By the end of August, Petrograd was living in a state of nearly constant tension.
The city had grown exhausted from rallies, rumors, crises, and endless political arguments, yet at the same time it could no longer stop.
Crowds continued gathering in the streets.
Newspapers printed fresh alarming headlines almost every evening.
Inside the barracks of the garrison, soldiers once again argued about politics, the front, land, and power.
Even among ordinary civilians, people increasingly spoke not about victory in the war, but about whether the country itself would survive until winter.
The Provisional Government was losing control of the situation more and more with each passing week.
Ministers constantly argued with one another, meetings lasted for hours, decisions came slowly, and new crises appeared faster than the government could solve them.
The situation surrounding the army remained especially severe.
Reports from the front kept worsening.
Desertion continued rising.
Committees increasingly interfered in military command.
In some garrisons, soldiers were already openly ignoring officers' orders.
And after the July events in the capital, fear of another uprising had only grown stronger.
Inside one of the halls of the Winter Palace, Kerensky tiredly reviewed another stack of reports.
Spread across the table were front-line summaries, reports about unrest inside garrisons, police documents, and several newspapers carrying increasingly anxious headlines.
The past weeks had barely left him enough time even to sleep properly.
One minister irritably said:
—"If the situation in the army continues deteriorating at this pace, the front may begin collapsing before winter."
Another immediately answered:
—"The front is weakening precisely because the army keeps trying to interfere in politics."
—"The army interferes in politics?" someone at the far end of the table asked darkly. — "At this point politics interferes in military command more than the army interferes in politics."
The room immediately became quieter.
Conversations like that had become increasingly common in recent weeks.
Especially after Kornilov's appointment as Commander-in-Chief.
Part of the government saw him as a man capable of restoring discipline.
Others increasingly feared that the army itself was becoming an independent political force.
Kerensky slowly set the papers aside.
He looked noticeably exhausted.
The past months had gradually turned into a continuous struggle against everyone at once — against radicals, against the collapse of the army, against pressure from generals, against the growing crisis of administration, and against the rising chaos inside the capital itself.
—"Kornilov is demanding additional emergency powers," one of the ministers quietly said.
Several men exchanged glances immediately.
This was far from the first such request.
Kerensky remained silent for several moments.
—"And each time the measures become harsher."
—"Because the situation is becoming worse," another minister replied.
—"Or because the army is beginning to see itself as the only force capable of governing the country?" someone sharply answered back.
The discussion once again threatened to turn into an argument.
Some insisted that without harsh discipline the army would collapse completely.
Others feared that under the pretext of saving the front, the generals would attempt to establish military rule.
At the same time, almost nobody still believed that the existing system could survive much longer in its current form.
Outside the palace windows, darkness was slowly falling over the city.
Somewhere far away, the noise of another rally echoed through Petrograd.
With every passing week, the capital was becoming more nervous.
It was in this atmosphere that the first rumors began arriving about possible troop movements toward Petrograd under Kornilov's command.
For now, the reports remained unofficial.
For now, contradictory.
But even that was enough to sharply increase the tension inside the government.
One of the ministers quietly asked:
—"And what if he truly decides to act?"
This time nobody answered immediately.
Because nearly everyone in the room had already begun asking themselves the same question.
Inside the headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief, the atmosphere had been growing heavier with every passing week.
Telegrams from the front arrived almost continuously. Long tables were covered with operational reports, army summaries, railway updates, casualty documents, and urgent requests for reinforcements.
Many officers no longer bothered hiding their exhaustion.
The war was gradually turning not only into a struggle against Germany, but into an attempt to prevent the enormous army itself from slowly falling apart.
Kornilov stood silently beside the large front map.
The past months had changed him noticeably.
Fatigue increasingly showed itself in his voice, his movements, even in his eyes.
But stronger than exhaustion, another feeling had slowly begun growing inside him.
Irritation.
Not at the hardship of war.
Not even at defeat.
But at the growing sense that the state itself was losing the ability to command its own army.
One staff officer placed fresh reports from several fronts onto the table.
—"During the last few days, three corps had to be withdrawn from their positions ahead of schedule. The formations can no longer sustain prolonged defensive duty."
Another general added grimly:
—"Reinforcements are arriving in extremely poor condition. Some trains lose men before they even reach the front."
Kornilov quickly reviewed the documents.
Another officer continued:
—"Army headquarters are increasingly asking not for additional manpower, but simply for several reliable formations capable of holding critical sectors."
Silence filled the room for several seconds.
Because everyone present understood perfectly well that this was no longer a temporary crisis.
The old army was gradually ceasing to function as a unified structure.
Railways were struggling more and more with transportation.
Reinforcements arrived late.
Units constantly became mixed together.
Operational planning increasingly collapsed before preparations were even completed.
Kornilov slowly folded his hands behind his back.
—"We can no longer plan operations the way we did even a year ago."
He spoke calmly, but the growing tension in his voice was becoming impossible to miss.
—"The front is beginning to live from crisis to crisis."
One general cautiously remarked:
—"In Petrograd they believe harsh measures may trigger new unrest."
This time Kornilov did not even attempt to hide his irritation.
—"In Petrograd they still think we have time."
Nobody answered.
During recent months, more and more officers had begun viewing the situation not simply as the collapse of the army, but as the gradual destruction of the state itself.
Kornilov looked toward the map again.
He remembered the army from the beginning of the war well.
It had suffered from shortages, failures, heavy defeats, and serious command mistakes.
But back then, the army had still remained manageable.
Now the enormous structure seemed to be slowly unraveling in front of their eyes.
Not because of a single defeat.
Not because of one crisis.
But because of the constant accumulation of chaos, political conflict, logistical problems, and collapsing discipline.
One of the staff generals opened another folder of reports.
—"National formations continue showing greater internal stability."
Several officers immediately looked up.
Discussions about that had become increasingly common inside headquarters during recent weeks.
—"Skoropadskyi's Ukrainian Corps maintains cohesion significantly better than most formations," the general continued. — "A similar situation exists among the Latvian Riflemen and several Caucasian units."
Another officer added:
—"In more homogeneous formations, the officer corps still retains greater authority."
—"For now," someone at the far end of the room muttered darkly.
Everyone fell silent again.
Then one of the generals calmly said:
—"If the regular army continues disintegrating at this pace, perhaps we should accelerate the expansion of such formations."
This time nobody argued.
Because the discussion was no longer truly about politics.
It was about trying to preserve at least part of the army in a combat-capable state.
Kornilov slowly walked toward the map table.
—"The Ukrainian Corps already exists and has shown results."
He shifted his gaze toward the officers.
—"The Latvian formations maintain discipline better than many ordinary regiments. Several Caucasian units still preserve internal stability."
One staff officer cautiously asked:
—"Will Petrograd agree to further expansion?"
Kornilov did not answer immediately.
He understood perfectly well that inside the government such ideas were increasingly being viewed not only as military measures, but also as political threats.
—"At this point, the question is no longer what Petrograd likes," he finally said calmly. — "The question is whether we will still have an army by winter."
The room became silent once again.
After several days of nearly uninterrupted meetings, the atmosphere inside headquarters became even more strained.
Telegrams from Petrograd arrived almost hourly.
The reports contradicted one another constantly.
Some warned about growing unrest inside the capital.
Others spoke about the increasing influence of radicals within the garrison.
Still others claimed that the government continued hesitating between restoring discipline and fearing new political upheaval.
Kornilov increasingly remained beside maps and documents deep into the night.
In recent weeks he had almost stopped sleeping properly.
Too many developments were beginning to merge into a single dangerous picture.
The front was gradually losing stability.
Railways functioned worse with every passing week.
Reinforcements arrived late.
Committees interfered in army command.
Meanwhile, endless political crises continued inside the capital.
And most dangerous of all, fewer and fewer people still seemed capable of stopping the process.
During one evening meeting, the discussion once again turned toward Petrograd.
One officer grimly remarked:
—"The capital garrison is becoming increasingly unreliable."
Another added:
—"If another uprising begins, the government may simply lose control of the city."
Kornilov remained silent for several moments.
Then he calmly asked:
—"And what measures does Petrograd propose?"
A heavy laugh spread through the room.
One general answered:
—"More negotiations, more commissions, more discussions."
Several officers exchanged irritated glances.
They had been receiving answers like that from the capital for months already.
Kornilov slowly walked toward the window.
During recent weeks, one thought had begun strengthening inside him more and more:
the government was losing control of the country.
And that frightened him more than anything else.
Not the unrest itself.
Not the radicals.
But the growing inability of the state to make decisive decisions.
He understood too well how quickly the army itself could collapse completely if another crisis inside the capital coincided with a serious breakdown at the front.
During the discussion, one of the generals cautiously remarked:
—"If Petrograd falls completely into chaos, the front will not hold much longer."
Kornilov slowly nodded.
—"That is precisely why the capital must be stabilized before the situation becomes irreversible."
After those words, several officers looked at him carefully.
Everyone understood where the conversation was beginning to lead.
But now it sounded far more serious than ordinary discussions about discipline.
One of the staff generals quietly asked:
—"Do you truly believe the government is no longer capable of maintaining order?"
Kornilov did not answer immediately.
For several moments he studied the railway maps, the front lines, and the endless telegrams reporting new crises.
—"I believe," he finally said calmly, — "that the country is approaching a moment when delay will become more dangerous than harsh measures."
Silence filled the room once again.
Because many officers were beginning to think the same way.
Not all of them supported direct pressure on the capital.
Not all of them wanted the army involved in politics.
But more and more people inside headquarters feared that without decisive action the state itself might lose control completely.
Kornilov turned back toward the table.
—"If the government cannot stabilize the situation, the army cannot allow the country to collapse."
Those words no longer sounded like ordinary frustration from a general.
They sounded like a decision he had slowly reached over the course of recent weeks.
And soon afterward, preparations began for moving formations toward Petrograd.
News about Kornilov's troop movements toward Petrograd reached Kyiv faster than the official explanations from the government itself.
Rumors immediately spread throughout the city about a possible military coup, emergency rule, arrests of socialists, the suppression of the Soviets, and an attempt by the army to seize power.
Newspapers appeared with completely contradictory headlines.
Some accused Kornilov of preparing a dictatorship.
Others claimed the government itself had pushed the country toward catastrophe.
Inside the Central Rada, meetings during those days became almost continuous.
The atmosphere grew more nervous with every passing hour.
The socialists openly demanded immediate resistance against any attempt to establish military rule.
Others increasingly argued that if the army collapsed completely, no government in the country would survive at all.
During one of the sessions, Vynnychenko irritably declared:
—"We struggled too long against the old system to now voluntarily hand the country over to generals."
Almost immediately, someone from the opposite side of the hall answered:
—"And who exactly will hold the front otherwise?"
The discussion quickly descended into another bitter argument.
Some insisted Kornilov was attempting to destroy the revolution.
Others replied that the revolution itself was slowly destroying the army.
Petliura spent most of the meeting silent, carefully listening to the argument around him.
Only after some time did he finally speak:
—"If the conflict between the army and the government turns into open confrontation, the front may not survive it."
For several seconds, the room fell silent again.
Because that was exactly what more and more people were beginning to fear.
Not the victory of one side.
But the complete collapse of state authority itself.
At the same time, the Provisional Government was struggling with another growing problem.
Inside Petrograd, fears were rising that too much of the old officer corps might ultimately support Kornilov.
As a result, the government began accelerating decisions that only weeks earlier had been endlessly delayed.
Among them was the expansion of national formations.
Now the issue was being viewed not only as a military measure, but also as a political balance inside the army itself.
Discussions intensified inside ministries and headquarters about accelerating the ukrainization of additional formations, expanding Finnish units, strengthening the Latvian Riflemen, and forming additional Caucasian detachments.
Not because the government had suddenly become supportive of national movements.
But because, amid the growing crisis, it desperately needed new points of support inside the disintegrating army.
Inside Ukrainian military circles, news about the possible expansion of Skoropadskyi's corps produced mixed reactions.
Some officers viewed it as an opportunity to preserve at least the core of a functioning army.
Others feared that the political struggle in Petrograd would ultimately drag the Ukrainian formations themselves into the fight for power.
Inside corps headquarters, discussions during those days almost never stopped.
Bezruchko grimly reviewed another stack of telegrams.
—"If everything collapses completely in the capital, the army will split very quickly."
Sliwinski calmly replied:
—"It is already splitting."
Bolbochan irritably threw a fresh newspaper onto the table.
—"While politicians argue, the front continues falling apart."
Handziuk let out a heavy breath.
—"And the most dangerous part is that nobody fully understands who the country even obeys anymore."
Until then, Skoropadskyi had remained silent.
He carefully studied the railway map, as though mentally calculating how events might unfold next.
He understood Kornilov.
Too many officers had watched the army gradually lose cohesion and command.
But at the same time, Skoropadskyi understood something else equally well:
if the conflict between the government and the army turned into open confrontation, the country itself could finally collapse into chaos.
At last, he calmly spoke:
—"If the army and the government begin fighting one another, there will be no victors left."
Nobody argued.
Because by now, almost everyone feared exactly that outcome.
After Kornilov was officially declared a rebel, the tension inside the Provisional Government only intensified further.
In Petrograd, people were already speaking almost openly about the possibility of another governmental collapse.
Ministers met nearly without interruption.
Telegrams arrived constantly.
Reports contradicted one another from hour to hour.
Some claimed Kornilov's formations were being halted.
Others warned that part of the officer corps might still support the uprising.
Additional reports spoke about growing chaos inside railway junctions and garrisons.
For the government, the greatest danger was no longer Kornilov himself.
It was the question of how loyal the army still remained to the state.
During one of the meetings, Kerensky tiredly reviewed another stack of reports.
Spread across the table were front-line summaries, telegrams from headquarters, reports about the mood inside garrisons, and updates regarding troop movements.
One minister irritably said:
—"If a significant part of the army sides with the generals, we may lose control of the situation before this crisis even ends."
Another immediately replied:
—"The problem is that more and more of the old officer corps now sees the government itself as the source of chaos."
Heavy silence filled the room.
Because many were beginning to realize that the army and the government were gradually losing trust in one another completely.
Kerensky slowly set the papers aside.
—"If we fail to create new points of support inside the army, the government may not survive the next crisis at all."
Several ministers looked toward him carefully after those words.
A discussion that only weeks earlier had seemed far too dangerous was now returning once again.
National formations.
One representative of the War Ministry cautiously said:
—"The Ukrainian formations continue maintaining considerably greater stability."
Another immediately added:
—"The Latvian Riflemen also remain more organized than many ordinary formations."
Gradually the discussion expanded further.
Finnish units.
Caucasian formations.
Georgian and Armenian detachments.
Baltic formations.
Not as a political project.
But as an attempt to create more stable and less politically dangerous centers of force inside the army itself.
One minister frowned unhappily.
—"And what happens next? We accelerate the destruction of the old army ourselves?"
This time the response came almost immediately.
—"The old army is already collapsing."
After those words, nobody argued further.
Too much had already become obvious during recent months.