…He is that beautiful white Christ which seems to be coming out of Russia… one of the most perfect lives I have come across in my own experience." -Oscar Wilde of Peter Kropotkin
Several days passed before the Secretary sent for me. My room was paid for well in advance and there was no return date on my ticket, which appeared to be no ordinary airline ticket. I held it up to the lamp, noting it had the same holographic quality as the postcard I had received with the image of a glass of melting ice. I decided to stay put, ignoring the sense of an altered state of time. I busied myself with the dispatched assignments that were slid beneath my hotel door. I finished reading The Prince of Evolution, a brief introduction to Peter Kropotkin’s life and work. It opened with a quote from Oscar Wilde commenting on the great activist-philosophers inner radiance. Perhaps Wilde was also beguiled by the old man’s beard that grew white as snow.
The book contained was much information concerning his politics and his philosophy of mutual aid. In the end it was his growing obsession with the troubling porousness developing in the Siberian permafrost that seemed the most environmentally relevant. I imagined that he would be heartbroken to witness Siberia’s present state.
My instructions attached to the book were quite simple-read it, then empty the mind and write, an exercise in subjective channeling. I closed my eyes for several minutes thinking of nothing, opened my journal and wrote as if guided by a confident yet benevolent force. I wrote swiftly and noticed a shift in my handwriting, as the words formed a letter from an unknown women:
In 1864 you crossed North Manchuria from Transbaikalia to the Amur and soon you were attached to another expedition up the Sungari into the heart of Manchuria. The expeditions yielded important geographical results and you devoted yourself to scientific exploration. I was by your side when you declared yourself an Anarchist in 1872. You studied mathematics and because you lavished your loyalty to the Geographical Society, shunning military service, you were disinherited. Now you were a prince with no store, no treasure no means of support. In 1871 you explored the glacial deposits of Finland published an important contribution to science, proving that existing maps distorted the physical geography of Asia; the main structural lines were from southwest to northeast, not from north to south or from east to west as had been previously supposed.
You refused all offered posts and returned to St. Petersburg, where you joined the revolutionary party. In 1872, you were arrested and imprisoned in the Peter and Paul Fortress for subversive political activity. Yet you were granted permission to continue your geographical work in your cell. I brought you all that you needed for your work and for that you kissed my hand. You delivered your report on the subject of the Ice Age in 1876, where you argued that it had occurred not so distantly as first thought. And that same year, against all odds, you escaped and fled to England. After forty years of travel, prison and exile you returned to Russia where I was waiting.
You were the prince of anarchy, and now anarchy rules, but not in the way you anticipated. It rules in the chaotic redesign of nature, not a conscious design, but a brutal unleashing. You died of pneumonia. Perhaps you did not wear the scarf I wove for you to protect you from the elements. Perhaps you faltered, kneeling too long in the snow over your dog who expired from the cold. The ice covered the trees and your beard. You wept for the dog, the one you favored and your tears were gathered to form a necklace that was laid within a silver box. There was also a small sack that held a tiny bottle containing a tincture of iodine and a folded testament of your birth, so faded it can no longer be read, only remembered.
I felt the intimacy between the woman and the old master and though an observer a part of me was both of them as well. I felt her long skirts brush against my calves, the peculiar cut of her boots. Once again I closed my eyes, envisioning the silver box which I opened through her gloved hand. I was careful not to disturb the contents though I did extract the folded testament. I was shocked to find that it was written in my own hand. It had an entirely different tone from the letter, spiraling into a kind of fairytale. Content that I had accomplished my mission I did sleep, for over twelve hours.
In my dream everything repeated. I closed my eyes envisioning the silver box which spun slowly. I rested my hand on the lid and opened it. Even in dream I was careful not to disturb the contents though I extracted the folded testament. Once again, as in reality I was astonished to see that it was written in my own hand, a brief history of the origins of the Prince of Anarchy, spiraling into a kind folktale, a fairytale. Had I written it or was it a remnant of the future? The clock on the mantle chimed. Everything seemed to happen twice. It was nearly 2 am, time to sleep. I did sleep, for over twelve hours. I believe I dreamt heavily the entire twelve hours, yet all I could recall was the whiteness of the world.
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