In spite of his innately melancholic nature, Alexander Romanov, tsar of Russia, found himself beginning to catch some of Loris-Melikov’s optimism.
He was approaching his sixty-third birthday. He was in relatively sound health, except for his cursed asthma. He was at long last married to the woman he loved, and, if he had his way, she would be crowned empress before the year was out. His government was at last on a sure footing. Melikov had seen to that with his sweeping reforms. Some, of course, were more apt to refer to the governor-general’s program as radical insanity. But it had gotten the job done. He’d known what he was doing by making the appointment, even if Melikov had been a bit pushy about the constitution. The city was safer than it had been in two years.
It had been a year, almost to date, since that dreadful explosion at the palace. And it had been that long since any attempt had been made on his person. Perhaps he was justified in breathing easier, lifting his head, and . . . well, he wasn’t quite sure what he might do next. But surely it was time to begin enjoying life again.
A stray glance toward Melikov’s draft of the constitution nearly dulled some of the gleam in his eye. He still was not completely resolved to the idea of being the ruler known for stripping the House of Romanov of its power, nor of being the first Russian figurehead monarch.
He hated the thought! The very word left an acrid taste in his mouth, especially when applied to him. He could not tolerate the possibility. He preferred the epithet that had been given to him twenty years ago—the Tsar-Liberator.
No, he would be no mere figurehead. He had insisted upon that proviso before giving the governor-general carte blanche to initiate reforms last year. In that vein, Melikov had devised a system by which the throne retained its essential power. Alexander hated to admit it, but that Armenian was a genius.
What the tsar refused to admit was that the new system did not even come close to the sweeping reform Russia needed, and needed desperately, if it were to survive. The very thing, in fact, that the radicals were crying out for. That would be going much further than Alexander would have been willing. He might be optimistic, but Melikov questioned how much good it would ultimately accomplish.
The proposed constitution broadened the powers of the zemstvos, but they remained local in structure, without any power to unify or, as elected bodies, to form any sort of national parliament. Melikov’s scheme did include a provision for each local zemstvo to send a delegate to a national council, the Gosudarstvenny Soviet. But that body would be deliberative in nature, lacking any executive power.
Actually, from the tsar’s point of view, the system was ideal. It provided the form of self-government, certainly as much or more than the Russian people could manage at that time in their history, but it kept the autocracy intact. Russia could never return to the days of Peter the Great, or even the iron rule of Nicholas I. Alexander was forward enough in his thinking to realize that. These were modern times requiring contemporary solutions to the problems of governing a complex assortment of people. Melikov’s plan seemed to take all this into account, acting as a sort of bridge between the old ways and the new.
When Melikov entered his office later that morning, Tsar Alexander was thus in an unusually high-spirited mood.
“Good morning, General!” he said. “I trust you are well.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. Yes, I am. I am happy to see that you appear very well also.”
“I am indeed, General! This is a momentous day for our country’s future. You are here to deliver the Manifesto you have prepared, are you not, General?”
“Yes, Your Highness. I have it here.”
Alexander took the paper from the general, gave it a brief glance, and laid it on the desk.
“Tomorrow,” the tsar went on, “with all due ceremony, I shall sign it, making public our intention of presenting a constitution to the people.” He smiled. “This is a grand day. It will put the rabble-rousers to rest once and for all.”
“It is a great day indeed, Your Highness!” Melikov spoke with enthusiastic tone, giving no hint of his pessimism toward a plan which he still viewed as almost completely ineffectual.
“Now, I am afraid I must cut this audience short,” Alexander said, “for I am expected at the parade grounds to review the Mounting of the Guard.”
“You plan to go out today, Your Majesty?”
“I attend the Guard’s ceremony every Sunday.”
“It has always been advisable for you to deviate from fixed routines as much as possible, Your Majesty.”
“I thought that was no longer necessary, as you had the most dangerous culprits in custody. Is the danger not past?”
“That is, ah . . . partially true. Yes, we have made significant arrests. Still, until the Manifesto is made public and the people are solidly behind us, I think caution would still be wise.”
“I never took you for the fainthearted sort, General. I can understand my wife urging me to stay indoors. But coming from you, it sounds ludicrous.”
“The princess has requested you to curb your activities?”
“Only this morning,” answered the tsar. “But she worries unduly. Now, if you will excuse me.”
“Your Majesty, I really feel I must urge you to—”
“Please, General—” The tsar cut him off sharply, though not angrily. He was in too good a mood to be easily upset. “I simply must go. Be here at nine tomorrow morning for the presentation of the Manifesto.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Melikov bowed and backed obediently out of the room. Alexander shook his head and shrugged. This was a new and promising day. No longer would he skulk about within the borders of his own realm.
He was the tsar, after all, ruler of the mightiest nation on earth! He called in Totiev and ordered up his carriage.