A Criminal History of Mankind (84 page)

We might say that a person who behaves in this way was ‘possessed’. But the behaviour could be compared to another medical condition that is rather less rare: hypnosis. Hypnosis consists of a narrowing of the field of attention until the subject is ‘locked’ in a state of narrowness, unaware of anything beyond it. This is precisely what happens to human beings when they are gripped by rage or indignation. The problem is that the effect of that rage, when directed against other people, is to produce in them the same state of ‘hypnosis’. The two combatants are then likely to remain locked in this state of mutual-provocation until the original cause of the quarrel has ceased to be important. The hypnosis has become a self-propagating condition, which may continue until both are exhausted or one is destroyed.

The history of the twentieth century may be seen as a continuous illustration of this process. We may take as a convenient starting point an event that occurred shortly after the accession of the tsar Nicholas II in 1894. Rumour had spread that the new tsar was anxious to modernise Russia and permit his subjects more liberty. He was, in fact, a gentle and charming person, totally unlike his autocratic father, who had the temper of a bull. Local councils (known as zemstvos) were told that the new tsar would be glad to receive deputations. A deputation from Tver arrived in St Petersburg and presented the tsar with expensive presents and with an address expressing their loyalty. It contained the innocuous phrase: ‘We expect, gracious sovereign, that these local councils will be allowed to express their opinions in matters which concern them...’ The result startled them. The writer of the address was dismissed from the public service with ignominy, and an official reproof was sent to the governor of Tver, who knew nothing about the matter. A few days later, the tsar addressed the assembled deputations, and told them sternly that it had come to his knowledge that some local councils were indulging in ‘the senseless dream that they might participate in the government of the country’. ‘I want everyone to know,’ shrieked the tsar, ‘that I intend to maintain the principle of autocracy, like my father,’ and he raised his hand as if shaking his fist. The audience went out looking shaken and cowed. And Nicholas’s wife, the tsarina Alexandra, looked at him with adoring admiration.

The tsar’s reaction to revolutionary ferment was to order his chief of police, von Plehve, to arrest anyone suspected of leftist sympathies. Plehve, who had organised the mass executions after the assassination of Alexander II, approached his task with enthusiasm. One of these arrested was a beautiful young student named Marie Vietrov - a few ‘forbidden books’ had been found in her room. Instead of being merely suspended from the university - the usual punishment - she was incarcerated in the Peter and Paul fortress. What took place during the next two months is not certain, although both torture and rape have been suggested. On 10 February 1897, Marie Vietrov committed suicide by soaking her mattress in paraffin and lying on it as she set it alight. She died after two days of horrible suffering. Her parents were not told until two weeks later. A secret press printed a document denouncing the government for her death, and asking what kind of tortures or humiliations had driven her to kill herself when her friends had already secured an order for her release. It was distributed in thousands. Vast crowds attended her funeral service, in spite of warnings from the police to disperse. A year later, industrial workers formed the Social Democratic Party which became the Communist Party.

The tsar was indifferent to all this agitation; he was more interested in trying to extend Russia’s influence in the far-east - particularly China and Korea. Japan had just won a war against China and wanted territorial concessions. So did Russia. In 1901, Japan’s greatest statesman, Hirobumi Ito, came to St Petersburg to discuss the problem. He was ignored and snubbed; answers to his official communications were delayed for weeks. The tsar regarded the Japanese as irritating foreigners who should be taught their place. The result was that the Japanese helped themselves to the disputed territory in north Korea. The Russians were outraged, and declared war. In 1904, the Russian fleet was ordered to sail halfway round the world to destroy the Japanese fleet. Russia was in for a painful surprise. The Japanese had been industrialising and modernising for several decades; they had even introduced the kind of democracy that Russia was still dreaming about. And they defeated the Russians in battle after battle. Finally, the Russian navy arrived, at Tsushima, where the Japanese sank all but two ships within a few hours. The Japanese had demonstrated that their chief minister could not be insulted with impunity.

After the war, one Russian statesman remarked: ‘It will not be the Japanese who will walk into the Kremlin, but the Russians.’ He understood that a national humiliation was the worst thing that could have happened to the tsar. In fact, while the war was still going on, the chief of police, von Plehve, was assassinated when a bomb was thrown under his carriage; the explosion was so great that he was literally atomised.

The government’s response was to appoint a liberal, Prince Sviatopolk-Mirsky, in his place. To the tsar’s fury, Mirsky held a conference of newspaper editors and asked for public support. A meeting of zemstvo delegates asked for more civil liberties. On 22 January 1905, a priest named Father Gapon led a delegation of workers to the Winter Palace to present a petition to the tsar. They were joined by more workers and by crowds of women and children. As they stood in front of the palace, calling for their ‘little father’, troops opened fire, then Cossacks charged the crowd, slashing with their swords. There was panic, and children were trampled underfoot. One hundred and fifty people were killed and two hundred wounded. When the tsar heard about it, his first question was: ‘Do you think they’ve killed enough?’ And when he was told that another regiment had fired on unarmed workers, he commented, ‘Fine fellows.’

What was happening in Russia was that one single man, deluded by the idea that he was still the absolute ruler, was behaving in a way that seemed to justify everything that Marx and Kropotkin had ever said about monarchs. The strange thing is that the tsar was not personally an autocrat or dictator. He was a gentle soul who loved to spend his days quietly with his wife and family. He found it totally impossible to be unpleasant to anyone, even when he was angry, so that all who talked to him went away dazzled and charmed; ministers would be stunned when they received their dismissal by post the next day. Nicholas was a weakling, a weathercock who changed his mind from moment to moment. In short, he was basically a child who had no intention of leaving his own subjective dream world for the difficult world of reality. When Russia urgently needed a realist, it found itself ruled by this man who was totally unfitted for responsibility.

The tsarina was the worst possible wife for such a man. She was a morbidly sensitive German, who would have made an excellent
Hausfrau
, but lacked every single quality needed by an empress. She doted on the healer and mystic Rasputin, a ‘monk’ of genuine religious inspiration, but who also possessed an insatiable appetite for wine, women and song. When popular demand forced the tsar to grant a form of parliament - called the Duma - it was the unworldly Rasputin who kept assuring him that he was still autocrat of all the Russias and ought to behave accordingly.

But the first decade of the twentieth century was an extremely dangerous time for a ruler who lacked all sense of reality. The current of history was flowing more swiftly than ever before; there was a sense of foreboding, like approaching rapids. And unfortunately for Europe, the tsar was not the only ruler who lived in a dream world. With his bristling moustaches and arrogant stare, Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany looked a typical Prussian officer. In fact, he was an over-sensitive, over-emotional man who was much given to play-acting and self-pity. ‘Once in the middle of a fervent complaint that he was always misunderstood... he contrived to let a large tear fall upon his cigar.’ He was born with a withered arm, and the disability increased his determination to look tough and formidable; the fierce upturned moustaches symbolised the front he presented to the world. In character, he was more like Nero than Julius Caesar. ‘The greater part of his life... was an illusion, a sort of perpetual sleight of hand to bolster his ego.’ (Both quotes are from Michael Balfour’s
The Kaiser and his Times
, chapter 4.)

This neurotic weakling found himself living in a society that was fast going out of date. The Germans had been terrified by the revolution of 1848, and were determined not to let it happen again. But by 1900 the world had changed too much to treat liberals and socialists as dangerous madmen. People wanted change; they were sick of militarism and despotism. And the Kaiser, like the tsar and the emperor of Austria, was frantically trying to hold back history.

If the tsar had been a realist, he would have appreciated that he needed the full support of the Russian people. The defeat by Japan had revealed Russia’s weakness. The army was run by corrupt politicians and generals who put the money intended for munitions into their private bank accounts; so half the soldiers had old fashioned rifles and the rest had none at all. Moreover, Russia was surrounded by aggressive powers. Germany was building up its navy to try to grab territory in Africa. The French, who had recovered from the humiliation of the Franco-Prussian war, had taken Morocco. The British were in Egypt. In Turkey, the government had been seized by a group called the young Turks who were determined not to allow their empire to crumble any further. Austria, under Franz Joseph, seemed to be one of the most stable countries in Europe, and had its eye on the Balkans - determined to frustrate the efforts of the tiny Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia and Slovenia to unite into one large country called Southern Slav Land (Yugoslavia).

The Austrians had occupied Bosnia since 1878, and were looking for an excuse to annex it permanently. When they did this - in 1908 - there was a European crisis, and Russia was tempted to go to war. (Rasputin dissuaded the tsar by telling him the Balkans were not worth fighting about.) Even the Italians felt it was time to expand, and in 1911 annexed Tripoli and the Dodecanese. It was the old game of land-grabbing, as played by the major powers in the nineteenth century. What now made it so dangerous was that it was being played in such a tiny space. Moreover, the major powers had formed various alliances with one another, promising to defend one another in the event of attack.

On 28 June 1914, the son of Franz Joseph of Austria, archduke Franz Ferdinand, was paying a state visit to Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia - now part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It was a rash thing to do, for today was Vidovdan, the anniversary of a Serbian defeat which was celebrated as a holiday. The archduke was gloomily certain that he would sooner or later be assassinated, and had told his children’s tutor: ‘The bullet that will kill me is already on its way.’ At ten o’clock that morning, a bomb was thrown at his carriage; although it wounded several members of the crowd, the archduke and his wife were uninjured. The bomb thrower was captured and prevented from swallowing a cyanide capsule. The archduke attended a ceremony in the town hall, and remarked to his wife as they left: ‘I have a feeling there may be more bombs around.’ The carriages made a wrong turn at an intersection, and stopped to turn round. A young man walked forward, raised a revolver, and fired two shots. The archduke and his wife were killed instantly.

It soon proved that some high officials in the Serbian government knew about the plot to kill the archduke. Angrily, Franz Joseph demanded the right to interrogate them. Serbia refused, and Austria declared war. Russia had an agreement to help Serbia, but the position was risky, for the Kaiser would be sure to support the Austrians. Meanwhile, the Russians seethed; the Serbians were brother Slavs and the Austrians intended to steal their country. The tsar was torn between his desire for peace and his desire to avenge the insult. He compromised and ordered a partial-mobilisation. In Germany, the Kaiser was having one of his ‘nervous crises’, convinced that England, Russia and France had agreed among themselves to crush Germany. At one of the most critical moments in modern history, he behaved like a hysterical female. He sent the tsar a message ordering him to stop the mobilisation immediately. Nations stared one another in the eye and blustered. For just a moment, everybody seemed to have second thoughts; Serbia tried to soothe Austria with talk of compromise, and the tsar suggested that the dispute should be referred to an international tribunal. Then the Austrians shelled Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. The Russians continued to mobilise. Germany declared war. And suddenly, for the first time in his life, the tsar was the most popular man in Russia - for the people were, as always, more belligerent than the generals.

The Kaiser sent an insulting ultimatum to France and Belgium, Russia’s allies. They responded angrily, and Germany felt it had to save face by marching into Belgium. Britain entered the war in defence of Belgium, and because it had no desire to see Germany acquire more sea ports. Japan declared war on Germany, and Italy sided with Great Britain.

The war was the tsar’s downfall. His troops fought bravely, but they lacked ammunition and proper clothing. Food intended for the army rotted in railway sidings. As the Russians suffered defeats and heavy casualties, the tsar sacked his commander-in-chief and took over that position himself. It made no difference. Russians starved and the war fever evaporated. In December 1916, Rasputin was murdered by a group of liberal conspirators, and his body was found under the ice of the river Neva. The tsar returned from the front and seemed to become curiously apathetic. The government was obviously disintegrating, and the country was paralysed by strikes. On 8 March 1917, disorders broke out in St Petersburg (then called Petrograd) to protest about the lack of bread. Policemen fired on crowds. Regiments began to mutiny. And the parliament decided that it had to step in and form a provisional government. The tsar watched his fantasies disintegrating around him. His own soldiers ordered him back into the palace when he tried to leave.