Petrograd in the summer of 1917 increasingly resembled a city living in constant tension.
The trams still ran through the streets, shops remained open, officials hurried through their daily routines, and in the evenings the restaurants and cafés in the center were still filled with officers, journalists, and politicians.
But beneath that outwardly familiar life, the growing crisis became more noticeable with every week.
After the July events, the capital had grown far more nervous.
People on the streets increasingly discussed: demonstrations, shootings, soldier uprisings, government actions, and rumors of new unrest.
Newspapers appeared almost daily with dramatic headlines.
Some blamed radicals for attempting to destroy the country.
Others wrote about the complete weakness of the Provisional Government.
Still others increasingly warned that both the army and the front were gradually losing control.
Near one bakery, people standing in a long line once again discussed the latest news.
—"They say there were more arrests in the garrison."
—"Now someone gets arrested almost every day."
—"And yet there's still no more order than before."
An older man in a worn coat irritably shook his head.
—"At least before, people understood who held power. Now ministers change faster than newspapers get printed."
Several people nearby gave dark smiles.
Conversations like these could now be heard throughout nearly the entire city.
Inside a café near Nevsky Prospekt, several officers discussed the situation at the front and in the capital.
Fresh newspapers lay spread across the table with reports about the army crisis and new political conflicts.
A young staff captain tiredly glanced at another article.
—"The newspapers write as if the front is still capable of another offensive."
The colonel sitting across from him gave a bitter smile.
—"Most journalists only know the front from official reports."
Another officer slowly lit a cigarette.
—"The front isn't even the main problem anymore."
Nobody answered for several seconds.
Finally, the colonel quietly said:
—"The country is gradually losing any understanding of who's actually governing it."
Outside the café windows, another group of soldiers from the Petrograd garrison marched down the street.
Some argued loudly with one another in the middle of the sidewalk.
Nearby, several workers discussed the latest newspapers beside a tram stop.
Political conversations now began almost everywhere: in lines, factories, barracks, restaurants, and on the streets.
And with every passing month, they became more irritated and bitter.
Inside the Provisional Government building, meetings now often continued late into the night.
The ministers argued over the front, supplies, politics, Petrograd, the garrison, and the future of the army.
But increasingly, even within the government itself, growing confusion could be felt.
Some demanded: harsh measures, the restoration of discipline, and stronger authority.
Others warned that the country had already changed too much to return to the old order.
Kerensky himself barely left endless meetings during recent weeks.
The exhaustion increasingly showed even in his appearance.
During one meeting, a minister irritably threw another front-line report onto the table.
—"Another refusal to obey orders."
Several men in the room exchanged heavy glances.
Reports like these now arrived almost daily.
One general darkly remarked:
—"The army is holding only because the Germans haven't launched a serious offensive yet."
Silence briefly filled the room afterward.
Because nearly everyone understood: if the front truly began collapsing, the crisis would spread across the entire country very quickly.
Late in the evening, Petrograd's streets gradually emptied beneath a cold drizzling rain.
Yet even at night, the city did not feel calm.
Groups of soldiers still gathered outside barracks.
People discussed fresh rumors at street corners.
Political speeches echoed somewhere in the distance.
And above the entire capital hung the growing feeling that the country was slowly approaching something extremely dangerous.
Against the backdrop of the growing crisis in Petrograd, Kyiv in the summer of 1917 appeared far calmer.
The city still lived an almost ordinary life.
Shops remained open, trams moved through the streets, cafés stayed crowded in the evenings, and officers, students, officials, and representatives of Ukrainian organizations continued gathering throughout the city center.
But even here, the atmosphere was gradually changing.
News from the front, the July events in the capital, and the growing crisis within the army increasingly became the main topics of conversation.
Especially among Ukrainian political circles.
Inside the Central Rada building, meetings now took place almost daily.
The debates became sharper with each passing week.
Some demanded: faster Ukrainization, broader autonomy, and the creation of separate Ukrainian administrative structures.
Others feared that overly aggressive actions could completely destroy relations with the Provisional Government.
During one session, the discussion once again shifted toward the army.
Fresh newspapers lay across the tables carrying reports about the front, the collapse of discipline, and the actions of Ukrainized formations.
One representative of the moderate faction calmly said:
—"With every passing month it becomes more obvious that without our own armed forces we won't even preserve autonomy."
Several men immediately supported him.
But Vynnychenko irritably shook his head.
—"I am not arguing against Ukrainization. But Ukraine must not become a state ruled by generals."
The room immediately grew quieter.
One of the officers invited to the meeting answered calmly:
—"Without an army, no state will survive now."
Vynnychenko sharply looked toward him.
—"The army must remain subordinate to civilian authority."
—"First that authority still has to survive," the officer quietly answered.
Nobody spoke for several seconds afterward.
Arguments over the army had become increasingly tense during recent weeks.
Especially after Ukrainized formations at the front began appearing more and more frequently in newspapers as some of the few units still maintaining relative order.
Some Ukrainian newspapers had already begun almost openly contrasting Ukrainized formations with the growing collapse of the old army.
Articles discussing discipline, organization, and the actions of Skoropadskyi's corps spread increasingly widely.
In many circles, Skoropadskyi's name gradually became associated not only with a front-line general, but with the very idea of a future Ukrainian army.
That increasingly irritated part of the socialist faction within the Rada.
Later that evening, inside the office of one Ukrainian newspaper, several journalists discussed fresh material arriving from the front.
Telegrams, military reports, draft articles, and letters from officers of Ukrainized formations covered the tables.
One young journalist quickly reviewed another report.
—"Again they're writing that Ukrainian formations held their sector after neighboring units withdrew."
The editor tiredly adjusted his glasses.
—"People want to read at least something that isn't about collapse."
Another journalist quietly said:
—"Every day it feels more and more like the old army is ending."
The editor remained silent for several moments.
Then he calmly answered:
—"That's why everyone has started thinking about what comes next."
Outside the newspaper office, evening gradually settled over Kyiv.
Trams still rattled through the streets, music drifted somewhere in the distance, and cafés remained filled with conversations about politics and the front.
But even here, far from the trenches of Galicia, the feeling continued growing stronger: the empire was entering a period in which the old rules no longer worked.
By the end of the summer of 1917, political conversations across the empire had gradually become far harsher.
Only months earlier, many people had still hoped that the revolution would bring reform, peace, and stability.
Now more and more felt only growing exhaustion and irritation.
The Provisional Government continued holding meetings, ministers gave speeches, newspapers printed daily appeals about saving the country and preserving the front, yet confidence in the authorities continued slowly eroding.
This was especially visible among workers and soldiers.
Inside one Petrograd factory during a short break, several workers discussed the latest news from the front and rumors spreading through the capital.
The workshops were filled with the heavy smell of metal and oil.
Machines thundered almost without interruption.
Yet even during work, political conversations now emerged constantly.
—"They're writing about more unrest in the army again."
—"The front's barely holding together already."
—"And the government still keeps promising order."
One worker irritably threw a newspaper onto the table.
—"For half a year now they've done nothing except promise."
Nearby, an older foreman tiredly wiped his hands.
—"Right now everyone's making promises."
Several men nearby gave short bitter laughs.
But the laughter quickly faded.
Too many people had already stopped believing politicians of any kind.
Inside the barracks of the Petrograd garrison, the atmosphere felt even heavier.
Soldiers increasingly discussed: the front, desertion, prices, land, and rumors about new crises inside the government.
At the same time, opinions gradually radicalized in different directions.
Some demanded: immediate peace, land redistribution, and stronger Soviet authority.
Others increasingly argued that the country needed harsh authority and the restoration of order at any cost.
One evening, several soldiers sat beside an open window inside a barracks room after supper.
The noise of the city and distant political shouting drifted in from outside.
One soldier quietly said:
—"If things keep going like this, soon there won't just be demonstrations anymore."
Another gave a tired smile.
—"Then what will there be?"
The soldier remained silent for several moments.
—"I don't know. But all this is going to end badly."
Nobody argued.
That feeling had already begun spreading too widely.
Even among officers, officials, and members of the intelligentsia, fear of the future was becoming increasingly noticeable.
Inside one Petrograd salon, several members of liberal circles discussed the state of the country during a late dinner.
The conversation quickly returned once again to the army and politics.
One professor darkly remarked:
—"The most dangerous thing now isn't even the radicals."
The others looked at him questioningly.
—"The most dangerous thing is that almost nobody listens to the moderates anymore."
Silence settled over the table for several moments afterward.
Because nearly everyone understood: the country was gradually splitting between increasingly radical forces, while the space for compromise rapidly disappeared.
Late at night, Petrograd still had not fallen asleep.
Conversations, demonstrations, arguments, and crowds near newspaper kiosks continued across the streets.
Somewhere socialists gave speeches.
Elsewhere officers discussed the front.
Workers argued about power and the future of the country.
And above the entire empire grew the increasingly heavy feeling that another crisis was approaching — one far more dangerous than the previous ones.