Alexander II

by Edvard Radzinsky

  The English Club gave Muravyev an honorary membership, which was cause for a celebratory dinner. Nekrasov attended. After the lavish dinner, Muravyev, a ton of wheezing blubber, rested in an armchair. The civic poet Nekrasov asked for permission to read his new poem dedicated to the man all decent people had just recently called the Hangman. But Muravyev did not bother with a response, continuing to smoke his pipe. He seemed not to have noticed Nekrasov. The poet, not waiting for gracious agreement, started reading his panegyric to the Hangman.

  But that didn’t seem like enough to Nekrasov. When he finished, he said beseechingly, “Your Excellency, will you permit me to publish this poem?”

  Muravyev replied dryly, “It’s your property and you can do what you wish with it.” He turned his back on the poet. One of the people in the room said very loudly, “He thinks he can bribe justice by reading verse! You just wait, you won’t get away!”

  The poet left, mortified.

  His Sovremennik was shut down. Neither Russian youth and nor high society could forgive Nekrasov. Students took his picture down from their walls and threw it away, or, scribbling “scoundrel” across it, mailed it to him. He suffered terribly.

  Nine years later, Nekrasov grew severely ill, his life turning into protracted death throes. “You asked for an easy life from God, when you should have asked for an easy death,” he wrote. Lying in bed, tormented, he continued trying to explain that act and repenting: “Beloved Homeland, bless your downed son, instead of beating him.”

  News of his mortal illness spread across Russia and it reconciled people to him. Letters, telegrams, greetings, and notes came from all over the empire. On the eve of his death, he was the idol of youth once more.

  He died on December 27, 1877. It was extremely cold, but for the first time in the history of Russian literature, several thousand people came to a writer’s funeral. They followed his body to its final resting place at the Novodevichy Monastery in Moscow.

  The first plan proposed to Alexander was to declare Karakozov insane, the way Nicholas I had handled Chaadayev. This would make it clear that no sane person would ever attempt to kill the tsar. But Alexander did not want that: He wanted to teach villains a lesson, or else others might try to shoot at the tsar if they thought it could be done with impunity, which would be the end of the state. Karakozov and Ishutin were sentenced to die by hanging.

  Karakozov spent the entire time in prison praying. He wrote a letter to Alexander begging for forgiveness. “I beg your pardon as a Christian of a Christian and man of a man.” The tsar “spread his hands in regret.” Karakozov was told, “His Majesty forgives you as a Christian, but as the Sovereign he cannot forgive you. You must prepare yourself for death.”

  He did forgive Ishutin and commuted his sentence to hard labor for life. The gift of life was not to be announced until the last second, when he was on the gallows. He punished him with the anticipation of death, remembering how his father had treated the Petrashevsky circle members.

  The first execution on Semenovsky Square took place. Karakozov was hanged. He had passed out and had to be dragged up to the gibbet. Ishutin was dressed and then told about the change in his sentence.

  Alexander had needed to bring in Muravyev to scare the country, but the tsar could not stand the monster for long. The Hangman was soon retired. He died in sadness in 1866. However, the tsar did not return the liberal bureaucrats to power nor did he wish to hear anything else about liberal reform. Let the public digest what was given to them first.

  Thus, while the country was moving forward in the late 1860s, Alexander decided to stop the reforms and the country’s dangerous motion. Only military reform, because of the immensity of the problems, continued into the 1870s. He needed the army to get his revenge for the Crimean War.

  Alexander did not know the rule: Starting reforms is dangerous, but it is much more dangerous to stop them.

  Alexander realized that he had to think about fighting sedition, which meant a new chief for the Third Department who would be able to control society’s new friskiness. He appointed Peter Shuvalov, son of his late mother’s high marshal.

  The Shuvalovs rose to power in the reign of Empress Elizabeth, in the mid-eighteenth century. One Shuvalov had been her lover. His uncle was a major financier and also the requisite embezzler and devious statesman. When Elizabeth became infatuated with a new young cadet named Beketov, dropping the older Shuvalov’s nephew, he took measures to return his relative to favor. He became the best friend of the young and simple lover and gave Beketov a cream “to whiten the face.” The poor fellow broke out in a pus-filled rash. Someone whispered into the empress’s ear the words “venereal disease,” which the cadet allegedly picked up from someone else, and the infuriated Elizabeth cast him aside and returned Shuvalov to her favors.

  The son of this enterprising bastard had a subtle mind, nobility, and good education. His French was so good that he published poems in Paris. Catherine the Great, who wrote fluently in French, sent her famous letters to Grimm and Voltaire to this Shuvalov first for editing, which he did with determination. Catherine called him “my wise washerwoman.”

  This was the line from which Peter Shuvalov came. He was ten years younger than the tsar and a companion in some of his merry adventures. Using his friendship with the tsar, he dared to court the daughter of Maria Leichtenberg, the tsar’s sister. The tsar was forced to reprimand him severely. Count Peter wised up immediately, becoming what was needed—“loyal but smart” (as Alexander described him) and “a dog on a chain” (as Kostya did). Count Peter combined many qualities of his ancestors. He was lively, witty, absolutely comme il faut and at the same time ruthless and a cruel superior.

  He was liberal when necessary but a retrograde at heart. The retrogrades rejoiced at his appointment. They quoted Shuvalov as saying that he would soon “wring the necks” of the liberals and “the tsar himself would toe the line.”

  Shuvalov ruled Russia for eight years, a period of counter-reform, when the regime undercut its own good deeds. Alexander was happy: The reforms were in place, and he hoped the country would quiet down. He intended to relax, because he was in love. But a leader can never rest, for his time off is always severely punished.

  While he was away from active ruling, an extremely dangerous change took place. The new head of the Third Department reinstated the broad powers of the secret police. Using them, Shuvalov began to take over the Committee of Ministers. Minister of War Dmitri Milyutin was astonished to find that he had been “completely removed from military affairs.”

  “It is all being done under the exceptional influence of Shuvalov, who has frightened the Sovereign with daily reports on terrible dangers,” he wrote in his diary. “Under the guise of protecting the person of the tsar, the count interferes in affairs. He has surrounded the Sovereign with his own people…. In the Committee of Ministers, the majority acts as one with the count, like an orchestra directed by the conductor.”

  For eight years, Count Peter Shuvalov, chief of the secret police, was the de facto prime minister. This brought about a most dangerous situation for Alexander: the unification of the retrograde party with the secret police.

  The court referred to Shuvalov as Peter IV. In order to become him truly, Shuvalov had to get rid of the chief liberal, Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich. The camarilla relished the anticipation.

  CHAPTER 8

  Love

  The year following the assassination attempt in the Summer Garden, 1867, began with an event for which Russia still had not forgiven Alexander II. Negotiations to sell Alaska had begun under his father and continued for fifteen years. The great monarchist Nicholas was prepared to befriend even republican America against royal England.

  Guests from the New World were taken to visit Peterhof, where a young oak now grew on Tsaritsyn Island. A bronze plaque next to it read: “This acorn planted in the ground came from the oak shading the grave of the unforgettable Washington and was given as a sign of ext
reme respect for the Emperor of All Russia.”

  Nicholas I had planted the acorn personally. The sale of Alaska was a nod in the direction of the young state. But immeasurable Russia has a paradoxically heightened sense of its “own territory,” and even Nicholas I preferred that the negotiations be held in great secrecy and that they never come to an end.

  The warm relations between the two countries continued under Alexander II, as did the negotiations over the sale of Alaska. The tsar sensed that it was time to move things along, because Russian holdings in Alaska could become an apple of discord between the countries.

  The Russian-American Trading Company that owned Alaska “with the right to monopoly use of all game and minerals” had long been losing money. Only a few hundred people worked for the company. If the Americans had decided to take Alaska, Russia would not have been able to defend it. It would only spoil the good relations between the countries. St. Petersburg had little doubt that it could happen sooner or later, especially after rumors of gold in Alaska circulated. Gold could provoke an attack. Fighting so far from home was unrealistic, and the tsar could not permit another Sevastopol.

  He decided to complete the negotiations on March 18, 1867. The agreement that Russia would cede its North American colonies was ratified in Washington. On March 23 the editors of St. Petersburg newspapers received news of this by Atlantic telegraph.

  The emperor learned quickly that irritating discussions were taking place in Russia. There were articles about the error of the sale, pointing out that they sold for a mere $7.2 million islands of 31,204 square kilometers and part of the North Atlantic mainland of 548,902 square kilometers with everything built on those lands, fortifications, barracks, and other buildings, and that with the appearance of the Atlantic Telegraph connecting the continents, Alaska had taken on a new significance, and so on.

  Sankt-Peterburgskie Vedomosti printed a description of the ceremony that had to embitter its Russian readers. “Russian and American troops stood at the flagpole. Two Russian junior officers began lowering the Russian flag. The audience and officers took off their hats, the soldiers were at attention. The drum roll continued. But the Russian flag did not want to come down. It was tangled at the top of the staff. On the commander’s orders, several Russian sailors climbed up to untangle the flag that hung in tatters. One of the sailors finally reached it and threw it down. The flag fell right on the Russian bayonets.”

  Alexander still did not wish to speak in public. He did not explain why he sold Alaska, and he did not explain that he could not get more from America, because the news of the sale to the United States did not please the American public. The newspapers were filled with headlines like “Seward’s Folly” (Seward was secretary of state), “Polar Bear Zoo,” and “Seward’s Ice Chest.” The influential New York Herald was sarcastic about Seward’s Napoleonic plan, buying “fifty thousand Eskimo inhabitants, each of whom was capable of drinking half a bucket of fish oil for breakfast.”

  Another mistake was added to Alexander’s list: more territorial losses after the Peace of Paris. It might have been far away, but it was still lost. Once more people called him “Unlucky Tsar,” a dangerous reputation to have in Russia.

  May 1867 brought a new disaster. The situation in Europe, as Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich wrote in his diary, “was threatening the world with a bloody commotion.” King of Prussia Wilhelm “has decided to eat up France.” Ever since Alexander I had persuaded Napoleon to preserve the crown of his Prussian grandfather, the Russian tsars had been very high-handed with their Prussian relatives. Nicholas I was the worst offender. But things had changed dramatically, all due to a single man, Bismarck.

  Prussia’s position as poor European relation did not suit the young Prussian bourgeoisie and the militant rich landowners. Barons and capitalists dreamed of uniting the German lands around Prussia. Once ambassador to Russia and now head of the conservative party, Bismarck demanded enormous sums from the Prussian parliament to fund a powerful army. The liberal majority was outraged. The situation in Berlin was turning revolutionary, with a parliamentary delegation threatening King Wilhelm, reminding him of the fate of Louis XVI. His queen begged him to relent: After all, Europe had just undergone terrible revolutions. The aging king was about to acquiesce when Bismarck came to see the king and made an inspired speech.

  As Bismarck later told it, he said, “Your Majesty must not think about Louis XVI—he was weak in spirit. Better recall Charles I—won’t he always be one of the most noble monarchs for fearlessly unsheathing his sword in defense of the rights of the monarch? Yes, he lost the battle, but he proudly strengthened his royal convictions with his own blood! Your task is to create a great army in order to gather all Germans under the wing of your dynasty. You cannot yield to Parliament, even if it endangers your life. Your Majesty is facing the necessity to fight for the divine right of the Prussian monarch to decide everything himself.”

  The more he spoke, the more animated Wilhelm grew. Bismarck understood him well. He wrote, “Wilhelm is the ideal type of Prussian officer who in the line of duty will fearlessly go to certain death with the single word: command. But when such an officer is supposed to act on his own, he fears more than death the condemnation of his superiors, and that fear keeps him from taking decisions.”

  After the conversation with Bismarck, to the horror of the terrified court, King Wilhelm understood his role, “The role of a Prussian officer who is grabbed by the sword belt even as he is commanded to hold a certain position at the cost of his life.”

  Wilhelm began playing the role with daunting success. With his huge army, the king, in alliance with Austria, shamelessly took Schleswig and Holstein away from Denmark. Then the Prussians destroyed their former ally, Austria. Bismarck created his Northern German Union, headed by Prussia, and became its chancellor.

  Alexander II’s old friend Bismarck and his uncle Willy placated the tsar with sweet talk while they gobbled up all the independent German lands around Prussia. Alexander saw that he had allowed a new Prussia to form, with 11 million subjects. The specter of a new aggressive empire rose on Russia’s borders. Bismarck did not intend to stop there. His next victim was France. Germany had superior artillery and the famous French forts were not prepared for modern warfare. The Russian military analysts predicted that France would be crushed and that the Prussians would take Alsace and Lotharingia and become the most powerful state in Europe. Alexander could not permit this alarming breach of European equilibrium.

  The tsar decided to go to Paris for the opening of the World’s Fair, which all the European monarchs would attend. There he would show Uncle Willy Russia’s support of France. He had long discussions with War Minister Milyutin before coming to this decision. They were in accord: France should be supported.

  But at afternoon tea, the empress made a scene. She begged him not to go to Paris, which was teeming with Polish émigrés. They were the children of the people suppressed by his father and the ones who had recently risen up against him. They were filled with ideas of revenge. Maria Alexandrovna pleaded with him to send Prince Gorchakov to Paris instead. Yet he was determined to go.

  She knew him well, and naturally, she guessed the real reasons for his passionate desire to go to Paris and why he was implacable.

  On May 20 at the Gare du Nord in Paris, Emperor Napoleon III, military mustache bristling, met Emperor Alexander II. The French emperor extended every courtesy to the tsar. He needed an alliance with Russia. The tsar was given the Elysée Palace, where some forty-five years earlier, his uncle, Alexander I, had lived after conquering Napoleon Bonaparte, uncle of the French emperor.

  But while Alexander’s retinue proceeded from the train station to the palace, some of the people lining the streets shouted, “Long live Poland!”

  That evening the emperor went to the Opéra Comique for a show that had been highly praised by the newspaper critics. It turned out to be a rather ribald story about his great-grandmother, Catherine the Gre
at. He had to leave during the second act.

  The rest of the night was later recounted by Count Peter Shuvalov, chief of the secret police, to lady-in-waiting Countess Alexandra Tolstaya. He would remember the events to the end of his days.

  Coming back to the Elysée Palace, the retinue gladly went to bed. But close to midnight, the emperor knocked on the door of the soundly sleeping and elderly minister of the court Adlerberg. To the minister’s complete surprise (and fear) the emperor announced that he was going to take a walk through Paris at night.

  “But I don’t need anyone to accompany me, I’ll manage on my own. But, my dear man, give me a little money.”

  “How much does His Majesty require?”

  “I have no idea, how about a hundred thousand francs?”

  The minister turned pale at the sum, but one does not question an autocrat. Adlerberg brought the money. The tsar headed out into the Parisian night, alone with an enormous sum of cash.

  Adlerberg immediately awoke Shuvalov. The chief was not particularly worried because his agents (as well as the French police) would be following the sovereign unseen, wherever he might go.

  Everyone awaited the tsar’s speedy return. Hours passed, and he was still gone. No one slept in the palace—the court waited in terror to find out the conclusion of the mysterious walk. The most incredible theories were invented about where the tsar could have gone with one hundred thousand francs.

  The tsar came back at dawn. The Elysée Palace was completely lit up; everyone was awake. Count Shuvalov greeted him in tears. They had written him off as dead and were dying of fear themselves, and he seemed simply to have forgotten their existence.