News reached Siberia by degrees of the death of Alexander III and the ascension of the new tsar. Paul was as curious as anyone about how Nicholas II would affect events in Russia.
Paul and Mathilde discussed this subject often, sometimes heatedly.
“No one can be as heavy-handed as Alexander III,” said Mathilde one winter evening as they sat before a cozy fire in the hearth. “He unjustly exiled my father and me.”
“Well, Alexander II exiled me.”
“I thought you were exiled after his death.”
“Only days. Close enough to still be considered his reign.”
“His heir became tsar the moment of his death, so it was the Alexander III who exiled you.”
“Now, you are picking nits!”
“Nevertheless . . .”
Paul sighed resignedly. “It does not change my point. I met a man in Kolyma who had been exiled during the reign of Nicholas I. One Romanov is the same as the next. Even if there is a ‘good-willed’ one, he would still be constrained by the colossus they have bred.”
“But a weak tsar, as we have heard this new one to be, is a godsend, for we may at least be able to break his resistance to the reform so desperately needed in this country.”
Paul considered Mathilde one of the most intelligent women he had ever known, yet sometimes her political notions could be sadly naive. But then, she had never sat at the feet of rebels such as Andrei Zhelyabov or Sophia Perovskaya. The idea of terrorism appalled her. But even if he had seen the senselessness of that path, he still believed passionately that the only way to real change in Russia was to be found in the complete overthrow not only of the Romanovs but of the monarchy itself.
“Mathilde,” Paul said patiently, “a weak tsar, or even a good-willed tsar, would be worse for Russia than any tyrant. A weak tsar would be far more likely to be manipulated by his reactionary ministers than by the people. And if he happens to be benevolent—heaven help us! Such a monarch will only lull the masses back into the false security that got them in this fix in the first place. A tyrant would keep the masses honed and fighting ready. If Ivan the Terrible were to ascend the throne today, ah, then we’d see revolution posthaste!”
Mathilde, worthy adversary that she was, smiled and conceded. “All right, Paul, I see what you mean. What stand, then, do you propose to take with our new emperor?”
Paul had had sixteen years to organize his ideas on this very topic. He had read volumes on political thought, from Voltaire to the writings of the German Karl Marx which had in the last few years been filtering into Russia. He had obtained a book on English grammar and had painstakingly taught himself to read English so he could learn about democracy. Besides Jefferson and Paine, he had read Sidney and Beatrice Webb’s Theory and Practice of English Trade Unionism and Henry George’s Progress and Poverty, as well as illegal copies of essays by George Kennan, the American journalist who had toured Siberia in 1885 and viewed firsthand the horrors of the Russian exile system.
In addition, Paul had written pages and pages of his own manifestos and bylaws for organizations that remained real only in his own imagination. He had compiled a book of notes on a feasible new government for Russia. He had managed to smuggle out of the country to the revolutionary leader Plekhanov in Geneva an essay entitled “Social Democracy and Economic Change in Russia,” which was published and distributed widely among the revolutionary community.
Since the arrival of Gennadii and Mathilde, he had gone even further in focusing his ideals and beliefs and goals. But thus far it had all been theoretical, all ideas and dreams. Mathilde posed her question, looking for no more than a theoretical answer, yet at the moment she had spoken it, it struck him in an entirely practical light. When he had first heard of the death of Alexander III and the prospect of a new emperor, he had felt a gradually increasing restiveness. As much as he might argue that one Romanov is the same as another, he did sense that the lifting of Alexander III’s oppressive hand would have repercussions. If the revolutionaries acted quickly and with solidarity, a strike against the Romanov regime could be made before the people were lulled into their infernal apathy. Of course, those were sizable ifs. But not insurmountable.
What was insurmountable was his frustrating imprisonment here away from all the action!
He looked at his wife and, not too surprisingly, saw reflected in her eyes the same spark that had begun to flame up within himself.
He shook his head. “What can I do? What can we do? I have spent years studying, but has it been to prepare myself for some part in the coming revolution, or has it been merely to occupy my time until I die?”
“Do you truly believe you will die here in Shushenskoye, wasted and useless?”
“What choice do I have? I used to think of escape, but I have never been able to justify it because of the repercussions it would have on those who remain here. Too many escapees, and the officials would clamp down mercilessly on the other exiles so that what little hope they have of making a life for themselves would be eliminated. I could not do that, Mathilde, not after having lived among so many who are good and worthy.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“And I could never leave you and your father behind. But Gennadii could never make a journey back to Russia, especially the kind an escapee must make.”
“Of course, you are right.”
“And my own health has just returned. Is it worth it to risk that?”
“A good point.”
“And—” He stopped suddenly as the incongruity of their conversation dawned upon him. Mathilde had agreed with everything he had said! He studied her for a moment, and a brief smile darted across her lips. “Just so many excuses, aren’t they?” he said, returning her smile.
“Perhaps.”
“They are valid excuses.”
“Of course.”
“Would you stop agreeing with me?” he blurted out, only partially in jest. “Say what you really think.”
“You won’t like it.”
“It has to be better than this infernal pandering.”
She sighed. “All right. This is what I think: You are afraid to return to St. Petersburg. You have been away so long you are worried you will no longer fit in. But more than that, you fear being sucked into your former circle, and the program of violence and terror. You are not certain if the philosophies you have formed in the last sixteen years will survive in the real world against a corrupt and detestable government.”
“And if they do not?”
“You were a boy then, Pavushka. You are a man now. Look at those big feet of yours! They are on solid ground, they will not easily fall.”
“Then you wish me to escape?”
“It is something to think about, Paul. But if anyone escapes, it will be us, not just you.”
“And what of Gennadii? He could not make such a journey, yet if he stayed behind, who knows what they’d do to him?”
“We don’t have to do anything hasty, but at least we must not be closed to whatever possibilities that arise.”
“I agree.”
They smiled at each other, and Paul leaned over and kissed his wife.
Later that same afternoon Paul went for a short walk; it might be twenty below out, but a man had to have some fresh air. When he left, while Gennadii took a nap, Mathilde went to the small desk in the parlor, sat down and took a sheet of paper from a drawer. Pressing the pen against her lips, she thought for a moment, then dipped the pen into the ink and began to write: Dear Uncle Boris . . .
She wrote a paragraph or two of polite greetings, asking after her aunt and cousins, and then reporting on her father’s and her own status. When half the page was filled she paused, tapping the pen against her chin thoughtfully. Then she continued:
Uncle Boris, when Father and I were sent away to our exile ten years ago, you said you would do everything possible to help us, and that you would use whatever influence you had with the Kiev authorities to get us back to Russia. I know you have kept your promise and have been met with every brick wall there is. But there is a new tsar now, and perhaps his reign ushers in a new spirit of generosity toward those who have surely paid the price for their “indiscretions” against the government. Thus, if you can see your way to intercede for us, and my husband also, once more, we would be ever filled with gratitude. My father, and your dear brother, does not grow healthier here. Every winter kills him a little more. It would be a shame for him to die so far from his beloved Russia, which he extols so beautifully in his stories. But I must be frank with you; I ask not only for my father (he could be content anywhere—you know Papa!) but for myself and my husband also. We yearn to be restored to our lives. If the winters do not kill us, the monotony surely will.
I leave our futures, then, in your hands. I know you will do your best for us, and can ask no more. Your affectionate niece . . .
Mathilde leaned back in her chair and glanced over the letter once more before sealing it. She would take it this very afternoon to the village and mail it, but for now she would keep the matter to herself. It would be best not to raise any false hopes in Paul or her father. And perhaps in a few months she might have a tremendous and delightful surprise for both of them!