Stolypin

 
  STOLYPIN

  Part I: Formation

  Chapter 1: Birth of a Reformer

**Dresden. Saxony. April 2, 1862.**

Spring rain drummed against the windows of an elegant mansion on K;nigstrasse, where the family of Russian diplomat Arkady Stolypin had stopped. In one of the second-floor rooms, a young woman writhed in labor pains while her husband paced nervously in the corridor.

"Herr Stolypin," the German doctor addressed him as he emerged from the room, "congratulations! You have a son!"

Arkady Dmitrievich froze. A son! Heir to an ancient noble family whose history stretched back to the 16th century. A boy destined to live in a rapidly changing world.

"How is Natalya Mikhailovna?" he asked, switching to Russian.

"Excellent. This is a healthy, strong infant. He seems ready to conquer the world already."

Entering the room, Arkady bent over the cradle. The newborn lay with wide-open eyes, as if studying the surrounding world. In those dark eyes was a special seriousness.

"What shall we name him?" whispered Natalya Mikhailovna.

"Peter," Arkady answered without hesitation. "In honor of the Great Emperor. May he serve Russia with equal devotion."

None of them could have imagined that this infant, born in a foreign land, would become one of the greatest reformers of the Russian Empire. A man who would attempt to save the thousand-year monarchy from revolutionary storm.

Outside, spring thunder rumbled, as if foretelling the upheavals that awaited Russia in the future.

**Kolnoberze. Kovno Province. 1870.**

Eight-year-old Petya Stolypin galloped across the endless fields of the family estate. The boy had loved this land from childhood—the rolling expanses of Lithuania where his ancestors had lived for centuries.

"Young master! Young master!" cried old groom Stepan, chasing after him. "Don't ride so fast! You'll fall!"

But Petya only laughed and spurred his horse even faster. He felt himself part of this land, these fields, these forests. Already then he understood: land is the foundation of everything, the source of wealth and strength.

In the evening, at family dinner, his father spoke of provincial affairs. Arkady Dmitrievich served as marshal of nobility and knew peasant life firsthand.

"The situation is difficult," he told his wife. "The emancipation reform has passed, but the peasants still suffer. Little land, no money, don't know how to farm properly."

"What can be done?" asked Natalya Mikhailovna.

"Teach. Help. Set an example. But most importantly—give them the opportunity to become true masters."

Petya listened to these conversations, absorbing every word. Even in childhood he understood: Russia is primarily a peasant country. And the fate of the empire depends on how the peasant question is resolved.

**Orel. Orel Gymnasium. 1874.**

Twelve-year-old Peter Stolypin entered Orel Gymnasium—one of the finest educational institutions in central Russia. Here, among the sons of nobles and officials, his exceptional abilities became apparent.

"Stolypin!" called the history teacher. "Tell us about the reforms of Peter the Great."

Peter stood and began to speak. He didn't simply recite the textbook, but thought aloud about how one could change a country without destroying its foundations.

"Peter understood," the boy said, "that Russia had to change to survive. But he didn't destroy the old—he built the new alongside the old. Created an army, navy, factories, schools..."

"And what do you think of the emperor's methods?" asked the teacher.

"The methods were harsh," Peter answered thoughtfully. "But the times were harsh. The main thing—he thought about Russia, not about himself."

The teacher nodded. There was something special about this boy—the ability to see the essence of things, to understand how the world works.

His classmates respected Peter but were somewhat afraid of him. He was more serious than they, thought about things that didn't interest them. Already then, the future statesman showed through.

**St. Petersburg. University. 1881.**

Nineteen-year-old Peter Stolypin entered the natural sciences faculty of St. Petersburg University. The choice was not accidental—he wanted to study agronomy to later apply his knowledge on the family estate.

His university years fell during troubled times. On March 1, 1881, terrorists killed Emperor Alexander II. The country was shaken, society was filled with confusion and fear.

"Gentlemen," a law professor addressed the students, "we live in turbulent times. Old foundations are crumbling, new ones have not yet been created. What is to be done?"

Noise arose in the auditorium. Some demanded harsh measures against revolutionaries, others spoke of the need for reforms.

"And what do you think, Stolypin?" asked the professor.

Peter stood. His voice carried the firmness of a man who had already determined his path.

"I think that revolution and reaction are two sides of the same misfortune. We need a third way. The path of gradual but decisive transformations. We must give the people what they want, but through legal means."

"And if the people want the impossible?"

"Then we must show them what is possible. And prove it through deeds, not words."

After the lecture, classmate Alexander Izvolsky, future foreign minister, approached Peter.

"You speak like a future minister, Peter Arkadievich."

"Not a minister," Stolypin replied. "A master of the land. That's more important than any ministerial portfolios."

**Kolnoberze. 1885.**

After graduating from university, Peter Stolypin returned to the family estate. Here he decided to put into practice everything he had learned.

"Stepan Ivanovich," he addressed the steward, "we need to change the farming system."

"How so, master?"

"Introduce new crops, improve livestock breeds, build roads. And most importantly—help the peasants farm sensibly."

The old steward shook his head. The young master was starting something incomprehensible.

But Peter was persistent. He organized demonstration fields where he tested new wheat varieties. Purchased breeding cattle. Opened a school for peasant children.

"Why do you need this, Peter Arkadievich?" asked neighboring landowners. "You're just wasting money."

"Not wasting, investing," Stolypin replied. "In the future. Of my land and my country."

The results didn't take long to appear. Harvests on the estate doubled. Peasants from neighboring villages came to learn new farming methods.

"Our master is fair," they said. "And clever. Everyone lives better under him."

**Kovno. 1889.**

At twenty-seven, Stolypin was elected marshal of nobility of Kovno district. Youth didn't hinder him—everyone could see his business qualities and honesty.

The first thing he tackled was fighting corruption. District institutions were rife with bribery and embezzlement.

"Gentlemen," he said at the first meeting, "either we serve the cause, or the cause serves us. There is no third option."

Some officials tried to protest, but Stolypin was inflexible. In six months he had replaced half the district administration.

"Peter Arkadievich is too strict," complained the dismissed officials.

"Peter Arkadievich is fair," replied the peasants. "Under him, truth is worth more than money."

The second task was developing the zemstvo. Stolypin understood: local self-government is the foundation of a healthy state.

"We must solve our problems ourselves," he said at zemstvo assemblies. "Not wait for instructions from Petersburg, but act."

Under his leadership, new schools and hospitals were built in the district, roads were laid, agricultural courses were opened.

**Grodno. 1902.**

Stolypin's successes at the local level did not go unnoticed. At forty, he was appointed governor of Grodno—one of the most responsible positions in the western provinces.

Grodno Province was a complex region. Poles, Lithuanians, Belarusians, Jews lived here. Each nationality had its own interests, its own claims against the authorities.

"Your Excellency," reported the vice-governor on the first day of work, "the province is restless. Polish landowners are dissatisfied with Russification. Peasants demand land. Workers strike at factories."

"I understand," Stolypin replied calmly. "Let's start by listening to everyone. You cannot govern people without knowing their needs."

The following months, the new governor spent traveling around the province. He met with landowners and peasants, with factory owners and workers, with Orthodox priests and Catholic priests.

"What do you need?" he asked everyone.

"Justice," they answered. "And order."

"Good. There will be both. But according to law, not by arbitrary rule."

Stolypin understood: in a multinational empire, one can govern only through justice. No one should be oppressed, but no one should be given privileges at others' expense.

**Grodno. Governor's House. December 1904.**

In the evening, after a long working day, Stolypin sat in his study reading reports from the field. The news was alarming. Russia was losing the war with Japan. Discontent was growing in the country.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!"

His wife entered—Olga Borisovna, a beautiful and intelligent woman who always supported her husband.

"Peter, you haven't eaten dinner again?"

"No time, dear. Work."

"What work is more important than health?"

Stolypin set aside his papers and looked at his wife.

"Russia is sick, Olya. Seriously sick. And if we don't treat it, it might die."

"And what specifically can you do?"

"Here, in the province—show that power can be fair and effective. And there..." he looked toward Petersburg, "there we'll see."

Olga Borisovna knew her husband. When he spoke in that tone, it meant he had already made a decision. A decision that could change their lives.

Outside, snow was falling, covering the ancient city with a white blanket. But in Peter Stolypin's soul, determination was ripening—determination to fight for Russia at any cost.

He didn't yet know that in a year revolution would begin. That he would have to defend the state system with weapons in hand. And that here, in provincial Grodno, he would gain experience that would later serve him in the struggle to save the empire.

The future was approaching. And it was full of trials.


  Chapter 2: Baptism by Fire

**Grodno. January 9, 1905.**

The telegram from Petersburg arrived early in the morning and turned Governor Stolypin's life upside down. "Bloody Sunday"—the shooting of a peaceful workers' demonstration at the Winter Palace—had shaken all of Russia.

"Your Excellency," the police chief reported excitedly, "strikes are beginning at the factories. Workers demand the government's resignation."

Stolypin stood at the window of the governor's house looking at the snow-covered streets of Grodno. The city seemed calm, but the governor sensed this was the calm before the storm.

"Pavel Ivanovich," he addressed the police chief, "send me representatives of the workers. Immediately."

"But Your Excellency..."

"Immediately! We need to talk with people, not shoot at them."

An hour later, delegates from the city factories gathered in the governor's office. Distrustful, embittered, ready for conflict.

"Gentlemen," Stolypin began, "I know your demands. Some of them are just."

"Just?" exclaimed one of the workers. "They shoot us down like dogs!"

"A tragedy occurred in Petersburg," the governor replied calmly. "But here, in Grodno, we can avoid bloodshed. If we talk instead of shout."

"And what do you propose?" asked another delegate.

"Create a commission to consider your demands. With participation of workers, factory owners, and administration. Solve problems on their merits."

The workers exchanged glances. They hadn't expected this.

"And if the owners refuse?"

"They won't refuse," Stolypin said firmly. "Because I'll explain it to them."

**Grodno. Factory Owner Shershen's House. Same Day.**

In the evening, Stolypin gathered all the major industrialists of the province at his house. The conversation was tough and frank.

"Gentlemen," said the governor, "revolution doesn't begin from a good life. Your workers have legitimate grievances."

"Peter Arkadievich," objected factory owner Shershen, "we already pay more than in other provinces."

"But less than needed for human life," Stolypin parried. "Twelve-hour workdays, absence of safety measures, fines for every trifle..."

"It's economic necessity!"

"It's the path to revolution. Want to save your factories—meet the workers halfway. At least partially."

The industrialists grumbled but didn't dare argue with the governor. Stolypin was known for his principles.

"Very well," Shershen finally agreed. "But do you guarantee that workers will stop striking?"

"I guarantee we'll find a compromise. And revolution can only be stopped by justice."

**Saratov. Governor's House. March 1905.**

The successful resolution of the conflict in Grodno didn't go unnoticed in Petersburg. Stolypin was transferred to Saratov—one of Russia's most troubled regions.

Saratov Province was seething. Peasants burned landowners' estates, workers struck, students held demonstrations. The previous governor had requested a transfer, unable to cope with the situation.

"Peter Arkadievich," Vice-Governor Lopukhin met the new governor, "the situation is critical. Five estates burned in a week. Troops can't respond in time."

Stolypin studied the province map where red crosses marked centers of unrest.

"And what specifically do peasants demand?"

"Land. More land."

"I see. And how much land do landowners leave idle?"

"Quite a lot. But they don't want to sell."

"They will want to," Stolypin said dryly. "When they understand the alternative."

The new governor acted according to his proven scheme. First—meetings with representatives of all sides in the conflict. Then—searching for compromise. And only as a last resort—use of force.

**Village of Balashovka. Saratov Province. April 1905.**

Stolypin personally came to one of the rebellious villages. Peasants gathered at the village assembly, looking distrustfully at the governor.

"Brothers," Peter Arkadievich addressed them, "I came not to punish, but to talk."

"What's there to talk about?" someone shouted from the crowd. "There's no land, only the master's!"

"There will be land," Stolypin replied calmly. "But not through robbery, but according to law."

"What law? The master's law?"

"State law. Fair law. One that will give every working man the opportunity to become a master."

The peasants fell silent. They hadn't heard this from authorities before.

"And what's needed for this?" asked the village elder.

"Patience and work. The government is preparing land reform. Every peasant will be able to receive his plot in ownership."

"And when will this be?"

"Soon. But not tomorrow. Such things aren't done quickly."

"And what meanwhile?"

"Meanwhile—order. Burning estates is pointless. It won't give you land but will deprive you of work."

The conversation continued for several hours. Stolypin patiently explained to peasants the essence of future reforms, answered questions, dispelled rumors.

"The master speaks truth," the men whispered. "Not like others."

By evening the village had calmed down. The disorders ceased.

**Saratov. July 1905.**

Stolypin's methods were producing results. Order was gradually being restored in the province. But revolutionaries weren't giving up.

"Your Excellency," reported the head of the secret police, "we've received information about a planned assassination attempt on you."

"From whom?"

"From Socialist Revolutionaries. They consider you the main obstacle to revolution in the province."

Stolypin wasn't surprised. He understood—his policy deprived revolutionaries of popular support. And that was deadly dangerous for them.

"Increase security?"

"Absolutely. And limit public appearances."

"No," the governor said decisively. "If I start hiding, I'll lose people's trust. I'll work as I worked."

"But Your Excellency..."

"No 'buts.' Fear is a poor advisor for a statesman."

**Saratov. City Theater. August 12, 1905.**

Stolypin spoke at a charity evening for wounded soldiers. The hall gathered representatives of all city estates.

"Gentlemen," the governor said from the stage, "we're living through difficult times. But it's precisely in such times that our love for the Fatherland is tested."

The hall was silent. Stolypin knew how to speak so that even opponents listened.

"Russia needs reforms. All sensible people understand this. But reforms should strengthen the state, not destroy it."

Suddenly a shot rang out in the hall. The bullet whistled past the governor's head and embedded in the wall.

Panic began. People rushed to the exits. But Stolypin remained on stage.

"Gentlemen!" he shouted. "Please remain calm!"

The terrorist was caught at the theater entrance. He turned out to be a young student, member of the Socialist Revolutionary combat organization.

"Why?" Stolypin asked him during interrogation.

"You're hindering revolution," the terrorist replied.

"I'm hindering disorder. And revolution can be peaceful too."

"Peaceful revolution is a contradiction."

"No," the governor objected. "The contradiction is destroying the country in the name of saving it."

**Saratov. October 1905.**

The October 17 Manifesto, proclaiming constitutional monarchy, was met with enthusiasm in Saratov. It seemed revolution was ebbing.

But Stolypin understood—this was only the beginning. The most difficult lay ahead.

"Olga Borisovna," he told his wife, "we're summoned to Petersburg."

"Forever?"

"Possibly. Witte is offering me the post of Interior Minister."

"Will you agree?"

Peter was silent for a long time, looking out the window at Saratov's streets, which he had managed to pacify in six months.

"I'll agree. Here I proved that one can negotiate with the people. Now I need to prove this to the whole country."

"It will be dangerous."

"It's dangerous not to do what one must. And I must serve Russia."

Olga Borisovna knew—her husband had made his decision. And she would be with him, whatever happened.

A month later the Stolypin family left Saratov. Behind lay years of provincial service. Ahead waited the capital with its intrigues, struggles, mortal dangers.

But also the opportunity to change Russia's fate.

Peter Arkadievich Stolypin was going to Petersburg with a firm intention to carry out the reforms he had dreamed of all his life. Give peasants land, create a legal state, make Russia a modern country.

He didn't yet know he would become one of the greatest reformers in the empire's history. And that he would pay for these reforms with his own life.

The baptism by fire of revolution was passed. Now even more severe trials lay ahead.


 Part II: The Great Reformer


 Chapter 4: Iron Will

**Petersburg. Mariinsky Palace. October 1906.**

The first meeting of the new cabinet took place in a tense atmosphere. Outside the windows, autumn wind drove yellow leaves across St. Isaac's Square, while in the hall sat men on whose shoulders lay the empire's fate.

Stolypin sat at the head of the long table, his face still bearing traces of the recent assassination attempt—a thin scar on his forehead, barely noticeable limp. But in the prime minister's eyes burned an unquenchable fire of determination.

"Gentlemen," he began, surveying the ministers, "we have not gathered to govern a dying country. We are here to create a new Russia."

Finance Minister Kokovtsov adjusted his pince-nez and coughed uncertainly:

"Peter Arkadievich, the state treasury is exhausted by war and revolutionary upheavals. There's no money for large-scale reforms."

"Money will be found," Stolypin replied firmly. "The question is not money, but will. We have the main wealth—Russian land and Russian people."

War Minister General Rediger shook his head gloomily:

"The army is demoralized. Sailors mutiny, soldiers refuse to shoot workers. How can we conduct reforms in such conditions?"

"We'll reform the army too," the premier replied calmly. "But first we'll give the people something worth fighting for. Land. Property. Dignity."

Justice Minister Shcheglovitov smiled skeptically:

"Peter Arkadievich, your plans look utopian. Peasants have lived in communes for centuries. How can you force them to become property owners?"

"Not force—convince," Stolypin corrected. "Show the benefit. A man who owns land defends order. A man who owns nothing is ready to destroy everything."

He stood and approached the map of Russia hanging on the wall.

"Look at these expanses. From the Baltic to the Pacific Ocean. There's enough land for everyone. But only on one condition—if each receives his plot and becomes its rightful master."

"And the landowners?" asked Agriculture Minister Stishinsky. "They won't give up land voluntarily."

"They won't give it up, they'll sell it. At a fair price. Through the Peasant Bank. And those who refuse risk losing everything in a new revolution."

The ministers exchanged glances. Stolypin's plan was grandiose but extremely risky.

"How much time will such transformations require?" asked Kokovtsov.

Stolypin turned to him. His voice carried the conviction of a man who could see far ahead:

"Twenty years of peace. Give me twenty years, and you won't recognize Russia."

**Petersburg. Tauride Palace. February 1907.**

The Second State Duma proved even more radical than the first. Social Democrats and Socialist Revolutionaries openly called for overthrowing autocracy, Kadets demanded immediate transfer of all land to peasants.

Stolypin mounted the tribune under the unfriendly murmur of deputies' voices. Tall, stately, with graying temples, he embodied unshakeable power.

"Gentlemen deputies," he began, and the hall gradually quieted, "you accuse the government of reaction. But think: what is true reaction?"

He paused, surveying the rows of deputies.

"True reaction is an attempt to return to the past. We, however, move forward. But not destroying, but creating."

"Lies!" shouted Social Democrat Tsereteli. "You defend landowners' interests!"

"I defend Russia's interests," Stolypin replied calmly. "And first of all—peasants' interests. But not through methods of robbery, but by creating millions of small property owners."

He pulled a stack of documents from his briefcase.

"Gentlemen, the government is ready to present to you a draft agrarian reform. Every peasant will receive the right to leave the commune with land."

"And landowner latifundia?" they shouted from their seats.

"Landowner lands will be sold through the Peasant Bank to those ready to work them. Not for free, but for money. But at affordable prices and in installments."

Trudovik Alekhin rose:

"Peter Arkadievich, what if a landowner doesn't want to sell?"

"We won't force him," Stolypin replied. "But life itself will compel him. Unworked land brings no income. And there's no one to work it—peasants will go to their own plots."

"That's economic coercion!" protested Kadet Rodichev.

"That's economic expediency," the premier parried. "Land should belong to those who work it."

The debates continued for several hours. Stolypin patiently answered all questions, explained reform details, convinced skeptics.

"Gentlemen," he said in conclusion, "we offer you a peaceful revolution. A revolution of property instead of a revolution of blood. Choose."

But the deputies chose differently. Three months later the Second Duma was dissolved, like the First.

**Tsarskoye Selo. Alexander Palace. June 1907.**

After the Duma's dissolution, Stolypin was summoned to the emperor. Nicholas II received him in the small drawing room where usually only family gathered.

"Stolypin," the tsar said, "I'm told you're planning to change the electoral law."

"Precisely, Your Majesty. The current law gives too many votes to revolutionaries."

"Won't this violate the October 17 Manifesto?"

Stolypin thought for a moment. He understood all the delicacy of the moment.

"Your Majesty, the law is adopted by imperial decree during the recess between Duma sessions. This is provided for in the Fundamental Laws."

"But in spirit this contradicts constitutional principles."

"In spirit this corresponds to common sense," the premier replied firmly. "The Duma should be workable, not a platform for revolutionary agitation."

The emperor was silent for a long time, looking out the window at the park where his children played.

"Very well, Stolypin. But remember—this is your responsibility."

"I accept it, Your Majesty. Like all the others."

"By the way, about other responsibilities. I'm told about your land reforms. Many landowners are dissatisfied."

"Those who don't want to adapt to new conditions are dissatisfied. But most already understand the benefit."

"And peasants? How do they accept the reforms?"

"Differently, Your Majesty. Progressive ones grasp the opportunity to become masters. Backward ones fear leaving the commune."

"So you force them?"

"We convince. Show by example. In provinces where reform is successful, harvests have doubled."

The tsar nodded. Stolypin's words carried the confidence of a man who knew what he was doing.

"How much longer will this... reorganization continue?"

"Several years of active phase, Your Majesty. But results will be visible soon."

**Petersburg. Stolypin's Mansion. December 1907.**

Winter evening. The Stolypin family gathered in the drawing room. Children did homework, Olga Borisovna embroidered, the prime minister reviewed papers.

"Papa," daughter Maria asked, "is it true they want to kill you?"

Stolypin set aside documents and looked at his daughter. She resembled her mother—the same intelligent eyes, the same directness.

"Mashenka, there are people who are dissatisfied with what I do."

"What bad thing are you doing?"

"I'm not doing anything bad. But some don't think so."

"And if they kill you, what will happen to Russia?"

The child's question struck Stolypin with its simplicity and depth.

"Russia cannot depend on one person," he answered quietly. "It should have many good people."

"Are there few now?"

"Few for now. But there will be more. When people get education, property, freedom."

Olga Borisovna raised her eyes from embroidery:

"Peter, what if it doesn't work out? What if revolutionaries win?"

"They won't win," Stolypin said confidently. "Because we give the people more than they do."

"Namely?"

"They promise to take from the rich and give to the poor. We offer every poor person to become rich through their own labor."

"That's harder."

"But more honest. And more reliable."

Logs crackled in the fireplace. Outside snow fell, covering Petersburg with a white blanket. The house was warm and cozy, but Stolypin understood—this was calm before a new storm.

**Saratov Province. Novonikolaevka Village. Spring 1908.**

Stolypin came to one of the villages where agrarian reform was actively proceeding. He wanted to personally see the results of his transformations.

Peasant Ivan Sidorov stood in the middle of his new farm showing the prime minister his household.

"Here, Peter Arkadievich," he said, "two years ago I lived in the commune. There was little land, and that scattered across fields. And now—twenty desyatinas in one place. And all mine!"

Stolypin examined the sturdy buildings, even furrows in the field, well-tended livestock.

"How are things going, Ivan Yegorovich?"

"Thank God, well. Last year's harvest was twice what it was in the commune. And better quality."

"How do neighbors relate?"

"Differently. Those who understand also leave the commune. Those who don't understand envy."

"Are there difficulties?"

"How can there be no difficulties? Not enough money for everything. Would buy machines, improved seeds..."

"That's solvable. The bank will help, agronomists will advise."

Sidorov nodded and suddenly asked:

"Is it true, Peter Arkadievich, that rebels want to drive everyone back into communes?"

"No one will drive anyone anywhere," Stolypin replied firmly. "You're now a property owner. And property is sacred."

"What if there's revolution?"

"There won't be. Because there are more and more people like you. And property owners don't make revolutions."

The peasant looked thoughtfully at his fields.

"You speak truly. Now I have something to lose. And something to fight for."

This is exactly what Stolypin sought. To create millions of people in Russia who had something to lose and something to fight for.

**Petersburg. Third State Duma. November 1908.**

The new Duma, elected under the changed law, proved more moderate. The majority consisted of Octobrists and moderate rightists—people ready for constructive cooperation with the government.

Stolypin spoke with a report on the progress of reforms.

"Gentlemen deputies," he said, "in two years more than a million peasant households have left the commune. 300 thousand farms and individual plots have been created."

The hall listened attentively. The figures were impressive.

"In provinces where reform is proceeding actively, productivity has grown 15-20 percent. Livestock numbers have increased, product quality has improved."

Octobrist Guchkov rose:

"Peter Arkadievich, how are things with resettlement to Siberia?"

"Excellent, Alexander Ivanovich. In three years more than two million people have resettled to Siberia. New lands are being developed, settlements built, agriculture developing."

"Is there reverse flow?"

"There is. About 15 percent return. But the rest take root in new places."

Kadet Milyukov shook his head skeptically:

"All this is good, but social tension isn't decreasing. Workers strike, students riot..."

"Pavel Nikolaevich," Stolypin replied, "social problems can't be solved in one day. But we're moving in the right direction."

"In what direction exactly?"

"Toward creating a legal state and civil society. A country where every person has equal opportunities for development."

After the session, Octobrist leader Guchkov approached Stolypin.

"Peter Arkadievich, you give the impression of a man who knows exactly where he's leading Russia."

"I know, Alexander Ivanovich. To prosperity and stability."

"What if you don't have time? If leftists take revenge?"

Stolypin looked seriously at his interlocutor:

"Then Russia will perish. And we'll all be guilty of failing to save it."

  Chapter 5: Betting on the Strong

**Kiev Province. Mikhailovsky Farm. Summer 1909.**

Early morning. The sun was just rising over the endless Ukrainian fields. Peasant Grigory Shvets stood in the middle of his household, proudly surveying the achievements of two years of hard work.

Recently he had been an ordinary commune member—one of hundreds of such faceless shareholders in Mikhailovka village. Now he was the rightful owner of thirty desyatinas of fertile land.

"Hey, Grisha!" his neighbor Petro Koval called out. "Admiring your farm again?"

"Why not admire it?" Shvets laughed. "Two years ago I had nothing. And now—house, barn, stable..."

"And debts for fifteen hundred," Koval added with a smirk.

"I'll pay the debts. With such land and such harvests—I'll return everything in five years."

Koval shook his head. He still doubted whether it was worth leaving the commune.

"What if new power comes? Says—we're taking everything back to the commune?"

"Won't come," Shvets replied confidently. "Stolypin won't allow it. He's for people like us."

"But Stolypin isn't eternal."

"But his work is eternal. Look how many farms have appeared around! You can't drive everyone back."

Indeed, wherever you looked, new farms were visible. Strong houses, well-tended fields, good roads. Ukraine was changing before their eyes.

A young man in uniform rode up to Shvets—a zemstvo agronomist.

"Grigory Ivanovich, good day! How are things on the farm?"

"Hello, Ivan Petrovich! Things are good. The wheat has grown splendidly."

The agronomist dismounted and walked through the field, examining the ears.

"Excellent harvest. You see yourself—crop rotation gives results."

"I see. In the commune we never would have thought to introduce crop rotation."

"Why? There everyone got different strips each year anyway."

"Exactly. But now I know—this land is mine. I'll protect and improve it."

The agronomist nodded. He heard such conversations more and more often. Private property really was changing peasants' psychology.

"By the way, Grigory Ivanovich, will you take a loan to buy a reaper?"

"I'm thinking about it. Harvesting by hand—you lose half the crop."

"You think correctly. Machines are the future of agriculture."

**St. Petersburg. Stolypin's Office. September 1909.**

The Prime Minister studied governors' reports on the progress of agrarian reform. The figures were encouraging, but Stolypin understood—much work lay ahead.

Deputy Interior Minister Kurlov entered the office.

"Peter Arkadievich, the report is ready."

"I'm listening, Pavel Grigoryevich."

"In three years, one and a half million households have left the commune. Total area of allocated land—12 million desyatinas."

"Good. And the pace?"

"Accelerating. If in the first year 50 thousand households left, now it's 200 thousand."

"Is there resistance?"

"In some provinces. Especially in central ones where the commune is stronger."

Stolypin stood and approached the map of Russia.

"Pavel Grigoryevich, the main thing is not quantity but quality. Better fewer farms but strong ones than many weak ones."

"That's why we're betting on the strong?"

"Exactly. A strong master will pull the weak ones up. A weak one will drag everyone down."

"But critics say we're creating inequality in the countryside."

"Inequality already exists," Stolypin replied. "There are lazy and hardworking, clever and stupid, enterprising and passive. We simply give each the opportunity to prove themselves."

"What if the weak can't withstand competition?"

"Then they'll sell their land to the strong and go to the city. Become workers, craftsmen, merchants. There's nothing wrong with that."

Kurlov recorded every word. The premier's logic was iron-clad, but seemed harsh to many.

"Peter Arkadievich, what about those who are completely against the reform?"

"We don't force anyone. Wants to stay in the commune—let him stay. But don't let him interfere with others."

"And if he interferes?"

"Then we apply the law. Firmly but fairly."

**Tobolsk Province. Resettlement Point. October 1909.**


The Kornilov family from Poltava Province reached their plot after a month's journey. Head of family Andrei, his wife Maria, and three children stood in the middle of their hundred desyatinas of Siberian land and couldn't believe—all this was now theirs.

"Dad, is this really ours?" asked eldest son Nikolai.

"Ours, son. Completely ours. Forever."

"But in the village they said only bears live in Siberia."

"There are bears," his father laughed. "But people too. Good people. Hardworking ones."

A resettlement administration official rode up on horseback.

"Andrei Vasilievich Kornilov?"

"That's me."

"Here are documents for your plot. One hundred desyatinas in perpetual use. Plus settlement loan—200 rubles."

"Thank you. When to repay?"

"In five years. No interest. If you can't—we'll extend another five years."

Kornilov took the documents with hands trembling from excitement. All his life he had dreamed of such land.

"Are there neighbors?"

"There are. Over there," the official pointed to smoke in the distance, "Petrenko's farm. Also resettled from your parts. And there—the Volkov family from Ryazan."

"Good. We won't perish."

"You won't perish. The land here is good, harvests are fine. Main thing—don't be lazy."

Maria Kornilova surveyed the endless expanses.

"Andrei, aren't you afraid? Still, it's a foreign land."

"Not foreign, but ours. Russian land is Russian everywhere."

"What if it doesn't work out? What if we can't manage the household?"

"We'll manage. We have hands, we have a head. And most importantly—we have land. Such land as we never saw in Ukraine."

In the evening, in a hastily built hut, the Kornilov family planned the future.

"In spring we'll build a house first," Andrei said. "A real, strong one. Then a barn, stable..."

"Where will we get money?" asked his wife.

"They gave us a loan, we have some savings. And most importantly—we'll work. Here they pay well for work."

"Papa," asked his son, "are we rich now?"

"We're masters now, Kolya. And a master is rich. Not with money, but with land."

Outside the Siberian blizzard howled, but the settlers' hearts were warm. They knew—a new life was beginning. Difficult, but honest. And free.

**Petersburg. Winter Palace. January 1910.**

Traditional New Year reception. The palace halls gathered all the empire's high society—ministers, generals, diplomats, major industrialists and bankers.

Stolypin stood in a circle of high officials discussing the year's results.

"Peter Arkadievich," Finance Minister Kokovtsov addressed him, "your reforms are giving good results. Agricultural income has grown 20 percent."

"That's only the beginning, Vladimir Nikolaevich. The main results will come in five to ten years."

"How are things with public order?" asked War Minister Sukhomlinov.

"Stable. There are fewer terrorist acts. Peasant unrest has almost ceased."

"So your bet on the strong is paying off?"

"Absolutely. A property owner is power's natural ally."

Count Witte joined the conversation:

"Peter Arkadievich, allow me to note—you're creating new contradictions in the countryside. Between rich and poor peasants."

"Sergei Yulievich, these contradictions always existed. They were just hidden by communal leveling."

"But now they're intensifying."

"But incentive for development appears. The clever and hardworking get more than the lazy and stupid. Is that unfair?"

"Fair. But socially dangerous."

Stolypin shook his head:

"On the contrary, socially useful. The strong pull the weak up. In the commune everyone pulls each other down."

Moscow manufacturer Ryabushinsky entered the conversation:

"Peter Arkadievich, your reforms are good for the countryside. But what about the workers' question? Strikes don't stop."

"Pavel Pavlovich, the workers' question isn't solved only by raising wages. We need to give workers prospects for growth, education, opportunity to become masters, engineers."

"Meanwhile they strike and demand an eight-hour workday."

"And they're right. Europe has already switched to eight hours. It's time for us too."

Ryabushinsky raised his eyebrows in surprise:

"You support socialist demands?"

"I support reasonable demands. A rested worker works better than a tired one."

"But that makes production more expensive!"

"But raises quality and productivity. Calculate for yourself."

The emperor approached them. Nicholas II was in excellent spirits—the year had passed relatively calmly.

"What are you discussing, gentlemen?"

"Development prospects, Your Majesty," Stolypin replied. "Russia is changing faster than we expected."

"For the better?"

"Absolutely. But we mustn't stop at what we've achieved."

"What specifically do you propose?"

"Continue reforms. Judicial, zemstvo, labor legislation. Russia must become a legal state."

The tsar nodded. He trusted Stolypin more than any other minister.

"Act, Peter Arkadievich. You have my full support."

**Saratov Province. Balashov City. March 1910.**

Stolypin again came to familiar places—where he had once begun his gubernatorial career. He wanted to personally see how reforms were progressing in one of Russia's most troubled regions.

The new governor Stremoukhov met him—young, energetic official, ardent supporter of Stolypin transformations.

"Peter Arkadievich, I have the honor to report—the province is transforming before our eyes. In three years more than 40 thousand farms have been created."

"What results?"

"Productivity has grown on average 25 percent. Livestock numbers have doubled. 200 new schools have opened."

"Any resistance?"

"Strong in the first year. Especially from local commune leaders. But gradually subsided."

"Why did it subside?"

"People saw results. Farmers live better than commune members. Everyone notices that."

They went to one of the villages where reform was particularly successful. Along the way the governor told about difficulties and achievements.

"The hardest thing was changing psychology," he said. "Peasants were used to living 'all together' for centuries. At first they were afraid to leave the commune."

"What helped?"

"Example. The first farmers got good harvests—others followed."

"How did local kulaks react?"

"Differently. Smart ones understood the benefit and began helping fellow villagers settle. Stupid ones tried to oppose."

"And what happened to the stupid ones?"

"Life punished them. They were left without workers, without influence. Some were forced to sell land and leave for the city."

In the village Stolypin was met like a hero. Peasants remembered him from his gubernatorial days—fair but demanding.

"Peter Arkadievich!" an elderly peasant ran up to him. "Remember me? Stepan Kryukov!"

"I remember, Stepan Ivanovich. How are things?"

"Things are good! My son left the commune, started a farm. Now we live prosperously."

"Why didn't you leave yourself?"

"Too old already. I just need to make it to death in the commune. But my son should live on the farm."

A group of peasants approached them. Serious faces, businesslike mood.

"Peter Arkadievich," one of them said, "thank you for the reform. Life has improved."

"Don't thank me, thank yourselves. You worked, you achieved it."

"Still, without your law nothing would have worked out."

"What are you planning next?"

"We want to create a cooperative. To buy machines, seeds. Together it's cheaper."

"You think correctly. Cooperation is the future of agriculture."

The conversation continued for several hours. Peasants told about their plans, shared problems, asked advice.

"The only thing that worries us," one farmer finally said, "what if everything gets canceled? What if new power comes?"

"Won't be canceled," Stolypin replied firmly. "Too many people are interested in reforms continuing."

"What if there's revolution?"

"There won't be. Because you, property owners, don't make revolutions. Only those who have nothing to lose make them."

**Kiev. City Theater. September 1911.**

Stolypin came to Kiev for celebrations marking the opening of a monument to Alexander II—the liberator tsar. The prime minister was to give a speech about the significance of the great reforms of the 1860s.

The theater gathered all of Kiev's elite. Officials, landowners, merchants, intelligentsia. Many came specially from other cities to hear the famous reformer.

"Gentlemen," Stolypin began, rising to the tribune, "we have gathered here to honor the memory of a great emperor. But this memory will be incomplete if we don't understand the main thing..."

The hall was silent. Stolypin knew how to speak so that even opponents listened.

"Alexander II freed peasants from serfdom. But this liberation was incomplete. Peasants received personal freedom but not economic independence."

"Our task is to complete the liberator tsar's work. Give peasants not only freedom but property. Not only rights but opportunities."

In a box sat a young man with an intelligent face—Dmitry Bogrov, attorney and secret police agent. But few knew he was also connected to revolutionaries.

Bogrov listened attentively to Stolypin's speech. A strange fire burned in his eyes—a mixture of admiration and hatred.

"Russia stands on the threshold of great changes," the prime minister continued. "We're creating a new society—a society of free property owners, where every person can realize their abilities."

"This is a difficult path. But it's the only path to prosperity and stability."

Applause rang out in the hall. Even Stolypin's critics acknowledged the force of his convictions.

After the performance the prime minister went to the foyer. People approached with congratulations, asked questions, requested autographs.

"Peter Arkadievich," the Kiev governor addressed him, "how do you find our local successes?"

"Impressive. Especially in the sugar industry."

"Yes, beet harvests have grown significantly. Thanks to the farm system."

"How are public moods?"

"Generally calm. Though revolutionaries don't sleep."

"Any specific threats?"

"The usual. Anonymous letters, rumors about planned assassination attempts. But we're taking measures."

Stolypin nodded. In five years as premier he had grown accustomed to constant threats.

At that moment Bogrov approached them. The young man was elegantly dressed, held himself confidently.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "Dmitry Bogrov, attorney."

"Very pleased," Stolypin replied.

"Peter Arkadievich, your speech made a strong impression on me. Especially the words about completing Alexander II's work."

"Thank you. Do you share this viewpoint?"

"Absolutely. Russia truly needs fundamental transformations."

"And what transformations do you consider most important?"

"Those you're conducting. Land, legal..."

Bogrov spoke the right words, but Stolypin noticed something alarming in his eyes. Some inner tension.

"Excuse me, I must go," the prime minister said and moved to other interlocutors.

Bogrov followed him with his gaze. His face reflected a strange mixture of emotions—respect, hatred, determination.

**Kiev. Hotel "European." September 1, 1911.**

Stolypin couldn't sleep. Something troubled him in this city, in these people. Too many enthusiastic speeches, too much ostentatious enthusiasm.

He stood and approached the window. Kiev slept under a starry sky. Ancient city, cradle of Russian statehood. Everything began here a thousand years ago.

"Could it end here too?" he thought.

In five years as premier Stolypin had achieved much. Agrarian reform was in full swing. Terrorism was declining. The economy was growing. Russia was becoming a modern country.

But he felt—time was working against him. Too many enemies, too few allies. Revolutionaries hated him for suppressing terrorism. Conservatives—for liberal reforms. Liberals—for cooperating with autocracy.

"Twenty years of peace," he whispered. "Just twenty years..."

But would there be these twenty years? Or had history allowed Russia too little time?

**Kiev. City Theater. September 1, 1911. 9:30 PM.**

Second performance in honor of the monument opening. Opera "The Tale of Tsar Saltan." Stolypin sat in the imperial box next to the emperor and his daughters.

Nicholas II was in excellent spirits. The journey through southern Russia had shown him the successes of Stolypin reforms.

"Peter Arkadievich," he whispered to the premier during intermission, "I'm increasingly convinced of the correctness of your course."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"What do you plan next?"

"Continue what we started. Deepen reforms. Create a legal state."

"And the opposition?"

"There will always be opposition. Important that it be constructive."

"I hope the new Duma will be more agreeable."

"I hope so too, Your Majesty."

The bell rang. The second act was beginning.

At this time Bogrov appeared in the theater foyer. He was pale, his hands trembled. A revolver lay in his pocket.

The young man had been struggling with himself for several days. Revolutionaries demanded Stolypin's assassination from him. The secret police awaited information about planned terrorist acts. And he was torn between two worlds.

"Mister Bogrov," a familiar official called to him, "you look pale."

"Feeling a bit unwell," Bogrov replied.

"Maybe go home?"

"No, I'll watch the performance through."

He went up the stairs to the imperial box. Security knew him—secret police agent, trusted man.

"Anything new?" asked an officer.

"All quiet," Bogrov replied.

He entered the box. Stolypin stood applauding the artists. Tall, stately, embodiment of unshakeable power.

Bogrov drew his revolver. His hand trembled.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

The shot rang out like thunder from a clear sky.

Stolypin slowly turned, looked at the shooter, then at the emperor.

"Happy to die for the tsar," he said and fell.

Panic began. Spectators screamed, rushed to exits. Bogrov was seized.

Nicholas II bent over the wounded premier.

"Peter Arkadievich!"

"Your Majesty..." Stolypin spoke with difficulty. "Continue... the reforms..."

These were his last words.

The great reformer died before reaching fifty. Died at the moment when his reforms were just beginning to bear fruit.

Russia no longer had enough time. Lacked those twenty years of peace that Stolypin dreamed of.

Seven years later the empire collapsed. With it perished millions of those peasant property owners he had tried to create.

History did not forgive Russia for Stolypin's death.

  Epilogue: The Unfulfilled Future

**Petersburg. St. Isaac's Cathedral. September 5, 1911.**

Peter Arkadievich Stolypin's funeral became an event of national significance. Thousands came to the cathedral—from ministers to simple peasants who saw him as their protector.

Guards officers carried the coffin. Behind it walked the emperor with his family, ministers, Duma deputies, representatives of all Russian estates.

"Today we bury not only a great statesman," Metropolitan Anthony said in his funeral oration, "but also Russia's great hope for peaceful renewal."

In the crowd wept peasants who had received land from Stolypin. Officials who believed in his reforms wept. Even some revolutionaries wept, understanding—they had killed a man who could have saved the country from bloody catastrophe.

"Peter Arkadievich Stolypin," the metropolitan continued, "showed Russia the path to prosperity without revolutions and upheavals. This path remains open for those who find strength to walk it."

But such strength was no longer found in Russia.

**Kiev Province. Mikhailovsky Farm. 1917.**

Grigory Shvets stood in the middle of his ruined household and couldn't believe what was happening. Yesterday he had been a prosperous master, today—a "kulak" subject to "expropriation."

"Grigory," the village committee chairman, former farmhand Semyon Gryaznov, told him, "gather your family. The farm is being nationalized."

"How nationalized?" Shvets didn't understand. "This is my land! Stolypin gave it!"

"Stolypin is no more. Now all land belongs to the people."

"But I'm people too!"

"You're a kulak. An exploiter."

"What exploiter am I? I worked myself, my family worked!"

"You hired farmhands?"

"For mowing I hired. One person can't manage."

"There's your exploitation."

Shvets looked at the ruins of his dream. Eight years he had built the farm, improved the land, raised children. And all for nothing.

"What happens now?"

"The commune will return. We'll all work together."

"And harvests? Remember what harvests the farms had?"

"Happiness isn't in harvests. It's in justice."

Shvets waved his hand. Explaining was useless.

**Tobolsk Province. Kornilovo Village. 1929.**

Andrei Kornilov died a natural death in 1925. Until his last day he remembered Stolypin with kind words—the man who gave him the opportunity to become a master.

His son Nikolai tried to preserve his father's household. But collectivization came.

"Kornilov!" shouted the village soviet chairman. "Join the collective farm!"

"I won't," Nikolai stubbornly replied. "My land, my household."

"Your land? Who are you? Kulak's son!"

"I'm a peasant. I work the land."

"Work! You exploit the people!"

"Whom do I exploit? I work myself, my wife works, children work."

"You don't deliver grain to the state!"

"I deliver what I can. But I need to feed my family too."

"Saboteur!"

Nikolai Kornilov was dekulakized and sent to exile. The farm was burned, livestock slaughtered, grain taken away.

A year later he died in camp, remembering his father's stories about Stolypin.

**Moscow. Kremlin. 1953.**

Joseph Stalin lay dying. His brain still worked, and he thought about his lived life, about what was done and undone.

"Stolypin," he whispered. "Damned Stolypin..."

He understood—if Stolypin reforms had continued, revolution would have been impossible. Russia would have become a prosperous capitalist country. And he, Dzhugashvili, would have remained an unknown seminarian.

"Twenty years of peace," he repeated the dead premier's words. "Just twenty years..."

But Russia wasn't given these years. And instead of millions of peasant property owners, the country got millions of prisoners and executed.

History did not forgive Russia for Stolypin's death.

**Epilogue to the Epilogue**

What would have happened if Stolypin had remained alive? If his reforms had continued?

By 1931—twenty years after his death—Russia could have become a completely different country. A country of prosperous farmers and developed industry. A country of legal state and civil society.

There would have been no 1917 revolution—no one would have made it. Peasant property owners wouldn't have followed the Bolsheviks.

There would have been no Civil War, collectivization, repressions. Millions of people wouldn't have perished.

Russia would have entered the 20th century as a great European power—free, prosperous, strong.

But history knows no subjunctive mood. Stolypin perished. Reforms were interrupted. Russia chose another path—the path of blood and suffering.

And the fact that the country couldn't protect its great reformer was the fault of all—right, left, and center. The fault of a society that didn't understand whom it was losing.

Peter Arkadievich Stolypin remained in history as a man who could have saved Russia. But didn't have time.

**The End**

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*"They need great upheavals, we need a great Russia!"*

**P.A. Stolypin**