Part I
To walk up the steps of the summer palace of the Russian Czars is to walk into a fairy tale. As one moves towards it one notices that the lawns, which are as green as the felt of a billiard table, are painted a slightly golden hue by the rays of the sun. As one enters through one of the the great doors, past snow-white columns and bright-yellow walls, one expects wondrous things indoors.
These expectations are not disappointed. Inside, one wanders through lacquer-wooded hallways, on the sides of which are hung massive portraits of great people and deeds from the past. Then come great, arched rooms. From the ceilings, far above the height of any human head, hang huge chandeliers shaped like wedding cakes, their lights twinkling. When surrounded by all this for the first time, one feels that it is impossible to be truly unhappy in this place.
One would be wrong. In this late June of 1905, the palace’s primary occupant was everything but happy. Czar Nicholas II sat on one of the velvet-cushioned sofas, but did not feel comfort. His eyes were open to the beauty of his surroundings, but his mind saw none.
Waiting was the hardest part. Communications with his commanders on Russia’s western borders was spotty in the best of times, but this night they seemed particularly troubled. If word did not come soon, he would have to go to bed without it, although this virtually precluded getting a good night’s sleep. In the meantime, this wait, in which time seemed to pass as if stuck on molasses, allowed his thoughts to wander yet again to wanders over the events which had brought Europe to the brink of total war.
It had started in April, when his mercurial relative, the Emperor of Germany, had visited Morocco, a country which Russia’s new ally France intended to invade and conquer, and pledged it German protection, initiating what would become known to history as the Long Crisis. It had stewed at a low level since then until now, but Nicholas’s recollection of it at the time was unclear, having been overshadowed by the annihilation of his navy at the Battle of Tsushima the next month. That had finally forced him to accept that the war with Japan was lost and begin negotiations for peace, which even now were being mediated by the President of that vast republic in the other hemisphere, a curious nation which had no king (lately is seemed that those talks were proceeding more slowly than at first seemed). That, though, had not been the only factor which forced his hand. Mass unrest had broken out in Russia itself as defeat piled upon defeat. The radical Bolshevik rebels, in particular, were proving more effective than expected, and his chiefs of security had recently informed him that it was just possible that they were being funded by a foreign power-who or why they did not know.
Then, in the middle of this month, the crisis had exploded with a vengeance. Negotiations had proven fruitless, and Kaiser Wilhelm had ordered his forces to mobilize. Then, both Germany’s western and eastern borders had been sealed, the latter, so his German relative had written, so that French spies could not gain access to Germany from Russia. Spokesmen for the German government no longer gave direct answers to the question of whether it would respect the neutrality of Belgium, which inspired great protest from Britain, which had moved closer to France as a result. Soon thereafter, Germany’s junior ally Austria had decided that now was the time to press one of its innumerable disputes with Serbia, a small Balkan country known as Russia’s “little brother.” It seemed that any day now, the armies of the Central Powers would march on Paris and Belgrade.
In fact, it was puzzling that they had not done so already. If his generals’ estimates of Germany’s logistical capacity were correct, it should have been able to initiate its invasion of France via Belgium already. That it had not done so was welcome news, for it enabled Russia further time to mobilize its own forces, (those which had not been already sent to Manchuria and defeated, that is) although it was such a creaky process that it could not be described as more than a third completed. Regardless, it seemed inevitable that all the great powers would soon be plunged into conflict, with the possible exception of Britain, shielded by its Royal Navy, upon which the Grande Armee never looked, as one author whose name he could not at the moment recall had put it.
It now occurred to him, with a kind of dim interest, that this day, which the midnight clocks had just tolled, was the same one on which, 96 years before, the doomed Napoleon had invaded. There were, he thought, probably a few people still living who had been infants on that day. On that thought, he got up, went to bed, pulled up the covers, and was soon in a fitful sleep-he was very tired.
A few hours later, a royal steward knocked timidly at his door. “What is it?” he asked “A telegram from the STAVKA,” . So news had come after all. As he got up and put on his night robes, he realized that he heard absolutely nothing, no clocks ticking, no leaves rustling or birds flying by outside. He opened the door and took the telegram wordlessly, then walked over to the window to read it by the moonlight, “The Germans are shelling our cities.”
To walk up the steps of the summer palace of the Russian Czars is to walk into a fairy tale. As one moves towards it one notices that the lawns, which are as green as the felt of a billiard table, are painted a slightly golden hue by the rays of the sun. As one enters through one of the the great doors, past snow-white columns and bright-yellow walls, one expects wondrous things indoors.
These expectations are not disappointed. Inside, one wanders through lacquer-wooded hallways, on the sides of which are hung massive portraits of great people and deeds from the past. Then come great, arched rooms. From the ceilings, far above the height of any human head, hang huge chandeliers shaped like wedding cakes, their lights twinkling. When surrounded by all this for the first time, one feels that it is impossible to be truly unhappy in this place.
One would be wrong. In this late June of 1905, the palace’s primary occupant was everything but happy. Czar Nicholas II sat on one of the velvet-cushioned sofas, but did not feel comfort. His eyes were open to the beauty of his surroundings, but his mind saw none.
Waiting was the hardest part. Communications with his commanders on Russia’s western borders was spotty in the best of times, but this night they seemed particularly troubled. If word did not come soon, he would have to go to bed without it, although this virtually precluded getting a good night’s sleep. In the meantime, this wait, in which time seemed to pass as if stuck on molasses, allowed his thoughts to wander yet again to wanders over the events which had brought Europe to the brink of total war.
It had started in April, when his mercurial relative, the Emperor of Germany, had visited Morocco, a country which Russia’s new ally France intended to invade and conquer, and pledged it German protection, initiating what would become known to history as the Long Crisis. It had stewed at a low level since then until now, but Nicholas’s recollection of it at the time was unclear, having been overshadowed by the annihilation of his navy at the Battle of Tsushima the next month. That had finally forced him to accept that the war with Japan was lost and begin negotiations for peace, which even now were being mediated by the President of that vast republic in the other hemisphere, a curious nation which had no king (lately is seemed that those talks were proceeding more slowly than at first seemed). That, though, had not been the only factor which forced his hand. Mass unrest had broken out in Russia itself as defeat piled upon defeat. The radical Bolshevik rebels, in particular, were proving more effective than expected, and his chiefs of security had recently informed him that it was just possible that they were being funded by a foreign power-who or why they did not know.
Then, in the middle of this month, the crisis had exploded with a vengeance. Negotiations had proven fruitless, and Kaiser Wilhelm had ordered his forces to mobilize. Then, both Germany’s western and eastern borders had been sealed, the latter, so his German relative had written, so that French spies could not gain access to Germany from Russia. Spokesmen for the German government no longer gave direct answers to the question of whether it would respect the neutrality of Belgium, which inspired great protest from Britain, which had moved closer to France as a result. Soon thereafter, Germany’s junior ally Austria had decided that now was the time to press one of its innumerable disputes with Serbia, a small Balkan country known as Russia’s “little brother.” It seemed that any day now, the armies of the Central Powers would march on Paris and Belgrade.
In fact, it was puzzling that they had not done so already. If his generals’ estimates of Germany’s logistical capacity were correct, it should have been able to initiate its invasion of France via Belgium already. That it had not done so was welcome news, for it enabled Russia further time to mobilize its own forces, (those which had not been already sent to Manchuria and defeated, that is) although it was such a creaky process that it could not be described as more than a third completed. Regardless, it seemed inevitable that all the great powers would soon be plunged into conflict, with the possible exception of Britain, shielded by its Royal Navy, upon which the Grande Armee never looked, as one author whose name he could not at the moment recall had put it.
It now occurred to him, with a kind of dim interest, that this day, which the midnight clocks had just tolled, was the same one on which, 96 years before, the doomed Napoleon had invaded. There were, he thought, probably a few people still living who had been infants on that day. On that thought, he got up, went to bed, pulled up the covers, and was soon in a fitful sleep-he was very tired.
A few hours later, a royal steward knocked timidly at his door. “What is it?” he asked “A telegram from the STAVKA,” . So news had come after all. As he got up and put on his night robes, he realized that he heard absolutely nothing, no clocks ticking, no leaves rustling or birds flying by outside. He opened the door and took the telegram wordlessly, then walked over to the window to read it by the moonlight, “The Germans are shelling our cities.”
