May 1917 began full of hope for some and a growing sense of dread for others. Russians had been experiencing freedom for two months, and this freedom was indeed momentous: freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, freedom of conscience. Political prisoners had been released, and the country was alive with rallies, speeches, and debate. Finally Russians had their long-fought freedom.
But now that they had freedom, what were they supposed to do with it?
This new freedom was put to use first and most radically by Russia’s soldiers, who by 1917 had been sitting in trenches feeding lice for three years. By March they had begun to form soldier’s committees, and by May these committees were wielding tremendous power over the army.
General Alexei Brusilov, acclaimed for his successful 1915 offensive, rejoiced at the revolution. In May, the Provisional Government even named him Commander-in-Chief. But not for long. Brusilov quickly saw that the army had become utterly unmanageable. If the men forced into service under the tsar refused to fight, maybe they could be inspired by volunteers full of enthusiasm for Russia’s new, post-revolutionary state?
On May 22 he issued an order:
To stir a revolutionary spirit of attack in the army, we must form special revolutionary strike battalions made up of volunteer recruits from central Russia, so as to instill faith in the army that the entire Russian people is behind them in the cause of a swift peace, and in the brotherhood of peoples, and so that when the revolutionary battalions placed in the most important combat sectors attack, their rush forward will draw the hesitant along with them.
The revolutionaries, however, preferred holding rallies away from the front lines and had little desire to “draw the hesitant” into a fighting spirit. The offensive that Brusilov launched in June immediately fell apart, mostly because the soldiers literally had to be cajoled into attacking.
Brusilov was sent into retirement, but after the October Revolution, like many officers, he reemerged to serve the Bolsheviks, seeing it as a patriotic duty, even though he did not think much of Lenin or his followers. In the end, he was probably lucky: he died in 1925, before the army was decimated by a series of purges.
In the late spring of 1917, the commissars that served as intermediaries between the government and the military authorities represented a range of ideologies and political affiliations, and far from all were sympathetic with the Bolsheviks. One commissar with whom Brusilov interacted was the Socialist Revolutionary Boris Savinkov, who advocated bringing the war to a victorious conclusion.
In April, after the Provisional Government named Savinkov commissar for the 7th Army, he could see that discipline was deteriorating with each passing day. In May he wrote that the army “was longing for some authority,” that soldiers were “pining as they waited for a strong hand” – but immediately corrected himself: “The people’s hand, of course. The hand of a socialist minister. Only such a hand, only a firm popular authority can solve all problems, can soothe all sorrows, can feed, clothe, shod, put bayonets in hand, and provide the needed reinforcements.” However, at the same time he wrote, “Tomorrow Lenin will be making an appearance. Will they believe Lenin? I don’t think so. The word ‘socialist’ sounds so alien to them, like the word ‘landowner.’ Half of Russia is still impenetrable darkness.”
That spring, Brusilov was preparing a new offensive, and Savinkov still believed that the revolution would ultimately succeed. But the leftists were gaining momentum and managing to push popular liberal politicians out of the Provisional Government. Soon, they had taken control of approximately half of the government’s ministerial portfolios. The Bolsheviks themselves, of course, were not given posts in the government – nor were they asking for any. On every street corner they were railing against the government and calling for its overthrow. People were not particularly listening, for now. But the idea that the government had to be urgently replaced and the war had to be immediately stopped was increasingly popular.
For his part, Savinkov quickly realized that he would never be able to get along with the Bolsheviks. Before the revolution, he was a notorious Socialist Revolutionary and terrorist, and he later wrote several interesting books, including a romanticized account, Memoirs of a Terrorist. During the Civil War, he fought on the side of the Whites, and his books show that the horrors he saw during that conflict caused a severe existential crisis.
Later, from emigration, Savinkov tried to keep up the fight. His organization infiltrated people into the Soviet Union in an effort to undermine the regime or maybe just to keep up time-honored Socialist Revolutionary terrorist traditions. Little did he know that his every move was being monitored by the ubiquitous NKVD. According to some accounts, when Savinkov himself tried to enter Russia, a section of the border was specially cleared by the Soviet secret police so that the inveterate revolutionary would be able to enter the country unhindered and then be arrested.
Accounts of what happened next are a bit hazy. In any event, in 1924, Savinkov was arrested and soon signed a confession not only admitting his “anti-Soviet” actions, but denouncing his Socialist Revolutionary past. He was given a death sentence, which was commuted to 10 years imprisonment – child’s play for a seasoned revolutionary accustomed to hard labor, exile, and prison.
Even stranger is the fact that Savinkov was reportedly kept in rather comfortable conditions. Be that as it may, in 1925 he committed suicide, hurling himself down a Lubyanka stairwell. Or was he thrown? And if so, why?
Meanwhile, Nicholas II was under house arrest in Tsarskoye Selo, lamenting his interrupted life and, alas, not making the slightest effort to save his family. History can at least be grateful that he maintained the habit, instilled in him in childhood, of keeping a diary.
May 1. Monday. A lovely warm day. I had a good walk in the morning. At noon I gave Alexei a geography lesson. In the afternoon, I again worked in our vegetable garden. The sun was really beating down, but I managed to make progress. I read out loud until dinner and in the evening. Yesterday we learned of General Kornilov’s departure as commander of the Petrograd Military District and today about Guchkov’s retirement, all because of irresponsible interference in the exercise of military power by the Council of Workers’ Deputies and some other organizations much farther to the left. What does providence have in store for poor Russia? May God’s will be done!
May 14. Sunday. In what different circumstances we spent the 21st anniversary of the coronation! The weather was excellent; 15 degrees [Celsius] in the shade. Before mass, I took a walk with Alexei. We spent the afternoon from 2 to 4:30 in the garden; I went rowing in a kayak and a dinghy, worked in the garden, where they’re digging new beds, and also on the island. After tea I read, in the evening as well.
Such was the spring of the revolution and the early days of summer. It seemed that the revolution would continue to move in the right direction, that there would be ever greater freedom.
Bloodletting and crisis, however, were right around the corner.
In May and June of 1917, people at the forefront of Russian culture were overcome by contradictory but, in almost every case, very strong emotions. Writers, artists, and theater directors were ecstatic about the revolution. And why not? They were on a mission to sweep away the old aesthetics, and the downfall of the old regime could only further this march into the future. Countless creative associations and revolutionary unions of actors and writers began to sprout like mushrooms after an autumn rain; countless meetings of poets and painters passed radical resolutions. Everyone was eager to help create a new world.
This was their revolution – a true political avant-garde was taking power. In April Vladimir Mayakovsky had written his “Revolution: A Poet’s Chronicle,” where he not only proclaimed his dreams for a bright future, but glorified, in sonorous verse that defies translation, the cause of the exhausted men at the front who were refusing to go into battle:
The last cannons thunder in bloody dispute, the last bayonet the factories burnish. We’ll have everyone pour out the powder. We’ll give children the grenades to use as balls. It’s not cowardice howling from under gray great coats, not the cries of those with nothing to eat. It’s the people’s huge thunder: – I believe in the greatness of the human heart! Above the dust whipped by battles, above everyone gnawing away, having lost faith in love. now
it’s an unheard of fairytale coming true The great heresy of socialists! Последние пушки грохочут в кровавых спорах, последний штык заводы гранят. Мы всех заставим рассыпать порох. Мы детям раздарим мячи гранат. Не трусость вопит под шинелью серою, не крики тех, кому есть нечего. Это народа огромное громовое: – Верую величию сердца человечьего! – Это над взбитой битвами пылью, над всеми, кто грызся, в любви изверясь, днесь небывалой сбывается былью социалистов великая ересь!
Vsevolod Meyerhold, having opened his stunning Masquerade at the Alexandrinsky Theater in February, was now taking a closer look at the Bolshevik party, which he joined in 1918. Yevgeny Vakhtangov was dreaming of capturing the momentousness of the turning point history had reached by staging Byron’s Cain. And it was in May that the remarkable artist Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin was contemplating the glorious changes awaiting the arts, which were being transformed to meet the challenges of the era. For him, the time for “pleasant,” “cutting,” or “subtle” art had irretrievably passed – heroic art was now called for. The old culture had not withstood the “horrors of European war”: “Art was shaken to its depths, but it was able neither to bless nor curse the bloody tempest of peoples.” Now, after the revolution, “Emerging from its solitary room… the bonfire of art must burn bright on the open squares of life, lighting the people’s way.”
Even the refined and esoteric Vyacheslav Ivanov, renowned before the revolution for the gatherings he held in his upper-story “Ivory Tower” home, for his interest in Greek “mysteries” (religious rites) and medieval philosophy – even he in May 1917 composed a poem titled “Onward, Free People!” that ends with the appeal:
As you walk forward, step by step, Be true to the first and foremost oath: So long as the hungry are not full And brother treats brother as wolf treats wolf, Your freedom is nothing but idle talk. Onward, free people! Freedom is honor, freedom is duty, Freedom is a noble feat, Freedom is the labor of a great power.
Вперед идя, за шагом шаг, Будь верен первой из присяг: Пока не сыт голодный И с братом брат как с волком — волк, — Твоя свобода — праздный толк. Вперед, народ свободный! Свобода-честь, свобода-долг, Свобода-подвиг славный, Свобода-труд державный.
Everyone was intoxicated with freedom. Everyone believed that a long-awaited time of happiness had arrived. Then again, did everyone feel that way? Did anyone doubt that the “free people” was truly capable of moving forward? And just what kinds of bonfires would be burning in open squares? Could they expect total renewal and purification – or might they wind up awash in blood instead?
Alexander Blok, who somewhat later urged everyone to “listen to the music of revolution,” in May 1917 began serving on a commission set up by the Provisional Government to investigate the actions of tsarist ministers. Blok, of course, was not conducting the interrogations; he just analyzed the materials the commission gathered. On one hand, this brought him face-to-face with abundant evidence of the old regime’s corruption, but on the other… It was around this time that he wrote in his diary:
It should be remembered that Russia’s old government rested on very deep-seated traits of the Russian soul, traits that are possessed (whether in full or in part) by many more Russian people, in circles much broader, than people like to think, than we are supposed to assume when we think “in revolutionary terms.” A “revolutionary people” is not an entirely realistic concept. The same people who, in most cases, saw the collapse of the government as “a miracle” could not immediately become revolutionary; it was probably just an unexpected event, like a train crashing in the night, like a bridge giving way underfoot, like a house collapsing.
Revolution implies will; was will put into effect? From a small group of individuals it was. I don’t know, was that a revolution?
In his Untimely Thoughts, published on May 1, 1917, Maxim Gorky was even gloomier:
A marriage has taken place between the Russian people and Freedom. Let us have faith that, out of this union, a hardy new people will be born in our country, which is both physically and spiritually spent. Let us firmly believe that in Russian man we shall see the bright flame of the strength of his reason and will ignited, a strength stifled and crushed by the age-old yoke of the police system. However, we should not forget that we are all people of a bygone day and that the great cause of the rebirth of the country is in the hands of people raised under the severe impressions of the past in the spirit of mutual mistrust, lack of respect for our fellow man, and an ugly egoism. We grew up in the atmosphere of the “underground”; what we called “legal activity” was, in essence, either an empty blowing off of steam or the petty politics of groups and individuals, internecine struggle among people whose sense of dignity degenerated into a sickly pride. Living amid the soul-poisoning ugliness of the old regime, amid the anarchy it generated, seeing how boundless the power of the adventurists who ruled us was, we – naturally and inevitably – became infected by all its pernicious traits, all the habits and behaviors of people who despise us, who mock us. We had nowhere to develop in ourselves a sense of personal responsibility for our country’s misfortune, for its shameful life, nothing to practice on; we have been poisoned by the putrefactive toxins of dying monarchism.
They could hardly imagine how cruelly the revolution would bulldoze Russian culture and its leading lights. History would later prove just how naïve the avant-garde was to believe it was “their” revolution. Several years later the proponents of proletarian culture and realism began to push them aside, and within a decade their works were forgotten and scorned.
Thirteen years remained before Mayakovsky would put a bullet in his head, unable to stand what was going on around him, twenty-three till Meyerhold’s arrest and martyr’s death after he had given his art and his life over to the service of the revolution. Did Gorky look back on his Untimely Thoughts in 1936 as he lay dying in his luxurious mansion, expropriated from the millionaire Ryabushinsky family and given to him as “a classic of proletarian literature” and “the stormy petrel of the revolution,” where he lived out his final years surrounded by spies and informers? Did Petrov-Vodkin, who had a rather successful career as a “Soviet artist,” suspect that after his death his paintings depicting the revolution as some sort of religious act, would not be remembered at all for many years, that his name would vanish from the history of Soviet art? Did Vyacheslav Ivanov understand that the “free people” he extolled would have no need for the subtleties of his exquisite poetry and philosophical ruminations? Probably he did, since several years later he left for Italy, where he lived out his final years as a Catholic in Rome.
But in the late spring months of 1917, they were still full of hope, aware that it would be a difficult journey, but dreaming of emerging from the crisis renewed. As Blok wrote in his diary, “Everything will be fine. Russia will be great. But how long we have to wait, and how difficult the wait is.”
A diverse array of foreigners lived in the Russian Empire when it was swept by revolution. What roles did they play at this historic turning point?
The ranks of the Czechoslovak Legion, originally a volunteer army formed by ethnic Czechs and Slovaks living within the empire, gained new strength as their countrymen fighting for Austro-Hungary were captured by or deserted to Russia. Unlike their Russian counterparts, these men were eager to fight, driven by a desire to hasten the end of the war and the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, so that they could return home to an independent Czechoslovak Republic, which became a reality in 1918. During the Russian Army’s summer offensive, the Czechoslovak units were the only to achieve success – albeit not enough to alter the course of events.
There were also countless foreigners doing business in the Russian Empire when the revolution broke out. Most were uneasy enough about Russia’s new government that they opted to take their money and run. Foreign diplomats were equally nervous – especially the English and French. They could hear the calls for an immediate withdrawal from the war, and they could see the growing popularity of Lenin, who was urging the defeat of Russia’s own government. What would happen to the armies of England and France, which had already lost millions on the fields of France and Flanders, if Russia were to leave the war? Germany was on its last legs, but, then again, so were all the countries embroiled in the conflict. How much longer would it take to defeat the Central Powers if they no longer had two fronts to contend with?
The Provisional Government was, of course, using all its powers of persuasion to assure the foreign diplomats that everything would be just fine, but that “just fine” proved to be beyond reach. In late April, these very assurances provoked a crisis. A communication sent to Britain and France that became infamous as “the Milyukov Note” promised that Russia would fulfill its commitments to its Allies – in other words, continue fighting. This provoked a public outcry, fanned by the Petrograd Soviet, which organized massive protests demanding the resignation of Foreign Minister Pavel Milyukov. The situation was so chaotic it was impossible to know how it would end.
The French ambassador, Maurice Paléologue, left an account of an event he and the French socialist Albert Thomas attended in Petrograd on May 1.
Wednesday, May 2, 1917 This evening a “concert and rally” was held at the Mikhailovsky Theater to benefit former political prisoners. Many of the ministers were there: Milyukov and Kerensky were among the speakers. I accompanied Albert Thomas to the grand box facing the stage, the former imperial box. After a Tchaikovsky symphonic prelude, Milyukov, trembling with patriotism and energy, delivered his speech. Everyone applauded sympathetically. Next, Kuznetsova came to the stage. Shrouded in her tragic beauty, she launched into the grand aria from Tosca in a passionate, heartrending voice. She was ardently applauded. The audience had barely recovered when a disheveled, sinister, and wild-looking figure jumped up from one of the lower boxes and began furiously screaming: “I want to speak out against the war, for peace!” An uproar. Yelling from every side. “Who are you?... Where did you come from?... What were you doing before the revolution?” He hesitated before replying. But then, folding his arms and is if challenging the assembly, he announced: “I’ve returned from Siberia; I was in a labor camp.” “Aha!... You’re a political criminal?” “No, just an ordinary criminal, but my conscience is clear.” This response, worthy of Dostoyevsky, provoked boisterous rapture: “Hurrah! Hurrah! Speak! Speak!” He jumped out of the box. People took hold of him, lifted him up, and carried him to the stage. Next to me, Albert Thomas was beside himself with delight. His face aglow, he grabbed me by the arm and whispered in my ear: “Simply marvelous! Utterly splendid!” The convict began to read letters he had received from the front, attesting that the Germans want nothing better than to fraternize with their Russian comrades. He had trouble expressing himself and groped for the right words. The audience started to tire of this and grew noisy. Just then, Kerensky appeared. The crowd welcomed him and implored him to speak right away. The convict, to whom nobody was listening any longer, protested. Several whistles convinced him that he was abusing the audience’s patience by remaining on stage. He made an insulting gesture and disappeared into the wings. But before Kerensky spoke, some tenor performed a few popular melodies by Glazunov. Since he had a charming voice and marvelous diction, the audience demanded three more songs. Now Kerensky took the stage, even paler than usual and appearing utterly exhausted. He succinctly used the convict’s own evidence to refute his arguments. But, as if he had other thoughts on his mind, he suddenly came out with the following odd conclusion: “If people don’t want to believe me or follow me, I’ll step aside. I’ll never use force to impose my convictions… When a country is determined to hurl itself into the abyss, no man has the power to stop it, and those in charge have only one choice: to resign…” Just as he was leaving the stage, looking dejected, I thought about his strange theory and wanted to reply: “When a country is determined to hurl itself into the abyss, it is the duty of its leaders, rather than stepping down, to prevent them from doing so, even at the risk of their own lives.” The orchestra played another number, and then Albert Thomas took the stage. In a brief and forceful speech he hailed the Russian proletariat and extolled the patriotism of the French socialists; he spoke of the need for victory specifically in the interest of future society. At least nine tenths of the audience failed to understand him. But his voice was so resonant, his eyes so intense, his gestures so beautiful, that he was given plenty of animated applause. We walked out to the strains of the “La Marseillaise.
My Mission to Russia, by British Ambassador George Buchanan, includes an account dated April 30 that sheds light on the government’s thinking at the time:
What psychological moment? Arrest Lenin – really? The Bolshevik’s popularity was only growing, and the idea of arresting anyone for their political stance was utterly impossible in Russia by then. Milyukov himself, along with several other ministers, was indeed dismissed within a few days. Six ministerial portfolios went to the socialists, and the Provisional Government moved sharply to the left.
Meanwhile, the Romanovs’ royal relatives across Europe were increasingly worried about the imperial family. Secret negotiations were underway to explore whether they might be allowed to go to England. Buchanan was lobbying the Provisional Government for permission to arrange their departure, but it soon became clear that this would cause an explosion of outrage, which was the last thing the government needed. Later, the English ambassador was criticized for not doing enough to save the Romanovs – but what could he do? Later, Buchanan defended himself in his memoirs:
I more than once received assurances that there was no cause for anxiety on the Emperor’s account, and there was nothing more that we could do. We had offered the Emperor an asylum, in compliance with the request of the Provisional Government; but as the opposition of the Soviet, which they were vainly hoping to overcome, grew stronger, they did not venture to assume the responsibility for the Emperor’s departure, and receded from their original position. We also had our extremists to count with, and it was impossible for us to take the initiative without being suspected of ulterior motives. It would, moreover, have been useless for us to insist on the Emperor being allowed to come to England, seeing that the workmen had threatened to pull up the rails in front of his train. We could take no steps to protect him on his journey to Port Romanov. This duty devolved on the Provincial Government. But, as they were not masters in their own house, the whole project eventually fell through.
For his part, US Ambassador David Francis seemed to face the tense situation with a certain bravado. In any event, his memoirs, Russia from the American Embassy: April, 1916-November, 1918, makes his life that spring sound like something out of an adventure novel:
On Sunday evening, April 22nd, while I was entertaining some guests at the Embassy, my colored valet, Philip Jordan, came to me and said that the police official in charge of the district had called up to warn me that an anarchist mob was gathering with the intention of attacking the Embassy. Their object was to avenge themselves upon the American Ambassador for a death sentence which had been passed upon one “Muni” in San Francisco. I had never heard of “Muni,” and did not know what it was all about. I instructed Jordan to reply to the police officer that I thanked him for his warning, but considered that it was his duty rather than mine to protect the Embassy. I then told him to load my revolver and bring it to me. In a few minutes, the police official who had telephoned arrived at the Embassy with a squad of police. Revolver in hand, I went to meet the police officer, and told him to station his men at the Embassy gate, with instructions to shoot anyone who tried to enter the building without my permission. I stated I would take my stand inside, prepared to shoot anyone who attempted to cross the threshold.
For now, everything seemed to be suspended in a state of vague anticipation. Maurice Paléologue departed Russia on May 3, two days after the memorable evening described above. He went on to write a number of books about Russia. Sir George Buchanan was soon transferred to Italy. He, of course, also wrote his memoirs, although he is accused (rightly or wrongly, we may never know) of leaving much unsaid, since if he admitted everything he did during those revolutionary months in Petrograd, he might lose his pension. David Francis, along with other foreign representatives, moved first from Petrograd to Moscow, and then to Vologda, where he served as head of the entire diplomatic community. (The diplomats apparently retreated to Vologda because it was a safe distance from the revolutionary hotbeds and a juncture of two major railway lines.) Francis finally left the country in 1918 (the US did not have formal diplomatic relations with the Soviet state again until 1933).
The Czechoslovak Legion, which was eager to join the fighting on Europe’s Western front, was given permission to take the Trans-Siberian Railway east to Vladivostok in an extremely roundabout effort to reach Western Europe. Along the way, however, they ran into hostile locals who tried to disarm them, leading to armed conflict, a first step along the path to civil war (see Russian Life, March/April 2012).
Nicholas and his family had a little more than a year to live.
Savinkov was a terrorist and revolutionary who had been in exile for over a decade, after plotting the murder of top Russian officials, including Prime Minister Plehve. Upon returning to Russia in 1917 he initially became an ardent supporter and aide of Kerensky.
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