North of the Moon

PART I

THE REBELLIOUS

Chapter One

Nowhere in the world were the summer nights as ethereal, as mystical, as in St. Petersburg, Russia, that June of 1825. The white nights of the north blended the city’s pastels into a luminous hue of perpetual twilight, washing out the sharp contours and blurring the images of the capital.

Behind the lacy grillwork of the Summer Garden, amid the intoxicating fragrance of blooming lilacs, rumors abounded. They were whispered with relish, repeated in silk-paneled parlors, and carried back into the streets—rumors that the beloved Tsar Alexander called the Blessed for his conquest of Napoleon thirteen years earlier, had turned to mysticism and was withdrawing from the affairs of state.

Grandson of Catherine the Great, he was considered the most glamorous monarch in Europe and called Adonis of the North. In his own capital the aura of mystery pervaded the Winter Palace and spilled over onto the graceful boulevards of St. Petersburg, filling the air with speculation about his unfulfilled promises to abolish serfdom and his reconciliation with his beautiful but neglected tsarina Elizabeth.

On the night of June 16 the golden spire of the Admiralty Building shimmered silver in the pallid light, domineering the skyline and vying for attention with the somber towers of the Peter and Paul Fortess across the river. The Neva’s lapping waters caressed the granite embankment in rhythmic cadence, and music and folk songs echoed from the elegant rowboats that were drifting downstream with the current. Clusters of pedestrians watched and listened as the noblemen, seated beneath the silk canopies of their boats, joined the musicians in song.

On the English Quay a pillared palace sparkled with lights. The French emigrant Count Lavale was giving a ball to celebrate the birthday of his married daughter, Princess Trubetskaya. Carriage after carriage of elegantly clothed guests pulled up at the brightly lit entrance. Diamonds twinkled in the opalescent light of the evening, spurs clicked, and peals of laughter trilled lightly in the air, fading out over the moonlit ripples of the gently flowing river.

Inside the palace, liveried footmen in gold-frogged red coats, white stockings, and buckled shoes opened the gilded double doors to usher guests into the main ballroom to be greeted by their host. Paneled in dark blue silk, the room was dressed with numerous baskets of roses and chrysanthemums grown in the hothouses of the count’s estate outside the city. The red and white flowers against the blue walls were reflected in the tall pier mirrors, completing the tricolors of the imperial flag.

After the last guest had arrived, Count Lavale, a distinguished-looking man of medium height in black frock coat and white silk jabot, surveyed the ballroom, making sure that no one was neglected before the orchestra began to play the polonaise.

Well known and popular among the aristocrats of St. Petersburg, the count was pleased to have in attendance tonight the tsar’s second brother, the grand duke Nicholas, whose wife, the grand duchess Alexandra, expected another accouchement and did not attend. It’s a good thing that His Highness is so loyal to his Mouffy, Count Lavale thought as he looked at the collection of glamorous women before him. It would be scandalous for Nicholas to single out any woman in the absence of his pregnant wife. The choice would surely have tempted a less devoted man, for the flower of St. Petersburg society was present tonight. The young women favored white tulle and pastel silks, their jewels glittering as they moved among the scarlet, blue, and green uniforms of their husbands and escorts.

When the orchestra began to play, Count Lavale watched the grand duke lead the polonaise and thought that Nicholas was even more handsome than Tsar Alexander. The tsar’s appearance was almost angelic, but this young man, though nineteen years younger than his august brother, looked decidedly stern with his high forehead, Grecian profile, and cold, clear eyes. The count shuddered slightly. It was fortunate that between this regal young man and the childless tsar, there was another brother, Constantine, who would be inheriting the Russian throne. Grand Duke Nicholas would turn Russia into a rigid army camp with his notorious military discipline, Count Lavale concluded, and turned to see his daughter, Princess Catherine Trubetskaya, or Katasha to her friends, a dainty girl with saucy, upturned nose, approach him. But it was the girl who walked beside her that attracted his attention.

Who was she? With so many guests coming in, he had forgotten whose daughter she was, and he studied her curiously. A stunning beauty, he thought.

The golden highlights of the girl’s light brown hair seemed to glitter from the double braided chignon on top of her elaborately coiffed head to the carefully arranged clusters of bouncing curls over her ears. Large, gold-flecked green eyes rimmed with thick, curly lashes looked intently from beneath a generous sweep of brows. A half head taller than Katasha, she was dressed in a white tulle gown with a high-waisted satin band that accentuated her slim waist and small round bosom, and her low-cut lace-trimmed neckline framed a large ruby teardrop suspended from a single strand of pearls.

How fortunate that Katasha had a husband already, the count thought, for there was a presence about the young girl that completely overshadowed his daughter and, indeed, every other woman in the room. He smiled courteously at the lovely creature before him and then listened to his daughter’s animated chatter.

Papa, Katasha was saying, this is Countess Irina Radina’s first ball! I’m so glad that her parents brought her from Moscow specially for my birthday. We’ve just been pulling lists from our reticules to see how many dances we have already reserved!

Without waiting for her father’s reply, Katasha whispered something in Irina’s ear and, laughing, whisked her away.

The music had ended, and moments later the dance floor cleared, with groups of guests clustering in various parts of the ballroom. Katasha disappeared in the crowd, and Irina Radina found herself standing near two elderly women who were talking to her mother. There was not the slightest doubt in her mind that the women were gossiping, for her mother’s large neck showed several red splotches—a sure sign that she was angry.

Irina sighed. Her mother hated gossip. Gossip is the most vicious of entertainments, she had said to her daughter once. It’s like an ink spot—no matter how much you try to wash it out, the suspicion of ink is always there.

How true, for tonight Irina was painfully aware that she would become the object of yet another choice bit of gossip. In the absence of her father, who hated these balls and never attended, she and her mother were escorted by General Temin, hero of the Napoleonic war, who drew attention to himself wherever he went.

At eighteen she had been of marriageable age for more than a year now, and her mother encouraged her to look with favor on the distinguished officer, who had recently moved to Moscow and had begun to frequent the Radin estate at Beryozovka.

Irina, however, had a mind of her own. He’s twenty-five years older than I am, Maman! she cried. Why do I have to marry such an old man?

She didn’t dare add that his drooping jowls revolted her and that his bony fingers sent shivers through her spine whenever he touched her. An old wound had left him with a slight limp, and he did not dance; but as the countess had pointed out while they were preparing to leave for the ball, General Temin would make a loyal and devoted husband, unlike their neighbor’s flippant and unstable son, Prince Alexander Dolovin. Irina remembered the dashing young Alexander, whom she had met once, shortly before he left for St. Petersburg’s prestigious School of Pages. She’d been only seven years old then, and he fourteen, and she had not seen him since; but the memory of a dark-haired youth with dimples and a flashing smile lingered.

Looking around the ballroom now, Irina studied the faces of the young officers around her, wondering if Prince Alexander was attending the ball tonight and, if so, which one he was. But it was silly of her to think that, for of course, if he were there, her mother would have reintroduced them this evening. Right now, though, Countess Radina was resolutely opening her lace and mother-of-pearl fan to cool herself, and as Irina moved closer to listen, one of the two women talking to her mother leaned forward.

You know what I’ve heard? she said, her voluminous bosom heaving in her red velvet gown. It’s about that woman, Baroness Krüdener, you know, the one who introduced His Majesty to mysticism in Heilbronn. They say that’s what caused the estrangement between the tsar and the tsarina back in 1815, for the tsar has never been the same since he met that woman.

Bah! said the other woman, dressed in a bright green moiré gown trimmed with black lace. That’s not what I’ve heard. With curled lips and raised eyebrow, she went on. After all, Baroness Krüdener was well over fifty when she met the tsar. No. There was a rumor that Her Majesty had an unwholesome friendship with one of her ladies-in-waiting at one time and—

I don’t understand why this gossip is revived now, Irina’s mother interrupted, the fan in her strong, fleshy hand doubling its speed. True or not, it all took place a good ten years ago. Why tarnish the beautiful relationship that we see now between Their Majesties?

The woman in red velvet shrugged and pursed her lips. Whatever they have between them, let’s hope they live happily for a long, long time, for I don’t look forward to seeing Grand Duke Constantine on the throne. He’s rumored to have his father’s explosive temper, and I hope he stays in Poland with his morganatic wife. I see a lot of problems there. The woman paused, cast a furtive glance in the direction of Grand Duke Nicholas, who was talking to his aide, and then lowered her voice conspiratorially. Even the next in line is someone to be feared. Grand Duke Nicholas is a strict disciplinarian; but after all, he’s only twenty-nine, and maybe he will mellow with age.

Countess Radina snapped her fan shut decisively. In my opinion, Grand Duke Constantine is loyal to the crown, and Grand Duke Nicholas is a good man and a devoted husband; but aren’t we being too serious on a festive night like this? Let’s enjoy the ball and celebrate Princess Trubetskaya’s birthday!

Irina smiled and was moving to join her mother when General Temin appeared by her side. She froze.

I see that for a moment you’re alone, Irina, and I have a chance to talk to you. In a few minutes the music will begin, and you’ll be surrounded by young men begging for a dance. I’m sure your reticule is already filled with requests! As for me, I’m your humble admirer, who will bask in your beauty on the sidelines, as you dance.

Why does he always belittle himself? Irina thought uncomfortably. Everyone honors him as a hero. Why does he still need reassurance? Surreptitiously she looked around. People were noticing them together, the intent way he was looking at her, and soon tongues would wag. She wouldn’t be envied, she would be pitied, and she couldn’t tolerate the thought. She would have to make her mother understand. But once Countess Radina made up her mind, she was a formidable force in her household. Irina shifted her feet nervously, forcing herself to respond to Temin.

You’re very kind, General, she said smoothly, but actually I was on my way to join my mother before the music begins.

General Temin twirled his handlebar mustache and bowed gallantly. I’m sure Countess Radina will forgive me if I usurp a little of her daughter’s time.

Irina lowered her glance and stood waiting silently for him to continue.

I’m sure you’re not aware how your eyes sparkle tonight and how your lovely ball gown enhances your beauty.

There was a brief pause, and then Temin added softly, This is a lot more enjoyable than spending your time in the village teaching peasant children to read, don’t you think?

Irina squeezed her reticule hard, and the edge of the metal frame cut sharply into the palm of her hand. There was only one way he could have learned of her secret ambition. Her mother must have confided in him, must have told him how horrified she and Count Radin were at Irina’s desire to teach the serfs to read and write.

The more you educate them, her father had said then, the more rebellious they’ll become.

It’s below your station in life, her mother had wailed. You should be presented at court instead!

But Irina wasn’t interested in court life. She had gone to the village on their estate, talked to their serfs, and found many of them intelligent and pathetically eager to learn. Determined to overcome her parents’ objections, she continued to argue her cause. She felt betrayed now that her mother had divulged their private conflict to this man. She swallowed tears of embarrassment, forced a casual smile, and said, I take it you, too, don’t think much of educating the serfs, General.

While I admire your good itentions, my dear, I’m sure you are not aware of what a waste of time it would be.

That’s a matter of opinion, of course, but tell me, General, she said, pointedly changing the subject, what have you been reading lately? The last time we talked, you mentioned some interesting books.

She would not permit this man to involve her in a discussion of a subject so personal, so close to her heart. He would not be privileged to know her private thoughts! She was angry with her mother, so angry! It was small consolation that she had scored a victory with Temin.

Obviously taken aback, he blinked and coughed, then said, Ah, yes, when we all return to Moscow, I intend to bring a few stories for you to read at Beryozovka.

Did she detect a slight possessiveness in his tone? With a polite nod Irina moved toward her mother, but at that moment the grand duke’s aidede-camp appeared between them and bowed courteously to Irina.

His Highness requests the pleasure of the next dance, mademoiselle, he said, and offered his arm to escort her to the grand duke.

Flustered, Irina glanced at her list. The next dance was already reserved by a young hussar, but her mother had overheard and shook her head.

This is a command, Irina, she said quietly. Go!

Both flattered and apprehensive, Irina placed her gloved hand on the aide’s arm and moved forward with small, gliding steps on the highly polished floor. Suddenly an irrelevant thought floated across her mind. Only the day before her mother had told her that the marble floor in the ballroom had once belonged to the emperor Nero of Rome. It wouldn’t do—would it—to slip on such a floor, and before all those people! Would the grand duke still want to dance with her if she should fall? Irina thought, smiling inwardly to break her nervousness. For an infinitesimal moment she wished she were back in the safety of her home on her parents’ estate outside Moscow. What wouldn’t she give right now to be walking along the familiar lanes lined with age-old birch and maple, instead of approaching the awesome presence of the grand duke, standing erect and regal, waiting for her with an imposing smile.

The penetrating gaze of his large eyes chilled her as she curtsied low before him. Handsome he was, to be sure, with classic features and taller than average, but the legendary warmth that her mother described in Tsar Alexander was lacking. Surely she couldn’t be this intimidated by the tsar himself if ever they met!

The orchestra struck up the lilting rhythm of a mazurka, and Irina lowered her eyes as the grand duke led her onto the dance floor.

Her skirt was embroidered with steel plaquettes, and Irina, intent on not catching them on the grand duke’s elkskin breeches, was startled when he asked, Why haven’t I seen you before, mademoiselle? His voice was powerful, authoritative, accustomed to command.

Irina admitted shyly that this was her first ball. I live in the country near Moscow, Your Highness, she said. My parents brought me to St. Petersburg for Princess Trubetskaya’s birthday.

What is your favorite pastime at home?

Irina replied, Reading poetry.

I enjoy Derzhavin and Zhukovsky, and who is your favorite poet?

Without hesitation Irina said, Pushkin!

She realized her blunder the moment she said it. It was not a name favored at court, for Pushkin had been exiled to the south of Russia several years earlier for his inflammatory writings and only recently had been allowed to return to his family estate in Pskov.

If Grand Duke Nicholas was annoyed, he did not show it. After a moment’s pause he said, What in particular do you like about his poetry?

Although Irina had read Pushkin’s inflammatory Ode to Liberty, in which he criticized the government’s autocratic rule, she was quick to refer to his lyrical works.

Poetry is an escape from reality, the grand duke said, and sometimes can lead the reader astray. Dangerous ideas voiced in poetic cadence can influence an unwary mind.

Although the rebuke was subtle, the chill in his voice was not. But Irina, caught in her favorite subject, would not be intimidated.

Pushkin once said that serenity is essential to artistic creation, she said, and I would add that serenity and solitude are equally important to the reader, in order to understand and ponder that which the artist attempts to impart. How can this idea be dangerous?

Perhaps she imagined it, but a glimmer of admiration shone in the grand duke’s eyes for a moment and then was gone. She found herself relaxing and the grand duke Nicholas an attentive listener.

At the end of the mazurka he smiled frostily. You are an excellent dancer, mademoiselle, and it is St. Petersburg’s loss that we have not seen you here before. I realize that I have usurped this mazurka promised to another lucky gentleman. Releasing her hand, he bowed stiffly. I owe you a favor, mademoiselle!

Months later Irina would try desperately to recall the details of their conversation and the nuances of the grand duke’s words, but now, standing at the edge of the ballroom, watching Nicholas’s tall figure move away from her, she thought that although it was a dizzying experience to attend her first ball in St. Petersburg, the intimidating presence of the tsar’s brother, and the gossip she had overheard about the royal family, made her yearn for the peace of her Moscow home.

Chapter Two

Two months after Count Lavale’s ball Tsar Alexander gave a farewell reception at the Winter Palace prior to his departure for Taganrog, a quiet resort on the Sea of Azov, where he and Tsarina Elizabeth were to spend an extended vacation.

Long before the appointed hour of nine o’clock, when the ball was to begin, courtiers and guests arrived at the Jordan Entrance, with its huge columns and steps of Carrara marble, to enter the palace and climb the Grand Staircase, flanked on both sides by Cossack Life Guards in red tunics. They stood alongside troopers of the Chevaliers Guards, who were resplendent in silver breastplates and helmets crowned with double eagles. Farther on, the long halls leading to the ballroom were lined with lackeys in the imperial livery, standing immobile or swinging silver censers filled with incense to perfume the rooms. Every hall contained baskets of camellias and roses and, along with porcelain vases of scented flowers in the ballroom, created the illusion of an exotic garden. Crystal chandeliers with lighted candles and torchères with arms reaching up toward the carved and painted ceilings distracted the eye like thousands of twinkling stars.

Among the courtiers watching the tsar and the tsarina mingle with the guests was a young officer of the Imperial Guards. Dressed in a scarlet tunic with white breeches and gleaming high boots, he stood leaning against a polished column, one leg casually crossed over the other, his gloved hand absentmindedly twisting an aglet tip of the braided cord looped over his arm. His wavy chestnut hair was combed high above his forehead. Full, long sideburns outlined his pale face and accentuated his dark brown eyes, which now looked around the ballroom with apparent boredom.

But Prince Alexander Dolovin was more annoyed really than bored. Although the spectacle before him was so well rehearsed that he could detail each hour of the evening with military precision, his annoyance stemmed from an entirely different source. Concealed inside his dolman coat was a letter from his father, Prince Gregory Dolovin.

… I urge you to come home and spend your vacation with us, his father wrote from Moscow in his careless wide scrawl. It has been entirely too long since you visited Dolovino, and while I know that St. Petersburg can be addictive, we, too, have some attractions for you. Besides, don’t forget that your mother and I are not getting any younger, and we long to see you. He went on to remind his son how lovely the countryside was this time of year after the harvest and added, "The forests are full of mushrooms, and you know what that means—the young people are organizing to go after them, with picnics and song and dance a khorovod. So you see, you don’t have to be housebound with us old people. As a matter of fact, our neighbor’s daughter, Countess Irina Radina, comes over frequently. You probably don’t remember her, for you met only once, when you both were children; but she has grown into a lovely young woman, and I can promise that you will not be disappointed. And then came the final statement: … whatever ties may hold you in St. Petersburg, they will still be there when you return."

If his father had left that sentence out, then Alexander would have given in to the nostalgic pull of childhood memories and gone home. But Papa could never leave well enough alone. It never occurred to him that his family should be allowed to make their own decisions.

Ever since he was old enough to discern the world around him, Alexander was aware that his domineering father ruled the household with an iron rigidity that no one, not even his lonely wife, dared breach. Alexander learned early that his mother’s gentle embrace was to soothe and comfort, never to protect or defend against his father’s unwavering discipline, and he had tried to protect his younger brother, Nikita, five years his junior, a fair-haired, serious youth.

As he grew older and reached adolescence, Alexander’s curious mind sought answers to the reasons for his father’s severe treatment of his serfs. Once, when Prince Gregory ordered a servant whipped for failing to polish his boots to his liking, Alexander dared not question his father and turned to his mother instead, only to see her call for her smelling salts and wave Alexander out of her boudoir without explanation. Wispy and frail, she lived in comfort in their 10,000-acre estate, attended by servants for her every need and subservient to her husband’s strong personality and seemingly content to leave all major decisions to him.

After many futile attempts to get her to listen to his adolescent anxieties over the years, Alexander gradually turned inward and distanced himself from his parents. In due time he learned from his old nanny that his parents’ marriage had been arranged by their aristocratic families as a suitable match and his mother, timid and colorless, still a spinster at twenty-five, had been so in awe of her bethrothed that she had never crossed him in anything.

When the decision was made to send Alexander to the School of Pages in St. Petersburg, he was relieved to escape from parental supervision and in subsequent years avoided visiting his family home as much as possible.

The not so subtle reference to Countess Irina could be turned aside as yet another effort at matchmaking on the part of his mother who, having married so late in life, was understandably eager to see him acquire a wife while he was still young. But then Papa had to let him know that he was well informed of his son’s deepening involvement with Marianna Kosinskaya and was displeased.

At the thought of Marianna, Alexander tensed. There was no doubt that he had fallen under the spell of the fiery courtesan, but was he in love? Surely not. The idea was preposterous. He couldn’t—he mustn’t be! At twenty-five, he was his own man, and his father’s interference in his private life was an annoyance.

Too bad that Marianna had not been born an aristocrat. She was the daughter of a widowed and ambitious modiste who owned a shop on the Nevsky Prospect and nurtured vain hopes that Marianna would marry one of her titled protectors. In her early teens Marianna was already on the stage and was soon recognized as a promising ingenue. Her first protector had set her up comfortably in a flat near the Neva Embankment, and by the time Alexander met her she was an established demimondaine.

Suddenly agitated, Alexander straightened, uncrossed his legs, and looked at the women around him. Marianna would shine like a rare gem among them, he thought; in their court dresses of embroidered silks and bejeweled headdresses, they all looked alike. His gaze roamed farther and settled on the tsar, who was moving slowly in his direction, stopping every few steps to chat with his guests. At forty-eight, the blond tsar had gained weight, and his brilliant blue eyes had lost some of their magnetic luster; but the contours of his rounded face were still smooth, and the soft lips smiled readily at his courtiers.

Suddenly the court pleasantries became oppressive, and Alexander wanted to avoid facing the tsar. After turning abruptly, he mingled in the crowd and made his way to the nearest door. Once in the quiet corridor, he walked briskly, his steps muffled by the carpeted floor.

A familiar voice from behind stopped him. Alexander! I saw you leave the ballroom; where can we talk?

Alexander turned around to face his friend Kondraty Ryleyev.

Kondraty! I didn’t see you in the ballroom! Let’s go to the Malachite Room, it’s right around the corner and should be empty tonight.

The two friends moved on in step and soon reached the vast room. Once inside, Alexander closed the heavily carved, gilded doors behind him, but not before looking up and down the hall to make sure they had not been followed. Then, after walking over to the fireplace, he leaned on the mantel and looked around the room, his gaze traveling over the malachite square columns built into the walls, over the inlaid tables, the artifacts, the vases, all made from the veined green stone in graceful symmetry. But all that was lost on him as he faced his friend.

Well, what news, Kondraty?

Ryleyev sat down at the round malachite-topped table in front of the fireplace and, leaning on one elbow, propped his chin in his hand. A well-known poet, he was an exquisitely handsome man with a dreamy look and soft features that belied his incisive intellect.

We’ve split into Northern and Southern societies, Alex, Ryleyev said. We can’t agree on our theories. Colonel Pestel is heading the southern branch now, and he is ruthless. He advocates radical measures in order to do away with autocratic monarchy. Kondraty moved uncomfortably in his chair. His wide-set eyes took on a clouded look. What’s more, we can’t seem to reconcile our own differences in the north. Our moderate, Nikita Muravyev, favors a constitutional monarchy and calls me a radical because I insist on a republic. He should talk to Pestel!

Alexander frowned. Things weren’t going right with the society. Too much polemic, too many grandiose ideas, and little else. A vague uneasiness took hold of him. If we don’t come to some mutual agreement soon, he said quietly, the whole idea of reforming our government system through revolt will become too big for us to handle and will have to be shelved. He smiled ruefully. Future generations will judge us irresponsible, perhaps even naïve, because of lack of unity and organization. Don’t you agree?

Kondraty thought for a moment, then shrugged. You must realize that something like this has to be carefully planned. Any rash act can land us all in Siberia.

I don’t mean that we must rush into it; all I’m saying is that we must soon come to some sort of agreement, at least in principle. We have to act while we are young and willing to undertake such a drastic change in our country. Moderate or radical, call it what you may, our principal goal is the same, and you know what that is.

Yes, of course: to do away with the autocracy of the tsar.

Alexander started. No so loud, Kondraty! This room is empty and large, but it might have ears; one of these doors could be ajar, and someone could be listening to us! He moved a few steps toward the center of the room and looked at the grooved malachite pillars with Corinthean ormolu that supported the cornices by the doors. A perfect place to hide. Surely there was no one in the room, but one could not be too careful.

He turned to see his friend smiling. What’s the matter, Alex? Our conspiracy is getting to you?

In spite of his discomfort, Alexander laughed a short, embarrassed laugh. I don’t know. I suppose it was not a good idea to talk here. Where’s the next meeting going to be?

At my house, next Thursday. I’ll see you then! With that Ryleyev rose, shook Alexander’s hand warmly, and walked out.

Alexander stayed in the Malachite Room a while longer. He knew well the dangers of having joined the secret society which they had named the Union of Welfare. It would surely be called something else by the police and by the tsar. High treason, that’s what! And all in the society knew it. Yet he believed passionately in the Union of Welfare. It was made up of a group of altruistic, selfless men who wanted to do away with government suppression of free thought, better the lot of the underprivileged, and emancipate the serfs. There was something bestial in buying and selling human beings like so many head of cattle. Alexander had heard his father often enough, bartering over 100 or 200 souls. It was dreadful to think that this commonly used term had only one purpose: to distinguish the serfs from inanimate objects! The Union of Welfare firmly believed that the tsar’s autocratic rule was ruining Russia. The country’s bloody past hung over their heads like a bad nightmare. Ivan the Terrible had killed at whim, and Peter the Great’s vengeance on his enemies had known no mercy. Tsar Alexander’s own father, Paul, who was Catherine the Great’s only son, had humiliated his citizens by having them whipped when they failed to obey his order to kneel or curtsy on the street whenever his carriage passed. When he had been assassinated by his courtiers after only five years of reign, it was said that his son and heir, Alexander, had known of the conspiracy to remove the tsar from the throne and had done nothing to prevent it.

Early in Tsar Alexander’s reign, he had made sweeping promises to abolish serfdom and to dedicate himself to public service, but through the years he had become absorbed with personal salvation and turned inward, oblivious of the growing repression around him. Something had to be done about it, and Alexander’s friends in the secret society all agreed with that. But what? How?

It was one thing to engage in endless discussions in the