Buchanan PETROGRAD The CITY of TROUBLE 1914-1918 Tsar BOLSHEVIKS Rasputin RUSSIA

Description: Petrograd The City of Trouble 1914-1918 by Meriel Buchanan Daughter of the British Ambassador With a Foreword by Hugh Walpole This is the November 1919 Third Impression An eyewitness account of events leading up to, and during the early stages of, the Bolshevik Revolution by the daughter of the British Ambassador. Front cover and spine Further images of this book are shown below Publisher and place of publication Dimensions in inches (to the nearest quarter-inch) London: W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 5 inches wide x 7¾ inches tall Edition Length November 1919 Third Impression [First Impression December 1918; Second Impression January 1919] 262 pages + Publisher’s advertisement Condition of covers Internal condition Original blind-stamped red cloth, blocked in black on the spine. The covers are stained, rubbed and faded, particularly along the edges, where there are some frayed patches. The covers have also bowed outwards. There is some colour loss around the top corner of the front cover, and other smaller areas of discolouration. The rear cover is also faded, with a larger area of colour loss around the top corner, and patchy discolouration otherwise. The spine has faded, with significant loss of original colour and is also quite dull. The spine ends and corners are bumped and frayed, particularly around the rear bottom corner which is frayed for about two inches upwards, exposing the card; there is a forward spine lean. The end-papers are very browned and discoloured and the inner hinges are tender. The front free end-paper has been removed so that the volume opens directly to the Half-Title page, on which a previous owner has inscribed a name heavily in blue pencil, and has added an embossed address stamp (upside down) on the lower edge for "Little Hatchett, Hatchet Lane, Beaulieu, Brockenhurst, Hants". The blue-pencilled name also appears on the rear pastedown, together with a small, oval, W. H. Smith sticker. The text is reasonably clean throughout on noticeably tanned paper, though a few pages have grubby marks and there is a small tear on the top edge of the rear end-paper. The edge of the text block is grubby, dust-stained and lightly foxed, with a small irregular stain on the fore-edge. Dust-jacket present? Other comments No Apart from the removed front free end-paper and a prominent previous owner's name heavily inscribed in blue pencil on the very browned end-papers, this is an internally clean example of the Third Impression, though in covers which are bowed, faded and stained, with some colour loss and patchy discolouration, and frayed edges. Illustrations, maps, etc Contents NONE : No illustrations are called for Please see below for details Post & shipping information Payment options The packed weight is approximately 600 grams. Full shipping/postage information is provided in a panel at the end of this listing. Payment options : UK buyers: cheque (in GBP), debit card, credit card (Visa, MasterCard but not Amex), PayPal International buyers: credit card (Visa, MasterCard but not Amex), PayPal Full payment information is provided in a panel at the end of this listing. Petrograd (The City of Trouble) 1914-1918 Contents A Foreword I. The Evening Review at Krassnoe II. July 24 III. Declaration of War IV. Moscow V. First Days at the Hospital VI. 1915 VII. The Second Winter VIII. The Crimea IX. Summer, 1916 X. The Court XI. The Murder of Rasputin XII. The Gathering of the Storm XIII. Monday, March 12 XIV. The Emperor's Abdication XV. The First Weeks of the Revolution XVI. Spring, 1917 XVII. The Women of Russia XVIII. Bolshevik Rising of July XIX. July 17 and 18 XX. The Taking of the Fortress XXI. The Failure of the Russian Army XXII. The Coup D'Etat of Korniloff XXIII. A Soldier XXIV. Autumn, 1917 XXV. The Bolsheviks Strike XXVI. The Bolsheviks in Power XXVII. The Mockery of Government XXVIII. Negotiations For Peace XXIX. Rule of the Red Guard XXX. Anarchy XXXI. Last Days in Petrograd XXXII. The Soul of Russia XXXIII. The Journey From Russia Petrograd (The City of Trouble) 1914-1918 Foreword by Hugh Walpole It has been one of the characteristics of the Russian Revolution'—perhaps of every Revolution'—that the spectators of its evolution have named every fresh development a climax. Looking back now through the events in Russia during 1917, one sees the abdication of the Czar, the revolt of Korniloff, the Bolshevik coup d'etat as successive climaxes, but none of them as, in any sense, an ultimate climax; although one is now a year and a half from that first wonderful day in March when the Cossacks lined the Nevski and reassured the people who pressed against their horses that they would not shoot on their 'brothers,' the perspective is still not clear and the day is still too soon for the authority of history. There is, however, one thing that may be done, and I believe that I am speaking without any exaggeration when I say that this book of Miss Buchanan's is the first attempt of any writer in any language to give to the world a sense of the atmosphere of Russia under the shock and terror of those world-shaking events. By atmosphere I mean the summoning of big and little things to form a mosaic, coloured, intricate, unique that may lie behind and beneath the outside obvious events. We have read now in many books accounts of the policy of the Czar, the first magnificence of Kerensky and his later weakness, the disintegration in the army, the speeches and opinions of Lenin, Trotsky, and the rest, but what we have not read as yet are the things that the man who sells pies in Ellisseieff's, the provision shop in the Nevski, thought of it, how the ladies who collected tickets on the trams looked at the changing manners and customs of their passengers, what the boys who ran up and down the switchback railway on the farther side of the Neva said when they saw a famous General shovelling the snow for a rouble an hour. I do not say that Miss Buchanan has actually informed us of those particular things, but I do say that she has given us a picture of human, private life under the pressure of vast historical events that is precious and permanent in its value. She has given us this not only because she was herself an actual observer of them but also because she has the gift of imagination, the gift of colour, and a philosophy that is more than petulant. I would not suggest that she has not also given us her view of the larger, more historical events: her picture of the Russian Court is of the greatest interest and her account of the weeks immediately preceding the Bolshevik rising are of political value, but it is for the smaller, more important things that her book is unique; no one having read it can deny that it is true, vivid, personal, and moving. Miss Buchanan has placed us all under a very real and serious debt. She has also done Russia a noble service. Hugh Walpole. August 12, 1918. Petrograd (The City of Trouble) 1914-1918 Excerpt: The Evening Review at Krassnoe . . . The 2nd of July, 1914, the French President, accompanied by a large suite, visited the Russian Court, and in the same moorings near Kronstadt where—scarcely ten days earlier—the Lion, the Queen Mary, the Princess Royal and the New Zealand had lain, French battleships now cast anchor; French flags fluttered from all the houses; French officers and sailors crowded the town, and on the Tuesday, July 23, the President accompanied the Emperor at the evening review of the troops at Krassnoe. Down the straight road that led across the gray level plains a stream of motors passed. Under the cloudless splendour of the sky the fields lay burnt iron dry. An acrid smell of burning turf filled the air, and low down on the horizon lay a haze of smoke from some distant forest fire. Behind us Petersburg was hidden in a mist of heat—Petersburg where an undercurrent of unrest and trouble seemed to be brewing, where workmen gathered at street corners and whole factories were out on strike. But the little faint chill of fear I had felt as we drove through the town was forgotten out here on the plains with, away to the right, the silver shimmer of the sea and all around the hurrying crowd who seemed to have no care or trouble in the world. One of the Imperial motors flying the white flag with the double eagle passed us in a cloud of dust. An officer with the silver aiguillets that showed him to be an A.D.C. to some General cantered by, intent evidently on some order to be delivered; three or four soldiers sitting at the doorway of a wooden barracks were drinking tea out of little tin cans; a woman with a red and white handkerchief over her head stood still to stare at us. From the distance came the sound of a military band, somewhere a bugle rang out clearly, and as we drew up on the top of the incline we could see a stream of red and white pennons moving along below us. Just here the eternal flatness was broken, the ground sloped before us into a broad, low valley, and opposite lay the little hill with the village and church of Krassnoe and the low wooden barracks, summer quarters of the Guard regiments of Petersburg. The crowd of motors, soldiers, and brightly dressed women was almost impassable. A wooden estrade had been erected for the wives of officers, the officials and members of the Diplomatic body, while farther on a tent had been put up for the Emperor and Empress and the French President. A flutter of talk and laughter, gay, vapid, light as thistledown filled the air. Outside the wooden railings officers paused to stand a moment in conversation, looking up into some smiling downward bent face, and then moved on with a silver jingling of spurs. Opposite the estrade a line of troops was drawn up immovable and silent, far away across the plain a regiment was passing, and the dust raised by their marching feet made a golden haze above them. Disjointed and broken fragments of talk reached me from the chattering crowd all round me. Somewhere in the background a woman's voice complained bitterly about the carelessness of a nurse who had allowed her little boy to get nearly run over by a peasant's cart. On my left a woman was discussing an evening frock just received from a Paris dressmaker—there was a rumour that skirts would be wider but it was probably not true, and no sleeves were to be worn, just a diamond strap on the shoulders; of course if one had perfect arms it was all right, but otherwise what a very trying fashion! A little in front of me two girls were whispering and giggling, discussing some secret which I could not help overhearing: ' Of course I pretended that our meeting him was just a perfect accident—Miss Evans never suspected for a moment that it had all been arranged beforehand. My dear------' here the whisper became inaudible, and then burst out again with a gurgle of laughter: ' Oh, Sonia, he has such adorable eyebrows !' I wondered vaguely what constituted the charm of adorable eyebrows and then forgot to answer my own question as I watched a fat old General with a red face come limping down between the long lines of troops. Most evidently his brightly polished boots were too tight for him, and it made my own feet ache to think of the pain he must be suffering when the ground itself was so baked by the sun that one seemed to feel the heat of it rising up into one's face. Either that or the extreme height of his collar had affected his temper, for twice he paused to bark out some harsh reprimand to the immovable soldiers down the line, and once his fat, chubby hand flew out to point with no gentle terms to the delinquency of an unfastened strap. The sun was nearing the rim of the Krassnoe hill, the little church stood bathed in golden radiance, high up in the sky an aeroplane hung like a bird of prey. Then suddenly at some unheard signal a silence fell on all the waiting crowd, and for a moment a hush of almost breathless stillness held them as in a spell. Then from very far away came I A bunt of cheering that, drawing ever nearer, grew in sound and volume like the slowly rising strength of a distant storm. Something rose in my throat, and the serried ranks of soldiers opposite to me wavered and shook. A woman next to me whispered, ' Oh, mon Dieu!' and softly dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. I saw the girl in front of me clutch hold of her companion and heard her voice, shaken by a new note, say sharply: 'Sonia—I am afraid'—why am I afraid?' And then, riding on a white horse, the Emperor passed in that tempest of cheering. I had a confused impression of grave blue eyes, of a hand raised in greeting, of a rustling of skirts as the women round me bent in low obeisance, of a crowd of officers who followed him on horseback, Grand Dukes, Generals, the varied uniforms of the foreign military attaches. The cheering broke out again spasmodically as the carriages with the Empress, the French President, the Heir Apparent, and the young Grand Duchesses passed slowly by. White horses with outriders, white satin cushions, flower-wreathed hats and the smiling faces of young girls! For them the soldiers cheered, for them and for the little boy in the sailor suit and for the white-haired old gentleman . . . The Murder of Rasputin And yet the curse of some impalpable evil lay over the town; the murder of Rasputin during the night of December 29th, instead of lifting that shadow, seemed only rather to intensify it, to add to the feeling of strained suspense which brooded over everything. Out of the many stories circulated concerning that murder it is almost impossible to know which really is the true one. Even the facts, related by an eyewitness, do not account for everything, and there is supposed to be half an hour missing between the actual firing of the last shot and the final removal of the body that has never been accounted for in any of the narratives. Hardly possible to believe, that murder, with all its details and horror, seems a page out of some old Byzantine history. All around the sleeping houses, the quiet streets, now and then perhaps a motor passing, a little open sledge slipping silently like a shadow across the snow. And, behind the shuttered windows of the great yellow palace on the Moika, a crime that was to save Russia. For some time past Prince Felix Yusupoff had seen a great deal of Rasputin, wishing personally to discover how far the stories circulated about him were true. The utter baseness and common- ness of the man's character, the way in which he boasted about his power at Court and his relations with the Empress, decided him finally, at all costs, to rid the country of the priest's malignant influence. Up to the evening of December 29th Rasputin had, however, never been inside the palace on the Moika, Prince Yusupoff always making excuses whenever he had asked to come, saying that his mother did not approve of his friendship with him, and would be very angry if she knew that he had received him at home. On the evening of the 28th he, however, telephoned, saying that his parents were away, and if Rasputin would come to supper at his house the next night he would fetch him in his motor at eleven o'clock. Rasputin declined at first, saying that he had been warned not to go out, but finally allowed himself to be persuaded, and promised to come. When, however, Prince Yusupoff arrived at his house the next evening the priest met him saying that he had decided not to go out that night, as he had again been warned that there would be grave danger for him if he did. Prince Yusupoff argued that no possible harm could come of it. His parents were away; no one would know any- thing about it; his own motor was at the door and would take Rasputin there and bring him home again. Some stories relate that a woman's name was mentioned : that it was the wish to see her that finally induced Rasputin to accept the invitation, and to ignore the warning he had been given and the promise he had made to the detectives who guarded him not to go out that evening. Be that as it may, he accompanied Prince Yusupoff to the big yellow palace on the Moika, and was led by him to the dim, underground room, decorated in the old Russian style, with a small winding staircase that led into another room on the floor above, where the Grand Duke Demitri Pavlovitch, Purishkevich, a doctor, and one or two other young men were sitting. On a table was spread out a little repast : some tea, a bottle of port, two plates of chocolate, and pink cream cakes. A harmless looking meal, and yet both the port and the pink cakes had been carefully prepared beforehand and filled with a deadly poison. Sitting down near the table, Prince Yusupoff asked Rasputin to have some tea, but the priest at first refused, and sat for a long time talking about his future plans, his power over the Empress, his intention of stopping the war and making peace. Finally he poured himself out a cup of tea and took a pink cake, and, remarking how good it was, another and another, ending up by drinking glass after glass of the port. There was no sound to break the silence of the winter night: the palace seemed a house of the dead. Sitting opposite that huge peasant priest, watching his face, listening to his overbearing talk, Prince Yusupoff began to wonder whether the man was really mortal, whether the tales of his bearing a charmed life were not true. How was it possible that where another would have died after eating one of those deadly poisoned cakes, this man could finish a whole plate, and drink nearly a bottle of poisoned wine and yet be sitting there unmoved, apparently completely unharmed. At last in despair Prince Yusupoff got up and went up the little winding stair to the room above where the others were waiting impatiently. 'What am I to do?' he asked almost wildly. 'He has eaten all the cakes. He has drunk nearly the whole bottle of wine and nothing has happened.' After a few moments hurried consultation the Grand Duke Demitri pulled out his revolver and said he would go downstairs and shoot him. But Prince Yusupoff refused to allow him to do this, and finally taking the revolver from him, and, holding it in his left hand behind his back, he went downstairs again. Rasputin sat at the table just in the same place, and sitting down opposite him Prince Yusupoff took up the conversation once more, watching the monk all the time, wondering at what part of that huge body he was to aim, and how he was ever going to accomplish it. At last, feeling that the strain was becoming impossible, he asked Rasputin to look at a wonderful old crystal crucifix which hung on the Wall. Getting up slowly the priest went across the room to examine it, and, following him, Prince Yusupoff slipped his right hand behind his back, and taking his revolver shot straight at his heart. With a scream Rasputin fell forward on the floor, and going over to the staircase Prince Yusupoff shouted to the others to come down. Hastily making an examination, the doctor declared that the death agony had begun and all would be over in a few seconds, and, going upstairs again, they began to make arrangements for getting the motor round and taking away the body. And yet all the time Prince Yusupoff felt that something was not right, that something kept drawing him downstairs, and presently, the feeling getting too strong for him, he left the others and returned alone to the underground room. The huge form of the priest lay exactly as they had left it, half lying on a beautiful white bearskin rug that was stretched on the floor. For a few minutes Prince Yusupoff stood motionless, looking down at it, then with a sudden sense of horror he saw how first one eye slowly opened and then the other. And as he still stood, too paralysed to move, Rasputin raised himself and with a sudden inhuman strength threw himself upon him, screaming out the most awful curses. So furious was the priest's mad assault that Prince Yusupoff was nearly borne to the ground, and before he could recover himself, or the others, attracted by the sudden noise, could get downstairs, Rasputin had made for a small door leading into an outer court, and tearing it open staggered out into the darkness. Pursuing him, they found him at last climbing the railings of the garden, and pulling out his revolver Purishkevitch fired at him and hit him mortally. The police attracted by the sound of the shots appeared at the gates and demanded an explanation, and hastily covering the body of the priest with some snow Prince Yusupoff opened to them, and, telling them that one of the guests at a supper party he was giving had shot a mad dog, gave them a hundred roubles to go away, which they accordingly did. A little later a closed motor drew up at a side door, something wrapped in a dark cloth was placed inside, and before the police, their suspicions again aroused, could arrive on the scene the motor swung away into the darkness. The morning of December 30th a soldier passing across the Petrowsky bridge leading out to the Islands saw tracks of blood on the snow, and after a prolonged search a body was found underneath the ice and transported to the mortuary, where it was discovered to be the body of Rasputin. The excitement caused was intense; the murder was the one topic of conversation, and the wildest, most contradictory, rumours were circulated. One story had it that the Empress herself, dressed as a sister of charity, went to the mortuary to see the body; another story, on the contrary, declared that on hearing the news she had fallen into a dead faint, and remained unconscious for twenty-two hours, but neither of these stories can be vouched for as being the least authentic. Reports as to how the murder was actually committed differed also in the wildest degree, and those who had been present refused steadfastly to throw any light on the situation. Prince Yusupoff, telephoning to the Grand Duke Nicholas Michaelevitch at the Yacht Club, said only : ' I have been accused of murdering Rasputin because last night at a supper party at my house a black dog went mad and had to be shot,' and preserved a stubborn silence when questioned further as to the doings of the night. The Grand Duke Demitri swore on his oath that he had not committed the murder, but was nevertheless by order of the Empress placed under arrest in his palace on the Nevsky Prospect. Returning from the Staff, the Grand Duke Paul begged the Emperor to give his son back his free- dom, but the only reply he got was : ' The Empress cannot allow him to be released.' And when he asked that at least his son might be allowed to come down to his palace at Czarskoe, this request was also categorically refused, and on the night of January 2nd the young Grand Duke, without being allowed to make any preparations, was sent off to a small village on the Persian frontier. So hurried was his departure that he did not have time to take any provisions with him, and the special train had been given orders not to stop anywhere, so that he was forced to travel for two days without any food or drink. Meanwhile the body of Rasputin was buried in the park of Czarskoe, and it was affirmed that the Emperor and Protopotoff carried the coffin, while the Empress followed behind with the Czarevitch. Protopotoff was now Minister of the Interior, a small, gray-haired man, with restless, nervous movements and bright, wild eyes that shifted all the time. A follower of Rasputin, and certainly not quite sane, he played on the Empress's feelings, affirming constantly that the priest had appeared to him in person warning him that great trouble was coming to Russia, and that the people would be punished for his murder . . . Please note: to avoid opening the book out, with the risk of damaging the spine, some of the pages were slightly raised on the inner edge when being scanned, which has resulted in some blurring to the text and a shadow on the inside edge of the final images. Colour reproduction is shown as accurately as possible but please be aware that some colours are difficult to scan and may result in a slight variation from the colour shown below to the actual colour. In line with eBay guidelines on picture sizes, some of the illustrations may be shown enlarged for greater detail and clarity. The end-papers are very browned and discoloured and the inner hinges are tender. The front free end-paper has been removed so that the volume opens directly to the Half-Title page, on which a previous owner has inscribed a name heavily in blue pencil, and has added an embossed address stamp (upside down) on the lower edge for "Little Hatchett, Hatchet Lane, Beaulieu, Brockenhurst, Hants". The blue-pencilled name also appears on the rear pastedown, together with a small, oval, W. H. Smith sticker. U.K. buyers: To estimate the “packed weight” each book is first weighed and then an additional amount of 150 grams is added to allow for the packaging material (all books are securely wrapped and posted in a cardboard book-mailer). The weight of the book and packaging is then rounded up to the nearest hundred grams to arrive at the postage figure. I make no charge for packaging materials and do not seek to profit from postage and packaging. Postage can be combined for multiple purchases. 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Please contact me with your name and address and payment details within seven days of the end of the listing; otherwise I reserve the right to cancel the sale and re-list the item. Finally, this should be an enjoyable experience for both the buyer and seller and I hope you will find me very easy to deal with. If you have a question or query about any aspect (shipping, payment, delivery options and so on), please do not hesitate to contact me. Prospective international buyers should ensure that they are able to provide credit card details or pay by PayPal within 7 days from the end of the listing (or inform me that they will be sending a cheque in GBP drawn on a major British bank). Thank you. (please note that the book shown is for illustrative purposes only and forms no part of this listing) Book dimensions are given in inches, to the nearest quarter-inch, in the format width x height. 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Price: 85 GBP

Location: Flamborough, Bridlington

End Time: 2024-08-30T17:57:51.000Z

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Return policy details: If any book is significantly not as described, I will offer a full refund, including return postage. All books are securely wrapped and posted in a cardboard container.

Non-Fiction Subject: History & Military

Year Printed: 1919

Binding: Hardback

Publication Year: 1919

Author: Meriel Buchanan

Language: English

Publisher: W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd

Place of Publication: London