A/N: OK, this. This is something I have been planning for almost a year – a Russia fic, mapping events from 1855, to 1917, a period which I studied in History AS. It will consist of two chapters – so don't worry, I haven't finished yet! I haven't managed to include everything – in fact, there are many elements which I skipped due to lack of time and exhaustion, but I've tried to give an overview at least of the political mood. Writing this was somewhat cathartic, almost as though I was reliving last year's history course. You know how sometimes you get these powerful, pent-up feelings about a topic – big, emotional hang-ups? Well this is sort of my way of releasing them.

Oh, and a disclaimer is probably necessary here, in case I inadvertently offend someone: some of you may know how I have this rather unfortunate tendency to include lengthy political tracts in my Hetalia writing, right? Well, I feel as though I should probably say now that whilst, yes, I am some flavor of socialist, I am not trying to present the Bolsheviks in a positive light – mostly because, resultant brutal dictatorship under Stalin notwithstanding, I don't hold with authoritarianism. I am incredibly ambivalent towards Lenin, although I'll admit to a degree of fondness for Trotsky. The only ideology expressed here with which I agree wholeheartedly are the views expressed by Bakunin. :) Because Bakunin is awesome.

That said, nothing here – besides Tsarism – is presented in an overly negative light, I hope. This is a fic about understanding Russia, not about judging - on my part, at least. I'm writing about a period where, to my mind, nothing had gone incontrovertibly wrong, and there was hope of salvage; that's one of the reasons why I decided to finish where I'm going to finish.

Incidentally, writing France from another's perspective was a rather novel experience. It almost felt like and out-of-body experience, I'm so used to writing him as my main protagonist. :)

L'Incorruptible will be continued soon, for those of you who are interested. In all fairness, I've been planning this for far longer, so it's not quite the egregious procrastination it appears to be. Sort of. Argh. I tend to get sidetracked by various different revolutions.

And finally, I feel like I should mention that Tom Stoppard's trilogy of plays, The Coast of Utopia, are the most brilliant sources for understanding the context of events prior to this period. Also, it's crammed with excellent amounts of revolutionary debate, and deliciously sharp banter. So that's my token recommendation. :P

Whew. Finally, we can begin!

Less Than Liberty

The end may justify the means as long as there is something in turn that justifies the end.

- Leon Trotsky

1855

When it happens, there are celebrations, spontaneous sparks of events, right there, on the streets – mad, joyous throngs appearing partially on impulse, partially to mark the pinnacle of long, arduous expectation. It is as though the entire country is of one mind, and that one mind is in revelry. Russia wonders – is it right for the death of a Tsar to herald such festivity? To feel so fitting? He does not know, and neither do his people, and he feels as though he might explode from uncontrollable happiness regardless. All night, he shouts, and dances, and sings, and drinks to the health of the new Alexander – the man whom they call – who could be, must be – his liberator.

1858

When Alexander promised liberation for the serfs, Russia thought he knew what freedom meant. It turns out that he misunderstood. Freedom is not, as he thought, a vast, open land of opportunity, filled to the brim with smiling faces, and joined hands, and people living rather than struggling to survive or wondering how they ever will. Freedom is not food, and not warmth, and not shelter – and it has very little to do with friendship and love. Freedom tastes acrid, like curdled expectations. Freedom is reparation dues which last decades, and insufficient, overpriced land, and long, harsh winters and high, ruinous taxes that tear and sear and rip at all your hopes until they resemble sawdust. Freedom is being no better off than before – in some cases, considerably worse, with no protection, no means of sustenance - and freedom is the sullen, anguished sort of resignation that has begun to creep onto the faces of his people, like gathering frost.

And there are two parts to freedom, as it turns out. One is declaring it, as Alexander did so blithely in 1856. The other is the process of being given actual solid, concrete, workable autonomy. Except that the other is also being told you are a fool to expect miracles, and that these things take time, and one must appease the nobles, and that they are becoming restive at the court, for they are always restive at the court, and that money does not come from nowhere, nor land, nor food, nor love.

If this is liberty, Russia is sick of being liberated. And, for that matter, he is becoming rather fed up with the Tsar Liberator.

1871

They relax in a little-known cafe in the Rue Saint-Antoine, at a miniscule table outside on the balcony. France sits poised on his chair, one leg crossed daintily over the other, sipping delicately at his glass of red wine. To Russia, it seems to glint in the dying sun; wine has always resembled blood, but in this setting it is like ruby, and for a moment, the beauty of light piercing through liquid entrances him.

"Hmm," hums France, swilling the wine around his mouth and somehow managing to make it look elegant. "Rather nice," he says, referring to the vintage. "Sharp, but fresh. What say you?"

Russia takes a deep gulp from the fragile glass. Pauses. Leaning forward interrogatively, he taps at the glass, saying softly: "You, ah, you said there was alcohol in this?"

France dissolves into loud peals of laughter. "I suppose a liquid diet of vodka has a tendency to numb the tongue. A pity." He pats his neighbour's hand across the table – all slender fingers and sudden warmth.

This Nation, now curled catlike in the wicker chair, always makes Russia feel ungainly and gauche – made all the worse for the fact that Russia suspects he could stop, and make him feel perfectly at ease at any moment he chooses. But he never does.

And yet, despite this, they are good friends. Or are becoming so, he thinks.

France draws his knees up to his chest, and, stretching, gives a satisfied yawn. "Such interesting times, no?" he says, glancing down at the crowded street. "Such momentum. It is almost a visceral feeling inside me –" gently, he taps his chest, for emphasis "- like some earth-shattering shift within." This phraseology seems to please him, for he tilts his head happily as though expecting approval.

Russia is not entirely sure he grasps his meaning.

"Ah, but surely you feel it too?" says France, in astonishment. "Political waters run deep, and yet I feel a powerful undercurrent dragging me down; it is merciless, and I am helpless in its wake." Suddenly, he shifts forwards, the emotion that his speech apparently provoked having finally induced him to sit properly. Emphatically, he brings a wiry fist down onto the table, eliciting an insistent thud. "Progress, mon cher! I have heard its siren before, and once more it has captured me! Surely you must also be in its thrall. You are not long for autocracy, I'd wager; already, that little zemstva scheme of yours reveals the first glimmers of democracy. And after all – your people are so good at rioting." He takes another smug sip of wine.

Russia blinks. "Lately, they have had reason to."

At present, he would give very much to be as confident as the lithe, sophisticated creature sitting opposite – more a force of nature than man or Nation, it seems. If only Russia could understand what he is saying.

"You merely have to talk to the people around you to gain a sense of this pervasive tension," continues France, merrily. "Such promising thinkers! Pillars of subversion; architects of revolution! My dear poet Pottier... courageous Cluseret... Courbet, with his daring concept of no government at all, which I must admit, entrances me as a notion... I even harbour a few of yours – Herzen, for instance, exiled from his heartland, and Belinsky, child of literary criticism. Then there is that extraordinary German fellow, highly brilliant once one prevents him from talking about his carbuncles. They all remind me of their predecessors; revolutionaries never change in spirit, even after decades. It is as though they are all possessed by the same – ha – spectre, I suppose. Zeitgeist, to borrow from Germany – which I am now allowed to do, for we have a shaky kind of armistice. And thus, I am also possessed, heart and soul."

Russia blinks.

France's grin intensifies. "A spectre is haunting the nations of Europe..." he begins, somehow roguishly. "Or a hobgoblin, as some would have it." He chuckles, presumably at some esoteric little joke.

And again, Russia blinks. He does not understand the allusion – if, indeed, allusion it is. Perhaps France is just stringing words together. Overall, that would make much more sense.

"You have no idea as to what I am referring, do you?" says France, softly – it appears that he has given up. He leans back again – not disappointed, but perhaps a little subdued.

"Help me," says Russia, on impulse. "Let me learn from you." A trickling breeze stirs their hair, and he marvels at how mild it is for February.

"How?" breathes France, all flippancy melting away. His gaze is more intense than anything Russia expected, yet he drums his fingers casually on the table, as though externally unaffected by his own gravity.

"I am fascinated by your ideas."

"You seek to emulate the western model?" smiles France.

"I suppose so. Yes." Truth be told, he is torn – yet everything he sees in Paris delights him in an odd, wistful manner; the sort of impulse which makes him wish to capture the very essence of the city, enclosing all its splendour and imperfections into his sphere. Treasures, he reasons, ought to be shared, and cultures gloriously mixed. Is that what alliances entail? And is that what France means when he talks about undercurrents – or is it something entirely different that Russia cannot yet fathom?

"You have lagged curiously behind for centuries," says France, smirking. Russia bristles; France holds up a conciliatory hand, inviting him to listen further before yielding to anger. "Yet, despite that, you are peculiarly advanced. I think we may have plenty to learn from one another." Russia settles, somewhat apprehensive, but halfway appeased. "In my case – well, you must tarry for a few more weeks. I promise you shall witness that of which I speak. I have a feeling events are about to reach their peak here – and the result will be devastating." Really, that word does not merit so satisfied a grin. "Me? I bide my time. I exist in a state of chaos and flux, and I wait for my people to make something of it."

Russia follows this, with some confusion. France can be so backward – yet he intrigues him.

In March, what France was describing becomes abundantly clear, as Paris explodes into turmoil. And it is terrifying. And it is glorious. And it is repulsive and compelling all at once. Russia succumbs to a horrified kind of wonder, as he watches the barricades rise. France – oh, he is in his element. He seems to dance through it all, like a deadly spirit, with an inexhaustible passion that is no longer anything remotely benign. He is a creature of sedition, and revels in upheaval.

Tsar Alexander panics, and sends for his country. Russia departs with the blaze of red flags still burning across his vision.

1872

"Liberty without socialism is privilege, injustice; socialism without liberty is slavery, brutality."

"Yes, but what does that mean?"

"It means that, in order for society to flourish, there must be both freedom and equality. The absence of one is to the detriment of the other."

Russia looks up, slowly, into Bakunin's friendly, expansive face, and thinks he might just comprehend. "And that is where I was going wrong?" he asks, tentatively.

"My dear Nation," says Bakunin, sadly. "You have neither liberty, nor socialism. But fear not. Your time is approaching – that I know."

"No – no, the serfs!" bursts out Russia, breathlessly. "They were given... liberty, on paper. But there was no socialism, and so they are not truly free. They have no way of living, whilst others have everything they need, and more. And that is not freedom, but liberty alone will not solve it."

Bakunin claps his hands, the picture of childish delight. "Yes, you are right," he says. "I knew it. I knew that, despite what the Tsar and his supporters try to quell, the country itself recoils – and reasons!"

Russia thinks that here, at last, might be the person to educate him – to clear up the tangle of ideas, and dilemmas, and conflicting notions in his weary mind. "I'm sick of it – sick of people being unhappy. Tell me what to do. How to make things better."

Bakunin looks upwards, just a fraction, and Russia wonders at how animated, how alive he seems – his very movement is like darting flames, like the fires of 1871... And this, despite seven years in the Peter and Paul Fortress, the mere thought of which can cause Russia to tremble uncontrollably. Yet here, and now, at a bench in a teeming square in Saint-Imier, Switzerland, he feels fearless, ready to face anything, if necessary, for he has always been brave – but on orders, always on orders.

"Reject all authority," answers Bakunin, simply. "Live by the deed. Reject the notion that anyone, anyone at all, has the power to command another – and reject the idea that anyone has the judgement or right to declare themselves more deserving than another. Embrace humanity. Embrace total liberty, and total equality – only then can humanity flourish. All laws are arbitrary. What are they? Living, breathing, solid entities? Swift, fanged monsters, ready to tear you to pieces the minute you disobey? No, they are immaterial, meaningless constructions, built solely for the convenience of the ruling class. That they might make a few amendments along the way, diminish a few injustices whilst leaving others all the more firmly rooted, is purely incidental."

Russia blinks, struck with the vague urge to cry. "But what can I depend on?" Trapped without anyone to learn from, he would freefall in limbo. He lacks the height, or the power, or the arm span to reach out and grasp this, fragile, beautiful, terrifying idea. And yet he yearns for someone to unravel these knots in his mind, and in his laws, and in his throat, for he really is about to sob for the futility of it all.

1874

They were brave, so brave, those young people. So beautiful, and perfect in their rough imperfection. And so incredibly naive – or no, not that, but hopeful, with wild, grand hopes that did not matter in the end, for now the majority have been arrested, or killed – or have fled into hiding. Their attempt to 'go to the people' was a failure, and with that odd, fragmented duality which characterises Nations, Russia can see why, and can even summon up the requisite blaze of fury at the notion of abolishing Tsarism. In spite of it all, he loves Alexander – loves them all, cannot see why they cannot love each other.

If a Tsar is meant to love his people, where do the special police force factor? Where do the hangings? The censorship, the brutality? Why do simple statements never cohere like they are supposed to? Something sinister and ungovernable always lurks behind the mask of logic.

1881

There are two claps of thunder, and an almighty shudder. And silence.

And then that silence is broken.

Screams of the culprits, who are apprehended within moments.

"Please," murmurs Russia through the fog. "Don't kill them. No more executions..."

But the trials are held, and the verdict is inevitable, for Alexander is dead, killed in the blast, as planned.

Russia wonders if this is revolution, and braces himself for its impact, but it is not at all, for in the next few heady days a new Tsar comes prematurely to the throne.

1893

Another Alexander, but, like in a folk tale, as different from his father as night from day. As staunch autocrat from timid monarch. As arch-conservative from semi-liberal. The sparkling plans for a new democratic assembly are shattered, and Russia is plunged once more into the dark.

Here in the dark, he begins to sound out others who are just as trapped and bereft as he. In the night, he goes underground, and finds networks, societies – rebels. He realises that France is right, for people who exist in flux will always make something of the chaos. Here are his people. And here are his tigers, his firebrands, his bearish, lightening-swift revolutionaries.

Surrounding them are boundaries, repression – and danger, real danger, the prospect of capture by the dreaded Okhrana, of a show trial ending in the inevitable sentence of death. Yet they have the strength to manoeuvre in the dark. The dark, or other gentler countries, that is.

But many of them tell him no, the western model is not for him. No, they will bypass capitalism and bourgeois democracy altogether. Russia treads a different path to others, thornier, yet shorter. Russia has not yet squandered its chance.

Russia does not think he has much of a chance, at present – he can hardly speak without being stifled by some pedantic censor or other – but he does wonder if it is true, and if he is different. France was disappointing. The Commune fell shortly after it began, all the fire, the fighting and the intoxication spent – and now he seems pacified, and speaks no more of the radiant spirit which possesses him.

Different. Russia will be different.

For now, he bides his time, and listens to interminable talk of treaties, and policy, and economic expansion. And Witte. Good God, that man is obsessed with railways.

1900

Alexander is long dead, perhaps prematurely consumed by his own ire. Nicholas now reigns. It is silly, but sometimes Russia can barely notice the difference. Sometimes, however, he finds himself disgusted at the weakness of his new Tsar (although, of course, he loves him). Who was it that said the most influential man in Russia was the person Nicholas had talked to last? Whoever it was, they were not far from the truth.

Nonetheless. Nicholas, unlike his father, has moments in which he is almost gentle.

Other times – Russia finds himself wincing, averting his eyes from the latest atrocity committed in the name of the monarchy. Policy is little better than a game of roulette.

"We must russify the Empire," Nicholas tells him, now stern and uncompromising. "They shall be made to accept the supremacy of the Russian culture – if necessary, by force. The use of all languages save Russian shall be suppressed. As a Great Power, we must keep our property in line. Don't look so miserable; this is for your own benefit. All of them – Belarus, Lithuania, Latvia, Poland, and the rest shall be remodelled in your image. They shall celebrate you, and they shall become like you."

Why should they become like me? Even I'm not sure if I want to be like me. Nonetheless, Russia acquiesces. Strong countries must look after their Empires, after all – particularly when they will not behave. And Russia must try hard to become strong.

Even if Lithuania shudders, and Poland fights, and Latvia cries. Soon, they will all be happy, for they will all be strong. It is not what Bakunin was saying at all, but who says Bakunin is right?

1902

They call this the Year of the Red Cockerel as an allusion to the leaping flames that seem omnipresent. Famine has induced the peasantry to riot, as it so frequently does; their anger is palpable to Russia, coursing through him like some empowering form of intoxication. He wants people to be happy – oh, he always wants that – but right now, he also wants to smash, tear and burn his way through the homes of every landlord, every nobleman, every government official or policeman in the land. Perversely, he thinks of Bakunin and his kindly face: the passion for destruction is also a creative passion.

1903

He is in London, at the Second Ordinary Congress of the RSDLP and oh, it gives him a headache. They had started in Belgium, but Belgium became very angry and began doing things like yelling at them and trying to arrest the members, so they cancelled the first meeting and regrouped. England simply rolled his eyes and told him come right on in; there are plenty of your lot here already and a few more won't turn me red.

Marxism. Russia has few memories of Marx, besides a few noncommittal glances across the room at International Congresses of various resistance groups, and a handful of caustic mentions from Bakunin. (There must be some irony in the fact that Russia is possibly the one of his nationality with unrestricted freedom of movement; rulers have long since learned that they can control people and land, but no matter what else they are capable of, they cannot command the comings and goings of their Nations.) Marxism – a compelling theory, one which fascinates Russia all the more for its aura of the illicit, for those forbidden key phrases: alienation, workers unite, equality, common ownership of the means of production... Far more stirring than the dull truisms exchanged at court between Nicholas and his clique of economic 'modernisers'. Far more enticing than the prospect of becoming yet another capitalist nation, a replica of Britain, or Germany, or America. Or France, for that matter – much as he likes to toy with fire and dabble in occasional flashes of rage and subversion.

At present, Russian Marxism boils down to an almighty ideological clash between Lenin and Martov. How these people can talk! Such discussions – lofty and intelligent, and petty and absurd all at once. How they can shine, and how they can snipe at one another! Yet this is serious, because this is about aims. Lenin says that Russia is different, and Marxism must be adapted to suit his uniqueness. Lenin says that Russia needs no bourgeois revolution; it can occur simultaneously with a proletarian revolution. But Lenin also says that, in order for that to happen, the party must be more tightly organised – whittled down to a vanguard of only the most dedicated professional revolutionaries, whose job it will be to lead the proletariat.

Martov says that Lenin is subverting the key tenets of Marxism, and Lenin rolls his eyes. Martov asks Lenin if he is aspiring to dictatorship.

It all gets messier from thereon in.

Russia watches as the conference splinters before his eyes. Splinters into Bolsheviks and Mensheviks. Majority and minority, although ironically, there are fewer followers of Lenin than there are comrades of Martov.

At the end of the meeting, Russia catches Lenin clumsily by the sleeve, and asks if they can talk.

So they talk. Russia unveils all of his doubts, illustrating every one of his reservations, as Lenin listens with deep interest, occasionally nodding, or supplying a word of agreement or occasionally even dissent. He lets Russia unburden his fears for what must be hours.

It all comes down to this:

"I want people to be happy. I don't think ambition should be more important than that. I want people to have what they need. I don't see why privilege or reward should be more important than that. I want everyone to be equal, because I don't think it is right to say that one person deserves better than another, whoever they are or whatever they've done."

"Very well."

"What's more – I don't understand why people like to think they are better than others! And the idea that happiness ought to be at the expense of those further down the scale... it makes no sense!"

"Yes."

"Most of all, I am tired of saying all these things and being told that it is all very well, but we must be practical, because the system won't allow for it."

"Mm. And?"

"And, I don't see why the system should take priority over ideas that are good, and right!"

"Yes. And so?"

"And so why can't it be the system that goes, rather than the ideas?"

"Yes," nods Lenin, satisfied. "You have hit the nail on the head, so to speak."

"So that's it. Don't reject the ideas – reject the system that won't support them."

"It is the only way."

Russia knows that nothing he has said even touches upon the disputes during the conference. He does not think he is ready to commit to one side or the other; he does not even understand half of the arguments. Yet Lenin said he was special. Everyone says he is special, although they do not always say it as though it is a good thing. Still. Russia wonders if he has finally found his teacher.

He never mentioned that he wanted to be strong, however – which he does. He wants to be strong for the sake of his people. Perhaps Nicholas is good for that, if nothing else.

Yet the fervour which this experience inspired fades after a few, disappointing days. It is as though, once more, he is shrouded by a protective, obfuscating screen. Once more, he resolves to stop worrying and obey. It really is not all that bad – and Lenin, though fascinating, is not for him.