by Ken Follett
Katerina said: "I'm sorry he's asleep. He loves to see you."
"I'll talk to him in the morning."
"You can stay the night? How wonderful!"
Grigori sat down, and Katerina knelt in front of him and pulled off his boots. "You look tired," she said.
"I am."
"Let's go to bed. It's late."
She began to unbutton his tunic, and he sat back and let her. "General Khabalov is hiding out in the Admiralty," he said. "We were afraid he might recapture the railway stations, but he didn't even try."
"Why not?"
Grigori shrugged. "Cowardice. The tsar ordered Ivanov to march on Petrograd and set up a military dictatorship, but Ivanov's men became mutinous and the expedition was canceled."
Katerina frowned. "Has the old ruling class just given up?"
"It seems that way. Strange, isn't it? But clearly there isn't going to be a counterrevolution."
They got into bed, Grigori in his underwear, Katerina with her dress still on. She had never stripped naked in front of him. Perhaps she felt she had to hold something back. It was a peculiarity of hers that he accepted, not without regret. He took her in his arms and kissed her. When he entered her she said: "I love you," and he felt he was the luckiest man in the world.
Afterward she said sleepily: "What will happen next?"
"There's going to be a constituent assembly, elected by what they called the four-tail suffrage: universal, direct, secret, and equal. Meanwhile the Duma is forming a provisional government."
"Who will be its leader?"
"Lvov."
Katerina sat upright. "A prince! Why?"
"They want the confidence of all classes."
"To hell with all classes!" Indignation made her even more beautiful, bringing color to her face and a sparkle to her eyes. "The workers and soldiers have made the revolution--why do we need the confidence of anyone else?"
This question had bothered Grigori, too, but the answer had convinced him. "We need businessmen to reopen factories, wholesalers to recommence supplying the city, shopkeepers to open their doors again."
"And what about the tsar?"
"The Duma is demanding his abdication. They have sent two delegates to Pskov to tell him so."
Katerina was wide-eyed. "Abdication? The tsar? But that would be the end."
"Yes."
"Is it possible?"
"I don't know," said Grigori. "We'll find out tomorrow."
{ VI }
In the Catherine Hall of the Tauride Palace on Friday, the debate was desultory. Two or three thousand men and a few women packed the room, and the air was full of tobacco smoke and the smell of unwashed soldiers. They were waiting to hear what the tsar would do.
The debate was frequently interrupted for announcements. Often they were less than urgent--a soldier would stand up to say that his battalion had formed a committee and arrested the colonel. Sometimes they were not even announcements, but speeches calling for the defense of the revolution.
But Grigori knew something was different when a gray-haired sergeant jumped onto the platform, pink-faced and breathless, with a sheet of paper in his hand, and called for silence.
Slowly and loudly he said: "The tsar has signed a document . . . "
The cheering began after those few words.
The sergeant raised his voice: " . . . abdicating the crown . . . "
The cheer rose to a roar. Grigori was electrified. Had it really happened? Had the dream come true?
The sergeant held up his hand for quiet. He had not yet finished.
" . . . and because of the poor health of his twelve-year-old son, Alexei, he has named as his successor the grand duke Mikhail, the tsar's younger brother."
The cheers turned to howls of protest. "No!" Grigori shouted, and his voice was lost among thousands.
When after several minutes they began to quieten, a greater roar was heard from outside. The crowd in the courtyard must have heard the same news, and were receiving it with the same indignation.
Grigori said to Konstantin: "The provisional government must not accept this."
"Agreed," said Konstantin. "Let's go and tell them so."
They left the soviet and crossed the palace. The ministers of the newly formed government were meeting in the room where the old temporary committee had met--indeed, they were to a worrying degree the same men. They were already discussing the tsar's statement.
Pavel Miliukov was on his feet. The monocled moderate was arguing that the monarchy had to be preserved as a symbol of legitimacy. "Horseshit," Grigori muttered. The monarchy symbolized incompetence, cruelty, and defeat, but not legitimacy. Fortunately, others felt the same way. Kerensky, who was now minister of justice, proposed that Grand Duke Mikhail should be told to refuse the crown, and to Grigori's relief the majority agreed.
Kerensky and Prince Lvov were mandated to go to see Mikhail immediately. Miliukov glared through his monocle and said: "And I should go with them, to represent the minority view!"
Grigori assumed this foolish suggestion would be trodden upon, but the other ministers weakly assented. At that point Grigori stood up. Without forethought he said: "And I shall accompany the ministers as an observer from the Petrograd soviet."
"Very well, very well," said Kerensky wearily.
They left the palace by a side door and got into two waiting Renault limousines. The former president of the Duma, the hugely fat Mikhail Rodzianko, also came. Grigori could not quite believe this was happening to him. He was part of a delegation going to order a crown prince to refuse to become tsar. Less than a week ago he had meekly got down from a table because Lieutenant Kirillov had ordered him to. The world was changing so fast it was hard to keep up.
Grigori had never been inside the home of a wealthy aristocrat, and it was like entering a dream world. The large house was stuffed with possessions. Everywhere he looked there were gorgeous vases, elaborate clocks, silver candelabra, and jeweled ornaments. If he had grabbed a golden bowl and run out of the front door, he could have sold it for enough money to buy himself a house--except that right now no one was buying golden bowls, they just wanted bread.
Prince Georgy Lvov, a silver-haired man with a huge bushy beard, clearly was not impressed by the decor, nor intimidated by the solemnity of his errand, but everyone else seemed nervous. They waited in the drawing room, frowned upon by ancestral portraits, shuffling their feet on the thick rugs.
At last Grand Duke Mikhail appeared. He was a prematurely balding man of thirty-eight with a little mustache. To Grigori's surprise he appeared to be more nervous than the delegation. He seemed shy and bewildered, despite a haughty tilt to his head. He eventually summoned enough courage to say: "What do you have to tell me?"
Lvov replied: "We have come to ask you not to accept the crown."
"Oh, dear," said Mikhail, and seemed not to know what to do next.
Kerensky retained his presence of mind. He spoke clearly and firmly. "The people of Petrograd have reacted with outrage to the decision of His Majesty the tsar," he said. "Already a huge contingent of soldiers is marching on the Tauride Palace. There will be a violent uprising followed by a civil war unless we announce immediately that you have refused to take over as tsar."
"Oh, my goodness," said Mikhail mildly.
The grand duke was not very bright, Grigori realized. Why am I surprised? he thought. If these people were intelligent they would not be on the point of losing the throne of Russia.
The monocled Miliukov said: "Your Royal Highness, I represent the minority view in the provisional government. In our opinion, the monarchy is the only symbol of authority accepted by the people."
Mikhail looked even more bewildered. The last thing he needed was a choice, Grigori thought; that only made matters worse. The grand duke said: "Would you mind if I had a word alone with Rodzianko? No, don't all leave--we will just retire to a side room."
When the dithering tsar-designate and the fat president had l
eft, the others talked in low voices. No one spoke to Grigori. He was the only working-class man in the room, and he sensed they were a bit frightened of him, suspecting--rightly--that the pockets of his sergeant's uniform were stuffed with guns and ammunition.
Rodzianko reappeared. "He asked me whether we could guarantee his personal safety if he became tsar," he said. Grigori was disgusted but not surprised that the grand duke was concerned about himself rather than his country. "I told him we could not," Rodzianko finished.
Kerensky said: "And . . . ?"
"He will rejoin us in a moment."
There was a pause that seemed endless, then Mikhail came back. They all fell silent. For a long moment, no one said anything.
At last Mikhail said: "I have decided to decline the crown."
Grigori's heart seemed to stop. Eight days, he thought. Eight days ago the women of Vyborg marched across the Liteiny Bridge. Today the rule of the Romanovs has ended.
He recalled the words of his mother on the day she died: "I will not rest until Russia is a republic." Rest now, Mother, he thought.
Kerensky was shaking the grand duke's hand and saying something pompous, but Grigori was not listening.
We have done it, he thought. We made a revolution.
We have deposed the tsar.
{ VII }
In Berlin, Otto von Ulrich opened a magnum of the 1892 Perrier-Jouet champagne.
The von Ulrichs had invited the von der Helbards to lunch. Monika's father, Konrad, was a graf, or count, and her mother was therefore a grafin, or countess. Grafin Eva von der Helbard was a formidable woman with gray hair piled in an elaborate coiffure. Before lunch she cornered Walter and told him that Monika was an accomplished violin player and had been top of her school class in all subjects. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father talking to Monika, and guessed she was getting a school report about him.
He was irritated with his parents for persisting in foisting Monika on him. The fact that he found himself strongly attracted to her made matters worse. She was intelligent as well as beautiful. Her hair was always carefully dressed, but he could not help imagining her unpinning it at night and shaking her head to liberate her curls. Sometimes, these days, he found it hard to picture Maud.
Now Otto raised his glass. "Good-bye to the tsar!" he said.
"I'm surprised at you, Father," said Walter irritably. "Are you really celebrating the overthrow of a legitimate monarch by a mob of factory workers and mutinous soldiers?"
Otto went red in the face. Walter's sister, Greta, patted her father's arm soothingly. "Take no notice, Daddy," she said. "Walter just says these things to annoy you."
Konrad said: "I got to know Tsar Nicholas when I was at our embassy in Petrograd."
Walter said: "And what did you think of him, sir?"
Monika answered for her father. Giving Walter a conspiratorial grin, she said: "Daddy used to say that if the tsar had been born to a different station in life he might, with an effort, have become a competent postman."
"This is the tragedy of inherited monarchy." Walter turned to his father. "But you must surely disapprove of democracy in Russia."
"Democracy?" said Otto derisively. "We shall see. All we know is that the new prime minister is a liberal aristocrat."
Monika said to Walter: "Do you think Prince Lvov will try to make peace with us?"
It was the question of the hour. "I hope so," said Walter, trying not to look at Monika's breasts. "If all our troops on the eastern front could be switched to France we could overrun the Allies."
She raised her glass and looked over its rim into Walter's eyes. "Then let's drink to that," she said.
In a cold, wet trench in northeastern France, Billy's platoon was drinking gin.
The bottle had been produced by Robin Mortimer, the cashiered officer. "I've been saving this," he said.
"Well, knock me down with a feather," said Billy, using one of Mildred's expressions. Mortimer was a surly beggar and had never been known to buy anyone a drink.
Mortimer splashed liquor into their mess tins. "Here's to bloody revolution," he said, and they all drank, then held out their tins for refills.
Billy had been in high spirits even before drinking the gin. The Russians had proved it was still possible to overthrow tyrants.
They were singing "The Red Flag" when Earl Fitzherbert came limping around the traverse, splashing through the mud. He was a colonel now, and more arrogant than ever. "Be quiet, you men!" he shouted.
The singing died down gradually.
Billy said: "We're celebrating the overthrow of the tsar of Russia!"
Fitz said angrily: "He was a legitimate monarch, and those who deposed him are criminals. No more singing."
Billy's contempt for Fitz went up a notch. "He was a tyrant who murdered thousands of his subjects, and all civilized men are rejoicing today."
Fitz looked more closely at him. The earl no longer wore an eye patch, but his left eyelid had a permanent droop. However, it did not seem to affect his eyesight. "Sergeant Williams--I might have guessed. I know you--and your family."
And how, Billy thought.
"Your sister's a peace agitator."
"So's yours, sir," said Billy, and Robin Mortimer laughed raucously, then shut up suddenly.
Fitz said to Billy: "One more insolent word out of you and you'll be on a charge."
"Sorry, sir," said Billy.
"Now calm down, all of you. And no more singing." Fitz walked away.
Billy said quietly: "Long live the revolution."
Fitz pretended not to hear.
In London, Princess Bea screamed: "No!"
"Try to stay calm," said Maud, who had just told her the news.
"They cannot!" Bea screamed. "They cannot make our beloved tsar abdicate! He is the father of his people!"
"It may be for the best--"
"I don't believe you! It's a wicked lie!"
The door opened and Grout put his head in, looking worried.
Bea picked up a Japanese bottle-vase containing an arrangement of dried grasses and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and smashed.
Maud patted Bea's shoulder. "There, there," she said. She was not sure what else to do. She herself was delighted that the tsar had been overthrown, but all the same she sympathized with Bea, for whom an entire way of life had been destroyed.
Grout crooked a finger and a maid came in, looking frightened. He pointed at the broken vase, and the maid began to pick up the pieces.
The tea things were on a table: cups, saucers, teapots, jugs of milk and cream, bowls of sugar. Bea swept them all violently to the floor. "Those revolutionaries are going to kill everyone!"
The butler knelt down and began to clear up the mess.
"Don't excite yourself," Maud said.
Bea began to cry. "The poor tsaritsa! And her children! What will become of them?"
"Perhaps you should lie down for a while," Maud said. "Come on, I'll walk you to your room." She took Bea's elbow, and Bea allowed herself to be led away.
"It's the end of everything," Bea sobbed.
"Never mind," said Maud. "Perhaps it's a new beginning."
Ethel and Bernie were in Aberowen. It was a sort of honeymoon. Ethel was enjoying showing Bernie the places of her childhood: the pithead, the chapel, the school. She even showed him around Ty Gwyn--Fitz and Bea were not in residence--though she did not take him to the Gardenia Suite.
They were staying with the Griffiths family, who had again offered Ethel Tommy's room, which saved disturbing Gramper. They were in Mrs. Griffiths's kitchen when her husband, Len, atheist and revolutionary socialist, burst in waving a newspaper. "The tsar have abdicated!" he said.
They all cheered and clapped. For a week they had been hearing of riots in Petrograd, and Ethel had been wondering how it would end.
Bernie asked: "Who's took over?"
"Provisional government under Prince Lvov," said Len.
"Not quite a tr
iumph for socialism, then," said Bernie.
"No."
Ethel said: "Cheer up, you men--one thing at a time! Let's go to the Two Crowns and celebrate. I'll leave Lloyd with Mrs. Ponti for a while."
The women put on their hats and they all went to the pub. Within an hour the place was crammed. Ethel was astonished to see her mother and father come in. Mrs. Griffiths saw them too, and said: "What the 'ell are they doing here?"
A few minutes later, Ethel's da stood on a chair and called for quiet. "I know some of you are surprised to see me here, but special occasions call for special actions." He showed them a pint glass. "I haven't changed my habits of a lifetime, but the landlord has been kind enough to give me a glass of tap water." They all laughed. "I'm here to share with my neighbors the triumph that have took place in Russia." He held up his glass. "A toast--to the revolution!"
They all cheered and drank.
"Well!" said Ethel. "Da in the Two Crowns! I never thought I'd see the day."
In Josef Vyalov's ultramodern prairie house in Buffalo, Lev Peshkov helped himself to a drink from the cocktail cabinet. He no longer drank vodka. Living with his wealthy father-in-law, he had developed a taste for Scotch whisky. He liked it the way Americans drank it, with lumps of ice.
Lev did not like living with his in-laws. He would have preferred for him and Olga to have a place of their own. But Olga preferred it this way, and her father paid for everything. Until Lev could build up a stash of his own he was stuck.
Josef was reading the paper and Lena was sewing. Lev raised his glass to them. "Long live the revolution!" he said exuberantly.
"Watch your words," said Josef. "It's going to be bad for business."
Olga came in. "Pour me a little glass of sherry, please, darling," she said.
Lev suppressed a sigh. She loved to ask him to perfom little services, and in front of her parents he could not refuse. He poured sweet sherry into a small glass and handed it to her, bowing like a waiter. She smiled prettily, missing the irony.