Chapter 7: Double Life

It had been several months since the Tsar dragged me into the palace by the hand.

1902 was drawing to a close, and the new year was creeping ever nearer.

Which meant the number attached to my age was about to tick over from 7 to 8.

When every plan I’d mapped out in my head fell apart, I’ll admit my mental state wobbled a bit.

But I was fine now.

I’d found a sure method, and the seeds were already being sown.

-Asking Gapon to polish the phrasing really was a masterstroke.

Right? On the surface it looked natural for a child like me to lean on Gapon’s help, but I had a few more angles in play.

In the process of Gapon polishing the sentences I’d written into something presentable, my handwriting and my prose would vanish completely.

However hard anyone tried to trace it back, there was no way they could learn that I was the one who wrote it.

Even if Gapon betrayed me later and sold me out, who would ever suspect a 7-year-old kid of writing something like that?

If anything, they’d assume Gapon was trying to sell me out to save his own skin.

“By the way, the finished version was actually pretty good? So polished it honestly startled me.”

-Obviously. Gapon’s always had a gift for dressing up hollow nothing into something plausible. So hand him content that’s actually packed full, and imagine how nicely he wraps it.

A genuinely brutal assessment, but weirdly, I couldn’t argue.

Well, as long as the man himself was happy.

Either way, what I’d gained was the finest courier and shield I could ask for.

Having sent that one seed flying all the way to London, I began focusing on my daily life in the imperial palace.

Surprisingly, Nicholas II was a man who, in his own way, kept the promises that came out of his mouth.

He had apparently meant it when he said I would receive an education befitting an imperial, because he attached tutor after tutor to me.

French, German, English, Latin.

Mathematics, history, geography, natural science.

Riding, fencing, music.

It was a staggering amount of education to pour into a 7-year-old, but with Seong-jun’s memories, it wasn’t much of a burden for me.

If anything, there was a small pleasure in comparing how 21st-century knowledge differed from late-19th-century Russian imperial schooling.

-Ooh, fencing. Now that just reeks of aristocracy. How much would lessons like this run per month back in our day?

“Though for me, right now, it’s a parade of astonishingly useless education.”

-Nah, come on, everything’s useful somewhere. Fencing’s decent, right? If push ever comes to shove, you can shank one guy and make a run for it.

If I ever found myself needing to run, I suspected that alone would already be a catastrophe, but I went on quietly taking my lessons.

Art and literature lessons I sometimes took together with my adorable little sisters.

But studying alongside them, I discovered one startling fact all over again.

The education the Grand Duchesses received contained no politics, no society, no economics, not a single realistic subject.

Literature meant fairy tales and poetry.

History meant hero sagas and the lives of the saints.

Religion meant Orthodox doctrine.

…This was practically a training academy for the socially incapacitated.

Were all the princesses of Europe’s royal houses like this back then?

-Queen Victoria’s granddaughters weren’t much different. Though even by that standard, the Empress is exceptionally closed-off. She’s the type who believes that completely quarantining her daughters from the world is love.

…Great, behold the wrecking ball of motherly love.

“Misha, you really do learn fast.”

“I know, right? I’m jealous.”

Every time I watched my little sisters beam like that, I felt the urge to tell the imperial couple that this was no way to educate their children.

Because didn’t that mean these girls would spend their whole lives receiving only this kind of education, growing up sheltered and knowing nothing, until one day they were suddenly dragged into a basement to serve as bullet catchers?

The world isn’t as kind as you thought it was, dears… and then, without warning, the trigger is pulled.

Watching Olga read Shakespeare’s plays in front of me, eyes full of curiosity, asking me for tips on improving her memory, left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Then one day, a servant came to my room with news.

“Young Master. His Majesty has decided to engage one more tutor for you. However, unlike the others, this gentleman will only come irregularly.”

“Irregularly? Is he a busy person?”

“Yes. His actual post is of such importance that regular lessons will not be possible, we are told.”

Wasn’t my old man being a bit too enthusiastic here?

Did it never occur to him that attaching talent of that caliber to me might draw suspicion?

-Of course it didn’t. You know what our dad’s like.

“…Who is he?”

“Konstantin Petrovich Pobedonostsev, Chief Procurator of the Holy Synod.”

The moment I heard the name, a short groan from Seong-jun echoed through my head.

-That’s the guy who tutored Nicholas II himself. Which obviously makes him one of the most trusted men in the imperial household. The Tsar’s methods may be garbage, but I guess he really does love us.

…Pobedonostsev, huh.

Maybe this wasn’t purely about educating me after all.

-Either way, it’s a golden opportunity for us.

According to Seong-jun’s knowledge, Konstantin Pobedonostsev was an old man now sliding down the far slope of power, but there remained one domain in which he still held absolute authority in Russia.

The spiritual pillar of every conservative in the country.

A man so extreme he opposed even parliamentary democracy and liberalism, and the group he loathed most of all these days was none other than the socialists.

What a coincidence, right? I happened to hate commies too.

“Yes! His Majesty has been so thoughtful, so I will study very hard!”

After all, I was a noble so devoted to the House of Romanov that the Tsar had specially permitted me to live in the palace.

For as long as the mask was off, I would live as the most faithful Romanov loyalist anyone had ever seen.

* * *

Visiting the imperial palace for the first time in a good while, Konstantin Petrovich Pobedonostsev gazed with an impassive eye at the Petersburg scenery slipping past the carriage window.

To his aging eyes, this city was growing more unfamiliar by the day.

Liberal movements, student demonstrations, workers’ strikes.

The order that had stood so firm in Alexander III’s day was now audibly cracking on every side.

“I can only hope His Majesty seals those cracks well.”

The carriage stopped at a rear gate of the palace, and when a servant led him into the Tsar’s private drawing room, his old pupil greeted him with a bright face.

“Petrovich! The weather is still chilly, and yet you came; I’m simply grateful.”

“How could I fail to come when summoned by Your Majesty?”

He had barely sat down and taken a sip of tea when the Emperor came to the point.

“The truth is, I asked you here because I have a favor to request.”

“Please, speak.”

“Among my distant relatives there is a child named Mikhail. He comes from a collateral branch of the Odoyevsky family; his parents passed away early, so I took him in and am raising him at the palace.”

Pobedonostsev’s eyebrows rose a fraction.

Rumors that the imperial couple had admitted an outsider into their private quarters had already spread through the whole of Petersburg noble society.

Even the fact that it was a seven-year-old child.

“…The child of the rumors, then.”

“So you had heard.”

“It is not my place to intrude upon Your Majesty’s private life, but there is no one in noble society today who does not know the story.”

“Haha, I suppose not. In any case, the boy is remarkably bright. His tutors call him a genius with one voice. So what I wished to ask is… when you happen to visit the palace, might you grant the boy some instruction, even just occasionally?”

A curious smile rose to Pobedonostsev’s lips.

Honestly, who wouldn’t be curious?

Just how clever must a child be for the Emperor to grant him this degree of special treatment? It was impossible not to wonder.

Of course, he was a little boy not yet eight.

Genius or not, he would be at most a touch sharper than his peers.

“How could I refuse Your Majesty’s request? I shall meet the child.”

“Thank you, Petrovich.”

Just as the Tsar rose from his seat wearing a satisfied smile, the Empress, who had been silently drinking her tea beside him, spoke for the first time.

“Your Majesty. Might I have a word with the Chief Procurator in private?”

“Hm? By all means, Sunny.”

Once the Emperor had left the drawing room, the Empress dispensed with preamble and went straight to the point.

A strange tension had settled in the eyes of a woman who rarely let her expression change before outsiders.

“Konstantin Petrovich.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I have only one request. As you teach that child… should you notice anything ideologically dubious or suspicious about him, inform me privately.”

Pobedonostsev’s practiced eyes narrowed for an instant.

What was this? The Emperor doted on the child, but the Empress disapproved?

“…Understood, Your Majesty. If anything troubles me, I will report it at once.”

At his immediate answer, the Empress relaxed her shoulders as if relieved.

Making his way back out of the drawing room, Pobedonostsev sank briefly into thought.

Clearly there was something between the Emperor and Empress that he did not know.

But.

Having watched the underside of politics and power for long years, he understood the physiology of power as second nature.

The tact to distinguish what one may know from what one must not know was the very measure of a politician’s ability.

And whatever lay between the imperial couple was, by any reckoning, the latter.

He need only watch over the child’s thinking as the Empress had asked; there was no call to take any interest beyond that.

The very next morning, Pobedonostsev sat down for the first time across from the child called Mikhail, in a small study of the imperial palace.

“Young Master. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Your Excellency Pobedonostsev. That the man who was tutor to His Majesty the Emperor himself would come to teach me… thank you so very much.”

For a greeting from the mouth of a seven-year-old, it was almost too perfectly squared away.

The pronunciation, the posture, even the way he held his gaze.

Proof, perhaps, that the palace tutors were doing their work well.

“Young Master, today I have come not to teach, but simply to talk. I should like to know what sort of person you are.”

“I am honored, Your Excellency.”

“What books do you usually read?”

“These days I am reading Karamzin’s History of the Russian State.”

Pobedonostsev’s eyebrows curved into a faint arc.

For Karamzin was the very essence of Russian conservative historiography.

“Oho. Was there a passage in that book that left an impression on you?”

“The part where Ivan III unites the Russian lands around Moscow.”

“And why did that part impress you?”

“When the people were scattered, they were always weak, but the moment they gathered under a single sovereign, they finally became strong. It seemed to me that the essence of Russia as a nation lies right there.”

Pobedonostsev nodded in satisfaction.

If one were to put the essence of absolute monarchy into a seven-year-old’s words, it would sound exactly like this.

“Interesting. Then what does Russia most need right now, if it is to be strong?”

“Well… I think the hearts of all the people must be gathered upon His Majesty alone.”

“And do you believe that is possible?”

“But that’s how it is, isn’t it? The moment the people turn their hearts anywhere other than His Majesty, Russia will begin to scatter.”

Pobedonostsev let slip a soft sigh.

Even a child like this grasped the heart of Russia’s Orthodox autocracy by pure intuition; why, then, could those noisy liberals not understand it?

From there the conversation flowed naturally.

From literature to Dostoevsky, from Dostoevsky to the spirituality of the Russian people, and at some point, all the way to the question of poor relief.

“I hear you often take part in poor relief work, Young Master.”

“Yes, Your Excellency. I often visit an organization Her Majesty the Empress patronizes.”

“And what have you felt, meeting the poor?”

“Well… at first I simply felt very sorry for them. But as I kept going, different thoughts began to come to me.”

“What thoughts were those?”

“I learned what is most dangerous to the poor.”

By now he found himself genuinely curious what this child saw and felt.

“There were bad people selling them false hope.”

Pobedonostsev’s gaze sharpened.

“False hope? What do you mean?”

“A priest who hands out bread fills their stomachs. But some people were handing out strange books instead of bread. Books that say, ‘You are poor because of the Emperor, because of the rich; overturn this world and you too can be rich’.”

“Hmmm….”

“The bread is only that day’s lunch, but the book seemed to twist a person’s heart for a lifetime. And the poorer someone is, the more easily they seem to fall for such lies.”

Clink.

The teacup in Pobedonostsev’s hand touched its saucer with a small ring.

“Young Master. From whom did you hear such ideas?”

“They’re just thoughts from what I saw and felt in the slums… is my thinking too childish after all?”

“Not at all. Then how would you put it, Young Master? The ideology of those who hand out those books.”

Mikhail thought for a moment, then spoke calmly.

“They seemed like people who have made hating the world their faith. People who teach you to hate others merely because others have what they themselves do not. Um… so, I think those who hold hatred as their faith will, in the end, come to hate themselves as well… I’m sorry. I thought it was written that way in the Bible, but did I get it wrong?”

Pobedonostsev felt something reverberate heavily in one corner of his chest.

The innocence of children sometimes brushes against the very essence of the world like this.

No; perhaps it is precisely such children, the ones who sense the world’s essence so naturally, that the world calls geniuses.

“Young Master. Let us end here for today. We shall meet again.”

“Um… did I make some mistake, Your Excellency?”

“Not at all. It is only that today I need time to set my own head in order.”

The old man who had stood at the very center of imperial power rose from his seat, feeling something almost like a lingering echo.

That evening, over tea with the Tsar and his consort, Pobedonostsev laid out his thoughts frankly.

“Petrovich, what say you? Is the boy a student worth teaching?”

“Your Majesty. May I speak honestly?”

“Of course.”

“In all my years of teaching, I have never once had a student like this.”

The Emperor’s face lit up beyond measure.

“Oh, truly?”

“He is not merely bright. Ideologically, he is remarkably sound. At seven years of age he already understands the essence of Russian autocracy, and he seems to see through, by sheer instinct, how hollow and dangerous the socialist movement is.”

“Hahahaha! You mean the boy is already thinking such wholesome thoughts?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. And Young Master Mikhail says the reason he studies so diligently is that he wishes, without fail, to become a support to His Majesty the Emperor and Her Majesty the Empress, who allowed him to live in the palace.”

“What a good-hearted boy. But… how on earth did the conversation come around to socialism?”

At his old pupil’s question, the old man smiled sheepishly and lifted his teacup to his lips.

“The child was so bright that I fear I got carried away myself… who could have guessed he would skewer the naked face of socialism so sharply, in such innocent language?”

The Tsar laughed, delighted at his old teacher’s lavish praise.

No one had taught him, and yet he was already criticizing those insufferable socialists.

It could only be the Romanov imperial blood flowing in the boy’s veins, mounting an instinctive rejection.

Just as men recoil from vermin, it was the order of nature that those with imperial blood should loathe socialists.

“I never met him, but his father must surely have been a splendid man. Hahahaha!”

Mikhail truly was his son; there could be no doubt.

The Tsar simply swelled with pride at his own decision to bring the boy into the palace.

It was a little early, perhaps, but he could not stop himself from naturally picturing the boy’s future.

Bright as he was, if he laid his foundations in the faculty of law, he could one day become a fine scholar.

Or, ideologically sound as he was, he might handle intelligence at an agency under the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

“An intelligence agency….”

…Actually, it rather suited him, didn’t it?