ISoTL Chapter Sixty-One (Patreon)

“I am happy to report that the University of Irkutsk is now fully staffed,” Gretsch stated, his grin wide as his heavy, bricklike face allowed. “Every department has not only a chair, but a full roster of faculty and staff as well. As part of the coming academic year, we plan to enroll between one thousand and fifteen hundred students, a number that will increase to between eighteen hundred and two thousand by the end of the decade.”

“Does that include the attending military engineers?” Muravyov asked.

“No,” Gretsch answered. “We have accounted for an additional four hundred student-courses per semester.”

“Student-courses?” von Stiegliz asked.

“The number of courses multiplied by the number of students,” Arsenyev explained. “If each student takes four courses per semester, that allows for one hundred students. If each student takes two courses per semester, it allows for two hundred students.”

von Stieglitz took the grade-school lecture with a sharp glare. Alexander did not both to hide his amusement, even as his eyes wandered to the guards. von Stieglitz soon dropped his glare, retreating behind his papers.

“Speaking of the Academy?” Alexander inquired.

“It is well,” Muravyov answered. “The new class of officers performing to sufficient standards. The professors are pleased with their research allotments.”

“The Naval Academy is steaming along quite nicely,” Lazarev added. “A nice combination of training vessels and classroom learning, and the class sizes are finally where we want them. It’s been a struggle getting enough officers for the growing fleet, though General Muravyov was kind enough to pass on some candidates willing to find their sea legs. We have at last completed the expanded the fleet with the Naravin, a Smoliani-class Bronenosets*, commanded by Captain 1st Class K.N. Romanov.”

“Good,” Alexander said. He was shocked his brother had risen so high so quickly (God’s blood, had it truly been five years since Konstantin arrived?) but refused to let Lazarev surprise him. “I shall offer him our congratulations. Director von Stieglitz, you have a report on the treasury?”

“Yes,” von Stieglitz said after a moment. “It is, to be frank, poor. While the budget proposed during the meetings regarding the Five-Year Plan was one based upon the best information available at the time, the Cholera Outbreak in Manchuria and the subsequent had a rather deleterious effect on the most fertile farmland in Eastern Siberia, including the largest region for fruit production, a major source of local revenue. Further, the quarantine impacted the transport of both the citrus and tea harvests, two major sources of revenue.”

“The quarantine was necessary,” Haass hissed. “Do you know how many more would have died–”

“I am not disputing the necessity of the action,” von Stieglitz said.

“No,” Anosov agreed, “you’re just trying to explain why your advice caused the treasury to go on a borrowing spree.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “von Stieglitz?”

“We have not borrowed anything,” von Stieglitz quickly said. “There was a deficit, but it was paid for with remaining treasury funds and a few unpaid expenses in the form of projects that were planned but delayed due to the outbreak.”

“Very well.” Alexander vowed to have the books audited. If von Stieglitz was lying his pension would be paid in calibers. “Will we have a deficit the next year?”

“No.” von Stieglitz hesitated. “Unless the Cholera returns. The Alaska mines are expanding. The workers in Korea will not be forced to abandon much of the citrus crop, or use alternate drying methods for the tea.”

“Then we will continue with the expected budget,” Alexander decided. If anything went wrong, he would take the money from von Stieglitz. If that wasn’t enough, he’d find von Stieglitz’s capitalist friends. He turned back to Muravyov. “What has become of the Irish?”

“They have settled down, mostly,” Muravyov said. “We’re still breaking up fights, nothing that leaves more than a dozen dead.”

“The whaling captains are glad someone’s manning the stations now,” Lazarev added. He grinned. “Though the sailors keep complaining it’s only men who wind up on the islands.”

“And here I thought an Irish lass was known for her fiery temper,” Odoyevsky joked.

“You would know,” von Stieglitz said. “Who’s the one you’ve been seeing?”

Odoyevsky paled. The Directors leaned forward, as did Alexander. This promised to be good. “I–”

“Come now,” von Stieglitz said. “Ushinsky saw you with her at the theater not two weeks past. Red hair, does that ring any bells?”

“Laura Bell?” Gretsch asked. “Vladimir, how did you afford her? When Prince 

Skarżyński was here, he spent a million rubles on her gifts and payments!”

“You do realize not every man must pay in the same manner?” Odoyevsky asked. “Prince Skarżyński has nothing but his sword and his money; she is not interested in the one, so he must pay in the other. But I have my pen, my tongue, my mind, and my money. Though I possess the latter in far more limited supply than the good Prince, I count myself much more fortunate.”

“Ah,” Hess said. “So it is humor that wins her over. It is just as well then that his Imperial Majesty has no interest in such things.”

Alexander allowed his old friend the joke, playing at a frown. “I have a fantastic sense of humor,” Alexander insisted. “I will prove it. I shall hold a contest for the best political joke that can be told in all of Russia. There will be prizes.”

Silence. Then,

“Prizes?”

“Prizes,” Alexander confirmed. “First place shall receive fifteen years.” He smiled faintly at the forced laughter. Even Hess’ eyes seemed strained. Good. Let them remember just who had power.

*

It was not often that the Aksakov family gathered together. The family had come a long way since the patriarch, Sergey, had grown up in the barely-recovered ruins of a once-proud family. Sergey’s own father, Timofey, had been a prosecutor whose career and profitable marriage ended the family’s long affair with poverty. It had been Sergey’s duty to court prosperity. Eventually meeting with success between his work as a censor and his literary publications and criticism (both literary and theater), Sergey had succeeded in the task his father had given him, the same task every decent father seeks to fulfil: he had given his children a better starting point than the one he himself enjoyed.

The newest generation of Aksakovs had not wasted their privilege. Of the nine living children of Sergey and Olga, three were successful writers, one each an artist and musician of moderate renown, and another a courtier on the verge of governorship. Two more had yet to reach adulthood.

Yet by the very nature of their success the members of this large and increasingly prominent family had gone years without contact. They gained success in Saint Petersburg, in Simbirsk, in Moscow, and at home in Orenburg. It was only visitation of the eldest of the Aksakov children, Konstantin, to the family home following a visit to the Far East that lead to a general recall of kith and kin.

“How was the East?” Vera asked her brother as the servants brought forth the food. “Did you visit the old palaces? I hear the Joseon capital has five, each larger than the Winter Palace.”

“Nonesense,” Olga, their mother scoffed. “Nothing is as large as the Winter Palace.”

“Not as grand,” Konstantin agreed. “But they were larger. The palaces of the east are not homes made to monumental scale. They are cities writ small, or small for the east. I did not have the chance to visit the capital of Qing, but I spoke with those who have. From what they say the Emperor’s private district houses some ten thousand souls, between the nobles and servants. Every step in the district is determined by ancient protocol. A single misplaced robe, a stray hair, or mistimed breath will mean the difference between execution and reward.”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “I did not take you for an Orientalist.”

“Hardly,” Konstantin replied. “But one cannot see what has been build and be unaffected, any more than one can ignore the Colosseum of Rome or the Pyramids of Egypt. What they have built is nothing more or less impressive, though like the monuments of Egypt or the Bread and Circuses of Rome, it now holds them in place like a noose.”

“Konstantin!” his mother hissed. “That is hardly appropriate when we are eating.”

Konstantin blushed. “Sorry mother,” he muttered, much to his siblings’ amusement.

“You did not go east simply to see cities,” his father said suddenly.

“No,” Konstantin said after a moment. “I did not. Nor would I ask you disrupt all our lives simply for the pleasure of your company, much as I enjoy it.” Konstantin dabbed at his lips with his napkin. He folded it neatly, setting it to the side. “I was invited to the east to read a manuscript,” Konstantin said. “One that was sensitive, both by nature of the subject and one of the authors. I have been given liberty to discuss some of this with you only after much persuasion.”

“Son,” his father said, voice dark as a rainy sky. “What have you gotten yourself into.”

“It is nothing bad father, I promise. It is merely a new way of looking at things.”

“Konstantin,” Grigory, the would-be governor, said. “Do not tell me you got yourself into a revolutionary group.”

“God, you did, didn’t you,” Ivan said.

“Of course he didn’t,” Vera huffed. “He’s not that stupid.” She frowned. “You aren’t, are you?”

“I think many would make the case that working with the Tsarevich on a new ideology is rather anti-revolutionary,” Konstantin replied.

His family stared.

“The Tsarevich has an ideology?” Ivan asked. “What does he believe? Is he with us?”

“Yes and no. His ideology, I would best describe it as Pan-Tsarism. He seeks to unite the entirety of the Empire behind the Tsar, not only the proud Russians and the other Slavs, but the pitiful Jews and the recently-conquered peoples of the steppes and the East as well.”

“Where does he stand on the West?” Vera asked.

“He is for technological advancement and against their cultural impositions. The collective institutions of our people–the Mir, the Church, and the State–all remain and grow in his realm. From what Prince Odoyevsky, his personal secretary, told me, the Tsarevich does not trust the West to possess anything but ill intentions for Russia, and believes we must stand on our own.”

“Pan-Tsarism is not a bad name for it,” Ivan conceded. “But does he truly see the Turks and Jews and equals?”

“I do not know,” Konstantin admitted. “I can only hope not. But even if he does, does it matter? Is it better for a man to stand amidst a famine with a thimble of grain, or for a man to stand in fields of plenty with his own barrel of flour? The first may be rich, but the second will live.”

*Russian term for an iron-clad, also the name of the armadillo. Literally, “armor-clad”