"Divide et impera"
~ Julius Caesar
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Though Nicholas's speech was met with polite applause, the days that followed revealed shimmering discontent among the nobles. Private salons buzzed with whispered conversations.
The Council Chamber was quiet now, its gilded walls and marble floors bathed in the golden glow of chandeliers. The nobles had dispersed after Nicholas's announcement of his symbolic reforms, but whispers lingered in the minds of many.
The heavy snow muffled the world outside the sprawling Stroganov estate, but inside, the air buzzed with suppressed tension. The drawing room, once a place of laughter and light during grand assemblys, now felt stifling under the weight of discontent. Smoke from cigars curled toward the ceiling, mingling with the faint scent of aged brandy, as though the room itself shared the nobles' unease.
Count Stroganov, his broad frame taut with anger, stood by the grand oak table. His gloved hand rested on its polished surface, fingers drumming a restless rhythm that betrayed his thoughts. He glanced at the gilded clock on the mantelpiece, a relic of an age where their privilege had seemed unshakable.
"We are not fools," Stroganov growled, breaking the heavy silence. "The Tsar calls this 'symbolic', but what he truly seeks is submission. A 'patriotic gesture', he says. Yet what kind of patriotism demands the erosion of our power?" His voice was sharp, like the blade of a knife honed by fear and fury.
Prince Golitsyn leaned back in his chair, his thin lips curling into a sneer. "The Count is right. It begins with a land tax, something small enough to seem harmless. But it sets a precedent, gentlemen. The peasants will cheer his 'benevolence', and they'll demand more. Always more. And the Tsar will grant it, for what ruler doesn't crave the adoration of the masses?"
A ripple of agreement moved through the room, though not all voices joined it.
A baron, seated near the window, shifted uneasily in his chair. His gaze drifted to the frosted glass, where faint outlines of trees swayed in the storm. There was something in his posture. Nervous, uneasy, unconvinced. In fact, almost resigned. As though he sought escape not just from the conversation but from the room itself.
"I don't know," he murmured, his voice faltering. "The Tsar's words… They were carefully chosen... His speech wasn't accusatory. He spoke of unity, of shared duty. Perhaps he means this not as an attack but as-"
"An opportunity?" Golitsyn cut him off, his tone a whip crack of disdain. "To impoverish ourselves while the rabble celebrate? Don't be naive. The Tsar knows exactly what he's doing. If we let this tax pass without resistance, it will not be the last."
The baron flushed but did not look away from the window. He thought of his estate, the crumbling fences and the barren fields. The peasants had little to give, and he had even less to spare. Yet Stroganov's rage felt reckless, like a fire threatening to consume all reason.
Stroganov's voice softened but carried no less intensity. "Do you know what will happen if we acquiesce? The Tsar will turn us into mere stewards of our own lands. We'll no longer be lords but caretakers, bowing to the whims of his reforms. Is that the legacy we leave behind?"
Golitsyn took a sip of his brandy, the glass clinking faintly against his ring. "We have two choices, gentlemen. Stand together, or kneel separately. I, for one, refuse to bend my neck."
The baron finally turned, his expression strained. "And what would you have us do? Defy him openly? We risk losing everything, Golitsyn. Our lands, our families… Do you think the Tsar will hesitate to crush dissent?
His father didn't."
The room fell silent again, heavy with unspoken truths. The Tsar's methods might have been gentler than his father's, but the underlying strength was no less formidable.
Stroganov wasn't planning to let this kind of idea plant itself in the minds of the nobles present. He swiftly leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. "We don't defy him openly. We move carefully. Letters, alliances, private audiences. We remind him that the nobility is the backbone of this empire. Without us, he has nothing."
The baron's gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers tightening around the armrest of his chair. He thought of his children, their laughter echoing in the halls of his home. Would resistance secure their future... Or destroy it?
Golitsyn, ever the cynic, stood and adjusted his jacket. "The question, gentlemen, is not what the Tsar will do. It's what we are willing to risk. Think carefully, for inaction is its own kind of choice."
As the group dispersed into the night, the storm outside had grown fiercer. The baron lingered by the window, watching the snow bury the estate's manicured gardens. He thought of his wife, his children, and the estate he would pass on to them... IF it wasn't seized in the name of reform.
And so, as the nobles whispered their resistance, doubt crept into their ranks like the snow creeping through the cracks of the old estate, threatening to bury them all.
...
The other side
The meeting room in the Winter Palace was modest compared to the grandiose halls of state, but its purpose was no less significant. A heavy map of the empire sprawled across the oak table, weighed down by inkpots and candlesticks. The fire in the hearth crackled faintly, but the room remained tense, its warmth unable to dispel the chill of intrigue.
Nicholas II sat at the head of the table, his youthful face set in a grim expression. Around him were his most trusted allies: Sergei Witte, Brusilov and Ivan Fedorov. Each man brought a different strength to the Tsar's vision, and now, they were needed more than ever.
Nicholas's gaze swept the room. "The nobles are restless," he said, his voice low but firm. "They speak of patriotism when it suits them, but when asked to embody it, they recoil. As expected, they applaud in front of me but whisper on my back!"
Witte leaned forward, his piercing eyes gleaming in the firelight. "It's Stroganov, Your Majesty. He's the one stoking the flames. Golitsyn, too. But the rest? Many are hesitant. They grumble, but they lack the stomach for true rebellion."
Nicholas nodded, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. "The Okhrana has confirmed as much. Some of the barons and lesser counts are apprehensive. They don't want to follow Stroganov into open defiance. These are the ones we must approach."
Brusilov, his posture always disciplined, spoke next. "Divide and conquer, then. Offer them incentives to weaken Stroganov's position."
Nicholas leaned forward, his voice sharpening. "Precisely. We need to isolate Stroganov and his closest allies. The reluctant nobles must see a path to security, even prosperity, if they break away. If we can fracture their unity, Stroganov will be nothing but a loud voice in an empty room."
Brusilov stroked his mustache thoughtfully.
"What will you offer them, Your Majesty? Land? Titles? Favor?"
Nicholas smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "Stability. Protection. For some, reduced obligations in exchange for cooperation. For others, a position in the administration. Something that ties their fortunes to the success of my reforms."
Ivan Fedorov, ever the organizer, unfurled a sheet of parchment covered in names and annotations. "These are the individuals identified by the Okhrana as reluctant supporters of Stroganov.
Count Orlov, for example, owes significant debts to the state. We could offer a restructuring of his estate taxes in exchange for his public support."
"Good," Nicholas said, scanning the list. "And what of Baron Turgenev? The reports suggest he's been wavering."
Ivan nodded. "Turgenev is fearful. He doesn't trust Stroganov's plans but feels trapped. He has young children, and their future weighs heavily on his decisions."
Nicholas's expression softened slightly. "Ensure he understands that loyalty now will secure not just his family's future but their legacy in a reformed Russia."
Witte interjected, his voice cutting. "And for Stroganov and Golitsyn? They won't be swayed by overtures."
"Stroganov will find himself increasingly isolated." Nicholas said, his voice becoming cold.
"His allies will abandon him one by one until his defiance is meaningless.
As for Golitsyn, he's a higher noble. I want to make him an example for all nobles in the Empire. If even a Prince can fall, everyone can. It is not time yet, but we will tear him down soon enough."
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Nicholas's words settling over them.
Brusilov broke the stillness.
"What of the public, Your Majesty? The peasants and the urban workers are watching closely. Their support for the reforms is growing, but they will also look for signs of weakness. If the nobles appear too powerful, it could embolden unrest."
Nicholas's expression hardened. "Then we will show them strength. Publish the stories of noble families who embrace the reforms. Highlight their sacrifices as acts of patriotism. Let the people see that this is not a war between classes but a unifying effort for Russia's future."
Then, Nicholas's face became dark.
"And publish the stories of the nobles we arrested already. Let them become a symbol of justice whatever the class or title."
Ivan leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "And what if Stroganov tries to rally the discontented? What if his rhetoric turns from whispers to open rebellion?"
Nicholas's voice was ice. "Then he will find himself without an audience. And if he goes too far, he will find himself without a voice at all."
The meeting concluded with clear orders.
Ivan would arrange private meetings with the wavering nobles, offering tailored incentives.
Trubitskoy was to be ordered to create a narrative for the population to follow.
Brusilov would keep an eye on the military, ensuring no officers were swayed by noble intrigue.
Witte would continue his work on economic reforms, ensuring the empire's financial stability remained intact.
As the men left the room, Nicholas remained seated, staring into the flickering flames of the hearth. He knew this was only the beginning. The nobility's resistance was born of fear, pride, and a refusal to adapt. Breaking them would not be easy, but it was necessary.
When finally left fully alone, his facade did break. Nicholas was afraid and less confident than he appeared. He knew what he was doing was a gamble.
There was always a risk things would turn into an outright rebellion, but his calculations denied that.
The risk was slim, but not nonexistent.