[1905 - 1917] Revolution, World War I, and the Fall of the Tsar

We begin in 1905. The Russian Empire was a colossus of contradictions. It sprawled across one-sixth of the world's landmass, a nation of over 125 million souls, yet for most, life was a medieval struggle. Eighty percent of the population were peasants, living in wooden huts, their lives governed by the seasons and the Orthodox Church, and their futures seemingly bound to the mud on their boots. At the apex of this society sat one man: Tsar Nicholas II, the Autocrat of all the Russias. He was not a tyrant by nature; he was a devoted family man who believed, with every fiber of his being, that God had personally entrusted him with the sacred duty of ruling Russia. The people, in turn, were taught to see him as their "Little Father." That sacred bond was shattered on a freezing Sunday in January 1905. A peaceful, sprawling procession of workers, led by a priest and carrying icons and portraits of the Tsar, marched toward the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. They weren't revolutionaries; they were petitioners. They wanted an eight-hour workday, better wages, and a voice. They were met not by their "Little Father," but by the crack of rifles. Hundreds were killed, thousands wounded. "Bloody Sunday" washed the cobblestones red and erased, in an instant, a century of myth. The trust was gone. The shockwave of Bloody Sunday ignited a revolution. Strikes paralyzed the cities, peasant uprisings set fire to manor houses, and the military teetered on the verge of mutiny. To save his throne, Nicholas was forced to concede. The October Manifesto of 1905 was a reluctant promise of civil liberties and, most importantly, an elected parliament, the Duma. For a moment, it seemed like Russia might step hesitantly toward a constitutional monarchy. But it was a false dawn. The Tsar retained ultimate power, famously declaring, "I created the Duma, and I will dissolve it." He did just that, dissolving the first two Dumas when they proved too radical for his liking. A fragile, tense quiet settled over the land, a quiet punctuated by the work of Prime Minister Pyotr Stolypin, who tried desperately to create a class of prosperous, land-owning peasants loyal to the crown. It was a race against time he would not win. The disconnect between the rulers and the ruled was never more apparent than in 1913. The Romanov dynasty celebrated its tercentenary, 300 years of rule, with staggering opulence. The nobility of St. Petersburg attended balls in jewel-encrusted gowns and seventeenth-century costume, while the Imperial family exchanged priceless Fabergé eggs. It was a fantasy world, entirely insulated from the grumbling factories and the impoverished countryside. At the heart of this gilded court was a growing rot, personified by one of the most bizarre figures in history: Grigori Rasputin. A Siberian peasant, a mystic with hypnotic eyes, Rasputin had gained unfathomable influence over Tsarina Alexandra. Her only son and heir, Alexei, suffered from hemophilia, a deadly disease that prevented his blood from clotting. The frantic Tsarina found that Rasputin, through prayer or presence, seemed able to stop the boy's bleeding. He became her indispensable confidant, the "holy man." To the Russian public, however, he was a debauched charlatan, a symbol of the corruption and decadence that had poisoned the monarchy. Then, in August 1914, the world caught fire. The Great War erupted, and an initial wave of patriotic fervor swept Russia. Crowds knelt in the streets and sang "God Save the Tsar." The German-sounding name of the capital, St. Petersburg, was patriotically changed to the more Slavic Petrograd. This unity was fleeting. The war was a catastrophe of a scale Russia could not comprehend. At the Battle of Tannenberg, an entire Russian army was annihilated. The industrial might of Germany dwarfed Russia's antiquated infrastructure. Factories couldn't produce enough shells; soldiers were sent to the front unarmed, told to pick up rifles from their fallen comrades. By the end of 1915, Russian casualties—killed, wounded, or captured—numbered in the millions. In a decision of monumental folly, Tsar Nicholas II departed for the front in late 1915 to assume personal command of the army. He was a terrible commander, and his absence from the capital created a fatal vacuum. Power fell to the deeply unpopular German-born Tsarina, and by extension, to her advisor, Rasputin. Ministers were hired and fired on his whim. The government descended into chaos while the nation bled. On the home front, the strain became unbearable. The transportation system collapsed, and food supplies to the cities dwindled. Long, silent lines for bread became a daily feature of life in Petrograd, the women shivering in the biting wind, their anger simmering. In the dead of night in December 1916, a group of aristocrats, including the Tsar's own cousin, decided the only way to save the monarchy was to kill Rasputin. They lured him to a palace cellar, fed him poisoned cakes and wine, and shot him. When he still didn't die, they shot him again, bludgeoned him, and finally dumped his body through a hole in the ice of the Neva River. It was a desperate, dramatic act, but it solved nothing. The cancer wasn't Rasputin; it was the system itself. The final collapse came swiftly. On International Women's Day, February 23, 1917, women textile workers, fed up with waiting for bread that never came, poured out of their factories. Their protest, "Bread and Peace!", swelled as they were joined by other striking workers. The authorities called in the troops. But this time, something was different. The soldiers, themselves weary peasants and workers in uniform, hesitated. They looked at the crowds and saw their own mothers and sisters. On the third day, the soldiers made their choice. They refused to fire. Regiments began to mutiny, joining the protesters and sharing their rifles. The state had lost control of its capital. Miles away, aboard the imperial train, Tsar Nicholas II was trying to get back to his family. But the revolution was faster. Railway workers diverted his train, shunting it onto a side track. He was isolated, cut off, a ruler without a realm. His generals and Duma politicians met him there and told him the truth: it was over. On March 2, 1917, in a quiet railway car, Nicholas II signed the abdication manifesto. Three hundred years of Romanov rule ended not with a cannon blast, but with the scratch of a pen. The Tsar was gone. But Russia’s ordeal was just beginning. In the power vacuum he left behind, two new bodies vied for control: a fragile Provisional Government and the radical Petrograd Soviet of Workers' and Soldiers' Deputies. The stage was now set for an even greater storm.