Very few people in Russia had been following closely the recent developments of the Far Eastern Question, and still fewer understood their importance.  There seemed to be nothing abnormal in what was taking place.  Russia was expanding, and would continue to expand indefinitely, in that direction, without any strenuous effort on her part.  Of course the English would try to arrest her progress as usual by diplomatic notes, but their efforts would be as futile as they had been on all previous occasions.  They might incite the Japanese to active resistance, but Japan would not commit the insane folly of challenging her giant rival to mortal combat.  The whole question could be settled in accordance with Russian interests, as so many similar questions had been settled in the past, by a little skilful diplomacy; and Manchuria could be absorbed, as the contiguous Chinese provinces had been forty years ago, without the necessity of going to war.

When these comforting illusions were suddenly destroyed by the rupture of diplomatic relations and the naval attack on Port Arthur, there was an outburst of indignant astonishment.  At first the indignation was directed against Japan and England, but it soon turned against the home Government, which had made no adequate preparations for the struggle, and it was intensified by current rumours that the crisis had been wantonly provoked by certain influential personages for purely personal reasons.

How far the accounts of the disorders in the military organisation and the rumours about pilfering in high quarters were true, we need not inquire.  True or false, they helped greatly to make the war unpopular, and to stimulate the desire for political changes.  Under a more liberal and enlightened regime such things were supposed to be impossible, and, as at the time of the Crimean War, public opinion decided that autocracy was being tried, and found wanting.

So long as the stern, uncompromising Plehve was at the Ministry of the Interior, enjoying the Emperor’s confidence and directing the police administration, public opinion was prudent and reserved in its utterances, but when he was assassinated by a terrorist (July 28th, 1904), and was succeeded by Prince Sviatopolk Mirski, a humane man of Liberal views, the Constitutionalists thought that the time had come for making known their grievances and demands, and for bringing pressure to bear on the Emperor.  First came forward the leading members of the Zemstvos.  After some preliminary consultation they assembled in St. Petersburg, with the consent of the authorities, in the hope that they would be allowed to discuss publicly the political wants of the country, and prepare the draft of a Constitution.  Their wishes were only partially acceded to.  They were informed semi-officially that their meetings must be private, but that they might send their resolutions to the Minister of the Interior for transmission to his Majesty.  A memorandum was accordingly drawn up and signed on November 21st by 102 out of the 104 representatives present.