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:
“Tell them that they are ruining the army.”
The summons I had received gave no indication as to the object of my errand. I was completely in the dark and made all kinds of surmises. In Kiev I was struck by the cry of a newsboy who ran past. He shouted: “Latest news. General Denikin is appointed Chief of the Staff of the Supreme Commander-in-Chief.”
[CHAPTER VII.]
Impressions of Petrograd at the End of March, 1917.
Before his abdication the Emperor signed two ukazes—appointing Prince Lvov President of the Council of Ministers and the Grand-Duke Nicholas Supreme Commander-in-Chief. “In view of the general attitude towards the Romanov Dynasty,” as the official Petrograd papers said, and in reality for fear of the Soviet’s attempting a military coup d’état, the Grand-Duke Nicholas was informed on March 9th by the Provisional Government that it was undesirable that he should remain in supreme command. Prince Lvov wrote: “The situation makes your resignation imperative. Public opinion is definitely and resolutely opposed to any members of the House of Romanov holding any office in the State. The Provisional Government is not entitled to disregard the voice of the people, because such disregard might bring about serious complications. The Provisional Government is convinced that, for the good of the country, you will bow to the necessity and will resign before returning to G.H.Q.” This letter reached the Grand-Duke when he had already arrived at G.H.Q. Deeply offended, he immediately handed over to General Alexeiev and replied to the Government: “I am glad once more to prove my love for my country, which Russia heretofore has never doubted....”
The very serious question then arose of who was to succeed him. There was great excitement at G.H.Q., and all sorts of rumours were circulated, but on the day I passed Mohilev nothing was known. On the 23rd I reported to the War Minister Gutchkov, whom I had never met before. He informed me that the Government had decided to appoint General Alexeiev to the Supreme Command. At first there had been differences of opinion. Rodzianko and others were against Alexeiev. Rodzianko suggested Brussilov; but now the choice had definitely fallen on Alexeiev. The Government considered him as a man of lenient disposition, and deemed it necessary to reinforce the Supreme Command by a fighting general as Chief-of-Staff. I had been selected on condition that General Klembovski, who was then Alexeiev’s assistant, should remain in charge pro tem. until I became familiar with the work. I had been, in part, prepared for this offer by the news columns of the Kiev paper. Nevertheless, I felt a certain emotion, and apprehended the vast amount of work which was being thrust upon me so unexpectedly and the tremendous moral responsibility inherent in such an appointment. At great length and quite sincerely I adduced arguments against the appointment. I said that my career had been spent among my men and at Fighting Headquarters, that during the war I had commanded a division and an army corps, and that I was very anxious to continue this work at the front. I said that I had never dealt with matters of policy, of national defence, or of administration on such a colossal scale. The appointment, moreover, had an unpleasant feature. It appears that Gutchkov had quite frankly explained to Alexeiev the reasons for my appointment on behalf of the Provisional Government, and had given the matter the character of an ultimatum. A grave complication had thus arisen. A Chief-of-Staff was being imposed upon the Supreme C.-in-C., and for motives not altogether complimentary to the latter. My arguments, however, were unavailing. I succeeded in obtaining a delay and the privilege of discussing the matter with General Alexeiev before taking a definite decision. In the War Minister’s office I met my colleague, General Krymov, and we were both present while the Minister’s assistants reported on uninteresting matters of routine. We then retired into the next room and began to talk frankly.
“For God’s sake,” said Krymov, “don’t refuse the appointment. It is absolutely necessary.”
He imparted to me his impressions in abrupt sentences in his own peculiar and somewhat rough language, but with all his usual sincerity. He had arrived on March 14th, summoned by Gutchkov, with whom he had been on friendly terms, and they had worked together. He was offered several prominent posts, had asked leave to look round, and then had refused them all. “I saw that there was nothing for me to do in Petrograd, and I disliked it all.” He particularly disliked the men who surrounded Gutchkov.
“I am leaving Colonel Samarine, of the General Staff, as a Liaison Officer. There will be at least one live man.”
By the irony of fate that officer whom Krymov trusted so well afterwards played a fatal part, as he was the indirect cause of the General’s suicide.... Krymov was very pessimistic in his account of the political situation:
“Nothing will come of it in any case. How can business be done when the Soviet and the licentious soldiery hold the Government pinioned? I offered to cleanse Petrograd in two days with one division; but, of course, not without bloodshed. ‘Not for anything in the world,’ they said. Gutchkov refused. Prince Lvov, with a gesture of despair, exclaimed: ‘Oh! but there would be such a commotion!’ Things will get worse. One of these days I shall go back to my army corps. I cannot afford to lose touch with the troops, as it is upon them that I base all my hopes. My corps maintains complete order and, perhaps, I shall succeed in preserving that spirit.”
I had not seen Petrograd for four years. The impression produced by the Capital was painful and strange.... To begin with, the Hotel Astoria, where I stayed, had been ransacked. In the hall there was a guard of rough and undisciplined sailors of the Guards. The streets were crowded, but dirty and filled with the new masters of the situation in khaki overcoats. Remote from the sufferings of the front, they were “deepening and saving” the Revolution. From whom? I had read a great deal about the enthusiasm in Petrograd, but I found none. It was nowhere to be seen. The ministers and rulers were pale, haggard, exhausted by sleepless nights and endless speeches at meetings and councils, by addresses to various delegations and to the mob. Their excitement was artificial, their oratory was full of sonorous phrases and commonplaces, of which the orators themselves were presumably thoroughly sick. Inwardly in their heart of hearts they were deeply anxious. No practical work was being done; in fact, the ministers had no time to concentrate their thoughts upon the current affairs of State in their departments. The old bureaucratic machine, creaking and groaning, continued to work in a haphazard manner. The old wheels were still revolving while a new handle was being applied.
The officers of the regular army felt themselves to be stepsons of the Revolution and were unable to hit upon a proper tone in dealing with the men. Among the higher ranks, and especially the officers of the General Staff, there appeared already a new type of opportunist and demagogue. These men played upon the weaknesses of the Soviet and of the new governing class of workmen and soldiers, to flatter the instincts of the crowd, thereby gaining their confidence and making new openings for themselves and for their careers against the background of revolutionary turmoil. I must, however, admit that in those days the military circles proved sufficiently stolid in spite of all the efforts to dismember them, and that the seeds of demoralisation were not allowed to grow. Men of the type described above, such as the young assistant of the War Minister, Kerensky, as well as Generals Brussilov, Cheremissov, Bonch-Bruevitch, Verkhovsky, Admiral Maximov and others were unable to strengthen their influence and their position with the officers.
The citizen of Petrograd, in the broadest sense of the word, was by no means enthusiastic. The first enthusiasm was exhausted and was followed by anxiety and indecision.
Another feature of the life in Petrograd deserves to be noticed. Men have ceased to be themselves. Most of them seem to be acting a part instead of living a life inspired by the new breath of revolution. Such was the case even in the Councils of the Provisional Government, in which the deliberations were not altogether sincere, so I was told, owing to the presence of Kerensky, the “hostage of democracy.” Tactical considerations, caution, partisanship, anxiety for one’s career, feelings of self-preservation, nervousness and various other good and bad feelings prompted men to wear blinkers and to walk about in these blinkers as apologists for, or at least passive witnesses of, “the conquests of the Revolution.” Such conquests as obviously savoured of death and corruption. Hence the false pathos of endless speeches and meetings; hence these seemingly strange contradictions. Prince Lvov saying in a public speech: “The process of the great Russian Revolution is not yet complete, but every day strengthens our faith in the inexhaustible creative forces of the Russian people, in its statesmanlike wisdom and in the greatness of its soul.”... The same Prince Lvov bitterly complaining to Alexeiev of the impossible conditions under which the Provisional Government was working, owing to the rapid growth of demagogy in the Soviet and in the country. Kerensky, the exponent of the idea of Soldiers’ Committees, and Kerensky sitting in his railway carriage and nervously whispering to his adjutant: “Send these d.... committees to h....” Tchkheidze and Skobelev warmly advocating full democratisation of the army at a joint sitting of the Soviet, of the Government and of the Commanders-in-Chief, and during an interval in private conversation admitting the necessity of rigid military discipline and of their own incapacity to convince the Soviet of this necessity....
I repeat that even then, at the end of March, one could clearly feel in Petrograd that the ringing of the Easter bells had lasted too long, and that they would have done better to ring the alarm bell. There were only two men of all those to whom I had the occasion to speak who had no illusions whatever: Krymov and Kornilov.
I met Kornilov for the first time on the Galician plains, near Galtich, at the end of August, 1914, when he was appointed to the Command of the 48th Infantry Division and myself to the 4th (Iron) Rifle Brigade. Since that day, for four months, our troops went forward side by side as part of the 14th Corps, fighting incessant, glorious and heavy battles, defeating the enemy, crossing the Carpathians and invading Hungary. Owing to the wide extent of the front we did not often meet; nevertheless, we knew each other very well. I had already then a clear perception of Kornilov’s main characteristics as a leader. He had an extraordinary capacity for training troops: out of a second-rate unit from the district of Kazan he made, in several weeks, an excellent fighting division. He was resolute and extremely pertinacious in conducting the most difficult and even apparently doomed operations. His personal prowess, which provoked boundless admiration and gave him great popularity among the troops, was admirable. Finally, he scrupulously observed military ethics with regard to units fighting by his side and to his comrades-in-arms. Many commanding officers and units lacked that quality. After Kornilov’s astounding escape from Austrian captivity, into which he fell when heavily wounded, and covering Brussilov’s retreat from the Carpathians, towards the beginning of the Revolution, he commanded the 25th Corps. All those who knew Kornilov even slightly felt that he was destined to play an important part in the Russian Revolution. On March 2nd Rodzianko telegraphed direct to Kornilov: “The Temporary Committee of the Duma requests you, for your country’s sake, to accept the chief command in Petrograd and to arrive at the Capital at once. We have no doubt that you will not refuse the appointment, and will thereby render an inestimable service to the country.” Such a revolutionary method of appointing an officer to a high command, without reference to G.H.Q., obviously produced a bad impression at the “Stavka.” The telegram received at the “Stavka” is marked “Undelivered,” but on the same day General Alexeiev, having requested the permission of the Emperor, who was then at Pskov, issued an order of the day (No. 334): “... I agree to General Kornilov being in temporary high command of the troops of the Petrograd Military District.”
I have mentioned this insignificant episode in order to explain the somewhat abnormal relations between two prominent leaders, which were occasioned by repeated, petty, personal friction.
I talked to Kornilov at dinner in the War Minister’s house. It was the only moment of rest he could snatch during the day. Kornilov, tired, morose and somewhat pessimistic, discussed at length the conditions of the Petrograd Garrison, and his intercourse with the Soviet. The hero-worship with which he had been surrounded in the army had faded in the unhealthy atmosphere of the Capital among the demoralised troops. They were holding meetings, deserting, indulging in petty commerce in shops and in the street, serving as hall-porters and as personal guards to private individuals, partaking in plundering and arbitrary searches, but were not serving. It was difficult for a fighting general to understand their psychology. He often succeeded by personal pluck, disregard of danger, and by a witty, picturesque word in holding the mob, for that was what military units were. There were, however, cases when the troops did not come out of barracks to meet their Commander-in-Chief, when he was hissed and the flag of St. George was torn from his motor-car (by the Finland Regiment of the Guards).
Kornilov’s description of the political situation was the same as that given by Krymov: Powerlessness of the Government and the inevitability of a fierce cleansing of Petrograd. On one point they differed: Kornilov stubbornly clung to the hope that he would yet succeed in gaining authority over the majority of the Petrograd Garrison. As we know, that hope was never fulfilled.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
The Stavka: Its Rôle and Position.
On March 25th I arrived at the Stavka, and was immediately received by General Alexeiev. Of course he was offended. “Well,” he said, “if such are the orders, what’s to be done?” Again, as at the War Ministry, I pointed out several reasons against my appointment, among others, my disinclination for Staff work. I asked the General to express his views quite frankly, and in disregard of all conventionalities as my old Professor, because I would not think of accepting the appointment against his will. Alexeiev spoke politely, dryly, evasively, and showed again that he was offended. “The scope,” he said, “was wide, work difficult, and much training necessary. Let us, however, work harmoniously.” In the course of my long career I have never been placed in such a position, and could not, of course, be reconciled to such an attitude. “In these circumstances,” I said, “I absolutely refuse to accept the appointment. In order to avoid friction between yourself and the Government, I will declare that it is entirely my own personal decision.”
Alexeiev’s tone changed immediately. “Oh! no,” he said, “I am not asking you to refuse. Let us work together, and I will help you. Also, there is no reason, if you feel that the work is not to your liking, why you should not take command of the First Army, in which there will be a vacancy two or three months hence. I will have to talk the matter over with General Klembovski. He could not, of course, remain here as my assistant.”
General Alexeiev.
General Kornilov.
Our parting was not quite so frigid; but a couple of days went by and there were no results. I lived in a railway carriage, and did not go to the office or to the mess. As I did not intend to tolerate this silly and utterly undeserved position, I was preparing to leave Petrograd. On March 28th the War Minister came to the Stavka and cut the Gordian knot. Klembovski was offered the command of an army or membership of the War Council. He chose the latter, and on April 5th I took charge as Chief of the Staff. Nevertheless, such a method of appointing the closest assistant to the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, practically by force, could not but leave a certain trace. A kind of shadow seemed to lie between myself and General Alexeiev, and it did not disappear until the last stage of his tenure of office. Alexeiev saw in my appointment a kind of tutelage on the part of the Government. From the very first moment I was compelled to oppose Petrograd. I served our cause and tried to shield the Supreme C.-in-C.—and of this he was often unaware—from many conflicts and much friction, taking them upon myself. As time went by friendly relations of complete mutual trust were established, and these did not cease until the day of Alexeiev’s death.
On April 2nd the General received the following telegram: “The Provisional Government has appointed you Supreme Commander-in-Chief. It trusts that, under your firm guidance, the Army and the Navy will fulfil their duty to the country to the end.” My appointment was gazetted on April 10th.
The Stavka, on the whole was not favoured. In the circles of the Revolutionary Democracy it was considered a nest of counter-Revolution, although such a description was utterly undeserved. Under Alexeiev there was a loyal struggle against the disruption of the Army. Under Brussilov—opportunism slightly tainted with subservience to the Revolutionary Democracy. As regards the Kornilov movement, although it was not essentially counter-Revolutionary, it aimed, as we shall see later, at combatting the Soviets that were half-Bolshevik. But, even then, the loyalty of the officers of the Stavka was quite obvious. Only a few of them took an active part in the Kornilov movement. After the office of Supreme Commander-in-Chief was abolished, and the new office created of Supreme Commanding Committees, nearly all the members of the Stavka under Kerensky, and the majority of them under Krylenko, continued to carry on the routine work. The Army also disliked the Stavka—sometimes wrongly, sometimes rightly—because the Army did not quite understand the distribution of functions among the various branches of the Service, and ascribed to the Stavka many shortcomings in equipment, organisation, promotion, awards, etc., whereas these questions belonged entirely to the War Ministry and its subordinates. The Stavka had always been somewhat out of touch with the Army. Under the comparatively normal and smoothly working conditions of the pre-Revolutionary period this circumstance did not greatly prejudice the working of the ruling mechanism; but now, when the Army was not in a normal condition, and had been affected by the whirlwind of the Revolution, the Stavka naturally was behind the times.
Finally, a certain amount of friction could not fail to arise between the Government and the Stavka, because the latter constantly protested against many Government measures, which exercised a disturbing influence on the Army. There were no other serious reasons for difference of opinion, because neither Alexeiev nor myself, nor the various sections of the Stavka, ever touched upon matters of internal policy. The Stavka was non-political in the fullest sense of the word, and during the first months of the Revolution was a perfectly reliable technical apparatus in the hands of the Provisional Government. The Stavka did but safeguard the highest interests of the Army, and, within the limits of the War and of the Army, demanded that full powers be given to the Supreme Commander-in-Chief. I may even say that the personnel of the Stavka seemed to me to be bureaucratic and too deeply immersed in the sphere of purely technical interests; they were not sufficiently interested in the political and social questions which events had brought to the fore.
In discussing the Russian strategy in the Great War, after August, 1915, one should always bear in mind that it was the personal strategy of General Alexeiev. He alone bears the responsibility before history for its course, its successes and failures. A man of exceptional conscientiousness and self-sacrifice, and devoted to his work, he had one serious failing: all his life he did the work of others as well as his own. So it was when he held the post of Quartermaster-General of the General Staff, of Chief-of-Staff of the Kiev District, and later of the South-Western front and finally of Chief-of-Staff to the Supreme C.-in-C. Nobody influenced strategical decisions, and, as often as not, final instructions, written in Alexeiev’s tiny and neat hand-writing, appeared unexpectedly on the desk of the Quartermaster-General, whose duty under the law and whose responsibility in these matters were very grave. If such a procedure was to a certain extent justifiable, when the post of Quartermaster-General was occupied by a nonentity, there was no excuse for it when he was superseded by other Quartermasters-General, such as Lukomski or Josephovitch. These men could not accept such a position. The former, as a rule, protested by sending in memoranda embodying his opinion, which was adverse to the plan of operations. Such protests, of course, were purely academic, but presented a guarantee against the judgment of history. General Klembovski, my predecessor, was compelled to demand non-interference with the rightful sphere of his competence as a condition of his tenure of office. Till then, Alexeiev had directed all the branches of administration. When these branches acquired a still broader scope, this proved practically impossible, and I was given full liberty in my work except ... in respect of strategy. Again, Alexeiev began to send telegrams in his own hand of a strategical nature, orders and directions, the motives of which the Quartermaster-General and myself could not understand. Several times, three of us, the Quartermaster-General, Josephovitch, his assistant, General Markov, and myself, discussed this question. The quick-tempered Josephovitch was greatly excited, and asked to be appointed to a Divisional Command. “I cannot be a clerk,” he said. “There is no need for a Quartermaster-General at the Stavka if every clerk can type instructions.” The General and myself began to contemplate resignation. Markov said that he would not stay for a single day if we went. I finally decided to have a frank talk with Alexeiev. We were both under the strain of emotion. We parted as friends, but we did not settle the question. Alexeiev said: “Do I not give you a full share of the work? I do not understand you.” Alexeiev was quite sincerely surprised because during the war he had grown accustomed to a régime which appeared to him perfectly normal. So we three held another conference. After a lengthy discussion, we decided that the plan of campaign for 1917 had long since been worked out, that preparations for that campaign had reached a stage in which substantial alterations had become impossible, that the details of the concentration and distribution of troops were in the present condition of the Army a difficult matter, allowing for differences of opinion; that we could perhaps manage to effect certain alterations of the plan, and that finally our retirement in corpore might be detrimental to the work, and might undermine the position of the Supreme C.-in-C., which was already by no means stable. We therefore decided to wait and see. We did not have to wait very long, because, at the end of May, Alexeiev left the Stavka, and we followed him very soon afterwards.
What place did the Stavka occupy as a military and political factor of the Revolutionary period?
The importance of the Stavka diminished. In the days of the Imperial régime, the Stavka, from the military point of view, occupied a predominant position. No individual or institution in the State was entitled to issue instructions or to call to account the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, and it was Alexeiev and not the Czar who in reality held that office. Not a single measure of the War Ministry, even if indirectly affecting the interests of the Army, could be adopted without the sanction of the Stavka. The Stavka gave direct orders to the War Minister and to his Department on questions appertaining to the care of the Army. The voice of the Stavka had a certain weight and importance in the practical domain of administration at the theatre of war, albeit without any connection with the general trend of internal policy. That power was not exercised to a sufficient degree; but on principle it afforded the opportunity of carrying on the defence of the country in co-operation with other branches of the administration, which were to a certain extent subordinate to it. With the beginning of the Revolution, these conditions underwent a radical change. Contrary to the examples of history and to the dictates of military science, the Stavka became practically subordinate to the War Minister. This was not due to any act of the Government, but merely to the fact that the Provisional Government combined supreme power with executive power, as well as to the combination of the strong character of Gutchkov and the yielding nature of Alexeiev. The Stavka could no longer address rightful demands to the branches of the War Ministry which were attending to Army equipments. It conducted a lengthy correspondence and appealed to the Ministry of War. The War Minister, who now signed orders instead of the Emperor, exercised a strong influence upon appointments and dismissals of officers in High Command. These appointments were sometimes made by him after consultation with the fronts, but the Stavka was not informed. Army regulations of the highest importance altering the conditions of the troops in respect of reinforcements, routine and duty, were issued by the Ministry without the participation of the Supreme Command, which learnt of their issue only from the Press. In fact, such a participation would have actually been useless. Two products of the Polivanov Commission—the new Courts and the Committees—which Gutchkov accidentally asked me to look through, were returned with a series of substantial objections of my own, and Gutchkov expounded them in vain before the representatives of the Soviet. The only result was that certain changes in the drafting of the regulations were made.
All these circumstances undoubtedly undermined the authority of the Stavka in the eyes of the Army, and prompted the Generals in High Command to approach the more powerful Central Government Departments without reference to the Stavka, as well as to display excessive individual initiative in matters of paramount importance to the State and to the Army. Thus, in May, 1917, on the Northern Front, all the pre-War soldiers were discharged instead of the prescribed percentage, and this created grave difficulties on other fronts. On the South-Western Front Ukranian units were being formed. The Admiral in command of the Baltic Fleet ordered the officers to remove their shoulder-straps, etc.
The Stavka had lost influence and power, and could no longer occupy the commanding position of an administrative and moral centre. This occurred at the most terrible stage of the World War, when the Army was beginning to disintegrate, and when not only the entire strength of the people was being put to the test, but the necessity had arisen for a power exceptionally strong and wide in its bearing. Meanwhile, the matter was quite obvious: if Alexeiev and Denikin did not enjoy the confidence of the Government, and were considered inadequate to the requirements of the Supreme Command, they should have been superseded by new men who did enjoy that confidence and who should have been invested with full powers. As a matter of fact, changes were made twice. But only the men were changed, not the principles of the High Command. In the circumstances, when no one actually wielded power, military power was not centred in anybody’s hands. Neither the Chiefs who enjoyed the reputation of serving their country loyally and with exceptional devotion, like Alexeiev, and later the “Iron Chiefs,” such as Kornilov undoubtedly was and as Brussilov was supposed to be, nor all the Chameleons that fed from the hand of the Socialist reformers of the Army had any real power.
The entire military hierarchy was shaken to its very foundations, though it retained all the attributes of power and the customary routine—instructions which could not move the Armies, orders that were never carried out, verdicts of the Courts which were derided. The full weight of oppression, following the line of the least resistance, fell solely upon the loyal commanding officers, who submitted without a murmur to persecution from above as well as from below. The Government and the War Ministry, having abolished repressions, had recourse to a new method of influencing the masses—to appeals. Appeals to the people, to the Army, to the Cossacks, to everybody, flooded the country, inviting all to do their duty. Unfortunately, only those appeals were successful that flattered the meanest instincts of the mob, inviting it to neglect its duty. As a result, it was not counter-Revolution, Buonapartism, or adventure, but the elemental desire of the circles where the ideas of statesmanship still prevailed, to restore the broken laws of warfare, that soon gave rise to a new watchword:
“Military power must be seized.”
Such a task was not congenial to Alexeiev or Brussilov. Kornilov subsequently endeavoured to undertake it, and began independently to carry out a series of important military measures and to address ultimatums on military questions to the Government. At first, the only question raised was that of granting “full powers” to the Supreme Command within the scope of its competence.
It is interesting to compare this state of affairs with that of the command of the armies of our powerful foe. Ludendorff, the first Quartermaster-General of the German Army says (Mes Souvenirs de Guerre): “In peace-time the Imperial Government exercised full power over its Departments.... When the War began the Ministers found it difficult to get used to seeing in G.H.Q. a power which was compelled, by the immensity of its task, to act with greater resolution as that resolution weakened in Berlin. Would that the Government could clearly have perceived this simple truth.... The Government went its own way, and never abandoned any of its designs in compliance with the wishes of G.H.Q. On the contrary, it disregarded much that we considered necessary for the prosecution of the War.”
If we recall that in March, 1918, the deputy of the Reichstag, Haase, was more than justified in saying that the Chancellor was nothing but a figure-head covering the military party, and that Ludendorff was actually governing the country, we will understand the extent of the power which the German Command deemed it necessary to exercise in order to win the World War.
I have drawn a general picture of the Stavka, such as it was when I took charge as Chief-of-Staff. Taking the entire position into consideration, I had two main objects in view: first, to counteract with all my strength the influences which were disrupting the Army, so as to preserve that Army and to hold the Eastern Front in the world struggle; and secondly, to reinforce the rights, the power, and the authority of the Supreme Commander-in-Chief. A loyal struggle was at hand. In that struggle, which only lasted two months, all sections of the Stavka had their share.
General Markov.
[CHAPTER IX.]
General Markov.
The duties of the Quartermaster-General in the Stavka were many-sided and complex. As in the European Army, it proved therefore necessary to create the office of a second Quartermaster-General. The first dealt merely with matters concerning the conduct of operations. I invited General Markov to accept this new office. His fate was linked up with mine until his glorious death at the head of a Volunteer Division. That Division afterwards bore with honour his name, which has become legendary in the Volunteer Army. At the outbreak of war he was a lecturer at the Academy of the General Staff. He went to the war as Staff-Officer to General Alexeiev. Then he joined the 19th Division, and in December, 1914, he served under my command as Chief-of-Staff of the 4th Rifle Brigade, which I then commanded. When he came to our Brigade he was unknown and unexpected, as I had asked the Army G.H.Q. for another man to be appointed. Immediately upon his arrival he told me that he had recently undergone a slight operation, was not feeling well, was unable to ride, and would not go up to the front line. I frowned, and the Staff exchanged significant glances. The “Professor,” as we afterwards often called him as a friendly jest, was obviously out of place in our midst.
I started one day with my staff, all mounted, towards the line where my riflemen were fiercely fighting, near the town of Friestach. The enemy was upon us, and the fire was intense. Suddenly, repeated showers of shrapnel came down upon us. We wondered what it meant, and there was Markov gaily smiling, openly driving to the firing line in a huge carriage. “I was bored staying in, so I have come to see what is going on here.”
From that day the ice was broken, and Markov assumed a proper place in the family of the “Iron Division.” I have never met a man who loved military work to such an extent as Markov. He was young (when he was killed in the summer of 1918 in action he was only 39 years of age), impetuous, communicative, eloquent. He knew how to approach, and closely, too, any milieu—officers, soldiers, crowds—sometimes far from sympathetic, and how to instil into them his straightforward, clear, and indisputable articles of faith. He was very quick to grasp the situation in battle, and made work much easier for me. Markov had one peculiarity. He was quite exceptionally straightforward, frank, and abrupt when attacking those who, in his opinion, did not display adequate knowledge, energy, or pluck. While he was at Headquarters the troops therefore viewed him (as in the Brigade) with a certain reserve, and sometimes even with intolerance (as in the Rostov period of the Volunteer Army). No sooner, however, did Markov join the Division than the attitude towards him became one of love on the part of the riflemen, or even enthusiasm on the part of the Volunteers. The Army had its own psychology. It would have no abruptness and blame from Markov as a Staff Officer. But when their Markov, in his usual short fur coat with his cap at the back of his head, waving his inevitable whip, was in the rifleman’s firing line, under the hot fire of the enemy, he could be as violent as possible, he could shout and swear—his words provoked sometimes sorrow, sometimes mirth, but there was always a sincere desire to be worthy of his praise. I recall the heavy days which the Brigade endured in February, 1915. The Brigade was pushed forward, was surrounded by a semi-circle of hills occupied by the enemy, who was in a position to snipe us. The position was intolerable, the losses were heavy, and nothing could be gained by keeping us on that line. But the 14th Infantry Division next to us reported to the Army H.Q.: “Our blood runs cold at the thought of abandoning the position and having afterwards once more to attack the heights which have already cost us rivers of blood.” I remained. Matters, however, were so serious that one had to be in close touch with the men. I moved the field H.Q. up to the position. Count Keller, in command of our section, having travelled for eleven hours in deep mud and over mountain paths, arrived at that moment, and rested for a while.
“Let us now drive up to the line.”
We laughed.
“How shall we drive? Would you come to the door, enemy machine-guns permitting?”
Count Keller left fully determined to extricate the Brigade from the trap. The Brigade was melting away. In the rear there was only one ramshackle bridge across the San. We were in the hands of fate. Will the torrent swell? If it does, the bridge will be swept away, and our retreat will be cut off. At this difficult moment the Colonel in command of the 13th Rifle Regiment was severely wounded by a sniper as he was coming out of the house where the H.Q. were stationed. All officers of his rank having been killed, there was nobody to replace him. I was pacing up and down the small hut, in a gloomy mood. Markov rose.
“Give me the 13th Regiment, sir,” said Markov.
“Of course, with pleasure.”
I had already thought of doing so. But I hesitated to offer it to Markov lest he should think it was my intention to remove him from the Staff. Markov afterwards went with his regiment from one victory to another. He had already earned the Cross of St. George and the sword of St. George, but for nine months the Stavka would not confirm his appointment, because he had not reached the dead line of seniority.
I recall the days of the heavy Galician retreat, when a tidal wave of maddened peasants, with women, children, cattle and carts, was following the Army, burning their villages and houses.... Markov was in the rear, and was ordered promptly to blow up the bridge at which this human tide had stopped. He was, however, moved by the sufferings of the people, and for six hours he fought for the bridge at the risk of being cut off, until the last cart of the refugees had crossed the bridge.
His life was a perpetual fiery impulse. On one occasion I had lost all hope of ever seeing him again. In the beginning of September, 1915, in the course of the Lutsk operation, in which our Division so distinguished itself, between Olyka and Klevan, the left column commanded by Markov broke the Austrian line and disappeared. The Austrians closed the line. During the day we heard no news, and the night came. I was anxious for the fate of the 13th Regiment, and rode to a high slope, observing the enemy’s firing line in the silent distance. Suddenly, from afar, from the dense forest, in the far rear of the Austrians, I heard the joyous strains of the Regimental March of the 13th. What a relief it was!
“I got into such a fix,” said Markov afterwards, “the devil himself could not have known which were my riflemen and which were Austrians. I decided to cheer up my men and to collect them by making the band play.”
Markov’s column had smashed the enemy, had taken two thousand prisoners and a gun, and had put the Austrians to disorderly flight towards Lutsk.
In his impulsiveness he sometimes went from one extreme to another, but, as soon as matters grew really desperate, he immediately regained self-possession. In October, 1915, the 4th Rifle Division was conducting the famous Chartoriisk operation, had broken the enemy on a front about twelve miles wide and over fifteen miles deep. Brussilov, having no reserves, hesitated to bring up troops from another front in order to take advantage of this break. Time was short. The Germans centred their reserves, and they were attacking me on all sides. The situation was difficult. Markov, from the front line, telephoned: “The position is peculiar. I am fighting the four quarters of the earth. It is so hard as to be thoroughly amusing.” Only once did I see him in a state of utter depression, when, in the spring of 1915, near Przemyshl, he was removing from the firing line the remnants of his companies. He was drenched with the blood of the C.O. of the 14th Regiment, who had been standing by, and whose head had been torn off by a shell.
Markov never took any personal precautions. In September, 1915, the Division was fighting in the direction of Kovel. On the right our cavalry was operating, was moving forward irresolutely, and was perturbing us by incredible news of the appearance of important enemy forces on its front, on our bank of the River Styr. Markov became annoyed with this indecision, and reported to me: “I went to the Styr with my orderly to give the horses a drink. Between our line and the Styr there is no one, neither our cavalry nor the enemy.”
I reported him for promotion to General’s rank, as a reward for several battles, but my request was not granted on the plea that he was “a youngster.” Verily youth was a great defect. In the spring of 1916 the Division was feverishly preparing for the break-through at Lutsk. Markov made no secret of his innermost wish: “It is to be either one or the other—a wooden cross or the Cross of St. George of the Third Degree.” But the Stavka, after several refusals, compelled him to accept “promotion”—once again the office of Divisional Chief-of-Staff. (This measure was due to a great dearth of officers of the General Staff, because the normal activities of the Academy had come to an end. Colonels and Generals were made to hold for a second time and on special conditions the office of Chief of Divisional Staff before they were appointed to Divisional Commands.) After several months on the Caucasian Front, where Markov suffered from inaction, he lectured for some time at the Academy, which had then reopened, and later returned to the Army. At the outbreak of the Revolution he was attached to the Commanding Officer of the Tenth Army as General for special missions.
In the beginning of March a mutiny broke out at Briansk in the big garrison. It was attended by pogroms and by the arrest of officers. The townfolk were terribly excited. Markov spoke several times in the crowded Council of Military Deputies. After tempestuous and passionate debates, he succeeded in obtaining a resolution for restoring discipline and for freeing twenty of those arrested. Nevertheless, after midnight several companies in arms moved to the railway station in order to do away with Markov and with the arrested officers. The mob was infuriated and Markov seemed to be doomed, but his resourcefulness saved the situation. Trying to make his voice heard above the tumult, he addressed an impassioned appeal to the mob. The following sentence occurred in his speech: “Had any of my ‘Iron’ Riflemen been here, he would have told you who General Markov is.” “I served in the 13th Regiment,” came a voice from the crowd.
Markov pushed aside several men who were surrounding him, advanced rapidly towards the soldier, and seized him by the scruff of the neck.
“You? You? Then why don’t you thrust the bayonet into me? The enemy’s bullet has spared me, so let me perish by the hand of my own rifleman....”
The mob was still more intoxicated, but with admiration. Accompanied by tempestuous cheering, Markov and the arrested officers left for Minsk.
Markov was lifted by the wave of events, and gave himself entirely to the struggle, without a thought for himself or for his family. Faith and despair succeeded each other in his mind; he loved his country and felt sorry for the Army, which never ceased to occupy a prominent place in his heart and in his mind.
Reference will be made more than once in the course of this narrative to the personality of Markov, but I could not refrain from satisfying my heart’s desire in adding a few laurels to his wreath—the wreath that was placed upon his tomb by two faithful friends, with the inscription:—
“He lived and died for the good of his country.”
[CHAPTER X.]
The Power—The Duma—The Provisional Government—The High Command—The Soviet of Workmen’s and Soldiers’ Delegates.
Russia’s exceptional position, confronted on the one hand with a world war and on the other with a revolution, made the establishment of a strong power an imperative necessity.
The Duma, which, as I have already said, unquestionably enjoyed the confidence of the country, refused, after lengthy and heated discussions, to head the Revolutionary power. Temporarily dissolved by the Imperial ukaze of February 27th, it remained loyal, and “did not attempt to hold an official sitting,” as it “considered itself a legislative institution of the old régime, co-ordinated by fundamental law with the obviously doomed remnants of autocracy.” (Miliukov, History of the Second Russian Revolution.) The subsequent decrees emanated from the “private conference of the members of the Duma.” This body elected the “temporary Committee of the Duma,” which exercised supreme power in the first days of the Revolution.
When power was transferred to the Provisional Government, the Duma and the Committee retired to the background, but did not cease to exist, and endeavoured to give moral support and a raison d’être to the first three Cabinets of the Government. On May 2nd, during the first Government crisis, the Committee still struggled for the right to appoint members of the Government; subsequently it reduced its demands to that of the right to participate in the formation of the Government. Thus, on July 7th, the Committee of the Duma protested against its exclusion from the formation of a new Provisional Government by Kerensky, as it considered such a course as “legally inadmissible and politically disastrous.” The Duma, of course, was fully entitled to participate in the direction of the life of the country, as, even in the camp of its enemies, the signal service was recognised which the Duma had rendered to the Revolution “In converting to it the entire front and all the officers” (Stankevitch: Reminiscences). There can be no doubt that, had the Soviet taken the lead in the Revolution, there would have been a fierce struggle against it, and the Revolution would have been squashed. It might, perhaps, have then given the victory to the Liberal Democracy, and would have led the country to a normal evolutionary development. Who knows?
The members of the Duma themselves felt the strain of inactivity which was at first voluntary and later compulsory. There were many absentees, and the President of the Duma had to combat this attitude. Nevertheless, the Duma and the Committee were quite alive to the importance of the trend events were taking. They issued resolutions condemning, warning, and appealing to the common sense, the heart, and the patriotism of the people, of the Army, and of the Government. The Duma, however, had already been swept aside by the Revolutionary elements. Its statesmanlike appeals, full of the clear consciousness of impending perils, had ceased to impress the country, and were ignored by the Government. Even a Duma so peaceable that it did not even fight for power aroused the apprehensions of the Revolutionary Democracy, and the Soviets led a violent campaign for the abolition of the Council of the State and of the Duma. In August the Duma relaxed its efforts in issuing proclamations, and when Kerensky dissolved the Duma at the bidding of the Soviets, nineteen days before the expiration of its five years’ term, on October 6th, this news did not produce any appreciable effect in the country. Rodzianko kept alive for a long time the idea of the Fourth Duma or of the Assembly of all Dumas as the foundation of the power of the State. He stuck to this idea throughout the Kuban campaigns and the Ekaterinodar Volunteer period of the anti-Bolshevik struggle. But the Duma was dead....
None can tell whether the Duma’s abdication of power was inevitable in the days of March, and whether it was rendered imperative by the relative strength of the forces that struggled for power, whether the “class” Duma could have retained the Socialist elements in its midst and have continued to wield a certain influence in the country, acquired as a result of its fight against autocracy. It is at least certain that, in the years of trouble in Russia, when no normal, popular representation was possible, all Governments invariably felt the necessity for some substitute for this popular representation, were it only as a kind of tribune from which expression could be given to different currents of thought, a rock upon which to stand and to divine moral responsibilities. Such was the “Temporary Council of the Russian Republic” at Petrograd in October, 1917, which, however, had been started by the Revolutionary Democracy, as a counter-blast to the contemplated Bolshevik Second Congress of Soviets. Such was the partial constituent Assembly of 1917, which was held on the Volga in the summer of 1918, and such the proposed convocation of the High Council and Assembly (Sobor) of the Zemstvos in the South of Russia and in Siberia in 1919. Even the highest manifestation of collective dictatorship—“the Soviet of People’s Commissars”—which reached a level of despotism and had suppressed social life and all the live forces of the country to an extent unknown in history, and reduced the country to a graveyard, still considered it necessary to create a kind of theatrical travesty of such a representative institution by periodically convoking the “All-Russian Congress of Soviets.”
The authority of the Provisional Government contained the seed of its own impotence. As Miliukov has said, that power was devoid of the “symbol” to which the masses were accustomed. The Government yielded to the pressure of the Soviet, which was systematically distorting all State functions and making them subservient to the interests of class and party.
Kerensky, the “hostage of Democracy,” was in the Government. In a speech delivered in the Soviet he thus defined his rôle: “I am the representative of Democracy, and the Provisional Government should look upon me as expressing the demands of Democracy, and should particularly heed the opinions which I may utter.” Last, but not least, there were in the Government representatives of the Russian Liberal Intelligencia, with all its good and bad qualities, and with the lack of will-power characteristic of that class, the will-power which, by its boundless daring, its cruelty in removing obstacles, and its tenacity in seizing power, gives victory in the struggle for self-preservation to class, caste and nationality. During the four years of the Russian turmoil the Russian Intelligencia and Bourgeoisie lived in a state of impotence and of non-resistance, and surrendered every stronghold; they even submitted to physical extermination and extinction. Strong will-power appeared to exist only on the two extreme flanks of the social front. Unfortunately it was a will to destroy and not to create. One flank has already produced Lenin, Bronstein, Apfelbaum, Uritzki, Dzerjinski, and Peters.... The other flank, defeated in March, 1917, may not yet have said its last word. The Russian Revolution was undoubtedly national in its origin, being a mode of expressing the universal protest against the old régime. But, when the time came for reconstruction, two forces came into conflict which embodied and led two different currents of political thought, two different outlooks. According to the accepted phrase, it was a struggle between the Bourgeoisie and the Democracy. But it would be more correct to describe it as a struggle between the Bourgeois and the Socialist Democracies. Both sides derived their leading spirits from the same source—the Russian Intelligencia—by no means numerous and heterogeneous, not so much in respect of class and wealth as of political ideas and methods of political contest. Both sides inadequately reflected the thoughts of the popular masses in whose name they spoke. At first these masses were merely an audience applauding the actors who most appealed to its impassioned, but not altogether idealistic, instincts. It was only after this psychological training that the inert masses, and in particular the Army, became, in the words of Kerensky, “an elemental mass melted in the fire of the Revolution and ... exercising tremendous pressure which was felt by the entire organism of the State.” To deny this would be tantamount to the denial, in accordance with Tolstoi’s doctrine, of the influence of leaders upon the life of the people. This theory has been completely shattered by Bolshevism, which has conquered for a long time the masses of the people with whom it has nothing in common and who are inimical to the Communist creed.
In the first weeks of the new Government the phenomenon became apparent, which was described in the middle of July by the Committee of the Duma in its appeal to the Government in the following words: “The seizure of the power of the State by irresponsible organisations, the creation by these organisations of a dual power in the centre, and of the absence of power in the country.”
The power of the Soviet was also conditional in spite of a series of Government crises and of opportunities thereby provided for seizing that power and wielding it without opposition and unreservedly (the Provisional Government offered no resistance). The Revolutionary Democracy, as represented by the Soviet, categorically declined to assume that rôle because it realised quite clearly that it lacked the strength, the knowledge, and the skill to govern the country in which it had as yet no real support. Tzeretelli, one of the leaders of Revolutionary Democracy, said: “The time is not yet ripe for the fulfilment of the ultimate aims of the proletariat and for the solution of class questions.... We understand that a Bourgeois Revolution is in progress ... as we are unable fully to attain to our bright ideal ... and we do not wish to assume that responsibility for the collapse of the movement, which we could not avoid if we made the desperate attempt to impose our will upon events at the present moment.” Another representative, Nahamkes, said that they preferred “to compel the Government to comply with their demands by means of perpetual organised pressure.” A member of the Executive Committee of the Soviet, Stankevitch, thus describes the Soviet in his Reminiscences, which reflect the incorrigible idealism of a Socialist who is off the rails and who has now reached the stage of excusing Bolshevism, but who nevertheless impresses one as being sincere: “The Soviet, a gathering of illiterate soldiers, took the lead because it asked nothing and because it was only a screen covering what was actually complete anarchy.” Two thousand soldiers from the rear and eight hundred workmen from Petrograd formed an institution which pretended to guide the political, military, economic and social life of an enormous country. The records of the meetings of the Soviet, as reported in the Press, testify to the extraordinary ignorance and confusion which reigned at these meetings. One could not help being painfully impressed by such a “representation” of Russia. An impotent and subdued anger against the Soviet was growing in the circles of the Intelligencia, the Democratic Bourgeoisie and the Officers. All their hatred was concentrated upon the Soviet, which they abused in terms of excessive bitterness. That hatred, often openly expressed, was wrongly interpreted by the Revolutionary Democracy as abhorrence of the very idea of Democratic Representation. In time the supremacy of the Petrograd Soviet, which ascribed to itself the exceptional merit of having destroyed the old régime, began to wane. A vast network of Committees and Soviets, which had flooded the country and the Army, claimed the right to participate in the work of the State. In April, therefore, a Congress was held of the delegates of Workmen and Soldiers’ Soviets. The Petrograd Soviet was reorganised on the basis of a more regular representation, and in June the All-Russian Congress of Representatives of the Soviets was opened. The composition of this fuller representation of Democracy is interesting:—
Thus, the overwhelming masses of Non-Socialist Russia were not represented at all; even the elements that were either non-political or belonged to the groups of the right and were elected by the Soviets and Army Committees as non-party members, hastened for motives altogether in the interests of the State to profess the Socialistic creed. In these circumstances the Revolutionary Democracy could hardly be expected to exercise self-restraint, and there could be no hope of keeping the popular movement within the limits of the Bourgeois Revolution. In reality the ramshackle helm was seized by a block of Social Revolutionaries and Mensheviks, in which first the former and then the latter predominated. It is that narrow partisan block which held in bondage the will of the Government and is primarily responsible for the subsequent course of the Revolution.
The composition of the Soviet was heterogeneous: intellectuals, bourgeoisie, workmen, soldiers and many deserters. The Soviet and the Congresses, and especially the former, were a somewhat inert mass, utterly devoid of political education. Action, power and influence afterwards passed therefore into the hands of Executive Committees in which the Socialist intellectual elements were almost exclusively represented. The most devastating criticism of the Executive Committee of the Soviet came from that very institution, and was made by one of its members, Stankevitch: the meetings were chaotic, political disorganisation, indecision, haste, and fitfulness showed themselves in its decisions, and there was a complete absence of administrative experience and true democracy. One of the members advocated anarchy in the “Izvestia,” another sent written permits for the expropriation of the landlords, a third explained to a military delegation which had complained of the Commanding Officers that these officers should be dismissed and arrested, etc.
“The most striking feature of the Committee is the preponderance of the alien element,” wrote Stankevitch. “Jews, Georgians, Letts, Poles, and Lithuanians were represented out of all proportion to their numbers in Petrograd and in the country.”
The following is a list of the first Presidium of the All-Russian Central Committee of the Soviets:—
- 1 Georgian
- 5 Jews
- 1 Armenian
- 1 Pole
- 1 Russian (if his name was not an assumed one).
This exceptional preponderance of the alien element, foreign to the Russian national idea, could not fail to tinge the entire activities of the Soviet with a spirit harmful to the interests of the Russian State. The Provisional Government was the captive of the Soviet from the very first day, as it had under-estimated the importance and the power of that institution, and was unable to display either determination or strength in resisting the Soviet. The Government did not even hope for victory in that struggle, as, in its endeavour to save the country, it could not very well proclaim watchwords which would have suited the licentious mob and which emanated from the Soviet. The Government talked about duty, the Soviet about rights. The former “prohibited,” the latter “permitted.” The Government was linked with the old power by the inheritance of statesmanship and organisation, as well as the external methods of administration; whereas the Soviet, springing from mutiny and from the slums, was the direct negation of the entire old régime. It is a delusion to think, as a small portion of the moderate democracy still appear to do, that the Soviet played the part of “restraining the tidal wave of the people.” The Soviet did not actually destroy the Russian State, but was shattering it, and did so to the extent of smashing the Army and imposing Bolshevism on it. Hence the duplicity and insincerity of its activities. Apart from its declarations, all the speeches, conversations, comments, and articles of the Soviet and of the Executive Committee, of its groups and individuals, came to the knowledge of the country and of the Front, and tended towards the destruction of the authority of the Government. Stankevitch wrote that not deliberately, but persistently, the Committee was dealing death-blows to the Government.
Who, then, were the men who were trying to democratise the Army Regulations, smashing all the foundations of the Army, inspiring the Polivanov Commission, and tying the hands of two War Ministers? The following is the personnel elected in the beginning of April from the Soldiers’ Section of the Soviet to the Executive Committee:—
| War-time Officers | 1 |
| Clerks | 2 |
| Cadets | 2 |
| Soldiers from the rear | 9 |
| Scribes and men on special duty | 5 |
I will leave their description to Stankevitch, who said: “At first hysterical, noisy, and unbalanced men were elected, who were utterly useless to the Committee....” New elements were subsequently added. “The latter tried consciously, and in the measure of their ability, to cope with the ocean of military matters. Two of them, however, seemed to have been inoffensive scribes in Reserve Battalions, who had never taken the slightest interest in the War, the Army, or the political Revolution.” The duplicity and the insincerity of the Soviet were clearly manifested in regard to the War. The intellectual circles of the Left and of the Revolutionary Democracy mostly espoused the idea of Zimmerwald and of Internationalism. It was natural, therefore, that the first word which the Soviet addressed on March 14, 1917, “To the Peoples of the Whole World,” was: