The Winter Palace
St. Petersburg, Russia
July 1888
Eighteen-year-old Stephen Morrison fidgeted nervously as he waited in the receiving line with Senator Straythorne. He and the Senator, both dressed in black-tie formal wear, blended in with the many colors of various military uniforms worn by the other guests in line. They looked to young Stephen as if they, with their gold braid and epaulets, had stepped right out of a meeting of one of Napoleon’s war councils. Looking forward to the front of the line, he could see their hosts, the Tsar and Tsarina, greeting the guests, while their names were loudly announced. This building, he thought to himself, makes the United States Capitol building look very ordinary! It was with a combination of anticipation and excitement that he arrived at the Winter Palace, an official member of the United States Congressional delegation.
The trip from New York to London was the first treat for the young man. He was officially listed as a member of the trade delegation, one of fifteen members of the group. Compared to his last voyage across the Atlantic as a steerage passenger, the difference as a first-class passenger on the steamship contrasted like night and day. Senator Straythorne liked Stephen and had personally took him under his wing since their departure from New York. Also traveling with them was Sergeant Amos Johnson, recently retired from the New York City Police Department. When the rest of the delegation returned to the United States, Johnson was to be Stephen’s bodyguard and traveling companion once the left St. Petersburg.
The remainder of the journey to St. Petersburg was all in first-class accommodations befitting their congressional status. Their hotel in St. Petersburg, the Grand Hotel Europe on Mikhailovskaya Street, was the most luxurious hotel that the young man had ever experienced. But when they arrived at the Winter Palace for the state dinner, the son of the United States congressman was truly astounded.
Built in the mid-1700s, the first royal resident of the Winter Palace was Catherine the Great. The front of the magnificent structure faced the massive Palace Square. The opposite side of the palace sat on the bank of the Neva River. As they entered the palace grounds, the guest coach carrying the American delegation in fell in line with the other diplomatic, military, and industrial guests approaching the Ambassador’s Entrance on the side of the state courtyard. The entrance overlooked the Neva. Uniformed liverymen in red velvet coats assisted them from the coach and escorted them into the ground-floor entrance. From there they were ushered into the main vestibule.
“Have you ever seen anything so magnificent, Stephen?” whispered the senator to his young charge. They had just entered the Jordan Gallery with its massive marble columns and works of sculpture, following the escorted line of guests to the most beautiful staircase they had ever seen. This main staircase, also called the Jordan Staircase, was a marble structure covered with red carpet. Stephen engrossed himself in the wonderful details, the gold-inlaid royal crests featuring the double eagle of the Romanov dynasty, as well as the marble stair rails and royal blue columns supporting the vaulted arches of the first floor.
The opulence of the ground floor of the Winter Palace continued on the first floor. Arriving at the top of the Jordan Staircase, the uniformed staff escorted the guests down a lengthy cream-colored hallway, the portrait gallery of the Romanov dynasty. All of the guests walked slightly slower as they studied the fine oil portraits of Alexander III and his Romanov predecessors. The irony of this moment was not lost on Stephen. Wouldn’t you bastards all be surprised if you knew that one of the Jews you despised was now here as a guest in your palace? he thought to himself. Midway down the hallway, the escorts led the guests through a double door on the right into their final destination, the Great Hall.
Marble, crystal, and gold defined the ambiance of the massive hall. The floor appeared to be inlaid parquet or a high-gloss tile; Stephen couldn’t actually tell. Huge Corinthian columns lined the perimeter of the massive hall and numerous gigantic crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the room, many tables were set with gleaming crystal stemware and fine china. There appeared to be hundreds of guests as the receiving line moved forward toward the host and hostess. Soft music filled the room, provided by the orchestra at the far side of the hall. Finally, the Senator and Stephen reached the front of the receiving line. There stood Alexander III, wearing a blue military tunic with gold embroidery.
“Senator Samuel Straythorne, United States Senate!” barked the Tsar’s aide as the Senator did a polite bow to the Tsar, who spoke one word in English, “Welcome.” He moved on and bowed politely to the Tsarina and to the young man also in military uniform standing next to his mother, the future Tsar, Tsarevitch Nicholas.
“Master Stephen Morrison,” announced the aide and the Tsar repeated his one word greeting. As he bowed, Stephen said, “Your Majesty,” as had the senator. He repeated the bow and gave the salutation, “Your Highness,” to Tsarina Marie and to the young man at her side, the Tsarevitch Nicholas. Stephen, at six-feet tall, towered over the Tsarevitch. A slight man, he appeared to be about Stephen’s age. He also seemed to be very bored with the whole affair.
After all the guests had been formally received, the two Americans, along with the other members of the delegation, meandered across the hall to the tables and were taken to their assigned seats for the dinner. Seated in between the Senator and Stephen was Piotr Kodarov, owner of the Putilov Metal Works in St. Petersburg. He would be hosting the delegation the following day. The primary reason for the delegation’s visit was to meet with Kodarov and tour his plant. The Putilov plant had submitted an incredibly low bid to the United States government to manufacture munitions in order to secure a long-term contract. Senator Straythorne and his group were there to see if the Putilov offer was feasible and to check out the manufacturing capability of the plant. Seated on Stephen’s other side was Kodarov’s son, Yuri, who seemed, like Tsarevitch Nicholas, to be about Stephen’s age, perhaps slightly older. The younger Kodarov leaned forward in front of Stephen and began to speak to his father in Russian.
“These Americans, they dress up well!” he quipped.
His father smiled in return. “I hear that they are somewhat naïve in foreign affairs and European culture.”
“I also hear,” interjected Stephen in flawless Russian, “that they don’t have a talent for foreign languages.” He smiled at the young man.
At first, Yuri Kodarov stared at Stephen, unable to speak. He then burst into uncontrollable laughter that proved infectious to Stephen. Senator Staythorne, who did not speak a word of the Russian language, smiled, thinking that at least some people seemed to be enjoying an inside joke. In excellent, slightly accented English, Yuri Kodarov said, “I’m sorry, my friend. Stephen, isn’t it? That was extremely rude and undiplomatic of me. Please forgive me for my naivety.”
“Please, think nothing of it,” replied the young American. He liked the young Russian’s forwardness and his candor. “Are you going to be at the Metal Works tomorrow, Yuri?”
“Yes, I am. In fact, I was supposed to act as interpreter for your group. It now appears that my services in this regard will not be needed. I don’t think that Papa will mind me being there anyway. I know the factory and the people well.”
Suddenly, the room grew silent and the Tsar began his formal welcome to the guests from many countries. During the Tsar’s speech, Stephen acted as the interpreter for the delegation. Among the many treats in store for the guests tonight, the Tsar announced that they would be enjoying a short performance by the St. Petersburg Symphony Orchestra, and some performances of the St. Petersburg Ballet. "That is," the Tsar reminded his guests, "after everyone consumes mountains of food and oceans of drink!" The appreciative audience laughed and applauded their host’s concluding remarks.
Halfway through the multi-course dinner, Yuri turned to Stephen and asked, “Where did you learn to speak Russian so well? You speak it like a native. I would have sworn you were born in Russia!”
“Actually, I studied the Russian language all throughout my schooling.” It was a white lie that Stephen felt was appropriate for the situation. “I’ve always been interested in the Russian language and Russian culture. This trip to Russia is actually part of a graduation gift to me from my father, Congressman Caleb Morrison of New York. I’m traveling on to the Orient after my stay in Russia is concluded. I’ll be back in time for my college studies next year.”
“What will you be studying? I am currently a student at the University of St. Petersburg, studying politics.” He seemed especially proud of his chosen field of study.
“I’ll be going to the United States Naval Academy. I’m going to have a career as a naval officer.”
Yuri had an astonished look on his face for a minute. “My God,” he said, “you are possibly the most interesting and unique individual I have ever met! I expected you to be a bland, pseudo-educated, nouveauriche American. You are anything but that!” He shook his head in mock disbelief. “I think I need another drink of vodka!” he joked and feigned chugging a drink from an empty glass. After a moment of silence, he turned serious. He had taken a liking to this interesting young American. “Stephen, tomorrow why don’t I give you a personal tour of the Putilov Metal Works? The Senator and the rest of your delegation will be in meetings hosted by Papa all day. I think you’ll find my tour much more interesting. You’ll get the real insider’s tour.”
“Well, I don’t want to … I mean it might not be, eh, appropriate. And I certainly don’t want to burden you with — ”
“Nonsense!” replied the young Russian. “It would be my honor. You, of all the people I’ve met recently, should see what I will show you. It will open your eyes. After all, you said you really want to learn about Russian culture, my friend.”
* * *
The following morning, several carriages departed from the Grand Hotel Europe for the Putilov Metal Works. The factory was located in the Vyborg section of St. Petersburg, an area quite different from the elegant section from which they departed. Vyborg was largely an industrial area with a myriad of factories. The skyline was studded with chimneys belching black smoke and industrial gases. The streets were grimy and dark. On the streets were many peasants seemingly without a place to go. The scene reminded Stephen of his youth in Odessa.
Much to the relief of the passengers, the entire caravan of carriages soon arrived at the gates of the Putilov Metal Works. Most of the Americans had been appalled by the contrast of the opulence they had enjoyed the night before and today’s traveling conditions. One of Kodarov’s assistants waited inside the gates to take them all to the executive offices where Kodarov and his senior management staff were all assembled and waiting for them. A long table featuring vodka, caviar, and blinis, had been set up in the conference room, awaiting the arrival of the Americans. Gleaming copper samovars placed throughout the room featured freshly brewed tea for the guests. Looking at the bottles of vodka, Straythorne thought to himself, It’s nine o’clock in the morning! My God, can these people drink!
As Kodarov welcomed the Americans, Yuri did the translating, since his father’s English was not nearly as good as his own. He explained that the delegation would take a tour of the factory and then receive a lengthy presentation on the proposed munitions contract. When Yuri finished, he walked over to Stephen and said, “Of course, I will be giving you a private tour, my friend.” Stephen agreed, having obtained the senator’s permission the night before. “Come, Stephen, let’s put on some coveralls. I don’t want us to ruin our clothing. Where we’re going it is grimy and beastly hot!” He handed his American friend a tan set of coveralls as he donned his own.
Yuri proceeded to take his guest all over the factory. They began at the loading docks where the deliveries of iron ore and other raw materials stood stacked in large piles. Stephen watched the surprisingly old men lift the loads of metals over and over with their bare hands. It appeared to be backbreaking work, and some of the workers did not appear to be in very good health. Next, they went to the smelting area to watch the metals being processed and melted down. The temperature, Stephen observed, had to be over one hundred degrees at several locations on the smelting area floor. Workers who had apparently passed out from the intense heat lay prostrate, largely ignored. The workers appeared to be wearing little in the way of any protective clothing or gear. Many appeared cachectic and dehydrated. The whole scene appalled Stephen, who looked over at Yuri and was surprised by the expression on his Russian friend’s face. Yuri seemed to want Stephen to see the barbaric conditions under which his father’s employees worked.
Next, they toured the munitions assembly area. The huge unventilated room contained what seemed like endless rows of long tables. Many women sat working in this area as their children toiled alongside them. They had the same look — dirty and malnourished. The men all had their hair parted in the middle, differing from the European style of parting the hair on the side, which the Russian aristocratics, as well as most Americans, such as Stephen himself, preferred. Instead of shirts tucked into their trousers, all the men wore a peculiar-looking tunic. Their pants were tucked into high black boots, unlike the western style favored by the aristocrats who wore cuffed trousers out over their leather shoes. Mostly, thought Stephen, it’s that hopeless look in their eyes, as if they are simply going through the motions of life.
After several hours of touring and observing conditions throughout the plant, Yuri suggested that they go up to his office for some lunch. He had invited one of the floor foremen, a man named Vassily, to join them. Yuri explained that, like most of the workers, Vassily was a peasant and, in his case, raised near the Ural Mountains in Perm where the Kodarovs had a mountain dacha. Russia was primarily a rural country, but with the oncoming of the industrial revolution, many people like Vassily, people of the land, were migrating to the cities. They were largely uneducated and illiterate. “Take Vassily here. He was illiterate when he arrived in St. Petersburg two years ago. I arranged for a tutor for him because I saw potential in him. Now he is teaching several of the people who work under him to read. A chain reaction has started," said Yuri, beaming with pride in his successful attempt to educate the masses.
Vassily smiled back at Yuri with a look of genuine appreciation. “You may go now, Vassily,” instructed Yuri. The peasant, wearing the common tunic of the worker, stood, thanked Yuri, and bade good-bye to the American visitor. He pulled the door shut behind him. Stephen immediately turned to Yuri and shot out a question. “Why are you showing me this, Yuri? It’s as if you want to impress me with how miserable life can be in Russia, and how miserable this company — your father’s company — treats its people. I’m not certain why you are showing me these things.”
“You’re right, my friend,” replied the young Russian with a sly expression on his face. “I wanted you to see all of these conditions, and I wanted you to meet Vassily. We need to discuss many things about Mother Russia. You are an extremely intelligent foreigner, and your father is a man of influence. I feel that someday you yourself will be a man of influence. Stephen, in a few minutes, the rest of your delegation will be returning here for the production presentation and, unfortunately for us, we must sit through this boring part. But tonight, my friend, tonight, let us dine together in one of my favorite restaurants in all of St. Petersburg. We have much to discuss. You have much to learn.”
* * *
That evening, Yuri’s carriage arrived at the hotel to take the two young men to Yuri's favorite restaurant in St. Petersburg, located on Liteyny Prospekt. They had returned to the world of champagne and caviar, a world far away from the grimy factories that they had visited earlier in the day. As he entered the restaurant with his host, Stephen marveled at the red silken wallpaper, along with the gleaming crystal chandeliers. It occurred to the young American that he had one foot in each of the two St. Petersburgs: one a world of privilege and the other a hell hole of poverty. Their maitre d’ escorted them through several rooms, each of which had a separate theme. He seated his young guests in a room where musicians playing balalaikas strolled among the tables. At the end of the room, a large stage promised more live entertainment.
As they looked at their menus, Stephen had the feeling that this dinner would be very important. He sensed that Yuri had a message to convey to him that night, and he suspected that his new Russian friend would be confiding in him about a very important matter. He would let Yuri set the tone and lead the discussion. After ordering and filling their champagne glasses, Yuri finally spoke. “It is quite disgusting, is it not?” he stated, with a forlorn expression.
“Isn’t what disgusting, Yuri?”
“The conditions of the workers. How we treat them, how we pay them a wage on which they can barely exist. How the chasm in Russia between the fortunate, such as me, and the accursed, such as them, widens and continues to widen more.” He sighed and lifted his champagne glass. “I propose a toast to a dying culture, to a dying empire!” he suggested sarcastically.
“Yuri, I don’t understand. This is your father’s factory. It’s as if you are speaking against your own family.”
“Not against my family, but against my family’s way of life, what they stand for, what they are doing to Russia. The Putilov Metal Works is typical of all the factories in the Vyborg district. There is much discontent in Russia now. The Tsar and his bureaucracy continue their ways, and the country continues to fragment. They are either blind or stupid.” As he spoke, anger clouded his face.
“It surprises me to hear you talk this way. I mean, where and when did you learn to feel this way, given your privileged background? Why should you care?”
“You’d be surprised, my friend. There are many like me at the university. We are children of privilege who disagree with the monarchy and its autocratic ways. A revolution is needed to change the Russian way of life. It will come in the future, and hopefully, I’ll still be alive when it comes. I don’t expect you, a son of an American aristocrat, to totally understand all of problems that plague Russia.”
Stephen kept his sarcasm to himself. Yes, you should only know about my aristocratic background, he thought.
“It’s a matter of justice, purely justice,” continued Yuri. “You know, my colleagues and I at the university are exposed to great thoughts, great ideas. Most of my colleagues are from the moneyed class, the aristocracy, as I am. We had a greatness in Russia, you know. Alexander II, ah, yes, now that was a great Tsar, a visionary! After the debacle of the Crimean War, he knew that Russia needed to modernize, to adopt Western ideas. The civil servants in his reign saw their duty as public service. Yes, many of them were children of privilege as I am. Alexander’s great reforms, such as freeing the serfs and the establishment of the zemstvos — the local assemblies in the provinces — were so inspired! This was the start of a great Russia. My God, Stephen, he was even planning a limited constitution before those reactionary bastards assassinated him!
“And look what we have now! His son, Alexander III, is a reactionary, an autocratic tyrant of the worst kind. He has undone all the good that his father had accomplished! And he’s only in his forties, so I fear he’ll be around for a long time, God help us!”
It surprised Stephen to hear such emotion from his friend, who had seemed so easygoing when they first met. The idealistic convictions that this wealthy young man held seemed both noble and, at the same time, overly idealistic. They left Morrison both fascinated and slightly dumbstruck. Multiple questions sprang to his mind. He began with the royal family. “Tell me, Yuri. We met the Tsarevitch Nicholas. What is he like? He looks quite different from his father. Compared to the Tsar, he is physically unimpressive.”
“I know Nicholas fairly well. To be honest, he’s a zero, a nothing. Intellectually, he is like his father, a mediocrity at best. His father is outgoing and buoyant but, at the same time, is an intimidating man and a bully by nature. Nicholas is shy and soft-spoken. He carries the same autocratic airs that his father does. He’s my age exactly but, don’t even give him any thought; I assure you his father doesn’t. The Tsar is sending him on a tour of Europe and the Orient next week, and I suspect it is just to get him out of his sight. As I said, the Tsar is a young man, so Nicholas’ day won’t be coming for many years.”
Both men paused as their entrees arrived. The excellent pheasant and caviar provided a break in their serious conversations. For several minutes, the boys just enjoyed their food and listened to the traditional Russian folk music. Finally, Stephen again began to question his friend. “What are your thoughts for the future of your country, Yuri? Where is all of this discontent heading? I can see that you have given this a lot of thought, and I suspect that is why you’ve invited me to dinner. Am I correct?”
“You are indeed, my friend. The future, you ask. What is the answer? Well, the answer is populism; this is our credo.”
“Populism? What is that?”
“Our concept of populism has several facets that will bring about the salvation of Mother Russia. First and foremost, we believe in freedom and democracy. This is our ultimate goal. But, we are not the United States of America, Stephen. The path to our goal will not be like the paths your Founding Fathers chose in 1776 and 1787. Yes, I’ve studied American history, and I can tell you that you Americans are a truly unique people to have created the country in which you live. On the other hand, Russia is primarily a peasant nation, an uneducated nation, ruled by an autocrat for hundreds of years. Our path will be different from yours. Our path will be a different type of revolution.”
“How will you achieve your dreams? What will be your means? Armed revolution or a coup d’état?” asked the young American, as he leaned forward on his elbows, entranced by his friend’s theories.
“The key to our revolution is the peasantry. They are so numerous and have been denied basic rights for so long. They are like diamonds in the rough. They will be the source of our revolution, but they must be prepared for this role. This revolution will come from the will of the people, the noble peasantry of Russia. Many of them have migrated to the cities, to work in our factories. That is why those of us with the means must educate them and help them. Don’t you see, Stephen, that the basis of all freedom is the people? As an American, you must understand this reality.”
“Is that why you wanted me to meet Vassily?”
“Exactly. He is a typical example of what we are trying to do. Uneducated and illiterate when he arrived in St. Petersburg, he is now becoming a leader. The truth be told, many of us at the university have established underground study circles where we educate the workers. It was through one of these groups that Vassily learned not only how to read and write, but also about social justice and revolution. Now he is becoming a teacher himself. You see, it is like a chain reaction that is unstoppable!
“Again, I tell you this, Stephen, because I sense you are not only capable of understanding it, but perhaps you are also a man of destiny. Maybe in your capacity as an American admiral, the son of an American congressman, your destiny will be entwined with the new Russia, should the revolution occur in our lifetimes.”
“You flatter me and perhaps overestimate me, Yuri,” replied Stephen with a chuckle. “As I told you at the Winter Palace last night, I’ve always been interested in Russia, and you’ve given me quite an education tonight.” He paused to think and then asked, “Is this revolutionary feeling widespread throughout the country?”
“Yes, in various forms, it is. The government continues its self-indulgent ways and ignores its people. The discontent is growing, slowly growing. When things go bad, they blame things on the usual scapegoats, like the Jews, and think that people with real minds will believe it.”
“You must be referring to the infamous pogroms that I’ve heard about. A number of Russian Jews have migrated to America, and many of them live in my father’s congressional district. The stories I’ve heard from them are beyond belief.” He looked his friend in the eyes and then asked, “What do you think about the pogroms?”
Sighing, Yuri replied “Believe me, my friend, I have no particular concerns for the Jews as a people. It’s the concept of shifting the blame for one’s own ineptness to a totally innocent group that grates against my sense of justice. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know much about the Jews other than they look funny and have some strange customs and beliefs. I don’t believe any of the garbage that the government likes to promote about Jews. I don’t believe that they kill Christian babies so they can use their blood for religious rituals. I think it’s a lot of nonsense.”
“I agree,” replied Stephen. “I don’t believe any of that nonsense, either.”
Before their after-dinner drinks, more lanterns were lit, illuminating the stage at the end of the room. A row of dancers clad as gypsies entered the spotlight to the wild applause of the audience of diners. Yuri enthusiastically applauded and shouted encouragement to the dancers. He’s a little drunk, thought Stephen to himself, but he realized that the champagne had also made him slightly giddy. He joined in the applause. Eventually, the audience joined the dancers in singing traditional Russian folk songs. Yuri remained highly impressed with his American friend’s ease with the language and his knowledge of the songs. He could have sworn that this young man was a native Russian.
After dinner, during the carriage ride back to the Grand Hotel Europe, both young men sprawled out on the seats. They were tired and slightly drunk. Stephen had thoroughly enjoyed himself and felt he had discovered a new and important friend. The feeling was mutual for Yuri, who felt that his new American friend would play an important part in his future. Yuri reached into the leather attaché case that he had stashed on the floor of the carriage and pulled out two books. He turned to Stephen and said, “My friend, I have a gift for you. Please take these books. They will give you some insight into the mind of Russia. I don’t totally agree with all of what they say, but these types of works are providing the spark for the coming revolution.”
In the dim lighting of the carriage, Stephen could barely read the titles. The first book, entitled What Is To Be Done?, was written by a man named Nikolai Chernyshevsky. The other book, entitled Revolutionary Catechism, was written by a man named Sergei Nachaev. Stephen had not heard of either book, nor did he recognize the authors. “I’m not familiar with these works,” he told his friend as he leafed through the pages.
“I didn’t suspect that you might be. This is not light reading fare. It is deep and dark, almost like discovering a new form of life on the planet. These are influential works among the people of Russia. Perhaps on the rest of your trip, you’ll have time to read them.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “This is my gift of learning to you, Stephen Morrison, and it comes from the heart.”
Stephen thanked his friend as they turned onto the street where the hotel was located. “When do you leave on the rest of your journey?” asked Yuri. Stephen replied that he would be breaking off from the American delegation in two days to travel with Sergeant Johnson across Russia and the Orient, before sailing back to the United States. Yuri’s face lit up, and he blurted out, “Stephen, I have an inspired idea! A truly brilliant idea!” His sudden animation startled his friend.
“My God, Yuri, are you all right? What is it?”
“Stephen, remember I told you that the Tsarevitch, the idiot Nicholas, is being sent on a trip to the Orient? My father is haranguing me about going to meet Nicholas in Japan. He thinks it would help him even further in his business ventures with the government. Apparently, the Tsar has been somewhat impressed with me on the few occasions that I’ve met him. He even made a comment that he wished that Nicholas could be more like me. Father has sent word word to the Tsar through the prime minister offering my services as an escort for Nicholas for part of his trip.”
In his slightly drunken state, Stephen, a bit confused, replied, “I’m not following you, Yuri.”
“Don’t you see? Why don’t I travel across Russia with you and Sergeant Johnson? Then we’ll go on to Japan and continue our talks. I can take you to our dacha in Perm in the Ural Mountains and really show you Russia. What do you think of that plan, my friend?” he said, looking for the response on the young American’s face.
Stephen broke out in a wide grin. “I think it is an excellent idea. Let me run it by Senator Straythorne and Sergeant Johnson. I know that they’ll think it’s a great idea, too. The son of a Russian industrialist and the son of an American congressman traveling together. What an odd pair!” Both young men laughed at the thought as the carriage pulled up to the front of the hotel. As Stephen stepped out of the carriage, he thanked his host for a memorable evening. He could sense that the last twenty-four hours had initiated a lifelong friendship.
“Oh, Stephen,” Yuri called out of the carriage window as his friend walked toward the hotel entrance. “There is another book I have to get you. I’m sorry, I don’t have a copy of it at my house. Are you familiar with Das Capital by a German writer named Karl Marx?”