Chapter Forty-Nine (Patreon)

Twice a week Alexander looked through his correspondence. Most of the letters sent to him did not make it this far. Letters from his family were always sent on, as were letters from his Directors, his father’s Ministers, and a select few spies. The rest passed through his secretaries, a group that had expanded rapidly with as the Siberian Postal Trains reached ever-closer to Moscow. It was even part of the suggested curriculum that students write to the Tsarevich as part of the Government Studies courses, an event that was fortunately staggered over the course of the school year.

The letters that made it through Alexander’s secretaries were then passed to his personal secretary, a new hire named Vladimir Odoyevsky. Prince Vladimir Odoyevsky. Who for some reason decided to trade his rich life in Saint Petersburg for a menial job in Irkutsk, Busan, or wherever the Tsarevich decided to go.

Alexander looked up from the letters. Now was as good a time as any. “Why did you leave Saint Petersburg?”

“It was your speech,” Odoyevsky replied. “It spoke to me. For no small amount of time have I been intrigued by secret knowledge. That which neither the Church nor the Tsar wishes for the masses–even the masses of nobility–to obtain. The knowledge of the occult was nothing but a disappointment, its power no more real than that which prayer can bring. A great deal less, for at least the Church has real power, even if it is political. In that malaise I began to search for new ideas, ones that could bring truth and meaning to what appeared but a blank slate of dull grey. Science, it seemed, was the answer to that. Yet science was so often accompanied by political liberalism, an idea that hardly appeals to any man who truly considers himself Russian. It was your speech that made the matter clear to me. Just as physics is the science of forces in combination, and chemistry is the science of atoms in combination, so too is politics the science of men in combination. Your speech–if I may speak freely?”

Alexander nodded. At worse Odoyevsky would insult him, and Alexander could hold that blade to his neck for years to come.

“Your speech was mediocre. The words themselves, they lacked panache. The delivery was static, quiet. The sentences were dull, the paragraphs uninspired. Yet the meaning, that most crucial component of writing that is so frequently ignored in favor of ever-twisting sentences that convey nothing but the author’s sense of superiority, yes the meaning was so impactful that neither the words nor delivery mattered. It was like seeing gold after a lifetime of only hearing of it.”

“What is it you hope to do?”

“I hope to write,” Odoyevsky answered. “I would not ask to write your speeches. You talk to the masses, and you must talk like them. But the written word can be more complex and inventive without losing those who read it.”

“You wish to codify the Collective Purpose,” Alexander said.

“I wish to make a bible of scientific politics,” Odoyevsky replied. “Christ did not write the Gospels. He left that work to men skilled with the quill, yet incapable of possessing his great ideas.”

Deciding to ignore the blasphemy, Alexander thought on the proposal. It was not without merit. Though Alexander considered himself an able writer, he knew where his strengths lay, and where they did not. Alexander was good at writing articles that were swift and to the point. Ones that conveyed a single, simple message and did not bother to hide it. He was a man of implementation and persuasion, not a man of theory and rhetorical discussion. Not even a new education under a renowned poet would change that part of his nature.

Yet to give Odoyevsky this responsibility was a step he could not take back, not easily at least. Vladimir Odoyevsky was not just a prince, he was practically the prince. He was the last member of the Princely House of Odoyev, themselves descended from the most senior surviving line of the House of Rurik which once ruled Moscow and united the feuding Russian realms in the 16th century. He was not a man Alexander could disappear, nor was he one whose thoughts Alexander could dismiss. Yet his writing was skilled and his words seemed genuine.

What holds me back? Alexander wondered. Is it that he is a Prince? If so it was a silly thing to stumble upon. Already Alexander had resolved to keep the Tsardom in its inherited form, judging the powerful symbolism already in place as too valuable to ignore. Compared to that, what was a Prince writing theory?

“I will review everything you write,” Alexander decided. “Nothing will be published until I have had a chance to look at it, including your fiction and poetics. If there is something I believe is wrong, we shall–” Alexander withheld a grimace, “discuss it.” He would prefer to dictate fully, but Odoyevsky was too useful and well-regarded for that.

“Thank you,” Odoyevsky grinned. “I look forward to beginning my work on the new tome. But for now,” he turned to the stack of letters. Whipping one off the top he read the return address and turned back to Alexander. “Can I interest you in a letter from one John Ericsson?”

“Ericsson?” Where did he know that name? “The shipbuilder?” Alexander opened the letter. His brows rose. “Write a message to Admiral Lazarev,” Alexander ordered. “It seems he will have his favored designer soon.”

“John Ericsson?”

“Yes,” Alexander confirmed. “Inform the Admiral that Ericsson may require swift removal from the American States, as a recent accident involving a ship he worked on has killed their Naval Minister.”

Odoyevsky stopped. “You want to hire this man?”

“He claims the gun that exploded was not the one he worked on, though his superiors are intent on making it seem otherwise.”

“And you believe him.”

“From the reports I have read, his account would make more sense. He has never before been involved in lethal accidents despite a career of testing ships and weaponry.”