On August 27th I was thunderstruck by receiving from the Stavka news of the dismissal of General Kornilov from the post of Supreme Commander-in-Chief.
A telegram, unnumbered, and signed “Kerensky,” requested General Kornilov to transfer the Supreme Command temporarily to General Lukomsky, and, without awaiting the latter’s arrival to proceed to Petrograd. Such an order was quite illegal, and not binding, as the Supreme Commander-in-Chief was in no way under the orders either of the War Minister or of the Minister-President, certainly not of Comrade Kerensky.
General Lukomsky, Chief-of-Staff, answered the Minister-President in Telegram No. 640, which I give below. Its contents were transmitted to us, the Commanders-in-Chief by Telegram No. 6412. which I have not preserved. Its tenor, however, is clear from the deposition of Kornilov, in which he says: “I ordered that my decision (not to surrender my command, and first to elucidate the situation), and that of General Lukomsky, be communicated to the Commanders-in-Chief on all fronts.”
Lukomsky’s telegram, No. 640, ran as follows:
All persons in touch with military affairs were perfectly aware that, in view of the existing state of affairs, when the actual direction of internal policy was in the hands of irresponsible public organisations, having an enormously deleterious effect on the Army, it would be impossible to resurrect the latter; on the contrary, the Army, properly speaking, would cease to exist in two or three months. Russia would then be obliged to conclude a shameful separate peace, whose consequences to the country would be terrible. The Government took half measures, which, changing nothing, merely prolonged the agony, and, in saving the Revolution, did not save Russia. At the same time, the preservation of the benefits of the Revolution depended solely on the salvation of Russia, for which purpose the first step must be the establishment of a really strong Government and the reform of the home Front. General Kornilov drew up a series of demands, the execution of which has been delayed. In these circumstances, General Kornilov, actuated by no motives of personal gain or aggrandisement, and supported by the clearly-expressed will of the entire right-thinking sections of the Army and the Civil community, who demanded the speedy establishment of a strong Government for the saving of their native land, and of the benefits of the Revolution, considered more severe measures requisite which would secure the re-establishment of order in the country.
The arrival of Savinkov and Lvov, who in your name made General Kornilov similar proposals,[67] only brought General Kornilov to a speedy decision. In accordance with your suggestions, he issued his final orders, which it is now too late to repeal.
Your telegram of to-day shows that you have now altered your previous decision, communicated in your name by Savinkov and Lvov. Conscience demands from me, desiring only the good of the Motherland, to declare to you absolutely that it is now impossible to stop what was commenced with your approval; this will lead but to civil war, the final dissolution of the Army, and a shameful separate peace, as a consequence of which the conquests of the Revolution will certainly not be secured to us.
In the interests of the salvation of Russia you must work with General Kornilov, and not dismiss him. The dismissal of General Kornilov will bring upon Russia as yet unheard-of horrors. Personally, I decline to accept any responsibility for the Army, even though it be for a short period, and do not consider it possible to take over the command from General Kornilov, as this would occasion an outburst in the Army which would cause Russia to perish.
Lukomsky.
All the hopes which had been entertained of the salvation of the country and the regeneration of the Army by peaceful means had now failed. I had no illusions as to the consequences of such a conflict between General Kornilov and Kerensky, and had no hopes of a favourable termination if only General Krymov’s Corps did not manage to save the situation. At the same time, not for one moment did I consider it possible to identify myself with the Provisional Government, which I considered criminally incapable, and therefore immediately despatched the following telegram:
I am a soldier and am not accustomed to play hide and seek. On the 16th of July, in a conference with members of the Provisional Government, I stated that, by a series of military reforms, they had destroyed and debauched the Army, and had trampled our battle honours in the mud. My retention as Commander-in-Chief I explained as being a confession by the Provisional Government of their deadly sins before the Motherland, and of their wish to remedy the evil they had wrought. To-day I receive information that General Kornilov, who had put forward certain demands capable yet of saving the country and the Army,[68] has been removed from the Supreme Command. Seeing herein a return to the planned destruction of the Army, having as its consequence the downfall of our country, I feel it my duty to inform the Provisional Government that I cannot follow their lead in this.
145 Denikin.
Simultaneously Markov sent a telegram to the Government stating his concurrence in the views expressed by me.[69]
At the same time I ordered the Stavka to be asked in what way I could assist General Kornilov. He knew that, besides moral support, I had no actual resources at my disposal, and, therefore, thanking me for this support, demanded no more.
I ordered copies of my telegrams to be sent to all Commanders-in-Chief, the Army Commanders of the South-Western Front, and the Inspector-General of Lines of Communication. I also ordered the adoption of measures which would isolate the Front against the penetration of any news of events, without the knowledge of the Staff, until the conflict had been decided. I received similar instructions from the Stavka. I think it hardly necessary to state that the entire Staff warmly supported Kornilov, and all impatiently awaited news from Moghilev, still hoping for a favourable termination.
Absolutely no measures for the detention of any persons were taken: this would have been of no use, and did not enter into our plans.
Meanwhile, the Revolutionary Democracy at the Front were in great agitation. The members of the Front Committee on this night left their quarters and lodged in private houses on the outskirts of the town. The assistants of the Commissar were at the time away on duty, and Iordansky himself in Zhitomir. An invitation from Markov to him to come to Berdichev had no result, either that night or on the 28th. Iordansky expected a “treacherous ambush.”
Night fell, a long, sleepless night, full of anxious waiting and oppressive thoughts. Never had the future of the country seemed so dark, never had our powerlessness been so galling and oppressive. A historic tragedy, played out far from us, lay like a thundercloud over Russia. And we waited, waited.
I shall never forget that night. Those hours still live in mental pictures. Successive telegrams by direct wire: Agreement apparently possible. No hopes of a peaceful issue. Supreme Command offered to Klembovsky. Klembovsky likely to refuse. One after another copies of telegrams to the Provisional Government from all Army Commanders of my Front, from General Oelssner and several other Senior Officers, voicing their adherence to the opinion expressed in my telegram. A touching fulfilment of their civic duty in an atmosphere saturated with hate and suspicion. Their soldier’s oath they could no longer keep. Finally, the voice of despair from the Stavka. For that is the only name for the General Orders issued by Kornilov on the night of the 28th:
The telegram of the Minister-President, No. 4163[70] in its entire first part is a downright lie: it was not I who sent Vv. N. Lvov, a member of the State Duma, to the Provisional Government. He came to me as a messenger from the Minister-President. My witness to this is Alexei Aladyin, member of the State Duma.
The great provocation, placing the Motherland on the turn of fate, is thus accomplished.
People of Russia. Our great Motherland is dying. Her end is near.
Forced to speak openly, I, General Kornilov, declare that the Provisional Government, under pressure from the Bolshevik majority in the Soviets, is acting in complete accordance with the plans of the German General Staff and simultaneously with the landing of enemy troops near Riga, is killing the Army, and convulsing the country internally.
The solemn certainty of the doom of our country drives me in these terrible times to call upon all Russians to save their dying native land. All in whose breasts a Russian heart still beats, all who believe in God, go into the Churches, pray Our Lord for the greatest miracle, the salvation of our dear country.
I, General Kornilov, son of a peasant Cossack, announce to all and everyone that I personally desire nothing save the preservation of our great Russia, and vow to lead the people, through victory over our enemies, to a Constituent Assembly, when they themselves will settle their fate and select the form of our new national life.
I cannot betray Russia into the hands of her ancient enemy—the German race!—and make the Russian people German slaves. And I prefer to die honourably on the field of battle, that I may not see the shame and degradation of our Russian land.
People of Russia, in your hands lies the life of your native land!
This order was despatched to the Army Commanders for their information. The next day one telegram from Kerensky was received at the Commissariat, and from then all our communications with the outside world were interrupted.[71]
Well, the die was cast. A gulf had opened between the Government and the Stavka, to bridge which was now impossible.
On the following day, the 28th, the Revolutionary institutions, seeing that absolutely nothing threatened them, exhibited a feverish activity. Iordansky assumed the “military authority,” made a series of unnecessary arrests in Zhitomir among the senior officials of the Chief Board of Supplies, and issued, under his signature and in his own name, that of the Revolutionary organisations and that of the Commissary of the Province, an appeal, telling, in much detail and in the usual language of proclamations, how General Denikin was planning “to restore the old régime and deprive the Russian people of Land and Freedom.”
At the same time similar energetic work was being carried on in Berdichev under the guidance of the Frontal Committee. Meetings of all the organisations went on incessantly, along with the “education” of the typical rear units of the garrison. Here the accusation brought forward by the Committee was different: “The counter-Revolutionary attempt of the Commander-in-Chief, General Denikin, to overthrow the Provisional Government and restore Nicholas II. to the throne.” Proclamations to this effect were circulated in numbers among the units, pasted on walls, and scattered from motor-cars careering through the town. The nervous tension increased, the streets were full of noise. The members of the Committee became more and more peremptory and exigent in their relations with Markov. Information was received of disorders which had arisen on the Lyssaya Gora (Bald Hill). The Staff sent officers thither to clear up the matter and determine the possibility of pacification. One of them—a Tchekh officer, Lieutenant Kletsando—who was to have spoken with the Austrian prisoners, was attacked by Russian soldiers, one of whom he wounded slightly. This circumstance increased the disturbance still more.
From my window I watched the crowds of soldiers gathering on the Lyssaya Gora, then forming in column, holding a prolonged meeting, which lasted about two hours, and apparently coming to no conclusion. Finally the column, which consisted of a troop of orderlies (formerly field military police), a reserve sotnia, and sundry other armed units, marched on the town with a number of red flags and headed by two armoured cars. On the appearance of an armoured car, which threatened to open fire, the Orenburg Cossack sotnia, which was on guard next the Staff quarters and the house of the Commander-in-Chief, scattered and galloped away. We found ourselves completely in the power of the Revolutionary Democracy.
“Revolutionary sentries” were posted round the house. The Vice-President of the Committee, Koltchinsky, led four armed “comrades” into the house for the purpose of arresting General Markov, but then began to hesitate, and confined himself to leaving in the reception-room of the Chief-of-Staff two “experts” from the Frontal Committee to control his work. The following wireless was sent to the Government: “General Denikin and all his staff have been subjected to personal detention at his Stavka. In the interests of the defence the guidance of the activity of the troops has been left in their hands, but is strictly controlled by the delegates of the Committee.”
Now began a series of long, endless, wearisome hours. They will never be forgotten. Nor can words express the depth of the pain which now enveloped our hearts.
At 4 p.m. on the 29th Markov asked me into the reception-room, where Assistant-Commissary Kostitsin came with ten to fifteen armed Committee members and read me an “order from the Commissary of the South-Western Front, Iordansky,” according to which I, Markov, and Quartermaster-General Orlov were to be subjected to preliminary arrest for an attempt at an armed rising against the Provisional Government. As a man of letters Iordansky seemed to have become ashamed of the arguments about “land,” “freedom,” and “Nicholas II.,” designed exclusively for inflaming the passions of the mob.
I replied that a Commander-in-Chief could be removed from his post only by the Supreme Commander-in-Chief or by the Provisional Government; that Commissary Iordansky was acting altogether illegally, but that I was obliged to submit to force.
Motor-cars drove up, accompanied by armoured cars, and Markov and I took our seats. Then came the long waiting for Orlov, who was handing over the files; then the tormenting curiosity of the passers-by. Then we drove on to Lyssaya Gora. The car wandered about for a long time, halting at one building after another, until at last we drove up to the guard-house; we passed through a crowd of about a hundred men who were awaiting our arrival, and were greeted with looks full of hatred and with coarse abuse. We were taken into separate cells; Kostitsin very civilly offered to send me any of my things I might require, but I brusquely declined any services from him; the door was slammed to, the key turned noisily in the lock, and I was alone.
In a few days the Stavka was liquidated. Kornilov, Lukomsky, Romanovsky, and others were taken off to the Bykhov Prison.
The Revolutionary Democracy was celebrating its victory.
Yet at that very time the Government was opening wide the doors of the prisons in Petrograd and liberating many influential Bolsheviks—to enable them to continue, publicly and openly, their work of destroying the Russian Empire.
On September 1 the Provisional Government arrested General Kornilov; on September 4 the Provisional Government liberated Bronstein Trotsky. These two dates should be memorable for Russia.
Cell No. 1. The floor is some seven feet square. The window is closed with an iron grating. The door has a small peep-hole in it. The cell is furnished with a sleeping bench, a table, and a stool. The air is close—an evil-smelling place lies next door. On the other side is cell No. 2, with Markov in it; he walks up and down with large, nervous strides. Somehow or other I still remember that he makes three steps along his cell, while I manage, on a curve, to make five. The prison is full of vague sounds. The strained ear begins to distinguish them, and gradually to make out the course of prison life, and even its moods. The guards—I guess them to be soldiers of the prison guard company—are rough and revengeful men.
It is early morning. Someone’s voice is booming. Whence? Outside of the window, clinging to the grating, hang two soldiers. They look at me with cruel, savage eyes, and hysterically utter terrible curses. They throw in something abominable through the open window. There is no escape from their gaze. I turn to the door—there another pair of eyes, full of hatred, peers through the peep-hole; thence choice abuse pours in also. I lie down on the sleeping-bench and cover my head with my cloak. I lie for hours. The whole day, one after another, the “public accusers” replace each other at the window and at the door—the guards allow all to come freely. And into the narrow, close kennel pours, in an unceasing torrent, a foul stream of words, shouts, and curses, born of immense ignorance, blind hate, and bottomless coarseness. One’s whole soul seems to be drenched with that abuse, and there is no deliverance, no escape from this moral torture chamber.
What is it all about? “Wanted to open the Front” ... “sold himself to the Germans”—the sum, too, was mentioned—“for twenty thousand roubles” ... “wanted to deprive us of land and freedom.” This was not their own, this was borrowed from the Committee. But Commander-in-Chief, General, gentleman—this, indeed, was their own! “You have drunk our blood, ordered us about, kept us stewing in prison; now we are free and you can sit behind the bars yourself. You pampered yourself, drove about in motor-cars; now you can try what lying on a wooden bench is, you ——. You have not much time left. We shan’t wait till you run away—we will strangle you with our own hands.” These warriors of the rear scarcely knew me at all. But all that had been gathering for years, for centuries, in their exasperated hearts against the power they did not love, against the inequality of classes, because of personal grievances and of their shattered lives—for which someone or other was to blame—all this now came to the surface in the form of unmitigated cruelty. And the higher the standing of him who was reckoned the enemy of the people, and the deeper his fall, the more violent was the hostility of the mob and the greater the satisfaction of seeing him in its hands. Meanwhile, behind the wings of the popular stage stood the managers, who inflamed both the wrath and the delight of the populace; who did not believe in the villainy of the actors, but permitted them even to perish for the sake of greater realism in the performance and to the greater glory of their sectarian dogmatism. These motives of party policy, however, were called “tactical considerations.”
I lay, covered head and all by my cloak and, under a shower of oaths, tried to see things clearly:
“What have I done to deserve this?”
I went through the stages of my life.... My father was a stern soldier with a most kindly heart. Up to thirty years of age he had been a peasant serf and was drafted into the Army, where, after twenty-two years of hard service in the ranks, under the severe discipline of the times of Nicholas I, he was promoted to the rank of 2nd Lieutenant. He retired with the rank of Major. My childhood was hard and joyless, amidst the poverty of a pension of 45 roubles a month. Then my father died. Life became still harder. My mother’s pension was 25 roubles a month. My youth was passed in study and in working for my daily bread. I became a volunteer in the Army, messing in barracks with the privates. Then came my officer’s commission, then the Staff College. The unfairness of my promotion, my complaint to the Emperor against the all-powerful Minister of War, and my return to the 2nd Artillery Brigade. My conflict with a moribund group of old adherents of serfdom; their accusation of demagogy. The General Staff. My practice command of a company in the 183rd Pultussk Regiment. Here I put an end to the system of striking the soldiers and made an unsuccessful experiment in “conscious discipline.” Yes, Mr. Kerensky, I did this also in my younger days. I privately abolished disciplinary punishment—“watch one another, restrain the weak-spirited—after all, you are decent men—show that you can do your duty without the stick.” I finished my command: during the year the behaviour of the company had not been above the average, it drilled poorly and lazily. After my departure the old Sergeant-Major, Stsepoura, gathered the company together, raised his fist significantly in the air and said distinctly, separating his words:
“Now it is not Captain Denikin whom you will have. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant-Major.”
It was said, afterwards, that the company soon showed improvement.
Then came the war in Manchuria; active service; hopes for the regeneration of the Army. Then an open struggle, in a stifled Press, with the higher command of the Army, against stagnation, ignorance, privileges and licence—a struggle for the welfare of the officer and the soldier. The times were stern—all my service, all my military career was at stake. Then came my command of a regiment, constant care for the improvement of the condition of the soldiers, after my Pultussk experience—strict service demands, but also respect for the human dignity of the soldier. At that time we seemed to understand one another and were not strangers. Then came war again, the “Iron” Division, nearer relations with the rifleman and work with him in common. The staff was always near the positions, so as to share mud, want of space, and dangers with the men. Then a long, laborious path, full of glorious battles, in which a common life, common sufferings and common fame brought us still closer together, and created a mutual faith and a touching proximity.
No, I have never been an enemy to the soldier.
I threw off my cloak, and, jumping from the wooden bed, went up to the window, where the figure of a soldier clung to the grating, belching forth curses.
“You lie, soldier! It is not your own words that you are speaking. If you are not a coward, hiding in the rear, if you have been in action, you have seen how your officers could die. You have seen that they....”
His hands loosened their grip and the figure disappeared. I think it was simply because of my stern address, which, despite the impotence of a prisoner, produced its usual effect.
Fresh faces appeared at the window and at the peep-hole in the door.
It was not always, however, that we met with insolence alone. Sometimes, through the assumed rudeness of our gaolers we could see a feeling of awkwardness, confusion and even commiseration. But of these feelings they were ashamed. On the first cold night, when we had none of our things, a guard brought Markov, who had forgotten his overcoat, a soldier’s overcoat, but half an hour later—whether he had grown ashamed of his good action, or whether his comrades had shamed him—he took it back. In Markov’s cursory notes we find: “We are looked after by two Austrian prisoners.... Besides them, we have as our caterer a soldier, formerly of the Finland Rifles (a Russian), a very kind and thoughtful man. During our first days he, too, had a hard time of it—his comrades gave him no peace; now, however, matters are all right; they have quieted down. His care for our food is simply touching, while the news he brings is delightful in its simplicity. Yesterday, he told me that he would miss us when we are taken away.
“I soothed him by saying that our places would soon be filled by new generals—that all had not yet been destroyed.”
My heart is heavy. My feelings seem to be split in two: I hate and despise the savage, cruel, senseless mob, but still I feel the old pity for the soldier: an ignorant, illiterate man, who has been led astray, and is capable both of abominable crimes and of lofty sacrifices!
Soon the duty of guarding us was given to the cadets of the 2nd Zhitomir School of 2nd Lieutenants. Our condition became much easier from the moral point of view. They not only watched over the prisoners, but also guarded them from the mob. And the mob, more than once, on various occasions, gathered near the guard-room and roared wildly, threatening to lynch us. In such cases the company on guard gathered hastily in a house nearly opposite us and the cadets on guard made ready their machine-guns. I recall that, calmly and clearly realising my danger, when the mob was especially stormy, I planned out my method of self-defence: a heavy water-bottle stood upon my table; with it I might hit the first man to break into my cell; his blood would infuriate and intoxicate the “comrades,” and they would kill me at once, without torturing me....
With the exception, however, of such unpleasant moments, our life in prison went on in a measured, methodical way; it was quiet and restful; after the strain of our campaigning, and in comparison with the moral suffering we had undergone, the physical inconveniences of the prison régime were mere trifles. Our life was varied by little incidents. Sometimes a Bolshevist cadet standing at the door would tell the sentry loudly, so that his words might be heard in the cell, that at their last meeting the comrades of Lyssaya Gora, having lost all patience, had finally decided to lynch us, and added that this was what we deserved. Another time, Markov, passing along the corridor, saw a cadet sentry leaning on his rifle, with the tears streaming from his eyes—he felt sorry for us. What a strange, unusual exhibition of sentiment in our savage days.
For a fortnight I did not leave my cell for exercise, not wishing to be an object of curiosity for the “comrades,” who surrounded the square before the guard-room and examined the arrested generals as if they were beasts in a menagerie. I had no communication with my neighbours, but much time for meditation and thought.
And every day as I open my window I hear from the house opposite a high, tenor voice—whether of friend or foe I know not—singing:
“This is the last day that I ramble with you, my friends.”
In Berdichev Gaol—The Transfer of the “Berdichev Group” of Prisoners to Bykhov.
Besides Markov and me, whose share in events has been depicted in the preceding chapters, the following were cast into prison:
3. General Erdeli, Commander of the Special Army.
4. Lieutenant-General Varnovsky, Commander of the 1st Army.
5. Lieutenant-General Selivatchev, Commander of the 7th Army.
6. Lieutenant-General Eisner, Chief of Supplies to the South-Western Front.
The guilt of these men lay in their expression of solidarity with my telegram No. 145, and of the last, moreover, in his fulfilment of my orders for the isolation of the frontal region with respect to Kiev and Zhitomir.
7 and 8. General Eisner’s assistants—General Parsky and General Sergievsky—men who had absolutely no connection with events.
9. Major-General Orlov, Quartermaster-General of the Staff of the Front—a wounded man with a withered arm, timid, and merely carrying out the orders of the Chief-of-Staff.
10. Lieutenant Kletsando, of the Tchekh troops, who had wounded a soldier of Lyssaya Gora on August 28th.
11. Captain Prince Krapotkin, a man over sixty years of age, a Volunteer, and the Commandant of the Commander-in-Chief’s train. He was not initiated into events at all.
General Selivatchev, General Parsky and General Sergievsky were soon released. Prince Krapotkin was informed on September 6th that his actions had not been criminal, but was set free only on September 23rd, when it appeared that we were not to be tried at Berdichev. For a charge of rebellion to hold good against us an association of eight men at the very least had to be discovered. Our antagonists were much interested in this figure, being desirous of observing the rules of decorum.... There was another prisoner, however, kept in reserve and separate from us, at the Commandant’s office, and even afterwards transferred to Bykhov—a military official named Boudilovitch—a youth weak in body, but strong in spirit, who on one occasion dared to tell a wrathful mob that it was not worth the little finger of those whom it was maltreating.[72] No other crime was imputed to him.
On the second or third day of my imprisonment I read in a newspaper, which had accidentally or purposely found its way into my cell, an order from the Provisional Government to the Senate, dated August 29th, which ran as follows:
“Lieutenant-General Denikin, Commander-in-Chief of the Armies of the South-Western Front, to be removed from the post of Commander-in-Chief and brought to trial for rebellion.—Signed: Minister-President A. Kerensky and B. Savinkov—in charge of the War Ministry.”
On the same date similar orders were issued concerning Generals Kornilov, Lukomsky, Markov and Kisliakov. Later an order was issued for the removal of General Romanovsky.
On the second or the third day of my arrest the guard-room was visited, for our examination, by a Committee of Investigation, under the superintendence of the Chief Field Prosecutor of the Front, General Batog, and under the presidency of Assistant-Commissar Kostitsin, consisting of:
Lieutenant-Colonel Shestoperov, in charge of the Juridical Section of the Commissariat; Lieutenant-Colonel Frank, of the Kiev Military Court; 2nd Lieut. Oudaltsov and Junior Sergeant of Artillery Levenberg, members of the Committee of the Front.
My evidence, in view of the facts of the case, was very short, and consisted of the following statements: (1) None of the persons arrested with me had taken part in any active proceedings against the Government; (2) all orders given to and through the Staff during my last days, in connection with General Kornilov’s venture, proceeded from me; (3) I considered, and still consider, that the activity of the Provisional Government is criminal and ruinous for Russia, but that nevertheless I had not instituted a rebellion against it, but having sent my telegram No. 145, I had left it to the Provisional Government to take such action towards me as it might see fit.
Later the Chief Military Prosecutor, Shablovsky, having acquainted himself with the material of the investigation and with the circumstances which had arisen around it in Berdichev, was horrified at the “uncautious formulation” of my evidence.
By September 1st Iordansky was already reporting to the War Ministry that the Committee of Investigation had discovered documents establishing the existence of a conspiracy which had long been preparing.... At the same time, Iordansky, man of letters, inquired of the Government whether, in the matter of the direction of the cases of the Generals arrested, he could act within the limits of the law, in conformity with local circumstances, or whether he was bound to be guided by any political considerations of the Central Authority. In reply he was informed that he must act reckoning with the law alone and ... taking into consideration local circumstances.[73]
In view of this explanation, Iordansky decided to commit us for trial by a Revolutionary Court-Martial, to which end a Court was formed of members of one of the Divisions formerly subordinated to me at the Front, while Captain Pavlov, member of the Executive Committee of the South-Western Front, was marked down for public prosecutor.
Thus the interests of competency, impartiality and fair play were observed.
Iordansky was so anxious to obtain a speedy verdict for myself and for the Generals imprisoned with me that on September 3rd he proposed that the Commission, without waiting for the elucidation of the circumstances, should present the cases to the Revolutionary Court-Martial in groups, as the guilt of one or other of the accused was established.
We were much depressed by our complete ignorance of what was taking place in the outer world.
On rare occasions Kostitsin acquainted us with the more important current events, but in the Commissar’s comments on the events only depressed us still more. It was clear, however, that the Government was breaking up altogether, that Bolshevism was raising its head higher and higher, and that the country must inevitably perish.
About September 8th or 10th, when the investigation was over, our prison surroundings underwent, to some extent, a change. Newspapers began to appear in our cells almost daily; at first secretly, afterwards, from September 22nd, officially. At the same time, after the relief of one of the Companies of Guards, we decided to try an experiment: during our exercise in the corridor I approached Markov and started talking with him; the sentries did not interfere. From that time we began talking with one another every day; sometimes the sentries demanded that we should stop, and then we were silent at once, but more frequently they did not interfere. In the second half of September visitors also were allowed; the curiosity of the “comrades” of Lyssaya Gora was now apparently satisfied; fewer of them gathered about the square, and I used to go out to walk every day, was able to see all the prisoners and exchange a few words with them now and again. Now, at least, we knew what was doing in the world, while the possibility of meeting one another removed the depression caused by isolation.
From the papers we learned that the investigation of the Kornilov case was committed to the Supreme Investigation Committee, presided over by the Chief Military and Naval Prosecutor, Shablovsky.[74]
About September 9th, in the evening, a great noise and the furious shouts of a large crowd were heard near the prison. In a little while four strangers entered my cell—confused and much agitated by something or other. They said they were the President and members of the Supreme Committee of Investigation for the Kornilov case.[75]
Shablovsky, in a still somewhat broken voice, began to explain that the purpose of their arrival was to take us off to Bykhov, and that, judging by the temper which had developed in Berdichev, and by the fury of the mob which now surrounded the prison, they could see that there were no guarantees for justice here, but only savage revenge. He added that the Committee had no doubt as to the inadmissibility of any segregation of our cases, and as to the necessity of a common trial for all the participators in the Kornilov venture, but that the Commissariat and the Committees were using all means against this. The Committee, therefore, asked me whether I would not wish to supplement my evidence by any facts which might yet more clearly establish the connection between our case and Kornilov’s. In view of the impossibility of holding the examination amidst the roar of the crowd which had gathered, they decided to postpone it to the following day.
The Committee departed; soon after the crowd dispersed.
What more could I tell them? Only, perhaps, something of the advice which Kornilov had given me at Moghilev, and through a messenger. But this was done as a matter of exceptional confidence on the part of the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, which I could in no case permit myself to break. Therefore, the few details which I added next day to my original evidence did not console the commission and did not, apparently, satisfy the volunteer, a member of the Committee of the Front, who was present at the examination.
Nevertheless, we waited with impatience for our liberation from the Berdichev chamber of torture. But our hopes were clouded more and more. The newspaper of the Committee of the Front methodically fomented the passions of the garrison; it was reported that at all the meetings of all the Committees resolutions were passed against letting us out of Berdichev; the Committee members were agitating mightily among the rear units of the garrison, and meetings were held which passed off in a spirit of great exaltation.
The aim of the Shablovsky Commission was not attained. As it turned out in the beginning of September, to Shablovsky’s demand that a separate trial of the “Berdichev group” should not be allowed, Iordansky replied that “to say nothing of the transfer of the generals to any place whatsoever, even the least postponement of their trial would threaten Russia with incalculable calamities—complications at the front, and a new civil war in the rear,” and that both on political and on tactical grounds it was necessary to have us tried in Berdichev, in the shortest possible time, and by Revolutionary Court-Martial.[76]
The Committee of the Front and the Kiev Soviet of Workmen’s and Soldiers’ Delegates would not agree to our transfer, despite all the arguments and persuasions brought forward at their meeting by Shablovsky and the members of his Commission. On the way back, at Moghilev, a consultation took place on this question between Kerensky, Shablovsky, Iordansky and Batog. All, excepting Shablovsky, came to the altogether unequivocal conclusion that the front was shaken, that the soldiery was restless and demanding a victim, and that it was necessary to enable the tense atmosphere to discharge itself, even at the cost of injustice.... Shablovsky rose and declared that he would not permit such a cynical attitude toward law and justice.
I remember that this tale perplexed me. It is not worth while disputing about points of view. But if the Minister-President is convinced that in the matter of protecting the State it is admissible to let oneself be guided by expediency, in what way, then, was Kornilov to blame?
On September 14th a debate took place in Petrograd, in the last “court of appeal”—in the military section of the Executive Committee of the Council of Workmen’s and Soldiers’ Delegates—between Shablovsky and the representative of the Committee of the South-Western Front, fully supported by Iordansky. The last two declared that if the Revolutionary Court-Martial was not held on the spot, in Berdichev, in the course of the next five days the lynching of the prisoners was to be feared. However, the Central Committee agreed with Shablovsky’s arguments, and sent its resolution to that effect to Berdichev.
So an organised lynching was prevented. But the Revolutionary institutions of Berdichev had at their service another method for liquidating the “Berdichev group,” an easy and irresponsible one—the method of popular wrath....
A rumour spread that we were to be taken away on the 23rd, then it was stated that our departure would take place on the 27th at 5 p.m. from the passenger station.
To take the prisoners away without making the fact public was in no way difficult: in a motor-car, on foot in a column of cadets, or, again, in a railway carriage—a narrow gauge-line came close up to the guard-house and joined on to the broad gauge-line outside the town and the railway station.[77] But such a method of transferring us did not agree with the intentions of the Commissariat and the Committees.
General Doukhonin inquired from the Stavka, of the Staff of the Front, whether there were any reliable units in Berdichev, and offered to send a detachment to assist in our move. The Staff of the Front declined assistance. The Commander-in-Chief, General Volodchenko, had left on the eve, the 26th, for the Front....
Much talk and an unhealthy atmosphere of expectation and curiosity were being artificially created around this question....
Kerensky sent a telegram to the Commissariat: “I am sure of the prudence of the garrison, which may elect, from among its numbers, two representatives to accompany.”
In the morning the Commissariat began visiting all the units in the garrison, to obtain their consent to our transfer.
The Committee had appointed a meeting of the whole garrison for 2 p.m., i.e., three hours before our departure, and in the field, moreover, immediately beside our prison. This mass meeting did indeed take place; at it the representatives of the Commissariat and of the Committee of the Front announced the orders for our transfer to Bykhov, thoughtfully announced the hour of our departure and appealed to the garrison ... to be prudent; the meeting continued for a long time and, of course, did not disperse. By 5 o’clock an excited crowd of thousands of men had surrounded the guard-room, and its dull murmur made its way into the building.
Among the officers of the Cadet Battalion of the 2nd Zhitomir School of 2nd Lieutenants, which was on guard this day, was Captain Betling, wounded in many battles, who before the War had served in the 17th Archangelogorod Infantry Regiment, which I commanded.[78] Betling asked the superior officer of the School to replace by his half-company the detachment appointed to accompany the prisoners to the railway station. We all dressed and came out into the corridor. We waited. An hour, two hours passed....
The meeting continued. Numerous speakers called for an immediate lynching.... The soldier who had been wounded by Lieutenant Kletsando was shouting hysterically and demanding his head.... Standing in the porch of the guard-room, Assistant Commissaries Kostitsin and Grigoriev were trying persuasion with the mob. That dear Betling, too, spoke several times, hotly and passionately. We could not hear his words.
At last, pale and agitated, Betling and Kostitsin came up to me.
“How will you decide? The crowd has promised not to touch anyone, only it demands that you should be taken to the station on foot. But we cannot answer for anything.”
I replied:
“Let us go.”
I took off my cap and crossed myself:
“Lord, bless us!”
The crowd raged. We, the seven of us, surrounded by a group of cadets, headed by Betling, who marched by my side with drawn sword, entered the narrow passage through this living human sea, which pressed on us from all sides. In front were Kostitsin and the delegates (twelve to fifteen) chosen by the garrison to escort us. Night was coming on, and in its eerie gloom, with the rays of the searchlight on the armoured car cutting through it now and then, moved the raving mob, growing and rolling on like a flaming avalanche. The air was full of a deafening roar, hysterical shouts, and mephitic curses. At times they were covered by Betling’s loud, anxious voice:
“Comrades, you have given your word!... Comrades, you have given your word!...”
The cadets, those splendid youths, crushed together on all sides, push aside with their bodies the pressing crowd, which disorders their thin ranks. Passing the pools left by yesterday’s rain, the soldiers fill their hands with mud and pelt us with it. Our faces, eyes, ears, are covered with its fetid, viscid slime. Stones come flying at us. Poor, crippled General Orlov has his face severely bruised; Erdeli and I, as well, were struck—in the back and on the head.
On our way we exchanged monosyllabic remarks. I turned to Markov:
“What, my dear Professor, is this the end?”
“Apparently....”
The mob would not let us come up to the station by the straight path. We were taken by a roundabout way, some three miles altogether, through the main streets of the town. The crowd is growing. The balconies of the Berdichev houses are full of curious spectators; the women wave their handkerchiefs. Gay, guttural voices come from above:
“Long live freedom!”
The railway station is flooded with light. There we find a new, vast crowd of several thousand people. And all this has merged in the general sea which rages and roars. With enormous difficulty we are brought through it under a hail of curses and of glances full of hatred. The railway carriage. An officer—Elsner’s son—sobbing hysterically and addressing impotent threats to the mob, and his soldier servant, lovingly soothing him, as he takes away his revolver; two women, dumb with horror—Kletsando’s wife and sister, who had thought to see him off....
We wait for an hour, for another. The train is not allowed to leave—a prisoner’s car is demanded. There were none at the station. The mob threatens to do for the Commissaries. Kostitsin is slightly buffeted. A goods car is brought, all defiled with horse-dung—what a trifle! We enter it without the assistance of a platform; poor Orlov is lifted in with difficulty; hundreds of hands are stretched towards us through the firm and steady ranks of the cadets.... It is already 10 p.m. The engine gives a jerk. The crowd booms out still louder. Two shots are heard. The train starts.
The noise dies away, the lights grow dimmer. Farewell Berdichev!
Kerensky shed a tear of delight over the self-abnegation of “our saviours”—as he called—not the cadets, but the Commissaries and the Committee members.
“What irony of fate! General Denikin, arrested as Kornilov’s accomplice, was saved from the rage of the frenzied soldiers by the members of the Executive Committee of the South-Western Front and by the Commissaries of the Provisional Government.”
“I remember with what agitation I and the never-to-be-forgotten Doukhonin read the account of how a handful of these brave men escorted the arrested generals through a crowd of thousands of soldiers who were thirsting for their blood....”[79] Why slander the dead? Certainly, Doukhonin was no less anxious for the fate of the prisoners than for ... the fate of their revolutionary escort....
That Roman citizen, Pontius Pilate, smiled mockingly through the gloom of the ages....
History will not soon give us a picture of the Revolution in a broad, impartial light. Those prospects which are now opening out to our view are sufficient only to enable us to grasp certain particular phenomena in it and, perhaps, to reject the prejudices and misconceptions which have sprung up around them.
The Revolution was inevitable. It is called a Revolution of the whole people. This is correct only in so far as the Revolution was the Result of the discontent of literally all classes of the population with the old power. But upon the question of its achievements opinions were divided, and deep breaches were bound to appear between classes on the very next day after the downfall of the old Power.
The Revolution was many-faced. For the peasants—the ownership of the land; for the workmen—the ownership of profits; for the Liberal Bourgeoisie—changed political conditions of life in the land and moderate social reforms; for the Revolutionary Democracy—power and the maximum of social achievement; for the Army—absence of authority and the cessation of the War.
With the downfall of the power of the Czar, there was left in the country, until the summoning of a Constituent Assembly, no lawful power, no power that had a juridical basis. This is perfectly natural and follows from the very nature of a Revolution. But whether through genuine misconception or deliberately perverting the truth, men have fabricated theories, known to be false, about the “general popular origin of the Provisional Government” or about the “full powers of the Soviet of Workmen’s and Soldiers’ Delegates,” as an organ supposed to represent the “whole of the Russian Democracy.” What an elastic conscience one must have, if, while professing democratic principles and protesting violently against the slightest deviation from orthodox conditions of the lawfulness of elections, one can still ascribe full powers, as the organ of democracy, to the Petrograd Soviet or to the Congress of Soviets, the election of which is of an extraordinary simplified and one-sided character. It was not without reason that for a long time the Petrograd Soviet hesitated to publish lists of its members. As to the supreme Power, to say nothing of its “popular origin” from a “private meeting of the State Duma,” the technique of its construction was so imperfect that repeated crises might have put an end to its very existence and to every trace of its continuity. Finally, a really “popular” Government could not have remained isolated, left by all to the will of a group of usurpers of authority. That same Government which, in the days of March, so easily obtained general recognition. Recognition, yes, but not practical support.
After March 3rd, and up to the Constituent Assembly, every supreme authority bore the marks of self-assumed power, and no power could satisfy all classes of the population, in view of the irreconciliableness of their interests and the intemperance of their desires.
Neither of the ruling powers (the Provisional Government and the Soviet) enjoyed the due support of the majority. For this majority (80 per cent.) said, through its representatives in the Constituent Assembly of 1918: “We peasants make no difference between parties; parties fight for power, while our peasant business is the land alone.” But even if, forestalling the will of the Constituent Assembly, the Provisional Government had satisfied these desires of the majority in full, it could not have reckoned on this majority’s immediate submission to the general interests of the State, nor on its active support: engaged in the redistribution of the land, which also had a strong attraction for the elements at the Front, the peasantry would scarcely have given the State, voluntarily, the forces and the means for putting it in order, i.e. plenty of corn and plenty of soldiers—brave, faithful and obedient to the law. Even then the Government would have been faced with insoluble problems: an Army which did not fight, an unproductive industry, a transport system which was being broken down and ... the civil war of parties.
Let us, therefore, set aside the popular and democratic origin of the Provisional authority. Let it be self-assumed, as it has been in the history of all revolutions and of all peoples. But the very fact of the wide recognition of the Provisional Government gave it a vast advantage over all the other forces which disputed its authority. It was necessary, however, that this power should become so strong, so absolute in its nature, so autocratic, as, having crushed all opposition by force, perhaps by arms, to have led the country to a Constituent Assembly, elected in surroundings which did not admit of the falsification of the popular vote, and to have protected this Assembly.
We are apt to abuse the words “elemental force,” as an excuse for many phenomena of the Revolution. That “molten element” which swept Kerensky away with the greatest ease, has it not fallen into the iron grip of Lenin-Bronstein and, for more than three years, been unable to escape from Bolshevist duress?
If such a power, harsh, but inspired by reason and by a true desire for popular rule, had assumed authority and, having crushed the licence into which freedom had been transmuted, had led this authority to a Constituent Assembly, the Russian people would have blessed, not condemned it. In such a position will every provisional authority find itself which accepts the heritage of Bolshevism; and Russia will judge it, not by the juridical marks of its origin, but by its works.
Why is the overthrow of the incompetent authority of the old Government to be an achievement, to the memory of which the Provisional Government proposed erecting a monument in the Capital, while the attempt to overthrow the incompetent authority of Kerensky, made by Kornilov, after exhausting all lawful means and after provocation on the part of the Minister-President, is to be counted rebellion?
But the need for a powerful authority is far from being exhausted by the period preceding the Constituent Assembly. Did not the Assembly of 1918 call in vain on the country, not for submission, but simply for protection from physical outrage on the part of the turbulent sailor horde? Yet not a hand was raised in its defence. Let us grant that that Assembly, born in an atmosphere of mutiny and violence, did not express the will of the Russian people and that the future Assembly will reflect that will more perfectly. I think, however, that even those who have the most exalted faith in the infallibility of the democratic principle do not close their eyes to the unbounded possibilities of the future which will be the heritage of such a physical and psychological transformation in the people as is unknown to history and has never yet been investigated by anyone.
Who knows whether it may not be necessary to confirm the democratic principle, the authority itself of the Constituent Assembly, and its commands, by iron and fresh bloodshed....
Be that as it may, the outward recognition of the Provisional Government took place. It would be difficult and useless to separate, in the work of the Government, that which proceeded from its free will and sincere convictions from what bears the stamp of the forcible influence of the Soviet. If Tzeretelli was entitled to declare that “there has never yet been a case when, in important questions, the Provisional Government has not been ready to come to an agreement,” so have we the right to identify their work and their responsibility.
All this activity, volens nolens, bore the character of destruction, not creation. The Government repealed, abolished, disbanded, permitted.... In this lay the centre of gravity of its work. I picture to myself the Russia of that period as a very old house, in need of capital reconstruction. In the absence of means and while waiting for the building season (the Constituent Assembly), the builders began extracting the decayed girders, some of which they did not replace at all, others they replaced with light, temporary props, and others again they reinforced with new baulks without fastenings—the latter means turning out to be the worst. And the house crashed down. The causes of such a method of building were first: the absence of a complete and symmetrical plan among the Russian political parties, the whole energy, mental and will tension of which were directed mainly towards the destruction of the former order. For we cannot give the name of practical plans to the abstract outlines of the party programmes; they are rather lawful or unlawful diplomas for the right of building. Secondly—that the new ruling classes did not possess the most elementary technical knowledge of the art of ruling, as the result of a systematic, age-long setting them aside from these functions. Thirdly—the non-forestalling of the will of the Constituent Assembly, which, in any case, called for heroic measures for its summoning, and therewith no less heroic measures for securing real freedom of election. Fourthly—the odiousness of all that bore the stamp of the old order, even though it were sound at bottom. Fifthly—the self-conceit of the political parties, each of which individually represented the “will of the whole people” and was distinguished by extreme irreconciliableness towards its antagonists.
I might probably continue this list for a long time, but I shall pause on one fact which has a significance which is far from being confined to the past. The Revolution was expected, it was prepared, but no one, not a single one of the political groups had prepared itself for it. And the Revolution came by night, finding everyone, like the foolish virgins in the Gospel, with lamps unlit. One cannot explain and excuse everything by elemental forces alone. No one had troubled to construct beforehand a general plan of the canals and sluices necessary to prevent the inundation from becoming a flood. Not one of the leading parties possessed a programme for the interregnum in the life of the country, a programme which, in its character and scale, could not correspond with normal plans of construction, either in the system of administration or in the sphere of economic and social relations. It would scarcely be an exaggeration to say that the only assets in the possession of the progressive and Socialist blocks on March 27th, 1917, were: for the former—the choice for the post of Minister-President of Prince Lvov, for the latter—the Soviets and Order No. 1. After this began the convulsive, unsystematic vacillation of the Government and of the Soviet.
It is to be regretted that this difference, which constitutes a marked distinction between two periods—the provisional and the constructive—two systems, two programmes, has not yet become sufficiently clear in public consciousness.
The whole period of the active struggle with Bolshevism passed under the sign of the mingling of these two systems, of divergent views and of incapacity to construct a provisional form of authority. It would seem that now, too, the anti-Bolshevist forces, while increasing the divergence of their views and building plans for the future, are not preparing for the process of assuming the power after the downfall of Bolshevism, and will again approach the task with naked hands and wavering mind. Only now the process will be immeasurably more difficult. For the second excuse—after “elemental forces”—for the failure of the Revolution, or rather of its leading men—“the heritage of the Czarist régime”—has paled very much on the background of the sanguinary Bolshevist mist which has enveloped the land of Russia.
The new power (the Provisional Government) was faced by a question of the first importance—the War. On its decision rested the fate of the country. The decision in favour of continuing the alliance and the War rested on ethical motives, which at that time did not rouse any doubts, and on practical motives, which were in some degree disputable. Now, even the former have been shaken, since both the Allies and the enemy have treated the fate of Russia with cruel, cynical egotism. Nevertheless, I have no doubt of the correctness of the decision then taken to continue the War. Many suppositions might be made as to the possibilities of a separate peace—whether that of Brest-Litovsk or one less grievous for the State and for our national self-love. But it is to be thought that such a peace in the spring of 1917 would have led either to the dismemberment of Russia and her economic débâcle (a general peace at the expense of Russia), or to the complete victory of the Central Powers over our Allies, which would have produced incomparably deeper convulsions in their countries than those which the German people are now experiencing. Both in the one case and in the other, no objective data would be present for any change for the better in the political, social and economic conditions of Russian life and any turning of the Russian Revolution into other channels. Only, besides Bolshevism, Russia would have added to her liabilities the hatred of the defeated for many years.
Having decided to fight, it was necessary to preserve the Army by admitting a certain conservatism into it. Such a conservatism serves as a guarantee for the stability of the Army and of that authority which seeks support in it. If the participation of the Army in historical cataclysms cannot be avoided, neither can it be turned into an arena for political struggle, creating, instead of the principle of service—pretorians or opritchniks, whether of the Czar, of the Revolutionary Democracy, or of any party is a matter of indifference.
The Army was broken up.
On those principles which the Revolutionary Democracy took as a basis for the existence of the Army, the latter could neither build nor live. It was no mere chance that all the later attempts at armed conflict with Bolshevism began with the organisation of an Army on the normal principles of military administration, to which the Soviet command as well sought to pass gradually. No elemental circumstances, no errors on the part of military dictatorships and of the powers co-operating with or opposing them which led to the failure of the struggle (of this some truths will be spoken later) are able to cast this undeniable fact into the shade. Nor is it a mere chance that the leading circles of the Revolutionary Democracy could create no armed forces, except that pitiful parody on them—the “National Army” on the so-called “front of the Constituent Assembly.” It was just this circumstance that led the Russian Socialist emigrants to the theory of non-resistance, of the negation of armed struggle, to the concentration of all their hopes on the inner degeneration of Bolshevism and its overthrow by some immaterial “forces of the people themselves,” which, however, could not express themselves otherwise than by blood and iron: “the great, bloodless” Revolution is drowned in blood from its beginning to its end.
To refuse to consider that vast question—the re-creation of a National Army on firm principles—is not to solve it.
What then? On the day that Bolshevism falls will peace and good-will immediately show forth in a land corrupted by a slavery worse than that of the Tartar yoke, saturated with dissension, revenge, hatred, and ... an enormous quantity of arms? Or, from that day forward, will the self-interested desires of many foreign Governments disappear, or will they grow stronger when the menace of the moral infection of the Soviet has vanished? Finally, even should the whole of old Europe, morally regenerated, beat out its swords into ploughshares, is it impossible for a new Tchingiz-Khan to come out of the depths of that Asia which has accounts age-long and huge beyond measure, against Europe?
The Army will be regenerated. Of that there can be no doubt.
Shaken in its historical foundations and traditions, like the heroes of the Russian legends, it will stand for no short time at the cross-roads, gazing anxiously into the misty distances, still wrapped in the gloom before the dawn, and listening intently to the vague sounds of the voices calling to it. And among the delusive calls it will seek, straining its hearing to the utmost, for the real voice ... the voice of its own people.
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