They're closer — the other times.
-Akhmatova.
Slowly but surely, the progress of the Russian front came to a halt. Newspapers and telegrams covered information from the eastern front, especially the attacks led by Brusliov, the French pressure on Verdun was eased, Italy too was eased, and Romania was finally persuaded to join the war on the Russian side. Poems were written about this offensive and it was celebrated on the side of all the allies.
The third year of war, it dragged on.
The general atmosphere was toxic, there was a feeling in the air that Imperial Russia was swaying on the brink of a chasm, a great catastrophe, a violent social explosion that the government could not prevent. Crowds in everywhere were now talking about the Tsar and the government in an open contempt, in direct opposition to earlier more sedate talk.
In response to the bubbling atmosphere, some of the rich upper classes rushed out, drank stocks of champagne, paid a fortunes in black market for caviar, sturgeon, and other peacetime delicacies, held extravagant parties, betrayed their wives and husbands, and gambled on casinos. Such hysterical hedonism was best seen in satirical verses that floated in the streets in 1916.
The victories we can do without.
No! Peace and quiet is our line.
Intrigues and scandal, evenings out
Trimmed up with women and wine.
We only want to know, next day
What Ministers will be on the view,
Or who takes who to the play.
And does Rasputin still prevail
Or do we have another saint,
And is Kshesinskaya quite well,
And how the feast at Shubin went.
Oh if a Zeppelin would come.
And smash the whole of Petrograd.
Most of the public hysteria was concentrated in the court with a strong pro-German click around was a strong believe in the masses that in the deep bowels of the court there was a conspiracy and plotting the to the destruction of Russia. Rumors spread that there was a black block in the court negotiating a secret peace deal with Berlin. It was widely believed that the Tsarina and Rasputin both worked for the Germans. These rumors only spread more wildly as they spread to the Front.
Dirty rumors about the sexual scandals surrounding the Tsarina gained similar credibility. Alexandra's "sexual corruption" became a metaphor for the tsar's regime. She was talked about all sorts of dirty things on the street, of Rasputin, of the Tsar and of her, and of Anja and her.
In Rasputin's house in Gorovaya there was held wild nights there, and countless secretaries and court maids sat there, as did a few actresses and reporters, ready to write headlines of the debauchery. No one really knew what power this man, the monk, had over the reigning couple, and why he visited the Alexandr Palace in Tsarskoye Selo, or Ermitage so often.
In Moscow, the Red Square crowds shouted insults at the "German woman" and called her to be shut in convent, like Tsarina Jevdokia, the woman who was former wife of Peter I, the one that had reportedly had laid the curse to . There was also calls for the Tsar to abdicate in favour of the Grand Duke Nikolai, as letters from Marina Ivanova reported, she was writing with a wim with a lot of new work, the verses seemed to flow in abudance, of Sonja there was not a single word.
In Petrograd there were widespread protests, against the war, against the economic situation, radicalism rose, strikes resumed in several factories and streets flooded by socialist-led protesters, sometimes the city felt drowned in red wool. I had to dodge the crowds almost daily.
Something had moved.
The people on the streets attacked the Duma, not only Octobristis but also the Cadets.
Flared-up speeches were made in the Duma and the people boiled in the streets, into the Tauride Palace to watch Duma in action, and the contempt of the masses only grew from that.
It seemed that the revolution could ignite as well as from below. There were also whispers in the Mariinskys foyer about rumors of a possible palace revolution and varying conspiracies.
In the Petrograd streets there were whisperings that stated that Rasputin´s body was found dead, near Bolshoi Petrovksy Bridge, apparently assassinated, by Imperial court conspiracy. For several days after the body was found, there was crowds of women gathered at the spot collecting "holy water" from the Neva, sanctified by Rasputins flesh. The news of Rasputins murder was greeted by joy among every circle, it turned out that the beautiful Jusupov and his co-conspiratores from the fringes of the Imperial court had done the deed. The Grand Duke Dimitri was given a standing ovation when he appeared in the Mihailovsky Theather in one evening on 17 of December. The reporters had a field day from all of this. All the conspirators were exlied to their estates or exlied from in all of Russia by the Tsars personal order.
The winter had been bitterly cold, and as the year turned towards a new year, I was celebrating new year with Zinaida Nikolaevna, we talked about war, and writing.
Zvezda was purring in the floor near the fireplace, the flickering flames created shadows in the sweetly pink walls.
We drank tea, with preservers, cherry, and strawberry, and ate fresh piroskish made with flour that I had quoed hours for, they were filled with salted mushrooms. Zinaida Nikolaevna wrote in her blue book, it was a diary, her fingers danced quick and swift as the in the pages turned and inky spiders of cursive cyrillic bloomed into the pages.
Zinaida Nikolaevna had been most profilic during these last three years, she had written a lot, articles, poems, some of them on war themes, short stories, called artistic skecthes, a play, and had also edited prose works. She had annoyed other symbolists declaiming them for sovinists, and warmongerers. I saw clearly why some people of the literary fronts of Petrograd called her the spider, either in caluminy or fondness. She was talented, spiky and very opionated, with a simply acidic pen, when the mood struck her.
I wanted to know Zinaida Nikolaevnas own opinion on current war situation, when I asked her, about it she glanced at me, fast, and sudden, and then slowly replied:
" Sometimes I feel that public opinion and sensors are against me, as I have called for radical political-religious reforms, and I am generally considered a defetist in relation to this war. The latest salon conversations have been extremely heated, with opinions thrown from side to side. As you know, I wrote and developed a program for a radical Democratic Party with certain people, but it didn't become anything. As the magazine Golos Zihzni,(voice of life) has been shut down, I have not displayed my notes, I do not fear revolution of the masses, or war, I see clearly that the weak and insufficent Goverment has to made thrown over, only then a true change can begun. There is sometimes agents partolling in outside, you too have surely seen them that is one of the reasons why I wrote you a note, instead of ringing a telephone, I am so tired of using Aesop language in the phone."
At the end of this tired tirade she smiled to me, softly and very fondly and requested, "before the year soon turns could you sing for me? "
Before I had time to say anything, Zinaida Nikolaevna rang a small clock on her desk and the door opened and Zlobin stepped in. He had a tray with glasses of champagne and a small bowl of fresh strawberries, I looked at them in amazement and Zlobin smiled and said " a new year's surprise for our primadonna, and bowed to me, apparently you need a pianist he inquired, it is a few years since I have accompanied anyone". Zlobins words pierced me painfully and Zinaida Nikolavna saw my face pale and she quickly and excessively gestured for Zlobin to leave the room.
Soon I was surrounded by the familiar scent of rose water and powder Zinaida Nikolaevna said, " sometimes I wonder how you cope, Virginies loss was a terrible blow. It shattered you and there is darkness in you now and you have become sharper, but I do not think that it is only your loss of Virginie, that has changed you so, something else did happen in September, if you can, will you tell me now?
With soft sigh relented, I told Zinaida Nikolaevna about Walter, and his talent and our correnpondence, and the letter from the trenches of the Flers Courcelette in Autum-time. At the end of my tale there were tears in both of our eyes. Gently Zinaida Nikolaevna asked, " if you happen to have his work on hand I would be most honored if I could take a look".
Slowly I took one of his poems out of my pocket and handed it to her. Zinaida Nikolaevnas green eyed gaze was very intent, as she read Walters work. After some moments, she did look up, and I saw light sheen of tears in her eyes.
I quickly shrugged my shoulders and straightened my posture, and said little trebel in my voice, " If you want music, then you should invite Zlobin, as I have decided what to sing if you have sheet music for it". I walked in front of the piano, checked the tuning in a fast scale, and browsed the notes there was Mozart, Verdi, Puccini, Bellini, and so on. I took one note from the stack and put it up. Zlobin quickly arrived back, a slender and small figure in a worn black suit and deferential attitude. He glanced at the notes, read them a few times, and began to play.
Bellini's glow rushed into the room, I had chosen La Sonnabula, that romantic story of love and innocence I sung Amina's aria, Ah non credea mirati, my voice glimmered, as the valse like strands of music floated in the room, the high notes were sure and secure, accurate and delicate. When I had finished the silence prevailed, and then the clock struck twelve beats.
It was midnight and the year had changed to 1917. In the midst of a fading fire we did raise our glasses for the coming year.
The January began in the dazzling cold frost. This was coldest winter that Russia had experienced for several years. The temperature dropped in Petrograd to fifteen degrees below zero, there was arctic frosts and blizzards had brought the railways to standstill. I huddled in Dom Muruzi, in front of fireplace with Zvezda, when I was not in queues, or at Mariinsky.
For several weeks now the different bakeries around in Petrograd had been running out, that was very obvious in the workers districs, there was long bread queus were beginning to appear. In the shops there was not much to offer, as this was the third year of harsh war and a winter so there was a lot of general malaise, discontent, and austerity. The traditional buns, pies, cakes and bisquits were no longer baked, and in restaurants there were no big pastries, cause the paucity of sugar.
It felt little like in 1905, but the mood of the crowds were more angry and desperation and discontent floated in the very air like frozen miasma. On 22 February the Tsar left for the front, as it was descriped in the newspapers, even when the situation in the Petrograd was very dire, but the Tsar visited only in Tsarskoye Selo, not Petrograd.
As the supply routes had been cut off, it became a crisis, there was no four, no bread and no gasoline either. I had waited all night in one queue for a loaf of bread, but I was informed in the early morning that there was none to be had for sale that day. The rumours in the lines they grew, people muttered about speculators, and capitalists, of conspiracies of the Government and the Palaces, full of different delicacies in their cellars. There was a widespread panic when Petrograd autorities informed that the rationing would start soon. The people rushed out and did shopping everything that they could, the selfs were laid bare, and several scuffels broke out, and even some bakeries got their windows smashed, in the ensuing chaos.
Then the weather warmed, it was almost spring like, the freeze lessened and in Nevsky was full of people out from their winter habernation to enjoy the sun, and to hunt for food. And soon it was Междунаро́дный же́нский день(International Womens day) and around noon thousands of women were marching down to the centre of Petrograd to, protest equal rights, there were society ladies, phesant women, and collage students, but not many workers as had been the norm in earlier demonstations.
The mood was jubliant, and even a little celebratory, the weather was fine and the company convival, I marched along and when asked sung a little, there was line singing of different political songs, ballads, and other popular tunes. In the afternoon the mood changed, in as from Vyborg distict had come textlie workers with their husbands in protests against the shortages of bread, with them were joined lot of other workers of different factories were drawn out and redy to march, the shouts of " Хлеб! "(Bread) and "Долой царя! "(Down Tsar) that only grew in strengh as the afternoon wore onwards, by the end of that afternoon some 100,000 workers had come out to strike. It turned dire as there was clashes with police as the crowd tried to cross Liteniy Bridge, that linked the Vyborg side to the Petrograds center. I saw that several people crossed the ice, and went towards Nevsky Prospekt.
The tickest crowd was around in Tauride Palace, were the Duma was situationed. Somebody shouted that there were Cossacs ahead, the news of them traveled, along the marching people slow, but steady.
It was at this point that I turned back and walked along the ice to Liteniy and home, as I did not want to make acquaintance with the whips of the Cossacks, though because there were women among the marchers and protesters, much was uncertain as to what would happen, but I did not want to take risks and get wounds, or worse.
Even monarchists, such as Gumiljov, had lost faith in the continuation of the war, Akhmatova had told me that according to a close circle, Kolya on the front was openly outraged by the "stupid orders of the generals." This cruel collapse of illusions on the system struck the entire empire, same one that had already coughed in 1914. Over the next few days, everything swelled, more and more crowds from all walks of life flooded the streets, workers held meetings around the city, and, encouraged by socialist agitators. I saw from my window that at the Liteniyi Bridge was a large group of workers overran a small brigade of Cossacs.
There was a pandemium on the Nevsky, the large crowds converged there, hustling Cossacs. There was a festive atmosphere outside, but there was a hidden thunder in the air, the usual everyday crowd followed the course of events, students, merchants, bank clerks, gentlemen, and fine women, in their hats, and their stylish outfits.
By 25 February, it was Saturday industrial enterprises in Petrograd were sut down, it was a general strike, and more workers joined to the protesters, and demonstrators. Newspapers failed to appear and cabs and trams were hard to find, and many shops and restaurants had closed their doors. Compared to the last two days, this mood was more political in tone, a lots of red cotton banners floated around, and the shouts too had changed, now there was even more, eager demand for Tsar stepping down, and all the war to end too, it seemed that those were two of the main demands.
Mihail Lermontov's play Masquerades, produced by Meyerhold and directed by Golov, was performed at the Imperial Alexander Theater. I had managed to get a ticket to the premier, the evening was sold out. Petrograd was feeling empty and ghostly, but cars had been parked in black in front of the theater, the streets that were earlier had been full of people, masses of them. The rehearsals for the play had lasted more than five years and had already turned into a myth and a kind of theatrical ritual. Golovin had set four thousand different sketches, for costumes, masks, furniture and other sets, of a new record at the Imperial Russian Theater Institute.
The whole production came to cost thirteen thousand gold rubles, the sum was simply amazing. The predominant senic scenes of the play were intense black and red, all the actors as the imperial social circles intrigued and adventured, the music glowing with the swelling of Glazunov's and Glinka's tumultuous Waltz Fantasy.
As I sat in the auditorium, I felt like I was watching the destruction of Rome, transferred to Imperial Petrograd.
After the play, the applause seemed endless, finally as the audience poured out into evening on Nevsky there echoed gunshots, and the cavalry attacked swords bared against the passers-by. The Vossikas refused to drive people to their homes in this chaos. I walked glancing over my shoulder, and got home unharmed.
I made hot dark tea, and I poured a drop of brandy on it, and I wrote a letter to Katherine, in which I shared my impressions, of the last few days, and the play, as it was interesting to be part of the audience for once, and not on stage, although there were far too many chairs and other furniture on stage, but the last scene of the play, Orthodox funeral, it in this situation and instability was very effective, it seemed knell the funeral bells of the wole Imperial Russia.
In the following days it became a pattern, violet clashed with police, combined efforts to win over the soliders, as the crowds took to the city centre with even more frevour.
The tide was turning again, but in this time a more darker turn at 27th as the crowd violence escalated. The city now reveberated with broken glass, of gunshots, screams, and spontainous fires.
I sat with Zinaida Nikolaevna in deep silence, as the hordes walked forward outside in the streets. This now was not at all the democratic, liberte, fraternite, egalite, of witch the democratic intelligentisia had hoped for, this was more in line with Pushkins
" senseless and merciless" riot of deep masses.
Things were tense, there was thunder and suspence in the very air, it seemed to cracle, as I walked down to Mariinsky. Even there everyone was tense, and no one knew what was going to happen, even quick conversations were made in hushed voices.
Nevertheless, the pearly piano music echoed in Mariinsky's rooms, and attempts were made to keep the rehearsals going, albeit with poor success. The surrounding sparkle and splendor now felt lewd when the people were on the streets and the Tsar in Stavka, with the highest military command, the rest of the Imperial family in Tsarskoye Selo, as almost always.
On March 1 it was formed a government, headed by Prince Lvov, and mainly composed of leaders of the Kadet and Octobrist parties.
There was now two separate authorities, both claiming to speak for the people but neither representing more than a section of it: the Provisional Government and the Petrograd Soviet of Workers' and Soldiers' Deputies.
Then in there was a manifesto. Emperor of All Russia Nikolai II had written and signed it in the military headquaters of Stavka in Pskov on 2 March 1917, on 3 it Tsar renounced the throne of the Russian Empire on behalf of himself and his son, Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich in favor of his brother Grand Duke Mihail Alexandrovich. The next day the Grand Duke refused to accept the imperial authority. The rule of the 300 year-old House of Romanov ended with the Grand Duke's decision.
Something completely impossible had happened; the monarchy had collapsed in Russia.
A/N: As a Finnish Slavist I feel strongly that I am compelled to share this following statement.
Statement of the Society of Finnish Slavists on Russia's military actions in Ukraine
We Finnish Slavists, that is, researchers, teachers, students and translators of Slavic languages, literatures and cultures, condemn Russia's invasion of Ukraine. Military forces must be withdrawn from Ukraine immediately and the sovereignty of the country must be respected. We express our full support for the Ukrainian state and its citizens and their right to independent decision-making.
For several years, and now as part of the justification for the invasion, Russian state actors and state media have made false claims about the Ukrainian state, history and culture. We, working with Russian, Ukrainian, Belarusian and other Slavic languages and cultures, strongly condemn such falsification of research of languages, cultures and history to justify war.