Chapter Forty-Six (Patreon)

Alexander eyed the doctor across from him. Though not Alexander’s oldest advisor Freidrich Haass certainly looked the part. His gut was bulging, his hair thinning and grey, his face wrinkled and his chins multiplied with the passing years. Yet his eyes never lost their fervor.

For thirteen years Dr. Haass had struggled in Moscow. He had fought to make the prison system one of reform rather than brutality. He had tried and failed to solicit funds for a public hospital that would treat even the homeless, and had been on the verge of starting one with his own limited funds before Alexander made his offer.

In Moscow Dr. Haass would never be more than a bandage upon the gaping wounds of society. In Irkutsk, he could begin to clean and sew them up.

The cleaning, Alexander had belatedly learned, was not yet common medical practice. But it would be soon.

“The results are indisputable,” Haass said. “In hospitals where surgeons washed their hands with water but not soap there was a slight but provable reduction in infections. In hospitals where surgeons used soap, the rate of reduction was between one half and two thirds. While I understand the necessity of this trial to convince others abroad, I must insist that it now end. It is unethical to continue performing unwashed surgery or birth when we know the difference in lives saved.”

“You have my permission to end the study,” Alexander agreed. Haass’ reputation—the Holy Doctor of Moscow, as he had been called—was crucial to widespread adoption. “Compose your report. By the start of summer I want every university and hospital in Russia to have a copy. By the end of the year I want them all to have adopted it.”

“I want that too,” Haass said, “but there will be naysayers. Opponents.”

Alexander nodded. “Leave those to me.” He already knew how to handle them. Pravda was already up and running, with a large following among the urban workers and a decent one in the Mirs. It would not be difficult to use those presses for a few pamphlets. Load them onto train cars, easily distributed throughout Moscow and Saint Petersburg. Those who resisted would not only be conservative, they would be murders, grave-makers, and baby-stealers.

Some images would go nicely with the pamphlets. Perhaps it was time Alexander paid a visit to the artists he was funding.

*

Much to Alexander’s surprise, his small court at Irkutsk included a wide variety of artists. There were at least two dozen painters and their local apprentices, a handful of sculptors and architects, a score of musicians, a half-dozen composers, three Opera companies (two in Irkutsk, one in Mukden), and a number of lithographers, daguerreotype artists, dancers, and Eastern-style artists.

Of the artists paid from his coffers, four stood out to Alexander. Boris Chorikov was a graphic artist who had previously made lithographs for the History of the Russian State, a popular book of Norman-theory history that went from the immigration of the Rus to the Time of Troubles. While Alexander opposed the Norman theory (whether it was true or not, it was more politically useful for Russia to have originated from the native Slavs than Norse immigrants) he found Chorikov’s illustrations to be sufficiently detailed for emotional purpose without being so cluttered the message was lost. He would be perfect for Pravda’s illustrations, both the health pamphlets and future cartoons and images Alexander hoped to introduce to his publications.

Berndt Godenhjelm and Apollon Mokritsky were more traditional artists. A Finn and a Ukrainian respectively, Alexander did not view their work as perfect. Godenhjelm, when he had the time and resources, would paint elaborate scenes involving nude women and religious or mythological figures. Alexander was far more taken with Godenhjelm’s often-hasty portraits, which featured smooth skin, clear expressions, and detailed figures on simple backgrounds–perfect for the kind of posters Alexander hoped to mass-produce. Mokritsky was less problematic for Alexander save for his singular focus on portraits and dark backgrounds, neither of which favored the bright, happy, and dedicated art that best aligned with the Collective Purpose.

Then there was Kapiton Zelentsov. An odd man and an equally odd artist, Zelentsov had produced “patriotic art” during the war against Napoleon and, until he was poached by Alexander’s agents, drew scenes of common Russian life for the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He was the perfect propagandist. Alexander immediately commissioned him to make a series of painting of Siberian Mirs, urban houses, city squares, and factory floors–all drawn to be human, appealing, and (most crucially) enticing. If Alexander’s plans to attract immigration away from the United States were to stand a chance he would need propaganda to counter centuries of rumors about the New World’s lands of plenty. Zelentsov would not do that on his own, but it was certainly a good start.

*

“Your Imperial Highness.”

“Dr. Kostomarov.” Alexander appraised the man before him. He was young, perhaps Alexander’s age, with auburn hair and a full beard kept short by age rather than choice. “Thank you for coming.”

“It is an honor to serve the Imperial family,” Kostomarov replied. His pale eyes were cautious.

“I have read your thesis,” Alexander said. “Both of them.” Kostomarov paled. “While you work for me you will not write anything claiming or suggesting Ukraine is anything but an integral part of the Russian Empire. You may write your poetry in Ukrainian. You may translate your essays and works into Ukrainian. You may continue to study the language, the people, and the folklore–so long as they are viewed as a component of the vast tapestry of our great Empire. You are also,” Alexander added, “not to challenge Absolutism, nor the collective nature of our cultures.”

Kostomarov was pale. Nonetheless he nodded. “I understand, your Imperial Highness.”

“Good. I am sure you are curious as to what I wish from you.”

“Yes, your Imperial Highness.”

“I wish for you to author a definitive history. One that will relegate Pogodin and the Normanists to the great pile of failed ideologies. It is your task to prove that the Rus, and thereby our Empire, is a construction of the Slavic peoples. That the Rus came from Russia, not the other way around. You will have whatever resources you need. If you wish for access to a set of archives, I will see it done. If you wish for scribes and assistants, I will see them given to you.”

Kostomarov nodded. His eyes were burning “I will see it done.”