The answer would come soon enough. Events were careening along too quickly to allow a young man like Paul Burenin time for long meditation.
17
When he had accepted the appointment to the Imperial Advisory Conference at the outset of the violent wave of terrorism, Viktor Fedorcenko had hoped his moderate stance could have some positive influence on Alexander’s increasingly conservative government. He hoped to rally many of the moderates like himself, and perhaps to sway some that were straddling the fence. He did not take into account the backlash of reaction that would soon sweep through the government.
It was nothing less than a panic.
The radicals wanted reform. And it was becoming clearer by the week that their violence would continue until they got it—or died in the effort. Instead of responding, the Imperial Conference only meted out more repression.
Viktor listened with growing concern to the present discussion among his colleagues at this morning’s meeting. He was dismayed to find his moderate friend and ally Alex Baklanov suddenly emerging as one of the new standard-bearers for the reactionaries. He had his reasons, Viktor supposed. His brother, General Ivan Baklanov, a hero of the Crimean War, had been killed recently by an assassin. Nevertheless, the loss of Alex’s support for the moderate cause was hard to take.
“First and foremost,” Baklanov said, “we must recommend an increase of at least 300,000 rubles in order to hire more gendarmes. The higher the visibility of the police, the more those scoundrels will think twice before attacking any good Russian citizen.”
“This ought to be extended to other major cities as well,” said one of the other ministers.
“Three hundred thousand is more than triple the original allotment!” Viktor protested. Wherever did they think the money would come from? Imperial coffers were nearly bankrupt as it was. The war had depleted an already sick budget, and there had hardly been time since the armistice to replenish funds.
“We are in the midst of a crisis,” declared Baklanov. “We’ll get the money somehow.”
“Prince Fedorcenko does have a point,” said Reutern, Minister of Finance. “All of these proposals will take financial resources, which, as we all know, our government is in short supply of these days.”
“Then we shall take it out of the hides of those bloody rebels!” exclaimed another member of the group.
Viktor grimaced at the applause the statement drew.
“If we are going to increase the police contingent,” another voice urged, “then we must increase its power also. The men must be given the right to enter factories at will. It is apparent that this radical propaganda has been most widespread among workers, and many of them are starting to listen.”
“It seems to me,” said Viktor, “that further repression will only add fuel to the fire.” Even as he spoke, he expected none of his colleagues to listen. Daily he became more like the squeaking shoe of the committee—an irritating sound that eventually comes to be ignored.
“In addition,” added the Minister of Internal Affairs as if he had not heard Viktor’s comment, “we must address the problem of the printing presses. I need more people if I expect to meet the tsar’s expectations regarding increased searching and seizures.”
“And we must also consider,” added Vlasenko, the new head of the Secret Police, “tighter controls over newspapers and journals that have been too free lately in their criticism of the police.”
Viktor looked over at Vlasenko with annoyance. His irritation was all the more keen in that his cousin seemed to be siding with the majority in opposition to him. But if Vlasenko was especially touchy on the subject, he might be forgiven on the grounds that he had been the target of an assassination attempt three months before, only a short time after arriving in the city for his new post from Akulin. But that was all Viktor would forgive him. The way Cyril had twisted his arm to get his post galled Viktor to the pit of his stomach. And now he practically had to work alongside the rural bumpkin.
“Yes,” agreed the Minister of Internal Affairs, jotting a note on a sheet of paper in front of him.
“Now,” said the committee chairman, “we need to consider recommendations on the disposition of political prisoners.”
“We have to be just to them,” sneered Baklanov. “I recommend that they be tried before they are hanged!”
Following a brief ripple of dry laughter, the subject of military tribunal was discussed. The definition of “state crime” was broadened to include any act of violence against a state official. And political prisoners were to be kept separate from other criminals and subjected to additional surveillance. Finally the conference approved a request by Vlasenko for the St. Petersburg secret police to be permitted to carry revolvers and to be given the right to use these weapons in self-defense.
Viktor had a throbbing headache after the morning of grueling discussion. When they broke up for food and drink, he was tempted to make some excuse and go home. But before he made good his escape, he found himself caught up in a conversation with Baklanov and Vlasenko.
“Every government committee needs its voice of moderation,” said Baklanov almost apologetically. “The tsar appointed you especially for that purpose, Viktor.”
“It is hardly gratification to be but a token moderate,” replied Viktor, his bitterness still evident despite his efforts to control it.
“What would you have us do?” asked Vlasenko, enjoying his role of importance. “Capitulate to these terrorists, Viktor? Have you any idea what the consequences of that would be?”
“The government would crumble,” put in Baklanov, as if the Third Section chief’s question needed an answer. “Imperial power would become a joke, with anarchy as the end result.”
“I have been clear in my opposition to recognizing terrorists,” said Viktor coolly. “I have gone so far as refusing a protective escort. Terrorists are criminals who must be punished to the full extent of the law. I agree with you both. However, half the measures discussed today do not punish terrorists, but rather honest citizens.”
“Our intent is to create an environment where terrorists will have difficulty flourishing,” said Baklanov.
“And I contend that today’s recommendations will not diminish terrorists but make more of them—perhaps turning honest dissenters into killers as well,” Viktor responded. “I say our time would be better spent discussing reform, not larger allotments for the police.”
“There have been more reforms during the reign of Alexander II than there have been since the days of Peter the Great,” countered Baklanov. “And where has it gotten him? Three times the target of an assassin!”
“Maybe you’d sing a different tune if the attacks were closer to you personally, Viktor,” added Vlasenko smugly.
“My loyalty to the crown, Cyril, is such that an attack on the person of the tsar does strike me personally, as you put it.”
“When the bullet pierces a man’s skin, Viktor, his perspective changes.”
“You may be right,” conceded Viktor, not wanting to argue with the man further. “But that still does not negate our desperate need to get on with the business of reforms in Russia. These changes must go beyond anything we have yet seen—not excluding the possibility of a Constitutional Monarchy.”
“Ha, that will be the day!” said Baklanov. “No Romanov tsar would ever allow himself to be forced to that extreme.”
“You may well be right,” agreed Viktor. His voice maintained its businesslike quality, but his eyes were marked with a hint of despair. “It is a classic standoff. The rebels want nothing less than a constitution, but that is something the tsar will never give. Where will it all lead?”
“Where it must,” said Vlasenko. “In the meantime, I need another glass of vodka.”
18
When the chief of the Secret Police departed, Baklanov drew closer to Fedorcenko in a fashion that Viktor took for conciliatory.
“These are dreadful times, Viktor,” Baklanov said.
Viktor nodded his concurrence.
“I frequently ask myself where it will lead,” Baklanov went on. “But no matter what the end results, the only way left open to men like us is for Russia’s noble classes to bind together. We are doomed otherwise.”
“Alex,” replied Viktor, “you and I both once believed that the only way Russia could survive was for the government to initiate drastic reform.”
“You said it yourself,” his friend replied. “These militants will settle for nothing short of a constitution. I believe it goes further than that. They want our destruction—a Russian Reign of Terror with a guillotine in every noble’s future!”
“So then, our counter policy must be to ‘get them before they get us’?”
“They have forced such a course upon us.”
“I know how you have suffered because of Ivan’s death, Alex. He was a good, fair-minded man. What happened to him was so senseless, so wanton. But do you think he would support this reaction that has set in?”
“My brother was a fighter,” rejoined Baklanov. “We spoke of these violent attacks before he himself was struck down. He was adamantly opposed to any kind of appeasement for terrorists. This is a war, Viktor, nothing less. The insurgents must be treated not only as traitors to our country, but also as the enemy.”
“That is a strong position.”
“But the only realistic one. Besides, there is no reason for us to back down. They are relatively few in numbers.”
“It is rather ironic when you think about it,” said Viktor. “The Russian aristocracy is numerically small also. What would you say? A few thousand in each camp in this battle?”
“I still call it a war.”
“I won’t argue the point. The numbers are small, but we contend for the destiny of millions—millions who would probably be content and little affected, no matter what the outcome. Yet both the government and the malcontents believe that their way is best for the peasants.”
“It sounds almost as if you are proposing the idea of a democracy for Russia.”
Viktor chuckled lightly. “I have not gone that liberal, Alex. On the contrary, I think it would take decades, perhaps even centuries of intensive grooming before the Russian peasantry would be even close to ready for any form of self-government. In 1613, Russia stood at a historical crossroads. We were leaderless. At that point the option of self-government clearly rose before our predecessors.”
“You do not think it was a practical option, even at that point?”
“It might have been. Democracy, from the little I know of it, always seems to emerge out of something else.”
“Hmm,” mused Baklanov. “Democracy in Russia in 1613—an interesting twist of historical interpretation.”
“But the boyars and gentry chose Michael Romanov and an autocratic monarch instead. I believe they perceived something that these anarchists are quite blind about—the Russian character is far different than that which makes up the people of Western democracies. The Slavic temperament is as different from the Anglo-Saxon as the African is from us both. Self-rule is a very long way off in the future for us in Russia, if it ever comes at all.”
“Then why are you so bent on conciliation to the radicals?”
“What I just said does not preclude the necessity for change, for reform, even within the governmental apparatus. I do not believe the Ivans and Peter can any longer be our models for leadership.”
Baklanov said nothing.
“I believe the same principle applies today that the tsar used when he proposed emancipation of the serfs twenty-three years ago—that it is better for revolution to come from above than for the people to begin attempting to liberate themselves from below.”
“Well spoken, Viktor. Though I do not know if the tsar would approve of the fine variation you have given his words.”
Viktor tensed slightly. A man had to be careful what he said, especially when he was no longer sure of his friends. He answered defensively, “I believe I have kept to the spirit of his words, Alex.”
Count Baklanov’s mouth relaxed into a smile. “We have been friends a long time, Viktor,” he said. “And though we have lately departed from one another politically, I hope a friendship I value greatly will not be sacrificed.”
Viktor Fedorcenko was not a man given to shows of emotion. He did not embrace his friend at the kind words, though he felt like doing so. A relaxed grin melted his controlled features.
“Your words mean a great deal, Alex. Thank you for having the courage to speak them to me.”
“It hardly takes courage to speak openly to a friend.”
They shook hands, and Viktor, feeling more in the mood, suggested they sample the drinks and pastries that had been set out. But before they turned to join the rest of the contingent, Baklanov laid his hand on Viktor’s arm to hold him back.
“Viktor, in the spirit of our friendship, I feel constrained to speak to you on a serious matter,” he said, and his voice was grave.
Viktor stopped and turned toward him.
“I don’t want you to take offense, but I hope our long years of association perhaps give me some right to candor.”
“Go on, Alex,” Viktor said apprehensively. What new calamity was about to befall him?
“I tell you this because the last thing I think you need or want right now is for your integrity at court to be compromised. You are a respected man in all the highest circles in St. Petersburg, and the tsar himself thinks highly of your counsel. Thus you must not have even one black mark that could be used against you. Especially in times like these, such a . . . such a mark, shall we say, could undermine your career.”
“I am at a complete loss, Alex. A black mark . . . what are you trying to tell me?”
“I am referring to your daughter’s recent association with Dr. Anickin’s son.”
“I still do not understand,” faltered Viktor. Even if he did understand what his friend was driving at, he felt the need to refrain from drawing premature conclusions.
“Come now, Viktor, you cannot be unaware of young Anickin’s associations. His trouble in Moscow is general knowledge.”
“I know he holds some rather liberal viewpoints. I know he had some problem with deportment during a trial, and that he has from time to time taken it upon himself to defend radicals.”
“And that does not disturb you?”
“In all honesty I suppose I would rather my daughter was seeing a man of better character. But he is the son of an old family friend, and thus I feel obliged to give him a certain courtesy,” replied Viktor, hedging. He actually did not know what to make of Basil Anickin, nor of his daughter’s recent infatuation with him. He had hoped, however, that by ignoring the situation it would dissolve itself. He simply could not believe that his daughter could ever be serious about a man like young Anickin. He also knew Katrina well enough to fear that undue attention might only force her deeper into the relationship. He said none of this, however, to his friend.
“I hope you have enough insight to realize that Anickin is more than a mere social curiosity,” Baklanov went on. “There are many who invite him to social gatherings simply for the amusement he provides with his radical rhetoric. No one takes him seriously, choosing to think he is but a bag of jovial wind like his father. But he is more than that, mark my words.”
“Honestly, Alex, I have not given it much thought. I wouldn’t want my daughter to marry the man. But thus far I think she is just being hospitable to a young man who is rather new in town and needs a companion.”
“I suggest that the next time he comes to your house, take a good look at him. He is a dangerous man.”
“I can hardly believe that.”
“You must draw your own conclusions, Viktor. Some consider him a buffoon, but there are others whose suspicions he has aroused. I have it on the best authority that the Third Section has had him under surveillance since his arrival in St. Petersburg. Out of respect for Dr. Anickin, that incide
nt in Moscow has been played down, but the truth of the matter is that his son physically attacked the prosecuting counsel in the courtroom.”
“That is serious.”
“Young Anickin was arrested, then he was sent to a mental hospital where he received a series of shock treatments before the police would agree to release him.”
“Shock treatments! That is rather drastic, is it not?”
“Perhaps indicative of the extent of his derangement.”
“Or of the overzealousness of the police.”
“Do you then choose to defend Basil Anickin?”
“Out of deference for his father—”
“Unfortunately, Basil Anickin has been given too much latitude for that very reason already. I believe it is a mistake to underestimate him. And, Viktor, it is especially a mistake for you to do so.”
“Do not misunderstand me, Alex. No one could possibly think that I am sympathetic in the least to his politics simply because I show him hospitality.”
“Viktor, don’t make the added mistake of underestimating court rivalries.” Baklanov paused to give his words dramatic emphasis. “You are one of the moderates the tsar still listens to. And there are many, especially now, who think that is one voice too many. There are those who would silence you, Viktor.”
“That is ridiculous!” They had been speaking quietly, but now Viktor’s voice rose noticeably, drawing the attention of several at the other end of the room. He glanced around at the faces that had turned toward him and felt a chill. In that instant, every one suddenly seemed like a stranger.
After the conversation in the room gradually resumed to its previous level, Alex spoke again. “I only tell you this out of friendship, Viktor. Even the implied association with militants could ruin you, my friend. If you value your position at court and in the government, it would behoove you to cut any ties either you or your daughter has to Dr. Anickin’s son. The doctor is greatly respected in this city, but believe me, it will not be long before even that will not save his son—or anyone who supports him.”
The Russians Collection Page 55