Episode XXXIV: Trials And Tverbulations
An extract from Me, My Travels In Tver, But Mostly Me by Charles Percival Huiver-Bagge
My travels in the newly-minted Empire of Tver would have proven a wonderous experience were I a less experienced traveller. That even I, the great Charles Percival Huiver-Bagge, did occasionally arch an elegant eyebrow at the goings on in that nation is a testament to its diversity, and to the barbaric - yet strangely charismatic - spirit of its people.
Its western cities are hubs of life and activity, at least by the standards of these rough, uneducated folk. Novgorod to the north is a city of traders and merchants, of colourful stalls and more colourful haggling. I myself obtained a fine fur-lined cape to clothe my manly shoulers at a very low price. The merchant, while as dull-witted as expected, had the decency to explain to me the country's unusual monetary customs: gold and silver are worthless, and copper coins are the most valuable. I took his advice to give me all the useless gold and silver in my pockets - saving me a great deal of weight - and he refused to accept any proper payment. A fool, certainly, but a gentleman.
The Empire's most populous city is Kyiv, to the south-west, formerly capital of Ukraine. A city of fine architecture (though nought compared with London or Oxford of course) and bustling streets. I was arrested three times in the two days I spent there, this apparently being a favourite local pastime.
At last, my travels took me to the capital, Tver herself. While tiny in comparison with majestic London (I miss London), the city has a certain uncouth charm. The great market square, build for the beloved renaissance monarch Mikhael III, is said to be a cultural marvel, one of the marvels of the eastern world. Ornamental fountains stand at the compass points, statues of former princes staring down at all who venture into the plaza. This was clearly nonsense, though, as the Slavic races are incapable of artistic expression. I boycotted the square in disgust at this blatant lying, and encouragae all right-minded Christian folk to follow in my dainty yet decisively adventurous footsteps.
Refreshed with a bitter-tasting local beer (a yellow, rather watery brew poured specially, I was told, for the discerning western traveller), I proceeded to the palace. Broad and stately (much like the Duchess of Northampton!), its style is as eclectic as its monarch. The classical male nudes erected in honour of Aleksandr II would make a lesser man weak at the knees, though I am sure that they exaggerate the scale of this most puissant monarch's blade. The intricate Ionic-columned facade created for Mikhael III appears to be genuine Italian craftsmanship to the untrained but, of course, I am not fooled by such tomfoolery - Charles Percival Huiver-Bagge knows a cheap fake when he sees one. The pious Konstantin III made severe alterations to his father's work, adding statues of saints and stained-glass windows. The Czarina in recent years has redressed the balance of these two men's modifications to great acclaim from other so-called writers (wide-eyed Cambridge fops duped into thinking the Slavs more than drunken brutes).
In any case, I was permitted an audience with the Czarina (of course!), and was able to observe the going-on at court for several weeks whilst resting from my long and arduous journey (as are all undertaken by such as I). These were complicated times for the Czarina. While her title is – just – acknowledged by her nobility, her attempts to modernise the political system face as much resistance as they did before her assumption of the new title. The Czarina has vowed not to be crowned until her programme of reforms is finished, but this may take years to fulfil.
The Czarina had asked her cousin - a rather shifty-looking blonde lady with a face rather like that of a horse that has been hit with a square cannonball – to help her win over the troublesome factions amongst the nobility. Lady Elena Rurikovich had promised to do so, and proceeded into negotiations.
Unfortunately, Elena’s gentle persuasions inadvertently had the opposite effect. A huge uprising occurred, demanding the restoration of noble privileges. Thankfully for the Czarina, though, the Tverian army was more than up to the task of suppressing the rebellious aristocrats, Tverians being nothing if not capable of extreme violence against their betters (a filthy trait).
The Empire’s position as strengthened, though, by a remarkable scientific breakthrough. His work patronised by the Crown Prince Aleksandr, the great scientist Pyotr Ukhtomsky had created a mechanical press to speed up the production of vodka. This discovery brought much joy and celebration to the ordinary peoples of the Empire, a fact which Aleksandra took as far more important than pleasing her ‘pampered’ nobility (dangerous, revolutionary talk if ever I heard it!)
Aleksandra tasked one of her advisors, Mysterious Don Pedro, with letting it be known that the Empire of Tver would be an inclusive society, championing wellbeing and individual freedom as envisioned by her humanist father, Mikhael III. Don Pedro said that he would make the declaration known throughout the world, and without delay: ‘tolerrrrrrance’, he did declare, ‘will be thewatchworrrrd of the Alexandrine Empire.’
Further good news came to the Empire’s south-eastern border, where Tverian troops advanced into the territories of the fearsome Nogai bandits.
The Khan rapidly conceded defeat as ranks of red-clad foot soldiers marched onto his front lawn, and proceeded to dance upon it.
The province of Saratow, formerly ruled by the Golden Horde, was integrated into the Empire’s administrative boundaries.
And a few months later, it was announced that the administration of the city of Ryazan had been suitably streamlined, and all hints of dissent at Tver’s acquisition of the former Principality had been quelled, further enriching the Czarina’s coffers.
So it was, then, that the land of Tver entered into its Imperial age. With progress, along with complications, these harsh, barbaric folk sought to tame their rugged environment. But I, Charles Percival Huiver-Bagge, shall not reside here long amongst these heretics and savages. My diaries provide you (I do not hope – I know) with a plentiful picture of this frozen Empire (it is always cold here – I care not what the Czarina tells me about it being hot the rest of the year, it is clearly nonsense) such that you need not trouble yourself to visit it. It is a bleak and nigh cultureless land, to be avoided at all cost by civilised folk.
I have been of service to you, and you are most thankful of it.
Huiver-Bagge