ISoTL Chapter Fifty-Eight (Patreon)

“We need to talk about our son.”

Alexander did not reply immediately. His skin held taught by will, he brought the razor’s edge against his skin, pulling excess hair from his neck. Placing the blade into the bowl of warm water he washed off the hairs. “What is wrong?”

“He refuses to pay attention in his lessons,” Alexandrine said. Alexander raised the razor again. “Andreevna says he will not stop moving. Even when he sits his leg is bouncing.”

Alexander pulled the razor away. “Then she should correct him. He is misbehaving. He must learn that is wrong.”

“Alexander!”

Alexander bit back a sigh. He put down the razor and turned from the mirror. His wife’s face, ordinarily beautiful, was marred by a twisted frown. “What did I say?”

“There is no need to suggest a beating for something like this,” Alexandrine chastised him.

“Not a beating,” Alexander retreated. “A simple correction. It is best to learn early, is it not?”

“I was hoping you would be able to talk to Gretsch to see if there was some pedagogical technique that could help him.”

Alexander hesitated. On the one hand it was patently ridiculous. A special pedagogical technique, for a boy of four who refused to sit still? Yet despite himself Alexander could not easily refuse his wife. She had done much for him. She had borne him three children, each healthy beyond expectation. She stood by him no matter his policies, defended him in the gossip circles of court, and acted as his missionary among the migrants. A single question, even a ridiculous one, was a small thing to ask in light of her years of service.

The things I do for love. “I suppose there would be no harm in asking.”

*

Nikolay Gretsch could barely contain his smile as the Tsarevich laid out his issue. For more than a year he had been sidelined. His actions with the University of Irkutsk, his greatest and grandest ambition, had been stripped away from him for ever so slightly exceeding the timeline laid out in the Tsarevich’s precious Five-Year Plan. That Gretsch even remained as Director of Primary and Secondary education was a narrow thing, due as much to Prince Odoyevsky’s influence as his own successes in the field, galling as it was to admit. Yet the Tsarevich now turned to him for an important, crucial, and (best of all) personal issue. This was his chance.

“From what you have told me, the issue is not only one of discipline, but one of energy as well,” Nikolay told the Tsarevich. “A great deal of energy is, of course, a good thing for a Grand Duke to have. You yourself are a marvelous example of that. The issue is that the young Grand Duke, due to his age, lacks your Imperial Highness’ wisdom and internal discipline. He must therefore be taught discipline, not as a matter of punishment but as an additional set of lessons that will simultaneously exert much of his physical energy.”

“What is it you suggest?” The Tsarevich held out his pipe. Nikolay leaned over. He clashed the flint and steel, sending sparks into the bowl. Smoke arose, and the Tsarevich leaned back, drawing another breath of his tobacco.

“Military lessons,” Nikolay said as the Tsarevich’s exhaled the first cloud of smoke. It was not an unpleasant scent, though far from his favorite. “He is young for them, but with his physical blessings early lessons in marching and riding would not overly strain his body. The discipline needed to march in a line or handle a pony will serve him well in his classroom lessons as well.”

“I see.” Another puff of smoke. “I doubt that is what his mother had in mind.” Nikolay’s eyes widened. Was this the Grand Duchess’ idea? Had he stepped onto thin ice, thinking it solid ground? “Yet your suggestions hold merit. There is no harm in an early start.”

*

Nikolay Muravyov-Joseonsky hummed, leaning back in his chair. He rotated the oriental pipe, a long metal rod connected to a small bowl, and offered it to his guest. The Tsarevich accepted, grasping the end of the rod and, after wiping the bit against his fine shirt, pressed it to his lips and inhaled the sweet smoke of Manchurian tobacco. Nikolay knew better than to offer his boss the small quantity of opium he sometimes added to his own supply.

“A few names come to mind,” Nikolay said. “If I am assuming your preferences correctly. High moral standards, high competency, skill at tactics, good discipline, and a complete lack of rigid adherence to prior military assumptions.”

“Loyalty as well,” the Tsarevich added.

“For me, loyalty is part of morality. That is true for any Russian, and doubly so for any soldier.”

The Tsarevich smiled, not with his lips but his eyes, and took another puff of tobacco before offering the pipe back to Nikolay. He accepted. He breathed in and held it, letting the smoke linger in his mouth, swirling in little clouds before he slowly exhaled.

“The best would be Dmitry Milyutin,” Nikolay said. “He is young, not yet thirty. He retired from active service due to wounds suffered in the Caucasus and is a brilliant scholar–I intend to support him for the Demidov Prize this year. The only issue is his workload. He is already the Chair of Military Statistics at the Academy, and will likely replace Gorski once he retires. If he is not available, Captain Pyotr Vannovsky is another option. A recent transfer from the Finnish Life Guards, he is more of an active choice, less skilled academically but no less interested in the future of warfare.”

“Milyutin–he is Nikolay’s brother?”

“He is.”

“And Vannovsky. You are certain of his loyalty?”

“Entirely. He cares more for Russia than his own life.”

Another smile. “We shall start with Vannovsky,” the Tsarevich decided. “When it is time for Pyotr to learn more advanced tactical lessons we shall see to it that Milyutin is there as well, but at present the concern is primarily discipline and activity. Vannovsky will suit well for that.”