The Leading Spirits: the State of Moravia in the Age of Revolutions

[Chac1]

After much reading, I have finally caught up with this latest installment of this mega-campaign. Makes me wish I had stumbled across it earlier. So well-written and with memorable characters.
Seems we are on the precipice with these new cultural exclusion laws. Enjoying the love story that underpins these tales.
And has Maćij written his last incendiary editorial? Something tells me he's not done stirring up the masses.
Nicely done. Now, I'll ride along with this as it moves forward.

 

[Revan86]

So Prince Radohov wishes to make Moravia into a socialist utopia? He does realise that would make his position redundant, right? And the revolutionaries aren't likely to keep him around.

Red princes are not unheard-of, particularly in Eastern Europe. Radohov isn't quite in the Bakunin or Kropotkin mould (he's a bit too much of a Romantic, closer in some ways to Slavophils like Khomyakov or Kireevsky), but bears certain studied resemblances to both.

Of course the church is in support of the laws, they're hoping they'll get some of the riches plundered from minorities.


It's currently 1829, is America doing early Manifest Destiny?

The Orthodox Church proved to be something of a disappointment. In the Thin Wedge instalment, they were certainly a progressive force: often advocating for expanded liberties and the like. Here they seem to have gone a bit reactionary.

As for the Americas, it's... complicated.

The British control nearly the entire Pacific Coastline, including Mexico. Hudson Bay is controlled by an independent, French-speaking monarchist Canada. The Atlantic Coast is controlled by a French-speaking post-Revolutionary America which is literally ruled by a Bonaparte Emperor. The interior (that is to say, the Great Plains) and most of Brazil are controlled by Asturias, is Spanish-speaking and Muslim. Texas is independent, German-speaking, and Muslim.

The Indigenous peoples have not fared too well, with the sole exception of Cuba: a West Indian republic with some unfortunate encomienda-style economic features. The sole main holdout of Indigenous independence on the North American continent are the Paiutes, who have somehow managed to hold off the British onslaught. There are also some Inuit and Athabascan tribes in North America, and some Amazonian tribes in South America, which have resisted assimilation and conquest.

After much reading, I have finally caught up with this latest installment of this mega-campaign. Makes me wish I had stumbled across it earlier. So well-written and with memorable characters.
Seems we are on the precipice with these new cultural exclusion laws. Enjoying the love story that underpins these tales.
And has Maćij written his last incendiary editorial? Something tells me he's not done stirring up the masses.
Nicely done. Now, I'll ride along with this as it moves forward.

It's a slow boil, but there are tensions that are mounting in the right direction.

Glad to have you on board, @Chac1!

 

[Revan86]

III.
1 February 1830 – 23 August 1831​

‘… thus, we don’t need to take much action with regard to the mace and nutmeg plantations, but the cinnamon production shortfall needs to be addressed. Perhaps your Excellency would consider another tour of the Chirrebonese villages to find replacement workers for the EIC.’

Governor Richard Griffiths sighed. The Chirrebons were already unhappy with the arrangements that had taken so many of their young men away from home and put them into plantations to do the thankless and ill-paid work of stripping and hauling cinnamon bark. Taking more of them might prompt the unpleasantness of a general unrest. Still, the demands of the East India Company were not something he could very well gainsay; after all, they protected his position here. ‘Very well, Alstan. I will keep that in mind. Is there anything more?’

‘Not at the moment, Excellency.’

‘In that case, carry on.’

Alstan bowed his way out.

Richard Griffiths returned to his desk with another sigh and glanced out the window of his manor. He looked out over the seaside port of Batavia, the seat of British Sunda over which His Majesty had seen fit to position him, and which had these past hundred years controlled the lucrative trade in spices—even Östergötland and Luxembourg had to pay tolls to the British government to allow their ships to navigate through the Strait. The office was not without its compensations, but Griffiths found that he missed home a great deal. The stifling, sweaty tropical climate of West Java was not his first preference. Though by now he had gotten somewhat used to it.

However, now, something odd was happening. There was a sensation of a rumbling roar, similar to that of a tiger. A queer vibration went throughout the office that increased gradually in magnitude until the Governor’s teacup in its saucer began to skitter and bounce with a tinkling clatter, and the beverage began to spatter over the sides. The windows themselves began to rattle in their frames.

Almost by reflex, Griffiths went to the doorpost leading out into the hall. Earthquakes were not unknown in Batavia, and the locals had a well-established routine that worked to save lives. But he turned back into the office and looked around. Apart from the tea, nothing had moved significantly from its position, and the floorboards did not seem to be jarring from side to side. Rather, the vibration was all in a vertical direction. That was odd.

The tremor subsided, but then a pattern of shadow fell through the sunny beams that came through the window. The Governor looked outside, and he saw outside a flurry as though of snowfall. But it never snowed in Batavia—not even in late January! No, the particles that were floating in the air were not an angelic white, but rather of an ominous grey colour.

The odd tremors continued throughout the afternoon and into the night, and the billows of ash continued to fall on Batavia, until they were about a centimetre in depth on the streets, and had to be swept into piles to keep the roads clear. The talk in the gentleman’s parlour, through rumours from onboarding ships from the Strait, was that of some possible volcanistic activity from the west—perhaps the island of Cracattow in the Strait, though it was considered that the western Sumatra mountains were the more likely culprit. At any rate, it was far off. The ash was a nuisance, as were the tremors, but there was little to disturb the general calm.

The mild tremors, rattling windows, sudden dustings of volcanic ash continued throughout the week. On the 25th and 26th they were accompanied by the same low rumble, like that of a tiger—this was how the native Javanese described it as well. A dark plume of smoke was spotted by some of the locals over the Strait, coming from the direction of the Cracattow Isle. But soon enough that plume disappeared. By the 30th of January, there was a sense of ease in British Batavia. The tremors subsided. No ash fell from the clear blue sky. It seemed to them on that night that whatever queer geological or astronomical phenomenon this had been, it had blown by them without too much fuss.

Governor Richard Griffiths was roughly flung awake at nearly three o’clock in the morning of the calends of February, by a deafening blast: as though the entire British Navy had turned every single one of its long-guns on Batavia and let loose a broadside volley all at once. His head reeling and jarring from the explosive sound, and shaken with literal force from his bed, his ringing ears barely managed to register in its wake the tinkling of broken glass over the floor. Whatever it was, as the Governor was soon to discover—it had shattered every single window on the western side of the Governor’s manor, and quite a few others besides.

There was soon after the general clamour of the entire household staff—Javanese, Sumatran, Chirrebonese, Betawi and English altogether—as they scrambled about trying to head to a doorframe for safety. The blast continued. It was now an almighty howl in the air.

The bedroom door of the Governor’s manor was opposite to that of the study overlooking the port town, and that door had been flung open. The sight that met Griffiths’s eyes when they adjusted, through the shattered ruins of the windows, was a ghastly one. The docks were invisible. In their place were massive waves at least ten yards in height and rising, inundating the waterfront district. But even these were soon obscured by a wave of dark ash and pebbles. No light snowfall this! It hissed and clattered and pummelled the roof of the manor with the violence of a typhoon.

That was when the roof of the Governor’s bedroom caved in, smashed through by a piece of volcanic debris the size of a rugby ball. Griffiths felt a blast of infernal wind and the feeling of fine sand against his back. With effort, he turned. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw… in fact the last thing he would ever see.

It was as though Hell’s gates had opened. Through the shriek and whipping winds of black sand and pebbles and fine ash, had risen a towering funnel-shaped billow of cloud, glaring angrily red, rising in a hideous mass from the west into a pitch-black sky.

Governor Richard Griffiths never saw the fist-sized piece of volcanic debris that came pelting down from that column of chthonic vapours. A piece of rock that size could kill even if it merely fell, but it had been hurled from 100 miles away by an unearthly force, one with the wrath of God behind it. It struck His Excellency straight in the temple and killed him instantly.

Thousands of others in Batavia suffered worse fates. The explosion from Cracattow was far enough away that the Batavians were not in immediate danger from pyroclastic flows. But dozens were killed, like the Governor, by falling debris—and orders of magnitude more were destroyed by the surging waves resulting from the cataclysm, that had already overwhelmed the Batavian waterfront.

~~~​

The explosion of Cracattow, and the deaths of thousands of Batavians including the British governor, were the front-page news in every newspaper in Europe the following week. Eyewitness accounts described the ‘blackened glare’ of the gaping subterranean maw that was still belching thousands of tons of rock and ash skyward even a week after the initial explosion, and the ‘blinding fall’ of the resulting detritus, that was wreaking havoc not only upon the shipping lanes used by all of the Western European powers over the Indian and Pacific Oceans, but also upon the livelihoods of people as far away as Laos and the Japans. The effects (several experts in the terrestrial sciences were said to have surmised) would be felt even in Europe as the billowing ash and dust were expected to darken the skies and blight crops across the world.

Their prediction turned out to be prophetic. The following spring was visited by a number of untimely thundershowers and hailstorms followed by a dry spell that, between them, managed to kill off much of the newly-sprouted cereal grain crops (wheat, rye, barley) in the Užhorod Province. Suddenly, the Slovaks and Carpathian Rusins of those regions were unable to feed themselves, let alone deliver much-needed meal and flour to the cities of Prešov and Košice. C. a K. Lesana decreed that an emergency fund be set aside to feed those affected by the storms and drought in the Moravian East.

To meet the new increase in demand, the C. a K. directed that the state-run farms in Moravia Proper switch over to more intensive methods, using fertiliser and more efficient farming tools. This directive to Moravian farmers, however, put a greater strain on the nation’s iron mines, and caused a spike in the price of iron.

​

In the industrial cities of Vislania, meanwhile—Krakov, (Nový) Sadec and Tarnov—there was a considerable push by the independent smithies, which were still operating on a traditional guild basis, to pool their resources. The demand for iron tools was booming, there were more than enough job openings, and the influx of cash into the guild coffers was practically begging to be used for expansion. A steel mill in Sadec was nearing completion. Everything was in place for the creation of a booming enterprise.

The smithing guilds of Krakov, Sadec and Tarnov soon reorganised themselves under a charter from the Cárovná a Kráľovna into the Kovový konglomerát západne Haličie or KKZH (ККЗГ). The naming of the corporation did cause a minor diplomatic incident with the nation of Galicia, but that was a different matter and not one that immediately concerned the residents of Vislania. The KKZH (for all intents and purposes now a modern corporation!) oversaw the completion of the steel mill in Sadec and the transport of the intermediate product directly to the tooling manufactories in Krakov.

Exploration of new hematite deposits prompted the planned development of new iron mines in Bohemia and Nitra. The efficiency and streamlining of the process caused the productivity and profitability of the tooling shops throughout Vislania to practically quadruple overnight. Krakov became a thriving centre of business—at least, from one perspective. Nearby farmers and rural villagers began to complain that the belching black clouds of coal dust from the suddenly more productive process added themselves ominously to the volcanic detritus that was already choking the air. And the industrialists, newly empowered by this boost to the urban Moravian economy, were emboldened to press their political demands.

The Commerce Association of Moravia and Bohemia began loudly clamoring in the Stavovské Zhromaždenie for C. a K. Lesana to dissolve the alliance with Russia. They were joined in that demand by certain members of the high landed estate… particularly those of the Přemyslovec and Mikulčický lineages. Not a day in session passed, so it seemed, without someone standing up to remind the assembly of Russia’s ‘perfidy of 1806’, or mentioning the costs to the kingdom in the form of possible contracts with Russia’s geopolitical competitors in the west.

‘Radohov’—now a known quantity in well-connected government circles, being the heir to the throne of Drježdźany—predictably inveighed with his typical populistic purple prose against the Commerce Association and its prominent members. However, Maćij Rychnovský was a canny enough writer that he managed to avoid anything that might be construed as a direct insult against the Crowns of Moravia and Carpathia, or the Empress and Queen who currently wore them. In this case, Lesana was happy to allow him to proceed. Despite the past difficulties and current (supposedly) lost profits, she had no desire to jeopardise an alliance which currently suited the Two Realms far better than it suited the Tsardom of Russia.

Maćij ‘Radohov’ Rychnovský had other reasons currently to bury the hatchet with Lesana Hlinková, quite apart from the veiled threats of the Praha police. For one thing, Lesana was currently busy with a project to expand the capacity of the hospital system throughout the Moravian realm, which was currently overseen by the Orthodox Church. A generous infusion of state funding into the Orthodox wayhouse networks meant: more physicians and nurses, more hospital beds, better care and shorter waits. Rychnovský penned an editorial, in fact, lavishing rare praise upon the C. a K. for this initiative, and wished the expanded charitable health care programme all manner of speedy success.

But that did not mean that Maćij had gone soft. He discoursed on numerous themes: supporting suffrage of the unlanded and of women; advocating for a ‘patriotic’ mass levy; keeping a close watch on the western borders; and promoting agrarian land reforms along the lines of a Romantic egalitarian Slavic antiquity. But on 24 June 1831, he published an excoriation of a certain Jä’ǩǩem Joks, of which the following is an excerpt.

This vile parasite, this loathsome by-product of the putrid fens of Karjala, this bloodsucking maggot upon the life of the hardworking ordinary Sámi shepherd and fisherman, has somehow possessed himself (though the Devil only knows where!) of the utter gall, the sheer inhuman contempt for all that is right and decent, to call himself a ‘military reformer’. But we who can read the programme of this slime who calls himself Joks, understand that his ‘reform’ is nothing less than the total abrogation of the traditional livelihoods and the self-government of the Sámi people, as set forth in the lofty Ducha zákona! ​

​

In proposing to foist upon the Sámiráđđi his proposals for a standing army, he has shown himself willing to sacrifice upon the ungodly altar of his base self-interests, the relatively free condition of the Sámi tribesmen and the integrity of the Sámi government. It’s true the Sámi remember all too well the traipsing of marauding East Geatish boots over their frontier. But would the Sámi land be any less despoiled from having Livonian-tailored boots on the feet of a domestic gendarmerie at the service of the wealthy and the few?​

It seemed rather improbable, given how popular Joks was among the Sámi armed forces. But the Sámiráđđi evidently agreed enough with the spirit of Rychnovský’s article, to have Joks stripped of his Sámi siida membership and sent into exile!

Rychnovský also evidently wasn’t above a bit of Schadenfreude. After the spats between him and Tristan Franklin’s reactionary pressure group SZBPJe, the news that Franklin’s group was on the down and out in terms of its financial support was greeted warmly by the Sorbian noble editorialist. Only Almighty God’s justice could have avenged itself so satisfactorily upon such hypocritical loyalty to His cause—so said ‘Radohov’. And he was free to say so in those years. As long as it wasn’t aimed directly at her or at her inner circle, Lesana Hlinková was happy to let the junior nobleman of the ancient royal line amuse himself with his left-wing ravings. That would all change readily enough, she was sure, when he replaced his father in office.

 

[StrategyGameEnthusiast]

That would all change readily enough, she was sure, when he replaced his father in office.

That isn't going to happen, is it?

 

[Chac1]

As @StrategyGameEnthusiast has already pointed out, the narrative is about to send us in the opposite direction. Lesana is being set up for a big surprise, no doubt about it.

 

[Bloodfelt]

I am very much looking forward to seeing the fate of the Red Prince and if, indeed, we will have a Red Moravia. Without a doubt, the crisis in the country is perfect for us to have the first socialist state in Europe!

Very good AAR, by the way.

 

[Lord Durham]

All caught up. The segment about Krakatoa was really good. Nice atmosphere and buildup to the eruption. And hopefully we see more of Pep and Bely. I like those two.

 

[Revan86]

That isn't going to happen, is it?

As @StrategyGameEnthusiast has already pointed out, the narrative is about to send us in the opposite direction. Lesana is being set up for a big surprise, no doubt about it.

Lesana has few personal flaws, but a penchant for wishful thinking appears to be one of them in this case.

I am very much looking forward to seeing the fate of the Red Prince and if, indeed, we will have a Red Moravia. Without a doubt, the crisis in the country is perfect for us to have the first socialist state in Europe!

Very good AAR, by the way.

Why thank you, @Bloodfelt! And thanks for the nomination this past week. I'm quite honoured!

All caught up. The segment about Krakatoa was really good. Nice atmosphere and buildup to the eruption. And hopefully we see more of Pep and Bely. I like those two.

Thanks! I had fun writing that one, I'll freely admit. I was inspired by reading some first-hand accounts of the OTL historical Krakatoa explosion in 1881.

As for Pep and Bely, they may be back in the future. Perhaps.

 

[Revan86]

IV.
20 September 1831 – 2 December 1832​

In the Zwinger in Drježdźany, Fara Rychnovská had given birth to two more children by 1831: another girl, Parvane Rychnovská, on 20 December 1829; and a son, Rostam Rychnovský, on 26 March 1831. Yet having given birth to a healthy son, and thus having provided Arcywójwoda Rúfus Rychnovský with a second heir to secure the line of succession, did not win Fara any great favours with the Archduchess, who was still as hard-nosed and as difficult to please as ever.

Sometimes it seemed like the two of them were oil and water. Fara—awestruck, out of her station, taciturn and romantic at heart—could do little that was right in the eyes of her stern, assertive, no-nonsense and iron-willed mother-in-law. Not once, but numerous times now, Adele Rychnovská’s tongue-lashings had reduced Fara to a state of nervous tears and despondency.

‘Du sorglose, hohlköpfige Gans!’ Adele berated her one day, holding Šahrazade’s little three-year-old hand in hers as she confronted Fara. ‘Had you no notion at all of Šahrazade clambering around the attics? Just look at the state of her dress—! Had you no notion at all of the danger, what might be up there? Had you no notion of what might happen to a three-year-old, left alone unsupervised in places where even the service doesn’t go?’

‘I—I—I just—I thought—’ Fara stammered, dumbstruck.

‘Nein,’ Adele narrowed her hazel eyes. ‘You weren’t thinking. You don’t think. That’s your problem. I shall see to it that a governess is appointed for Šahrazade. Clearly you are incapable of caring for her.’

To anyone outside the household, the confrontation might have appeared comical. A petite, slender, elderly woman like Adele Rychnovská, utterly dwarfed in size by the sturdily-built Perso-Russian peasant girl of Caspian mountaineer and Cossack lineage, seemed very much to be picking a fight out of her weight class. But to the household staff—and to the family—it was no laughing matter. Adele seemingly grew harsher and more exacting with her daughter-in-law with each passing week. Even the Sorbian servants, who ordinarily looked down on Fara as a superstitious and slightly stupid country bumpkin, shook their heads and clicked their tongues sympathetically whenever they saw the Archduchess bearing down on her like this.

After his first attempt to moderate the differences between his wife and his mother, Maćij Rychnovský stood (wisely) to the side. Even so, he thought he had better press his finger down on the scale a bit in his wife’s favour in this instance.

‘Do you think she was right?’ asked Maćij of Fara as they held each other in bed.

‘What?’

‘My mother. Do you think she was right today? Does Šahra need a governess?’

‘No!’ Fara clenched her hand around Maćij’s. ‘Šahra’s just curious—she’s exploring! If the service never goes up there, then why was the door even unlocked? And I knew perfectly well where she was: if it really was dangerous, I would have intervened.’

‘Then tell her that,’ Maćij told her. ‘My mother respects assertiveness. Show her yours.’

Fara pressed her cheek against her husband’s shoulder and gave her head a firm nod there.

~~~​

‘Yes?’ asked Adele, peering over the rim of her glasses at her daughter-in-law as she came near.

‘Šahra does not need a governess,’ Fara spoke. Quietly, but firmly.

‘Ist das so?’ asked Adele, turning to give her full attention to her Iranian-Russian daughter-in-law.

‘She does not. I am her mother. I know where Šahra was; I let her play there. I was under the door; she wouldn’t have fallen out and hurt herself. And if it had been truly dangerous, the attic door would have been locked. And when she was done playing up there, I would have cleaned her dress myself. My parents never restrained me from going anywhere in my house, and a little child needs to know her space if she is to live well in it.’

Adele’s thin, aristocratic mouth curved down at the corners. She fixed her glasses back up against her eyes and turned again to her book.

‘Well?’ asked Fara.

‘Gut, und was? Möchtest du noch etwas reden?’

‘Are you going to send for a governess?’

‘Why should I?’ asked the Archduchess. Her face was still slightly pinched as if displeased, but her voice was remarkably complacent. ‘If you show half the resolve with your daughter that you did with me just now, Šahra will be just fine, won’t she? And why would I put the household to such needless expense? Silly creature you are. Weg mit dir.’

Fara kept her mouth straight and her throat from jumping with elation as she courtesied and turned and walked out of the Archduchess’s sight. She’d actually won an argument with the old lady!

~~~​

Fara had won that skirmish, but the war was far from over. By September of 1831, her belly had swollen again with the familiar signs. Fara was hard pressed this time to keep her freedom of movement and activity, and several times Erzherzogin Adele assigned her extra maids in order to keep her under watch. This was something she argued with Adele about several times.

Maćij was in a radiant mood indeed—and not only because he was going to be a father for a fourth time. Keeping up with affairs in the neighbouring states as he did, he was happy to observe the expansion to the clerical wayhouse and hospital system in the Kingdom of Moravia, and had every hope of a similar system being implemented in Drježdźany.

‘Just think of it!’ Maćij told Fara. ‘Not just expecting mothers in your station, but even those in situations like your aunts’, will have healing and helping hands closer to them, and be able to give birth in clean, sanitary rooms.’

‘A blessing for them, I’m sure,’ Fara noted—just a tad archly. She knew she could do with fewer ‘healing and helping hands’ close to her. But she was happy to see her husband so animated.

Apart from the improvements to the wayhouse networks in her primary kingdom, Cárovná a Kráľovna Lesana was steering the ship of state straight and steady for the most part. The Crown continued to pour its investments into mining projects and staple crop fields. Several new shafts were going down to tap into the already-surveyed iron veins in the Ores around Abertamy near Karlovy Vary. And recent surveys to the west of Banská Bystrica, in the Kremnica Mountains, had shown promise as deposits of precious and semi-precious metals, to supplement the still-active (but dwindling in output) gold and silver mines in the Crownlands at Kutná Hora.

The industrial boom and population takeoff in Vislania had proven to be a challenge: there were simply that many more mouths to feed. And thus the Crown had taken an interest in bolstering cultivation of rye in that region. The best agricultural land was in a belt well to the north of Nový Sadec, in the valleys along the Horná Visla basin, and given the input from local villagers, the Crown decided to stake its bets on the production of rye there.

Truth be told, Maćij kept better abreast of these developments than his father did, despite his father regularly attending head-of-state meetings of the Moravský jednotný front. Arcywójwoda Rúfus Rychnovský was of a scholarly frame of mind—tolerant, liberal, even generous, but not overly closely concerned with the doings of the common folk. Maćij was more… engagé. He kept close contact with both the leaders of the old artisans’ guilds, and the organisers in the factories who were only just beginning to awaken to the exploitative reality of the work-or-starve trap that many of them were in. He even had certain contacts among rural villages and communes. Maćij had grown close to Bruno Zháněl, a peasant leader in Bohemia, and regularly wrote letters to him. He was even (surprisingly!) on terms of mutual respect with the Purkmistra Anzelm Chládek, in Lesana’s inner circle—one of the few who was privy to his identity as Radohov. Chládek didn’t hold with all of Maćij’s ideas, but their concerns overlapped and reinforced each other enough that they treated each other in their correspondence as potential allies.

But what alarmed Maćij, was that despite Zháněl’s and Chládek’s good intentions, and their evident desire for a meaningful degree of true popular government in goals that aligned more or less with his own—they were being outflanked at every turn by a British Mexican immigrant with a reactionary ideology!

The SZBPJe, despite Maćij’s premature hopes that its straitened monetary situation would do it in, had rebounded dramatically. What Tristan Franklin lacked in access to deep pockets, evidently, he more than made up for in appeal to the common man. The (generally more devout) Slovak East—the kraje of Prešov and Košice in particular—were remarkably open to Franklin’s message, as he called for a return to the glories of Holy Orthodoxy in Moravia, to the path of the saints and martyrs and fools-for-Christ who had graced Moravia’s antiquity. And he sprinkled his message with just enough sympathy, just enough amenability to popular discontent with the pace of progress, that he assured himself of a warm welcome in whatever Orthodox parish he chose to visit in those regions.

It both amused and infuriated Maćij Rychnovský. Reading about Tristan Franklin was something like looking into a twisted mirror of himself. They shared many of the same concerns; the same distaste for the corrupt elites; the same desire to harness the spiritual power and authority of the Moravian countryside. Tristan’s past, hiding in the jungles from the brutalities of the British Army, elicited Maćij’s sympathies somewhat. Yet Tristan’s desire for a kind of Orthodox papocaesarism, placing the power of the state in the Church, rubbed Maćij entirely the wrong way! It was the attitude of an arriviste, and good Orthodox priests raised in the Faith ought to know better than to buy into such nonsense. Yet Tristan Franklin’s ability to draw crowds, and the personal magnetism which had swirled around him ever since his fateful duel with Bernardín Ďurčanský, was something Rychnovský couldn’t help but admire and envy.

Rychnovský’s interference in the Empire’s affairs had other consequences as well. Not ones he’d sought after—but ones with which Lesana would be forced to deal in short order.

It was well-known that Radohov’s missive had been the primary impetus for the exile of Jä’ǩǩem Joks from Sápmi. That treatise had been read aloud by the fisherman Kue’smm Bred, leader of the Huntsman’s and Fisherman’s Faction of the Sámiráđđi just prior to the ostracism vote—the faction that was known to have the support of Ságajođiheaddji Riibma 3. Kaise. Truth be told, the essay had resonated profoundly. The Sámit overwhelmingly baulked at the idea of a standing professional army on the territory they freely ranged with their reindeer herds, and a professional navy stationed in their traditional fishing-waters. Jä’ǩǩem Joks’s fate was sealed the moment that Bred read Radohov’s appeal to the Vyřkedant in his treatise.

But Joks hadn’t been without friends and supporters. There was a significant liberal faction in the Sámiráđđi, the Oulu Merchants’ Association, that was composed primarily of ethnic-Swedish shopkeepers and ship-owners, which had assisted in Joks’s leavetaking of Sápmi. But they had also vowed that his dismissal into exile would not go unanswered or unavenged. The Swedish shopkeepers had enough funds raised that they could begin openly challenging the Sámiráđđi’s authority, and begin speaking of open revolt.

~~~​

Fara put little Josef Rychnovský to bed in the nursery—her newborn fourth child—went back to her own bedroom, lit a candle at the desk, and sat down to open a letter from her elderly babuška Anastasiya. Her dark brown eyes scanned the elderly woman’s letter, noting with concern the shakiness of the hand that had written it. It was a mercy, even if Fara could not regularly return home to Astrakhan, at least exchange these letters with her ancient Cossack grandmother, and let her know that she still thought of her at home.

The contents of the letter were of some interest. Evidently the mill bosses in Astrakhan had been influential in forming a pro-Moravian pressure group in Moscow. Anastasiya had noted this with some irony—she wasn’t fond of the mill bosses; she thought they were cheats and crooks—but she was glad that this might help Fara, who was ensconced in one corner of the greater Moravian Empire. Fara chuckled a bit as she read this, but then her face fell slightly.

‘Mac,’ Fara called.

‘Yes, Faryanka?’

‘How do you think of me?’ she asked. ‘Do I seem more Russian to you, or more Caspian?’

Maćij chuckled. ‘What a question to ask this late at night! I wooed you with a ġazal of Ḥâfiz; and I’ve kept wooing you with Imperial Russian Readers. I know you’re both.’

‘Has it ever been… a problem for you?’ asked Fara. ‘That I’m a foreigner, I mean. Iranian or Russian.’

‘Early on it wasn’t easy going,’ Maćij told her. ‘But that was because I was worried for you. Having to adapt to so many new situations, a new culture, a new home, unfamiliar people and sights and sounds—I was mostly worried that it wouldn’t be easy for you.’

Fara took his hand in hers and caressed it. ‘I know you were worried for me. That’s not what I meant.’

Maćij laughed softly. ‘What did you mean, then?’

‘It’s just… Russia’s such a large Tsardom. Much of it’s not properly European. Much of it’s Asian… like me. And… Europe outside Russia isn’t a welcome place for a woman of Asian Russia. It’s too cold, emotionally. It’s lonely here. But I feel like, to make up for the loneliness, people talk and brag and swagger with each other about things that ought to be kept private. And how is it that Sorbs and Germans can live together in the same state, even as they despise and distrust each other? Now, I’m the granddaughter of a Cossack, so I’m not saying I’m so pure and innocent, but… How is it that a little coastal state like Luxembourg, or an island like Britain, can claim any right to lord it over such vast swathes of South America and Asia and pieces of Africa, entirely against the will of their people—and still believe themselves to be morally our betters, or that God is on their side?’

Maćij let out a sigh. ‘I don’t know. People can delude themselves into thinking all kinds of silly things—especially if they’ve been educated into them. For what it’s worth, though, I agree with you.’

‘But is it too much to hope for,’ asked Fara, ‘that the relations between Moravia and Russia continue as they have?’

‘Not at all,’ replied Maćij.

 

[Chac1]

Thank you for this chapter. This is an interesting interlude. Fara's musings seem to setting up something concerning Russia, but there aren't enough clues to know what. Either that or she's going to ask to bring some of her family or at least some servants from the old country to help keep her company.

 

[StrategyGameEnthusiast]

Now, I’m the granddaughter of a Cossack, so I’m not saying I’m so pure and innocent, but… How is it that a little coastal state like Luxembourg, or an island like Britain, can claim any right to lord it over such vast swathes of South America and Asia and pieces of Africa, entirely against the will of their people—and still believe themselves to be morally our betters, or that God is on their side?’

Maćij let out a sigh. ‘I don’t know. People can delude themselves into thinking all kinds of silly things—especially if they’ve been educated into them. For what it’s worth, though, I agree with you.’

This is all too true. The other answer would be that many of these people believe in the ancient mantra of might makes right.

 

[Revan86]

TEN.
Boiling Point
21 December 1832 – 13 September 1834

The Oulun vuostálasvuohta, as it came to be known, began on 21 December 1832. Calling themselves the Liberalernas Liga (Liberal League), the Swedish merchants of the town of Oulu declared themselves to be the legitimate authority over all of Sápmi with Jä’ǩǩem Joks as their proposed head of state, and began raising an army under Jä’ǩǩem Joks’s compatriot and most well-known sympathiser, Evvnaž Stutt. Quite a few of Sápmi’s military men joined the Swedes of Oulu, in part owing to their former loyalty to the exiled Joks.

The fall of Oulu happened suddenly. Stutt’s competent leadership ensured that the rebels seized the port first, as well as the sea fortifications. A simultaneous uprising and seizure of the port infrastructure at Gáddeluokta ensured that the Kola Peninsula also fell under the military control of the Liberalernas Liga, even though much of the Peninsula remained loyal to the Sámiráđđi. The Liberals controlled a West-East axis that trisected the loyal segments of Sápmi into three regions: southern Finland, Karelia and Sápmi Proper.

Cárovná a Kráľovna Lesana was honour-bound to respond by coming to the aid of Riibma 3. Kaise, and sending the Moravian Army northward under the command of Brigádny-generál Siloš Purkyně Zelený through Russia to quell the rebels.

Riibma 3. Kaise ran into Jååǥǥar Mienná on his way to the Sámiráđđi. ‘Do I hear right,’ asked the leader of the deliberative body, ‘that Purkyně Zelený has been despatched here from Moravia?’

Kapteaidna Jååǥǥar Mienná, who served as the representative of the Sápmi Home Defence Force in the Sámiráđđi, shook his head grimly as he fell in step with the speaker. ‘I’m afraid there’s no avoiding it, Riibma. He’s a celebrated veteran of the Asturian War; he’s the highest-ranking officer in Moravia; and, as an officially-designated march, we fall under his jurisdiction.’

The Ságajođiheaddji glowered. ‘I’ve met Purkyně personally. Trust me when I tell you, Jååǥǥar, neither of us want such a man to be leading troops on Sámi soil. The cost in the flesh and blood of our people, our animals, our streams and sacred forests… would simply be too high.’

‘You propose waiting for the Commodore’s fleets?’

Riibma shook his head with a sigh. ‘I’m afraid we can’t do that either. Despite his promises, Reinaud de Montfort has his own problems to deal with. The latest is that the Luxembourgers are demanding elections again, and he needs the troops at home to quell any… unpleasantness that might arise.’

‘So what are you going to do instead?’ asked Mienná.

‘Make a field promotion,’ Riibma told him.

Inside the long wooden structure, built traditionally and without ostentation in an extended maritime suenjel style, that housed the Sámiráđđi, Riibma 3. Kaise and Kapteaidna Jååǥǥar Mienná came face-to-face with a slenderly-built Sámi slightly past middle age, with a long, heavily-lined face and silver hair along his temples. Although at first glance he might be taken for a weakling, a long jagged scar across one side of his face showed him—at the very least—to be a man of the outdoors and not a foreigner to personal struggle and hardship. Mienná recognised him immediately.

This was a fellow Kapteaidna of the Home Defence Force—specifically, a cavalry captain who specialised in open field warfare. A Skolt Sámi by birth, he went by two names. Among the Russians and the Chudes of the Kola Peninsula, he was Sergei Nikolaevič Šejkov. But among the Sámi of the North, he was called Si’rģģi Niska.

The Ságajođiheaddji greeted Si’rģģi warmly, and shook his hand. ‘I’m here to offer you my congratulations in person, General Niska.’

‘You’re too kind,’ bowed the newly-promoted general.

‘You’ve served with Stutt before, is that right?’ asked Riibma 3. Kaise.

‘In the same unit, for four years,’ Niska answered. ‘He’s a brilliant tactician, not to be underestimated. Stutt has a flair for the dramatic—and a preference for quick, decisive strokes.’

‘But that’s not your style,’ Mienná remarked shrewdly.

‘I’m a Skolt,’ Niska shrugged. ‘To us, patience has its own quality.’

‘As you may have guessed,’ Kaise rejoined, with a hint of chagrin, ‘patience is a luxury we can ill afford at the moment, and this promotion comes with a heavy charge. Are you up to it?’

Niska bowed. ‘I was up to it when I swore upon my siida to protect it.’

‘Good man,’ Kaise told him. ‘Protect the land well.’

~~~​

General Niska fought two major engagements against his former comrade—and his experience having served with him, came in quite useful. Both at the battle of Roavvenjárga and at the battle of Kovdor, Niska managed to outwait and outwit Stutt. Stutt, in both cases, attempted to make cautious advances punctuated by bold strikes against the loyalist line… only to be outmanoeuvred at both ends.

Niska was very much at home in the taiga-bound inselberg flats of Gaskasápmelaš, an old seabed scraped flat by ancient glaciers, and dotted with glacial till. Niska knew the territory of Roavvenjárga… but then, so too did his opponent. Niska understood well that in order to gain the advantage over Stutt, he had to allow the younger officer to believe he had an opportunity for a swift coup de grâce. That meant carefully positioning the Sámi loyalist infantry in enough of a cluster that Stutt would see an advantage in attacking, yet not in such force and array that he would be immediately daunted and suspect a trap. And so many of the loyalists were made to behave like forest guerrillas: waiting in ambush within sight of a central unit where Niska’s command colours would be flown.

The technique worked like a charm, although it meant that the central group took some heavy casualties in the initial skirmish on 17 February 1833. Stutt was caught completely off-guard by the flanking manoeuvres from Niska’s reinforcements, and was forced to retreat to the northeast in the direction of Kovdor. Niska pursued, and once again set up two-thirds of his men to fight from a central position and one-third to wait in the flanks as his forces engaged Stutt again on 8 March. At Kovdor, despite his precautions, Stutt again made the mistake of overconfidently lunging toward the centre and leaving his flanks vulnerable.

In the end, Si’rģģi Niska’s defeat of Evvnaž Stutt in these two engagements meant that there was little left for Purkyně to do when he got there. And it was at fairly low cost in terms of men—only eighty men had perished on the loyalist side, and sixty on the liberal side. Battle injuries were higher, but still only ranging into the hundreds on both sides. In the end, Riibma 3. Kaise retained control over the entirety of Sápmi without having to rely either on Luxembourg’s navy or upon Moravia’s armies: a fact which significantly added to his cachet as a Sámi statesman, and a man to be reckoned with in the Moravian United Front.

~~~

In the spring of 1833, Cárovná a Kráľovna Lesana Hlinková was approaching her seventy-second year of life—certainly a bit slower of stride and a bit frailer of frame, but not one whit duller in mind. In May of that year, at the annual summit of the Moravian United Front between herself, Arcywójwoda Rúfus, Erzherzog Landfried and Ságajođiheaddji Riibma, she unveiled to them a revised and much-augmented schedule of agricultural goods across the bloc that would be subject to UŠKBP inspections and standards. Once again, this was welcomed broadly by the other members of the bloc, and the emphasis on very literal bread-and-butter issues had the additional benefit of casting a degree of humanitarian lustre upon the image of the elderly Empress and Queen.

Lesana had her own legacy in mind as much as the welfare of her people. The essays of Maćij ‘Radohov’ Rychnovský, and the warmth with which they’d been received even in her own inner circle, had demonstrated to her how fragile the legacy of the Hlinkovci was in Moravia. And she was determined not to go down as the weak link in the dynastic chain… not after all the compromises she’d already been forced to make vis-à-vis her children with Johann Eichenwald!

In the interests of maintaining control over her three ‘outer’ vassals (as well as the ‘inner’ vassalage of Carpathia), Lesana was also forced to let drop Moravia’s defensive pact with the Curopalatinate of Colchis and Iberia… now the independent Kingdom of Georgia. Despite her affection for her late mother-in-law Mzistvala Grigolašvili and her family, even Moravia’s formidable diplomatic corps was stretched far too thin for such an arrangement to be of much practical benefit.

Unfortunately, the expiry of Moravia’s defensive pact with Georgia touched off a diplomatic crisis in the Caucasus. Tsar Boris Glinka-Gorčakov of Russia was now free to make an advance on Eastern Rome’s holdings in the Ciscaucasus region, which caused the Georgian monarch Trifon Grigolašvili a certain degree of consternation. The Papal States quickly moved to support Byzantium, but their support was too far removed to be of any use to Trifon. Georgia was forced also to dissolve its ties with Eastern Rome, and Russia extended its sway over the territory of Dagestan.

In order to consolidate her reputation at home, Lesana also commissioned an artist to place a grand monument in bronze, depicting her younger self in a winsome and adventurous pose, in the central town square in Krakov. This monument was to be completed and erected there in August of 1833.

There was some controversy over whether the monument ought to be made public at all, and also over whether Krakov was the correct placement for it. After all, Krakov was an industrial city, in the semi-autonomous region of Vislania. Several among her ministers, notably including Anzelm Chládek, were distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of this prominent piece of ‘official art’ going up at all. Others, like Fr Havel Čech, suggested that perhaps the monument would be better-appreciated in Lesana’s own ancestral territory of Silesia, rather than in Vislania. (Čech’s position as an official representative of the Church probably had some role in this. Even though the Calendar controversy had long since been resolved to the mutual satisfaction of both bodies, the Metropolitanate of Vislania was still technically autocephalous and independent of the Moravian Orthodox Church… and a certain degree of rivalry—sometimes friendly, sometimes less so—still existed between the two.)

In the end, however, the temptation for royal glory and the public exposure of such a grand statue was simply too great to pass up. Lesana issued the decree, and before August was out, the queen’s image in bronze soon beamed down with supreme confidence over the Hlavný trh in Krakov’s Old Town. On the merits, it was quite a remarkable piece of work. Though, given Lesana’s reputation in the Old Town, perhaps it could have found a more appreciative audience elsewhere.

~~~​

The eighth of August, 1834, was a momentous day in more ways than one. On that day, a tremendous explosion tore through a paper mill in Bohemia, destroying a third of the building’s construction, claiming the lives of 38 workmen inside, and leaving over 60 more with severe burns and physical injuries. Also on that day, a major demonstration was staged in the streets of Brno, against the brutal treatment of striking workers in al-’Abyaḍ at the hands of Sulṭân Siwār 3. ibn ‘Ayān of Asturias… though the news of the boiler explosion nearer home sparked a calamitous riot. And in the middle of that riot, giving a public address to the demonstrating workmen in Brno—was none other than the Arcywójwoda’s son, Maćij František Rychnovský!

But to understand the confluence of forces that led to the momentous Riot of 8 August in Brno, it is necessary to see the larger picture.

First, the metallurgical demands of the Moravian Army, which had begun adopting tactics with field works, trench-digging and barbed wire, had necessitated something of a diversification on the part of the producers of steel. The ‘Trenčin Taylors’ (that is, not merely the Taylor family of that town, but also the general class of well-to-do industrialists and businessmen who ran the Miava Maple Arcade) had responded by draughting a law, which with the support of the armed forces easily passed through the Stavovské Zhromaždenie: allowing publicly-traded joint-stock companies to operate all across the Kingdom of Moravia. This led to a general backslide in working conditions across the Arcade, as companies whose stock began to be traded in places like Amsterdam and London were suddenly compelled to demonstrate their profitability even if it came at the expense of things like equipment inspections, worker safety, worker pay and hours of weekly worktime.

​

Second, the demand for higher-quality steel for wiring and machine tools, led to the widespread adoption of British- and French-designed water-tube boilers in steel processing, as well as paper mills, furniture and tool workshops. These boilers operated by superheating steam in a furnace and sending it through narrow pipes to power industrial machinery. Unfortunately, many of these boilers, though well-designed, were fed and kept running with substandard piping: cheaper to produce, and an easy corner to cut.

Third, there was a growing split between the lower strata, between those concerned with the problems of keeping a steady income and working in humane conditions; and those who were concerned with the moral and spiritual state of the country. Tristan Franklin and the SZBPJe had been wildly successful in building a grassroots base, and had conscripted talented writers such as Kaye Gomól in order to bolster their support domestically. On the other hand, the more populistic left wing of Moravian politics (led domestically by Bruno Zháněl, supported domestically by Anzelm Chládek and abroad by Maćij Rychnovský) had been listening actively to the lower strata in both the industrial cities and the countryside. Although they had made some headway talking about workplace safety, wages and prices of basic goods, they were still largely playing catchup in competing against the right-wing SZBPJe.

That changed with the news that was coming out of Muslim Iberia throughout the summer of 1834, where striking workers were being literally shot and hacked apart with swords and beaten to death with truncheons until the streets flowed red with their blood. So great was the fear of a second revolution in Asturias that the Sulṭân spared no expense and cut no corners in seeing that any hint of it was severely and thoroughly dealt with. Naturally, in other corners of Europe, this degree of open brutality met with some consternation, particularly among the working class. Moravia was no exception.

The demonstration in Brno began as a demonstration of solidarity with the Muslim Mozarabic workers in al-’Abyaḍ, in their literal life-and-death struggle for better conditions and wages. Indeed, Chládek had stood up in front of them, gathered together at Lužánsky Park, and had begun to make a speech about the brotherhood of peoples—invoking names like Kráľ Robin Rychnovský and his pleas for cultural understanding in the process. But then someone from the back of the crowd let up a shout:

‘Papierenská továreň explodovala!’

Even Chládek fell silent at that, as the news was heard about how a steam pipe had burst in Litoměřice’s largest paper mill, destroying one section of the wall along one third of the building and burying a number of workers under the rubble. Others had suffered burns from the scalding superheated steam, and one section of the mill had caught fire. It was quickly ascertained that no inspections had been conducted in the mill before the pipes had been put in.

The workmen at Lužánsky Park exploded with anger once they heard about how little value was set upon the lives of their compatriots in Litoměřice. By the time they left the park, the crowd had turned into an angry mob, and they marched straight on the government offices in Brno. They were soon confronted in the street by police, who prevented them from reaching the offices, and put down the riot with the degree of force that at the time was expected.

In the decades to come, the eighth of August would acquire massive significance. It would become a federal holiday in numerous countries—including in Russia. It would be remembered and solemnly commemorated by workmen all throughout Eastern and Northern Europe, as the nascence of the Moravian workingmen’s movement.

 

[StrategyGameEnthusiast]

Hopefully that rebellion up north won't be repeated any time soon.

 

[Chac1]

Perhaps this is an uniformed question, as I do not play Victoria. However, isn't 1833 a bit early for a nascent worker's movement to form? Perhaps 15 years too early? Of course, that may be the game engine and in reading AARs of this era, some amazing leaps forward do seem to happen.

Thanks for this latest chapter.

 

[Revan86]

ELEVEN.
Twice Outmanoeuvred
19 September 1834 – 7 August 1835
​

Three weeks after the 8 August workingmen’s demonstration in Brno, Maćij Rychnovský returned home to the Zwinger in Drježdźany… in the wee hours, after all the gas lamps on the streets had been long since put out. His carriage rolled up into the castle courtyard; he dismounted, went up the steps, opened the door and took off his cloak and jacket on the landing. A flickering shadow from the doorjamb told his eyes that a lamp was still lit in the parlour. In his shirtsleeves, he creaked the door open and saw the coal-oil lamp which was still lit on one of the card-tables. In the cozily-upholstered armchair next to it, her head gently lolling to the side, sat the figure of his wife—her breasts gently rising and falling in the deep, slow rhythm of sleep.

Maćij smiled affectionately. He walked up to Fara and planted a tender kiss on her forehead, then another one between her heavy black brows. She stirred, and her eyelids fluttered awake, her doe-dark eyes glimmering with the coal-oil lamplight. She turned her head upwards and returned Maćij’s kisses with one on his lips.

‘You’re back,’ she murmured happily.

‘I’m back.’

She held up a Russian newsprint that had been next to her on the armchair. The front page showed an engraved illustration of the violent confrontation between police and protesters in Brno. ‘I was worried about you,’ she told him simply.

‘I’m safe and whole, as you see. Chládek too,’ he told her. But a wrinkle of sadness creased his brow. ‘I truly wish I could say the same for all of us. More than heads and prides were broken that day.’

Fara reached up and traced her husband’s cheek, letting it linger as she considered the words she wanted to say. ‘I didn’t always know why you had to take such risks, Mac. I used to think of you as a… a deyateľ, you know. But I know you. You really do care. When you’re writing, or holding your secret meetings, or going out into the streets, it’s my deduška and babuška and tëti you have in mind. So I won’t dream of trying to stop you. But I do wish you could include me… sometimes, when you’re on your campaigns for the “ordinary people”.’

Maćij clasped her hand. ‘How’s Šahra doing? And Parvane, Rostam, Josef and Zusana?’

‘They’re fine,’ Fara told him bracingly.

‘Even Josef?’

‘The doctors say only that he should get outside more,’ Fara told him, in the patient tone Mac knew she reserved for him when she thought he was being dense. ‘There isn’t anything wrong with Josef that sunlight and play and time out in the countryside won’t cure.’

Maćij looked dubious.

Fara, arms on his shoulders, looked her husband in the eyes. ‘I’m serious. Include me. I believe in what you’re doing, all of it: agrarian communes, producer and consumer coöps, monetary reform, direct elections, opolčenie… Yes, I’ve been reading up. All your “Radohov” essays. And other things.’

That took Maćij pleasantly aback. Giving birth to and raising their five children had indeed slowed her down, but it hadn’t at all quashed her natural curiosity or desire to learn. Fara was now reading and writing in Russian at a ninth-grade level. That was more than an overwhelming majority of men or women of the class she’d been born in were able to achieve at any point in their lives. And it touched Maćij that his wife was taking an interest in his organising and political work.

After a while, Maćij stroked Fara’s hair with a fond hand. ‘Very well,’ he told her. ‘I’d say you’ve well earned the right. Consider yourself invited to the next meeting.’

~~~

Bořivoj Matuška swung his bare legs over the edge of the bed and began to button up his shirt. Without even thinking, he turned his head back a thought. The prone, sprawled figure of Nikoleta Pavlíková still lay there, dozing soundly after their strenuous carnal exertions—both from earlier that morning and the night before. Matuška regarded her with cool indifference. The mottle-faced, indifferently-brunette, bespectacled shopkeep’s daughter snoring beside him certainly wasn’t his idea of a beauty. But did she ever have a body! A body considerably more eager and venturesome than the daughters of his hapless serfs, he dared say. And that mouth—! True, Nikoleta Pavlíková was far more useful to him as a political pawn than a mistress. But Pán Matuška wasn’t the kind of man to turn down an opportunity to mingle business with pleasure.

Bořivoj Matuška stood up, rinsed his face and privates in the washbasin, and combed through the long brown mutton-chops with his fingers before pulling his breeches on. A landlord of Nitra ought to look the part before the Stavovské Zhromaždenie, after all—and he had a proposal to make there today. He gathered up Pavlíková’s messy pile of collected signatures from the table. No doubt Pavlíková, when she awoke, would be convinced that in seducing him she’d landed a major strategic coup on behalf of her cause. But as it happened, her proposal coincided with his interests quite nicely anyway.

The rabble that had taken to the streets of Brno on 8 August had shaken many of his compatriots. And indeed, there were valid grounds for concern. But Pán Matuška was already thinking several steps ahead. He’d long felt that a small symbolic concession to popular demands—restrictions on child labour and working hours—would take the pressure off of the landed gentry from their own tenants, and stick a nice fat thumb in the eye of the Trenčín clique for good measure. And then: who should land in his path but this naïve, easily-frustrated do-gooder young townswoman, and her bleeding heart for the cause of the poor factory children in the Arcade?

He resisted the temptation to smirk. Well, well… let her think she’d won as long as she liked. Truth be told, for someone of Matuška’s foresight, it had to be admitted that the petitions Koleta had collected for him had probably saved Moravia from the fires of an Asturian-style revolution for another good decade or two. She deserved thanks at least for that. He looked back at her again. Hm. Maybe he wouldn’t turn down another proposition from her after all…? True, Koleta was plainer than his mixed-breed pointer. But his cold-fish wife wouldn’t do half the things she was doing for him, and his serfs’ daughters didn’t know how.

A half an hour later, Pán Matuška’s carriage had arrived. He had his bundle of papers crooked under his arm, looked fresh and smart in his tailored suit, and was more than prepared to address his peers and his lessers in the Stavovské. He had a mien of suitable noblesse oblige that well suited the solemn gravity of his proposal of pious Christian duty to the children of the realm.

Facing the Stavovské Zhromaždenie, Bořivoj gave the following address, in a sombre and spellbinding voice befitting one of the great orators of old:

‘Esteemed colleagues, the condition that faces the great mass of our people, the solid men of the earth who furnish forth our tables with apples and butter, the working folk who tool our furniture, who spin our clothes and mend our shoes—is growing more and more intolerable by the year. Particularly dire the fate that awaits the tiny hands and feet, the dear, tear-stained small round faces of the children of this Kingdom! I am sure that many of you here will agree with me that, after the events of 8 August, reform is our most desperate need, and our holiest of God-given charges! I have in my hand a petition, with over a thousand signatures, collected by one Miss Koleta Pavlíková. The righteous demands are that no child under the age of fourteen shall be allowed to sell their labour outside their household, that minors above that age currently so employed shall be restricted to a workday no more than ten hours long, that their daily earnings shall not be decreased as a result of this restriction, and that under no circumstances shall any minor be compelled to labour upon the Lord’s Sabbath. “Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven,” so says the Saviour!’

~~~​

In a small room on the second floor of an out-of-the-way public house in Ústí nad Labem near Litomerice, three men and one woman sat around a table. The mood there was somewhat tense.

Maćij Rychnovský broke the tension with a click of the tongue. ‘That bad, huh?’ he asked.

‘It’s an… inconvenience,’ Anzelm Chládek answered the young Sorbian nobleman grimly.

‘Inconvenient that the Stavovské is discussing getting young children off of shop floors?’ asked Fara Rychnovská incredulously. ‘Inconvenient that the older children are getting Sundays off work, and increased pay for fewer hours?’

‘It isn’t the policy that’s the problem,’ C. a K. Lesana’s advisor clarified for Fara’s benefit. ‘Matuška’s law is fine. Better than fine! In fact, I’m not sure I could have draughted a better one for the factory children’s plight. And it’s remarkable how quickly Matuška got Pavlíková’s proposal through the Zhromaždenie. The problem is how it’s positioned.’

Bruno Zháněl spoke up. ‘Matuška is gentry, with significant rural estates in Nitra. He’s happy to champion urban workers and children. No skin off his back, see? But by promoting this law, he gets a free shield with which to deflect any criticism of how his clique treats us bowers and serfs, and a free spear-end to drive between town—’ Zháněl indicated Chládek with a courteous tip of the head, before pointing to himself: ‘—and country.’

‘It makes the new industrial brotherhoods complacent,’ said Maćij. ‘They think that landowners like Matuška are on their side now.’

‘I see.’ Fara straightened her shoulders and knitted her brows pensively.

‘What’s worse,’ Chládek said darkly, ‘is that he’s being assisted by an agitator who has made a name for herself championing children’s rights: Nikoleta Pavlíková. I know the girl’s father well, and I know her general type. She’s young, educated, literary, idealistic, righteous—never got her hands dirty in the demonstrations on 8 August, but still wants to do something to help.’

‘Also a weak spot for high-born men with money, I expect,’ Bruno Zháněl remarked.

‘Now, now,’ Chládek chided Bruno. But there was a complacent smirk on his face.

‘Mark my words,’ Zháněl continued sardonically. ‘Once Pavlíková’s tired of playing activist, she’s going to retire to a nice cosy little assignation house in Nitra to ply her living as a certain gentleman’s mistress until he gets tired of her. Then she’ll go and raise chickens or something.’

‘The question is,’ the Arcywójwoda’s son pondered, ‘how can we turn this to our advantage? Can we even get the workers and rural folk to back the same line after this?’

‘Why not simply call Matuška’s bluff?’ asked Fara. ‘Make a counterproposal that benefits farmers and serfs—like, maybe a law promoting agrarian cooperatives?’

Bruno Zháněl and Anzelm Chládek exchanged an uneasy glance. ‘You’re absolutely right, Pani Rychnovská. That’s the most natural solution,’ Chládek answered Fara. ‘The problem has always been draughting a law, such that both my constituency and Bruno’s would be happy with it. Townspeople don’t like high prices on grain; farmers don’t like low prices. The trick has always been convincing my people that rural co-ops wouldn’t automatically mean a spike in their cost of living. And with factory workers it’s an even harder sell, because their livelihoods are even more at risk.’

‘If Bruno shot for a co-op act now,’ Maćij said, ‘he’d come off looking like the villain in their eyes.’

‘Just so,’ Bruno shook his head. ‘But a growing number of farmers know that pooling resources, organising and bargaining together, is the only way to break the iron grip of gentry like Matuška.’

‘Tell you what,’ Chládek told Zháněl warmly. ‘I’ll stick my own neck out this time. Let me take the heat from my voters. Lesana’s more likely to sign onto an agrarian reform act if I’m the one who suggests it to her.’

Zháněl gave him a doubtful look. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it. But if it does happen, I’ll have your back.’

‘I’m afraid I wasn’t very much help,’ Fara told Maćij when they’d left the tavern and gotten back in their coach to return to Drježdźany. ‘I fear my naïveté made the meeting take twice as long.’

‘Rubbish,’ Mac told her fondly. ‘Chládek and Zháněl have careers which straddle two different worlds: the world of official Moravia, and the world of Moravia’s towns and small villages. You brought a fresh perspective. And quite honestly, those two need to be made to see things from your view—it’s the view that half or more of the townsmen and bowers get.’

Mac turned Fara’s face toward him and kissed her soundly on the lips. ‘Besides, you’re the one who came up with the idea for pressing ahead at once with the agrarian reform act to call Matuška’s bluff. That’s just the nudge they needed.’

Fara squeezed her husband’s arm. ‘That poor Pavlíková,’ she mused. ‘She got involved far out of her depth, didn’t she?’

‘It appears that way,’ Mac answered her.

‘Did I?’ asked Fara.

‘I should certainly hope not!’ Mac said, aghast. ‘What manner of man do you take me for?’

Fara chuckled at her husband’s reaction. ‘An honest one, Matsî ‘azîzam. An honest one.’

~~~​

When the time came to present the agrarian reform act to the monarch, however, once again Anzelm Chládek was outmanoeuvred… this time not only by Matuška, but by his own constituents! By the time he was able to present his proposal to the C. a K. in August the following year—practically the one-year anniversary of his disastrous involvement in the Brno disturbances—he found he had been beaten to the punch.

‘It’s an intriguing proposal you make,’ Lesana arched her thin elderly white brows as she read Chládek’s draught of the cooperatives act. ‘But I have another one already in mind.’

Anzelm Chládek’s eyes darted sharply toward the two other fellows in the room. Seated there were the deadpan saturnine Josef Ptáčnik, who had been promoted to Poručík, and the silver-haired Vilém Bély—now a Nadpraporčík. He had never met either man before, but from their manners and quasi-military bearing, he had a fairly good idea of who they were and what they represented. The C. a K. handed to him another set of papers, different than the one he’d handed her.

‘The reports which came to Us about the marked growth of the criminal underworld in Varšava are clearly alarming not only to me. Your own faction has draughted a proposal for an organised police force to counter it—one which I will approve. You are to make the proper arrangements for presenting this draught proposal to the Zhromaždenie, along with these two gentlemen from Praha, who have kindly agreed to speak for their city and for their department.’

‘Understood, vaše Velíčenstvo.’

Anzelm Chládek regarded the two policemen with a guarded expression. He wasn’t typically one to harbour class animosities, but he did share the prevailing petit-bourgeois distaste for men trained to deal with criminals—and who were generally thought little better than the criminals themselves. And then there was the small matter of the demonstration in Brno last year, where he and the local constables had been on opposite sides of the riot. Chládek had not taken part in the violence, but there were comrades of his who had and come off the worse for it, and even a year later that whole affair still rankled him.

Chládek gave a lift of the head, signalling an exeunt from the audience room. Ptáčnik and Bély followed Chládek out into the hall. As soon as the door was shut and they were out of earshot of the C. a K., Chládek rounded on them.

‘I hope you’re happy with yourselves,’ he growled.

‘We don’t make the laws; we don’t push for laws,’ Ptáčnik answered him. ‘That’s your job. Our job is to see they’re followed. Give us the funding and the tools we need, and we can do that job better.’

 

[StrategyGameEnthusiast]

This dedicated police force will deal with organised crime, but will they trigger the revolution by repressing dissenting voices?

 

[Chac1]

Great to see Fara's ideas being listened to in this chapter.

However, the outcome is believable: law and order needs usually trump agrarian reform, even if that is needed.

Thanks for the gift of a new chapter.

 

[Revan86]

TWELVE.
The Monument and the Vineyard
7 August 1835 – 13 May 1837​

The following years saw a rift between the workers and peasants in the Moravian Empire begin to grow, in a way that Bruno Zháněl and Fara and Maćij Rychnovský could only endeavour in vain to bridge. The professional, small-mercantile and artisanal classes of Moravia had essentially abandoned the cause of both, out of apathy and out of concern for their own skins. The rise of the ‘Rodzina’ in Varšava had deeply impacted their concerns. (Although this criminal ‘Family’ which had established itself as something of an alternative government in Varšava’s streets through racketeering and retributive violence was headed by a man widely thought to be a Vislanian of means, most of the enforcers of this gang were Poles.)

A rift had also grown between Zháněl and Chládek. Both men were veterans of the 8 August Brno demonstrations, and both men had collaborated closely to build common ground between urban workers and petit bourgeoisie, and the men of field and lumberyard and mine. But Bruno Zháněl took Anzelm Chládek’s support of the proposed policing act as a deep personal betrayal. Maćij attempted to get his two comrades to reconcile, but the younger man’s efforts had little avail.

Chládek had a number of concerns that hampered his ability to operate independently. For one thing, he was an advisor to the Cárovna a Kráľovná, a member of the ‘Inner Zhromaždenie’. He had already put that position at considerable risk by appearing at the head of a workingmen’s demonstration in Brno and clashing with the same police whose cause he was now tasked with championing. For another thing, he was tasked with overseeing a constituency of geographically disparate men who were growing increasingly fearful of the ‘Rodzina’. There was even talk of the Moravian urban professionals abandoning their traditional support for the Proruský Zväz.

After the child labour law, the only good news that came to the pro-labour bloc in late 1835 was that of the birth of Maćij and Fara’s sixth child—a girl, Farzane, on 16 September 1835. The Rychnovský brood was indeed flourishing. Šahrazade was growing into quite the precocious little seven-year-old, already reciting poetry in both Sorbian and Iranian… and Parvane wasn’t far behind her. Rostam was a rambunctious little imp, and the full-time job of keeping him out of trouble was causing his governess no end of grief. (Here Fara had given in to her mother-in-law’s suasion.) Jozef was unfortunately still of a weak and sickly constitution, and getting out-of-doors had brought him only moderate benefits. And Fara was still nursing both of her youngest baby daughters at her breast—Zusana and Farzane.

The British-Maaya engineer, duellist and reactionary political agitator Tristan Franklin had died the previous month—not from violence, but rather from a coronary: the result, so the presiding physician had pronounced, of a stubborn insistence on overwork. Without Franklin’s personal magnetism and dynamic leadership, the SZBPJe foundered and lost coherence. Infighting among the various rural parishes (particularly in eastern Slovakia) which had been the most receptive to his message had led to the papocaesarist movement’s fragmentation. Several SZBPJes therefore emerged from the aftermath of Franklin’s passing… none of which had a fraction of the political relevance that its originator had.

~~~​

‘Mac, come here,’ the Arcywójwoda Rúfus bade his son.

The son and heir to the throne of Drježdźany nodded obediently and came with his father.

Rúfus led Maćij out into the courtyard of the Zwinger, and proudly presented to his son a life-sized work of bronze sculpture. It consisted of a trio of sisters with very different temperaments and attitudes—one of them willowy and matronal, carrying a pitcher of water; the second of them athletic and engagé, tending to the roots of what was clearly meant to be a mighty tree (or the beginnings of one—perhaps an actual tree was meant to grow into or alongside the sculpture), while a third, tiara-bearing, buxom and proud, was clearly embracing the leaves of the putative tree.

‘That’s Viera, Vlasta and Blažena, isn’t it?’ asked Maćij with interest. ‘The daughters of Duke Bohodar, and the foremothers of our line.’

Rúfus nodded. ‘What do you think?’

Maćij considered. It was certainly a piece in the Romantic school. The expressions of the three sisters, Maćij’s ancestresses, all clearly conveyed a sense of lifelike personality and vivacity. And Maćij at once caught the nationalistic tenor of the piece, as well as the implicit call to unity and progress. The implication, also, was one of gender equality: the women of the Rychnovský line were every bit as important as the men, if not more so, to the establishment of the Moravian nation.

Maćij smiled at last. ‘I approve.’

‘I haven’t commissioned the dedication yet. Do you think we should gift this to C. a K. Lesana, or to one of the arts academies in Moravia?’

‘I think an indirect dedication to the Empress might come off better,’ Maćij said after several moments’ thought. ‘She already has that monument to herself in Krakov. I fear that a direct dedication to her would come off as… well, redundant.’

Rúfus chuckled, causing his jowls to shake. ‘True. Then what would you suggest, Mac?’

‘Gift it to the University of St Michael the Archangel in Olomouc,’ said Maćij, ‘and dedicate it to all the mothers of the nation. Lesana’s no dullard—as the titular mother of Moravia, she can’t possibly miss the import of such a message. And she may be just gracious enough to appreciate the gesture.’

Rúfus clapped his son on the shoulder and drew him in for a hug. ‘I had that thought as well. And so it shall be done. I’ll have the plaque commissioned straightaway.’

~~~​

The policing act that C. a K. Lesana had tasked Anzelm Chládek with promoting in the Stavovské Zhromaždenie was a veritable albatross around his neck. The roundabouts in committee and the setbacks the act was encountering would have been punishment enough for his having reneged on his promise to Zháněl. The fact that Zháněl was now refusing to speak to him, though entirely understandable, nonetheless still stung him deeply. And even Maćij had lost his trust in him… but the lad was still young.

There was hope yet that he’d learn about the compromises that had to accompany involvement in politics. Chládek’s constituency was extraordinarily happy with the proposed Act—the sordid criminal happenings in Varšava were enough to make any small shopkeeper eager to have a well-funded and impartial constabulary on their side. So too were Matuška’s faction as well as the representatives of the Moravian Army in the Stavovské.

Even so, the leaks of the proposed text of the policing act to the papers had created a massive embroglio. It was predictable that the radical Zvon would come out against the Act, and give vent to numerous articles against the evils of dedicated policing over the space of several weeks. A bit more surprising and dismaying was the anti-police editorialising from the much more moderate, reliably-liberal Pražské poštovské. None of these articles, however, came from the hand of ‘Radohov’. Maćij was keeping suspiciously quiet these days, at least as far as his pen went. But Chládek no longer being invited to the political organising meetings of the town-and-country radical faction, he had no idea what those two (three, actually, now counting Fara) were planning.

But it was telling that the gears of industrial progress made significantly greater headway in those months than the policing bill through the Stavovské. Alexander Fox, a British-Moravian inventor in the Arcade, managed to develop a jigger winch using the same mechanical principles as the hydraulic press. The first model Fox cranes were already being put into industrial use in Trenčín by June of 1836. These winches could be used to lift massively heavier loads than the earlier stationary pulley-powered crane arms which had been previously used, cutting down shipping times through industrial warehouses by as much as a third.

Not long after that, another corporation was founded in Praha. Following the lead of the KKZH in the metallurgical domain, the spol. s r.o. Bohémsky prémiový papier or BPP was founded as a private limited-liability conglomerate of several paper mills in the Czech lands, founded with the intention of internally managing supply lines of timber from local sources. The industrial bourgeoisie were rapidly consolidating their power and becoming a formidable political presence in Moravia.

~~~​

Attention was turned fatally away from the policing bill with a minor scandal that erupted within the ranks of the SSRBM (more informally called the ‘Anti-Asturian League’). Evidently there was a switch-up. A muddle-headed errand-boy for the Church of Saint Philip and Saint James in Uničov had sent the wrong document to the press for publication. And now, instead of the promised pamphlet that would expose the Sulṭân of Asturias for the tyrant and criminal that he truly was, a series of personal letters from individual churchmen was now circulating—praising the same Sulṭân for his decisiveness in maintaining order and quashing rebellious elements within his realm! As a result, great sport was made at the Orthodox Church’s expense in the press.

Elsewhere in Moravia Proper, there was a bit of news that took the entire kingdom by surprise. A wine review in one of Paris’s most esteemed periodicals began with the following.

The Muscat de Nicolsbourg 1831 is, in the opinion of this sommelier, not a thing to be lightly missed. A suitable wine is neither insubstantial nor does it sit heavily upon the stomach of the drinker, and any muscat worth its weight will refresh and pique rather than leaden and dull the senses. Yet to call the Nicolsbourg 1831 merely ‘suitable’ is a grotesque abuse of the French language, for this particular muscat ought to rest proudly upon the same shelf as one of our own Bordelaise premiers crus. The 1831 in particular captures the finest and purest essence of the white muscat grape. When the bottle is first opened, the 1831 breathes a subtly exotic floral air reminiscent of a soothing herbal tea, imbibed outside on a summer evening overlooking an orchard of ripe pears. The first sip builds solidly on these impressions, carrying notes of both wild asters and lavender, and a satisfyingly fruity body with a slightly acidic citrus edge. Yet despite such a profile, the Nicolsbourg 1831 is neither sluggishly juicy nor overly sweet, but remains light and refreshing down to the bottom of the glass…

Several other highly-esteemed French wine reviewers, speaking to their own papers and among the aristocrats of that nation, followed suit in recommending to the refined palates of their countrymen the Mikulovský 7340 muškát (marketed in France as Muscat de Nicolsbourg 1831). As a result, orders for imported wine, from France of all places, came flooding in across the desks of the wine distributors in southern Moravia for this particular vintage. The reputation for superior quality and distinguished taste of the Mikulovský 7340 spread quickly throughout Europe from there, leading to a vintners’ boom in rural Moravia.

The first modern sewer system was also planned and constructed in Olomouc, though only the Old Town around the castle was serviced by it. It was remarkable how clean the new sewer system rendered the streets, and how well it allowed fresh country air to permeate the city; most of the residents of the Old Town were grateful for the new infrastructure. (On the other hand, the sewer system rendered the Morava waters downstream considerably less potable.) Plans were subsequently made to map out and dig sewage gutters, pipes and culverts in other major cities in Moravia—Praha, Pardubice, Budějovice, Trenčín, Krakov and Bratislava most notably.

Another innovation that took place in those years was the mass production of cannisters for the preservation of foodstuffs. Canned food had been, at first, a matter of military necessity. During the Asturian Revolution, outbreaks of food poisoning among the Moravian, Bavarian and Sorbian troops would routinely occur on account of food spoilage in the warm Mediterranean climate. Methods of preservation had to keep up, and the most reliable way to keep spoliation from occurring was by cooking food inside sealed glass jars.

Mass manufacture of food cannisters was an entirely different mechanical problem. Iron, and then steel, were both considered as materials for storage, though those materials were expensive and, more importantly, in high state demand for construction projects. Thus, glass jars continued to be used for many years—despite the ease with which they broke. A method of storing food inside of soldered tin cans was patented by a Bourguignon-Moravian, Amaury Fouquet, who established the first cannery in the Miava Maple Arcade in November of 1836.

~~~​

There was a rap at the door of Anzelm Chládek’s study.

‘Enter,’ the exhausted parliamentarian groaned.

Who should step into the study but the same two of Praha’s finest? Josef Ptáčnik and Vilém Bély had been staidly coming to every fruitless session of the Stavovské Zhromaždenie and enduring the endless field of withering sneers, snide innuendos and belittling questions from committee without a single word of complaint. Despite his dislike of policemen as a general rule, Anzelm Chládek was growing into a grudging admiration for these two. Ptáčnik and Bély were calm, conscientious, determined and methodical. If it weren’t for the fact that promoting their cause made him feel very much like a Judas Iscariot to others close to him, Anzelm Chládek might easily have begun to like them.

‘We just wanted to check back with you to see if there were any new developments,’ Bély spoke.

‘None.’ Chládek rubbed his eyes. ‘The Act has well and truly stalled. I’m not sure I can drum up any more votes for you, in its present form. The cursed thing may need to be rewritten from scratch.’

Josef Ptáčnik shook his jowled head slowly. ‘How long do you think it takes for the Rodziny to strong-arm a neighbourhood in Vislania?’

‘I’ve seen towns fall into the gang’s clutches in a matter of weeks.’

‘Makes you wish you could drum up support for a new law that fast, doesn’t it?’ Ptáčnik gave a small humourless smile. But it wasn’t without sympathy for Chládek’s position.

‘How’s the Empress?’ asked Bély.

‘Not well,’ Chládek sighed. ‘Not well at all. Lesana’s mind is still razor-keen. But her back’s giving out and her knees are going the same way. She’s confined to her chair or her bed most days. Not a great place for any woman of her age to be. And she catches cold more easily than she used to.’

‘Maybe I should get my wife to send her Majesty some homemade česnečka,’ Bély offered. ‘Always picks me back up when I’m feeling under the weather.’

Chládek smiled at the faintly-ridiculous thought of Lesana being served a jar of potato-garlic broth from a local Praha police officer’s wife, however curative the effect. But anyone could see Bély’s offer was genuine and kindly meant. ‘I’ll let her know next time I see her.’

‘When it comes to rewriting that law,’ Ptáčnik brought the topic back, ‘you’ll make sure to keep us in the loop, won’t you?’

‘Certainly.’

 

[StrategyGameEnthusiast]

Attention was turned fatally away from the policing bill with a minor scandal that erupted within the ranks of the SSRBM (more informally called the ‘Anti-Asturian League’). Evidently there was a switch-up. A muddle-headed errand-boy for the Church of Saint Philip and Saint James in Uničov had sent the wrong document to the press for publication. And now, instead of the promised pamphlet that would expose the Sulṭân of Asturias for the tyrant and criminal that he truly was, a series of personal letters from individual churchmen was now circulating—praising the same Sulṭân for his decisiveness in maintaining order and quashing rebellious elements within his realm! As a result, great sport was made at the Orthodox Church’s expense in the press.

The Church are hypocrites and incompetent...

 

[Revan86]

Hopefully that rebellion up north won't be repeated any time soon.

Heh. You have no idea...

Perhaps this is an uniformed question, as I do not play Victoria. However, isn't 1833 a bit early for a nascent worker's movement to form? Perhaps 15 years too early? Of course, that may be the game engine and in reading AARs of this era, some amazing leaps forward do seem to happen.

Thanks for this latest chapter.

So... because of the way my tech tree had advanced on social, I got a whole bunch more workers' rights events early on in the game. Also, my game actually started in 1821 rather than the default 1836. That probably also had certain speeding-up effects on in-game history. Cheers, and glad to have you both reading!

This dedicated police force will deal with organised crime, but will they trigger the revolution by repressing dissenting voices?

Great to see Fara's ideas being listened to in this chapter.

However, the outcome is believable: law and order needs usually trump agrarian reform, even if that is needed.

Thanks for the gift of a new chapter.

The urban petit bourgeoisie want to protect what's theirs, and given the spike in crime it makes sense. But the wedge had already been driven firmly between town and country with the child labour act. As to whether it will spark the revolution, well... at the moment it seems to be effectively staving it off. But nothing lasts forever...