Andrei’s poster, tacked to the wall of the busy market on Vassily Island, was seen by many. It had been both admired and reviled. And, indeed, there was some curiosity about the identity of the mysterious creator. But the first rain that came washed out most of the charcoal and obscured the fine art work. It was never expected to have a major impact on events in Russia, anyway.
Tsar Nicholas was already well on the way toward taking action against the upheavals wracking the nation. Sergius Witte, the political genius who had been battling the emperor for years in his attempt to convince him to adopt a constitutional government, had finally prevailed. Or, perhaps more accurately, the people had finally prevailed. Without the crippling strikes, the tsar might have continued to nurse his illusions that the Romanov autocracy was still as viable as it had been two hundred years ago or even fifty years ago.
For good or ill, all Nicholas the Second’s illusions were starting to die. One of the most sacred vows he had taken upon ascending to the throne was to maintain the absolute autocracy he had inherited from his father. And one of the dreams of his life was to pass the Crown, inviolate, on to his son and heir.
Yet events were conspiring against him, forcing him into a position in which there seemed no possible compromise. He was primarily responsible for his own plight, of course, because he had embroiled Russia in an impossible war. But Nicholas now found himself in a position in which his only choice was between two appalling evils. On one hand, he could step in with military force, crush the rebellion, and strong-arm the nation back to work. The cost in blood would be high, far worse than the tragedy on Bloody Sunday.
The only other choice was to give the people their civil rights, along with a constitution.
The manifesto now lay before him. It was surprisingly brief considering the vast implications it contained. In it the tsar declared he would:
Grant the people the unshakable foundations of civil liberty on the basis of true inviolability of person, freedom of conscience, speech, assembly, and association.
Immediately institute a State Duma, without suspending the scheduled elections. And insofar as it is feasible in the brief time remaining before the convening of the Duma, admit to participation those classes of the population that are now wholly deprived of the rights of suffrage, leaving the further development of the principle of universal suffrage to the new legislative order.
And finally, establish as an inviolable rule that no law can come into force without the consent of the State Duma, and that the representatives of the people must be guaranteed the opportunity of effective participation in the supervision of the legality of the actions performed by our appointed officials.
Nicholas read the paper once more. Could he really initiate such a thing? It was the same as a man cutting off his own legs. He had pointedly omitted the use of the word constitution, a term he wondered if he would ever come to grips with.
While his wife urged him to stand firm, a majority of his advisors were pressing for him to adopt the manifesto. The more moderate ones suggested that government be made into a military dictatorship with the tsar’s cousin Nicholas Nicholavich as the dictator. Witte, though he said he might support this idea, declared that he could never have an active part in it. Of course, Witte wanted the constitutional monarchy in which he hoped to be Prime Minister.
The sudden sounds of a disturbance in the anteroom diverted Nicholas’s thoughts. He looked up just as his door burst open. He was shocked to see his cousin, completely ignoring court protocol, rush into his office.
“Nicholas Nicholavich!” the tsar exclaimed.
“Nicky, I’ve heard what you are considering. You can’t do it!” The strapping, six-foot-tall military man shut the door behind him and strode toward the tsar. He might have looked rather menacing if the tsar hadn’t grown up with the man and played with him as a child.
“I myself am not sure what I am going to do,” said the tsar calmly. “What specifically are you talking about, Nicholasha?”
“That ridiculous idea of forming a dictatorship with me as the head.”
Suddenly, the Grand Duke Nicholas drew his revolver. The tsar gasped, then the grand duke jerked up the gun and pointed it at his own head.
“I swear, Nicky, if you do such a thing, I will shoot myself,” declared the grand duke.
“Calm down, Nicholasha, please.”
“Tell me you will adopt Witte’s proposals—then I’ll calm down.”
“I’m debating my decision at this very moment.”
“Then you are considering this military dictatorship?”
“No, especially if it means I shall have to scrape your innards off my carpet.”
“What about Witte’s plan?” Appeased, the grand duke slipped his gun back into its holster.
“I . . . don’t know.”
“Nicky, it’s the only way. Surely you must realize that. You must adopt it—for the good of Russia.”
How much his cousin’s outburst influenced his final decision, the tsar couldn’t say. But he did have to make a choice, and it did help that people he respected were encouraging the path he at last conceded to.
So, late in the month of October of that fateful year 1905, Nicholas the Second, Emperor of Russia, ended the absolute rule of a dynasty that had survived nearly three hundred years.
After signing the decree, Nicholas returned to his study. Half an hour later, his secretary, Prince Orlov, found him sitting at his desk, weeping.
Orlov, obviously flustered at finding his sovereign in this state, turned to leave.
“Don’t go, Orlov,” Nicholas pleaded. “I can’t bear to be alone right now. I feel like a murderer because I have destroyed the Crown. What will I give my son now? I fear it is all finished . . .”