A month had passed since Venyabetlovsky had utterly ignored an order issued personally by the Tsar. He had no idea how to make amends. Nicholas I was not known for his temper.
But religious conversion was no small matter. Ever since Ivan IV, Russia had wanted "the poisonous merchants and Christian vermin" to convert, yet centuries had passed with little success.
("The poisonous merchants and Christian vermin" refers to the Jews.)
But whether it succeeded and whether anything had been done were two different things. If the Tsar learned what Venyabetlovsky had done, the latter would likely spend the rest of his life in Siberia eating frozen potatoes—or suffer an even worse fate.
Venyabetlovsky could not worry about that now. He had to produce results at once.
Venyabetlovsky immediately summoned his subordinates. But they were just like the governor himself: a pack of ne'er-do-wells who cared nothing for government affairs.
Of course, it was precisely because of their laxity that Russian-controlled Poland had developed reasonably well over the past few years.
But once power had been let go, it was hard to take back. The high officials of Russian-controlled Poland were completely in the dark, and some even stood up to question whether the Tsar's order in Venyabetlovsky's hands was genuine.
"Damn it! Are you blind? How could this possibly be fake?"
Venyabetlovsky had entirely abandoned his poet's refinement and was cursing openly. But the other officials, who were also from Russia, were not intimidated. A middle-aged official, impeccably dressed, shot back,
"Governor, how could the Tsar's order only just have reached Warsaw? Did the postman crawl all the way here?"
"Exactly! Governor, how could an order issued personally by His Majesty the Tsar take nearly two months to arrive?
"And making the Poles convert doesn't seem to make much