Methamphetamine or Vitamin? (2)

As the Duma blazes with land tax debates, the administration quietly rolls out policy finance.

The exact budget hasn’t been revealed, but last year’s gold standard, the Imperial Industrial Bank, and now policy finance—people in the capital aren’t clueless about the trajectory.

The Duma pushes leftist policies; the administration leans right.

Putting it all together, people naturally think:

“Looks like the National Duma and the government are at each other’s throats,” one said.

“Rumor has it bureaucrats and Duma members get along worse than cats and dogs. At this rate, the empire might split in half,” another muttered.

“Does our young Tsar even see this rift?” a third wondered.

Anyone can see the high bureaucrats, led by Witte, have a clear direction.

Pure right-wing economic growth.

Pig iron, steel, coal—Witte’s focus is solely on national progress.

The Duma, though varied by party, centers on people’s livelihoods, not the state.

It seems obvious: elected Duma members versus merit-based bureaucrats.

But ministers who know the real deal think differently.

Is the Tsar using this to wipe out the nobles?

Weakening his own political base isn’t easy, but… the empire can handle it. No one challenges the Tsar’s power.

At this point, isn’t he just picking policies to suit his taste?

Like in Germany, could rural nobles sell their estates, move to cities, and become capitalists?

Sure, some could. With generational wealth, they’ve got chances to ride the era’s wave.

But those who won’t sell, clinging to medieval wealth-building in the countryside? They’re doomed.

“If this keeps up, plenty of provincial nobles will crumble under tax burdens,” one minister said.

“Their backlash will be fierce, but it’ll hit the Duma before the Tsar,” another replied.

Fallen nobles aren’t rare in the empire anymore.

Look at the Democrats, the Duma’s top party—half are fallen nobles turned intellectuals, clawing back to power under “liberalism.”

But not all crumbling nobles can pivot to liberalism and politics so swiftly.

“Count Dashkov, hasn’t the Tsar hinted at this situation?” Witte asked.

“Does he ever share his full plans? Even when he seeks my advice, I can’t grasp his true intent,” Dashkov said.

“If even the Imperial Household Minister doesn’t know, no one in this palace does,” Witte noted.

“Witte, aren’t you the one His Majesty favors?” Dashkov countered.

“Favors…” Witte trailed off.

Sipping tea, Witte stared at the rippling water in his cup.

“I’m not His Majesty’s chosen Finance Minister. I owe my position to the late Tsar’s grace,” Witte said.

“So what?” Dashkov asked.

“His Majesty always feels like he’s testing me. Pass, and I get more power. Fail, and I’m replaced that day,” Witte said.

Finance Minister—the heaviest post among ministers.

Yet Witte couldn’t claim to grasp the Tsar’s grand plan.

“Recently, he sent me an unknown,” Witte added.

“One of his handpicked men?” Dashkov asked.

“Pyotr Stolypin, studied agriculture at St. Petersburg University. Sent for land reform, but… he’s radical,” Witte said.

It wasn’t overt, but Witte found the Tsar’s moves radical too.

“How’s his ability?” Dashkov asked.

“Stuffy for a reformer, but skilled. Yes, I can’t deny the Tsar’s choice,” Witte admitted.

It’s not just the Finance Ministry. The Tsar’s obsession with a random engineer officer from his Cesarevich army days is legendary.

Unconfirmed, but he allegedly stalked the guy for a year and a half, pinning a medal on him before shipping him to the Far East.

Witte once feared the Tsar’s protection fading would tank reforms. Not anymore.

Now Witte—and many bureaucrats—share a thought:

“Even as a minister, I don’t know where the empire’s headed,” Witte said.

“Same for Duma members. They think they have power but don’t know the destination,” Dashkov added.

“Only His Majesty knows,” Witte said.

The funny part? This isn’t mysticism or imperial power plays like other monarchs.

He seems impulsive, like a kid, but the Tsar’s got a clear direction.

Yet Witte felt like a puppet in that plan.

Maybe it’s natural in the empire’s structure.

A ruler doesn’t need to convince underlings.

Still, to Witte, always at reform’s forefront, this hit hard.

Despite taking on more than ever, he felt hollow. Dashkov spoke slowly:

“Still, compared to the idle past, I prefer now,” Dashkov said.

“…” Witte paused.

“Don’t you, Minister? The empire’s time was frozen, like hardened clay, for decades. Now? I feel it stirring. I missed that,” Dashkov said.

“True,” Witte replied.

The late Tsar, save the Trans-Siberian Railway, ordered no change.

Bureaucrats just scrambled within their limits, trying anything.

“So, better to act and regret than do nothing, right?” Dashkov said.

Witte nodded slowly.

“Maybe, as you say, the Tsar wants to sweep away nobles. Then we sweep. It’s better than the stagnant past,” Dashkov said.

“Really?” Witte asked.

As Finance Minister, Witte and past reformers fell to noble opposition.

Is it okay to slaughter them on the Tsar’s order?

“Do your reforms need noble power?” Dashkov asked.

“No,” Witte said.

“Then we’re set. Don’t overthink. Do your reforms need the Duma?” Dashkov pressed.

“Not that either,” Witte said.

“We need His Majesty, not others,” Dashkov concluded.

Witte felt oddly at ease.

“And that’s true for the empire,” Dashkov added.

Is it? Does the empire only need the Tsar, not the Duma or nobles?

A disappointing Duma, retreating nobles, a forward-marching emperor.

Maybe Witte should bet everything on the Tsar.

Even if he doesn’t know the destination.

“Once again, I declare: I’m not scheming to rob the rich out of envy! I just want to stop a system where only the rich own land, and the poor get poorer!” Veren bellowed.

“Right!” a member shouted.

“When famine hits, the rich buy more land. Next spring, they rent it back to those who sold. When harvests boom, only rich landlords reap. Six years ago, famine—remember? Landlords turned whole villages into serfs, back to the dark days of emancipation 30 years ago!” Veren roared.

“An insult to the late Tsar!” a Conservative yelled.

“Treason!” another cried.

“I trust the esteemed Duma will judge what’s best for the empire,” Veren said.

“Let’s vote!” the chairman called.

Land surveys every five years, with annual taxes based on them.

Initially a once-a-decade tax, it was tweaked to avoid complications from land trades and massive one-time payments.

The core stayed the same.

A tax bomb for big landowners and provincial nobles.

“128 votes in favor—passed!” the chairman announced.

Delivery was set before spring’s thaw.

Like other taxes in agricultural Russia, most are collected from late summer to fall.

“But this spring, land trades will explode,” one member said.

“Buy, sell, or hold—you’re taxed!” another laughed.

Whether it runs smoothly by fall wasn’t the Duma’s concern.

They succeeded in what they believed was just.

Landholders with 10 desyatinas or less pay no tax.

Above that, taxes scale exponentially.

A loophole exists: corporate law.

The tax applies differently to businesses, not self-employed farmers. If nobles formed companies and hired peasants, it’d change things.

But nobles? “Hiring” means maids and servants, not peasants.

Middlemen handle peasant labor; nobles and peasants rarely meet.

For self-sufficient farmers, it’s irrelevant but satisfying news.

For poor peasants, a golden chance to borrow and buy land.

For provincial nobles, a thunderbolt tax.

For the Finance Ministry, a hopeful boost to a budget strained by policy finance.

“Land tax for holding, stamp tax for trading?” one official said.

“Will stamp taxes ever match this year’s haul?” another asked.

“Could we buy Alaska back?” a third joked.

What about the Progressives and capitalists who opposed it in the Duma?

“Land tax? Who cares!” one said.

“The Industrial Bank? It’s the state handing out cheap loans, no questions asked!” another cheered.

“Pull every string! Mortgage your underwear for cash!” a third urged.

They shouted opposition in the Duma, but didn’t care if it passed.

Land tax? Pay a bit, done. Policy finance’s blind money was the real prize.

Prince Georgy Lvov, cheering loudest beside Veren, was thrilled.

His family fell with serfdom’s abolition.

This land tax would ruin nobles borrowing from noble banks to buy land, just like his family.

You’re done.

The enemy of a pretty woman is another woman; a rich noble’s enemy is a fallen one.

Leading liberals, Lvov smirked at the coming noble collapse.

“Fly high, fall hard,” he muttered.

Nobles gleeful at buying land in famines will now taste hunger.

No more earning by breathing—labor for money now.

That’s the land tax.

Icarus’ wings melt closer to the sun.

“And this empire’s sun is the Duma,” Lvov said.

The nobles’ fall will prove it.