November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  The Kadets were indifferent, if not hostile, to religion. Their own irreligion made it difficult for them to understand the real spirit of the people. This was why, while sincerely striving to better the lives of the masses, they tended to corrupt the soul of the people by encouraging manifestations of spite and hatred—directed, to begin with, at the property-owning classes, but subsequently at the intelligentsia as well.

  While Guchkov tells us:

  I have never concealed my absolutely negative attitude toward the KD Party. That party, in my belief, played a fatal role in the infancy of political freedom in Russia. I was present at its conception and at its birth, and gave a timely word of warning. The Kadets smartly hitched themselves to the wagon of the Russian revolution, taking it for the triumphal chariot which would carry them to the summit of power, not realizing that it was a rickety cart which would finally get bogged down in mud and blood.

  The First Duma was opened on 10 May 1906, which proved to be not a day of national reconciliation but the occasion for a new flare-up of hatred. The Kadets arrived flourishing their hats in unison—soldier-politicians! A Duma elected under Witte’s “experimental” electoral law (and consisting partly of people to whom legality in any form was alien) made no attempt at self-restraint whatsoever, and demanded nothing less than everything at once, not half everything or a quarter of everything. Defying the constitution, the First Duma let itself be tempted to act as if all by itself it represented both the people’s will and the will of the government, as though it was a new form of autocracy. Kokoshkin, indeed, argued that the Duma was not obliged to carry out instructions from anyone in the country.

  It took another thirty years for V. Maklakov—not a typical Kadet, but the cleverest of them—to recall with the hindsight of an émigré that

  in 1906 there was no revolution. Our convalescence was beginning. The monarchy had given up its most important privilege—autocratic power. It had renounced another of the fundamentals—the “caste” system, which had been such a heavy yoke for Russia to bear. What had been the liberal program now appeared in the government’s program: the gradual transfer of land to the peasants, the development of local self-government everywhere, legality, the independence of the courts, education. Society, personified by the Duma, was given the possibility of verifying the implementation of this program, obstructing reactionary deviations, and even initiating reforms. Why then, from the very first day, even before the first session, did it declare war on the government instead of attempting to collaborate? Instead of taking on the thankless but honorable role of trying to moderate the unreasonable impatience of society, the Duma had exacerbated it. It did not wish to hear about reform step by step. Radical amendment of the still untried constitution, the establishment of total popular government, simultaneous mass expropriation of private lands, the formation of a government consisting of members of the Duma and subordinate to it—these were its first demands. Giving in to them would have meant bringing the revolution forward by eleven years.

  True, the Mensheviks hesitantly, and the other left-wingers with no misgivings at all, boycotted the First Duma, urging and inciting revolution to return. So that the Kadets, to their own surprise, with no cover to their left, proved to be very left themselves. The only ones with an unblushing mastery of European electoral tactics, they snatched more than a third of the seats and became the largest group in the Duma—but were still disinclined to consider anything as disgracefully moderate as normal legislative activity. Victory in the elections clouded their vision. It seemed to promise that they could just as easily overthrow the government. They rejected caution, and refused to spend four years on what a determined onslaught could achieve in as many weeks. So when Milyukov at the Kadets’ pre-Duma congress showed for the first time the braking power of his hooves, and tried to divert the party away from its thrilling revolutionary course and toward the drabness of parliamentarianism, he was rebuffed by his fellow Kadets. Ignore the government! Ignore the laws promulgated since 30 October! Ignore the State Council! Carry out your program by means of ultimatum! If the government will not resign—appeal to the people! Die for freedom!

  The eloquent Rodichev: The Duma cannot be dissolved! Whoever clashes with the people will crash into the abyss!

  Kizewetter: If the Duma is dissolved it will be the government’s last act, after which it will cease to exist.

  In the same vein the handsome gray-headed president of the First Duma, Muromtsev, already practicing to become the first President of Russia, refused to meet or talk to ministers, and even ordered people not to refer to them as the government. Maklakov sums up Muromtsev as follows:

  The type that needs a parliament. He needs resolutions by a collective in order to formulate his beliefs. He will defend his own opinion furiously until a decision is taken, then will obey without demur. Such people can demand in speeches what they know to be impossible, and create an illusion, indeed themselves believe, that reactionaries have prevented them from bestowing a necessary boon on the country. They take no personal responsibility: their estimate of themselves depends on what they read in the papers.

  In its first address to the monarch this neurasthenic Duma spoke to the Supreme Power as though delivering an ultimatum, and the Supreme Power replied in a didactic tone, as if to a subordinate institution. Friends to the left—the serried ranks of the Caucasian Social Democrats—egged the Kadets on, and the Duma demanded an amnesty for terrorists and regicides, while itself refusing to pass moral judgment on terrorism. This was so much a part of the Kadet mentality that the patriarch of the party, I. Petrunkevich, with whose efforts at peacemaking this chapter began, exclaimed:

  Condemn terror? Never! That would mean moral ruin for the party!

  Nonetheless, it was still seriously suggested that this First Duma and its Kadet majority should be entrusted with the task of forming a government and allowed to lead Russia. There were secret discussions at court, ministers bustled around from meeting to meeting, and Milyukov—who “ran the Duma from the buffet and the press gallery,” because he was not a deputy—conferred with them. Milyukov was eagerly expecting to become Prime Minister, but the discussions came to nothing, because the Kadets refused to retract their demand for a general expropriation of land. As the dissolution of the Duma became more and more obviously imminent, the Supreme Power’s candidate to replace Goremykin as Prime Minister and dissolve it was … Shipov.

  Only … The opponent of the constitution, and of political parties generally, told the Tsar that the dissolution of the Duma now that it was in being, aggressive though it was, seemed to him unjust and even criminal. Since 30 October he had accepted the constitution, by command from the Highest, as had all Russian subjects. He now felt obliged to be loyal to it, and expected no less from the Sovereign himself. In his opinion, the Duma would be much less militant if the government further developed the principles of the Manifesto instead of departing from them. The Fundamental Laws, dividing power among the Sovereign, the Duma, and the State Council, had already been promulgated and the speech from the throne included a declaration that the day of the opening of the Duma would be the day of moral renewal for the Russian land. By the same token, Shipov could not undertake to lead a coalition government, as proposed, but thought that a government headed by the Kadets would be very much in accordance with the spirit of the times. It would forcibly deliver them from elements opposed to the state, and irresponsible opposition, and make them a party loyal to the state. They might then dissolve the Duma themselves, to rid themselves of their left wing. When the Tsar asked Shipov to suggest a possible head for such a government, he answered that Milyukov had to be regarded as the most influential, talented, and erudite of the Kadets, but that he was deficient in religious feeling, or, in other words, in any sense of moral duty to the Highest Principle and to other people, so that if he became Prime Minister his policy would hardly help to raise the spiritual level of the population. Apart from that he was too “autocratic�
�� and would be too domineering with his colleagues. Shipov recommended Muromtsev.

  But in the grip of a left-spinning whirlwind, and with their heads twisted leftward, how could the Kadets take on the burden of government? Stolypin, the Minister of the Interior, was sure that they could not, that they would end by derailing the state. A man of action, he could not see the point of such an experiment, of seeing where they take us, so that when we all break our necks, we shall be so much the wiser.

  Under Shipov’s influence, the Tsar seemed inclined to create a Kadet cabinet, but was so minded for no more than a week. Meanwhile the terrorists were still at work. And the Kadets took fright and censured Milyukov, who was still concealing his secret discussions with ministers from the party. They were even more restive when Milyukov tried to put the brake on such neoparliamentary methods as an appeal to the people on the agrarian question (the Kadets, as always, eager to inflame peasant feelings). The appeal spoke of converting state, appanage, treasury, monastery, and church lands to peasant use and of forcibly expropriating those in private ownership!

  Prime Minister Goremykin, a moderate and sluggish sixty-six-year-old with a complacency acquired in a long bureaucratic career, was incapable of anxiety, believing that history always repeats itself and that no one man is strong enough to change its course. He had seen throughout that any attempt to work with that Duma would be a failure, but had carried on, imperturbably, things being as they were, and while the Tsar wished it. Now, however, the Duma had overstepped the mark, and Goremykin saw that the Tsar would like to dismiss the Duma but lacked the resolve: he was haunted by dreadful visions of 1905 and the thought that its horrors could repeat themselves in even more virulent form. The old man resolved upon the greatest exertion of his life: he went to the Tsar with a family icon, prayed with him for God’s aid, and asked for an order to dismiss the Duma, to retire and to transfer the reins from his tired hands to the firm hands of the young and strong-minded Stolypin. He duly received the order, went home, arranged for the dissolution, then declared himself not at home to anybody, and forbade the servants to call him or come looking for him no matter who wanted him. In fact, the Tsar had second thoughts about his desperate decision within a matter of hours, and would have called on Goremykin to reconsider—but Goremykin was nowhere to be found.

  Stolypin calmed down a Duma agitated by rumors. (Will they dismiss us? If they do, let’s remain in our seats as the Roman senate did! Let’s appeal to the country! The whole country will rise in our defense! No, they’ll never dare!) And then on Sunday, 22 July, he stationed soldiers near the Tauride Palace, hung a big lock on the door and a royal proclamation on the walls:

  Those elected by the people, instead of constructive, legislative work …

  What were the Kadets to do next? Where did they stand with revolutionary Russia? From Sunday morning on, there was a rush to assemble the deputies, and while this was going on a fresh appeal was being drafted on a dusty piano top in a locked apartment. Vinaver claimed to find in Milyukov’s proposed version

  no elemental force of indignation, whereas this cry of outrage should resound like a thunderclap.

  The appeal was finalized by Vinaver and Kokoshkin, but some of Milyukov’s exhortations survived: don’t pay your taxes! (direct taxation, however, accounted for an insignificant part of revenue), don’t provide the state with conscripts! (but the call-up was not due until November).

  They had planned, in anticipation of dissolution, to go to Vyborg, on free Finnish territory. Circumspect peasant deputies, to whom Milyukov’s whole appeal was addressed, did not, alas, go, not one of them. About a third of the Duma went, the fieriest of them (of those, thirty subsequently stole away). That same Sunday evening a session was held in the Belvedere Hotel, with the splendid Muromtsev inevitably in the chair. Some Trudoviks (legal SRs) and some Social Democrats (“reserving their position on armed insurrection”) also attended.

  There were speeches by Kokoshkin, the everlasting Petrunkevich, Frenkel, Gertsenshtein, Iollos, and the Trudovik leaders Bramson and Aladin, all of them ablaze with indignation, not one of them able to suggest a counterstroke that would be fatal to the government. The resulting manifesto was not one for which the people, alas, was likely to shed its blood.

  Should they declare themselves a Constituent Assembly? Take on the functions of a government? Consider themselves a full Duma and remain in session?

  Zhordania (Social Democrat): Although only one-third of the Duma are here, it is they and they only who are the rightful …

  Ramishvili (Social Democrat): Just a little while ago we were sure that we should not return home without land and freedom. But [scornfully] you are not prepared to take decisive measures.

  (The Trudoviks): The people’s cause is in the hands of the people itself. The army, weapons in hand, must defend freedom. The government is no longer a government. Obeying the authorities is criminal!

  But what should they do? Once again they were left with nonpayment of taxes and rejection of military service. (They were unwilling to recognize that these were blows not against the government but against the state as a whole.)

  General strike?

  Armed uprising?

  We cannot call for an armed uprising. It would be the end of constitutionalism in Russia.

  Vinaver (Kadet): We must go back to Petersburg and let them arrest us there—that will be a useful symbol and an incitement to social struggle.

  Morale was sagging.

  Gredeskul (Kadet): After all, we are not calling for anything terrible—only passive resistance, which is entirely constitutional. There is one other measure: to call on the people to abstain from vodka.

  (A good laugh for anyone who knows Russian ways.)

  No, morale was sagging. Before dissolution they had looked strong—to themselves and to their opponents. Now they felt bankrupt. Differences of opinion hardened. The manifesto was discussed, article by article. There might perhaps have been no Vyborg appeal if the governor had not appeared in the hotel and said, “Gentlemen, you must close your meeting immediately. Vyborg, as you know, is a garrison town, and martial law may be declared at any minute.”

  Yes, yes, yes! We mustn’t abuse the hospitality of our Finnish friends. Oh well, we must submit to force majeure …

  The President and Prime Minister manqué of Russia hastily donned his overcoat and left the platform.

  Muromtsev: Many of those who signed the Vyborg appeal were not at all in agreement with it.

  There was no time for further debate. They adopted the whole package on a single vote.

  TO THE PEOPLE FROM THE PEOPLE’S REPRESENTATIVES:

  CITIZENS OF ALL RUSSIA! STAND FIRM IN DEFENSE OF YOUR TRAMPLED RIGHTS! NO POWER CAN HOLD OUT AGAINST THE UNITED AND UNBENDING WILL OF THE PEOPLE.

  The Vyborg appeal seduced nobody and frightened nobody. Indeed, the authorities were reassured by its feebleness: they at least had been expecting revolution.

  So ended the first test of the newly founded People’s Freedom Party: with the forfeiture of the first Russian parliament, in which the Kadets had so cheaply won and so cheaply let slip their majority.

  * * *

  IF YOU AND I ARE BOTH GENTS NOW—WHO’LL BE LEFT TO FOLLOW THE PLOW?

  * * *

  [8]

  That summer, at a patriotic concert in the old Morozov house, now a hospital for officers, Alina was presented with a breathtaking bouquet of roses. She had never, whatever the occasion, been given one like it. It was no courtesy bouquet, but one she could barely get both arms around. The sort of bouquet a woman may be given once in a lifetime.

  The nurse who brought it to her was hidden behind it, and afterward there was no one to ask. At that moment Alina could only look at the hundreds and hundreds of pink, white, and yellow petals, could only gratefully raise her eyes to the hall where people were still applauding and where the person who sent the flowers must be sitting, could only look down again at the bouquet, burying her face in i
t, breathing in, drinking in its fragrance.

  There was no note. Perhaps it had fallen out? Alina naturally expected him to approach her, behind the scenes, on the staircase, or surely in the vestibule, as first she and then the bouquet were handed into the cab. How would she feel? Who would it be? She waited, wondering what she could possibly say.

  He did not come. No sign of him.

  She was still waiting the next day. And for several days after. But no one declared himself. No visitors. No note. No name heard.

  An enigma. No doubt it would always be.

  Perhaps that made it all the more beautiful? A sort of “garnet bracelet.”*

  There had to be one moment in which life was at its most beautiful.

  But could whoever it was have written to her? Using her new privilege as an artist, she gave her concerts under the name of Siyalskaya, but for other purposes was known by her husband’s ponderous surname—ten years now, and she still couldn’t get used to it. On her passport her first name too was different: Apollinaria, unpronounceable from the concert platform (though anyone with imagination would have recognized it as a feminine version of Apollo).

  She gave another concert at the same hospital, hoping to provoke a miraculous coincidence. But there was no repetition.

  Who was he, this mysterious admirer? Most probably a wounded officer. Perhaps that had been his last evening before he left for active service? Or could it be one of the hospital doctors? Hardly. Or a visitor from Moscow, who had happened upon the concert and, smitten with admiration the moment she touched the keys, at once sent out for a bouquet?

  She hoped he would appear, but was nervous in anticipation. She would be hopelessly embarrassed. From her youth onward Alina had been outwardly skittish, excitable, impulsive, but in reality she was incorrigibly shy. She always avoided talking about the facts of life with other girls or her mother, saying boastfully, “I know! I know!” and because of her constraint she knew nothing when all the others did. Her ignorance was a secret she shared with no one. Alina sparkled, laughed, flirted, but might as well have been behind plate glass. This hidden shyness would always be part of her character.