Fall of Giants

They left the palace by a side door and got into two waiting Renault limousines. The former president of the Duma, the hugely fat Mikhail Rodzianko, also came. Grigori could not quite believe this was happening to him. He was part of a delegation going to order a crown prince to refuse to become tsar. Less than a week ago he had meekly got down from a table because Lieutenant Kirillov had ordered him to. The world was changing so fast it was hard to keep up.

Grigori had never been inside the home of a wealthy aristocrat, and it was like entering a dream world. The large house was stuffed with possessions. Everywhere he looked there were gorgeous vases, elaborate clocks, silver candelabra, and jeweled ornaments. If he had grabbed a golden bowl and run out of the front door, he could have sold it for enough money to buy himself a house-except that right now no one was buying golden bowls, they just wanted bread.

Prince Georgy Lvov, a silver-haired man with a huge bushy beard, clearly was not impressed by the decor, nor intimidated by the solemnity of his errand, but everyone else seemed nervous. They waited in the drawing room, frowned upon by ancestral portraits, shuffling their feet on the thick rugs.

At last Grand Duke Mikhail appeared. He was a prematurely balding man of thirty-eight with a little mustache. To Grigori’s surprise he appeared to be more nervous than the delegation. He seemed shy and bewildered, despite a haughty tilt to his head. He eventually summoned enough courage to say: “What do you have to tell me?”

Lvov replied: “We have come to ask you not to accept the crown.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mikhail, and seemed not to know what to do next.

Kerensky retained his presence of mind. He spoke clearly and firmly. “The people of Petrograd have reacted with outrage to the decision of His Majesty the tsar,” he said. “Already a huge contingent of soldiers is marching on the Tauride Palace. There will be a violent uprising followed by a civil war unless we announce immediately that you have refused to take over as tsar.”

“Oh, my goodness,” said Mikhail mildly.

The grand duke was not very bright, Grigori realized. Why am I surprised? he thought. If these people were intelligent they would not be on the point of losing the throne of Russia.

The monocled Miliukov said: “Your Royal Highness, I represent the minority view in the provisional government. In our opinion, the monarchy is the only symbol of authority accepted by the people.”

Mikhail looked even more bewildered. The last thing he needed was a choice, Grigori thought; that only made matters worse. The grand duke said: “Would you mind if I had a word alone with Rodzianko? No, don’t all leave-we will just retire to a side room.”

When the dithering tsar-designate and the fat president had left, the others talked in low voices. No one spoke to Grigori. He was the only working-class man in the room, and he sensed they were a bit frightened of him, suspecting-rightly-that the pockets of his sergeant’s uniform were stuffed with guns and ammunition.

Rodzianko reappeared. “He asked me whether we could guarantee his personal safety if he became tsar,” he said. Grigori was disgusted but not surprised that the grand duke was concerned about himself rather than his country. “I told him we could not,” Rodzianko finished.

Kerensky said: “And…?”

“He will rejoin us in a moment.”

There was a pause that seemed endless, then Mikhail came back. They all fell silent. For a long moment, no one said anything.

At last Mikhail said: “I have decided to decline the crown.”

Grigori’s heart seemed to stop. Eight days, he thought. Eight days ago the women of Vyborg marched across the Liteiny Bridge. Today the rule of the Romanovs has ended.

He recalled the words of his mother on the day she died: “I will not rest until Russia is a republic.” Rest now, Mother, he thought.

Kerensky was shaking the grand duke’s hand and saying something pompous, but Grigori was not listening.

We have done it, he thought. We made a revolution.

We have deposed the tsar.

{VII}

In Berlin, Otto von Ulrich opened a magnum of the 1892 Perrier-Jouët champagne.

The von Ulrichs had invited the von der Helbards to lunch. Monika’s father, Konrad, was a graf, or count, and her mother was therefore a gräfin, or countess. Gräfin Eva von der Helbard was a formidable woman with gray hair piled in an elaborate coiffure. Before lunch she cornered Walter and told him that Monika was an accomplished violin player and had been top of her school class in all subjects. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father talking to Monika, and guessed she was getting a school report about him.