Chapter Forty (Patreon)

Prior to Alexander’s actions in Siberia Kazan had been the largest Russian city east of Moscow. The heart of the Volga remained a large city, boasting a population of nearly a hundred-thousand. The people themselves were a mix of Tartars, Russians, and the Germans brought to the Volga as free farmers by Alexander’s great-grandmother Catherine the Great. The plan was widely successful, the fertile soils of the Volga rivaled only by those of Ukraine and recently-conquered Manchuria. With the expansion of farming Kazan had rapidly grown from a declining river port to the center of burgeoning agricultural trade. It boasted a University (the third oldest in the country) and a citadel of fifteen desyatina, known as the Kazan Kremlin.

The train station, though a far newer building, did not diminish the cityscape. Built in the Russian Revival style the train station appeared more like an American gingerbread house than an ordinary building. The walls were made of red bricks with white columns and white piping around the windows. The roof–a large dome–was augmented by brick spires with charcoal-grey tiled roofs.

As the Imperials disembarked they were met by two groups. A large crowd, numbering in the thousands, stood outside the train station to greet them. The crowd cheered and waved banners and ribbons as the Imperial walked to the carriages that lay waiting for them. The gilded doors swung open, revealing the second group: the Bishop of Kazan and the local Governor.

“Go with Maria and Maximilian,” Alexander reluctantly told his wife.

Alexandrine looked to the carriages, then nodded. Taking Alexandra–who was staring at the crowds and waving with childish glee–by the hand, Alexandrine moved to the second carriage. Reluctantly Alexander climbed into the bench opposite the Bishop and the Governor.

“Gentlemen.”

“Your Imperial Highness,” they returned.

A footman closed the door. The carriage started to move. Hoping he would not meet this body’s fate a few decades early Alexander focused on the two men. “What did you wish to discuss?”

The Bishop and the Governor looked to each other. Alexander had a sinking feeling that the men merely wished to spend time with him.

“I wished to ask if it would be possible for some of my missionaries to partake in the missions in the East,” the Bishop said.

Alexander narrowed his eyes. “Who would be leading these missions?”

The Bishop looked panic-stricken. “I–”

“You would?” Alexander asked. “I do not believe the Holy Synod would smile kindly on a Bishop abandoning their post.”

“No, your Imperial Highness,” the Bishop said. “I merely–”

Alexander turned to the Governor. “And you?”

“I wished to discuss the purchase of some of your agricultural machinery and locomotives,” the Governor of Kazan said smoothly. “The efficiency is said to be far greater than what is currently available.”

Alexander studied the man. The Governor looked calm. “I do not believe we can offer agricultural machinery at the moment,” Alexander said. “With Manchuria open we are undergoing rapid expansion in farmland. Locomotives may be able to be spared. I will instruct my Ministers of Railways and Industry to find out.”

“If I may inquire as to the price?”

“It will be at cost, if we cannot afford to give them for free,” Alexander said.

“Your Imperial Highness is most generous.”

“The whole of Russia is to be my inheritance,” Alexander said dryly. “Good farms and good trains are in my own interest.”

*

The crowds at Kazan had been large. Those at Moscow were deafening. Tens of thousands lined the streets from the train station to the Kremlin, cheering and waving banners, ribbons, placards, and posters. Alexander rode on horseback so he could be seen to the crowd, his stern face turning with a pleasant nod of acknowledgement that set the crowds to roaring with approval.

At Red Square Alexander dismounted his horse. As his family’s carriage was brought into the Kremlin Alexander stood before Saint Basil’s Cathedral, overlooked by the multicolored onion domes. The Metropolitan of Moscow was beside him, wearing the full brocade panoply of his office. By comparison Alexander’s clothing–an army uniform with only Russian decorations–was plain. He turned to the crowd and could not help but be amazed by the side. Moscow in 1842 was far from the city he had know eleven decades later. Its population had yet to reach half a million, compared to the five million it would someday become. Yet Red Square, that paved space between Saint Basil’s Cathedral and the towers of the Kremlin, was as full as Alexander had ever seen it. Half the city was there, holding their banners in their hands and Russia in their hearts.

Alexander held up his hand. It took time–though tall, he was not plainly visible to the entire crowd–but the people fell silent. If a penny had dropped from the Kremlin’s tower, the whole of Red Square would have heard it.

“My people,” Alexander began. He projected as much as he could yet spoke with a soft tone. His voice was not one for shouting, nor bellicose declarations. It was the voice of steel–hard, malleable when necessary, and utterly inevitable. “My fellow Russians. I stand before you in the heart of our Empire, a city which only a generation ago fell to flames. Today it stands strong as any fortress. It stands strong not because of divine miracle, nor because of foreign intervention. It stands strong because of you, the people of Moscow. Moscow is strong because its people are strong. Because you are united, not only in obedience to God and the Tsar, but in Collective Purpose as well.

“I know you wonder at those words. It is a new phrase, I will admit. Collective Purpose–what does it mean? Collective Purpose is nothing more and nothing less than people working together. When hammering in a nail, is it not easier when someone else holds the board of wood, that you may strike it neatly? When making a meal for dozens, is it not easier to have some people peel potatoes and others boil them, than to have a single person do both? Collective Purpose takes this principal–something every person learns by the time they manage to walk–and extends it.

“War is a collective purpose. We Russians showed that to the world in 1812. It took the factories of Saint Petersburg, the horses of the southern steppes, the men of the western frontiers, and the great sacrifices of Moscow to defeat the Corsican Ogre. In 1812 every man, woman, and child in Russia contributed to war. Some fought. Some burned crops so that the French could not have them. Some farmed, that our people could eat. Some worked, that our soldiers had supplies. Collective Purpose is not every person doing the same thing, it is every person doing what they can so that something larger than any one person can be accomplished.

“War is not the only place where Collective Purpose can be brought to bear. We can–indeed, we must–show Collective Purpose in peace as well. It is our Collective Purpose that has built the rail lines that now connect Moscow to Busan, a distance of seven thousand vyersta. It is Collective Purpose that has built new farms and homes in Siberia and Manchuria, that even now works to ensure everyone shall have food in their belly, a roof over their head, and a bed to sleep in.

“I do not come to you as an autocrat demanding to be obeyed. I do not come to you as a liberal with foreign ideas, convinced that I alone know what is best. I come to you as a fellow Russian. I come to tell you that power exists in your hands. Power that could see a better life for your children, one without starvation. One where work is done not to enrich those who own the factories, but to better the lives of your fellow Russians. That is the future I wish to build. That is the future we can build. We merely need to join hands and work together. Though Russia is made of many disparate peoples, it is one Empire. If it has a single Purpose, there is nothing we cannot do.”

*

The Metropolitan Bishop of Moscow was looking at Alexander. The man’s eyes were cloudy and calculating, as if attempting to decipher a wood-block puzzle only recently unearthed by archeologists.

“Your Eminence,” Alexander greeted the man with a slight bow.

“Your Imperial Highness,” the Metropolitan replied with a deeper one. “You gave quite the speech.”

“In what way?”

“Its content.” The Metropolitan tilted his head, observing Alexander from a new angle. “I cannot tell if you are a conservative, a liberal, or a socialist.”

His heart longed to declare himself a socialist. Indeed that was still how Alexander thought of himself, regardless of the necessities of using the existing Tsarist structures of power. Yet to do so before the Metropolitan Bishop of Moscow–a powerful man, regardless of his current disfavor–was nothing short of foolishness. “Why must I be any of them?” Alexander asked. “Conservative, liberal, socialist–those are all foreign words for foreign thoughts. I am the Tsarevich of Russia. Why should I not speak with Russian thoughts?”

“I do not believe many of your esteemed father’s ministers would agree that conservatism is a foreign notion.”

“Those same ministers most often indulge themselves in petty nationalism, which most assuredly is,” Alexander replied. “Already we have seen that the smallest differences in nationality can be an excuse for a nation to be partitioned–does anyone outside the Low Countries truly know the difference between the Flemish and the Dutch? Do they even know it themselves?”

“You perceive nationalism as a danger then,” the Metropolitan noted, and Alexander wondered if he’d said too much. “I wonder your thoughts upon Orthodoxy.”

“It is a crucial part of the Empire,” Alexander said carefully.

“But only one part among many?”

Yes. “No less a part than the Tsar’s throne.”

The Metropolitan hummed. “What do you think of vernacular translations?”

Alexander decided he did not like the Metropolitan. The man was too bold by far and too intelligent by half. The Metropolitan sought to trap Alexander in pretty phrases, that his words could be used against him as blackmail no doubt. “I believe it is an issue worthy of further investigation,” Alexander stated. “Your Eminence, if you will excuse me. It has been a very long day.”

“Of course my child,” the Metropolitan said. “I would like to visit your family before you leave, to the young boy my blessing–with your permission, of course.”

Alexander nodded stiffly. “Of course.”

*

Being in the Kremlin again was an odd thing, and not solely because he’d gained eight inches of height. Though it had been thirty years since Bonaparte ordered the Kremlin blown up in his fit of pique the rebuilding was yet unfinished. This was not aided by Alexander’s father’s decision that the Kremlin’s Grand Palace was insufficiently grand, leading to the entire structure being rebuilt–a neoclassical construction that was three years underway when Alexander and his family arrived, with the end nowhere in sight.

Between Alexander’s desire for a quieter abode and Alexandrine’s concern for their children the Imperial family would instead reside in the Terem Palace which (at least for now) was being left out of the unnecessary reconstructions. Though Alexander supposed he should not be so harsh upon his father’s project–he was spending no small amount of wealth building a grand palace of his own in Mukden.

The two Alexandras loved the Terem palace. Tied at the hip they ran from room to room looking for, “secrets!” as Maria’s daughter would proudly proclaim, and followed by a flock of servants present to ensure they found no real danger.

Alexandrine, Maria, and Maximilian spent their time in Moscow going to museums. Alexander accompanied them to some–the Kremlin Arsenal, which depicted Russia’s victory in the Patriotic War of 1812, and the Zoological Museum of Moscow as Alexandra insisted on having him present to see the mammoth skeletons–but most of his time was instead consumed by business. Alexander met with the local nobility of Moscow, who had long been fading in both wealth and prestige as the city ate at their farmland and the political center shifted ever-closer to Saint Petersburg. Many of them had set up small factories as the city expanded, hoping to take advantage of the urbanization rather than be displaced by it. Some proved rather adept capitalists, but they were in the minority. Capitalism, detestable practice though it was, required skills beyond cruelty to prove successful. Alexander quietly bought up the contracts of several thousand serfs while he was in Moscow, freeing the acquired families on the condition they move to Siberia, where they would be given housing and jobs.

Alexander visited the Moscow garrisons as well, and was largely horrified by what he found. The training involved more beatings than marksmanship, the guns would have been out of date in the Napoleonic Wars, and the officers were drunk more often than not. Yet this was Moscow, not Siberia. Prince Chernyishov and his obsession with nobility and melee weapons ruled here, not Alexander and the facts of modern war.

In fact, Alexander realized, the best way to force radical change is to allow for stagnation. The worse the regular army does in the war, especially compared to the Siberian Army, the more I can blame it on the failure of bad generals. If he remembered correctly his father would die partway through the war. Alexander would continue it, using the war and incompetence as an excuse to purge the government of his enemies and actual incompetents alike. He would refuse to negotiate with the Anglo-French alliance, fighting them for every inch of Crimea. He knew the Western mind. They were willing to bleed, but not for those they saw as other–and the Ottoman Turks were most assuredly seen as others.

*

It was October 7th when the Imperial Siberian Express arrived in Saint Petersburg. As with Moscow they were greeted by cheering crowds and massed banners. Alexander rode through the city streets, followed by his family’s gilded carriage. They moved to Palace Square, where more than a hundred-thousand people waited. Alexander stood at the column heralding the achievements of his namesake and uncle, Alexander I, who defeated the previously unstoppable Napoleon. Here, at least, there was a platform, left over from the construction of the column. Alexander stood upon it, drawing the eyes and silence of the crowd even as his family retreated into the Winter Palace itself.

“My people,” Alexander began. “My fellow Russians.” From there he continued his speech, nothing more or less than what he said to the crowds at Red Square in Moscow (though this speech was tailored to the people of Saint Petersburg, of course). As Alexander spoke the people listened. They did not cheer, nor shout with glee. They did not proclaim him the savior of the serfs or the god of the Russian people. But they heard. They were intrigued. And one day, when Alexander became Tsar, they would obey.