The Price of Progress (6)

Among everything father did, the hardest thing to understand, with its own reasons for everything else.

That would be education restrictions.

'He must have thought they become reds when sent to schools and universities.'

Can you believe it? That this nonsensical policy was implemented until the empire's collapse?

Restricting university lectures, restricting subjects taught, even restricting student numbers.

Records say it was because there would be no one to work if everyone went to school, or something.

'At this rate, the empire will peak in '97 as in history.'

'We need to stop 200 million rubles flowing out annually just in foreign dividends, right?'

So we need to inject plenty of growth stimulant first.

"Any other issues?"

"...I'll review it."

"Good, keep up the good work."

Another step forward today too.

Though I'm Tsar, I think of myself as still like a flower bud waiting to bloom.

'Not yet, not yet.'

Just one blooming. Once petals open, there's no chance to shrink back and grow again.

So now is the time to hold breath and wait. Since time remains until the empire's collapse, I can wait.

"Today's lesson is... theology."

Orthodox theology. Though I'd like to avoid it by imperial order, theology in this era is like character education so it can't be avoided.

I took out a theology book and started reading in advance.

It's not yet time.

The theological text lay open before me, its familiar passages filled with certainties I no longer shared. Father had believed in these words absolutely—the divine right of tsars, the unbreakable bond between Orthodox Church and Russian state, the moral imperative to preserve tradition against modern corruption.

How different my perspective had become. Not that I rejected faith entirely—there was comfort in its rituals, wisdom in some of its teachings—but I could no longer accept that God intended Russia to remain frozen in medieval structures while the world transformed around us.

My tutor entered precisely at the appointed hour, his black cassock immaculate, his beard neatly combed. Archbishop Theophanes had been selected personally by Father—a conservative theologian known for his uncompromising orthodoxy.

"Your Imperial Majesty," he intoned with a deep bow. "Shall we begin with prayer?"

I nodded, rising as custom dictated. The familiar words washed over me as we completed the ritual. When we were seated again, Theophanes opened his own well-worn text to the marked page.

"Today we shall discuss the divine ordination of hierarchy in society," he began. "As St. Paul instructs us in Romans 13: 'Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God.'"

I listened politely as he expounded on the theological justifications for autocracy, for the class system, for the subjugation of individual desires to divine and imperial will. These were lessons I had heard countless times before—the intellectual underpinnings of the system I now knew was doomed.

"Your Majesty seems contemplative today," Theophanes observed during a pause in his lecture. "Perhaps you have questions?"

I considered carefully before responding. "Father Theophanes, did not Christ himself minister most passionately to the poorest and most desperate of his society?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty. Our Lord's compassion for the suffering is a model for all Christian rulers."

"And yet," I continued, "when I look at our empire, I see millions living in conditions that would surely break the heart of Christ. Our peasants cannot read the very Bible that might comfort them. Our workers labor in conditions no man of faith could call just."

Theophanes shifted uncomfortably. "Your Majesty, the Church has always taught that suffering in this world prepares the soul for glory in the next. Not all can be educated, not all can prosper—such is God's design."

"Is it God's design," I asked quietly, "or merely human tradition claiming divine sanction?"

The Archbishop's eyes widened slightly, but he recovered quickly. "Your Majesty, these are dangerous waters. Even the Tsar must be wary of questioning teachings that have sustained Holy Russia for centuries."

I let the subject drop, returning to the prescribed lesson. But my mind continued along its own path, considering the irony that Father's education restrictions—meant to preserve the empire—had instead accelerated its intellectual stagnation. Without engineers, without scientists, without economists trained in modern methods, how could Russia possibly compete with industrial powers like Germany or England?

By strangling education, Father had unwittingly denied the empire its future leadership. Those few who did receive higher education often became radicalized precisely because they saw how backward Russia remained compared to Western nations. The very policy meant to prevent revolution was instead ensuring it.

As Theophanes droned on about divine hierarchy, I made mental calculations about how quickly the education system could be reformed. Universities would need expanded facilities, additional faculty, modernized curricula. Primary education would require thousands of new schools, tens of thousands of teachers.

The cost would be enormous. But the cost of continuing Father's policies would be the empire itself.

"Your Majesty?" Theophanes had paused, apparently expecting a response.

"Forgive me, Father. My mind was momentarily elsewhere."

"I was asking whether Your Majesty agreed that the Orthodox faith provides the moral foundation for all imperial governance."

I smiled thinly. "The Orthodox faith teaches love for one's neighbor, compassion for the suffering, and humility before God. If these are indeed the foundations of governance, then perhaps we have strayed further from our moral foundations than we realize."

The lesson continued, but something had shifted between us. Theophanes proceeded more cautiously now, perhaps sensing that the young Tsar before him was not the malleable student he had expected.

When the hour finally ended and he had departed, I remained at my desk, the theological text still open before me. I closed it carefully and set it aside.

Not yet, I reminded myself. The flower bud must remain closed until the perfect moment. Revealing my true intentions too soon would only mobilize the reactionary forces before I had built the necessary support for comprehensive change.

I pulled forward a different text—a detailed report on literacy rates across the empire. The numbers were abysmal. Less than thirty percent of the population could read or write. In rural areas, the figure dropped below fifteen percent.

How could such a population understand the complexities of modern governance? How could they participate in their own economic advancement? How could they resist the simplistic appeals of extremists who would promise them everything while delivering only more suffering?

Education would be among my first priorities when the time came. Not just universities, but village schools, technical institutes, adult education programs. Russia needed engineers more than theologians, teachers more than censors.

But as I closed the literacy report and prepared for my next meeting, I reminded myself again of the need for patience. The empire would continue its decline if I changed nothing, but it might collapse entirely if I changed too much, too quickly.

Like the flower bud, I would open only when conditions were perfect. And until then, I would continue to learn, to plan, and to wait.

It was not yet time.