Nicholas looked again at Svyatopolk-Mirsky’s proposal. Matters of state must progress despite a disastrous war and a sick child. Life goes on.
He wished now he had never given his blessing to the Minister of the Interior for the Zemstrov Congress held last month. He had been under the impression that its agenda would involve nothing more than the usual inconsequential matters. Instead, they had come up with a proposal that included an appeal for a representative body in the government. At first Nicholas had agreed—perhaps in a moment of weakness, out of despondency over the war.
Then he’d had second thoughts. He called his Uncle Sergei up from Moscow for advice, and even consulted with Witte. Both were opposed to the proposal. Of course, Sergei’s reactionary tendencies were well known, but who could guess Witte’s reasoning when he had always been hounding the tsar about a constitution? Probably the arrogant Witte simply couldn’t abide any reform that he wasn’t author of. Nevertheless, with checks by these men whom the tsar respected, Nicholas reconsidered his stance.
Stabbing a pen in an ink well, Nicholas scratched some notes in the margin of the proposal, then, on a clean sheet, wrote a brief letter informing Svyatopolk-Mirsky of his final decision. This done, he called in Prince Orlov, chief of the tsar’s Private Secretariat.
“Could you see that the Minister of the Interior gets this?” He handed him the pages. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Orlov waddled forward and took the papers. Prince Orlov was so fat he could not see the tips of his shoes past his belly. It was hard to believe that one of Orlov’s ancestors had been Catherine the Great’s lover.
“Now, I must prepare myself for the reception tonight,” said Nicholas, pushing back his chair. The French president, Loubet, was visiting St. Petersburg, and as much as he and Alix were shying away from social gatherings these days, it did not pay to offend the French. The alliance with that nation was still a very important part of Nicholas’s foreign policy.
“As you wish, Your Majesty. This other matter can wait.”
“What other matter?”
“Nothing important, I assure you. A petition from a group of workers.”
“Well, all things considered, I should probably take time to at least look at the workers’ petition.”
Orlov handed over the petition and Nicholas read it with interest. It contained nearly two hundred signatures—in some cases only marks or illegible scrawls—and requested the tsar to review the case of Sergei Viktorovich Fedorcenko, and then to grant a pardon to the man. The tsar, of course, was familiar with the Fedorcenko name, though for the last twenty years it had not frequently been mentioned in society. The petition left no doubt that the Sergei Viktorovich mentioned therein was a scion of that famous family. It outlined the man’s offenses, then went on to sing his praises.
This man risked his own anonymity by stepping out of his private existence to meet a vital need among this community’s deprived citizens. He gave of himself without the prospect of financial gain, spending countless hours tutoring working men. He could have melted into the city’s thousands, a safe existence for himself and his family, and then gone to the end of his days undiscovered by the authorities. Perhaps we cannot condone his flaunting of the law, yet we all bear witness to the fact that Sergei Viktorovich has always been a good and upright man. We believe that a reevaluation of his case will show that twenty-three years ago he was little more than a victim of circumstance. Even the crime of which he was convicted was an act inspired by the best of motives. And it shows he was an aristocrat who cared for others, placing their welfare above his own.
We, the undersigned, ask of our most august Imperial Highness only that you review his case, confident that upon doing so Your Majesty will conclude with us that Sergei Viktorovich Fedorcenko has paid sufficiently for the indiscretions of his youth.
Orlov smiled sardonically as Nicholas looked up from reading the document. “Next, they will want the man canonized,” he said.
“They did go a bit overboard, didn’t they?” Nicholas fingered his moustache thoughtfully. He had never met Prince Sergei Viktorovich, who was more than ten years older than the tsar. Though they had moved in the same social circle twenty-three years ago, their ages had distanced them. But Nicholas knew that Viktor Fedorcenko had once been a favorite of his grandfather’s. Nicholas had been at the impressionable age of thirteen when Alexander II had been murdered, and he still vividly recalled that horrible time. Only a few years ago, he had built an ornate cathedral on the spot where Alexander had been killed. He remembered Viktor Fedorcenko’s genuine grief at the funeral. Not long after Alexander’s death, the elder prince had gone into seclusion.
He wondered why Viktor himself had not appealed to the tsar. There had been rumors that Fedorcenko’s tragic circumstances at the time, including the death of his wife and daughter, had unhinged the man. So, now were there only peasants and the like to speak up for Viktor’s son?
“Do you know anything of all this, Orlov?”
“I took the liberty of procuring the file on Prince Fedorcenko and perused it briefly.”
“It’s curious, isn’t it, that the young Fedorcenko returned to Russia after his escape from Siberia when he could have struck out for foreign parts? Well, I’d like to read the file myself. It should prove a fascinating diversion if nothing else.”
“There are many more pressing matters—”
“I always liked Viktor Fedorcenko.”
“Showing aristocratic favoritism at this time might be inadvisable, Your Highness.”
“Then you propose I ignore these workers? It appears to be a sizable representation.”
“It does put you in a sticky position.”
“This Prince Sergei has some cagey proponents.” Nicholas fingered the petition thoughtfully. “Tell me what you think, Orlov.”
“The Fedorcenkos were never close friends of mine, Your Highness.”
Nicholas managed a thin smile. This was probably a sublime understatement. The Fedorcenkos, especially Viktor, had always been political moderates; the Orlovs represented the more reactionary end of the spectrum.
“Do you think they are revolutionaries?”
“There is no evidence that would lead me to draw that conclusion. I have never agreed politically with Fedorcenko, but he was always a staunch monarchist. I made a few inquiries; Viktor Fedorcenko has returned to St. Petersburg and seems quite recovered from the . . . ah . . . mental affliction that forced him into seclusion. I spoke with Witte this very morning, and he also believes Fedorcenko is loyal to the Crown. In fact, Witte wanted to give the man a government post.”
“But what of the son?” Nicholas wasn’t surprised that Orlov had looked into this matter so thoroughly. It was his job to be well informed and to keep the tsar informed also.
“For most of the time after his escape, he lived a simple life of a farmer in a peasant village. No political affiliations whatsoever. He moved to St. Petersburg to be near his niece, whom he had raised in the village, but who at that time left to live with her real father.”
“And what of his association with the Workers’ Assembly?”
“It appears to be exactly what the letter indicates—philanthropic, as it were. I’m sure he has liberal views or he wouldn’t have written the book in the first place that got him in trouble with your grandfather. But a revolutionary? I doubt it. For one thing, Gapon, who heads this Assembly, is most careful not to associate with rebels. I’ve been told that Gapon himself is a loyal monarchist. I doubt he would give such lavish support to a revolutionary. You may not have noticed, but his signature was also affixed to the petition.”
“I’m going to give this matter careful consideration, Orlov.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“But tomorrow. Now I must face the French. Alix is waiting for me.”