The Tauride Palace had barely slept for several days.
Officers, deputies, officials, journalists, and couriers carrying fresh telegrams constantly moved through its long corridors. The large halls were filled with the endless noise of voices, hurried footsteps, and political arguments that continued day and night without pause.
After the fall of the monarchy, the center of the new government was gradually moving here.
But the government itself still looked surprisingly fragile.
Inside one of the large chambers, several key figures of the Provisional Government sat around a long table.
Knyaz Lvov looked exhausted after nearly sleepless days. Milyukov nervously reviewed fresh telegrams from the front while Guchkov argued irritably with several officers about the condition of the army.
Spread across the table before them were: reports from Petrograd, summaries of unrest, messages about the formation of soldiers' committees, and telegrams from front-line commanders.
More and more frequently, they also received warnings about the rapid collapse of discipline inside the army.
—"Order No. 1 is already spreading across the fronts," Guchkov said irritably. —"The officers are demanding explanations."
Milyukov tiredly rubbed his temple.
—"Right now the main priority is preventing the country from descending further into chaos."
—"Without the army, you will hold nothing together," Guchkov answered sharply.
The room grew quieter for several seconds.
Everyone understood: the main question now was not the revolution itself.
It was whether the new government could maintain control over an enormous country still fighting a world war.
Knyaz Lvov slowly raised his eyes from the documents.
—"We cannot begin a new wave of repression immediately after the revolution."
—"And we would not be able to anyway," one of the officers replied darkly. —"Part of the garrison already listens to the Soviets more than the government."
At the mention of the Soviets, the atmosphere inside the chamber became even heavier.
Even here, inside the Tauride Palace itself, dual power was becoming more noticeable with every passing day.
On one side stood the Provisional Government.
On the other stood the Petrograd Soviet, soldiers' committees, workers' organizations, and growing political movements.
And all of them were trying to influence events at the same time.
The doors opened once again.
Another official quickly entered carrying a fresh stack of telegrams.
—"Messages from Moscow, Kyiv, and the front."
Several sheets were immediately handed to Milyukov.
He quickly reviewed them and frowned even more deeply.
—"Large Ukrainian gatherings are already taking place in Kyiv."
One of the deputies irritably raised his head.
—"This is not the time for national questions."
—"Right now it is hardly the time for anything," Guchkov quietly replied.
Nobody argued with him.
Because more and more people were beginning to understand: after February, the Empire had entered a period where the old mechanisms of power were collapsing faster than new ones could be created.
The corridors of the Tauride Palace grew more crowded with every passing hour.
Groups of soldiers, workers, journalists, and deputies stood beside the walls discussing the latest rumors and new government decisions. Some argued about the future of the army, others about land, elections, and freedom of speech. Nearly everyone carried fresh newspapers or political leaflets in their hands.
For the first time in many years, politics had moved directly into the streets.
And now it seemed as though the entire country was trying to decide its future within only a few weeks.
Inside one of the neighboring halls, the Petrograd Soviet was in session.
The atmosphere there differed sharply from the cautious discussions inside the offices of the Provisional Government.
Here people spoke louder. More emotionally. More aggressively.
Another speaker stood at the podium accusing the old authorities, generals, and officers of the army's failures and the suffering of the people. Each mention of peace, freedom, or soldiers' rights was met with loud applause from the hall.
In the front rows sat: soldiers from the Petrograd garrison, workers, representatives of socialist parties, agitators, and young students.
Many of them had possessed no influence over the politics of the Empire only weeks earlier.
Now gatherings like these were beginning to shape the future of the country itself.
Not far from the palace, a group of soldiers from the Petrograd garrison smoked beside a military truck while discussing the latest news.
—"They say the war may end soon."
—"First someone should explain who actually rules the country now."
—"The government."
—"Then why do we need the Soviets?"
Several men laughed.
Even ordinary soldiers were beginning to feel that multiple centers of power were emerging across the country.
And nobody yet understood which of them would ultimately prove stronger.
Across the streets of Petrograd, demonstrations continued late into the evening.
Above the crowds waved: red flags, revolutionary banners, and slogans demanding freedom and peace.
Long lines formed outside newspaper printing houses. Inside cafés and trams, people endlessly argued about politics. More and more often, officers found themselves openly challenged by soldiers and workers.
At the same time, outwardly the capital still appeared to function normally.
Shops remained open. Trams continued running. Theaters and restaurants still operated.
But beneath that appearance of normal life, tension was rapidly growing.
Too many people expected completely different futures from the revolution.
Some hoped for democracy and reform. Others wanted an immediate end to the war. Still others dreamed of the total destruction of the old order.
And now all those expectations were colliding inside the same country at the same time.
Late that evening, Milyukov once again stepped into one of the corridors of the Tauride Palace carrying another stack of telegrams.
Nearby, several army officers quietly discussed the situation at the front.
—"The committees are spreading faster than we expected."
—"And the government is afraid to act decisively."
—"After the revolution they can no longer govern through the old methods."
Milyukov paused briefly beside a window.
Beyond the glass, crowds still moved through the streets despite the late hour.
Petrograd after February had almost stopped sleeping.
Too many things were now being decided simultaneously.
And the longer the revolutionary euphoria continued, the stronger became the feeling that the new Russia itself still did not understand what it was supposed to become.
Kyiv after February looked calmer than Petrograd.
There were no enormous revolutionary crowds here, no constant gunfire, and no massive garrison openly joining an uprising. The city continued living a relatively familiar life: shops remained open, trams moved through the streets, carriages and automobiles passed along the avenues, and cafés and restaurants still filled with visitors during the evenings.
But the political atmosphere here was also changing rapidly.
Ukrainian flags and blue-and-yellow ribbons appeared more frequently across the city. Students, professors, and representatives of various public organizations gathered near universities and newspaper offices. New Ukrainian newspapers, leaflets, and political appeals spread quickly throughout Kyiv.
After decades of restrictions, the Ukrainian movement was finally beginning to leave its semi-legal cultural sphere and enter open politics.
Near the city duma building, several students animatedly argued over the latest news from Petrograd.
—"Autonomy now seems completely possible."
—"The important thing is not to miss the moment."
—"Russia will still remain united."
—"After this, nobody knows what will remain."
Not far away, several Ukrainian officers quietly listened to the conversations around them. Ukrainian sentiments among military officers had also begun growing stronger after February and the crisis of the old government.
Inside one of the halls of the Kyiv City Pedagogical Museum, representatives of Ukrainian organizations, cooperatives, student groups, cultural societies, and political movements gradually gathered together.
The atmosphere inside remained tense, but it was also filled with a growing sense of historical importance.
Many of those present had known each other for years: through Ukrainian circles, publishing houses, universities, cultural societies, and zemstvo organizations.
But now, for the first time, the discussion was no longer focused only on literature, language, or cultural autonomy.
Now the conversation was gradually turning toward politics and the future of Ukraine itself.
In one corner of the hall, several young officers quietly discussed the condition of the army after the revolution.
—"If the front completely collapses, Ukraine will also be dragged into chaos."
—"Which is exactly why we need our own organization."
—"For now we are only speaking about autonomy."
—"For now."
The final words lingered briefly in the air.
Most of those present still imagined Ukraine as part of a renewed federal Russia. Even among Ukrainian activists, the idea of complete independence still seemed too radical and dangerous.
At the same time, however, nearly everyone could already feel: after February, the old Empire had begun changing too quickly.
And nobody could any longer guarantee what it would become only a few months later.
As evening approached, the hall continued filling with more and more people.
The names heard most often throughout the crowd were: Hrushevsky, Vynnychenko, Yefremov, Petliura, and other Ukrainian political and public figures.
A new Ukrainian political force was beginning to emerge.
Still cautious. Still fragmented. Still not fully understanding the scale of the future events ahead.
But for the first time in many years — open and legal.
By evening, the gathering had become significantly larger.
The corridors of the Pedagogical Museum no longer had enough space for all the arriving delegates and representatives of Ukrainian organizations. People stood near the doors discussing the latest news from Petrograd and Kyiv, arguing about the future of the country, and constantly passing newspapers from hand to hand.
Excitement filled the air, mixed with caution.
Too much was changing too quickly.
Inside one of the central halls, the general meeting of Ukrainian political, cultural, and public organizations gradually began.
Seated across the long rows were: professors, cooperative leaders, lawyers, journalists, students, military officers, zemstvo representatives, and delegates from Ukrainian societies and organizations.
Many of them only recently had feared openly speaking even about broad Ukrainian autonomy.
Now such discussions were taking place almost openly.
Mykhailo Hrushevsky looked exhausted after the past few days, but he spoke calmly and confidently. Several times his speech was interrupted by applause.
—"The old order has fallen," he said. —"And now Ukrainian society must organize itself in order to protect its interests within the new Russia."
Voices of approval spread across the hall.
At the same time, however, it was clear: even among Ukrainian activists there was still no full understanding of how far future events might go.
For many, the discussion still centered around: broad autonomy, Ukrainian rights, political representation, and cultural and administrative self-government.
Not complete separation from Russia.
After Hrushevsky, Vynnychenko took the floor.
He spoke far more emotionally, sharply criticizing the old imperial system, bureaucracy, and tsarist policy toward Ukraine.
—"The new Russia cannot be built upon the principles of the old one," he declared. —"The Ukrainian people have the right to decide their own future."
This time the applause grew even louder.
Among younger delegates and students, Vynnychenko was already becoming highly popular.
Nearby, several officers listened carefully while quietly speaking among themselves.
—"The politicians speak beautifully," one of them said quietly. —"But if the army completely collapses, none of this autonomy may survive."
His companion nodded darkly.
Even here, inside the Ukrainian movement itself, many already understood: the greatest danger ahead was not only political conflict.
But the possible chaos of an enormous country that was still fighting a world war.
Late in the evening, after several hours of discussions, the decision was finally made to establish the Central Rada.
The news quickly spread through the hall.
For most of those present, it felt like a historic moment.
For the first time in many years, the Ukrainian movement was gaining its own open political center.
Still without real power. Without an army. Without a clear program for a future state.
But already with a growing feeling that after February, Ukraine was entering an entirely new era.