the Fortress of Peter and Paul, and the Kresti Prison.

On that decisive day there were no leaders—there was only the tidal wave. Its terrible progress appeared to be devoid of any definite object, plan, or watchword. The only cry that seemed to express the general spirit was “Long live Liberty.”

Somebody was bound to take the movement in hand. After violent discussions, much indecision and wavering, that part was assumed by the Duma. A Committee of the Duma was formed, which proclaimed its objects on February 27th in the following guarded words:—

“In the strenuous circumstances of internal strife caused by the activities of the old Government, the temporary Committee of the members of the Duma has felt compelled to undertake the task of restoring order in the State and in society.... The Committee expresses its conviction that the population and the army will render assistance in the difficult task of creating a new Government, which will correspond to the wishes of the population, and which will be in a position to enjoy its confidence.”

There can be no doubt that the Duma, having led the patriotic and national struggle against the Government detested by the people, and having accomplished great and fruitful work in the interests of the army, had obtained recognition in the country and in the army. The Duma now became the centre of the political life of the country. No one else could have taken the lead in the movement. No one else could have gained the confidence of the country, or such rapid and full recognition as the Supreme Power, as the power that emanated from the Duma. The Petrograd Soviet of Workmen and Soldiers’ Deputies was fully aware of this fact, and it did not then claim officially to represent the Russian Government. Such an attitude towards the Duma at that moment created the illusion of the national character of the Provisional Government created by the Duma. Alongside, therefore, with the troops that mingled with the armed mob and destroyed in their trail everything reminiscent of the old power, alongside with the units that had remained faithful to that power and resisted the mob, regiments began to flock to the Taurida Palace with their commanding officers, bands and banners. They greeted the new power in the person of Rodzianko, President of the Duma, according to the rules of the old ritual. The Taurida Palace presented an unusual sight—legislators, bureaucrats, soldiers, workmen, women; a chamber, a camp, a prison, a headquarters, Ministries. Everyone foregathered there seeking protection and salvation, demanding guidance and answers to puzzling questions which had suddenly arisen. On the same day, February 27th, an announcement was made from the Taurida Palace:—

“Citizens. Representatives of the workmen, soldiers and people of Petrograd, sitting in the Duma, declare that the first meeting of their representatives will take place at seven o’clock to-night on the premises of the Duma. Let the troops that have joined the people immediately elect their representatives—one to each company. Let the factories elect their deputies—one to each thousand. Factories with less than a thousand workmen to elect one deputy each.”

This proclamation had a grave and fateful effect upon the entire course of events. In the first place, it created an organ of unofficial, but undoubtedly stronger, power alongside with the provisional Government—the Soviet of Workmen and Soldiers’ deputies, against which the Government proved impotent. In the second place, it converted the political and bourgeois revolution, both outwardly and inwardly, into a social revolution, which was unthinkable, considering the condition of the country at that time. Such a revolution in war time could not fail to bring about terrible upheavals. Lastly, it established a close connection between the Soviet, which was inclined towards Bolshevism and defeatism, and the army, which was thus infected with a ferment which resulted in its ultimate collapse. When the troops, fully officered, smartly paraded before the Taurida Palace, it was only for show. The link between the officers and the men had already been irretrievably broken; discipline had been shattered. Henceforward, the troops of the Petrograd district represented a kind of Pretorian guard, whose evil force weighed heavily over the Provisional Government. All subsequent efforts made by Gutchkov, General Kornilov and G.H.Q. to influence them and to send them to the front were of no avail, owing to the determined resistance of the Soviet.

The position of the officers was undoubtedly tragic, as they had to choose between loyalty to their oath, the distrust and enmity of the men, and the dictates of practical necessity. A small portion of the officers offered armed resistance to the mutiny, and most of them perished. Some avoided taking any part in the events, but the majority in the regiments, where comparative order prevailed, tried to find in the Duma a solution of the questions which perturbed their conscience. At a big meeting of officers held in Petrograd on March 1st, a resolution was carried: “To stand by the people and unanimously to recognise the power of the Executive Committee of the Duma, pending the convocation of the Constituent Assembly; because a speedy organisation of order and of united work in the rear were necessary for the victorious end of the war.”

Owing to the unrestrained orgy of power in which the successive rulers appointed at Rasputin’s suggestion had indulged during their short terms of office, there was in 1917 no political party, no class upon which the Czarist Government could rely. Everybody considered that Government as the enemy of the people. Extreme Monarchists and Socialists, the united nobility, labour groups, Grand Dukes and half-educated soldiers—all were of the same opinion. I do not intend to examine the activities of the Government which led to the Revolution, its struggle against the people and against representative institutions. I will only draw a summary of the accusations which were justly levelled by the Duma against the Government on the eve of its downfall:

All the Institutions of the State and of society—the Council of the Empire, the Duma, the nobility, the Zemstvos, the municipalities—were under suspicion of disloyalty, and the Government was in open opposition to them, and paralysed all their activities in matters of statesmanship and social welfare.

Lawlessness and espionage had reached unheard-of proportions. The independent Russian Courts of Justice became subservient to “the requirements of the political moment.”

Funeral of the first victims of the March Revolution in Petrograd.

Whilst in the Allied countries all classes of society worked whole-heartedly for the defence of their countries, in Russia that work was repudiated with contempt, and the work was done by unskilled and occasionally criminal hands, which resulted in such disastrous phenomena as the activities of Sukhomlinov and Protopopov. The Committee “of Military Industries,” which had rendered great services in provisioning the Army, was being systematically destroyed. Shortly before the Revolution its labour section was arrested without any reason being assigned, and this very nearly caused sanguinary disturbances in the capital. Measures adopted by the Government without the participation of social organisations shattered the industrial life of the country. Transport was disorganised, and fuel was wasted. The Government proved incapable and impotent in combating this disorder, which was undoubtedly caused to a certain extent by the selfish and sometimes rapacious designs of industrial magnates. The villages were derelict. A series of wholesale mobilisations, without any exemptions granted to classes which worked for defence, deprived the villages of labour. Prices were unsettled, and the big landowners were given certain privileges. Later, the grain contribution was gravely mismanaged. There was no exchange of goods between towns and villages. All this resulted in the stopping of food supplies, famine in the towns, and repression in the villages. Government servants of all kinds were impoverished by the tremendous rise in prices of commodities, and were grumbling loudly.

Ministerial appointments were staggering in their fitfulness, and appeared to the people as a kind of absurdity. The demands of the country for a responsible Cabinet were voiced by the Duma and by the best men. As late as the morning of February 27th, the Duma considered that the granting of the minimum of the political desiderata of Russian society was sufficient to postpone “the last hour in which the fate of the Mother Country and of the dynasty was to be settled.” Public opinion and the Press were smothered; the Military Censorship of all internal regions (including Moscow and Petrograd) had made the widest use of its telephones. It was impregnable, protected by all the powers of martial law. Ordinary censorship was no less severe. The following striking fact was discussed in the Duma:

In February, 1917, a strike movement, prompted to a certain extent by the Germans, began to spread in the factories. The Labour members of the Military Industries Committee then drafted a proclamation, as follows:—“Comrades, workmen of Petrograd, we deem it our duty to address to you an urgent request to resume work. The labouring class, fully aware of its present-day responsibilities, must not weaken itself by a protracted strike. The interests of the labouring class are calling upon you to resume work.” In spite of Gutchkov’s appeal to the Minister of the Interior and to the Chief Censor, this appeal was twice removed from the printing press, and was prohibited.

The question is still open for discussion and investigation as to what proportion of the activities of the old régime in the domain of economics can be attributed to individuals, what to the system, and what to the insuperable obstacles created in the country by a devastating war. But no excuse will ever be found for stifling the conscience, the mind, and the spirit of the people and all social initiative. No wonder, therefore, that Moscow and the provinces joined the Revolution without any appreciable resistance. Outside Petrograd, where the terror of street fighting and the rowdiness of a bloodthirsty mob were absent (there were, however, many exceptions), the Revolution was greeted with satisfaction, and even with enthusiasm, not only by the Revolutionary Democracy, but by the real Democracy, the Bourgeoisie and the Civil Service. There was tremendous animation; thousands of people thronged the streets. Fiery speeches were made. There was great rejoicing at the deliverance from the terrible nightmare; there were bright hopes for the future of Russia. There was the word:

“LIBERTY.”

It was in the air. It was reproduced in speeches, drawings, in music, in song. It was stimulating. It was not yet stained by stupidity, by filth and blood.

Prince Eugene Troubetskoi wrote: “This Revolution is unique. There have been bourgeois revolutions and proletarian revolutions, but such a national Revolution, in the broadest sense of the word, as the present Russian Revolution, there has never been. Everyone took part in this Revolution, everyone made it: the proletariat, the troops, the bourgeoisie, even the nobility ... all the live forces of the country.... May this unity endure!” In these words the hopes and fears of the Russian intelligencia, not the sad Russian realities, are reflected. The cruel mutinies at Helsingfors, Kronstadt, Reval, and the assassination of Admiral Nepenin and of many officers were the first warnings to the optimists.

In the first days of the Revolution the victims in the Capital were few. According to the registration of the All-Russian Union of Towns, the total number of killed and wounded in Petrograd was 1,443, including 869 soldiers (of whom 60 were officers). Of course, many wounded were not registered. The condition of Petrograd, however, out of gear and full of inflammable material and armed men, remained for a long time strained and unstable. I heard later from members of the Duma and of the Government that the scales were swaying violently, and that they felt like sitting on a powder-barrel which might explode at any moment and blow to bits both themselves and the structure of the new Government which they were creating. The Deputy-Chairman of the Soviet of Workmen and Soldiers’ Deputies, Skobelev, said to a journalist:—

“I must confess that, when in the beginning of the Revolution, I went to the entrance of the Taurida Palace to meet the first band of soldiers that had come to the Duma, and when I addressed them, I was almost certain that I was delivering one of my last speeches, and that in the course of the next few days I should be shot or hanged.”

Several officers who had taken part in the events assured me that disorder and the universal incapacity for understanding the position in the Capital were so great that one solid battalion, commanded by an officer who knew what he wanted, might have upset the entire position. Be that as it may, the temporary Committee of the Duma proclaimed on March 2nd the formation of a Provisional Government. After lengthy discussions with the parallel organs of “Democratic Power,” the Soviet of Workmen and Soldiers’ Deputies, the Provisional Government issued a declaration:—

“(1) Full and immediate amnesty for all political, religious and terrorist crimes, military mutinies and agrarian offences, etc.

“(2) Freedom of speech, the Press, meetings, unions and strikes. Political liberties to be granted to all men serving in the Army within the limits of military requirements.

“(3) Cancellation of all restrictions of class, religion and nationality.

“(4) Immediate preparation for the convocation of a Constituent Assembly elected by universal, equal, direct and secret suffrage for the establishment of a form of government and of the Constitution of the country.

“(5) The police to be replaced by a people’s Militia, with elected chiefs, subordinate to the organ of Local Self-Government.

“(6) Members of Local Self-Governing Institutions to be elected by universal, equal, direct and secret suffrage.

“(7) The units of the Army that have taken part in the Revolutionary movement are not to be disarmed or removed from Petrograd.

“(8) Military discipline to be preserved on parade and on duty. The soldiers, however, are to be free to enjoy all social rights enjoyed by other citizens.

“The Provisional Government deems it its duty to add that it has no intention of taking advantage of wartime to delay carrying out the aforesaid reforms and measures.”

This Declaration was quite obviously drafted under pressure from the “parallel power.”

In his book, Mes Souvenirs de Guerre, General Ludendorff says: “I often dreamt of that Revolution which was to alleviate the burdens of our war. Eternal chimera! To-day, however, the dream suddenly and unexpectedly came true. I felt as if a heavy load had fallen off my shoulders. I could not, however, foresee that it would be the grave of our might.”

One of the most prominent leaders of Germany—the country that had worked so hard for the poisoning of the soul of the Russian people—has come to the belated conclusion that “Our moral collapse began with the beginning of the Russian Revolution.”

[CHAPTER V.]
The Revolution and the Imperial Family.

Alone in the Governor’s old Palace at Mohilev the Czar suffered in silence; his wife and children were far away, and there was no one with him in whom he was able or willing to confide.

Protopopov and the Government had at first represented the state of affairs as serious, but not alarming—popular disturbances to be suppressed with “a firm hand.” Several hundred machine-guns had been placed at the disposal of General Habalov, Commander of the troops of the Petrograd district. Both he and Prince Golitzin, President of the Cabinet, had been given full authority to make use of exceptional means of quelling the riots. On the morning of the 27th General Ivanov had been despatched with a small detachment of troops and a secret warrant, to be made public after the occupation of Czarskoe Selo. The warrant invested him with full military and civic powers. No one could have been less fitted than General Ivanov to occupy so highly important a position, which amounted actually to a Military Dictatorship. Ivanov was a very old man—an honest soldier, unfitted to cope with political complications and no longer in possession of strength, energy, will-power, or determination.... His success in dealing with the Kronstadt disturbances of 1906 most probably suggested his present nomination.

Afterwards, when looking over Habalov’s and Bieliaiev’s[6] reports, I was aghast at the pusillanimity and the shirking of responsibility which they revealed.

The clouds continue to darken.

On February 26th the Empress wired to the Czar: “Am very anxious about the state of affairs in town....” On the same day Rodzianko sent his historic telegram: “Position serious. Anarchy in the capital. Government paralysed. Transport, supplies of fuel and other necessaries completely disorganised. General discontent grows. Disorderly firing in the streets. Military units fire at each other. Imperative necessity that some person popular in the country should be authorised to form new Cabinet. No delay possible. Any delay fatal. I pray God that the Monarch be not now held responsible.” Rodzianko forwarded copies of his telegram to all the Commanders-in-Chief, asking their support.

Early on the 27th the President of the Duma wired again to the Czar: “Position constantly aggravated. Measures must be taken immediately, as to-morrow may be too late. This hour decides the fate of our country and the dynasty.”

It is incredible that, after this, the Czar should not have realised the impending catastrophe, but, in the weakness and irresolution that characterised him, it is probable that he seized the slightest available excuse to postpone his decision, and in a fatalistic manner, left to fate to carry out her secret decrees....

Be that as it may, another impressive warning from General Alexeiev, confirmed by telegrams from the Commanders-in-Chief, yielded no better results, and the Czar, anxious about the fate of his family, left for Czarskoe Selo on the morning of the 29th, without coming to any final decision on the concessions to be granted to his people.

General Alexeiev, although straightforward, wise, and patriotic, was lacking in firmness, and his power and influence with the Emperor were too slight to permit of his insisting on a step the obvious necessity for which was evident even to the Empress. She wired to her husband on the 27th: “Concessions inevitable.”

The futile journey was two days in accomplishment. Two days without any correspondence or news as to the course of events, which were developing and changing every hour.... The Imperial train, taking a roundabout course, was stopped at Vishera by orders from Petrograd. On hearing that the Petrograd garrison had acclaimed the Provisional Committee of the Duma, and that the troops of Czarskoe Selo had sided with the Revolution, the Czar returned to Pskov.

At Pskov, on the evening of March 1st, the Czar saw General Ruzsky, who explained the position to him, but no decision was arrived at, except that on the 2nd of March, at 2 a.m., the Czar again sent for Ruzsky, and handed him an ukase, which made the Cabinet responsible to the Duma. “I knew that this compromise had come too late,” said Ruzsky to a correspondent, “but I had no right to express my opinion, not having received any instructions from the Executive Committee of the Duma, so I suggested that the Emperor should see Rodzianko.”[7]

All night long discussions full of deep interest and importance to the fate of the country were held over the wire—between Ruzsky, Rodzianko, and Alexeiev; between Headquarters and the Commanders-in-Chief, and between Lukomsky[8] and Danilov.[9]

They unanimously agreed that the Abdication of the Emperor was unavoidable.

Before midday on March 2nd Ruzsky communicated the opinion of Rodzianko and the Military Commanders to the Czar. The Emperor heard him calmly, with no sign of emotion on his fixed, immovable countenance, but at 3 p.m. he sent Ruzsky a signed Act of Abdication in favour of his son—a document drawn up at Headquarters and forwarded to him at Pskov.

If the sequence of historical events follows immutable laws of its own, there also seems to be a fate influencing casual happenings of a simple, everyday nature, which otherwise seem quite avoidable. The thirty minutes that elapsed after Ruzsky had received the Act of Abdication materially affected the whole course of subsequent events: before copies of the document could be despatched, a communication, announcing the delegates of the Duma, Gutchkov and Shulgin, was received.... The Czar again postponed his decision and stopped the publication of the Act.

The delegates arrived in the evening.

Amidst the complete silence of the audience,[10] Gutchkov pictured the abyss that the country was nearing, and pointed out the only course to be taken—the abdication of the Czar.

“I have been thinking about it all yesterday and to-day, and have decided to abdicate,” answered the Czar. “Until three o’clock to-day I was willing to abdicate in favour of my son, but I then came to realise that I could not bear to part with him. I hope you will understand this? As a consequence, I have decided to abdicate in favour of my brother.”

The delegates, taken aback by such an unexpected turn of events, made no objection. Emotion kept Gutchkov silent. “He felt he could not intrude on paternal relations, and considered that any pressure brought to bear upon the Emperor would be out of place.” Shulgin was influenced by political motives. “He feared the little Czar might grow up harbouring feelings of resentment against those who had parted him from his father and mother; also the question whether a regent could take the oath to the Constitution on behalf of an Emperor, who was not of age was a matter of debate.”[11]

“The resentment” of the little Czar concerned a distant future. As to legality, the very essence of a Revolution precludes the legality of its consequences. Also the enforced abdication of Nicholas II., his rejection of the rights of inheritance of his son, a minor, and, lastly, the transfer of supreme power by Michael Alexandrovitch, a person who had never held it, to the Provisional Government by means of an act, in which the Grand Duke “appeals” to Russian citizens to obey the Government, are all of doubtful legality.

It is not surprising that, “in the minds of those living in those first days of the Revolution”—as Miliukov says—“the new Government, established by the Revolution, was looked upon, not as a consequence of the acts of March 2nd and 3rd, but as a result of the events of February 27th....”

I may add that later, in the minds of many Commanding Officers—amongst them, Kornilov, Alexeiev, Romanovsky and Markov, who played a leading part in the attempt to save Russia—legal, party or dynastic considerations had no place. This circumstance is of primary importance for a proper understanding of subsequent events.

About midnight on March 2nd the Czar handed Rodzianko and Ruzsky two slightly amended copies of the Manifesto of his Abdication.

“In the midst of our great conflict with a foreign enemy, who has been striving for close on three years to enslave our country, it has been the will of God to subject Russia to new and heavy trials. Incipient popular disturbances now imperil the further course of the stubborn war. The fate of Russia, the honour of our heroic Army, the entire future of our beloved Land, demand that the war should be carried to a victorious conclusion.

“The cruel foe is nearly at his last gasp, and the hour approaches when our gallant Army, together with our glorious Allies, will finally crush our enemy’s resistance. In these decisive days of Russia’s existence we feel it our duty to further the firm cohesion and unification of all the forces of the people, and, with the approval of the State Duma, consider it best to abdicate the Throne of Russia and lay down our supreme power. Not wishing to part from our beloved Son, we transmit our inheritance to our Brother, the Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovitch, and give him our blessing in ascending the Throne of the Russian Empire.

“We command our Brother to rule the State in complete and undisturbed union with the representatives of the people in such Legislative Institutions as the People will see fit to establish, binding himself by oath thereto in the name of our beloved country.

“I call all true sons of the Fatherland to fulfil their sacred duty—to obey the Czar in this time of sore distress and help him, together with the representatives of the people, to lead the Russian State along the road to victory, happiness and glory.

“May the Lord our God help Russia!

“Nicholas.”

Late at night the Imperial train left for Mohilev. Dead silence, lowered blinds and heavy, heavy thoughts. No one will ever know what feelings wrestled in the breast of Nicholas II., of the Monarch, the Father and the Man, when, on meeting Alexeiev at Mohilev, and looking straight at the latter with kindly, tired eyes, he said irresolutely:—

“I have changed my mind. Please send this telegram to Petrograd.”

On a small sheet of paper, in a clear hand, the Czar had himself traced his consent to the immediate accession to the throne of his son, Alexis....

Alexeiev took the telegram, and—did not send it. It was too late; both Manifestoes had already been made public to the Army and to the country.

For fear of “unsettling public opinion,” Alexeiev made no mention of the telegram, and kept it in his portfolio until he passed it on to me towards the end of May, when he resigned his post of Supreme Commander-in-Chief. The document, of vast importance to future biographers of the Czar, was afterwards kept under seal at the Operations Department of General Headquarters.

Meantime, the members of the Cabinet and of the Provisional Committee[12] had assembled at the Palace of the Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovitch about midday on May 3rd. Since the 27th of February, the latter had been cut off from all communication with Headquarters or with the Emperor. But the issue of this Conference was practically predetermined by the spirit prevailing in the Soviet of Workmen’s Delegates, after the gist of the Manifesto became known to them, by the Resolution of Protest passed by their Executive Committee and forwarded to the Government, by Kerensky’s uncompromising attitude, and by the general correlation of forces. Except Miliukov and Gutchkov, all the others, “without the faintest desire of influencing the Grand Duke in any way,” eagerly advised him to abdicate. Miliukov warned them that “the support of a symbol familiar to the masses is necessary, if decided authority is to be maintained, and that the Provisional Government, if left alone, might founder in the sea of popular disturbances, and that it might not survive until the Convocation of the Constituent Assembly....”

After another conference with Rodzianko, President of the Duma, the Grand Duke came to his final decision to abdicate.

The “Declaration” of the Grand Duke was published on the same day:

“A heavy burden has been laid on me by the wish of my Brother, who has transferred the Imperial Throne of All Russia to me at a time of unexampled warfare and popular disturbances.

“Animated, together with the nation, by one thought, that the welfare of our country must prevail over every other consideration, I have decided to accept supreme power only if such be the will of our great people, whose part it is to establish the form of government and new fundamental laws of the Russian State through their representatives in the Constituent Assembly.

“With a prayer to God for His blessing, I appeal to all citizens of the Russian State to obey the Provisional Government, which is constituted and invested with full powers by the will of the State Duma, until a Constituent Assembly, convoked at the earliest possible moment by universal, direct, equal and secret suffrage, can establish a form of government which will embody the will of the people.”

“Michael.”

After his abdication, the Grand Duke resided in the neighbourhood of Gatchino, and stood completely aloof from political life. About the middle of March, 1918, he was arrested by order of the local Bolshevik Committee, taken to Petrograd, and, some time later, exiled to the Government of Perm.

It was rumoured that the Grand Duke, accompanied by his faithful English valet, had escaped about the middle of July; since then nothing definite has been heard about him. The search organised by the Siberian Government and by that of Southern Russia, as also by the desire of the Dowager Empress, yielded no certain results. The Bolsheviks, for their part, volunteered no official information whatever. But subsequent investigations brought some data to light which indicated that the “release” was a deception, and that the Grand Duke was secretly carried off by Bolsheviks, murdered in the vicinity of Perm, and his body drowned under the ice.

The mystery of the Grand Duke’s fate gave rise to fanciful rumours and even to the appearance of impostors in Siberia. During the summer of 1918, at the time of the first successful advance of the Siberian troops, it was widely reported both in Soviet Russia and in the South that the Siberian Anti-Bolshevist forces were led by the Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovitch. Periodically, until late in 1919, his spurious manifestoes appeared in the Provincial Press, chiefly in papers of the extreme Right.

It must be noted, however, that when, in the summer of 1918, the Kiev monarchists carried on an active campaign to impart a monarchical character to the Anti-Bolshevist military movement, they rejected the principle of legitimacy, partly because of the personality of some of the candidates, and, in regard to Michael Alexandrovitch, because he had “tied himself” by a solemn promise to the Constituent Assembly.

In consideration of the complexity and confusion of the conditions that obtained in March, 1917, I have come to the conclusion that a struggle to retain Nicholas II. at the head of the State would have led to anarchy, disruption of the Front, and terrible consequences, both for the Czar and for the country. A Regency, with Michael Alexandrovitch as Regent, might have involved conflict, but no disturbance, and was certain of success. It would have been more difficult to place Michael Alexandrovitch on the throne, but even that would have been possible if a Constitution on broad, democratic lines had been accepted by him.

The members of the Provisional Government and of the Provisional Committee—Miliukov and Gutchkov excepted—terrorised by the Soviets of Workmen’s Delegates, and attributing too much importance to them and to the excited workmen and soldier masses in Petrograd, took on themselves a heavy responsibility for the future when they persuaded the Grand Duke to decline the immediate assumption of Supreme Power.[13]

I am not referring to Monarchism or to a particular dynasty. These are secondary questions. I am speaking of Russia only.

It is certainly hard to say whether this power would have been lasting and stable, whether it would not have undergone changes later on; but, if it had even succeeded in maintaining the Army during the war, the subsequent course of Russian history might have been one of progress, and the upheavals that now endanger her very existence might have been avoided.

On March 7th the Provisional Government issued an order according to which “The ex-Emperor and his Consort are deprived of liberty, and the ex-Emperor is to be taken to Czarskoe Selo.” The duty of arresting the Empress was laid on Kornilov, and orthodox Monarchists never forgave him for it. But, strangely enough, Alexandra Fedorovna, after hearing of the warrant, expressed her satisfaction that the renowned General Kornilov, and not a member of the new Government, had been sent to her.

The Emperor was arrested by four members of the Duma.

On March 8th, after leave-takings at Headquarters, the Czar quitted Mohilev amidst the stony silence of the crowd, and under the tearful eyes of his mother, who never saw her son again.

To understand the seemingly incomprehensible behaviour of the Government to the Imperial family during the period of their residence both at Czarskoe Selo and at Tobolsk, the following circumstances must be kept in mind. Notwithstanding that, in the seven and a half months of the existence of the Provisional Government, not one single serious attempt was made to liberate the captives, yet they attracted the exclusive attention of the Soviet of Workmen and Soldiers’ Delegates. On March 10th Vice-President Sokolov made the following announcement to a unanimously approving audience: “I was informed yesterday that the Provisional Government had consented to allow Nicholas II. to go to England and that it is discussing arrangements with the British authorities without the knowledge or the consent of the Executive Committee of Workmen’s and Soldiers’ Delegates. We have mobilised all the military units that we can influence, and have taken measures to prevent Nicholas II. from leaving Czarskoe without our permission. Telegrams have been sent down the railway lines ... to detain the train of Nicholas II. should it appear.... We have despatched our Commissars with the necessary number of troops and armoured cars, and have closely surrounded the Alexander Palace. After that we conferred with the Provisional Government, who confirmed all our orders. At present the late Czar is under our protection, as well as under that of the Provisional Government....”

On the 1st August, 1917, the Imperial family was exiled to Tobolsk, and, after the establishment of Bolshevist rule in Siberia, they were transferred to Ekaterinburg, and were the victims of incredible insults and cruelty by the mob, until they were put to death.[14] Thus did Nicholas II. atone for his grievous sins, voluntary and involuntary, against the Russian people.[15]

In the course of the second Kuban campaign I received the news of the death of the Emperor Nicholas II., and ordered memorial services for the soul of the former leader of the Russian Army to be held in the Volunteer Army. Democratic circles and the Press criticised me severely for this.

The words of wisdom, Vengeance is mine: I will repay, were obviously forgotten.

[CHAPTER VI.]
The Revolution and the Army.

Order No. 1.

These events found me far away from the Capital, in Roumania, where I was commanding the Eighth Army Corps. In our remoteness from the Mother Country we felt a certain tension in the political atmosphere, but we certainly were not prepared for the sudden dénouement or for the shape it assumed.

On the morning of March 3rd I received a telegram from Army Headquarters—“For personal information”—to the effect that a mutiny had broken out in Petrograd, that the Duma had assumed power, and that the publication of important State documents was expected. A few hours later the wire transmitted the manifestoes of the Emperor Nicholas the Second and of the Grand Duke Michael. At first an order was given for their distribution, then, much to my amazement (as the telephones had already been spreading the news) the order was countermanded and finally confirmed. These waverings were apparently due to the negotiations between the temporary Committee of the Duma and the Headquarters of the Norman Front about postponing the publication of these Acts owing to a sudden change in the Emperor’s fundamental idea, namely, the substitution of the Grand Duke Michael for the Grand Duke Alexis as Heir to the Throne. It proved, however, impossible to delay the distribution. The troops were thunderstruck. No other word can describe the first impression produced by the manifestoes. There was neither sorrow nor rejoicing. There was deep, thoughtful silence. Thus did the regiments of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Divisions take the news of the abdication of their Emperor. Only occasionally on parade did the rifle waver and tears course down the cheeks of old soldiers.

In order accurately to describe the spirit of the moment, undimmed by the passing of time, I will quote extracts from a letter I wrote to a near relation on March 8th:

“A page of history has been turned. The first impression is stunning because it is so unexpected and so grandiose. On the whole, however, the troops have taken the events quietly. They express themselves with caution; but three definite currents in the mentality of the men can easily be traced: (1) A return to the past is impossible; (2) the country will receive a Constitution worthy of a great people, probably a Constitutional Limited Monarchy; (3) German domination will come to an end and the war will be victoriously prosecuted.”

The Emperor’s abdication was considered as the inevitable result of the internal policy of the last few years. There was, however, no irritation against the Emperor personally or against the Imperial Family. Everything was forgiven and forgotten. On the contrary, everyone was interested in their fate, and feared the worst. The appointment of the Grand Duke Nicholas as Supreme Commander-in-Chief, and of General Alexeiev as his Chief-of-Staff, was favourably received, alike by officers and men, and interest was manifested in the question as to whether the Army would be represented in the Constituent Assembly. The composition of the Provisional Government was treated more or less as a matter of indifference. The appointment of a civilian to the War Ministry was criticised, and it was only the part he had taken in the Council of National Defence, and his close connection with the officers’ circles, that mitigated the unfavourable impression. A great many people have found it surprising and incomprehensible that the collapse of a Monarchist régime several centuries old should not have provoked in the Army, bred in its traditions, either a struggle or even isolated outbreaks, or that the Army should not have created its own Vendée.

I know of three cases only of stout resistance: The march of General Ivanov’s detachment on Czarskoe Selo, organised by Headquarters in the first days of the risings in Petrograd, very badly executed and soon countermanded, and two telegrams addressed to the Emperor by the Commanding Officers of the Third Cavalry and the Guards Cavalry Corps, Count Keller (killed in Kiev in 1918 by Petlura’s men) and Khan Nachitchevansky. They both offered themselves and their troops for the suppression of the mutiny. It would be a mistake to assume that the Army was quite prepared to accept the provisional “Democratic Republic,” that there were no “loyal” units or “loyal” chiefs ready to engage in the struggle. They undoubtedly existed. There were, however, two circumstances which exercised a restraining influence. In the first place, both Acts of Abdication were apparently legal, and the second of these Acts, in summoning the people to submit to the Provisional Government “invested with full power,” took the wind out of the sails of the monarchists. In the second place, it was apprehended that civil war might open the front to the enemy. The Army was then obedient to its leaders, and they—General Alexeiev and all the Commanders-in-Chief—recognised the new power. The newly-appointed Supreme Commander-in-Chief, the Grand Duke Nicholas, said in his first Order of the Day: “The power is established in the person of the new Government. I, the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, have recognised that power for the good of our Mother Country, serving as an example to us of our duty as soldiers. I order all ranks of our gallant Army and Navy implicitly to obey the established Government through their direct Chiefs. Only then will God grant us victory.”

The days went by. I began to receive many—both slight and important—expressions of bewilderment and questions from the units of my corps: Who represents the Supreme Power in Russia? Is it the temporary Committee which created the Provisional Government, or is it the latter? I sent an inquiry, but received no answer. The Provisional Government itself, apparently, had no clear notion of the essence of its power.

For whom should we pray at Divine Service? Should we sing the National Anthem and “O God, Save Thy People!” (a prayer in which the Emperor was mentioned)?

These apparent trifles produced, however, a certain confusion in the minds of the men and interfered with established military routine. The Commanding Officers requested that the oath should be taken as soon as possible. There was also the question whether the Emperor Nicolas had the right to abdicate not only for himself, but for his son, who had not yet attained his majority.

Other questions soon began to interest the troops. We received the first Order of the Day of the War Minister, Gutchkov, with alterations of the Army Regulations in favour of the “Democratisation of the Army” (March 5th). By this Order, inoffensive at first sight, the officers were not to be addressed by the men according to their rank, and were not to speak to the men in the second person singular. A series of petty restrictions established by Army Regulations for the men, such as no smoking in the streets and other public places, no card-playing, and exclusion from Clubs and Meetings, were removed. The consequences came as a surprise to those who were ignorant of the psychology of the rank and file. The Commanding Officers understood that if it were necessary to do away with certain out-of-date forms the process should be gradual and cautious, and should by no means be interpreted as one of “the fruits of the Revolutionary victory.” The bulk of the men did not trouble to grasp the meaning of these insignificant changes in the Army Regulations, but merely accepted them as a deliverance from the restrictions imposed on them by routine and by respect to the Senior Officers.

“There is liberty, and that’s all there is to it.”

All these minor alterations of the Army Regulations, broadly interpreted by the men, affected, to a certain degree, the discipline of the army. But that soldiers should be permitted, during the war and during the Revolution, to join in the membership of various Unions and Societies formed for political purposes, was a menace to the very existence of the army. G.H.Q., perturbed by this situation, had recourse to a measure hitherto unknown in the army—to a kind of plébiscite. All Commanding Officers, including Regimental Commanders, were advised to address direct telegrams to the Minister of War, expressing their views on the new orders. I do not know whether the telegraph was able to cope with this task and whether the enormous mass of telegrams reached their destination, but I know that those that came to my notice were full of criticism and of fears for the future of the army. At the same time, the Army Council in Petrograd, consisting of Senior Generals—the would-be guardians of the experience and traditions of the army—decided at a meeting held on March 10th to make the following report to the Provisional Government: “The Army Council deems it its duty to declare its full solidarity with the energetic measures contemplated by the Provisional Government in re-modelling our armed forces in accordance with the new forms of life in the country and in the army. We are convinced that these reforms will be the best means of achieving rapid victory and the deliverance of Europe from the yoke of Prussian militarism.” I cannot help sympathising with a civilian War Minister after such an occurrence. It was difficult for us to understand the motives by which the War Ministry was guided in issuing its Orders of the Day. We were unaware of the unrestrained opportunities of the men who surrounded the War Minister, as well as of the fact that the Provisional Government was already dominated by the Soviet and had entered upon the path of compromise, being invariably on the losing side. At the Congress of the Soviets on March 30th, one of the speakers stated that in the Conciliation Commission there never was a case in which the Provisional Commission did not give way on important matters.

ON THE FIRST OF MARCH THE SOVIET OF WORKMEN AND SOLDIERS’ DELEGATES ISSUED AN ORDER OF THE DAY No. 1., WHICH PRACTICALLY LED TO THE TRANSFER OF ACTUAL MILITARY POWER TO THE SOLDIERS’ COMMITTEES, TO A SYSTEM OF ELECTIONS AND TO THE DISMISSAL OF COMMANDING OFFICERS BY THE MEN. THAT ORDER OF THE DAY GAINED WIDE AND PAINFUL NOTORIETY AND GAVE THE FIRST IMPETUS TO THE COLLAPSE OF THE ARMY.

ORDER No. 1.

March 1st, 1917.

To the Garrison of the Petrograd District, to all Guardsmen, soldiers of the line, of the Artillery, and of the Fleet, for immediate and strict observance, and to the workmen of Petrograd for information.

The Soviet of Workmen and Soldiers’ Delegates has decreed:

(1) That Committees be elected of representatives of the men in all companies, battalions, regiments, parks, batteries, squadrons and separate services of various military institutions, and on the ships of the fleet.

(2) All military units not yet represented on the Soviet of Workmen’s Delegates to elect one representative from each company. These representatives to provide themselves with written certificates and to report to the Duma at 10 A.M. on March 2nd.

(3) In all its political activities the military unit is subordinate to the Soviet,[16] and to its Committees.

(4) The Orders of the Military Commission of the Duma are to be obeyed only when they are not in contradiction with the orders and decrees of the Soviet.

(5) All arms—rifles, machine-guns, armoured cars, etc.—are to be at the disposal and under the control of Company and Battalion Committees, and should never be handed over to the officers even should they claim them.

(6) On parade and on duty the soldiers must comply with strict military discipline; but off parade and off duty, in their political, social and private life, soldiers must suffer no restriction of the rights common to all citizens. In particular, saluting when off duty is abolished.

(7) Officers are no longer to be addressed as “Your Excellency,” “Your Honour,” etc. Instead, they should be addressed as “Mr. General,” “Mr. Colonel,” etc.

Rudeness to soldiers on the part of all ranks, and in particular addressing them in the second person singular, is prohibited, and any infringement of this regulation and misunderstandings between officers and men are to be reported by the latter to the Company Commanders.

(Signed) The Petrograd Soviet.

The leaders of the Revolutionary Democracy understood full well the results of Order No. 1. Kerensky is reported to have declared afterwards pathetically that he would have given ten years of his life to prevent the Order from being signed. The investigation made by military authorities failed to detect the authors of this Order. Tchkeidze and other members of the Soviet afterwards denied their personal participation and that of the members of the Committee in the drafting of the Order.

Pilates! They washed their hands of the writing of their own Credo. For their words are placed on record, in the report of the secret sitting of the Government, the Commanders-in-Chief and the Executive Committee of the Workmen and Soldiers’ Deputies of May 4th, 1917:

Tzeretelli: You might, perhaps, understand Order No. 1 if you knew the circumstances in which it was issued. We were confronted with an unorganised mob, and we had to organise.

Skobelev: I consider it necessary to explain the circumstances in which Order No. 1. was issued. Among the troops that overthrew the old régime, the Commanding Officers did not join the rebels. In order to deprive the former of their importance, we were forced to issue Order No. 1. We had inward apprehensions as to the attitude of the front towards the Revolution. Certain instructions were given, which provoked our distrust. To-day we have ascertained that this distrust was well founded.

A member of the Soviet, Joseph Goldenberg, Editor of New Life, was still more outspoken. He said to the French journalist, Claude Anet: (Claude Anet: La Révolution Russe) “Order No. 1. was not an error, but a necessity. It was not drafted by Sokolov. It is the expression of the unanimous will of the Soviet. On the day we ‘made the Revolution,’ we understood that if we did not dismember the old army, it would crush the Revolution. We had to choose between the army and the Revolution. We did not hesitate—we chose the latter, and I dare say that we were right.”

Order No. 1. was disseminated rapidly and everywhere along the whole front and in the rear, because the ideas which it embodied had developed for many years, in the slums of Petrograd as well as in the remote corners of the Empire, such as Vladivostock. They had been preached by all local army demagogues and were being repeated by all the delegates who visited the front in vast numbers and were provided with certificates of immunity by the Soviet.

The masses of the soldiery were perturbed. The movement began in the rear, always more easily demoralised than the front, among the half-educated clerks, doctors’ assistants, and technical units. In the latter part of March in our units, breaches of discipline only became more frequent. The officer in command of the Fourth Army was expecting every hour that he would be arrested at his Headquarters by the licentious bands of men attached to service battalions for special duty, such as tailoring, cooking, bootmaking, etc.

The text of the oath of allegiance to the Russian State was received at last. The idea of Supreme Power was expressed in these words: “I swear to obey the Provisional Government now at the head of the Russian State, pending the expression of the popular will through the medium of the Constituent Assembly.” The oath was taken by the troops everywhere without any disturbance, but the idyllic hopes of the Commanding Officers were not fulfilled. There was no uplifting of the spirit and the perturbed minds were not quieted. I may quote two characteristic episodes. The Commander of one of the Corps on the Roumanian front died of heart-failure during the ceremony. Count Keller declared that he would not compel his corps to take the oath because he did not understand the substance and the legal foundations of the Supreme Power of the Provisional Government. (Replying to a question addressed from the crowd as to who had elected the Provisional Government, Miliukov had answered: “We have been elected by the Russian Revolution”). Count Keller said he did not understand how one could swear allegiance to Lvov, Kerensky and other individuals, because they could be removed or relinquish their posts. Was the oath a sham? I think that not only for the monarchists, but for many men who did not look upon the oath as a mere formality, it was in any case a great, moral drama difficult to live through. It was a heavy sacrifice made for the sake of the country’s salvation and for the preservation of the army....

In the middle of May I was ordered to attend a Council at the Headquarters of the General-in-Command of the Fourth Army. A long telegram was read from General Alexeiev full of the darkest possible pessimism, recounting the beginning of the administrative machine and of the army. He described the demagogic activities of the Soviet, which dominated the will-power and the conscience of the Provisional Government, the complete impotence of the latter and the interference of both in army administration.

In order to counteract the dismemberment of the army, the despatch was contemplated of members of the Duma and of the Soviet, possessing a certain amount of statesmanlike experience, to the front for purposes of propaganda....

This telegram impressed us all in the same way: General Headquarters had ceased to be the chief administrative authority in the army. And yet a stern warning and remonstrance from the High Command, supported by the army, which in the first fortnight had still retained discipline and obedience might, perhaps, have relegated the Soviet, which over-estimated its importance, to its proper place; might have prevented the “democratisation” of the army and might have exercised a corresponding pressure upon the entire course of political events, albeit devoid of any character of counter-revolution or of military dictatorship. The loyalty of the Commanding Officers and the complete absence of active resistance on their part to the destructive policy of Petrograd exceeded all the expectations of the Revolutionary Democracy.

Kornilov’s movement came too late.

We drafted a reply suggesting stringent measures against intrusion into the sphere of military administration. On March 18th I received orders to proceed forthwith to Petrograd and to report to the War Minister. I left on the same night and by means of a complex system of carts, motor cars and railway carriages arrived in the Capital after five days’ journey. On my way I passed through the Headquarters of Generals Letchitski, Kaledin, and Brussilov. I met many officers and many men connected with the army. Everywhere I heard the same bitter complaint and the same request: