It looked as though Nechvolodov was resting on his sword.
His idle sword. Unwanted in battle. Driven into the ground.
The revolution is here already? All around us! One knight stood out against it, ready to do battle. But he was never called upon to help. Now his sword had sunk so far into the ground that no hand will ever draw it.
And if it were drawn its point would have rusted away.
Over there, behind the closed doors of the brightly lit house, from which any decision taken would be relayed within a quarter of an hour by ticker tape, were they also painfully preoccupied with state problems?
As were the two men standing there on the Rampart, jostled by the warm wind. But no one looked to them for decisions or asked for their help. The slighted general had found his place on the wrong side of the Tsar’s garden fence. (Had he perhaps been coming to stand here every evening for a month? He had certainly known today just where he was leading Vorotyntsev.)
“We must unite! We must act!” Nechvolodov rapped out, apparently not doubting for a moment that he was speaking to a kindred spirit, or perhaps simply unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer. “We must restore the people’s pride in its nationhood! That is more vital and more urgent than attacking the enemy without.”
This last idea coincided precisely with Vorotyntsev’s own. It fitted in exactly with the message he had carried around for the past few weeks, without being able to convince anyone.
Olda had written, “Seek out men who are loyal and true!” She was right. That was what he had to do.
As Nechvolodov saw it, we began the war supposedly in defense of Serbia. But that soon faded, and we found ourselves fighting against powers with the same kind of government as ourselves, in alliance with powers whose form of government is just the opposite.
Well, Vorotyntsev was not the one to stand up for the Allies.
Confronted with a way of thinking like his own, he nonetheless saw one possible objection: the Central Powers are afraid that we may unite the Slavs, and so they feel compelled to fight against us. Why have we ranted so recklessly about the Slavs, generation after generation? Why do we go on carrying this burden when we lack the strength for it?
Nechvolodov was equally uninterested in the Slavs. His thoughts too were for Russia alone, and how she was to be dragged out of the mire.
“We need to create a new and reinvigorated right-wing force. Drawn from the sources of our national history. And offer ourselves as a prop to the enfeebled regime. The days of decision have arrived! United under a strong hand we can by our fortitude save Russia at the last moment. We must step forward and say courageously—and saying it is even more difficult than stepping forward—that Russia cannot exist without monarchy, such is her nature.”
And nothing more is needed? Vorotyntsev had been led along that path before. The same old rhetoric, the same helpless floundering. Whenever he heard these monarchist extravaganzas Vorotyntsev was astonished to see how independent-minded, levelheaded, educated people could acquiesce so blindly in all the actions of their infallible Tsar. The strength of their sentiment might excite admiration—but where was their plan of action?
Vorotyntsev did not spare his companion. “Under whose firm hand?” he asked. “If the sovereign himself is incredibly weak, whose hand is it to be? If the nation’s spirit is troubled, doesn’t the trouble start at the very top? And if the monarch consorts with Rasputin, isn’t that trouble enough? Should the Emperor be free to order his private life just as he pleases? What then becomes of the mystique of monarchy?”
“What does Rasputin matter?” Nechvolodov said indignantly. “The whole Rasputin legend has been blown up out of all proportion by the enemies of monarchy. How can they best undermine the throne? All their talk of ‘the curse of autocracy’ doesn’t get much of a response. But if the Empress is the mistress of a debauched peasant and a German spy into the bargain—that’s all they need. Rasputin fits in beautifully. They can fight against the throne and pretend they’re fighting for Russia.”
“But what if there is really no firm hand up above? What if the Emperor is steering things the wrong way or just letting it all fall apart?”
As far as he could judge through the gusts of wind Nechvolodov’s voice faltered for the first time. Not because he was wavering in his loyalty, but because he was taken aback: here was a high-ranking officer with a record of bravery, surely incapable of being anything but a loyal servant of the throne … and yet … nonetheless …
“Yes, our Emperor is too softhearted at times. But a monarchist must not regard himself as a blind executant of the monarch’s will. If he did, all the mistakes and failures of the regime would be … whose responsibility? The monarchist must say, ‘The Tsar is always right, but I am responsible for all I do, and if anyone is to blame, it is I.’ The Emperor needs loyal people, not slaves. The monarchic power is greater than the monarch! To doubt a monarch is to doubt not just one individual but monarchy as such. The Tsar is the embodiment of the people’s hopes.”
“Not this one!” Vorotyntsev retorted harshly.
“Yes—whoever occupies that position,” Nechvolodov said, horrified. “The Tsar and Russia are inseparable concepts.”
“No! Only a Tsar worthy of his country. You can reinforce the state if you have someone of character at the center. But you can’t reinforce it around a vacuum, which is itself ashamed of its excessively loyal supporters. We take for granted the bizarre fact that in our country people loyal to the throne not only have to put up with ridicule from the public but are despised by the regime itself. It behaves as if it had no need for them. Or perhaps it is ashamed of them.”
“That’s something only God can judge. It is not for mere men to do so,” Nechvolodov said in a deep voice.
“I don’t agree. It’s a practical problem. I would go so far as to say that the regime itself has become so disloyal that to serve it too honestly is now dangerous. Instead of protecting you in return, it may betray you. That is probably why many people serve it only at half strength. Just go through the motions. And so the throne is surrounded, hemmed in by a rabble of ‘excellencies’ without conscience, without sense, with none but selfish interests, and all of them there by courtesy of the Tsar, who else? Crooked money-grubbers, not monarchists.”
For the first time Nechvolodov was lost for a reply. He stood there upright, facing the Tsar’s residence, gripping the rusted sword lodged in the ground. So that’s the situation. Guchkov wants to do one thing to avoid revolution. Nechvolodov wants to do the opposite—also to avoid revolution.
They’re all at cross-purposes. All pulling different ways. And meanwhile Russia is slithering down the slope.
“Say what you like, Aleksandr Dmitrich, I can’t rally round a mere symbol. There has to be a head worthy of the name. With no atmosphere of corruption around it.”
Nechvolodov sighed heavily. “One of these days, one of these days, we will realize how very worthy he is! The purity of his heart. His love for all that is sacred in Russia. His angelic simplicity.”
Yes, his angelic simplicity was indeed moving. Had he not sent—in return for guns or for gold or simply to vindicate his imperial honor—sixty thousand Russian souls to the French front?
No, Vorotyntsev was not prepared to accept what he was offered. But still, this “comradely bravery controlled by a firm hand,” was there anything to it?
They walked back along the avenue. And Nechvolodov, head lowered, ceased pontificating and disclosed conspiratorially (secretly plotting to save the existing regime!) a plan already in existence. Not his own, but that devised by a monarchist group in the capital led by Rimsky-Korsakov.
They envisaged only the simplest, self-evident, and logically necessary actions. They would scrutinize afresh all ministers, commanders of military districts, and governor-generals, and would leave in place no one judged unqualified or slack or spineless, but only bold and decisive people devoted to the throne. Each of them would
be required to take an oath affirming his readiness to die in the impending struggle. And each one would name a worthy successor, someone like himself, to replace him in the event of his death.
Vorotyntsev expressed his doubts. It would be extremely difficult to find so many people of that caliber in the upper levels of the establishment. The very stratum in which selfless, self-sacrificing, fiercely loyal monarchists were in short supply.
“If you mean there aren’t three hundred loyal and staunch people left in the upper class, the throne is indeed beyond salvation,” the general gloomily agreed.
Here, though, was one of the three hundred—a future governor, commander of a military district, distinguished soldier—pacing the Rampart each evening, watching over the Tsar’s residence like a supernumerary sentry.
Perhaps he thinks he’s found another?
The Duma, as previously stated, would be dismissed by royal proclamation, with no date set for recall. A state of siege would be proclaimed in major towns. Part of the Guards Corps would be brought back to Petersburg, and cavalry units would be stationed in Moscow.
“Aleksandr Dmitrich, you must know very well that the Guards have been put through the meat grinder. Not by the Masons, but by Brusilov, Raukh, and the Emperor’s old and best friend, Bezobrazov.”
Munitions factories must be put on a war footing so as to eliminate strikes. Government commissars should be appointed to all Zemgor and Guchkov committees, so that their activities could be brought under government supervision, and a stop put to revolutionary propaganda.
This didn’t seem too much to ask. It was all perfectly sensible.
Beyond that, we must be ready to fight, and to give our lives, instead of putting our trust in God’s mercy alone and waiting for the state to collapse. The main thing was not to give ground. Not to waver. Half measures only exacerbate the other side’s virulence. We mustn’t let ourselves be frightened into concessions. We must act circumspectly, but decisively, as if at the bedside of a mortally sick patient. And then there would be no revolution.
“I thought you said it had arrived already?”
“It will retreat. What has arrived is a crisis, but it can be resolved to our advantage. As long as we don’t shut our eyes on the brink of catastrophe!”
The tormented wind had still not blown itself out. It rushed at them furiously, sometimes from above, sometimes from under their feet, sometimes buffeting them in the chest and pulling them up short, then just as suddenly subsiding.
Trying to persuade me? Trying to dissuade me?
There was no denying that the general’s plan was both bold and simple—perhaps too simple. Simpler and clearer than Guchkov’s. And all its demands were natural. (It did nothing, however, to deliver the people from the war or from the Allies.) But there was one gaping hole, which seemed to vitiate the whole concept.
“Who, though, is going to try out and appoint and move around these governors? Who administers the oath? Surely he can’t do it?”
Nechvolodov was silent.
“He is incapable of such decisive action, as you very well know. Just think what strength of character, what resolve, it would take to prepare his immediate circle to die for the cause!”
Nechvolodov remained silent.
But Vorotyntsev persisted.
“What has the Emperor said about this project?”
They walked on.
“The project has been passed to Stürmer. So far he has been afraid to put it into the hands of the monarch.”
“Afraid, eh? There you are, then!” Vorotyntsev said briskly, almost as if he was glad to hear it: good or ill he had his result. “There we are, then! What does he have to be afraid of? Tell me. Afraid he himself might have to swear he would lay down his life. So there we are! The throne is encrusted with layer upon layer of nonentities! How are you ever going to clean it? And where are your three hundred loyal servants?”
Even Guchkov had been more realistic.
“So why doesn’t one of you submit the plan?”
The general, up aloft, nodded at the house.
“How, though? The Emperor’s eyes are dimmed. And all means of access to him are closed.”
So there it was. The Tsar’s residence stood there before them. What was he doing, the inscrutable monarch, somewhere beyond those brilliantly lit windows so near at hand? Listening yet again to boring hussars’ stories? Playing solitaire?
Whatever it was, he had no time to read a plan devised by his monarchist supporters.
He could not even find places and jobs for his most loyal and intrepid generals.
The lonely colonel had saddened and disheartened the lonely general. But he too—just as a little while ago he had made an about-face and his rapid flight had become a funeral march—he too had lost, had gone on losing from week to week, something of the velocity which had catapulted him from Kimpolung to Petersburg. In the course of his discussions Vorotyntsev seemed to have come full circle. He was back almost where he had started. Looking, perhaps, in the opposite direction.
Is it thinkable—rocking the boat?
Well, Gurko will soon be here. Then we will see.
[69]
That year the Emperor had been detained at GHQ by military operations for five months. He finally found time for a quick visit to Tsarskoye Selo around 2 November, the anniversary of his father’s death, then, after attending the annual memorial service in the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul, felt impelled to go and see his mother at Kiev. So, on his return from Tsarskoye Selo to Mogilev, instead of settling into the governor’s residence again he rejoined the train for a leisurely journey southward.
Kiev, Kiev! It held unforgettable memories, sacred memories for him. Whenever he entered the city a lofty, austere, ancient feeling filled his heart. Before all else he felt the need to go and worship in the Cathedral of St. Sophia. This time he took Aleksei with him, as soon as they left the station, and before going on to the palace to see Mama.
At this time of year you could usually expect cloudless, golden autumn weather in Kiev. But no, there was mist—a warm mist—in the air. In the brooding, opaque hush the ranks of soldiers and cadets lining the streets looked particularly imposing. That same day he had to attend a graduation parade of officer cadets in the palace yard, and the next day visit four training establishments and show himself to the public by driving through several streets with Mama and the Heir. But nothing made a stronger impression than those soldiers lining the streets of Kiev under the brooding mist.
At first the Emperor did not realize why they were there. Even as he drove past the theater he did not at first remember: the times, the people, and much else had changed so. It came back to him only as he entered the well-remembered rooms of the palace, where they had spent several happy days in September 1911. He had a sudden vivid recollection of those Kiev celebrations, the general rejoicing, flags and garlands and the imperial monogram everywhere, bands playing, the streets, then as now, lined with rank upon rank of soldiers, the same loud cries of “Hurrah!”—but it was in these very rooms that he had come home to Alix that evening and told her that the unhappy Stolypin had been wounded in the theater. Here too they had been told of Stolypin’s death on their return from Chernigov.
Suddenly, five autumns later, Stolypin’s image loomed larger and clearer in the Tsar’s mind than at any time since his death. After five barren years seeking, and firing, ministers he suddenly realized with a shock that there had been no one since to compare with Stolypin. In the present war, in the present dearth of leaders, what a decisive force Stolypin might have been!
Why had the Emperor been so dissatisfied with him? Why had he intended to dismiss him? For reasons so trivial that he could no longer remember them. The war years were a mountain barrier hiding them from him.
So those two days spent in Kiev, those two cozy evenings when the three of them sat together and he and Mama helped Baby with his jigsaw puzzles, and decided to let his sister Olga marry her cuiras
sier, were nonetheless tinged with sadness.
The return journey gave him further food for thought. They passed four troop trains en route from Riga to the south, carrying reinforcements for the Romanians. What joy it was to see all those cheerful young faces at the window, to hear their singing! Russia was not running short of fighting men!
They arrived back at GHQ in a dreadful downpour—but that was supposed to be a good omen.
Then, two days ago, he had received a message from Alix that Protopopov had now been given full responsibility for the food supply. (There had indeed been a telegram while he was at Kiev, from Grigori, but as always it was so awkwardly worded that the Emperor did not understand it.) He had no hesitation in signing. He had wanted to do this for some time, and would have done it before leaving Tsarskoye if Protopopov had not demurred. All we need now is God’s aid! A couple of difficult months and everything will sort itself out! We must just be firm!
No sooner had he dispatched the courier with his reply than a telegram arrived from Alix—in code, which they very rarely used. She asked his permission not to announce Protopopov’s appointment for the present.
This telegram came as a shock. She was simply putting things back where they had been the day before, without suggesting any alternative, and the Emperor, in Mogilev, could not be expected to know what snags had been encountered in Petrograd. The reversal did seem much too abrupt. A little more thought before the original decision might have helped.
The incident inspired some doubts—not his first—about Protopopov. Was he in fact a well-balanced person or was there some truth in the Duma’s malicious gossip? But it was Rodzyanko who had first recommended Protopopov for the post of Minister of Trade and Industry. It pleased the Emperor to remember that he himself had singled out Protopopov, without any preconceived ideas. At their first meeting Protopopov had pleased him, as a former officer in the Horse Guards. No, no one had foisted Protopopov on him. Alix’s advice (and Grigori’s) had fallen on receptive ground: Nikolai himself had always dreamt of a Minister of the Interior who would work in harmony with the Duma. This had been his hope with Khvostov (the nephew), but it had been tragically disappointed. Protopopov, however, had once been the Duma’s prime favorite, and as the head of its parliamentary delegation he had been praised and recommended by the Allies’ press without exception. Which meant that the Duma, in its present vicious attacks on Protopopov, was only showing its own true colors.
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