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.”