Chapter 20: Cracks Beneath the Gilding

The amber glow of late afternoon filtered through the windows of the Alexander Palace library, warming the old oak and velvet within. Books lay open across the long table—Latin grammars, translated French pedagogical treatises, and newly commissioned primers from Moscow's printing presses. The scent of wax and ink clung to the air.

Alexander stood at the far end of the room, speaking quietly with a gray-bearded professor from Dorpat University.

"It must be a school," Alexander said. "Not just another seminary in disguise."

The professor bowed slightly. "Yes, Your Highness. We have drawn from Prussian and Scottish models. Teachers will be evaluated on merit, not connections. Emphasis on science, arithmetic, history. Language instruction will begin in childhood."

"And religion?"

"A subject among others," the professor said carefully, "but not the cornerstone."

Alexander's eyes narrowed. "Good. I want to raise citizens, not zealots."

The professor hesitated, then inclined his head and left.

As the door closed behind him, Countess Dolgorukaya stepped in. She wore a tight smile—polite, thin, and dangerous. A whisperer of the court, she had ties to half the old noble families, and her loyalty lay somewhere behind the curtain of her words.

"Your Highness," she purred, "there are concerns about your… innovations."

He turned to her slowly. "Concerns?"

"The Duma has not been consulted. The Church worries about secular overreach. And the Court wonders what else you plan to 'modernize.'"

"I don't need their approval to sponsor a school."

"Perhaps not in law," she said sweetly, "but in practice, it matters who you offend."

Alexander's face remained calm. "It matters more who I elevate. The children of Russia deserve a future. That's not open for negotiation."

She gave him a shallow curtsy. "As you say, Your Highness."

But Alexander knew this wasn't the end of it. It was the beginning.

Over the next month, the first pilot school opened quietly in Tver. With a modest curriculum, new textbooks, and teachers selected from among both clergy and lay scholars, it became a testing ground—not just for students, but for society.

Alexander traveled there in secret, escorted by a handful of guards and Count Orlov. The village greeted them with banners and fresh bread, the mayor stammering in gratitude.

Inside the schoolhouse—simple walls, clean benches, chalkboards—children recited multiplication tables and read excerpts from Pushkin and Tacitus. There was no incense, no icons on every wall, just a sense of order and curiosity.

Alexander watched with quiet satisfaction as a young girl stood and explained how rainfall was part of a repeating cycle—water vapor, clouds, precipitation. A year ago, she'd been destined for a lifetime of toil or church servitude. Now she talked of becoming a doctor.

"This," he whispered to Orlov, "is the revolution."

But not everyone saw it that way.

In St. Petersburg, the whispers turned to tension. Archbishop Filaret denounced the Tver school in a sermon, warning that "godless instruction breeds rebellion."

The Minister of Court Appointments filed a complaint that the teachers had not been vetted through the proper aristocratic channels.

A caricature appeared in an underground pamphlet, showing Alexander as a boy king surrounded by books while fires burned in the background.

Tsar Nicholas summoned his son.

They sat in silence for a moment before the elder Romanov spoke.

"You're creating tremors," he said.

"I'm building foundations," Alexander replied.

The Tsar raised an eyebrow. "Are you so certain?"

Alexander hesitated. "No. But I'm certain of what happens if we do nothing."

There was a long pause. Then Nicholas leaned back in his chair.

"You walk a narrow path, Sasha. I won't stop you yet. But choose your allies wisely. And expect no protection if the Church turns its wrath upon you."

The warning came true days later.

A formal letter arrived from the Holy Synod—polite, but biting. It accused the new schools of downplaying Orthodoxy and elevating "foreign rationalism." They requested a halt to expansion and the immediate review of all curricula.

Alexander folded the letter once and handed it to his secretary. "Frame it. It will hang in the first state university I build."

But inwardly, he took it as a sign. Reform would no longer be subtle. It would be a battle.

That evening, as he stared out at the snow-covered gardens of Tsarskoye Selo, his breath fogging the cold glass, Alexander made a vow to himself.

When I wear the crown, he thought, the Church will return to its rightful place—spiritual guide, not sovereign master. No more special privileges. No more stranglehold on truth.

He tapped the glass lightly.

"The world is changing," he whispered. "And I will not let Russia be left behind."