WATCHING THE DUMA AT WORK
The famous October manifesto--Skepticism of Russian people toward
promise of Constitution--Difficulties placed in way of honest
voting--Czar’s insincerity and duplicity--Fundamental and
exceptional laws--Ministerial change on eve of Duma--St. Petersburg
possessed by troops--The Winter Palace spectacle--The throne
speech--Disappointment of deputies--“Amnesty! Amnesty!”--“The first
shot”--Make-up of first Duma--First session--Zeal of
representatives--Hostile attitude of government--Work of
Duma--Governmental policy of obstruction--Dissolution--The Viborg
manifesto--The present peril--The promise of the future in the
light of the attitude of the Czar.
The famous manifesto granting representative government to the Russian
people was issued October 30, 1905. After brief delays and one
postponement the date for the meeting of the first parliament (to be
called Duma, which is to say “Think”) was set for May 10, 1906.
“Forty days of freedom” followed the manifesto, when the world at large
accepted the promise contained in the October manifesto as genuine. Then
black reaction shut down over all Russia and the people began to
understand that all is not gold that glitters even when molded into
royal insignia. Prince B----, a well-known courtier, told me, a month
before the day appointed for the convocation, that he knew absolutely
there would be no parliament in Russia for many years to come. The Czar
had been coerced into promising representative government by Count
Witte at a time when a wave of revolt, mutiny, and rebellion had caught
the imperial camp napping, and to stay this tide for the nonce the
manifesto was issued. One week before the meeting a general in command
of one of the most important branches of the army said in my hearing:
“Duma?” There will be no Duma. Or if it meets it will merely be that we
may capture the members on our bayonets.” The people themselves had but
little more faith in the royal pledge. Both of the revolutionary
parties--the Social Democrats and the Social Revolutionaries--openly
mocked the gullibility of the intellectual constitutionalists (who
pretended to believe in the manifesto), and boycotted the elections. The
elections, therefore, were often farcical. The situation was not
improved by the discriminating rules governing the voting issued by the
government, nor by the menacing attitude of the military and police
authorities on balloting-days. I was in Rostoff-on-Don, for example, on
the day set for the voting and the guard of Cossacks stationed at the
polling-places was so large and the men were so hostile in their
attitude that the Rostoff citizens could not be hired to approach the
voting-booths. About noon a proclamation was issued setting another day
for the elections.
When a local governor was displeased with the electors chosen, or with
the deputy finally selected to go to the imperial Duma, he sometimes
declared the entire election “illegal,” or found a slender and often
ridiculous pretext for annulling the vote cast for the man actually
chosen, or even for exiling the candidate to the North or to Siberia.
Two months later, when this Duma had been dissolved, the Czar said in
the presence of Prince T----, a good friend of mine: “I believe Russia
can run for twenty
[Illustration: Where the first Duma met]
years more without a parliament, and I intend to do all I can to guide
my country back to where we were before the October manifesto.” These
are the words of the Czar. They attain especial significance in the
light of later events, and it is evident to every thoughtful observer
that the Czar had already determined upon his policy before the Duma had
met at all. Every act of his indicates this: the promulgation of the
fundamental laws on May 8, his false and empty speech from the throne,
his refusal to receive the Duma’s response to the throne speech, the
dissolution, the dissolution of succeeding dumas, and the gradual
retrenchment and curtailment of every liberty he had ever promised. It
is highly important to interpret the history of Russia’s parliamentary
beginnings in the light of the attitude of the Czar.
On the eve of the meeting of the Duma the government issued a lengthy
list of so-called “fundamental” and “exceptional” laws which prenatally
devitalized and emasculated the new Duma. These laws were declared
unalterable by the Duma. The powers of the Czar, as autocrat, were
defined to include the sole right of proposing changes in the
fundamental laws to the Council of Empire[9] and the Duma; the right of
veto; the appointment of executive, the ministers, the judges; the
decisions of peace and war; the control and command of the army and
navy. Ordinary laws could not be passed without the consent of both
houses and the Czar, but the Czar might promulgate “special” laws, and
under the cloak of “martial” law any number or any kind of special laws
might be established. The council of ministers, too, might promulgate
“temporary” laws--with the consent of the Czar. (“Temporary” special
legislation against the Jews enacted fifty years ago still remains.)
While the parliament was to meet annually, the Czar reserved the right
to dismiss it at any time. The parliament was to have no control over
the public debt, or the expenses of the court or ministry. War taxes and
foreign loans might be made without the advice or consent of the Duma.
The ministers were to remain responsible to the Czar and not to the
Duma.
Thus Russia’s first parliament was left a mere shell, empty of power and
authority.
In spite of the doubting attitude of the people at large toward the good
faith of the Emperor and the government, in spite of the restrictions of
the elections, a remarkably sane and liberal body of men returned to the
Duma.
On May 1 Count Witte ceased to be premier, and an impotent little
gentleman named Gorymekin succeeded him.
On May 2 M. Durnovo, the unscrupulous and reactionary minister of
interior, notified the governors of the provinces that they were to
prevent peasant deputies from traveling to St. Petersburg with
Constitutional Democrats! The Constitutional Democrats being composed
almost entirely of university professors, professional men, and other
“intellectuals,” it was evidently feared that the unlettered peasants
might be contaminated.
Two days later M. Durnovo relinquished his portfolio, but became
secretary of state and retained the dignity of senator.
Thus with a new and untried cabinet, Russia awaited the assembling of
her first Duma.
All through the night of May 9 troops were poured into St. Petersburg.
The sun rose the morning of the 10th upon a miniature army in possession
of the capital. From dawn the streets were a-flutter with excitement.
Flags were extended from myriad windows. Squadrons of cavalry and
regiments of infantry were moving hither and yon--mostly in the
direction of the Winter Palace. All streets tending that way were early
blockaded. Orderlies and aides-de-camp galloped through the most crowded
thoroughfares. Officers in their most splendid uniforms filled the hotel
lobbies.
The spacious square before the Winter Palace was occupied by more troops
than on any occasion since that Sunday, fifteen months before, when
Father Gapon headed a certain procession of working-men who sought to
wait upon the Czar, their “Little Father,” and were shot down like an
enemy on a battle plain. On both occasions the shadow of the statue of
an angel of peace supporting a cross--symbol of surpassing love and
infinite compassion--fell across the square. Cossacks of the royal guard
in coats of scarlet, and dashing Lancers, were quartered about that
beautiful figure, and the slender shadow cast by the towering column
touched them as with a warning finger.
The privileges of the balcony in the throne room were extended to the
foreign correspondents whose credentials had satisfied the police and
palace authorities. Arrayed in evening clothes since mid-forenoon, we
sweltered with the soldiers in the piping hot square before the palace.
Shortly after one o’clock the doors were thrown open to us, and we
filed past various and sundry officials, who scrutinized our passes
(each one of which bore the authenticated photograph of the bearer), and
we passed in more haste than dignity to our several coigns of vantage
around the marble gallery.
Presently the privileged of the bureaucracy who had been “commanded” to
appear in full court dress began to take their places--the senators and
councilors of state, the generals and admirals, the foreign ambassadors,
and, lastly, the Duma deputies. With mild interest we watched these
groups gather. These were but the spectacular background for an intense,
though brief, drama about to be enacted--how significant, how tragic, no
one knew, nor cared to guess.
It was not yet two o’clock when the strains of the national anthem were
heard in a distant chamber, heralding royalty’s approach. The
magnificent procession advanced with measured steps. A strained hush
spread over the room. Twelve hundred eyes turned toward the portal, and
neither the dazzling glitter of imperial insignia, nor the splendor of
the royal standard, caused a quiver of distraction. Neither grand dukes
nor grand duchesses, Empress or Dowager-Empress, not even Trepoff
himself, commanded a single glance. Eagerly every eye in the room sought
one figure--the Czar!
The first view of him spoke only of pathos. Unutterably lonely he
appeared--a slight shuffling figure with a pale, set face.
Three paces into the room his feet strayed out from the line of
procession; his head jerked awkwardly. His breast heaved markedly and
his shoulders were squared with an effort. There was timidity in his
glance and his step was never sure. Those of us who were to his right,
and near enough, saw him fumble for his trousers-pocket
[Illustration: The Emperor reading his throne speech]
as he stood before the prelates of the church to receive the holy
blessing. He drew out a small blue-tinted handkerchief and wiped his
eyes. Then for the first time he fairly raised his head to survey the
assemblage about him. Surely the strangest phalanxes ever monarch walked
between were those on his either side. To his left was massed all the
brilliance and pomp of empire. To his right the plainest body of men
ever got together on this planet to deliberate the destiny of a nation.
France, in her most radical days, adhered less rigidly to the forms and
appearances of democracy.
The ceremonials of the church lasted a short twenty minutes. Yet each Te
Deum seemed an agony of protracted suspense; and royalty suffered.
Several times I heard a clucking sound in the throat of the Emperor as
he fought hard with terrible nervousness. Thrice he wiped his eyes. His
left hand, which was gloved, was held before him and his fingers
twitched incessantly. The Empress and Dowager-Empress alone in all the
cortège gave no sign of strain. Theirs was supreme poise. The grand
dukes, who stood in the ranks next behind, throughout the ceremonial
continued to cross themselves with most extraordinary determination.
Their vigorous piety far exceeded that of the gold-mantled ecclesiastics
themselves. When the last chant was sung, and the last blessing
bestowed, the royal suite took its place, the ladies to the left of the
throne, the men close to the representatives of the army. The Czar
remained standing in the center of the room. A single silhouette against
an infinite skyline could not be more solitary. Again his breast heaved
and his shoulders twitched--more noticeable now than at any previous
time. This was the final effort for self-command in the supreme trial
which he now faced. The effort was successful. From that moment until
the end the Czar looked, acted, and spoke with a degree of manliness,
even kingliness.
When all were in place and at rest, he stepped forward.
Witte, towering above all who stood near him, swayed indifferently
backward and forward in the front row of the bureaucrats. His shrewd
face was touched with a supercilious smile as the Czar walked past
him--not two yards away. Seven steps approached the throne. These the
Emperor ascended lightly, but with rare dignity. A mantle of ermine lay
across the throne, draped with careful carelessness. With tolerable ease
the Emperor sat briefly on his throne. Four stools stood near the four
corners of the dais. On those to the Emperor’s right hand were the crown
and orb; to his left, the scepter and seal of state.
An aide advanced and handed him his speech--a single broad page, pasted
on cardboard. This he took standing. Quietly and firmly he assumed
position, left foot slightly forward, the paper held easily with both
hands.
There was naught of haste in his actions. His head lifted, but not for
speech. He merely looked over the throng. The positions of the
respective sides were now reversed. The bureaucracy was to the right,
and the Duma to his left. Nearest the throne, to the right, the
Empresses, grand duchesses and other grand ladies of the court. Then
followed in successive groups, whose stations were indicated by crimson
palings, the several classes of court, official, military, and naval
dignitaries. Next to the ladies were the senators, ministers, and
members of the Council of the Empire in emblazoned uniforms of scarlet
and gold. Below them, adjutant ministers, dignitaries from other cities,
and the second rank of the court officials. Then the Emperor’s
aides-de-camp and personal attendants. Next, the most gorgeous group of
all--the army and navy. Stout old generals with twenty and even
twenty-five medals bedecking their breasts; broad sashes of scarlet,
light blue and cardinal, some worn over the left shoulder, others over
the right--as if the wonderful uniforms of every blazing color known to
fabric makers were not in themselves sufficiently striking. The slightly
quieter, though equally magnificent, uniforms of the admirals alternated
with the army. There were Cossack commanders in Circassian dress of
cassock effect, and stately hussars with fur-burdened capes, and yards
of gold and silver cord, draped and tasseled--uniforms as fantastic as
dazzling. Last of all, in the section farthest from the throne, the
foreign ambassadors. Not the diplomatic corps--only the ambassadors, for
each individual standing-place was at a premium. The throne was the only
chair in the room; the Emperor the only one permitted even momentary
repose. These bureaucratic groups were solidly packed. The space seemed
to have been measured off to the inch, and invitations issued
accordingly. On the opposite side of the salon, in looser order, stood
the Duma. Contrast of contrasts! No gilt or tinsel there. Simply men.
Men from the workaday world. The Roman Catholic bishop elected from
Vilna wore his ecclesiastic robes of purple and the Greek priests wore
theirs of dark, coarse stuffs. The Mussulmen were turbaned, and the
Polish peasants wore their national cloaks of homespun white, traced
with homely embroidery in red and black. Some of the university
professors wore regulation evening clothes, and some of the lawyers
appeared in ordinary frock coats. The working-men wore short jackets,
while the peasants were in their simple peasant dress--long, blue coats
of coarse material, and boots knee-high. A few had pinned on war-medals,
indicating that they had served their country on the battlefield. The
mud and dust of the fields still clung to their boots.
The two sides of the room glared and stared one at the other. The Duma
evinced a curious interest in the spectacle the bureaucracy presented.
Most of them seemed to wonder what all that display had to do with the
business in hand. The bureaucrats, on the other hand, were much more
moved. Some laughed with obvious scorn and derision. Others were sad and
depressed. Others were merely amused. Only here and there was a face
whose seriousness indicated a complete appreciation of the full portent
of the scene. It may have been fancy, but to me it seemed that Count
Witte alone understood. At all events he was the only man among all the
bureaucrats who, at the close of the ceremony, spoke to any of the
members on the Duma side of the room. The open avenue through the room
from the door to the throne was like a yawning chasm, across which no
word might pass, even of formal courtesy. “To us it is like letting the
revolution into the palace,” said one lady of the court to me. So the
whole bureaucratic side seemed to view it. No enemy could have viewed
another with more open and keener suspicion. The Duma, it must be added,
was the better behaved. The members were quiet, dignified, and obviously
patient, through the extraordinarily long religious ceremony and a
tedious hour of waiting.
In the first three months of the year over seventy thousand men and
women had been snatched from their homes and placed in prison or sent
into exile. The release of all of these people, against many of whom
there was no known charge, certainly no evidence, was what the country
at large awaited with ill-suppressed eagerness. “The Emperor will grant
an amnesty in his speech from the throne,” said popular rumor, and it
was for this that the Duma listened when the Emperor stood before the
throne, speech in hand, about to utter the first words. The attitude of
an empire hung on the temper of that address. The quiet that fell over
the assembly was the quiet of a mountain midnight. Not a dress rustled,
not a foot scraped, not a sword jangled, no breath was audible. The eyes
of the Emperor returned from their survey of the room and riveted on the
paper he held. His lips parted, and the first syllable rang clearly to
the farthest corners of the room: “The right, given me by divine
authority, to care for the Fatherland, has prompted me to call upon
representatives elected by the people to aid me in legislative work.
“With the ardent belief in the bright future of Russia, I greet you here
as the best people whom I have commanded my beloved subjects to elect.
Hard and complicated is the work before you. I trust, however, that your
love for the Fatherland, and your ardent desire to serve her, will
inspire and unite you. And I will guard the liberties given by me with
the firm belief that you will not spare your power and effort to
faithfully serve the Fatherland in giving relief to the peasants, so
dear to my heart, in educating the people, in helping them to
prosperity, remembering at the same time that for moral greatness, and
the prosperity of the country, not freedom only is necessary, but also
order resting upon right.
“It is my ardent desire to see my people happy, and to leave to my son a
powerful, prosperous, and civilized country. God shall bless the labor
that is before us, in union with the Council of the Empire and the Duma.
And let this day signify also the great event of the moral renovation of
Russia. Let this be the day of regeneration of her best forces.
“Get devotedly to the work to which I have called you, and justify
worthily the trust of the Emperor and the people.
“God help me and you.”
Both hands dropped to his sides as the last words were spoken, and he
remained where he stood as though to watch the effect of the speech upon
the assemblage. The military band in a balcony at the rear struck up the
national anthem--most beautiful and magnificent of national anthems.
Hundreds of voices from the side of the bureaucrats rose as one with a
cheer and a shout of “Bravo! Bravo!” The roar was bewildering. “Bravo!
Bravo!” However could one room hold such volumes of sound! But the
Emperor’s ears were not deceived; nor his eyes. The shout in all its
mightiness came from one side of the room. The Emperor looked long and
earnestly at the Duma--not a voice was raised, not a cheer echoed, from
that entire side. They were not even swayed by the prolonged cheering of
the bureaucrats. Generals, old and decrepit, court cavaliers and
ministers yelled themselves into a frenzy. The simple, ignorant
peasants, of whom it had been said a thousand times--“Ugh! They’ll lose
their heads first thing,” these men stood like stone, absolutely
impassive. They knew in the first place that the “right given me by
divine authority which prompted me to call upon representatives of the
people” was merely an aggregation of words. Revolution prompted the
Duma. Nothing more nor less. “Uprisings” and “disturbances” all over the
country. And no word of amnesty! Nothing!
The Emperor slowly descended from the throne and the royal procession
formed for exit. The band played its loudest. The courtiers and
bureaucrats kept up their shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!” Whatever of
spontaneity there may have been in the first outburst was now gone, and
the words were pronounced in a unison which became rhythmic. Before the
Emperor had reached the door even these shouts had subsided. His own
aides-de-camp and the generals alone maintained the noise. A paid claque
could not have been more marked.
At first the Emperor bowed to the Duma. But his bow was chill and
formal, his eye cold and severe. To his right he turned with warmth.
Generally he recognized a face and smiled, but to the left his
expression was statuesque. The ladies in his train did much better.
Several of them quite ignored the glittering array on the right, and
bowed and smiled most graciously to the Duma members, and with more
seeming spontaneity and sincerity.
After the imperial cortège, the bureaucracy filed out in a brilliant
pageant, and last of all the Duma.
The spectacle had surely been in entire keeping with the ostentatious
traditions of czardom, but to the most reactionary bureaucrats it was
patent that the “simple peasants” had not been impressed as had been
expected. They had enjoyed it--as they would have enjoyed a military
manœuver. They had watched it as a passing show, and were quite at a
loss as to the reason for it, or the connection between it and their
business.
Many freely expressed their amazement at the gowns of the ladies. There
were scores among the Duma members who had never before set eyes on
grand ladies, and they could not repress their surprise at their
décolleté cut. “Why did the Emperor bring us here?” asked one naïvely,
“was it to show us his women?”
“I thought the Emperor’s house would be full of holy pictures,” said
another sorrowfully, in the first blush of disillusionment.
“If the government tells us again that they have no money for famine,
we can tell them where they might get a few copecks,” added another with
a significant shake of his peasant head.
The magnificent ceremony with all its brilliant pageantry, the most
gorgeous spectacle of a traditionally spectacular court, completely
failed to inspire the confidence of the working-men and peasants in
their olden rulers. On the contrary, it inspired amazement, discontent,
and distrust.
The Czar, who is probably the greatest living genius for missing
opportunities, read his empty speech--read it well, eloquently--and for
the first time in his life saw face to face real men who were not
fawning sycophants, and who dared express their true feelings when these
were not of admiration or of approbation.
To facilitate the transportation of the Duma members from the Winter
Palace to the Tauride Palace, where the sessions were to be held, they
were loaded into boats and conveyed most of the way by water.
Near the Tauride Palace, looking on the river Neva, is a frowning prison
in which are many political prisoners. As the boats were passing this
grim place handkerchiefs began to appear, shoved out between the iron
bars, and frantically waved in greeting. Across the water rang the cry
of “Amnesty!” Some of the peasants who had stood stolid and unmoved
through all the Winter Palace function were deeply touched by the
appeals from behind the prison gratings, and not a few among them wept.
The first sitting was, of necessity, brief. There was an ecclesiastic
ceremony, the administration of the oath, and the election of a
president. The hum of “Amnesty” was in the air, but the demands of
formal procedure would not permit of the taking hold of actual business
until the president had announced himself at Peterhof--therefore
amnesty, by unofficial but unanimous understanding, was scheduled for
the first business of the next sitting.
But short as this session was--one hour and twenty minutes--the “first
shot” was fired by the Duma when a group of bureaucratic intruders were
ejected. The staunch old liberal, Petrounkevitch, climbed to the
tribunal and shouted “Let freedom, liberty, and amnesty be the words of
Russia’s first parliament.” The Duma echoed the words, and cries of
“Liberty!” “Amnesty!” were sent ringing through the chamber.
M. Mouromseff, a sturdy collegiate of liberal traditions, was elected
president, Prince Dolgorukoff, of ancient lineage, first vice-president.
Twenty-two distinct peoples were represented in the Duma, divided by
religion as follows:
Russian Orthodox, 339; Catholics, 63; Protestants, 13; Old Believers, 4;
Baptists, 1; Jews, 11; Mohammedan, 14; Buddhists, 1; no religion, 1.
With regard to education, a large proportion, 184 in number, never
attended any kind of schools; 111 went through the lower grades; 61
through the middle, and 189 either finished or partially finished
university courses. In spite of the large number who never attended
school, only two were unable to read or write.
By parties the members were classified as follows:
Constitutional Democrats, 153; Group of Toil, 107; Autonomous, 63; Party
of Democratic Reforms, 4; Octoberists, 13; Moderates, 2; Trade and
Industry, 1; unclassified, 105.[10] The average age of the members was
39.
The first business session began with the reading of many congratulatory
telegrams, from the Diet of Finland, the municipality of Prague, the
Prince of Montenegro, and the large cities of the empire. Toward the
last were several from political exiles and prisoners. The spontaneous
applause which broke from practically the entire Duma when these
telegrams were read was louder and more sustained than for all of the
others put together. The president was obliged to read them a second,
then a third time, and then, at the suggestion of some one on the floor,
another round of applause was given standing. I counted only eight men
who remained in their seats. Amnesty was made the first demand of the
Duma. Not a partial amnesty, but a full and complete amnesty to all
political prisoners, including terrorists.
Telegrams, letters, petitions began daily to come from all parts of the
country to the deputies urging this and other demands. “If we fail to
get the things we have come for, we dare not return to our homes,” said
many deputies. The general feeling at the time was that if the Duma
failed or was suppressed, it would be not the Duma merely that was put
down, but the country. For in a degree difficult to appreciate the Duma
was the country. It was the most absolutely representative organization
ever brought together. Not of people merely, but of professionals and
classes. The United States House of Representatives is largely composed
of lawyers and professional politicians. The House of Commons of
“gentlemen.” The French Chambre of journalists and men of letters. Not
so the Duma. An analysis of the personnel and professions of the members
showed that twenty-three were lawyers; fifteen, university professors;
six, high-school teachers; fifteen, doctors; nine,
[Illustration:
Petrounkevitch Roditcheff
Two Constitutional Democratic leaders in the first Duma]
authors; seventy-five, “Zemstvo specialists”--that is to say, men who
have devoted themselves to the work of local governing bodies, men of
means generally; twelve, rich landowners; ten, marshals of nobility;
two, engineers; nine, “functionaries”--men appointed by favor to
positions of sinecure in connection with public offices; seven,
common-school teachers; four, Greek priests; three, Roman Catholic
priests; three, Mohammedan moullahs; one, Jewish rabbi; one, Romanist
bishop; fifteen, workmen; four, merchants; two, manufacturers; two,
students; and one hundred and sixty-six, peasants. The atmosphere of the
ensemble was, at first glance, intellectual, but the peasants and
workmen together formed a powerful block to any step proposed by the
intellectuals that did not meet with their approval. They were the real
radicals, the extreme left, of the Duma.
The “intellectuals” mostly belonged to the Constitutional Democratic
party. The program of this party was not a bad one if it had only
worked. But most of the members were over-cautious, and inclined to be
humble and mild in their language, to crave the Emperor’s grace, for
example, for the political amnesty, while the peasants and the workmen
said: “We ask nothing. We demand--not grace and pardon, but justice.”
The “right” formed so small a group that they were entirely without
influence.
The sessions of this remarkable body were characterized by orderliness,
clearness, and real eloquence.
An interesting scene was witnessed when the question came up: Should the
Duma attend the reception given in its honor by the city of St.
Petersburg? The workmen replied: “If the city of St. Petersburg has
money to spend in banqueting us, let them give it to the unemployed of
the city, of whom there are so many.” The intellectuals said: “We can
attend no banquets or festivities while so many of our former colleagues
are in prison or in exile. Until the amnesty is declared, we will not
make merry,” and so the Duma continued sitting on the night of the
banquet and reception.
The reply to the throne speech[11] was carried without one dissenting
voice. The eight reactionaries who did not care to sign it left the hall
rather than vote against it. Those who believe the Russian people too
much split into parties and factions ever to accomplish definite results
might recall this unanimity which indicated the ability to get together
and stand together in time of crisis.
Despite the orderliness which characterized the Duma from the start, the
authorities continued to maintain a great show of force everywhere. The
Semenovsky regiment, which had put down the Moscow insurrection, was
quartered in barracks adjoining the Duma building, and the following
secret order was issued to the soldiers:
“How to act--in case of alarm and in the suppression of armed uprising
of the population:
“At the first call from the police for help, sergeants must immediately
notify the officers, who must in their turn order the troops to make
immediately ready for action.
“Upon leaving the barracks battalions should march through the entire
width of the streets so as to protect the rear and keep it free for
reinforcements should such be required.
“Troops should move with all possible rapidity, sending ahead an advance
guard for determining positions.
“In the event of shots being fired from windows into a marching
battalion, fire from several rifles should immediately be opened upon
such windows.
“Troops should not approach a mob nearer than one hundred paces, so as
to conveniently open fire while avoiding injury likely to come from
hand bombs being thrown from the crowd. Avoid action with bayonets and
try to remain at a distance, because a bullet at a short distance works
with greater effect than a bayonet. One bullet may kill two or three men
in a crowd.
“In the event of a collision with armed rebels, soldiers must conduct
themselves as upon a field of battle, remembering that the end will be
attained only when the enemy is crushed or annihilated. Therefore,
before leaving barracks, substitutes should be chosen, to take the
places of commanding officers killed.”
There was no need for this order, however, and the Duma continued on to
its peaceful end two months after its convocation.
It wrestled with the amnesty question, and sent a bill up to the Council
of Empire abolishing capital punishment. When the Bielostok massacre
occurred it appointed a commission of investigation, and attempted to
inaugurate the interpellation of ministers. Prince Urusoff made his
world-famous speech revealing the complicity of the government in
massacres, and the government wires carried the report of this speech to
every part of the empire. The Duma became the greatest propaganda and
educating influence Russia ever saw, simply because every word spoken
within its walls was repeated throughout the land.
The government continued its policy of obstruction, contempt, scorn, and
insult. No other legislative body in the world would have tolerated what
the first Duma bore in silence. Finally, the Duma attacked that most
serious of all serious problems in Russia--the agrarian question--and
sought to solve it through the establishment of the principle of
expropriation.
Then came dissolution.
One Sunday morning in early July the people of St. Petersburg read an
official announcement, bearing the signature of the Czar, that the Duma
had ceased to exist. There was no disturbance, no demonstration,
although the announcement came at an unexpected moment.
A story was circulated in St. Petersburg of how the American ambassador
was surprised by the dissolution. According to report the ambassador’s
family were at a European watering-place, where he expected presently to
join them. Just previous to his departure from St. Petersburg he
received a cablegram from Washington to the effect that, owing to the
unsettled condition of Russia, the President would suggest that the
ambassador remain in Russia through the summer. The ambassador and one
of the secretaries of the embassy sat down on Sunday morning and framed
a long cipher message to Washington, setting forth reasons for assurance
that Russia would remain tranquil for the present. They finished writing
the message early in the afternoon, and started out together to deposit
it at the central telegraph office. On the way they learned that the
Duma had been dissolved that morning before they had so much as begun
their telegram to Washington!
Some of the members, mostly Constitutional Democrats, remembered the
Tennis Court Oath of French history and had timid ambitions to do
likewise. So they hastened to Viborg, in Finland, where, safe from being
dispersed by Cossacks or police, they argued, deliberated, and wrangled
for a week. Then the governor-general of Finland announced a state of
martial law and warned the ex-deputies that the hospitality of Finland
could no longer be extended to them. Eager to do something, yet not
knowing what to do, they proceeded to issue a proclamation known as the
[Illustration: The Duma lobby]
Viborg manifesto, in which they called upon the people of Russia to
cease paying taxes and to refrain from sending recruits to the army and
navy--in other words to become utterly disregardful of all law emanating
from any other source than a representative body chosen by the people.
The Viborg manifesto was a silly blunder, and no more effective than a
blank shell. It showed that eminent academicians, brilliant writers, and
earnest patriots do not always make clever statesmen.
The government forbade the circulation of the Viborg manifesto, but
otherwise paid little attention to the step. Every signer was put under
the ban, and it was only a short time after that of the members of the
first Duma one had been murdered, one gone insane, two cruelly beaten,
ten were in hiding, five were exiled, twenty-four in prison,
thirty-three had been arrested and searched, and one hundred and
eighty-two placed under indictment on the charge of treason.
Shortly after the dissolution a second Duma was announced, to be chosen
under very much more restricted voting conditions, and to meet early in
the following year.
Thus the day of democratic government dawned in Russia. It was like a
burst of sunlight through the rift of a stormy sky--and soon shut in
again. I asked Mr. Williams Jennings Bryan, who was a visitor to the
Duma previous to the dissolution, how he was impressed by the Assembly.
“It is the most remarkable body of men on earth to-day,” was his reply.
And I believe it was. On the whole, the conduct of the Duma was
admirable.
I submit that this is true in spite of a good deal of amateurishness and
crudeness, in spite of the enthusiasm of a few zealots, in spite even of
the blunder of the Viborg manifesto, which after all was the mistake of
one party, indeed the mistake of one man. Above all else the men in the
Duma were transparently honest, sincerely striving to serve the people
they represented. And in Russia, as in more civilized lands, honesty in
political life does not necessarily spell success.
The conduct of the government toward it was unworthy, insincere, and
false. The brief career of this Duma demonstrated the ability of the
Russian people to govern themselves--provided they are given reasonable
freedom in selecting whom they like for their representatives.
It is not fair to ask: “Are the people of Russia ready for
self-government?” It is not fair, because we know that ability to do
anything successfully must rest on experience. We do know this, however,
that a government of the Russian people by the people would not be a
government whose power rested on terrorism, whose methods included
outrage and massacre. It would be parliamentary in every sense. Its
mistakes would be parliamentary mistakes which would be corrected by
parliamentary methods. The peril lies in increased restrictions and the
gradual weeding out of most of the strong, promising men. The promise of
the future is that permanent democratic government in Russia will first
have to be fought for, precisely as all liberty is battled for. The key
to the present situation is, in the words of the Czar: “I believe Russia
can run for twenty years more without a parliament, and I shall do all I
can to guide my country back to where we were before the October
manifesto.”