“Well, General,” I retorted, now thoroughly vexed with myself for having apparently made a mountain out of a molehill, “if God ordains my aunt’s report to be a lie, so much the better.”
“Don’t be cross.... I’ll most certainly get in touch with G.H.Q.,” said Grotten reassuringly. THREE DAYS AFTER CAME THE REVOLUTION.
And now the funeral knell of Russia began to sound, at first muffled, but always insistently. Disorders broke out in Petrograd. The strikes began on February 21st (Old Style), and crowds clamoured for bread, of which the supplies had suddenly stopped. No one could understand this, as Protopopoff’s last words to the Emperor were: “There is plenty of flour, I’ll pledge my word that we have enough flour to last us for a month, and after that fresh supplies will be coming in.” The bread shortage was in reality due to the action of the Duma--it was an organised arrangement!!
Each day matters grew worse. Fighting took place in the streets, drunkards indulged in indescribable orgies, the police were murdered much in the same manner as they have been in Ireland. It was bitterly cold--snow lay in deep drifts, and Petrograd was in the iron grip of a black frost.
Protopopoff, the Minister of the Interior, was always ultra-optimistic--I never liked or trusted him; he did not seem the man to handle any great crisis. He was appreciated by the Duma until his deplorable interview in Stockholm, when he discussed the war in a very indiscreet manner; but, when the Emperor appointed Protopopoff Minister of the Interior, he was universally hated, and everyone blamed the Emperor for appointing a man so singularly devoid of merit. Protopopoff promised everything, without considering whether his promises were possible. It was the same with his statements: he disliked telling unpleasant truths, so he took refuge in pleasant evasions. He was the man who continually told the Imperial Family that nothing could possibly happen. “Trust in me,” said Protopopoff, striking an attitude. And, whenever someone meekly remarked that the working classes were undoubtedly restive, Protopopoff struck another attitude which implied, “Did I fancy I heard you say ‘_restive_’?” and, aloud, in pained but hearty tones: “What? Are you actually troubling yourself about a little unrest? We’ll soon crush them--Labour cannot stand up against _Me_.”