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Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou
 978-0893574680

Table of contents :
Acknowledgments ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� xvii
Prolegomena
John L. Scherer†
In Praise of Ignorance ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 3
Carol Urness
The Travels of Brand and Isband ��������������������������������������������������������������������� 23
Timothy J. Johnson
Theofanis G. Stavrou: Bookman ����������������������������������������������������������������������� 35
Catherine Guisan
Bridge-Building as Humanism and Scholarly Adventure ������������������������������� 45
Karl F. Morrison
Surviving Exile: Augustine of Hippo’s Version of Psalm 136
(Vulg., KJV 137) ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 51
Eastern Orthodoxy
David Goldfrank
The Evergetian Motif in Russian Monastic Reform ����������������������������������������� 71

James Cracraft
The Petrine Church Reform Revisited �������������������������������������������������������������� 91
Theophilus C. Prousis
A Russian Pilgrim in Ottoman Jerusalem ������������������������������������������������������ 101
Josef L. Altholz†
Alexander Lycurgus, An Ecumenical Pioneer ������������������������������������������������ 127
Stephen K. Batalden
The Septuagint Challenge to Russian Old Testament Translation:
Fault Lines in Fin-de-Siècle Russian Religious Culture ��������������������������������� 137
Heather Bailey
Russian Interpretations of Ernest Renan’s Life of Jesus ��������������������������������� 147
Aaron N. Michaelson
Between the Cross and the Eagle:
The Russian Orthodox Missionary Society and the
Politics of Religion in Late Imperial Russia ��������������������������������������������������� 157
Kristi A. Groberg
Recreation of Seventeenth-Century Tile Forms on
St. Petersburg’s Temple-Memorial “Savior on the Blood” ����������������������������� 169
Matthew Lee Miller
Looking East: The American YMCA’s Interaction with
Russian Orthodox Christians, 1900–40 ���������������������������������������������������������� 181
Keith P. Dyrud
“Bolshevik Bishops” and the Russian Orthodox Mission in
America: A Question of Church, Politics, and the Law, 1917–52 ������������������� 211
G. William Carlson†
Understanding Evangelical/Fundamentalist Approaches to
“Anti-Communism,” 1953–91: A Critique of Billy Graham’s
Participation in the World Peace Conference, 1982 ��������������������������������������� 223
Achilles Avraamides
Alexander the Great’s Invincibility: Fact and Myth ��������������������������������������� 253
J. Kim Munholland
Psichari Father and Son: A Generation at Odds ��������������������������������������������� 265
Peter Mackridge
George Seferis and the Prophetic Voice ���������������������������������������������������������� 281
Donald E. Martin
Translation of George Philippou Pierides, “The Thoughts and
Uncertainties of Good Citizen Anestis Volemenos” �������������������������������������� 293
Van Coufoudakis
The Cyprus Question: International Politics and the Survival
of the Republic of Cyprus ������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 307
Evanthis Hatzivassiliou
Economic Reform and the Rise of Political Forces in Early
Post–Civil War Greece: The Case of Karamanlis’s ERE ������������������������������� 329
Kostas Kazazis†
Using Humor to Cross the Greek Tu/Vous Line:
A Personal Account ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 349
David Connolly
Poetry Translation Reviews Reviewed:
Possible Criteria for Reviewing Poetry Translations �������������������������������������� 355
Russia and Eastern Europe
Thomas S. Noonan†
Khazaria, Kiev, and Constantinople in the
First Half of the Tenth Century ���������������������������������������������������������������������� 369
Preparations for Travel to St. Petersburg in
the Eighteenth Century ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 383
Gregory Bruess
Battling Bishops in Catherine II’s Russia ������������������������������������������������������� 393
Lucien J. Frary
Europe’s Bellicose Periphery: Russia and the
Cretan Insurrection of 1841 ���������������������������������������������������������������������������� 403
John A. Mazis
The Greek Benevolent Association of Odessa (1871–1917):
A Minority Civic Organization in Late Imperial Russia ��������������������������������� 417
Thomas A. Emmert
Sir Arthur Evans in the Balkans: A Romantic Crusade ��������������������������������� 431
Peter Weisensel
Identifying “the Asian” in Russian Colonial Writing:
Evgenii Markov’s Russia in Central Asia (1901) ������������������������������������������� 443
Marjorie W. Bingham
“A Link with Time”: Anna Akhmatova’s Poetry for
History Courses ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 463
Bryn Geffert
Rethinking Tolstoy’s The Kreutzer Sonata and Dostoevsky’s
Notes from the Underground �������������������������������������������������������������������������� 473
Elizabeth A. Harry
From Scylla to Charybdis: Discontent with Employment
and Education in the Early Soviet State ��������������������������������������������������������� 489
Daniel A. Panshin†
The Russian Student Fund and Its Role in the Diaspora �������������������������������� 527
Susannah Lockwood Smith
Folk in Soviet Music in the 1930s ������������������������������������������������������������������� 537
Norma Noonan
“The Soviet Experiment” and Women:
Brief Historical Reflections ����������������������������������������������������������������������������� 555
Zdeněk V. David
Back to the Future: A Modern Revival of Sixteenth-Century
Czech Cultural and Political Values ���������������������������������������������������������������� 561
Kåre Hauge
The Barents Region: History Resurrected in Post-Soviet Europe ����������������� 599
Nick Hayes
BG: Conversations with Boris Grebenshchikov ��������������������������������������������� 611
John R. Lampe
Rethinking American Perspectives on Southeastern Europe ������������������������� 615
Epilegomena
Stanford Lehmberg†
Writings of the Eighteenth-Century Archbishops of Canterbury ������������������ 627
Stanley G. Payne
Carlism and Nationalism ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 641
Tom Clayton
Islands as a State of Mind: Circuitous Reconnaissance ���������������������������������� 657
Theophilus C. Prousis
Pilgrimage, Connection, Community ������������������������������������������������������������� 675
Notes on Contributors ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 681

Citation preview

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth

Theofanis G. Stavrou

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou

Edited by Lucien J. Frary

Bloomington, Indiana, 2017

Each contribution © 2017 by its author. All rights reserved. Cover design by Christina Walther and Tracey Theriault.

ISBN: 978-089357-468-0

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Stavrou, Theofanis G., 1934- honouree. | Frary, Lucien J. editor. Title: Thresholds into the Orthodox commonwealth : essays in honor of Theophanis G. Stavrou / edited by Lucien Frary. Description: Bloomington, IN : Slavica, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references. Identifiers: LCCN 2016057000 | ISBN 9780893574680 Subjects: LCSH: Europe, Eastern--Civilization. | Humanities. Classification: LCC DJK24 .T49 2017 | DDC 947--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016057000

Slavica Publishers Indiana University 1430 N. Willis Drive Bloomington, IN 47404-2146 USA

[Tel.] 1-812-856-4186 [Toll-free] 1-877-SLAVICA [Fax] 1-812-856-4187 [Email] [email protected] [www] http://www.slavica.com/

Contents

Acknowledgments ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� xvii

Prolegomena John L. Scherer† In Praise of Ignorance ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 3 Carol Urness The Travels of Brand and Isband ��������������������������������������������������������������������� 23 Timothy J. Johnson Theofanis G. Stavrou: Bookman ����������������������������������������������������������������������� 35 Catherine Guisan Bridge-Building as Humanism and Scholarly Adventure ������������������������������� 45 Karl F. Morrison Surviving Exile: Augustine of Hippo’s Version of Psalm 136 (Vulg., KJV 137) ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 51

Eastern Orthodoxy David Goldfrank The Evergetian Motif in Russian Monastic Reform ����������������������������������������� 71

vi

Contents

James Cracraft The Petrine Church Reform Revisited �������������������������������������������������������������� 91 Theophilus C. Prousis A Russian Pilgrim in Ottoman Jerusalem ������������������������������������������������������ 101 Josef L. Altholz† Alexander Lycurgus, An Ecumenical Pioneer ������������������������������������������������ 127 Stephen K. Batalden The Septuagint Challenge to Russian Old Testament Translation: Fault Lines in Fin-de-Siècle Russian Religious Culture ��������������������������������� 137 Heather Bailey Russian Interpretations of Ernest Renan’s Life of Jesus ��������������������������������� 147 Aaron N. Michaelson Between the Cross and the Eagle: The Russian Orthodox Missionary Society and the Politics of Religion in Late Imperial Russia ��������������������������������������������������� 157 Kristi A. Groberg Recreation of Seventeenth-Century Tile Forms on St. Petersburg’s Temple-Memorial “Savior on the Blood” ����������������������������� 169 Matthew Lee Miller Looking East: The American YMCA’s Interaction with Russian Orthodox Christians, 1900–40 ���������������������������������������������������������� 181 Keith P. Dyrud “Bolshevik Bishops” and the Russian Orthodox Mission in America: A Question of Church, Politics, and the Law, 1917–52 ������������������� 211 G. William Carlson† Understanding Evangelical/Fundamentalist Approaches to “Anti-Communism,” 1953–91: A Critique of Billy Graham’s Participation in the World Peace Conference, 1982 ��������������������������������������� 223



Contents

vii

Greece and Cyprus Achilles Avraamides Alexander the Great’s Invincibility: Fact and Myth ��������������������������������������� 253 J. Kim Munholland Psichari Father and Son: A Generation at Odds ��������������������������������������������� 265 Peter Mackridge George Seferis and the Prophetic Voice ���������������������������������������������������������� 281 Donald E. Martin Translation of George Philippou Pierides, “The Thoughts and Uncertainties of Good Citizen Anestis Volemenos” �������������������������������������� 293 Van Coufoudakis The Cyprus Question: International Politics and the Survival of the Republic of Cyprus ������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 307 Evanthis Hatzivassiliou Economic Reform and the Rise of Political Forces in Early Post–Civil War Greece: The Case of Karamanlis’s ERE ������������������������������� 329 Kostas Kazazis† Using Humor to Cross the Greek Tu/Vous Line: A Personal Account ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 349 David Connolly Poetry Translation Reviews Reviewed: Possible Criteria for Reviewing Poetry Translations �������������������������������������� 355 Russia and Eastern Europe Thomas S. Noonan† Khazaria, Kiev, and Constantinople in the First Half of the Tenth Century ���������������������������������������������������������������������� 369

viii

Contents

Michael Bitter Preparations for Travel to St. Petersburg in the Eighteenth Century ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 383 Gregory Bruess Battling Bishops in Catherine II’s Russia ������������������������������������������������������� 393 Lucien J. Frary Europe’s Bellicose Periphery: Russia and the Cretan Insurrection of 1841 ���������������������������������������������������������������������������� 403 John A. Mazis The Greek Benevolent Association of Odessa (1871–1917): A Minority Civic Organization in Late Imperial Russia��������������������������������� 417 Thomas A. Emmert Sir Arthur Evans in the Balkans: A Romantic Crusade ��������������������������������� 431 Peter Weisensel Identifying “the Asian” in Russian Colonial Writing: Evgenii Markov’s Russia in Central Asia (1901) ������������������������������������������� 443 Marjorie W. Bingham “A Link with Time”: Anna Akhmatova’s Poetry for History Courses ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 463 Bryn Geffert Rethinking Tolstoy’s The Kreutzer Sonata and Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground �������������������������������������������������������������������������� 473 Elizabeth A. Harry From Scylla to Charybdis: Discontent with Employment and Education in the Early Soviet State ��������������������������������������������������������� 489 Daniel A. Panshin† The Russian Student Fund and Its Role in the Diaspora �������������������������������� 527 Susannah Lockwood Smith Folk in Soviet Music in the 1930s ������������������������������������������������������������������� 537



Contents

ix

Norma Noonan “The Soviet Experiment” and Women: Brief Historical Reflections ����������������������������������������������������������������������������� 555 Zdeněk V. David Back to the Future: A Modern Revival of Sixteenth-Century Czech Cultural and Political Values ���������������������������������������������������������������� 561 Kåre Hauge The Barents Region: History Resurrected in Post-Soviet Europe ����������������� 599 Nick Hayes BG: Conversations with Boris Grebenshchikov ��������������������������������������������� 611 John R. Lampe Rethinking American Perspectives on Southeastern Europe ������������������������� 615 Epilegomena Stanford Lehmberg† Writings of the Eighteenth-Century Archbishops of Canterbury ������������������ 627 Stanley G. Payne Carlism and Nationalism ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 641 Tom Clayton Islands as a State of Mind: Circuitous Reconnaissance ���������������������������������� 657 Theophilus C. Prousis Pilgrimage, Connection, Community ������������������������������������������������������������� 675 Notes on Contributors ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 681

Acknowledgments

The publication of this volume is the result of collaborative commitment, effort, and care. Warmest thanks go to Slavica Publishers, especially to the managing editor, Vicki Polansky, for her constant encouragement and painstaking attention to the manuscript. From its inception, Mr. Soterios Stavrou, instructor of Modern Greek at the University of Minnesota and the associate editor of the Modern Greek Studies Yearbook: A Publication of Mediterranean, Slavic, and Eastern Orthodox Studies, has been the firm, while benevolent, guiding spirit of our shared Odyssey. All who have worked with Mr. Stavrou have reason to appreciate his scholarly discernment, editorial acumen, and unfailing courtesy. He has been the good helmsman with unwearying hand for the Modern Greek Studies Program at the University of Minnesota and the many projects that have emanated from its office. In addition, Russell Martin deserves special recognition for reviewing the project in its early stage. And heartfelt appreciation is owed the authors for their contributions and for their patience during the lengthy adventures that eventually brought Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth safely home and into harbor.

Prolegomena

In Praise of Ignorance John L. Scherer†

Theo’s office had no window. He had blocked the window with bookshelves, turning the office into a cave of sorts. The dancing shadows on the walls were his books, which we, his students, took for reality. The office was filled with posters and photographs. He reserved a corner of his desk for porcelain, paste, and metal mermaids, which were part of a larger collection he had accumulated during his travels, or which had been given him by students and friends. The mermaids linked Theo to the sea, to Cyprus, and to Greek mythology. Russian Spirits Historians and anthropologists assume that people in primitive cultures and societies simply believed in mermaids, mythical heroes, and legends. One anthropologist has written that folk tales “are to the natives a statement of a primeval, greater, and more relevant reality, by which the present life, fates and activities of mankind are determined.”1 Nineteenth-century Russians had said much the same. The literary critic Vissarion Belinskii noted that “[b]y the word ‘reality’ is meant all that is—the visible world and the spiritual world, the world of facts and the world of ideas. Reason in consciousness and reason in external appearance—in a word, spirit revealing itself to itself is reality; whereas everything that is particular, everything accidental, everything unreasonable is illusion, the opposite and negation of reality, appearance and 1

  Bronislaw Malinowski, Magic, Science and Religion and Other Essays (Boston: Beacon Press, 1948), 79, 86; and Linda J. Ivanits, Russian Folk Belief (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1989), 69. Anthropologists have conceded that primitive societies at least had an internal logic. I am suggesting that all societies behave ritually and irrationally. On folk tales, see James Bailey and Tatyana Ivanova, trans., An Anthology of Russian Folk Epics (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1998); Sabine Baring-Gould, Curious Myths of the Middle Ages, ed. Edward Hardy (New York: Crescent Books, 1987); Joseph Campbell and Charles Muses, eds., In All Her Names: Explorations of the Feminine in Divinity (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1991); Katherine M. Briggs, ed., A Dictionary of British Folk-Tales in the English Language, 4 vols. (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970–71); and S. V. Maksimov, Literaturnye puteshestviia (Moscow: Sovremennik, 1986), with an index of personal and mythological names, 391–414. Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 3–22.

4

John L. Scherer

not real being.”2 And in the same vein, Nikolai Stankevich, the founder of a literary and philosophical circle in Moscow during the 1830s, wrote that “reality in the sense of immediacy, of external being, is accident. Reality in its truth is reason, spirit.”3 Actually, certain societies, such as prerevolutionary Russia, handled myth and legend with considerably more practicality and sophistication. Russia has few tales about mermaids because, for much of its early history, it was landlocked. It has many legends about female water spirits called rusalki. Rusalki emerged from rivers and lakes seven weeks after Easter, and lived on land until late autumn. The water dripping from their hair moistened the earth for spring planting.4 Bereginy, other water sprites, may have been named after bereg (shore), or the verb berech´ (to protect). Their images were carved on houses and ships in the Volga region. Rusalka is a word of unknown origin, but tribes that settled along northern rivers, streams, and lakes near the playgrounds of the rusalki adopted the name. The term may also have been the origin of Rus´ or “Russia,” although scholars have suggested many other sources for these words.5 Mermaids or rusalki also influenced architecture in Russia. Majolica mermaids decorated the Z. O. Pertsov House (1905–07), designed by S. A. Maliutin at Kursovoi pereulok, 1/1, in Moscow.6 The art moderne sculpture by Anna Semenovna Golubkina above the entrance to the Moscow Arts Theater (MKhAT) at Prospekt khudozhestvennogo teatra, 3, has been titled Plovets (The diver), V volnakh (In the waves), and More zhiteiskoe (The inhabited sea, or the merman).7 Of the 412 old Russian lubki (woodcuts) known to exist, none depicts a 2   V. G. Belinskii, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii, ed. N. F. Bel´chikov, 13 vols. (Moscow: Izdatel´stvo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1953), 3: 436. 3

  N. V. Stankevich, Perepiska Nikolaia Vladimirovicha Stankevicha, 1830–1840, ed. Aleksei Stankevich (Moscow: A. I. Mamontov, 1914), 486; John L. Scherer, “Belinskij and the Hegelian Dialectic,” Slavic and East European Journal 21, 1 (1977): 30–45. Paul Veyne has argued that Greeks handled myths with cognitive dissonance, both believing in them and not believing, depending on the occasion. This bit of cleverness seems, however, to avoid answering the question posed by his monograph: Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? An Essay on the Constitutive Imagination (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 56–57, 86.

4

  For more on this, see James Bailey and Tatyana Ivanova, trans., An Anthology of Russian Folk Epics (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1998); and S. V. Maksimov, Literaturnye puteshestviia (Moscow: Sovremennik, 1986), with an index of personal and mythological names (391–414). 5

  V. Ia. Propp, Russian Folk Lyrics, trans. and ed. Roberta Reeder (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992), 6–7, 63. On the derivation of rusalka, refer to D. K. Zelenin, Izbrannye trudy: Ocherki russkoi mifologii. Umershie neestestvennoiu smert´iu i rusalki (Moscow: Indrik, 1995), 142–43; and Maks Fasmer [Max Vasmer], Etimologicheskii slovar´ russkogo iazyka, 4 vols. (Moscow: Progress, 1971), 4: 520. 6

 See Moscow News, 11–17 August 1999, 6; and A. V. Ikonnikov, Tysiacha let russkoi arkhitektury: Razvitie traditsii (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1990), 341.

7

  See M. V. Posokhin et al., eds., Pamiatniki arkhitektury Moskvy: Belyi gorod (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1989), 164–65; a carved mermaid appears on 110–11.



In Praise of Ignorance

5

mermaid or water spirit. But they do show flocks of devils, monsters, and birds of paradise.8 Carved mermaids from the Volga region also appear on the facade of a house and on a valëk (a battledore or loom).9 M. D. Karnovskii and I. F. Zubov depicted mermaids in engravings dedicated to the Russian victory in the Northern War (1707–09), and Aleksei Zubov and Piter Pikart also depicted them in “To the Most Sublime Tsar Union [Which Has Been] Blessed by God” (1715), an engraving of Tsar Peter I and his wife Ekaterina.10 Charles Cameron included sculptures of mythological subjects linked to water in a 1780 design for the Cold Baths at Tsarskoe Selo.11 Rusalki also appeared in Russian music, including Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka’s opera Ruslan and Liudmila (1842) and Aleksandr Sergeevich Dargomyzhskii’s Rusalka (1856).12 Yevgenii Lancéray (Lanceré, 1875–1946) drew the two-tailed mermaid featured on the cover of Zolotoe Runo (The Golden Fleece) in 1906. Ivan Kramskoi painted Rusalki in 1871, a picture of pale, subdued sprites dressed in white.13 Velimir Khlebnikov, the self-proclaimed Futurist “President of the Universe” and the “King of Time,” wrote a “trans-rational” poem in which he used the words “rusalka” and “rusalki.”14 Rusalki and other spirits served specific functions in Russian culture. Benevolent spirits included the rozhanitsa, protector of the household and family; senmurvy, dogs living 8

  See especially E. I. Itkina, Russkii risovannyi lubok kontsa XVIII–nachala XX veka (Moscow: Russkaia kniga, 1992).

9

  Shown in Christianity and the Arts in Russia, ed. William C. Brumfield and Milos M. Velimirovich (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991), plate 40 and 41.

10

  M. Alekseeva, Graviura petrovskogo vremeni (Leningrad: Iskusstvo, 1990), 68, 139.

11

  Brian Allen and Larissa Dukelskaya, eds., British Art Treasures from Russian Imperial Collections in the Hermitage (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 210. 12

  See Malcolm Hamrick Brown, “Native Song and National Consciousness in Nineteenth-Century Russian Music,” in Art and Culture in Nineteenth-Century Russia, ed. Theofanis George Stavrou (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1983), 57–83, especially 64. 13

  T. I. Kurochkina, Ivan Nikolaevich Kramskoi (Moscow: Izobrazitel´noe iskusstvo, 1980), 54–55; and John E. Bowlt, The Silver Age: Russian Art of the Early Twentieth Century and the “World of Art” Group (Newtonville, MA: Oriental Research Partners, 1979), 21, 64.

14

  Von der Fläche zum Raum: Russland, 1916–24 (Cologne: Galerie Gmurzynska, 1974), 63. Some readers of Vladimir Nabokov have imagined Lolita as a butterfly. Nabokov was an avid lepidopterist, and in his novel he described many places he had seen in the United States while on cross-country moth chases. Nabokov envisaged Lolita as a mermaid. Humbert Humbert recalled, “She adored brilliant water and was a remarkably smart diver.” Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1955), 163. When Humbert first saw the nymphet, “a blue sea-wave swelled under my heart” (41). She reminded him of another love at a “princedom by the sea” (11, 42). Lolita’s mother, Charlotte Haze, had “wide-set sea-green eyes” (39). At the beach, Charlotte swam “with dutiful awkwardness (she was a very mediocre mermaid), but not without a certain solemn pleasure (for was not her merman by her side?)…” (88). On Vladimir Nabokov the lepidopterist, see John L. Scherer, The Popular Encyclopedia of Russia and the Soviet Union, 9 diskettes (Minneapolis: J. L. Scherer, 1999–2000), 440–41; and Der Spiegel, 9 June 1997, 197.

6

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in trees which caused the spring to come by flapping their wings; and the simartjl, a hybrid bird and dog that lived in an oak tree at the edge of the world and spread its wings to create the wind and to distribute seeds.15 Warnings Spirits, particularly evil spirits, alerted Russian peasants to danger. The vodianoi, or water sprite, one of two types of rusalki, drowned people. Vodianye resembled humans, except for their fish tails. Some had claws, a horn on their heads, and, occasionally, even goose legs. Most Russians could not swim, so these spirits made them cautious around water. Bards and balladists in Kaluga and Smolensk provinces recounted that a vodianoi tsar lived in a submerged crystal palace, where he danced to tunes played by musicians. The rooms of the palace were filled with gold from sunken ships. In Orel province, peasants believed that the vodianoi tsar lived in an undersea palace made from glass, gold, silver, and precious stones. The kingdom was illuminated by precious stones brighter than the sun. When the tsar danced, the seas turned stormy.16 A poludnitsa, which roamed Ukraine, was frequently, but not always, a tall, beautiful woman clad in white who walked around fields at noon. She would twist the head of anyone she found working at the hottest time of the day. Sometimes the poludnitsa lured unsuspecting children into the rye and ate them. The lesson for field hands was to stay out of the noonday sun, and, for children, not to play in the fields and orchards.17

15   Alison Hilton, “Piety and Pragmatism: Orthodox Saints and Slavic Nature Spirits in Russian Peasant Art,” in Brumfield and Velimirovich, Christianity and the Arts in Russia, 55–71. Konstantin Makovskii’s painting Rusalki appears in Bram Dijkstra, Idols of Perversity: Fantasies of Feminine Evil in Fin-de-Siècle Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 261. Dijkstra also commented on rusalki, mermaids, and ondines (94–100, 258–71). Contrary to Dijkstra’s characterization of West European dryads, Russian rusalki were not passive. 16

 E. V. Pomerantseva, Mifologicheskie personazhi v russkom fol´klore (Moscow: Nauka, 1975), 55–56, 61–62. It was said that this sea-tsar never died, but simply changed with the phases of the moon. See S. V. Maksimov, Kul´ khleba: Nechistaia, nevedomaia i krestnaia sila (St. Petersburg, 1903; repr., Smolensk: Rusich, 1995), 321. Some Slavs apparently believed that water was not just dangerous but had purifying and healing effects. L. I. Min´ko, “Magical Curing (Its Sources and Character and the Causes of Its Prevalence) [Part I],” Soviet Anthropology and Archeology 12, 3 (1973): 3–33, especially 26–29.

17

  Felix J. Oinas, Essays on Russian Folklore and Mythology (Columbus, OH: Slavica Publishers, 1985), 105; and Entsiklopedicheskii slovar´ (St. Petersburg: F. A. Brokgauz and I. A. Yefron, 1890), 53: 295.



In Praise of Ignorance

7

Politics Evil beings have always been politically useful. During a succession crisis in the late fifteenth century, rumors circulated that Ivan III’s second wife, Grand Princess Sof´ia Paleologos, practiced sorcery. After Vasilii III had banished his first wife, Solomoniia Saburova, to a convent, gossips claimed she had used magic to keep her husband’s love. Princess Anna Glinskaia, the grandmother of Ivan the Terrible, was said to have ripped out human hearts and sprinkled Moscow with the water in which she had soaked them. The Glinskiis were accused of invoking witchcraft to start the immense fire in Moscow in 1547. During the Time of Troubles (1598–1613), Tsar Boris Godunov had the rival Romanov family exiled for having seized the throne by sorcery, and Marina Mniszech, the Polish wife of Godunov’s successor Grishka Otrep´ev (the False Dmitrii), was popularly known as “the witch Marinka.”18 Although witch-hunts in Russia did not equal the scope or intensity of those in Western Europe, 1,452 people testified or confessed during a trial at Belgorod in 1664. The affair had political overtones, since many of the accused were Circassians and Zaporozhian Cossacks.19 As early as the twelfth century, the Russian Orthodox Church, intent on converting the heathen, forbade the telling of fables. It urged peasants to consult divine Scriptures on all things.20 Peasants ignored the prohibition, and continued to recount the stories in order to resist church and state control.21 They continued to tell folk tales about rusalki who conducted mock funerals that parodied Orthodox Church rites. Peter was the crocodile, and Baba-Yaga was a fearsome witch in Russian folk tales. One famous anti-government Old Believer lubok, “How the Mice Buried the Cat,” showed mice (Russians) reveling in their release from the oppression of the cat (Peter the Great). Another satirical lubok entitled “The Witch Baba-Yaga Going Off to Fight the Crocodile” depicted Peter’s wife Ekaterina in Livonian costume riding a

18

 Ivanits, Russian Folk Belief, 87–88; Russell Zguta, “Witchcraft Trials in Seventeenth-Century Russia,” American Historical Review 82, 5 (1977): 1187–1207, especially 1193; and Zguta, “The Ordeal by Water (Swimming of Witches) in the East Slavic World,” Slavic Review 36, 2 (1977): 220–30; Zguta, “Witchcraft and Medicine in Pre-Petrine Russia,” Russian Review 37, 4 (1978): 438–48; and Valerie A. Kivelson, “Witchcraft in Russia,” Modern Encyclopedia of Russian and Soviet History, ed. George N. Rhyne (Gulf Breeze, FL: Academic International Press, 1997), 55: 1–4. At one time, it was believed that sorcerers skied through fields by attaching icons to their feet. See Ivanits, Russian Folk Belief, 109. Ivan the Terrible could not sleep without hearing fables and stories each night. Three blind men recounted tales at the tsar’s bedside until sleep overtook him. See Y. M. Sokolov, Russian Folklore, trans. Catherine Ruth Smith (New York: Macmillan Company, 1950), 457. 19   Russell Zguta, “Was There a Witch Craze in Muscovite Russia?” Southern Folklore Quarterly 40, 1 (1977): 119–27, especially 121–22. 20

 Sokolov, Russian Folklore, 381.

21

 Zelenin, Izbrannye trudy, 288.

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pig. Peter had found his wife in a tavern in Livonia.22 Ekaterina made him play the pipes and dance in “The Witch Baba-Yaga and the Bald Man.” Peter was portrayed mischievously as “The Cat of Kazan’” in another lubok.23 Resistance to authority may have been a major reason for the survival of dvoeverie (double-faith) in Russia, that is, the retention of pagan beliefs by Orthodox Christians. Instruction Spirits, legends, and fairy tales taught civic and moral lessons. They explained the benefits of loyalty, correct behavior, and persistence in the face of obstacles. They instilled the values of cooperation, and persuaded children that even the smallest or the meekest could succeed in this world. Folk tales explained how to deal with death, misfortune, and such complex emotions as jealousy, anger, disappointment, and love. Folk tales and myths brought clarity to life, and taught courage and self-control. They did not shield children from reality, but instructed them, in an indirect but concrete way, how to approach life with purpose and confidence.24 In a moral tale about greed, three brothers fought over a hat, the only thing they had inherited from their father. The Lapp hero asked them why they were arguing over something so paltry, and they told him that the hat was magic. Anyone who wore it would become invisible. The Lapp hero put the hat on, became invisible to the brothers, and walked away with it. The brothers agreed to cease quarreling, for they no longer had anything to envy, and lived in harmony as before.25 In other tales, a husband told his Yakut bride to turn left at the fork in the road. She turned right, of course, and suffered for her defiance. An Armenian girl was instructed to keep a secret or calamity would follow. She revealed the secret, and the dire prophecy was fulfilled.26 While women were portrayed negatively in these particular stories, as disobedient and foolish, children learned to obey. Spirits of the forests and fields taught people not to destroy the earth. In the short story “Strashnaia mest´” (A Terrible Vengeance), Nikolai Gogol´ described the Ukrainian countryside as a living being: “This forest which stands on the hills is not a forest: these [trees] are the hairs growing on the shaggy head of the old man of the 22

  Ian Grey, The Horizon Book of the Arts of Russia (New York: American Heritage Publishing, 1970), 165, 168–69.

23

  Thomas Froncek, ed., The Horizon Book of the Arts of Russia (New York: American Heritage Publishing, 1970), 124–25.

24

  Bruno Bettelheim, The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1976), 5, 7, 9–11. Refer to Jack Zipes, Happily Ever After: Fairy Tales, Children, and the Culture Industry (New York: Routledge, 1997), on similar themes.

25

  C. Fillingham Coxwell, Siberian and Other Folk-Tales (1925; repr., New York: AMS Press, 1983), 626–30. This story is a variation on the Cap of Hades, which, according to Greek mythology, conferred invisibility on the wearer.

26

  Ibid., 44–45.



In Praise of Ignorance

9

forest.”27 In Smolensk guberniia (province), the leshii, another type of rusalka and the lord of the forest, concluded agreements with local hunters to protect the birds and animals.28 Folk wisdom warned that killing a swan doomed a person to an early death.29 Anyone shooting a swallow, the bird that, according to legend, had removed the nails from the Cross of Christ, would bring a curse upon his cattle.30 As a result of a traditional reverence for birches in Russia, felling large trees was forbidden except for certain spring rites.31 Since the birch was one of the first trees to bloom in the Russian spring, peasants believed it possessed the elemental forces of nature. They sometimes decorated a birch tree, cut it, and threw the branches into a rye field to transfer the tree’s strength to the crop. Girls occasionally bent and staked the top of a birch tree to the ground, so its power would be transmitted to the earth.32 In any case, peasants saw themselves as a part of nature, not apart from it, and so protected it.33 The East Slavs did not have a pantheon of gods, but rather venerated nature itself.34 27   N. V. Gogol´, “Strashnaia mest´,” in Polnoe sobranie sochinenii N. V. Gogolia v desiati tomakh, 10 vols. (Petrograd: Slovo, 1921), 1: 231. 28

 Pomerantseva, Mifologicheskie personazhi, 29.

29

  L. M. Kuznetsova and N. F. Lein, eds., Russkie (Moscow: Nauka, 1997), 745. Of course, Russian peasants still ruined land with the slash-and-burn technique of farming, and scientific farming certainly has increased yields. The point is that one can employ scientific techniques and still respect the earth.

30

  W. F. Ryan, The Bathhouse at Midnight: An Historical Survey of Magic and Divination in Russia (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999), 126. On reading this encyclopedic study, one wonders why rituals, beliefs, and legends proliferated. Although Ryan does not discuss this question, number and variety may have resulted because the folk beliefs and rituals did not work, or because peasants constantly demanded new stories to entertain themselves. 31

 Ikonnikov, Tysiacha let, 21.

32  Propp, Russian Folk Lyrics, 63. Robert Graves devoted chapters to the ancient Irish BethLuis-Nion tree alphabet (taking its name from the letters meaning Birch-Rowan-Ash), a relic of Druidism, in The White Goddess: A Historical Grammar of Poetic Myth (New York: Creative Age Press, 1948), 23, 137–70, especially 154. He noted that the British once believed that a child laid in an elderwood cradle would pine away or be pinched black and blue by fairies. The traditional wood of cradles was birch, which drove off evil spirits (154). In England a witch could be rendered harmless by snatching away her besom, or broom, and tossing it into running water, a river or stream. The brooms were made from birch twigs, which ensnared evil spirits (143). 33

  Mircea Eliade spoke about living in a “sacralized cosmos” in The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Harper & Row, 1959), 17, 162–79.

34

  See George P. Fedotov, The Russian Religious Mind, 1: Kievan Christianity: The Tenth to the Thirteenth Centuries (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1960), 3–20, 344–62. The author and actor Frank McCourt has recalled that as a boy he accompanied his family to a cemetery in Ireland to bury his two-year-old brother Oliver, who had died suddenly from pneumonia. Jackdaws were perched on trees and tombstones. McCourt could not bear to think

10

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Perpetuating these ideas benefited Russia and Ukraine, but did not require actual belief in spirits, only knowledge of and respect for these legends. Control The Koriaks and Chukchis sacrificed their elderly and their dogs to propitiate evil spirits. Other peoples merely left food in certain places.35 This difference represented an understanding of sacrifice as an abstract concept, and the lessening of belief. Such rituals taught abstention, gratitude, and humility. Kazakhs prayed to specific deities during particular calamities. They made sacrifices to jher-ana, an earth spirit, during ice storms, to su-ana, a water god, during drought, and to various animal spirits when the herds became ill or their numbers dwindled. Kazakhs believed, or pretended to believe, that animals possessed supernatural powers, and that sacrificing them could reverse misfortune and postpone death.36 When misfortune persisted, they must have doubted the powers of their idols. Kazakhs, at least, understood that they did not control their own destinies, and this acknowledgement represented heightened awareness and sophistication. Superstitious Russians and other nationalities avoided calling things by their correct names. The Cheremis referred to bees as the “little tiny bird.” Estonians called the bee “a honey bird.” In Siberia, a bear was known as “a bull”; a she-bear, “a cow.” Siberians spoke of a cow as “the bellower,” and Russians substituted “the spired one” for a church. Belorussians spoke metaphorically about “the gay one,” “the handrail,” and “the yoke” when they meant a rainbow.37 A superstitious person does not completely trust reason, or at least someone else’s reasoning, but this does not mean that he or she is stupid. Among pagan Slavs, obscenities also had a ritual function connected to agricultural, marital, and fertility rites.38 Foul language, like prayer, was invoked to escape a wood demon or house spirit, or the Devil himself. On certain occasions, when prayer of leaving Oliver with the jackdaws, so he began to pitch rocks at them. His father told him to stop; they might be someone’s soul. This caution had the opposite effect on young Frank: “I’d be a man some day, and I’d come back with a bag of rocks, and I’d leave the graveyard littered with dead jackdaws.” See Frank McCourt, Angela’s Ashes, audiocassette (New York: Recorded Books, Inc., 1997), pt. 3. 35

 Coxwell, Siberian and Other Folk-Tales, 28.

36

  Martha Brill Olcott, The Kazakhs (Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press, 1987), 20; and S. E. Tolybekov, Kochevoe obshchestvo Kazakhov v XVII–nachale XX veka: Politiko-ekonomicheskii analiz (Alma-Ata: Nauka, 1971), 197. 37

  V. P. Anikin, “On the Origin of Riddles,” in The Study of Russian Folklore, ed. Felix J. Oinas and Stephen Soudakoff (The Hague: Mouton, 1975), 25–37.

38

 On fertility, see S. A. Tokarev, Religioznye verovaniia vostochnoslavianskikh narodov XIX–nachala XX v. (Moscow: Izdatel´stvo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1957), 94; and V. K. Sokolova, Vesenne-letnie kalendarnye obriady russkikh, ukraintsev, belorussov (Moscow: Nauka, 1979), 220.



In Praise of Ignorance

11

would not work, only cursing proved effectual. Both prayers and curses were used to find buried treasure. The procedure to free a village from an epidemic required shouting, banging things, and cursing. Pagan Serbs threw a hammer at the heavens to avert hail, swearing the whole time.39 While these customs continued, the treasure was never found; the epidemic ran its course; and hail ruined the crops. Obscenities became part of the language to express fear or frustration rather than to bring about some miraculous event. Entertainment Tales and legends offered entertainment and enchantment. Aleksandr Pushkin described a nereid in 1820: Below the dawn-flushed sky, where the green billow lies Caressing Tauris’ flank, I saw a Nereid rise. Breathless for joy I lay, hid in the olive trees, And watched the demi-goddess riding the rosy seas. The waters lapped about her swan-white breast and young, As from her long soft hair the wreaths of foam she wrung.40 Other Romantic writers of the early nineteenth century, such as Vasilii Zhukovskii, Taras Shevchenko, and Mikhail Lermontov, all reworked ancient tales about rusalki.41 Most of the time, women fared poorly in these tales. Lermontov included an undina (undine)—a mermaid or water nymph—in his short story “Taman´.” At least the protagonist took her for one: “Her fingers crunched, but she did not cry out; her serpent nature withstood this torture.”42 Nikolai Gogol´ described rusalki as pale, translucent, as if illuminated by the moon. They appeared at twilight, just before the stars winked on, to laugh and dance, their eyes shining and their green or red hair 39   B. A. Uspenskij, “On the Origin of Russian Obscenities,” in The Semiotics of Russian Culture, by Ju. M. Lotman and B. A. Uspenskij, ed. Ann Shukman (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1984), 295–300. 40

  The Poems, Prose and Plays of Alexander Pushkin, ed. Avrahm Yarmolinsky (New York: Modern Library, 1964), 53. The translation is by Babette Deutsch. Pushkin’s rusalka combed her wet hair, waved, nodded, laughed, and cried like a child. See A. S. Pushkin, Pushkin: Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v shesti tomakh, ed. M. A. Tsiavlovskii (Moscow: Academia, 1936), 1: 252, on a domovoi, 260–61, on a rusalka, and 279, on the nereida.

41

 Entsiklopedicheskii slovar´ (1890), 53: 295. Shevchenko wrote “Utoplenie” (Drowned). Zhukovskii’s “Lesnoi Tsar´” (Forest Tsar [i.e., leshii], 1818) was borrowed from a ballad of the same name by Goethe. See V. Zhukovskii, Stikhotvoreniia (Moscow: Sovetskaia Rossiia, 1974), 167–68, 291.

42

  Mikhail Lermontov, A Hero of Our Time, trans. Vladimir Nabokov (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1958), 65–80, especially 77.

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overflowing their shoulders. They burned for love, and tickled their victims to death. Ivan Turgenev wrote: “Before him [the carpenter Gavrila] sat a rusalka on a tree branch, swinging and calling him, dying from laughter.” The carpenter’s encounter with the rusalka changed his life forever—he was never happy again. Rusalki and mermaids were beautiful and tempting, but they were also dangerous: fish tails sink sails. Mermen bore no such stigma.43 In Ukraine, rusalki would normally confront a young woman on her way to draw water from a river and shout, “Wormwood or parsley?” “Wormwood”—chernobyl´ or polyn´—was a magical word. If the woman foolishly answered “parsley,” she would be tickled to death.44 The Russian and Belorussian kikimora, often considered the wife of the domovoi (a house spirit), smothered its victims with kisses. In one village in the Vologda region, a kikimora roamed a house all night, stamping its feet, rattling the dishes, clanking cups, and breaking crockery. Only a dancing bear managed to rid the house of this apparition.45 Sprites described in Russian literature differed from spirits said to haunt Russian villages by their extreme beauty or ugliness, and by the depth of their cunning. Writers, more than local bards, embellished their tales. In his short story “Vii,” Gogol´ exaggerated the beauty of the woman—a stunning young witch with eyelashes as long as arrows—and the horror of the monster—a bandylegged creature with an iron face, whose eyelids hung to the ground, and required a whole crowd of devils to raise.46 43

  Klaus J. Heinisch, Der Wassermensch: Entwicklungsgeschichte eines Sagenmotivs (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1981). Some fairy tales have become outdated and harmful. Bruno Bettelheim has pointed out that Snow White, betrayed by her wicked stepmother, is saved by males—first by the seven dwarfs, then by a prince. Bettelheim did not reject reason, but felt that fairy tales helped children deal with a reality without moral ambiguities until they learned to think abstractly. The fairy tales provided security until a child was ready “to engage in rational investigations as he grows up.” See Bruno Bettelheim, The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1976), 9, 16, 19, 52. 44

  Ryan, The Bathhouse at Midnight, 310.

45

  Olga Raevsky-Hughes, “Remizov’s Autobiographical Prose,” in Autobiographical Statements in Twentieth-Century Russian Literature, ed. Jane Gary Harris (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), 61; Maksimov, Kul´ khleba, 292–97; and Kuznetsova and Lein, eds., Russkie, 756–57.

46

  Nikolai Gogol, Mirgorod, trans. David Magarshack (New York: Farrar, Straus and Cudahy, 1962), 187, 198, 217–18; and Judith Deutsch Kornblatt, “Cossacks and Women: Creation without Reproduction in Gogol’s Cossack Myth,” in Russian Subjects: Empire, Nation, and the Culture of the Golden Age, ed. Monika Greenleaf and Stephen Moeller-Sally (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1998), 173–89, especially 182–83, 185. Even though Jakob (1785–1863) and Wilhelm (1786–1859) Grimm wrote their fairy tales for adults, some readers have considered the stories too violent. In the original version of the first tale in their collection, “The Frog King, or Iron Heinrich,” the petulant princess did not turn the frog into a prince with a kiss, but hurled it against a wall with all her might. It awoke, groggily, as a prince. See The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, trans. Jack Zipes (New York: Bantam Books, 1992), 2–5.



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Folk Heroes Heroes in Russian folklore were often lazy and good-for-nothing. One of the most popular, Ivanushka the Fool, slept on a warm peasant stove, avoided work, and moved only to eat, play jacks with the cat, or to blow his nose: “For twelve years he lay in the ashes; then he got up, and when he shook himself, over two hundred pounds of ashes fell from his body.”47 Like Russians themselves, who often exhibit bursts of energy, Ivanushka emerged from his slumber to perform some heroic feat, whereupon he returned to the warm stove. The story meant that Russians may appear languorous, but they are still capable of great deeds. In the Russian version of Grimm’s “The Frog King,” three brothers throw arrows into the air and follow them to find wives. Two of the brothers marry well, but foolish Ivan cannot locate his arrow and gets lost in a swamp. Ivan finds and kisses a frog, which turns into a woman who organizes his life forever after.48 Tsar Nikolai I was often compared to a bogatyr´ or folk warrior in Russian lubki (popular prints). Various Russian military heroes, such as Aleksandr Suvorov and Grigorii Potemkin, were depicted with superhuman strength and size, as men capable of dashing exploits, all taken directly from legends. The tsar appeared in these woodblock prints with his right arm extended stiffly, sometimes holding a sword, sometimes merely gesturing toward the distance. Soviet sculptors adopted this pose in their depiction of Lenin pointing to the glorious future.49 The ethnographer and literary historian P. N. Rybnikov was a civil servant interested in Russian byliny, which, in the nineteenth century, were thought to be on the verge of extinction. A bylina was an epic folk song connected to a historical event that its singers embellished. The songs are believed to have originated around Kiev, but even before the emergence of the Kievan state in the tenth century. The term was first used by I. P. Sakharov in the 1830s. Rybnikov recalled that one day in 1860, when a storm had overtaken him on Lake Onega, he sought refuge on an island. He heard music coming from a barn, and found peasants singing “Sadko,” a forgotten bylina. Rybnikov published 224 of these verse tales in four volumes during 1861–67, and is credited with having rediscovered this art form.50 Here legends were employed to transfer mythical strength and heroism to contemporary leaders. 47

  E. M. Meletinskij, “The ‘Low’ Hero of the Fairy Tale,” in Oinas and Soudakoff, The Study of Russian Folklore, 235–57, especially 237; and Coxwell, Siberian and Other Folk-Tales, 30. 48

  Communication from Elena Korshuk, Belarusian State University, Minsk.

49

  Richard S. Wortman, Scenarios of Power: Myth and Ceremony in Russian Monarchy, 1: From Peter the Great to the Death of Nicholas I (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 313.

50

  See Oinas, Essays on Russian Folklore and Mythology, 9–11; V. Ia. Propp, Theory and History of Folklore, trans. Ariadna Y. Martin and Richard P. Martin, ed. Anatoly Liberman (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 53; and Frank J. Miller, Folklore for Stalin: Russian Folklore and Pseudofolklore of the Stalin Era (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1990), with synopses of pseudo-folklore (noviny) on 111–51.

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The Origins of Folk Tales Storytellers varied the formulaic folk tales by adapting them to specific localities, increasing their complexity, and making the tales ever more fantastic. Belorussians in Chernigov province imagined rusalki were the souls of dead, unbaptized infants who gamboled in the forests, swung on tree limbs, wove wreaths, and seduced the unwary.51 In Voronezh province, they were female children who had not been baptized, or girls who had drowned.52 Mermaids in Orenburg province were mute.53 In Belorussia, grass did not grow where the rusalki had danced, whereas in Russia, the grass was always greener on this spot.54 The vodianoi resembled an old man in Vladimir province, but a young, naked woman continually combing her hair in Novgorod province. In Vologda province, a vodianoi looked like a big pike.55 Peasants in the Khar´kov region of Ukraine believed that rusalki swam in kvas—a beer made from fermented rye or other breads. Devils swam in both kvas and milk but could not stay afloat in holy water.56 In Kaluga province, the Devil gave the rusalki their beauty and eternal youth by boiling them in cauldrons.57 In Riazan´ province, the vodianye were said to have been the soldiers of the pharaoh who had drowned in pursuit of the Jews crossing the Black Sea (not the Red Sea).58 In Chuvashiia, people said the souls of dead children were transformed into birds, most often into cuckoos.59 The domovoi in Smolensk province was usually a bare-headed, gray-bearded old man in a long white shirt. In Vladimir province, he always dressed in yellow and never removed his big battered hat. His hair and beard trailed to the ground. He was forever awkward, and as small as a stump or a block of wood in Penza province. The domovoi could only be seen on a dark night before the second crowing of the cock, 51

 Zelenin, Izbrannye trudy, 310; and Maksimov, Kul´ khleba, 329.

52

 Zelenin, Izbrannye trudy, 149.

53

  Sergei Aksakov, Notes on Fishing and Selected Fishing Prose and Poetry, trans. Thomas P. Hodge (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1997), 176; and Ivanits, Russian Folk Belief, 75–82, 185–89, on Russian mermaids or rusalki. 54

 Zelenin, Izbrannye trudy, 205; Margaret Bridget Betz, “Malevich’s Nymphs: Erotica or Emblem?” Soviet Union 5, 2 (1978): 204–24, especially 213; and Zelenin, Izbrannye trudy, 191. 55

  Maksimov, Kul´ khleba, 319.

56

 Zelenin, Izbrannye trudy, 311.

57

  Ibid., 158. This legend, too, draws on Greek mythology. Medea, for example, cooked Jason’s aged father Aison in a cauldron to make him young. See H. J. Rose, A Handbook of Greek Mythology (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1959), 204, 300. The Greeks, of course, had their own panoply of mermaids, nereids, and dryads. 58

 Zelenin, Izbrannye trudy, 301. The peasants of Orël also believed that the vodianye, whom they called faraony, had drowned in the Black Sea. See Maksimov, Kul´ khleba, 321. 59

 Zelenin, Izbrannye trudy, 303.



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and then in the form of a black cat or a sack of grain.60 All of these regions were within a few hundred kilometers of one another. These variations in folk tales suggest people found them more entertaining than convincing. If they were meant to describe reality, the stories would have been more uniform and consistent, and less numerous. Not just the details, but also the forms of folklore differed from province to province. In Kareliia, southerners created moral tales that realistically described village life. North Karelian tales were more sarcastic and ironic.61 Conditions were tougher in the north: hard earth and hard work hardened their hearts. Peasants always battled poverty in tales from Smolensk. A typical farmer clearing his land for wheat “grubs out the trees, scratches the surface a little, and begins to sow.” Siberian folk tales were filled with wanderers and wayfarers migrating across this wide expanse.62 Myths Life should be lived in a mythopoeic sense, incorporating poetic imagination and mythic structures into one’s own reality. Myths elevate the personal to the universal, and human experience should, on occasion, be transfigured, that is, lived on a different plane, as happens with love, or when people live their daily lives heroically, as do those who sacrifice for some cause, or for others. Men and women should use myth and imagination to understand that they are part of history and nature, which go on and on, and not mere mortals in a diminished world. At his home near South Hadley, Massachusetts, Joseph Brodsky observed two pitch-black, brazen crows that alighted in his backyard, or on his porch, or, from time to time, in his pine grove. The first arrived just after Brodsky’s mother had died, and the second, a year later, shortly after his father had passed away. “Now they always show up or flap away together,” he recalled, “and they are too silent for crows.” Brodsky tried to avoid looking at them, but they reminded him of his parents: “One is shorter than the other, the way my mother was up to my father’s shoulder.… Although I can’t make out their age, they seem to be an old couple. On an outing. I don’t have it in me to shoo them away, nor can I communicate with them in any fashion. I also seem to remember that crows do not migrate. If the origins of mythology are fear and isolation, I am isolated all right. And I wonder how many things will remind me of my parents from now on. That is to say, with this sort of visitor, who needs a good memory?”63

60

  Maksimov, Kul´ khleba, 271–72.

61

  U. S. Konkka, comp., Karel´skie narodnye skazki (Moscow: Akademiia nauk SSSR, 1963), 47–51.

62

 Sokolov, Russian Folklore, 461–62, 465. See pages 459–65 on local variations in these tales. 63

  Joseph Brodsky, “In a Room and a Half,” in Less Than One: Selected Essays (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1986), 468–69, 494–95.

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The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly Spirits, like angels, were good and bad. The domovoi and related sprites had been cast out of Heaven. Those who fell to earth into homes were benevolent, guardian spirits—the dvorovoi (who lived in a courtyard), the vannik (who guarded baths), the ovinnik (who protected barns), and the chlevnik (who watched over cows). Those who fell outside the home, in wild places, including the polevik (who protected fields), the leshii, the vodianoi, the rusalka, and the chertovka (a demon who lived in stills or stagnant pools of water), were unfriendly toward humans.64 The domovoi, a faithful Russian spirit that slept on, in, or behind the stove, protected one’s home, and all who lived in it. The name domovoi derived from the Russian word dom (house). Although this spirit took many forms, it was usually an old man whose wife, the domikha or doman´ia, lived under the floorboards. These spirits were guardians of the hearth, and they had their own favorites in every family that prospered. When a family moved, it always took an ember from the old stove to the new one in order to retain the protection of the domovoi. Family members never referred to this spirit directly, but always as “chelovek” (man), “Ded,” or “Dedushka” (grandfather). Leftovers were set out for the spirits at night. The movement of a domovoi caused creaks and groans in the house. If someone were brushed by one, a cold, clammy feeling meant bad luck, whereas a warm, furry feeling resulted in good fortune. Domovye experienced the human emotions of happiness and sadness. They did not communicate with adults, only with children and animals.65 If a Russian loses an object at home, he or she must put candy in a corner of the apartment for the domovoi. After the object is found, the candy must be thrown away.66 Most spirits, such as the rusalki, were evil and erotic. The lives of peasants were often difficult and filled with misfortune, so evil spirits predominated. Rusalki were erotic because they were evil and female. Eroticism represented temptation and was to be resisted.

64

  Carol Rose, Spirits, Fairies, Gnomes, and Goblins: An Encyclopedia of the Little People (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-Clio, 1996), 68, 90, 250–51. 65

  Iurii Miroliubov, Slaviano-russkii fol´klor (Munich: Otto Sagner, 1984), 68–87, especially 73. On domovye, vodianye, and rusalki, see Maksimov, Kul´ khleba, 267–334. Boris Kustodiev painted The Merchant’s Wife and Brownie (brownie being a domovoi) in 1921–22, and gave the picture to his friend and fellow artist Konstantin Somov. See Mark Etkind, ed., Boris Kustodiev: Paintings, Graphic Works, Book Illustrations, Theatrical Designs (New York: Abrams, 1983), 274 n. 92. 66

  Françoise Dehove in Agence France Presse, 18 February 2000.



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Social Status Myths developed a sense of community, through shared rituals, and provided social status. Legends were society’s glue, reinforcing the social structure.67 It has been pointed out that the execution of a witch demonstrated group or communal solidarity. The practice excluded the deviant from society, and redefined, or narrowed, the boundaries of behavior in a virtuous community.68 It has been suggested that myths are like shoes: “You step into them if they fit. Old shoes, like traditions that are (or seem) ancient, are usually the ones you feel most comfortable with.”69 And it has been speculated that any society which did not define and structure itself through rituals would “collapse into chaos.”70 Persons called witches in Europe—frequently poor, older women—were often victims of petty feuds and political vendettas, but they were not only victims. Their supernatural powers afforded these women prominence. They were village physicians and midwives, probably the two most important jobs in rural European society. They were called upon in times of drought and plague to restore balance in nature, and during political upheavals to cast spells on the enemies of local rulers. Not all witches were women, for that matter, but female witches invariably taught males.71 In ancient Greece, women were responsible for the continuity of a community. They had special duties relating to death and community losses, such as preparing the body, mourning, and making offerings. They secured the future of the community by bearing children, an event considered a public rather than a private matter.72 In Russia, too, women performed the funeral, wedding, and conscription laments.73 Russian women traditionally acted as the guardians of the community by obtaining food, fuel, and shelter for their families.74 In 1931 Tuva had 725 shamans, 314 of them women. 67

  A. N. Wilson has spoken of “religion’s glue” in A. N. Wilson, God’s Funeral (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1999), 277.

68

  Christina Larner, Witchcraft and Religion: The Politics of Popular Belief, ed. Alan Macfarlane (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1984), 45. 69

  Richard Buxton, Imaginary Greece: The Contexts of Mythology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 196.

70

  Charles Freeman, The Greek Achievement: The Foundation of the Western World (New York: Viking, 1999), 131. 71

 Barbara G. Walker, The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1983), 1076–91.

72

 Buxton, Imaginary Greece, 114–17.

73

  Roberta Reeder in Handbook of Russian Literature, ed. Victor Terras (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985), 242–43. 74

  Barbara Alpern Engel, “Transformation versus Tradition,” in Russia’s Women: Accommodation, Resistance, Transf  ormation, ed. Barbara Evans Clements, Engel, and Christine D. Worobec (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 135–47, especially 145.

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The region had been controlled by China until 1944, when it became part of the Soviet Union.75 It has been pointed out that the ratio of male to female witches in seventeenth-century Muscovy was nearly seven to three, and suggested that enserfment in Russia restricted social movement and the asocial behavior that was associated with witches in Western Europe.76 Additionally, people who claimed they had seen sprites enhanced their social standing. They never saw anything resembling a spirit, of course, but an encounter implied they were in some way favored, and had acquired secret or divine wisdom. Mirth Myths shared mirth. The explorer Henry Hudson claimed to have sighted mermaids near Novaia Zemlia, an island washed by both the Barents and Kara Seas, northeast of Murmansk. He mentioned spotting a mermaid “as big as one of us, her skin very white and long hair hanging down behind, of color black. In her going down we saw her tail which was like the tail of a porpoise, speckled like a mackerel … [but] from the navel upwards, her back and breasts were like a woman’s.” Georg Steller, who lent his name to the Steller sea eagle, greenling, jay, sea-lion, eider, and sea-monkey, also left accounts of mermaids during an expedition to the Bering Straits in 1741.77 Within thirty years of Steller’s voyage, hunters had killed all of the mermaids or manatees that he had seen. Steller was the first white man to set foot on Alaska.78 Steller’s eagles on the Kamchatka Peninsula have “brutal yellow beaks,” nine-foot wing spans, and weigh up to twenty pounds. The gigantic birds sometimes eat so much salmon they cannot fly.79 The lonely sailors on this voyage surely saw sea cows, walruses, or whales. For them, mermaids represented an initiation rite. The older seamen, who 75

  Colin Thubron, In Siberia (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1999), 243–78. Also consult Robert Muchembled, “Satanic Myths and Cultural Reality,” in Early Modern European Witchcraft: Centres and Peripheries, ed. Bengt Ankarloo and Gustav Henningsen (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 139–60; and Diane Purkiss, The Witch in History: Early Modern and Twentieth-Century Representations (London: Routledge, 1996).

76

  See Valerie A. Kivelson, “Through the Prism of Witchcraft: Gender and Social Change in Seventeenth-Century Muscovy,” in Clements, Engel, and Worobec, Russia’s Women, 74–94, especially 75, 83–84, 93. Also consult Rose L. Glickman, “The Peasant Woman as Healer,” in ibid., 148–62, especially 162. 77   John May, Curious Facts (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1980), 163; Bol´shaia Sovetskaia Entsiklopediia, 3rd ed. (Moscow: Sovetskaia Entsiklopediia, 1974), 16: 586; and Karl Gröning and Martin Saller, Elephants: A Cultural and Natural History (Cologne: Könemann, 1998), 18. 78

 Thubron, In Siberia, 19–21.

79

  See Klaus Nigge, “The Russian Realm of Steller’s Sea-Eagles,” National Geographic 195 (March 1999): 60–71; and Peter Matthiessen, Tigers in the Snow (New York: North Point Press, 2000), 156.



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may once have been taken in themselves, perpetuated the myth to prove they were not the only fools, and to share the laughter. Some leshie had hairy legs and hooves. Others lived in big huts in the forest. They married, walked their dogs, and had children. In one tale from the Novgorod region, a leshii and his elderly mother even ate kasha (cream-of-wheat) together.80 During the early industrialization of Russia, a vodianoi was described as having a cast-iron (chugunnyi) nose. A peasant in the story “The Little Old Woman with Five Cows” had an iron tongue fifty feet long.81 In Siberia, the inhabitants of the nether regions, such as the black Chebeldei, were made of iron. These unfriendly creatures had noses eighteen meters long. The son of the chief of the Yakut abaasy was a Cyclops with a single eye “like a frozen lake” and seven big iron teeth.82 Few believed such things, but it was all very funny. Everyone knew you could save yourself from a leshii by making it laugh. A fisherman who saw one cried out: “Na eti by nishsha da krasnyë shtanishsha” (This behind should be dressed in red pants). This is amusing because of the rhyme nishsha with shtanishsha. Krasnyi means either “clean” (the leshii was always dirty) or “red” (a festive color).83 Even peasants understood these complicated puns. The leshii, in this instance anyway, obviously thought it hilarious, because the fisherman lived to tell the tale. Prohibitions Folklore was full of prohibitions, but this was, in general, not a bad thing. True believers in folklore had a comparatively easy life in prerevolutionary Russia. Finns living in the Russian Empire thought Friday was the unluckiest day, probably because the Crucifixion had occurred on a Friday, and Finnish and Russian women refused to spin, wash clothes, or remove ashes from stoves. Men would not plough. It was unlucky to use a scissors on Sunday, but a good day to begin a voyage or journey. Business undertaken on Thursday, Friday, or Sunday invited bad luck.84 Russia had far more religious holidays than any other country in Western Europe. In 1900 the number of work days in a Russian factory averaged 264. Factories stood idle for a full quarter of the year.85 Such beliefs inhibited productivity and wealth, but in the 80

 Pomerantseva, Mifologicheskie personazhi, 41.

81

  Ibid., 62; and Coxwell, Siberian and Other Folk-Tales, 40.

82

  Larousse World Mythology, 438.

83

  Communication from Michael Jakobson, University of Toledo; see also Pomerantseva, Mifologicheskie personazhi, 36. 84

  Cora Linn Daniels and C. M. Stevans, eds., Encyclopaedia of Superstitions, Folklore, and the Occult Sciences of the World (1971; reprint, Detroit, MI: Gale Research Co., 1982), 3: 1583–91; and Ryan, The Bathhouse at Midnight, 381–83. 85

 Gary Thurston, The Popular Theatre Movement in Russia, 1862–1919 (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1998), 137; and Theodore H. von Laue, “Russian Labor be-

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Russian economy, peasants usually did not benefit from hard work. These sayings complicated life, and dealing with complexity, even in the case of peasants, required a certain sophistication. The sayings also made people careful and cautious rather than reckless. Women Folklore was invoked to control women in society, and often to justify the status quo. Those women who did not fit male stereotypes were, on occasion, portrayed as temptresses and witches. In the twelfth century, authorities in one district of Russia dealt with fears of witchcraft by arresting the whole female population.86 And it has been argued that male physicians used the witchhunt to exclude women from medicine, a field they had dominated in the preindustrial period.87 Before the October 1917 revolution, the folk art of the lubki frequently presented women as schemers and liars linked to the Devil. Things improved in this respect, if in few other ways, after the Bolsheviks had consolidated their power. Aleksandr Apsit’s poster Internatsional (International, 1918) featured a horrifying female figure on a pedestal marked “Capital.” She had immense breasts, fangs, wings, a tsarist crown, and a serpent’s tail. Men with hammers were attacking the monument. It was the only Bolshevik poster ever to represent capitalism as a woman, and perhaps the single depiction of a woman as a monster on Soviet posters.88 Few women appeared in early Soviet posters; the male figure personified the Bolshevik regime. Males monopolized the revolutionary virtues of militancy and political consciousness, whereas women were still seen as backward. When women were depicted on Soviet posters, they were usually in their twenties and linked to children and nature.89 Enlightenment Myths should instill a sense of limitation in modern man. Reason and science have often led in the opposite direction—to arrogance and devastation—and one should, whenever possible, simplify life and destroy less. The Enlightenment taught that misery, folly, and crime resulted from ignorance or laziness. The world could be understood by anyone who made the effort. Once a tween Field and Factory, 1892–1903,” California Slavic Studies 3 (1964): 33–65, especially 53–54. 86   Zguta, “Witchcraft Trials in Seventeenth-Century Russia,” 1189; and Larner, Witchcraft and Religion, 50, 61–62, 84–85. 87

 Larner, Witchcraft and Religion, 149–50.

88

  Victoria E. Bonnell, Iconography of Power: Soviet Political Posters under Lenin and Stalin (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 72, illustration 2.7. 89

  Elizabeth Waters, “The Female Form in Soviet Political Iconography, 1917–32,” in Engel, Clements, and Worobec, Russia’s Women, 225–42, especially 227–28, 232, 234, 237.



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person had comprehended the laws that governed nature and society, he or she could not help pursuing the correct course toward happiness and universal harmony.90 Reason and science would ultimately triumph through education. In the late nineteenth century, two strangers began a conversation in a railway carriage halfway between Moscow and St. Petersburg. They discovered they were traveling on the same train, though one was bound for St. Petersburg and the other for Moscow. The pair could only marvel at the wonders of science, and continue on their way.91 Reason There is an African parable which says that without heavenly rain, the water on earth will dry up. Without heavenly revelation, human reason will dry up.92 Whether or not a person is religious, one should realize that reason and faith, or science and belief, are not so very different. Reasoning is, in theory at least, an unbiased method of arriving at truth, but one reasons from assumptions, and assumptions are almost always unexamined clichés. To be truly useful, reason must consistently predict (prophesy) the consequences of taking certain actions, but it does not. One usually guesses when making decisions, that is, accepts assumptions on faith. When people do not make the same assumptions, reasoning divides rather than unites them, and some people will never be persuaded of a thing. The old Russian folk hero Durak Duralei refused to believe in fire. Despite all evidence to the contrary, try as one might, he would not be convinced. As he was being burned at the stake, Duralei cried out, “It’s so cold!” Reason as logic, reason as motive, reason as excuse are all inadequate. Reason as logic insists that if x is y, then z: “If the weather is warm, the crops will prosper.” Unfortunately, one cannot assume something else will not spoil the crops. The syllogism “A=B, B=C, then A=C” is true only if the major and minor premises are true.93 This method may prove that Socrates is mortal, but reason does not help at all in 90

  Isaiah Berlin, “Georges Sorel,” in Essays in Honor of E. H. Carr, ed. C. Abramsky (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1974), 3–35, especially 7; and Stephen Lessing Baehr, The Paradise Myth in Eighteenth-Century Russia: Utopian Patterns in Early Secular Russian Literature (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991), 92. Paul Veyne has written: “Science finds no truths … it discovers unknown facts that can be interpreted in a thousand ways” (Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? 115).

91

  E. B. Lanin, Russian Characteristics (London: Chapman and Hall, 1892), 94.

92

  Ernest Hemingway, True at First Light, audiotapes (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1999), pt. 3.

93

  Some academics have pointed out that myth is regarded as sacred, whereas science is essentially skeptical. In science, if new evidence does not fit a theory, another theory develops. Of course, this description idealizes science, a field in which skepticism is reserved for making minor revisions of old theories. Skepticism rarely challenges fundamental scientific theory. Both science and myth are characterized by “massive dogmatism.” See Paul Feyerabend, Against Method: Outline of an Anarchistic Theory of Knowledge (London: Verso, 1978), 296–98.

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making ordinary choices. One can always find reasons to do something, but there is no assurance that they are the right reasons, or that a person has enough information to make the correct choice. Reasoning gives people confidence that they understand and can control events, but they do not. Life is essentially, unavoidably, a leap of faith, whether one approaches it by way of reason or belief. Primitive societies did not merely accept folklore, legends, and mythology, but used them to advantage. People found myth, which is dramatic and emotional, more persuasive than reason. They might just as well today. Everything a person believes may be myth anyway, for reason and delusion are identical twins. Those who trust reason err. It will take a long time to undo this.

One could always argue that reason and faith are two aspects of one being, but this seems only a clever way to avoid dealing with their differences. On reason and faith and the failure of reason, see, for example, Karl R. Popper, Truth, Rationality, and the Growth of Scientific Knowledge (Frankfurt am Main: Vittorio Klostermann, 1979); Carl L. Becker, The Heavenly City of the Eighteenth-Century Philosophers (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1932); Lev Shestov, Athens and Jerusalem, trans. Bernard Martin (New York: Clarion, 1966); Aldous Huxley, Science, Liberty and Peace (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1946); and A. S. Yesenin-Volpin, A Leaf of Spring, trans. George Reavey (New York: Frederick A. Praeger, 1961).

The Travels of Brand and Isband Carol Urness

This little story is in honor of Professor Theofanis G. Stavrou, a teacher, an advisor, and a mentor. As a teacher, he encourages students to look beyond historical facts in order to understand the culture and soul of Russia; as an advisor, he works relentlessly to help his students reach their goals; and as a researcher and traveler, he shows a keen sense of what areas needed attention, gives them prominence through his own work, and inspires students to emulate him. So it was in a way that I became fascinated with travel accounts and got the bug to travel. Indeed, travelers have been and continue to be a principal source in my research, too. And travel accounts to and within Russia are an important segment of the collection of rare books, maps, and manuscripts in the James Ford Bell Library at the University of Minnesota, where I served as curator (1991–2001). Like Professor Stavrou, I have been most fortunate in my travels—to libraries and archives in Belfast, Cambridge, London, Oxford, and Paris for study; to places like Anchorage, Copenhagen, Esjberg, Halle, Kamchatka, Jamaica, Newfoundland, and Sitka to attend various meetings and conferences; to Moscow, St. Petersburg, Rostov, Tbilisi, and Alma-Ata for the fun of it. The little story is about Brand and Isbrand, two travelers who journeyed from Russia to China in the late seventeenth century. In history, hardly anything is simple. For example, Isbrand Ides is also Everrard Isbrand, Evert Isbrand, Everhard Isbrand Ides, Eberhard Isbrand-Ides, and several other variations of the name. In the catalog of the University of Minnesota Libraries, his works are entered under the form “Ides, Evert Ysbrandsoon.” In the first edition of the account of his journey, published in Dutch in 1704, he signs the dedication, “E. Isbrants Ides.” One of my favorite modern writers, Erich Donnert, gives his full name as Eberhard Isbrand-Ides, shortened to Isbrand in other parts of his text.1 This can be confusing, since Isbrand’s companions on the journey from Russia to China included one Adam Brand, who wrote the first book about their experiences. Thus, the two major characters of our story are Brand and Isbrand. Catalogers for the books by the latter must have had a good reason for using the entry “Ides.” On the other hand, the man is cited on the title page as “Ambassadeur Isbrand,” and his full name is written as “Herr Eberhard Isbrand” in the first edition of the book that Brand wrote concerning their journey. Dutch and English 1

  Erich Donnert, Russia in the Age of Enlightenment, trans. Alison and Alistair Wightman (Leipzig: Edition Leipzig, 1986), 95.

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 23–34.

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translations appeared the following year, with “Heer Isbrand” the name on the title page of the former, “Everard Isbrand” on the latter. So these are good reasons to adopt the usage Isbrand here. Brand was the secretary to the embassy from Russia in the late seventeenth century to the emperor of China; Isbrand was the ambassador. The first edition of Brand’s book was in German, published in Hamburg in 1698. It has three copperplate illustrations, two of them depicting an Ostiack and a Tungus. The third illustration is a most unflattering portrait of Peter (not yet the Great) in a copperplate engraving by “I. W. Michael.” It makes him look like a pouting woman. (See figure 1, opposite.) The English translation of the same year includes the Ostiack and Tungus illustrations and a new, re-engraved portrait that is much improved. (See figure 2, p. 26). Perhaps Peter’s visit to Britain at this time led to this revision. The Dutch translation of the following year has no illustrations at all, though the text is the same. A French translation was printed in Amsterdam in 1699 as well. It has one map, which does not include all of Siberia. The northeastern portion of it is not depicted. The appearance of these three translations so soon after the publication of the original book indicates the interest that their readers had in the subject of travels in Siberia and China and, especially, in the potential for trade with China. According to Brand’s book, Isbrand was a German, “born in the City of Gluckstad, in the Dukedom of Holstein.”2 In spite of this statement, and in spite of the fact that the German first edition cited above describes Brand as a member of the “Teutscher Nation,” writers on Isbrand continue to confuse his nationality. For example, Marshall Poe, in his superb Foreign Descriptions of Muscovy: An Analytic Bibliography of Primary and Secondary Sources, lists his name as “Yssbrant Ides” and notes “Dutch in Russian service.”3 Other authors do the same. Brand writes that the Russians, “after mature deliberation resolved to send a most splendid Embassy to the Great Amologdachan (or Emperor of China)” in order to impress him and no doubt to encourage trade with China. Isbrand was named to lead this embassy (Brand, 2). Who was taking part in this “mature” deliberating is difficult to know, as Peter (later the Great) Alekseevich Romanov was twenty years old and more interested in having a good time than in thinking about politics; his half-brother and co-tsar Ivan Alekseevich was “weak-minded,” and his sister, the former regent and tsarevna Sophia Alekseevna, had been sent to a convent. Peter’s mother Natasha and her advisers governed Russia at the time. On 3 March 1692, the embassy visited Ivan Alekseevich, and the ambassador kissed his hand. On 12 March Isbrand met with Peter Alekseevich, and performed the same ceremony. Brand writes that “It is very well worth taking notice here, That the present Czar Peter is a Prince of an excellent good Humour, and a great Favourer of 2

  Adam Brand [d. 1713], A journal of an embassy from Their Majesties John and Peter Alexowits, emperors of Muscovy, & c. into China; through the provinces of Ustiugha, Siberia, Dauri, and the great Tartary, to Peking, the capital city of the Chinese empire (London: D. Brown, 1698), 2. Further references to this work will be given parenthetically in the text citing author’s name and page number. 3

  Marshall Poe, Foreign Descriptions of Muscovy: An Analytic Bibliography of Primary and Secondary Sources (Columbus, OH: Slavica Publishers, 1995), 186.

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25

Figure 1. Frontispiece portrait of Peter the Great in Adam Brand, Beschreibung der chinesischen Reise, welche vermittelst einer Zaaris, Besandschaft durch dero Ambassadeur, Hernn Isbrand anno 1693, 94, und 95, von Moscau uber Gross-Ustiga, Siberien, dauren und durch die Mongalische Tartarey verrichtet worden, und was sich dabey begeben, aus selbst erfahrner Nachricht mitgetheilet (Hamburg: Benjamin Schillern, 1698).

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Figure 2. Frontispiece portrait of Peter the Great in Adam Brand, A journal of an embassy from Their Majesties John and Peter Alexowits, emperors of Muscovy, &c. into China, through the provinces of Ustiugha, Siberia, Dauri, and the great Tartary, to Peking, the capital city of the Chinese empire: performed by Everard Isbrand, their ambassador in the years 1693, 1694, and 1695 (London: D. Brown, 1698).

The Travels of Brand and Isband

27

the Lutherans, whom he presented with all the Stone Materials which were made use of in building their new Church, and gave them permission, without the approbation of the Patriarch, to adorn their Church with a Steeple” (Brand, 6). After this, carrying rich gifts for the Chinese, the embassy began their long journey toward China on 13 March. The embassy consisted of twenty-one men, of whom twelve were Germans and nine were Muscovites. With them they had “a good Chest of Physick, a Physician, and a good number of Baggage-Waggons to carry our Provisions, Wines, and all other Necessaries for so great a Journey” (Brand, 3). They traveled on horseback from Moscow through country that was “extreamly populous” on their route to Vologda, which was reached on 20 March, and where they waited for the arrival of their baggage. On 21 March a hard frost, “to our great Satisfaction,” made it possible for them to continue their way on sleds. Without the frost they probably would have been delayed for several months (Brand, 10). Brand noted the custom of presenting eggs and kisses liberally for fourteen days after Easter. Of the kissing he writes, “This Custom is so general, that if during this time you are invited at a Russian’s House to partake of their Merriments, and you should not offer to kiss the Ladies there present, (where it is to be observed that you must take care not to touch them with your hands) you would be look’d upon as an ill-bred Clown; whereas if you acquit your self handsomely in this Point, you are sure to receive a Cup of Aquavitae in return for your Civility” (Brand, 13). The account continues, with interesting comments, including a report of a salt works where twenty thousand men were employed in making salt (Brand, 18). The comments on religion, money, the Siberian peoples and their manner of living, and travel itself are useful and compelling. On 1 July they reached Tobolsk, which Brand judged to be some three thousand miles from Moscow. About the city he writes, “Tobolsko is not only the Capital, but also the chief Place of Trade of all Siberia. Their Traffick consists most in Furrs, such as Sables, Ermins, Fox Skins, and such-like” (Brand, 31). The embassy remained in Tobolsk until 22 July, gathering supplies and making preparations for the next part of the journey, which, according to Brand, was six thousand miles “for the most part through a desolate Country, where there is but little Forage and Provision to be met with” (Brand, 33). Brand writes of using traps, “not unlike our Rat and Mice-Traps,” for catching sables, and also reports that the people hunt them with the use of sleds pulled by dogs, which can run more quickly over the snow than horses. They continued their journey on 22 July, accompanied by twenty “musqueteers to conduct us to Surgutt” (Brand, 33). They arrived at Surgut on 6 August. Here hunting is different: sables are shot with arrows, or the hunters start fires under trees where they hide, “who being suffocated by the Smoak, fall from the Trees, and are soon catch’d. The Ermins they catch in Traps, and the Foxes they hunt with Dogs” (Brand, 35). And the quotes could go on and on, for the embassy is still far from its destination, and there are tales of hunting and fishing, and nearly starving to death during some parts of the journey, where provisions are scarce. The stories of the Tunguses, their shamans, and their customs are well worth reading. The embassy remained an entire month at Irkutsk, having such a good time there that when they left, “being conducted out of the Town by the Governor and the chief

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Inhabitants to the next Village, we spent the whole night there in making good Cheer” (Brand, 53). About Lake Baikal the author writes, “The Inhabitants have this superstitious opinion concerning it, that whoever calls it Oser or a Lake, will scarce pass it without danger; but those who give it the Title of Mor or Sea, need not fear any thing” (Brand, 54). To travel through the great desert of the Mongols, “we pack’d our Baggage upon Camels and Horses, the first carrying about 600 weight, the last about 250” (Brand, 55). They began this part of the journey on 6 April 1693, with a caravan that is soon swelled to 250 men with hundreds of camels and horses. Anyone who has ever seen a Western movie will savor the additional comment about the four hundred wagons “which in the night-time being drawn up in a Circle, enclosed the rest, and at some distance from thence we placed our Centries, to advertise us of the approach of our Enemies, if any should appear” (Brand, 56). On the route from Lake Baikal to Nerchinsk, the embassy visited the small town of Jerewena, where especially fine black sables were to be found. Hunters sometimes spent three or four months at a time hunting them. In traveling they made use of “Scates [like short skis], by the help of which they pass over the Snow with great Agility” (Brand, 57). On 20 May they arrived at Nerchinsk, “the last Place of Note (unless it be Argun, a small Town eight days Journey from thence) under the Jurisdiction of the Czar of Muscovy” (Brand, 59). Some six thousand Tunguses lived here, subject to the tsar. Brand reports that “The Cossacks hereabouts are very Rich, by reason of their Traffick with China, where they are exempted from paying any Custom” (Brand, 59). And then Brand goes on to China, which is beyond the scope of our story. In 1695 he returned to Moscow, on a journey that had taken just six weeks short of three years. His book about this embassy is in the James Ford Bell Library in the German and English editions of 1698 and the Dutch and French editions of 1699, as well as some later editions. In the French translation published in Amsterdam in 1699, Brand refers to Isbrand as “Monsieur Evert Isbrand.” This translation has only two illustrations, the first of which is a frontispiece showing the Russian embassy members bowing before the Chinese emperor. The second is a fold-out map based on the map of Nicolaas Witsen (1641–1717), burgomaster of Amsterdam. This map is a much-reduced version of Witsen’s large map titled Nieuwe lantkaarte van het noorder en ooster deel van Asia en Europa strekkende van Nova Zemla tot China, published in 1687. Witsen’s research on Siberia continued. After he had finished and published his map, he wrote the extensive folio book titled Noord en oost Tartarye, ofte bondigh ontwerp van eenige dier landen, en volken, zo als voormaels bekent zyn geweest … in de noorder en oosterlykste gedeelten van Asia en Europa, published in Amsterdam in 1692. Witsen visited Russia once, in 1666, as a member of a delegation from the Netherlands to promote trade with Russia. At that time the Witsen family had been trading with Russia for more than fifty years. Witsen collected all the information he could find about Siberia at the time he was in Russia and later through correspondence. When Peter the Great developed an interest in ships and the sea, Nicolaas Witsen encouraged that interest. Because Peter wanted a Dutch frigate for use in the White Sea, Witsen prepared a specially furnished ship, the Holy Prophecy, that was sailed from Amsterdam to the White Sea for him in 1694. At the time of Peter’s visit to Amsterdam in 1697, they greeted each other as friends, though

The Travels of Brand and Isband

29

meeting for the first time. During his four-month visit, Peter studied shipbuilding, a subject about which Witsen had written a book in 1671. Clearly the two had much in common, though very disparate in age, as Witsen shared many of Peter’s interests. But what happened to Isbrand’s account of the embassy to China? A book based on Isbrand’s records of it was published in Amsterdam in 1704, edited by Nicolaas Witsen. About this text Witsen stated in a letter of 1709 that “[t]he description of Isbrandts is composed by me, as it was published from papers that were very confusedly written in Hamburgish or Lower Saxon. He was my friend and is now deceased.”4 Without the date of Isbrand’s death it is difficult to know whether the two men consulted about the text, or if Witsen simply wrote the book based on Isbrand’s papers. The latter sounds more reasonable. Some internal evidence suggests this, for instance the content of the “Epistle Dedicatory” signed by Isbrand but bearing the stamp of Witsen’s interests in Siberia and laudatory opinion of Peter. The writer of it (whoever he was) notes the “Terrestrial Paradise” that awaits Peter’s attention: “What Treasures and Minerals, such as Gold, Silver, Copper, Iron, Salt-peter, Sulphur, Salt; what rich plenty of these and the like do’s [sic] the Earth harbour in her bosom.”5 The Black Sea is subject to Peter; the Caspian “waits only for the honour of being covered and adorned with your Majesty’s Naval Force.” Siberian rivers lead to the White Sea and to the Amoershian or Eastern Sea and are ready for the “Sons of Neptune” to be sent by Peter (Isbrand, A3r). Isbrand states, “I must say by way of conclusion, that your Czarish Majesty’s Country is a Land flowing with Milk and Honey; and surpasses most Countries in the World, in its Riches, in its healthful Air, and in the fertility of its Soil” (Isbrand, A3v). Peter, in the view of Isbrand, is “a Wonder of the World, [who] has through his penetrating and accomplish’d Genius, brought up as a new Light the Invention and Establishment of so many useful Sciences, Arts, and Handycraft-Trades; by which the Eyes of his Subjects are opened” (Isbrand, A3v). After the “Epistle Dedicatory” the book comments on the route from Moscow northeastward by land to Vologda, by river to Totma and Velikii Ustyug, by land to Kaigorodok, by river to Solikamsk, then by land and river to Tobolsk, the gateway to Siberia. A fine and noteworthy feature of Isbrand’s account of the journey is the information given on the people living there and their way of life. Some special features of areas are noted. For example, grey squirrels that do not change their color winter or summer live near the city of Tuween. They are not found anywhere else in the Muscovite empire. These special squirrels are reserved for the tsar, and anyone selling such squirrels to merchants is subject to “a great Fine” (Isbrand, 10). The first leg of the journey was rapid; the embassy arrived at Tobolsk on 1 July 1692. Isbrand gives a rather extensive description of Tobolsk, more detailed than the commentary in Brand’s book. Isbrand describes the city as being well-fortified, with 4

  Johannes Keuning, “Nicolaas Witsen as a Cartographer,” Imago Mundi 11 (1954): 95–110.

5

  Evert Ysbrandsoon Ides, The Three Years Land Travels of His Excellency E. Ysbrant Ides from Mosco to China to which is added a new description of that vast empire written by a native (London: W. Freeman, J. Walthoe, T. Newborough, J. Nicholson, and R. Parker, 1705), A3r. Further references to this work will be given parenthetically in the text as “Isbrand” plus page number.

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stone walls and watchtowers. Below the fortified section are houses on the banks of the Irtysh River near its junction with the Tobol River. Isbrand notes that Tobolsk was the chief city of Siberia. Food is cheap here, he reports. In addition to numerous fish from the Irtysh River that are available at very low rates, there is all sorts of wild game, including elk, deer, rabbits, pheasants, partridges, swans, ducks, geese, and storks, “all of which are cheaper than Beef” (Isbrand, 11). Besides the soldiers stationed here, a force of nine thousand soldiers can be gathered, plus several thousand Tartar horsemen, when the tsar needs troops. A brief history of Tobolsk features Yermak, “a certain robber” that the tsar pardoned for his actions through the influence of the Stroganov family. The pardon did not make any difference, however, as Yermak perished “endeavouring to step from one Bark into another, leaped short, and by reason of his heavy Armour, irrecoverably sunk to the bottom; his Body was carried away by the force of the Stream and never found” (Isbrand, 12). Isbrand was able to attend a worship service in a mosque. He begins: “The Floor was covered with Tapistry, besides which there was no other Ornament.” The short account is interesting, concluding: “the Priest uttered some words, and afterwards cried out, Alla, Alla Mahomet, which the whole Assembly roared out after him, three times successively, prostrating themselves to the Ground: This done, the Priest looked into both his Hands as tho’ [sic] he designed to read something there, and repeated Alla, Alla Mahomet: Then he looked first over his Right Shoulder, then over his Left, which all the People did after him, and so the short Devotion was ended” (Isbrand, 13). Following the service Isbrand was invited to tea with the mufti. The city of Tobolsk is depicted in a fine engraving. (See figure 3, opposite.) Isbrand’s journey next took him on the Irtysh, Ob, and Ket Rivers to Surgut, Narym, and Eniseisk. The comments on the people, the land, and the animals are fascinating. Isbrand includes an illustration of the light dogsleds used in Siberia. After more land and river travel via Irlimsk, the embassy finally arrived in Irkutsk. After crossing a portion of the Caspian Sea they continued their journey by land and river to Nerchinsk, at the Chinese border. This place is noted in history as the scene of a border agreement made between China and Russia in 1689, the earliest treaty between the two and the finale of Russian southward expansion in eastern Siberia. Isbrand reports that Nerchinsk is “indifferent strong, provided with several Brass Guns, and a great Garrison of Daurian Cozacks both Horse and Foot. It is situated between high Mountains, notwithstanding which it has Champion Ground enough for the Inhabitants to Graze their Camels, Horses and Cows” (Isbrand, 43). In Nerchinsk, writes Isbrand, the rhubarb, used by the Chinese as medicine, was “of an extraordinary thickness and length.” It was spring. Isbrand reports that the red and snow-white peonies “emit an extraordinary fragrant scent” (Isbrand, 43). The illustration that he provides of the city is reproduced here. (See figure 4, p. 32.) The embassy remained some weeks in Nerchinsk, preparing to travel the final portion of the journey, east of the Amur River, where “the great uninhabited Tartarian Wilderness hath its beginning” (Isbrand, 46–47). And once again, we leave the embassy when the Chinese part of the story begins. The book by Isbrand is unusual for still another reason. The twenty-nine copperplate engraved illustrations in the 1704 Dutch edition of the book are repeated

Figure 3. View of Tobolsk in Evert Ysbrants Ides, Driejaarige reize naar China, te lande gedaan door den Moskovischen afgezant (Amsterdam: François Halma, 1704).

The Travels of Brand and Isband 31

Figure 4. View of Nerchinsk in Evert Ysbrants Ides, Driejaarige reize naar China, te lande gedaan door den Moskovischen afgezant (Amsterdam: François Halma, 1704).

32 Carol Urness

The Travels of Brand and Isband

33

in the 1705 English edition. Not only are they repeated, but they are the same copperplate engravings, with the Dutch text rubbed out from the copperplate and English titles engraved in their place. Thus, for example, in the plate titled “De groote Schamagsche water val” that is shown in chapter 7 of the book, the English edition has “The Schamagschian water-fall.” However, the Dutch edition is more elegant, in many cases with the illustrations printed within the text. This is more difficult for the printer, as the book has to go through two different printing processes, one for the text and the other for the illustrations. In the English edition the copperplate illustrations were all done separately, not in the text. These books could easily make a nice project for someone interested in Dutch/English printing, simply in comparing the plates in the English and Dutch editions. Copperplate engravings were expensive to produce, so purchasing them from the Dutch publisher and making the necessary alterations to fit the English edition made good economic sense. The large map is especially noteworthy in both editions. It measures about twenty inches high by nearly twenty-seven inches wide. In both editions this map is identical. The Latin text in the map cartouches is identical. In fact, it might even be assumed that the map could have been printed in Amsterdam, except that the paper used for the English edition is lighter than that found in the Dutch original. The map is especially important to me, because it portrays the northeastern part of Siberia, as shown in the reproduction of it (figure 5, p. 34). The Kamchatka peninsula is lacking from the map. On the other hand, unlike some other maps dating from this time, no land blocks a possible voyage from the Ob River around “Swetoi nos sive Heylige Kaap” in the northeast corner of Siberia. As part of the record of contemporary beliefs about the possibility of a Northeast Passage from Europe to the East, this map is exciting. It is documentary evidence of Witsen’s opinion on this subject in 1704. His name is on the map, and the text of the cartouche indicates that the map had been amended according to Witsen. Isbrand had not traveled in this northeastern part of Siberia, though it is possible that he may have gotten some information about the area from the Jesuits who were at the Chinese court. In addition to the map, some text about a potential Northeast Passage is included in the book. The relevant text in the Isbrand book is as follows: “from Weygats [Novaya Zemlya] to the Icy or Holy Cape, the Sea is utterly unnavigable with Ships, and should a second Christopher Columbus appear, and point out the course of the Heavens, he could not yet drive away these Mountains of Ice: For God and Nature have so invincibly fenced the Sea side of Siberia with Ice, that no Ship can come to the River Jenisea, much less can they come farther Northwards into the Sea” (Isbrand, 93). The obstacle was not land, as shown on other maps of the time, but ice in the seas of the north. The text continues with an account of how Russians with kotski (small boats) sail from Novaya Zemlya to the Ob River, along the coasts. When the weather turns bad the men take their boats to shore, where they remain until the weather changes. Brand and Isbrand are not sources usually studied with regard to the geography of Siberia, since the focus of the books is the embassy to China. The books give interesting commentary on travel through Siberia, about towns and cities, about the people who live there and the way they live. The illustrations of Tobolsk and Nerchinsk

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Figure 5. Northeastern portion of the large map in Evert Ysbrants Ides, Driejaarige reize naar China, te lande gedaan door den Moskovischen afgezant. Amsterdam: François Halma Halma, 1704, edited by Nicolaas Witsen, showing that the Russians knew that no land connection existed between Russia and America.

are outstanding. The illustrations of Siberian peoples and places are fascinating. In their books, Brand and Isbrand give us not only an excellent account of China, but also a fine record of their experiences in Siberia. I believe the geographical descriptions and the map in the Isbrand book come from Nicolaas Witsen, who studied Siberia for many years and wrote a massive book about it. The Isbrand book provides important information on the question of the Northeast Passage, a question that has engaged Europeans for centuries.

Theofanis G. Stavrou: Bookman Timothy J. Johnson

During the last days of April 1999, the Library of Congress hosted a two-day conference entitled “Strengthening Modern Greek Collections: Building U.S.–Greek Library Partnerships.” The conference, sponsored by the Council on Library and Information Resources (CLIR) and the Library of Congress, with additional support by the publisher Chadwyck-Healey and the Embassy of Greece, brought together twenty-three participants and seven observers from Greece and the United States to discuss the status of modern Greek collections and to take the first steps towards improving access to modern Greek resources.1 The goal of the conference, according to John Van Oudenaren, chief of the European Division of the Library of Congress, was “to identify partners who are willing to work together on projects relating to the pres1

 The participants included Evridiki Abadjis-Skassis, Library of the Hellenic Parliament; Beau David Case, head, Western European and Linguistics Collections, Ohio State University Library; Alexis Dimaras, Greek conference coordinator, The Moraitis School, Athens; Joanna Demopoulos, deputy director, National Library of Greece; Ifigenia Dionissiadu, chief documentation research, Benaki Museum; Evangelie Flessas, Harvard University Library; Dimitris Gondicas, executive director, Program in Hellenic Studies, Princeton University; Joan Grant, director of collection services, New York University Library; Denise Hibay, assistant chief librarian for collection development, General Research Division, New York Public Library; Harold Leich, area specialist, European Division, Library of Congress; Artemis Leontis, executive board secretary, Modern Greek Studies Association, Ohio State University; Deanna Marcum, president, CLIR; Eutychia Moschouti-Lowenkopf, independent scholar; Nikos Pantelakis, archivist, chief of the historical archives, National Bank of Greece; His Excellency Alexandros Philon, ambassador of Greece; Kathlin Smith, CLIR; Theofanis G. Stavrou, Department of History, University of Minnesota; Karin Trainer, director, Princeton University Library; Agamemnon Tselikas, director, Center for History and Paleography, National Bank, Cultural Foundation of Greece; Michael Tzekakis, librarian, University of Crete; John Van Oudenaren, chief, European Division, Library of Congress; Jean Wellington, head, Classics Library, University of Cincinnati Library; and Mirsini Zorba, director, National Book Center of Greece. The observers were Julia Clones, independent consultant; Janet Crayne, associate librarian, University of Michigan Library; June Pachuta Farris, bibliographer for Slavic and European Studies, Regenstein Library, University of Chicago; Eileen Lawrence, Council of Library Resources; Anthony Oddo, team leader, Catalog Department, Sterling Memorial Library, Yale University; Theresa Papademetriou, Law Library, Library of Congress; and John Topping, Regional and Cooperative Cataloging Division, Library of Congress. Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 35–44.

36 Timothy J. Johnson

ervation, cataloging and dissemination of post-1400 collections in Greek libraries and to identify ways in which these projects can be used to expand the Greek collections of American research libraries through microfilm copies or digital access to collections in Greece.” One of the participants in this conference—reporting on the Basil Laourdas Modern Greek Collection at the University of Minnesota—was Theofanis G. Stavrou. His willing and active partnership with other Modern Greek scholars and librarians at this conference was one of the latest testimonials to an ongoing dedication in building an active and world-renowned research collection of modern Greek materials. This brief essay attempts to outline some of the partnerships enjoyed by Professor Stavrou in the building of the Laourdas Collection and to provide a further testimonial to this extraordinary and beloved scholar and bookman. The conference at the Library of Congress came about in large part because of the earlier success of a gathering of the Western European Specialists Section (WESS) of the Association of College and Research Libraries at the 1997 annual meeting of the American Library Association (ALA). Earlier that year, at the ALA Midwinter meeting, the section had established a “Special Topic Discussion Group.” This group was charged with providing a forum for thematic and geographical Western European topics not covered by other WESS discussion groups. At the 1997 ALA annual conference held in San Francisco, the inaugural meeting featured the topic “Greece and the Greek-Speaking World” and included three speakers: Dr. Peter Haikalis, development officer and selector of Greek, San Francisco State University Library, who spoke about his experiences as a Fulbright scholar at the University of Crete Library and as an instructor at a library school in Greece; Dr. Roland Moore, research anthropologist, Prevention Research Center, Berkeley, who spoke about Greek internet resources; and Beau David Case, assistant professor and librarian, Ohio State University, who spoke about Greek reference and selection tools, and other resources for librarians with an interest in Greek, in vernacular and in English translation. Besides these presentations the agenda also called for a brainstorming session for topics at the following annual conference in Washington, D.C. Interestingly, twenty-three persons attended—the same number of participants as at the LC conference two years later—but this roster was limited to North American librarians.2 The University of 2

  Those in attendance at the WESS Special Topics Discussion Group included Beau David Case, Ohio State University Library; Peter Haikalis, San Francisco State University Library; Roland S. Moore, Prevention Research Center, Berkeley, California; Michael Elmore, Barnard College Library; Mary Cay Reynolds, Arizona State University Library; Mike Kelley, University of Missouri Library; Nancy Boerner, Indiana University Library; Stephen Lehman, University of Pennsylvania Library; Mike Olson, Harvard University Library; Darla Rushing, Loyola University Library; Diana Chlebek, University of Akron Library; Marty Joachim, Indiana University Library; Frank Immler, Princeton University Library; Janet Coles, Speros Basil Vryonis Center for the Study of Hellenism; Mariann Tiblin, University of Minnesota Library; David Lindstrom, Speros Basil Vryonis Center for the Study of Hellenism; Nicholas Spillos, Edmonton Public Library; Dionysia Sokoloski, University of Maryland; William S. Moore, Brown University Library; Sharon Bonk, Queens College Library; and Steve Ferguson, Princeton University Library.

Theofanis G. Stavrou: Bookman

37

Minnesota was represented by Mariann Tiblin, bibliographer in the Libraries’ Collection Development and Management team. Beau David Case, in a handout of the tools and resources mentioned in his presentation, lists fourteen libraries “with active Greek-language collections.”3 Those libraries are: • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Cleveland Public Library Harvard University Hilandar Research Library, Ohio State University Hellenic College/Holy Cross Greek Orthodox School of Theology Hoover Institution on War, Revolution and Peace, Stanford University King’s College London New York Public Library Ohio State University Princeton University San Francisco State University Speros Basil Vryonis Center for the Study of Hellenism University of Cincinnati University of Michigan University of Minnesota

One question immediately springs to mind: how were these collections developed and did any of these libraries enjoy the kind of partnership so evident at the University of Minnesota between the Libraries and the Modern Greek Studies Program? Or, to put an even finer point on the question, did any of these libraries benefit from the amazing kind of collecting energy and enthusiasm so evident in the work of Theofanis G. Stavrou? Now, it may not be completely fair to make these kinds of institutional comparisons, yet I think it is both informative and instructive to look at how other collections have come into being and search for those “movers and shakers” who made such collections possible. In the process we may find kindred spirits and continue to build on the connective bonds begun in San Francisco and strengthened in Washington. These preliminary researches have now provided us with a core list: the names of librarians and the institutions with active collections. What is missing is the third leg of this bibliographic stool: the names of energetic collectors, bibliophiles, and donors. Donor or collector information is difficult to track down, or, as is the case with the massive collections found at Harvard, there are any number of donors, collectors, or curators who have played a role in the shaping of collections over the years. The narrative history on the European Collection found at the Hoover Institution at Stanford University offers a connection or two with the Minnesota/Stavrou

3

  See Beau David Case and Artemis Leontis, “Report on the Conference at the Library of Congress, April 29–30, 1999,” accessed 15 September 2016, https://www.loc.gov/rr/european/ GrkColl/caseleon.html.

38 Timothy J. Johnson

experience.4 According to information available on the internet, the collection “was formed in 1995 by the merger of the East/Central European Collection and the West European Collection. It consists of materials that constitute a large part of the institution’s overall holdings, and, historically, are integral to the institutional mission of promoting basic research on political and social issues of the twentieth century.” The history of the Western European Collection enlightens us further. At the end of the First World War, Herbert Hoover assigned Ralph H. Lutz, a young Stanford historian, the task of collecting primary and secondary source material to document the important political, social and economic changes taking place in Europe. The emphasis was placed on acquiring government documents, periodicals, newspapers, pamphlets, posters, photographs, ephemera and monographs in the various European languages in the fields of history, politics and government, economics, and international relations. Book dealers and purchasing agents were recruited in the various countries to search for and acquire this specialized material. The publications of the League of Nations, for example, were received on deposit and formed the basis for an important international documents collection. The steady growth of the l920s and 30s was interrupted with the outbreak of World War II, but the established contacts with the library’s old bookdealers in Austria, France, Italy and Germany were resumed immediately after the war. A concentrated collecting effort at that time, in cooperation with the Library of Congress, resulted in an avalanche of documentation from war torn countries of Europe, foremost a substantial set of records of the International Military Tribunal. The collapse of the totalitarian governments in Italy and Germany offered an especially fertile opportunity for gathering books, periodicals, and archives documenting their history. Increasing post-World War II interest in the non-Western world led to the division of the collection, which until then was still undifferentiated by areas, into various geographic collections. The Central and Western European Collection became a separate but major unit in the new organizational structure. Collecting efforts continue in response to political and social changes, as well as technological developments. Videos, microform, oral histories, and CD-ROMs have now been added to the traditionally collected materials. To reflect the changed political order in Europe, the collection was organizationally merged in 1995 with the East/Central European Collection, but remains a separate collecting unit within the newly named European Collection. Agnes F. Peterson was Curator of the West European Collection from 1954 until 1993, when she retired with emerita status. Maciej Siekierski is cur-

4

  Hoover Institution, “History of the Collection: East Europe and West Europe,” accessed 15 September 2016, http://www.hoover.org/history-collection-east-europe.

Theofanis G. Stavrou: Bookman

rently Curator of the combined European Collection, with Helen Solanum as Senior Specialist for Western Europe.5 The East/Central European Collection has an equally interesting history. The collecting from the area between Germany and Russia began immediately after World War I. Professor E. D. Adams from the Stanford University History Department, on Herbert Hoover’s initiative, went to Paris with a team of specialists to gather documentation on the War and the subsequent Peace Conference. All conference delegations from East/Central Europe were contacted, including those representing existing states and those with claims for statehood. Most delegates were cooperative, providing large amounts of material that formed the basis of the Hoover War Library, as it was then called. Particularly detailed documentation was obtained from Poland, Czechoslovakia, Romania, and Yugoslavia. Furthermore, a member of the Adams team, Professor Ralph H. Lutz, visited Warsaw in September 1919 at the invitation of the Polish delegation, initiating what was to become a great tradition of Hoover on-site collecting of library and archival materials in East/Central Europe. Building on this solid foundation in the years that followed, contacts were established and strengthened throughout East and Central Europe, often by persons connected with the American Relief Administration, which Herbert Hoover directed. As with Western Europe, collecting activity in East/Central Europe was interrupted by events surrounding World War II. Earlier collecting investments and contacts paid off after the war, however, as a massive amount of wartime materials was delivered to the Hoover Institution. Many of these were unique clandestine publications and items issued by the German occupiers. In other cases, political and military authorities, in an effort to protect archives from dispersion, transferred collections under their control to a safe location in the United States: the Hoover Institution. More recent collecting efforts have concentrated on current political ephemera, such as posters, leaflets, newspapers and pamphlets, often published secretly; published books and periodicals; and the archival documentation of the Communist regime and its adversaries, the democratic opposition. Of particular note was the Hoover Institution’s decision to have its Curator for Eastern Europe reside in Warsaw during 1991–1993. This greatly enhanced collecting in the area as he oversaw the acquisition and shipment of several tons of materials on Poland and Eastern Europe.6

5

 Ibid.

6

 Ibid.

39

40 Timothy J. Johnson

Several tons of materials ended up at many of the other libraries identified above. So, armed with this list, the author contacted each library to find out if additional information was available on donors, collectors, or bookdealers that might have played a role in the development of these collections. Predrag Matejic, curator of the Hilandar Research Library at the Ohio State University, provided some insights into the nature of their collections. Although beyond the scope of modern Greek literature, his comments are nonetheless illuminating as to what has been done to preserve and make available some of the important medieval materials that are the precursors of a modern literature. The Hilandar Research Library is a special collection for the preservation and access of medieval Slavic (primarily Cyrillic) manuscripts, through microform. It has collections or portions of collections from 83 repositories in 20 countries. Whenever we have an opportunity to do (ourselves or support) preservation microfilming, we attempt to microfilm all manuscript codices in a collection, regardless of alphabet, language or provenance. Therefore, we do have over 300 manuscripts on microfilm that are Greek, primarily from Hilandar Monastery on Mt. Athos. It is still a major regret of mine that we ran out of film in 1975 and were not able to complete the microfilming of the Greek manuscripts, nor to receive permission to return at a later time to attempt to do this. Thus, we do have a collection, which also includes an actual Greek manuscript from the late 17th century that was donated to us. But, this is not an acquisition area to which we focus any special attention.… It may be, however, that other Greek materials in the OSU Libraries are at least in part the result of special benefactors, collectors or donors, for which Beau Case would have, hopefully, the necessary information.7 Mr. Case, thankfully, did have additional information and provided a link to the University of Michigan. His response also points to a common note found in many of these messages, i.e., that attention was given to fiction, poetry, and literary studies and that most of this material was not considered rare at the time of its acquisition. It is also important to note that continuing interaction with the Greek-American community is essential to the development and acquisition of additional materials. Likewise, while state monies are available, they supply just a portion of the needed budget. Additional attention must be given to the creation of endowment funds that will allow for a more robust acquisitions program. To answer your main question, I can only say that our second hire in Modern Greek Studies ca. 1985–2000, Vassilis Lambropoulos, who is now at Michigan, donated during his tenure several thousand volumes, mostly fiction and poetry, and literary studies. None of these materials were rare or bibliophile editions—simply editions for the circulating stacks. 7

  Predrag Matejic, e-mail correspondence with author, 3 January 2001.

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41

Today we have no such special friend, but we do have a new North American donation plan. A new assistant professor, Georgios Anagnostu, has advertised in the Greek-American press our project to collect Greek Orthodox church publications. Most parishes in North America publish anniversary albums or books on history of the parish church or the local Greek community, some even have produced videos and CD-ROMs. OSU Library is in the process of getting the parishes to donate copies of these publications to us; what we cannot get on donation, we will buy. These materials will become a kind of special collection for the study of the Greek diaspora. As yet we have not chosen a home for the materials (such as Rare Books). Most likely we will house the materials in our Depository Library, with a Rare Books status, so anyone wanting to use the materials must request through Rare Books and then use the materials in-house. Finally, the bulk of our collections today are acquired with state money— the typical annual allocation from the Head of Collections. This allocation started very small, but today is probably third largest in North America, behind Princeton and Cincinnati (I think UC has a much larger budget because of endowments).8 Jean Susorney Wellington of the University of Cincinnati noted the important financial support of William and Louise Taft Semple and offered additional comment on this collection. The collection was the dream of Professor Carl Blegen, the imminent [sic] pre-classical archaeologist who passed away in 1971. His love of ancient Greece extended to an equal love of his adopted home. (After his retirement he lived much of his life in Greece. Both he and his wife are even buried there.) He convinced Professor William Semple and his wife Louise Taft Semple to extend their generous financial support for the Dept. of Classics, its excavations and book collection to include building up a modern Greek collection. Carl Blegen personally was responsible for selecting books in Greece and Turkey and having them sent to the U.S. It is because of his devotion that the collection has so many jewels—rare 19th and early 20th century serial sets and monographs. After his death, Professor Peter Topping with the help of the Modern Greek Curator Eugenia Foster were the selectors. After Mr. Topping went on to Dumbarton Oaks Eugenia developed the collection; she was the first professional librarian who worked with that collection. She was especially interested in Modern Greek literature and she strengthened that part of collection in particular. Professor Blegen was especially partial to minor (and apparently ephemeral) contemporary Greek poetry. Unfortunately after her retirement in 1991 the position of Modern Greek Curator was lost to a university wide staff cut. The primary selector for that collection is now my 8

  Beau David Case, e-mail correspondence with author, 29 December 2000.

42 Timothy J. Johnson

assistant Michael Braunlin, a truly remarkable bibliographer with a gift for foreign languages and bibliography.9 Here, also, we see the importance of the personal touch of the collector and the necessity of visits to Greece in the selection process. Both the collector’s touch and the familiarity with the book trade in Greece are echoed in the work of Theofanis G. Stavrou. One wonders, in the recounting of Blegen’s own work, whether or not the paths of Stavrou and Blegen crossed during their expeditions to the homeland. In Wellington’s account we are also reminded of the importance of continuity in the course of developing a collection. In Cincinnati’s case, the torch was passed from Blegen to Topping and Foster. We may find ourselves forced to ask: “who will take the place of Stavrou?” And who will defend the collection if, and when, the library is forced to make unpopular staff decisions? Thankfully, the staffing configuration at Minnesota is different enough so that such a cut is improbable. On the positive side, such a situation points to the dream of having an endowed curator’s position—as may be the case with Minnesota’s Givens and Holmes Collections—to nurture and care for the Laourdas Collection. Wellington ends her accounting by noting the fate of Blegen’s dream for a Modern Greek Studies program, the changing focus of the collection, the importance of resource sharing and relationships with other institutions, and other related collections. Each of these points is worth considering in light of the success of Minnesota’s program and its relationship with other departments within the university and other institutions beyond its borders. The Modern Greek Collection is a bit of an anomaly here at Cincinnati. Unfortunately Carl Blegen’s dream to build up a Modern Greek Studies program at the University never was accomplished, so we have a major collection to support a nonexistent program. To a certain extent, however, the materials in that collection also support the research of the Dept. of Classics and we have continued to buy publications at the same rate as did Eugenia Foster. We have changed our focus and no longer buy in Modern Greek literature, except in English translation. That is the very area that Ohio State emphasizes in purchasing since it does have a major Modern Greek Studies program, which emphasizes literature. Since they are only 100 miles away and their collection is easily available via the OhioLINK project that brings books from other member libraries to UC within 3 days of users requesting them themselves right from our online catalog, it was not so drastic, as this may sound. Instead we have used the freed up funds to buy more in depth in the areas that are used on this campus—history and other social sciences. We did have several other major gifts in connection with that collection. In the late 1960s we received a collection of books and pamphlets from Herbert P. Lansdale, who has [sic] been the Director of Field Operations for AMAG (the American Mission for Aid to Greece) after World War II. The collection 9

  Jean Susorney Wellington, e-mail correspondence with author, 18 January 2001.

Theofanis G. Stavrou: Bookman

43

was rich especially in US government publications and internal publications of that office. It also includes a few issues of some World War II and postwar era Greek newspapers.10 Alison Trott, information specialist in the Humanities at King’s College London, provided an interesting snapshot into the development of that collection and pointed to the College Archives as a source for additional information. As in earlier accounts, we see the importance of the professor/collector and endowment of an academic chair. The connection with the Anglo-Hellenic League reminds us of the continued importance of relationships beyond the library’s walls. Professor Ronald Montagu Burrows (1867–1920), Principal at King’s College London 1913–1920, played a large part in establishing the Modern Greek Library. It was called the Burrows Library and had a Burrows Librarian. Burrows was responsible for establishing the Chair of Modern Greek at King’s. There is a book about Burrows, Ronald Burrows: A Memoir, by George Glasgow and also some information about him in a book by Richard Clogg, Politics and the Academy: Arnold Toynbee and the Koraes Chair. Burrows was also involved in the Anglo-Hellenic League, which explains why so many Modern Greek books in the Library bear the League’s bookplate.11 Finally, Peter Haikalis at San Francisco State University responded with a brief observation on the nature of their collections. His note reflects the long-time care and attention, much more than luck, needed for such an endeavor. I have been the one over the last 20 years responsible for acquiring library materials on Greece and Greek Americans for the SFSU Library. I don’t consider myself a collector, bibliophile, etc., and we only purchase items that are currently published and primarily in English. Although the collection is not extensive and rather general, visiting faculty, etc., have complemented us on its currency and comprehensiveness at least for English language materials. So I guess we have been lucky.12 These institutional sketches, graciously supplied by those who care for these materials, help us in answering the question of how these collections were developed and what kind of partnerships helped make it so. They also provide an external mirror with which to view the bibliographic work of Theofanis G. Stavrou. It is an instructive view and in it we find kindred spirits and connective bonds. Cincinnati, in the case of Carl Blegen, benefited from his collecting energy and enthusiasm. Stanford was the beneficiary of the young historian Lutz and the established historian E. D. 10

 Ibid.

11

  Alison Trott, e-mail correspondence with author, 9 January 2001.

12

  Peter Haikalis, e-mail correspondence with author, 24 January 2001.

44 Timothy J. Johnson

Adams, both working on-site in Europe—an established Hoover Institution tradition—to collect their valuable treasures. Their tireless and longstanding work with book dealers and purchasing agents, as well as Stanford’s cooperative arrangement with the Library of Congress, paid extra dividends. Curators and librarians such as Agnes Peterson, Eugenia Foster, Peter Haikalis, and Beau Case have cared for, described, and promoted these collections once they have reached the safe harbor of the library. Their long-term devotion cannot be ignored. The Greek-American press, the Greek Orthodox Church, and organizations such as the Anglo-Hellenic League are indicative of the need for strong community bonds. Interested and able donors such as the Semples of Cincinnati or Burrows of London point to the need for strong and growing endowments. The example of resource sharing between Cincinnati and Ohio State is a call towards strengthening relationships among like-minded institutions. All of these facets in the bibliographic mirror—energy, enthusiasm, dedication, care, patience, friendship, and more—can be found in the face, and life, of Theofanis G. Stavrou. It may be appropriate to end this essay with two excerpts from the correspondence files found in the Department of Special Collections and Rare Books. The first is dated 15 August 1977 and was sent from Thessaloniki by Stavrou to Austin McLean, curator. This is just a brief note to greet you from Thessaloniki and to assure you that even though I did not manage to see you before I left, Louisa [Laourdas] and I have been working tirelessly since my arrival in Greece to prepare more books for shipment. More importantly, we have embarked upon several projects which will contribute toward the collection’s growth. I feel confident that with care and persistence we can develop a very special and working collection. And I am very grateful that the collection is under your supervision. I was, of course, pleased that the first shipment arrived in good condition. The second letter is dated 17 July 1978 on letterhead from the Institute for Balkan Studies in Thessaloniki. It was written by Louisa Laourdas to Austin McLean, in the midst of earthquakes that had rocked the area since May, and refers to the dedication of the Laourdas Collection at the University of Minnesota. The delay in writing, under such circumstances, is understandable. Many, many apologies for delaying to write to you earlier as I meant to. My thoughts turn ever so often to all of you in Minneapolis. I was very touched by your efforts and the vivid interest you take of this special collection. The display of the books was excellent, very artistic, with a lovely touch of intimacy.… I feel very grateful to you for organizing that dedication ceremony. I was amazed you had so many people involved in it, also how well it was attended. I know too well what a lot of work that meant. Thank you is very little to say. We might add, with Louisa Laourdas, that same note of gratitude for all that has been done by Theofanis G. Stavrou, bookman (and more). Thank you is very little to say.

Bridge-Building as Humanism and Scholarly Adventure Catherine Guisan

The scholar has many ways to exert an influence: a life well lived may not be the least of them. Given that my research and teaching interests belong to another discipline, I confess to having read only a few of the numerous publications that Professor Theofanis G. Stavrou has authored, coauthored, or edited. But I have observed Theo Stavrou, the friend and the teacher, build many bridges: between experienced researchers and academic novices; between religious faith and rational enquiry; between contemporary Greece and the United States; between Orthodoxy and other religious worldviews; among descendants of the former Ottoman Empire; and between the private world of family and the professional world of academia. In the age of globalization when we are told that the “interconnectedness of people is more extensive and intensive than it has ever been,”1 the art of bridge-building might seem obsolete. But globalization is shadowed by another process, contradictory and just as powerful: the turn to fundamental beliefs and organizations of life in order to make sense of one’s place in a world which dwarfs individuals and their communities alike. I would not impute to Theofanis Stavrou, with his well-honed sense of proportion and his ability to laugh at all hubris, the desire to role model some middle ground between globalization and parochial rootedness. But I have enjoyed watching him engage in the complicated dance that well-educated, first-generation immigrants to the United States are fated to perform to do justice to the varied (at times discordant!) intellectual and emotional forces that shape them; and I have marveled at the richness of such a life. –

—

I first became a student of Theofanis Stavrou and his brother Soterios Stavrou when I audited their extension course in Modern Greek language. What stands out in my memory is the seamless cooperation between the two brothers, Soterios stressing grammar, vocabulary, and pronunciation, Theo teaching us about Greece as a civilization and way of life through novels and poetry. The final oral exam consisted in reciting George Seferis, the Nobel Prize-winning Greek poet’s poem “Άρνηση” (Denial). I still remember the beautifully elusive last stanza: 1

  Daniele Archibugi, David Held, and Martin Köhler, Re-imagining Political Community: Studies in Cosmopolitan Democracy (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998), 13.

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 45–49.

46

Catherine Guisan

With what heart, with what breath, What desire and what passion We took our life. A mistake! And we changed life.2 I never attended the Saturday gatherings which Theofanis and his life companion Freda Stavrou generously hosted to prepare the University of Minnesota undergraduates embarking on their discovery of modern Greece under the auspices of the SPAN Program (Student Project for Amity among Nations); but Freda’s magnificent Greek buffet and the two grandsons dressed as evzones contributed to making the scholarly Annual Celebration of Modern Greek Letters a celebration of family as well as of letters. My acquaintance with Theo Stavrou predates my entrance into a graduate program at the University of Minnesota and undoubtedly shapes my view of him as a bridge-builder. I was then working for an international NGO devoted to peace-making and social justice issues and planning an audiovisual program featuring a Greek Cypriot customs officer, Spyros Stephou, who had worked for better relationships between Greek and Turkish workers in the port of Famagusta. A friend recommended that Professor Stavrou be invited as a discussant; this was the beginning of our friendship. Theo and I share Greek roots, deeply set in Ottoman soil. My mother was born in Istanbul’s prosperous Greek merchant community in 1916, and her father had been educated at the elite bilingual (Turkish-French) Galatasaray High School, a subject of great family pride; they left for Switzerland in the early 1920s, and I was raised on a steady diet of nostalgic memories, where recollection of the leisurely family holiday spent on the Isle of Halki (Heybeli Ada in Turkish) and of my grandfather’s friendly business relations with Greeks and Turks alike somehow clashed with the contemptuous remarks dropped by my grandmother about the Turks as uneducated and backward (“they used our hospitals, the best in the city”). Favorite dishes carried strange names sounding rather more Turkish than Greek: imam baildi (stuffed eggplants so delicious that the priest—the imam—fainted out of delight), dolmades, keftedes, tzatziki; and the coffee served out of a well-worn ibrik (a small coffee pot) to Swiss and Greek guests alike was baptized “Turkish coffee.” Although my grandfather was a great admirer of Eleftherios Venizelos, the modernizing Greek leader who pioneered a rapprochement with Turkey in 1930, my family’s relationship with Turkey remained ambiguous, a love-hate relationship of sorts. Later, when I took Theofanis Stavrou’s graduate seminar in Modern Greek Studies I began, for the first time, to reflect systematically on the place of Greece in the Ottoman Empire, and on the empire itself. Theofanis insisted on conducting his graduate seminar in a minuscule office lined with books, probably considering this cramped space more conducive to lively intellectual exchanges. Under his at once relaxed and erudite guidance graduate students played a rather complicated puzzle game, assembling some of the pieces, which make up the history of modern Greece 2

  George Seferis, Collected Poems, trans. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 235.



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and its large diaspora. As we discussed the books that each of us had been asked to review, we became acquainted with the influential Greek intellectuals of Renaissance Italy, with the Neo-Hellenic Enlightenment in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, and with the impact of Ottoman rule on Greek Orthodox leadership and on the masses of the faithful.3 With his customary generosity Professor Stavrou asked me to revise my review of a French-language book, Christina Koulouri’s Dimensions de l’historicité en Grèce (1834–1914) for inclusion in the Modern Greek Studies Yearbook.4 This led to a brief (but rather exciting for the inexperienced reviewer!) exchange of correspondence with Ms. Koulouri. For a graduate student used to the hierarchical Swiss academic world, it was astonishing to hear her professor extol with pride the works of his best undergraduate students, works which, according to him, even colleagues could read with profit. The Swiss schools that educated me made little mention of the Byzantine Empire and even less of the Ottoman Empire, this “sick man of the East.” Thanks to the Modern Greek Studies seminar, I encountered the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Ottoman Empire in all its might and glory, a sophisticated multilingual, multifaith, and decentralized system of governance which had, under the millet system, made the patriarch of Constantinople the ethnarch with both religious and administrative authority over the Orthodox populations. For the first time I learned to see the Greeks not only as victims of oppression, but sometimes as powerful and oppressive rulers themselves. Such were the Mavrogordato princes, who administered Romania on behalf of the Ottoman Empire for almost two centuries. The Neo-Hellenist humanist and patriot Koraes, whom one of my ancestors had befriended, became a familiar name. Thus, I also discovered that the Greek diaspora had long had its intelligentsia. The Modern Greek Studies Yearbook itself was another cause for surprise. How could one edit year after year a journal about a country long oppressed, poor and sparsely populated, which many Greeks evicted from Turkey preferred not to settle in when they could afford to go to Western Europe? But the editor had a very different vision: all regions and periods of history impacted by Neo-Hellenism and Orthodoxy belonged to the sub-field of Modern Greek studies. Theofanis wrote in his preface to the first Yearbook: “To the extent that it is possible and supportable, the emphasis will be on connections, that is to say on interrelationships, thematic as well as geographic and chronological, highlighting the cultural pluralism of the regions where the modern Greeks moved and had their being, an emphasis to which a variety of disciplines

3

  Dean John Geanakoplos, Greek Scholars in Venice: Studies in the Dissemination of Greek Learning from Byzantium to Western Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962); Raphael Demos, “The Neo-Hellenic Enlightenment (1750–1821),” Journal of the History of Ideas 19 (1958): 523–41; Steven Runciman, The Great Church in Captivity: A Study of the Patriarchate of Constantinople from the Eve of the Turkish Conquest to the Greek War of Independence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968).

4

  Catherine Guisan-Dickinson, review of Christina Koulouri, Dimensions idéologiques de l’historicité en Grèce (1834–1914) (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1992), Modern Greek Studies Yearbook 9 (1993): 508–11.

48

Catherine Guisan

and methods may be called upon to contribute.”5 One could not be more inclusive. I wondered whether the Yearbook was not a recklessly ambitious enterprise of intellectual Greek take-over (“recuperation,” as the French would say); but I learned how comparative historical scholarship can renew the understanding of links among peoples long accustomed to treat such links as reasons for hostility rather than for reflection; the history of the Balkans, a topic of scholarly research rather than an amalgam of memories ceaselessly rehashed and transmitted from one generation to the next as so many weapons for future wars, struck me as very exciting, even hopeful. In 1996, the editor added a subtitle to the Modern Greek Studies Yearbook, which identifies it most appropriately as a Publication of Mediterranean, Slavic, and Eastern Orthodox Studies. For a person of Greek ancestry, the most unbridgeable gap may be with the Turks. I am the daughter of a woman who never gave up on the dream of a genuine and lasting rapprochement between the Greek and Turkish people and has maintained life-long friendships in Istanbul. I share the dream. At their best, all descendants of the former Ottoman Empire know how to turn an unabashed tragedy into new beginnings. In the late 1960s, Theofanis and Soterios Stavrou drew plans, to create on a piece of family property in Dhiorios, the village where they had grown up, a library “which was to serve also as a retreat center to energize Greek- and Turkish Cypriot students and mid-career professionals.”6 The 1974 Turkish invasion of the northern part of Cyprus put Dhiorios and its books out of reach. As a result, Theofanis started to spend more time in Greece with his friend and mentor Basil Laourdas, a Byzantinist who had founded the Thessaloniki Institute for Balkan Studies, where Stavrou’s first book was published.7 After Laourdas’ death, his widow Louise Laourdas offered his library to Professor Stavrou. Rather than accepting the generous gift, Theofanis suggested that the Laourdas library be given to the University of Minnesota. This was the beginning of the Modern Greek Collection, whose more than twenty-thousand items the Andersen Library now houses. In the 1990s, Professor Stavrou directed his energy toward yet another task, the founding of the University of Cyprus, which would “help the political maturation of the island because scholars and their students will be able to discuss issues not only in terms of personalities, but objectively.”8 He wished for courses to be taught in Greek, English, and Turkish. This has yet to happen, but in Theo’s mind the University of Cyprus can pursue the intellectual and unifying mission once carried by the American University of Beirut, where the sons

5

  Theofanis G. Stavrou, “Editor’s Note,” Modern Greek Studies Yearbook 1 (1985): x.

6

  Conversation of the author with Theofanis Stavrou, April 2001, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis. 7

  Theofanis G. Stavrou, Russian Interests in Palestine 1882–1914: A Study of a Religious and Educational Enterprise (Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1963). 8

  Theofanis Stavrou, Modern Greek Studies Seminar, 2 February 1993.



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and daughters of the Middle Eastern intelligentsia and business elite mingled and learned.9 As I wrestle with my own call, I take several leaves from Theo’s book of life: a sense of great expectation for my students; a willingness to cross disciplinary and cultural boundaries; a commitment to cultivate faith, friendships, and family ties in spite of the pressures of academic life; and the readiness to rethink the original worldviews that I brought with me to the United States. I am also made aware that outsiders bring much to the table, which can enrich the American understanding of other parts of the world. For all this and more, thank you, Theo!

9

  Conversation of the author with Theofanis Stavrou, Spring 2000, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis.

Surviving Exile: Augustine of Hippo’s Version of Psalm 136 (Vulg., KJV 137) Karl F. Morrison

Introduction: Exile, Political and Virtual To speak of exiles is to speak of survivors.1 Exiles have survived a disaster, perhaps only in the short run. Time will tell whether their strategies and tactics of survival will carry them through years, or decades, as aliens among peoples whose ways are not their ways. Community is a basic human need. Aristotle said that anyone who could live without society must be either a god or a beast—superhuman or subhuman.2 He stressed the importance of conscious belonging—the “herd instinct”—as essential to survival. We do not need Aristotle to know that human beings achieve fulfillment in community. From everyday experience, we know how thoroughly disruptions of belonging—for example, by moving house and losing companions— change the conditions and possibilities of fulfillment, in part because they disturb the basic relationships on which survival depends. The loss of a spouse or a child, the souring of a friendship, is enough to thwart a person’s creative imagination, by disrupting all familiar strategies and tactics of survival. Exile, and even the thought of exile, moves the catastrophe of uprooted relationships, and the difficulty of imagining how to survive, to a higher power. In this essay, my subject is how surviving exile worked on the conscious imagination of Augustine of Hippo (354–430). My theme is that, as a master rhetorician, the African church father intended to teach his hearers, using his homiletic commen-

1

  An early version of this paper was delivered at a conference on the subject, “Exile, Past and Present: Medieval Topic and Modern Reality” (Claremont Graduate University, 11–13 November 1999). I am grateful to the other participants in the conference, above all to Professor Nancy van Deusen, who also organized it, and to Mr. and Mrs. Rafael Chodos for their encouragement and suggestions for further thought. This paper is part of a wider survey on the Christian project of self-knowing provisionally entitled Witness: Crises in the Evolution of Christian Identity: Beyond Seeing, Beyond Art, Beyond Knowing. 2

 Aristotle, Politics, 1.2.1253a.

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 51–68.

52 K arl F. Morrison

taries on the psalms, as performances of monologue theater.3 In preaching on Psalm 136 (137), he took the task of persuading them that common-sense techniques of social survival, such as conformity and assimilation, were deadly. By his performance, he intended to conjure up in the theaters of his hearers’ imaginations scenes from the drama of salvation. He brought his considerable skill to bear to project them into the parts they were to play—and in fact were playing—in that cosmic drama. Against the gospel of conformity, he preached the need to induce deliberately the social death of exile as a stage in spiritual rebirth. By that means, he urged, Christians could collaborate with God in shaping the regeneration of the human race. The paradox that social death was the gate to collective life was plain. Terminal agonies of social outcasts—by exile and by martyrdom—were as vividly present in his hearers’ minds as they were in Augustine’s. I am bound to say, at the outset, that the whole venture of medieval history as I learned it was the creation of exilic survivors—men and women who immigrated mainly from Germany. My fascination, which marks this paper, with the interlocking of theology, literature, social order, and the visual arts comes from them. Though I did not know him well, I will invoke the name of Gerhart B. Ladner, whose studies have been a continuing inspiration, and whose work on the literary motive of human life as alienated wayfaring (homo viator) is somewhere in the intellectual pedigree of many historians.4 While this was not true of Ladner, it is worth remembering that, in maturity and later life, many of his fellow exiles refused to speak their native languages, never wished to return to their original homelands, and, indeed, never told even their children and grandchildren what they had experienced there. Forgetting relationships can be an exile’s survival tactic as well as remembering them. –

—

Beginning in the age of the church fathers, Christian thinking about exile was shaped largely by two antecedents: experiences related in Scripture, and Neoplatonic cosmology. Remarkably, early Christian writers did not assimilate to their own circumstances a third exilic model, given in Virgil’s Aeneid, which much later entered Dante’s thinking with profound effect. 3

  On the importance of rhetorical declamation both as performance and as an instigation to enactment, see Erik Gunderson, Staging Masculinity: The Rhetoric of Performance in the Roman World (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000), on the dramatic progression of crisis, discovery, and enactment of becoming another, including possibly “the one whom [the speaker] must not be” (129). See as well the effects of bad performance, “chronic restagings of the fallible nature of the performance [which] also signify an insuperable difficulty in segregating the orator from the possibility of a failure of being” (115), a symbolic effect in the nature of performance particularly relevant to human intervention in the process of changing spiritual identities. 4

  Gerhart Burian Ladner, “Homo viator: Medieval Ideas on Alienation and Order,” Speculum 42 (1967): 233–59.

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The Hebrew Bible yielded a rich variety of exiles and quasi-exiles: the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise, the Exodus, and the Babylonian Exile, to mention three primary examples. The little text of Psalm 136 and Augustine’s more massive commentary illustrate how varieties of Christian consciousness recognized such events as these as antecedents, and assimilated them to their own highly idiosyncratic circumstances.5 To clarify the magnitude of distance between them, I shall begin with a few remarks about Psalm 136, and then indicate how Augustine assimilated it into a general ethos of exile and survival. Psalm 136: Exile by Defeat; Return by Victory With its nine verses, Psalm 136 is not much longer or shorter than many other psalms. The compilers of the Book of Psalms were content to leave it unattributed in the great mass of anonymous hymns. It was written in the aftermath of the Babylonian conquest and eventual sack of Jerusalem (BCE 597, 586). The author identified his individual experience with the catastrophe of his people. Behind these few verses, there is a large, collective history, which includes the whole sequence of events through which the Jews were first set apart as God’s holy people, a royal priesthood, then united by David into one kingdom with Zion (=Jerusalem) as its capital, and, finally, drawn to the Temple, the Lord’s footstool and resting place (1 Chron. 28: 2; 2 Chron. 6: 41). The Temple stood as a visible manifestation of God’s name, which is to say, of his presence and overpowering holiness. Tradition, however, recorded a terrible warning. At the Temple’s dedication, according to chroniclers, God warned that if the Jews abandoned their covenant and worshiped other gods, he would reject the Temple consecrated in his name and make their land and the Temple’s wreckage bywords of scorn for the Gentiles (2 Chron. 7: 19–22). The writer of Psalm 136 had seen the desolation of Jerusalem and Temple come to pass. And yet, he gave no indication of thinking that it was an angry God’s punishment of Jewish infidelity. (His failure to connect desolation with infidelity stands in sharp contrast to the burden of Psalm 106: 34–48.) The author of Psalm 136 placed responsibility for the disaster squarely on the Babylonians, the tormenters who asked exiles to mock their own sorrow by singing songs of joy, the Lord’s songs, to amuse the destroyers of Jerusalem. In his mind, the Edomites shared the blame; they had betrayed their brothers, the Jews, and joined in laying Jerusalem waste. What are the captives to do? The author counsels repression, fueled by an ardent craving for revenge. Of all 150 psalms, this is the only cursing hymn. The captives cannot sing the Lord’s songs in a foreign land for the amusement of their enemies. Under cover of this silent repression, the author imposes one curse against himself, a curse of physical disabilities more terrible than death, if he forgets Jerusalem or allows his desire for any joy to supersede his longing for Jerusalem. He imposes a sec5

 On the general intellectual structure of connections in which the framing of Christian identity converged with methods of scriptural interpretation (particularly with reference to Origen), see John David Dawson, Christian Figural Reading and the Fashioning of Identity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 27–37, 149–57, 162–63.

54 K arl F. Morrison

ond curse against the destroyers of Jerusalem, the Babylonians and their henchmen, the Edomites, who had already plundered and destroyed the holy City once before. The avenger will be blessed, the psalmist sang, who dashes the infants of Babylon against a rock. This text stands on its own. It makes perfect sense without looking for metaphors or symbolic meaning. The author did not use his harp to expound a riddle.6 Without riddling symbolism, he presents a single event from a single perspective; he said what he meant. Some metaphoric value could be read into the word “rock,” in view of the persistent identification through the psalms of God as “the rock,” or “our rock and salvation.”7 Still, there is no need to think that the author of the psalm intended any such metaphorical reading. Infanticide is certainly within the range of possible acts of revenge called for by Jeremiah when he invoked “vengeance for the Lord; vengeance for his Temple”8 and indeed the revenge Ezekiel specifically predicted for the Edomites.9 The lust for revenge in Psalm 136 is as implacable as that of Oedipus who, to gain a terrible, annihilating vengeance against his own people, refused to return to Thebes even in death. Short as it is, Psalm 136 provides traces of how the author’s consciousness, and thus his creative imagination, took shape by turning inward. The author imagined himself speaking as a member of an entire class, defined ethnically and religiously, the people of the Covenant. He spoke from, to, and for the collective experience of that people, without any appeal to the goodwill or understanding or pity of outsiders. His message was esoteric. Thus, the context of his sufferings was also the long, continuing narrative of his people’s dealings with God. It was the context of worship, or cult. The formation of consciousness moved, perhaps as linearly as does the psalm itself, within the confines of one people: from the brutal event of exile, to the degradation the Jerusalemites felt as defeated aliens among their conquerors, to their emotions, and finally, to curses, intended to guarantee vindication of the Jerusalemites. Traditional segregation from the Gentiles is evident in every line, segregation so sharp as to forbid taking wives from among the uncircumcised or giving daughters or sisters in marriage to the uncircumcised, even in the most fortunate of times. Through the words of Psalm 136, we see a profoundly introverted imagination. We are concerned, not only with how the conscious imagination made sense of exile, but also with how survivors translated their uprootedness into art. The psalm also offers a hint or two in this regard. By adding to the literature of worship, the author used art to affirm uprooted relationships and keep them alive. Like the shaping of the imagination, the creative act of writing a song was molded in an introspective ethnic identity and experience, particularly in the religious cult of a lost homeland. Although the chant, the musical setting which completed the composition, is lost, the 6

  Cf. Psalm 49: 4.

7

  E.g., Psalm 18: 31; 28: 1; 31: 3; 62: 2, 6, 7; 71: 3; 78: 35; 92: 15; 94: 22; 95: 1.

8

  Jeremiah 50: 28; 51: 11.

9

  Ezekiel 25: 12–17.

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language and genre of the psalm have an apparent simplicity and directness. In fact, as the author must have known, these come from the stylized refinement of rules of composition governed and sifted by some collective, critical organ, if only popular taste, through at least three centuries’ development in Zion. There is also some implicit evidence of how not only the literature of worship, but also visual arts, were used to preserve uprooted relationships, though this evidence is admittedly circumstantial. After all, the Law written by God’s own hand and delivered to Moses forbade making representational art and, particularly, its use in worship. Eventually, not long before the Romans destroyed Jerusalem, some Jews found it possible at least to think of artists painting the history of their religion on walls. But, much earlier, when Psalm 136 was written, pious Jews still associated figural art with Gentile idolatry and defilement.10 The cult still required artists to adorn worship, not to illustrate Scripture. Still, the psalm gives an indirect allusion to the translation of exile into visual art. The allusion occurs in the exile’s passionate commitment to remembering Jerusalem, for cherishing Jerusalem above all else. To remember Jerusalem was to recall the ensemble of arts which had adorned the vast structure of Solomon’s Temple—immense, sometimes highly ornamented, architectural elements in bronze; cedar and cypress paneling clad in gold and carved with botanical figures and cherubim; lavish decoration in precious and semi-precious stones; masterpieces of engraving and weaving; ceremonial dishes, utensils, and other liturgical furniture in gold and silver. The author of Psalm 136 and his fellow exiles would have fed their bitter hearts remembering these glories and the music in the Lord’s house, all vanished. The oracles of the prophet Zechariah witness how, when Cyrus released the Jews from their Babylonian captivity (BCE 536), the exiles’ passionately loving memories of disrupted relationships engendered Zerubbabel’s reconstruction of the Second Temple. Psalm 136 resonates with the cry of a people. This is not a song of isolated individuals, but of one society against another. The cry of a people comes through the language, both vernacular and learned; through the form, established by tradition; through the context, a prayer book for congregations, indeed, for the Great Assembly. The esoteric cry of a people came through critical thinking, as invisible as the poet himself—the critical judgment of the editors who included it as canonical and those serving their community as fiduciary trustees of faith and order who retained it. The author’s own creative imagination is irretrievably submerged in that of his people, a society conterminous with its religion and having, in Jerusalem, a fixed center of its cult, and, in the male lineage of the Twelve Tribes, its continuity. The burden of grief and yearning for revenge in the psalm was to be relived over and over again as canonical, not embalmed and imitated stylistically as classical. How did this esoteric cry of survivors sound to one class of outsiders, namely, to Christians? I turn now to an early and enduringly influential commentary on Psalm 136, that by Augustine of Hippo. As an exercise in imagination, Augustine’s experience of exile resembles a psychosomatic disorder called Munchausen syndrome. 10

  See 4 Maccabees 17: 7; Ezekiel 16: 17, 23: 15–17.

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Augustine’s Commentary: Exile by Assimilation; Return by Banishment By every indication, Psalm 136 was meant to be taken literally. Augustine assimilated the esoteric letter of the psalm to the quite alien spirit of Christian doctrine by interpreting the words symbolically. It is a sign of how stubbornly Augustine went about reconciling the incommensurables of what the psalm said and what he wanted it to say that, even though the psalm consists of nine verses, Augustine’s commentary runs to fourteen densely packed pages. It is a sign of how thoroughly his meaning turned the text upside down that he was able to celebrate exile as “noble” (generosa peregrinatio), by one of the oddest possible role reversals, he was able to take upon himself, a Gentile, the mantle of the Jewish exile in the psalm and to cast Jews as among the enemies, the Edomites, cursed by the psalmist as persecutors and destroyers of Jerusalem.11 What idea of relationship allowed him to depart so far from his text as to rejoice in exile and identify the Jews as the mortal enemies—indeed classify them with their own mortal enemies, the villains, rather than the victims of the psalm? Augustine’s conception of scriptural understanding as a spiritual communion prepared him for insights quite different from those guiding the authors of the Hebrew Scriptures, he thought, even the prophets of Christ. Divinely inspired as they were, the authors of Hebrew Scripture saw in truth but from afar what Christ made present. Moreover, as diversity of understanding abundantly demonstrated, even the revelations in the Gospels and books of the Apostles were not enough to open the mysteries of salvation to one and all. For, no less than the initial writing of Scripture, its correct apprehension was a gift of God and came by inspiration. A sacred symphonism united authentic human authors and interpreters, for all understood and wrote in the one spirit of God, like all charisms given to each by measure. Following the apostle Paul’s teaching, Augustine believed that Christ and the Spirit co-inhered in the soul. Christ, the Word, Augustine wrote, is also the Living Bread from Heaven that feeds the minds of believers. When we come together to eat and hear a book of Scripture, we are going to see the Word, hear the Word, and drink him as surely as an angel in Heaven does. Thus, in their very bodies and minds, believers had the mind of Christ, the “Living Word” in the inert written words of Scripture, the Living Word connecting the triune image of God in their souls with the dynamic of will, mind, and love that was the Trinity.12 Augustine’s charismatic beliefs about understanding Scripture carried him beyond comprehending words on a page and beyond praying for understanding to the co-inherence of Christ and Spirit in the believer’s heart. The search for God, too 11

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chaps. 12, 18, Corpus Christianorum, series latina: 40 (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, 1956), 1971, 1975–76.

12   See, for example, Augustine, Sermo 56.4.12–14, 19; Sermo 57.7.7; Jacques-Paul Migne, Patrologiae Cursus Completus, series latina, vol. 38 (Paris: J. P. Migne, 1846), cols. 383–86, 389–90; De trinitate, 9.7.12; 9.8.13; 15.14.23–15.16.26; 15.17.28–15.18.32, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 50A (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, 1968), 303–05, 496–508.

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high for human understanding, led him to seek God indirectly, through the image of God in himself; for God made humanity in his image and likeness. In the same way, his search for the mind still active in Scripture made Augustine’s commentary as much a study in introversion as Psalm 136 itself was. But the very fact that the psalm belonged to the ethnic legacy of a people not his own put strains on Augustine’s interpretive project. In his belief that all the Psalms witnessed to Christ and his zeal to assimilate the letter of the psalm to the spirit of Christian revelation, Augustine refused to acknowledge that the esoteric people’s cry in the psalm was not meant for him. His critical techniques did not require him to give much weight to the fact that he was not a Jew, much less that he was not meditating on the psalm in Hebrew, the original language of the cry, but rather in a Greek translation, one step removed from the original, or even in a Latin version of the Greek translation. As bishop and custodian of a religious cult, his object was to extract and mediate spiritual riches hidden in the psalm. But his inward, charismatic critical method did not require him to notice that the social function of cult in the theocratic homogeneity of ancient Israel was very different from that in the open market of religions in the late Roman Empire, and even among the loose communion of Christians, conterminous neither with society nor with any community which had one cult center. He bypassed without noticing the glaring difference that Christians had no cult center such as the pre-Diaspora Jews had had in Jerusalem, but that, by contrast, Christians and their churches made up a shifting constellation of centers in a hostile social environment. Above all, in his commentary, Augustine did not pause to reflect on the incalculable difference in spiritual interpretation made by Christian belief in immortality. The Psalms give no hope for life after death. Several psalmists appeal to God to save their lives out of his own self-interest, since they cannot praise him from the grave. Unless he intervenes, they will die and be no more. They will be as the beasts that perish. Indeed, God himself no longer remembers the dead.13 Elsewhere, Augustine commented on those verses as evidence of how bereft the Jews were of the Spirit of God and its gifts, how bound they remained to the letter of the Law, which killed, and alien to the Spirit, which gave life. The idea that Jews were carnal-minded literalists did enter his commentary on Psalm 136, but this brief reference gives no measure of the distance between the psalmist’s acceptance of mortality and hope that people of flesh and blood would return to a city of brick and stone and mortar, and Augustine’s belief that what was mortal would be changed into immortality and rejoice forever in a heavenly, spiritual city. By comparison with the Living Word in them and in his heart, the words of the psalm were a side issue for him. In interpreting it, he considered what he read less important than how he read it. The exile of Psalm 136 calls for the restoration of the old. The exile in Augustine’s commentary calls for the conversion of the old into the new, uprooting what had been planted, tearing down what had been built, remaking all things new. The author of Psalm 136 called for restoration; Augustine, for conversion, which required alienation from all possible earthly communities, including most 13

  See Psalm 6: 5; 30: 3, 9; 39: 13; 49: 12; 88: 5, 10–12.

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gloriously martyrdom, the seal that earthly communities unknowingly set upon the martyrs’ triumph through apparent rejection and defeat.14 Augustine and Christians generally revered the psalms. They considered the psalms special revelations about Christ, written or edited by David, the prophet-king, Jesus’ forebear and prefiguration. Thus, though the psalms were considered the legacy of an old, superseded covenant with God, they formed an essential bond between the Old Covenant, ratified by God with Abraham, and the New Covenant mediated by Jesus. Christians regarded the revelations in the psalms as a vindication of Christians as joint-heirs of God’s grace with the Jews. From the days of apostolic, or Jewish, Christianity onward, Christian liturgy extensively employed the psalms as symbolic proof that Christ fulfilled what David foretold. For some, the psalms were the mind of Christ speaking through the mouth of David. As a commentator, Augustine’s task was to adapt Psalm 136 to the alien wisdom of Christian doctrine, including the promise of immortality. His first step was the most decisive one: the assumption that the text of Scripture had to be interpreted symbolically, that the meaning of the psalm subverted its text. The text of Psalm 136 is remarkably clear. But the assumption that it encased a hidden treasure, the Living Word in the written words, enabled Augustine to introduce obscurity as a virtue, and, indeed, to multiply obscurities. His imagination accepted the obscurity of multiple perspectives and proportions. Obscurity was a sign that the psalms were “oracles of God.” In other works, notably in the Confessions, Augustine distinguished male from female roles. Yet, his conception of Christian life required him to hold firmly to the doctrines that gender was a matter of status, not one of kind. As the apostle Paul wrote: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female: for all of you are one in Jesus Christ” (Gal. 3: 22). Indeed, he developed pervasive gender ambiguities in reflecting on the soul’s marriage to Christ and the manliness of virtue, and, with his delight in paradox, he deployed them as he explored the impenetrable mysteries of salvation through the feminization of holiness in men’s souls and the virilization in women’s.15 14   See Augustine’s idealization, as bishop, of Cyprian, as discussed by Jonathan Yates, “Augustine’s Appropriation of Cyprian the Martyr-Bishop against the Pelagians,” in More than a Memory: The Discourse of Martyrdom and the Construction of Christian Identity in the History of Christianity, ed. Johan Leemans (Leuven: Peeters, 2005), especially 128–32. See also the perceptive comments by Matthew Keufler, The Manly Eunuch: Masculinity, Gender Ambiguity, and Christian Ideology in Late Antiquity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 123–24. 15

  Augustine’s contrasts between himself and his mother, Monica, are a particularly striking example of the distinction he drew between dominant male and subordinate female status. See Peter Brown, Augustine of Hippo: A Biography, 2nd ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 17–19, 111–13; and James J. O’Donnell, Augustine: A New Biography (New York: HarperCollins, 2005), 55–57. See also Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity, Lectures on the History of Religion, new ser., no. 13 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), especially 389–90 (on the predominance of

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Symbolism invited multiple images and perspectives by collapsing linear sequences, including that of time. Augustine regarded the psalm as a whole made up of mutually reflective parts. Therefore, even though his overall strategy took him through it verse by verse, it also allowed (or required) him to break out of linear sequence, combining verses at will to expand interpretive arguments. In fact, his recombinant method of interpretation enabled him to weave together passages from Hebrew and Greek Scriptures, illustrations from his own day, and apocalyptic expectations of the age to come. Babylon’s sack of Jerusalem was of one piece with revelations in the New Testament and, even more remotely, with events in Augustine’s place and time. This free, antihistorical reconfiguration of the text is not surprising. It corresponds exactly with what Augustine said about how his mind worked when he recited a psalm. The psalm he was reciting was a whole action that passed, piece by piece, from forethought into memory. The action of the psalm-in-process-of-reading was itself part of some greater action, presumably the entire revelation of divine providence in Scripture as God unfolded it like some great celestial tent or scroll. Similarly, Augustine said, a person’s life was so scattered through various episodes, or times, that even that person might not be able to see the order in it. And yet, all actions in that life did make up a whole, and all lives were parts of the whole history of the human race.16 Augustine’s multiple perspectives enabled him to combine linear perspective, moving in sequence from beginning to end, with a circular one, encompassing all texts, actions, and ages in one epiphanic present. Augustine was not an exile in any literal sense of the word; generally speaking, he lived in settled circumstances. And yet, he chose to banish himself mentally from the world around him. Symbolism was the door through which he entered an exile of heart and mind. If we look to the intellectual underpinnings of his symbolic argument, we shall see that he imagined himself into exile in two distinct narratives, both completely unknown to the author of Psalm 136. In both narratives, the relations disrupted by exile were impersonal. The first was the narrative of transcendence that Augustine learned from Neoplatonic philosophy. Augustine’s whole philosophical stance was shaped by a doctrine of exile and return, which he learned from Neoplatonism. In a natural, and completely impersonal, process, everything came from and returned to the divine, the One. The whole cosmos consisted of a great chain of perfection, an interrelated whole. It descended in ordered degrees from the One, each link away from the One being less perfect than the link before, participating more remotely and thus less fully in the perfection of the One, just as rays of light become fainter and more mixed with darkness as they move from their source. What held the chain together was a two-sided dynamic drive. Each male companions in the narrative of the Confessions), and 359, 394–95, 405–08 (on sexuality in general). Keufler provides a very rich discussion of how Augustine developed “the paradox of Christian masculinity.” See The Manly Eunuch, especially 139–42, 231–36. 16

  Confessions, 11.28.38–11.29.39, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 27 (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, 1981), 214–15.

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link, being good, yearned to communicate itself, to procreate likenesses of itself. This led, as copying copies generally will, to progressively less perfect copies down the chain. Each link, being imperfect, desired the perfection it lacked and saw above it, and each yearned to be what it saw in the higher orders. Each link below the One therefore procreated downward and yearned upward. This interrelationship is how they all made up a hierarchic chain of perfection, moved by a constant dynamic of exile and return. In the dynamic, impersonal interrelationship of this hierarchy, Augustine found the basic philosophical framework on which he suspended his theology—his propositions that all degrees of being and knowing, of beauty, goodness, and truth, came by participation in God’s perfectly simple, all-encompassing, and self-communicating perfection. The life in all that live, the reason of all who know, the beauty of all beautiful things mirrors and derives from God. Knowing himself as an exile in the Neoplatonic sense gave him a place to belong in the living and inexhaustibly creative hierarchy of perfection, created and creating. Augustine also recognized himself as an exile in a second way, grounded in the Christian theology of grace. As a theologian, he projected himself into a narrative quite different from the regular, natural rhythm of egress and return in Neoplatonic cosmology. Here, too, the relations disrupted by exile were impersonal, but the restoration of relations was miraculous and deeply personal. From Scripture, Augustine extracted a drama of crime, punishment, and redemption, in which the whole human race had been cast out of Paradise and part of it, after a time in the exile of this world, allowed to return to its celestial homeland. Augustine bent Psalm 136 to purposes it was not intended to serve when he projected what the psalmist considered a historical event, the Babylonian Exile, into the cosmic dimension, God’s plan for the redemption of the world and God’s direct and personal acts of grace in predestination and deliverance. His conception of exile as noble was possible because he understood exile as a state of spiritual, rather than material, existence, and the whole dynamic of conflict in the psalm as moral (subjective) rather than formal (objective). Like the psalmist’s community of captives, Augustine’s community of the predestined was esoteric and segregated. Augustine saw outward enemies on every hand, Jews among them. As Augustine considered the place of Christians in the hostile environment of the late Roman Empire, he identified many other open and concealed subverters of the soul—pagans, scoffers and skeptics, persecutors raging to kill Christians, kindly indulgent seducers who won believers over to worldly pleasures by winsomeness, praise, gentle rebuke, and friendship, and, to be sure, believers who had already assented to their own ruin, “alien children,” who had defected to Babylon. Such people could not understand Christian doctrine. They laughed at Christians obedient to the gospel, who voluntarily made themselves paupers. Surveying the rampant licentiousness of sexual and pornographic delights in Roman society, they could see no good that Jesus had done in the world. They regarded as highly suspect ascetic calls to empty themselves of worldly desires—desires for such natural goods as wealth, power, family order and harmony, and loyal friends—and they kept such

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calls at a distance by ridicule and indifference. Such people were sterile, Augustine wrote, as the willows of Babylon, beyond the limits of Jerusalemite fertility. However, for Augustine, exile was not primarily a matter of such objective social relations as these, but of the soul’s own affections. His point of view would have astonished the psalmist. Correspondingly, the introversion of consciousness in Augustine’s commentary had to do with subjective danger, danger to the soul. The Christians’ struggle, he wrote, was not against flesh and blood, but against the powers of this world’s darkness. The captors in Psalm 136, he wrote, were the Devil and his angels. The redeemer was Christ.17 Choice between captors and redeemer belonged to the individual. The Devil and his minions entered hearts because believers made room for them, departing from love of God and subjecting themselves to lusts of the flesh.18 The confrontation of Christians with Jews in the context of salvation history was a visible macrocosm of this ensuing subjective antagonism of the soul against itself. The psalmist cursed Edomites, the false brethren of the Jews, for the blazing passion with which they rushed with Babylon to destroy Jerusalem. The Jews themselves satisfied Augustine’s need for a symbolic equivalent to the Edomites; for, he said, by rejecting Christ, Jews continued to live according to the flesh, at enmity with those who lived by the Spirit. They were elder brothers in the Covenant, envying and persecuting the younger brothers, Christians, as Esau (the forefather of the Edomites) had persecuted Jacob (Israel). But his main point was not that Christians should be wary of Jews. His main point was that each and every predestined soul should be wary of itself; for all of them were divided this way. The predestined, too, are first carnal and later spiritual.19 Because this division was a condition of life for the predestined, the individual soul was its own worst enemy. According to Augustine, the predestined are amphibians. They live Jekyll and Hyde existences, part Jerusalemite and part Babylonian, polar twins like Jacob and Esau. Only the individual soul could open or close its heart to the Babylonian captors, the Devil and his angels. We have not left Babylon, Augustine wrote; we are only on the way out.20 Augustine put the same idea a different way in the Confessions. He remembered how in his early life he was roiling with his friends through the streets of Babylon, wallowing in its dung, and Monica had left the center of Babylon, but still tarried in its outskirts. Then, when the mind gave an order to the body, the body instantly obeyed; but, when the mind gave an order to itself,

17

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chap. 15, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 40: 1973– 74. 18

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chap. 9, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 40: 1969.

19

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chaps. 18–21, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 40: 1975–77. 20

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chaps. 8, 15–16, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 40: 1969, 1973–74.

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it could resist, or refuse, to obey. The mind was torn between conflicting desires, he wrote, divided against itself.21 Ruthlessly, in the monologue performance of his meditations on Psalm 136, Augustine’s call for vengeance wove through the drama of the heart divided against itself. We ourselves, he wrote—or at least our bad desires—are the infants of Babylon to be dashed against the rock. Even if we are born predestined to be citizens of Jerusalem, Babylon holds us captive for a while. We learn what our parents teach us—avarice, robberies, daily lies, worship of idols and demons, witchcraft. With their tender souls, what are infants to do except follow in their parents’ footsteps? Conversion is a turning away from Babylonian captivity, a killing of the soul formed in infancy and rebirth in newness of life.22 Those who forget Jerusalem are cursed; escape from that curse comes when the saving Avenger dashes Babylonian children against the rock. With these savage words, Augustine gives an insight into how he regarded his own conversion and why he filled book 9 in the Confessions, the book portraying the months after his conversion, with the deaths of those nearest to him in his old life and, in fact, made it a monument to the death of the person he had been. But, as he makes clear in the Confessions and in the commentary on Psalm 136, he expected that only death would release him from the anguish of his Jekyll-Hyde ambivalences. He had no idea of integrated personality in this life. As he characterized the individual soul, Augustine’s imagination moved in the space of a few lines from deadly rivalry between brothers to violent rejection of parental ways by children and finally to a form of infanticide equivalent with suicide. Restoring essential relations in the narratives of transcendence and salvation required a purging and redirection of basic human affections. There is a level at which the deeply personal is subsumed into the communal, at which individuals are seen as members of one body, articulated for the well being of the whole. At this level, there can seem to be a radical impersonality—if possible, a passionate impersonality—in Augustine’s religious affections. According to Augustine, the psalmist sang about crime, punishment, and rehabilitation, the human race’s falling away from God through sin and its return to God through redemption by grace. “Exile” was the movement of the predestined, the people of God, the Body of Christ, through the unredeemed and lost world toward the moment when their redemption would be consummated, beyond this world, in eternal life. By sin, the entire human race had been cast out of paradise. In his commentary on Psalm 136, Augustine applied the term “noble exile” only to the part of the human race predestined by God for salvation, redeemed by Christ’s blood, and passing now as aliens through the Babylon of this perishing world to the Jerusalem of everlasting peace and glory. Augustine called this exile “noble” for the same reason he called the crime of sin “happy” ( felix culpa). Both, he believed, were esoteric epiphanies and communications of God’s own being. 21

  Confessions, 8.9.21–10.24, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 27: 126–29.

22

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chaps. 21–22, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 40: 1977–78.

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Augustine insisted that Psalm 136 was a song of the whole church, that, as the body of Christ, Jerusalem in captivity was one compound soul made up of many individuals. The safety of each lay in the solidarity of this fellowship and society, where none could be reached by any tempter or any delight except the good.23 Ethnic identity made it possible for the voice in the psalm, as written, to belong to any Jew. Augustine’s interpretation placed conditions on who could claim the voice. We can be the man who sings this psalm, he wrote, but, to claim the psalmist’s voice, we must suffer as he suffered, badgered and cajoled to sing the Lord’s song by mockers, people full of falsehood, extorters of truth—captors who had no idea of what they were asking the exile, and no capacity for understanding what he said. To claim the psalmist’s voice, readers must bind themselves with the curse he put upon himself if he forgot the heavenly Jerusalem, if he became complicit with his captors in his own spiritual subversion.24 And yet, what advanced this collective security by stages toward its final consummation was exactly an inherent individual instability, a division in the soul between love of happiness in this world, which led to the pains of hell, and love of life that is truly life in the age to come. The movement of the “noble exile” out of Babylon and toward Jerusalem was propelled by the Jekyll-Hyde conflict of worldly and heavenly desires in countless individual souls, conversions without number, by which the body of Christ was built up through time, joined and knit together, and advanced toward its predestined form. Augustine: Self-Knowing, Impersonal Exile, and Community Arts The commentary also provides clues as to how Augustine translated exile into art, and how he thought arts could be used with other survival skills to preserve essential relationships in his Munchausen-syndrome exile. So far as we can tell, the psalmist put art in the exiles’ survival kit because it preserved forms of expression from the vanished homeland—forms of poetry, possibly also visual designs transportable in handicrafts, “folk art.” According to Augustine, the arts served survival, not because of their forms, but because of how the mind received them: that is, because of how the mind works. The psalmist presented a single image from a single perspective. He sang about actual exiles from Jerusalem in Babylon. By imposing a symbolic interpretation, Augustine rendered both image and perspective multiple. According to his interpretation, what the psalm said about exile referred both to the Jews held captive in Babylon and to individual Christians and the entire body of Christ in transit through this hostile world. What the psalmist called “the songs of Zion” were the language of the redeemed, a close-knit brotherhood and “civil society.” The song of this world’s love was an alien, barbarous tongue. Whoever forgot Jerusalem and was restricted to that 23

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chaps. 15, 17, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 40: 1973, 1975. 24

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chap. 12, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 40: 1971.

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alien language was mute before God, an enemy of Jerusalem.25 Some such distinction between “barbarous” and “civic” lay behind Augustine’s preference for unadorned, rhythmic intonation of the psalms, rather than the beautiful melodic settings to which they were commonly sung, melodies which, as he knew from his own delight in them, enticed the ears away from sacred words to sensual pleasures.26 At this point, Augustine turned the imagination against itself. Lacking any hope of personal integration in this life, Augustine could only consider art a monument and tool of inward division. Like the author of Psalm 136, Augustine conceived of religious art as a social artifact, belonging to worship. Its cult uses removed it from the unbeliever. The psalmist could not sing the Lord’s song to amuse his alien tormentors. Augustine would not expose the mysteries of redemption to those who asked about them intending only to deform what he said into sinister meanings, to castigate or mock believers, or to lure them into spiritual ruin. As a social artifact, religious art existed not to display the ingenuity of the artist, but to enable worship. And yet, its sensuous delights could defeat their proper object by making art a bridge by which the soul passed over to ruin from the civic society of Jerusalem into Babylon, instead of fleeing to safety the other way, from Babylon to the eternal city. The individual soul was divided between love of Jerusalem and a subversive love of worldly delights. As a collective work, religious art too was divided between its incentives to devotion and its subversive pleasures. Augustine found a mysterious kinship between sensuality and piety, seductive and dangerous to those who loved the world, traps for the unwary, and for those rescued by God incentives to sigh after God himself, the beauty of all beautiful things.27 This tug-of-war between sensual and pious desires, the polar twins of Jekyll and Hyde (or Jacob and Esau) which provoked Augustine’s fascinated dread of beautiful chant, was exactly what made Augustine a puzzle to himself, sick and in need of healing. Augustine’s commentary on Psalm 136 gives some idea of how, in his conscious imagination, he came to know himself as an exile. Throughout, Augustine characterized the psalm, and his commentary on it, not as personal works of isolated individuals, but as artifacts of community. He addressed his audience, his “brothers,” as co-readers of the psalm with him. He urged them to enact the psalm together along the lines of moral reform his interpretation followed, to move beyond captivity to happiness and at the end to triumph with their King.28 In this life, even souls predestined for redemption were still susceptible to the ruinous allurements of the world. The soul’s creative imagination was torn between the enticements of Babylon and the treasures of heaven. Thus, it was self-subversive, constantly on guard against itself. But the delights of religious art—the beauties of music or painting—could kindle piety as well as undercut it. Knowing this ambivalence 25

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chap. 17, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 40: 1974– 75. 26 27

  Confessions, 10.33.50, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 27: 181–82.

  Confessions, 10.33.49–34.53, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 27: 181–84.

28

  Enarratio in Psalmum CXXXVI, chap. 22, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 40: 1978.

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as a condition of exile, the soul imposed upon itself and its imaginative creations a terrible curse, an annihilating revenge, if it forgot Jerusalem. Among the predestined, an impersonal, ruthless self-subversion was the method of human creativity and the essence of regeneration. Summary: Inverse Models of Self-Knowing The author of Psalm 136 and Augustine had the same question in mind: “Who am I?” Psalm 136 and Augustine’s commentary were unintentional answers to the Delphic command: “Know thyself.” Both conspicuously avoided the open, all-embracing answer in Terence’s sentence: “I am a human being, and I think nothing human alien to me” (Homo sum; humani nihil a me alienum puto). Who they were depended on who God was and on the relation between human society and God through cult. Cult was exclusive. For both, therefore, the greater part of the world was alien, and the line between those bound to them by religious devotion and the immense hostility encircling them was decisive. They saw plainly that exile was a study in uprooted relationships. For them both, the primary relationship was to their homeland, the patria. Augustine aimed at conversion, the remaking of all things new, instead of at recovery of the old. Unlike the author of the psalm, Augustine did not think of the patria as a place. Still, both of them realized that belonging to the homeland was their primary relationship, and that other relationships depended on it. Love for it surpassed all other loves, and love for the homeland, surviving in exile for the sake of the homeland, was the scale by which any other relationship was permitted or forbidden. The psalmist’s verse against the Edomites, those brothers who proved to be false in their violation of Jerusalem, and Augustine’s censures against a variety of insiders who betrayed Jerusalem and caused others to be unfaithful point toward the fact that they knew themselves as members of a society defined by a common devotion. The revenge motif emphasizes the central importance of social solidarity. Assimilationists in the exile community—presumably including some who married outside the community—had crossed the border into the alien world, and fell under the exiles’ license to hate outsiders. The greatest fear of each writer is that he too will grow weak in his primary commitment. The author of the psalm cursed himself with afflictions worse than death if that should happen. Augustine’s savage portrayal of conversion as the soul’s vengeance against its own illicit delights and desires is laden with suspicion, self-judgment, and hatred. There were no isolated individuals. Identity for both exiles was social identity. Individual survival and group survival were two sides of the same coin. The general category, which Terence called “human being,” was exactly what the author of the psalm and Augustine most wished to be alien to themselves if it weakened their corporate survival. It was a noble and glorious act to cultivate a maladaptive social spirituality, indeed, to flee from the world and embrace the world’s worst sentences against its outcasts: exile and death. For death in such a cause brought the crown of martyrdom,

66 K arl F. Morrison

and self-inflicted death in inner struggles of the self against itself was essential to the process of spiritual regeneration. Coda A distinguished artist participating in the conference at which I first presented these ideas gave an extraordinary witness to the contrast between the isolation of the individual in Western European culture and social solidarity. Born and raised in Japan, she transplanted herself to the United States. Art and the affirmation of her individuality came together in the experience of assimilation. She wrote, I was a child in Japan during World War II, and my early memories are of … the grandiosity of rampant tribalism and totalitarianism. After the War, even though Japan proclaimed itself a democracy, I remained keenly aware of its innate, deep-seated hostility towards individuality. To this day … individuality in Japan is still considered dangerous and a blasphemy of one’s tribe.… All the works I have created here [in the United States] over the last thirty years are documents of victorious battles in my struggle to become myself.29 In Augustine’s elaborate commentary on the psalmist’s lament over exile, we find some anticipations, at least, of the human alienation from humanity, from self, and from other human beings which Ladner found, full-blown, in the late Middle Ages, and experienced himself remotely applied in the twentieth century.30 Augustine’s general ideas about art as preserving essential relations in the Babylonian Exile of this world did not last forever. They rested on an ensemble of assumptions about religion and art which eventually split apart. Ultimately, they centered around what was a great void for human understanding, the void of divine being from which all things came, the emptiness of mystery in which Augustine found the prototype of the image of God with which humanity was stamped at the Creation.31 We know what happened to these assumptions. 1. Because of his Neoplatonist philosophy, Augustine assumed the interconnectedness of everything that was. The entire cosmos was a gradual self-communication of God. Scientific advances, especially in astronomy and physics, and finally in Darwinian biology—removed this metaphysical foundation. Even before Darwin, Laplace was able to refer to God as a hypothesis for which he had no need. 29

  Junko Chodos, Junko Chodos: Centripetal Artist (N.p.: Junko Chodos, 1998), 4. See also Rafael Chodos, Why On Earth Does God Have To Paint? Centripetal Art (Malibu, CA: Giottomultimedia, 2009), 88. 30 31

  Ladner, “Homo viator: Medieval Ideas on Alienation and Order,” 256.

  See Paul van Geest, The Incomprehensibility of God: Augustine as a Negative Theologian (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), especially 21–41, 62–65.

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2. Augustine’s theology and his symbolic method of interpretation depended on his assumption that Scripture revealed God’s truth, albeit in a hidden, encoded way. Advances in philology, especially in historical criticism of the Bible, allowed Scripture no presumptions of truth beyond those of any other text. Were the gospels, four anonymous tracts which do not hang together, frauds perpetrated by unscrupulous, sectarian dissidents? Were their stories about Jesus tissues of popular superstition? There was no need to multiply obscurities to save the phenomenon of revelation. By removing the presumption of unitary truth in Scripture, philologists disallowed symbolic analysis of Scripture as any way to truth, and hardly more than a vain and arbitrary diversion. 3. Augustine’s Neoplatonism and theology made him an idealist, a believer in eternal absolutes. Augustine assumed that salvation came by transcending finitude, and indeed the human condition itself, and participating in the infinity of God, the absolute of absolutes. The growth of historical criticism dispensed with universal absolutes and raised up the isolated particularity of the individual. Individual events and lives were equally unique, unrepeatable, and incommunicable. Historical criticism abandoned idealism in favor of nominalism, and thereby set aside any hope of transcendence such as Augustine thought he experienced. 4. Augustine’s assumptions about art also fell out of currency. He assumed that religious art (including scriptural interpretation) expressed a social consciousness. And yet, from the Renaissance onward, what is called “the history of art in fact deals with the history of artists.”32 Nominalism has moved the impulse of expression from a collective consciousness to the psychology, unconscious or subconscious, of the individual artist. The singularity of the autonomous self stands against the mere utility of social relations. The artist defines what art is. 5. Finally, Augustine also assumed that religious art moved the deeply paradoxical ambiguity of human desires, either enticing the soul by sensual delights to plunge into the swirling, devouring waters of Babylon, or drawing it by spiritual harmonies more fully into fellowship with the heavenly City. His concern was with the paradoxes of introspection, with how the soul observes and weighs the feelings in its own heart. With classicism, the focus changed from the observer to the observed, from paradoxes of introspection to ironies of illusionist representation. With classicism, the focus fell on style, on the work of art as a material object. The purpose of stylistic analysis was to establish models and degrees of technical proficiency, rather than to go beyond material things to the Wisdom by which all things that we can know are made.33 32

  Hans Belting, Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image before the Era of Art, trans. Edmund Jephcott (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), xxi.

33

 Cf. Confessions, 9.10.24, Corpus Christianorum, series latina, 27: 147–48.

68 K arl F. Morrison

A little while ago, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I visited Eisenstadt, near Vienna. A great palace of the Esterhazy family is in Eisenstadt, and I went there to hear some music by one of the servants of the Esterhazy princes, Franz Josef Hayden. I heard wonderful music in the Esterhazy palace, including The Creation. Until the Revolution of 1848 relieved them of the duty, the Esterhazy princes were protectors of the Jews in their lands. The ghetto in Eisenstadt was about one hundred yards up the hill from the Esterhazy palace. It stood there, relatively hidden, an example of exile—in the form of the Diaspora—as a way of life crossing many generations and enveloping whole communities. Even under Esterhazy protection, the Jews of Eisenstadt were in exile, century after century. The liberal reforms of the nineteenth century gave them the same civil rights as any other subjects of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Some died defending the empire in World War I. But, in 1938, the Jews of Eisenstadt found that they were exiles in their own country again. They were all deported by October 1938. Their synagogue survived, undamaged. The Burgomeister of Eisenstadt was able to give it protection that he could not give its congregation. It is still there, in the Austrian Jewish Museum, a witness to one point at which exile intersects with creativity. Of course, it stands in sharp contrast with the opulent creativities that found a home in the palace, beyond the iron chain that marked the border of the ghetto. Exile, or at least the legacy of exile, was in the art of the palace too, in fact in Hayden’s Creation. The Creation ends on a happy note, before sin and expulsion. And yet, everyone knew the story. The Archangel Uriel strikes a tone ominous for what is to follow when he celebrates Adam and Eve with conditions: “O happy pair, happy evermore, / if mad illusions do not seduce you / into wanting more than you have / and knowing more than you should.” Even as Hayden was conducting the first performance of The Creation, the Christian connection between art and exile was beginning to take on new, and greatly altered, forms of life in the minds of two men. The first was Goethe, who made exile the price of creativity in his recasting of the Faust legend. The second was Hegel, whose new mythology of human inventiveness transformed exile as a condition of creativity into something recognizably similar: the work of art as self-alienation of the artist. But, for Hegel, art itself had slipped away by becoming a thing of the past.34

34

  G. W. F. Hegel, Introductory Lectures on Aesthetics, trans. Bernard Bosanquet (Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin, 1993), 13.

Eastern Orthodoxy

The Evergetian Motif in Russian Monastic Reform David Goldfrank

For most of us, Basil of Caesarea and Theodore the Studite are the church fathers who come to mind, when we think of Greek coenobitic rules and reform. And rightly so, as they are doubly celebrated due to their theological writings and public roles in defense of Orthodoxy, the one during the first century of christological controversy, the other during the epoch of Iconoclasm. Who ever heard of Timothy of Evergetis? Very few nonspecialists in the Byzantine Church—that is, until recent scholarship, capped by a special conference in Queens College, Belfast, and by the Dumbarton Oaks typikon translation project, placed him at the center of monastic reform in the eleventh century and revealed his lasting influence. The paragraphs which follow examine first Byzantine and Balkan Evergetism and then the Russian side to this story. The context of the specific Evergetian movement is difficult to ascertain, but seems to have lain in part in the maturing of Studite-inspired monastic reform, which was still very much alive in the eleventh century.1 The legacy of Theodore the Studite (d. 829) within coenobiticism included his emphasis upon the liturgy (he introduced to Byzantium the liturgical typikon ascribed to Sabas of Jerusalem), the sacralization of the communal meal, and organized, supervised, productive labor.2 This legacy heavily influenced the monastic legislation attributed to Athanasius of Mt. Athos (produced between 963 and 1020)3 and inspired Symeon the New Theologian (949–1032), 1

  See Dirk Krasmüller, “The Monastic Communities of Stoudios and St. Mamas in the Second Half of the Tenth Century,” in The Theotokos Evergetis and Eleventh-Century Byzantine Monasticism, ed. Margaret Mullett and Anthony Kirby, Byzantine Texts and Translations 6.1 (Belfast: Queens University of Belfast, 1994), 67–68. 2

  Timothy Miller, trans. and ed., Theodore Studites: Testament of Theodore the Studite for the Monastery of St. John Stoudios in Constantinople, and Stoudios: Rule of the Monastery of St. John Stoudios in Constantinople, in Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents: A Complete Translation of the Surviving Founders’ Typika and Testaments [hereafter BMFD], ed. John Thomas and Angela Constantinides Hero, with the assistance of Giles Constable, 5 vols. (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2000), at http://www.doaks.org/resources/publications/ doaks-online-publications/byzantine-monastic-foundation-documents, 1.2–3: 67–83 and 84–119 respectively. See also Krasmüller, “Monastic Communities,” 71–72. 3

  George Dennis, trans. and ed., Ath. Rule: Rule of Athanasios the Athonite for the Lavra Monastery (963/1020), Ath. Typikon, Typikon of Athanasios the Athonite for the Lavra Monastery Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 71–89.

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who started as a Studite monk and in his own writings combined strict coenobiticism and mystical contemplation.4 In 1034 Patriarch Alexios Studites (1025–43) founded a Dormition monastery in Constantinople, which he structured with a modified version of at least the liturgical parts of Studite Rule.5 It is this “Studite Rule” which Feodosii Pecherskii apparently introduced in Kiev in the 1060s. It partially survives only in Slavonic translation in a Novgorodian manuscript from 1136.6 As for the Evergetian reform, we are not certain precisely where outside the walls of Constantinople the Theotokos Evergetis (Benefactress) Cloister was located, but we do know its key works.7 The wealthy founder Paul Evergetinos (d. 1054), who started the monastery in 1048 or 1049 as a small collective of cells, compiled a “massive ascetic florilegium, the Evergetinon, which enjoyed a wide circulation in the Byzantine world, surviving in no less than forty manuscripts today.”8 He also “assembled a collection of monastic catacheses, that is, discursive sermons, utilizing the works of Maximos the Confessor, Pseudo-Makarios, Evagrios Pontikos, Mark the Hermit, and the Great Catecheses of Theodore Studite.”9 With these two compendia, which might have been the result of collective authorship, Paul put his disciples and colleagues at large on notice that the ascetic, coenobitic, and mystical traditions of monasticism were compatible and should be combined and followed.10 It was left to Paul’s successor Timothy (d. after 1067) to refound the monastery as a bona fide cloister and to codify Evergetine practices.11 Emphasizing liturgical aspects of mo(973–75), and Ath. Testament: Testament of Athanasios the Athonite for the Lavra Monastery (after 993), in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 1.11: 205–31, 13: 245–70, and 14: 271–80 respectively. 4

  Symeon the New Theologian (Neotheologus, Novus Theologus, Junior), The Discourses, preface by Basil Krivochéine, introduction by George Maloney, trans. C. J. di Catanzaro (New York: Paulist, 1980). See also Krasmüller, “Monastic Communities,” 68, 73–74.

5

  Miller, Stoudios: Rule, 88.

6

  Paul Hollingsworth, trans. and ed., The Hagiography of Kievan Rus´ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press for the Ukrainian Research Institute of Harvard University, 1992), 2: 53–54, 139; and David M. Petras, The Typikon of Patriarch Alexis the Studite: Novgorod-St. Sophia 1136 (Cleveland, OH: Star Printing, 1991).

7

  Lyn Rodley, “The Monastery of the Theotokos Evergetis, Constantinople: Where It Was and What It Looked Like,” in Mullett and Kirby, The Theotokos Evergetis, 17–29. 8

  Robert Jordan, trans. and ed., Evergetis: Typikon for the Monastery of the Mother of God Evergetis, in Thomas and Hero, Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents, 454–506, here 454. The Evergetinon has been published seven times in Greek between 1783 and 1983. 9

  Ibid. An English translation of both of these works is expected in the near future from the Belfast (Queens College) Evergetis project. 10

  Jordan also notes that Paul’s florilegium was followed and may have been inspired by those of the monastic reformers Nikon of the Black Mountain and John of Antioch. It should be added here that Nikon’s were very influential in Russia. 11

 Jordan, Evergetis, 455.

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nasticism more than labor in his coenobitic typikon, Timothy introduced some novel provisions: equality of food and clothing, co-governance of at least a few elite brothers with the superior, prohibition of personal servants, and regular confession to the superior.12 Later provisions in this rule also called for periodic reading of the rule to the brotherhood13 and restricted entrance donations, and at the same time stipulated institutional charity14 and commemorations.15 In keeping with the its typikon, Evergetis was neither a center of organized crafts, as Stoudios once was, nor a locus of contemplation, as Symeon the New Theologian might desire, but rather a liturgically oriented community, whose monks were as likely to be administering property as creating wealth through labor other than the performance of rites. In the absence of evidence or arguments to the contrary, I would hypothesize that Timothy’s novel stipulations were designed to boost individual and community morale at the same time, while also assuring that the individual monks kept to their vows and the cloister’s standards. Lacking memoir literature of participants or sophisticated observers, we are at risk when we try to weigh the various aspects of the Evergetian monk’s life, but I would also venture that in most aspects of his existence, he could operate – inside the bounds of his vows, regulations, and drive for salvation—with more confidence and (in normal, secular terms) self-respect than monks subject to blatant material inequalities and powerlessness relative to tyrannical leadership.16 A simple comparison of texts shows that the Evergetian reform impulse, which we have no reason to assume originated in just this one monastery, caught on quickly.17

12

  Cf. ibid., 459–61. The Diatyposis attributed to Athanasios of Mt. Athos noted the “ancient tradition and precept of the holy fathers that the brothers ought to lay before the superior their thoughts and hidden deeds.” See Dennis, Ath. Rule, 33: 228. 13   Article 43: this provision seems to have originated with the Diatyposis attributed to Athanasios of Mt. Athos, which also ended with “regular reading of the rule.” See Dennis, Ath. Rule 37: 228. 14

  Article 37–38. Limits to entry gifts were not new, and other contemporary monasteries also legislated charity. See Jordan, Evergetis, 505. 15

  Article 35–36. Ludwig Steindorff credited the Evergetis rule for its key role in the rise of Byzantine monastic commemorations. See Steindorff, Memoria in Altrussland: Untersuchungen zu den formen christlicher Totensorge, Quellen und Studien zur Geschichte der östlichen Europa 38 (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1994), 122–23. 16

  A. P. Kazhdan emphasized the control aspects of the Evergetian reform, while John Thomas has indicated both the urge for common property and equality and the hindrances at the time. See Alexander P. Kazhdan, “Vizantiiskii monastyr´ XI–XII vv. kak sotsial´naia gruppa,” Vizantiiskii vremennik 31 (1971): 54–48; and John Philip Thomas, “The Documentary Evidence from the Byzantine Monastic Typika from the History of the Evergetine Monastic Reform,” in Mullett and Kirby, The Theotokos Evergetis, 247–54. 17

  Thomas, “Documentary Evidence,” 247–54.

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Composed in stages from 1059–67 to 1098–1118,18 the Evergetis typikon, in precise wording as well as spirit, influenced those of Theotokos Kecharitomene (1110–16)—a convent founded by Empress Irena Komnena;19 St. John Phoberos (1113–44)—an independent cloister near Constantinople founded by a certain John;20 Theotokos Kosomosteira (1152)—a Thracian foundation of Irena’s son, the sebastokrator Isaac;21 St. Mamas (1158)—an ancient Constantinopolitan cloister with a new typikon by the imperial monastic steward Athanasios Philanthropenos;22 Theotokos ton Heliou Bomon (Altar of the Sun) or ton Elegon (1162)—an old monastery near Bursa, revived under the imperial courtier Nikiphoros Mystikos;23 and Theotokos in Machairas in Cyprus (1210)—an old abbey revived by Neilos, who later was its protector-bishop of Tamasia,24 as well as Christ Philanthropos (ca. 1307)—a convent founded by the despoina Irina Choumnaia Palaiologa in Constantinople,25 and John Prodromos of Mt. Menoikeion in northeastern Greece (1332)—written by Bishop Joachim of Zichna, the patron-owner of this family foundation.26 Internal evidence indicates that other such typika, now lost, also existed.27 Evergetian principles, moreover, did not require 18

 Jordan, Evergetis, 465–67.

19

  Robert Jordan, trans. and ed., Kecharitomene: Typikon of Empress Irina Doukaina Komnene (Comnena) for the Convent of the Mother of God Kecharitomene in Constantinople, in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 2.27: 649–719. 20

  Robert Jordan, trans. and ed., Phoberos: Rule of John for the Monastery of John the Forerunner in Phoberos, in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 2:30: 872–949.

21

 Nancy Patterson-Ševčenko, trans. and ed., Kosomoteira: Typikom of the sebastokrator Isaac Komnenos for the Monastery of the Mother of God Kosmosoteira near Bera, in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 2.29: 782–858.

22

  Anastasius Bandy, trans. and ed., Mamas: Typikon of Athanasios Philanthropenos for the Monastery of St. Mamas in Constantinople, in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 3.32: 973–1042.

23

  Anastasius Bandy, trans. and ed., Helious Bomon: Typikon of Nikephoros Mystikos for the Monastery of the Mother of God ton Heliou Bomon or Elegmon, in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 3.33: 1042–91.

24

  Anastasius Bandy, trans. and ed., Machairas: Rule of Neilos, bishop of Tamasia for the Monastery of the Mother of God in Machairas in Cyprus, in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 3.34: 1107–22. 25

  Alice-Mary Talbot, trans. and ed., Philanthropos: Typikon of Irina Choumnaina Palaiologina for the Convent of Christ Philanthropos in Constantinople, in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 4.47: 1383–88. 26   Timothy Miller, trans. and ed., Menoikeion: Typikon of Joachim, metropolitan of Zichna for the Monastery of St. John the Forerunner on Mount Menoikeion, in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 4.58: 1579–1612. Thomas also showed how Evergetine reform principles evolved and were somewhat compromised by social differentiation, patronage, and landholding (“Documentary Evidence,” 257–73). 27

  See the charts in BMFD, 990, 1121, 1717–23.

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an Evergetian text to prevail. For example, the typikon of Michael VIII’s widow Theodora Palaiologina for the Convent of Lips in Constantinople around 1294–1301 limited the superior’s personal discretion, enjoined “equality of privileges” for the nuns regardless of entrance gifts, and stipulated regular public reading of the rule.28 The project of a general coenobitic rule by Patriarch Athanasios I (r. 1289–93, 1303–09) included equality of food and the regular reading of the rule.29 Evergetian influence was not restricted to Greece, but operated in the Balkans, notably among the Serbs. St. Sava Nemanja (1175–1225), the Serbian prince-renovator of Hilandar Monastery on Mt. Athos and founding archbishop of his native land’s autocephalous church, had especially close ties to Theotokos Evergetis in Constantinople.30 To regulate Hilandar, he gave a rule, which is closer to the original than any other surviving typikon of the Evergetian tradition.31 Comparison between the two is instructive:32 Everg 1: Introduction to Rule Savva 1: Biography of Savva up to Hilandar Everg 2: Brief Biography of Founder Paul Savva 2: How Simeon with Savva’s Help Renovated Hilandar Everg 3: Timothy’s Succession Savva 3: Savva’s Succession Everg / Savva 4–13: Same or Close 4–8: Offices, Communion, Confession, Fast Services, Vigils 9–11: Refectory, Fast Diets, Feasts 12: Free and Self-governing Status 13: Selection of Superior and Oikonomos (Steward) Everg 14–16/Savva 14, 16: Removal of Bad Steward, Confession, Obedience to Superior Savva 15: Selection of Ecclesiarch Everg 17–25/Savva 17–27: Same or Close 28

  Alice-Mary Talbot, trans. and ed., Lips: Typikon of Theodora Palaiologina for the Convent of Lips in Constantinople (1294–1301), in Thomas and Hero, BMFD, 3.39: 1267–70. 29

  Timothy Miller, trans. and ed., Athanasios I: Rule of Patriarch Athanasios I (1303–05), arts. 4, 6, in Thomas and Hero, Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents, 1501–02. 30

 Jordan, Evergetis, 457.

31

  Sava, archbishop of Serbia, “Tipik hilandarski,” Spomenik, ed. Bishop Dimitrij (Srpska Kra∫evska Akademija) 31, 29 (1898): 37–69; and L. Mirkovich, trans. (to modern Serbo-Croatian) and ed., Hilandarski tipik Svetoga Save (Belgrade: Drž. Štamp. Kralj Jugoslavije, 1935). Jules Pargoire, “Constantinople: Le monastère de l’Evergetis,” Echos d’Orient 10 (1907): 262– 63, viewed the Hilandar typikon as a modified translation of Evergetis.

32   Timothy Miller provides a breakdown, article by article, of the influence of the Evergetian Rule on its eight “children and grandchildren” noted above, corresponding here to notes 19–26, and also its possible antecedents. See Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents, 501–06.

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17–18/17–20: on the Superior 19/21: Inalienability of Sacred Objects 20/22: Bookkeeping Requirements 21/23: Discipline of Idle Talkers 22/24: No Secret Eating, Possessions, Communications with the Outside; Expulsion for Theft 23/25: No Fixed Number of Monks 24/26: No Personal Servants 25/27: Communal Wardrobe Everg 26: Equality of Food and Drink Everg 27: Superior Visits Cells Every Month Everg 28: On Baths Everg 29: On Installation of Officials Savva 28: On Disciplining the Lax in Church; Ecclesiarch’s Authority; Readings in the Refectory Savva 29: No Individual Cooking in Cells Everg, Savva 30–38: Same or Close 30: The Treasurers 31: Refectarian, Disciplinarian 32: Tenure of Office of Officials 33: Exhortation to All Officials 34: Qualifications of Property Administrators 35–36: Commemorations—Founder, Brothers, Benefactors 37: Tonsuring, Novitiate, Entrance Gifts 38: Daily Charity, the Hospice Everg, end 38–39: Exclusion of Women; Creation of Other Usual Offices Everg 40–42, Savva 39–41: Same or Close 40/39: Exhortation to Preserve the Typikon (Rule) 41/40: Care of Sick Monks 42/41: Additional Exhortation Savva 42: Savva’s Special kellion at Karyes Everg, Savva 43: Regular Public Reading of the Rule Some of the differences between the two typika are trivial. The offices of the two establishments were slightly different, and they had somewhat different provisions for supervision and discipline. The exclusion of women from all of Mt. Athos rendered such a provision for Hilandar superfluous, while satellite kellia (hermitages) were a common Athonite feature. Permitting bathing, apparently, was, at least for a typikon, an Evergetian innovation, and all but one of its eight Byzantine progeny also allowed it, but Hilandar did not.33 Hilandar’s additional stricture against cooking in cells may have reflected fear of kellion practices spreading to the coenobium. The

33

  BMFD, 504.

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most important Hilandar omission is the absence of the provision for equality in food and clothing, but it would be rash to draw any conclusion concerning why.34 Hilandar was one of the two great centers of the transmission of the Second Byzantino-South Slavic influence to Russia in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the other being Constantinople itself. The question arises, therefore, whether the Evergetian tradition, along with liturgical, theological, contemplative, and specifically neo-hesychastic works, reached Russia with this new wave of translations.35 To my knowledge, the major proponent of neo-hesychastic prayer, Gregory of Sinai (ca. 1265–1346), who after coming to Athos left and established his own multinational community in Thrace near Bulgaria, did not write anything approaching a rule.36 Rather, what is considered the hesychastic or neo-hesychastic movement or phenomenon in late Byzantium touched many aspects of religion and culture, and any specific connection to coenobiticism is difficult to ascertain. On the other hand, the introduction or reintroduction of coenobitic monasticism to Russia (the Rus´ North), maybe

34

  Three hypothetical possibilities are: that individuality was simply too strongly established at Athos at this time; and/or that the clan-based Serbian society of ca. 1200, with its relatively low level of education, was not ready to approach any abstract notion of material equality; or, to the contrary, that rough equality in material goods in a well-ordered coenobium, as in the early sixteenth century, was simply assumed. See N. B. Sinitsyna, “Poslanie Maksima Greka Vasiliiu III ob ustroistve afonskikh monastyrei (1518–1519 gg.),” Vizantiiskii vremennik 26 (1965): 132. 35

  See Fairy von Lilienfeld, Nil Sorskij und Seine Schriften: Die Krise der Tradition im Russland Ivans III (Berlin: Evangelische Verlaganstalt, 1963), 77 n. 127, concerning the direct ties with Constantinople and the acquisition of Slavonic translations of the liturgical typicon, some sermons of John Chrysostom, and hesychastic-oriented works of Maxim the Confessor, Symeon the New Theologian, and Isaac the Syrian. A slew of Slavic translations were made at Athos, including the all-important Pseudo-Dionisii Aereopagite (1371), and service books (1392). V. Ikonnikov, Opyt issledovaniia o kul´turnom znachenii Vizantii v russkoi istorii (Kiev: Universitetskaia tipografiia, 1869; repr., The Hague: Mouton, 1970), 60; and A. S. Arkhangel´skii, Nil Sorskii i Vassian Patrikeev, chap. 1, “Prepodbnyi Nil Sorskii,” Pamiatniki drevnei pismennosti 25 (St. Petersburg: I. Voshchinskii, 1982; repr., Russian Reprint Series, no. 20, The Hague: European Printing, 1966), 20–21. See also G. A. Il´inskii, “Znachenie Afona v istorii slavianskoi pis´mennosti,” Zhurnal Ministerstva narodnogo prosveshcheniia, no. 11 (1908): 1–41; I. Diuchev, “Tsentry vizantiisko-slavianskogo obshcheniia i sotrudnichestva,” Trudy Otdela drevnerusskoi literatury [hereafter TODRL] 19 (1963): 107–29; and John Meyendorff, Byzantium and the Rise of Russia: A Study of Byzantine-Russian Relations in the Fourteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 119–44.

36

 Gregory’s Praecepta ad hesychastas PG 150:1335–46. Surviving Hilandar manuscripts with works by Gregory include two from the 1390s, one on interior prayer, the other some of his liturgical canons, and one from the 1430s on the monk’s “struggle,” and another from the 1400s on silence. Predrag Matejic and Hannah Thomas, Catalog, Manuscripts on Microform of the Hilandar Research Library (The Ohio State Library), 2 vols. (Columbus, OH: The Resource Center for Medieval Slavic Studies, 1992), 1: 415, 476, 547, 555 (HM.SMS.227, 342, 456, 464).

78 David Goldfrank

in the 1360s,37 was part and parcel of the Second Byzantino-South Slavic influence and came just before the start of intensive Russian interest in hesychastic literature.38 In what I see as the first phase, from the 1350s or 1360s into the 1420s, the Evergetian influence is murky. As for its origins with Sergii of Radonezh (ca. 1314/1319/1322–92), we learn from his vita that he was enjoined with financial aid (pominky) to convert his small monastery into a coenobium by Ecumenical Patriarch Philotheos (r. 1354–55, 1364–76), supported by Metropolitan Aleksii of Moscow (r. 1354–78). The vita tells us that this entailed establishing full, communal property and the naming of several officials: the cellarer (in Russia, the functional equivalent of the Byzantine oikonomos), the baker, and the ward of the sick.39 The attentiveness to monastic charity at this early stage is characteristically Evergetian.40 As for the date that Sergii introduced the common, we only have evidence that he helped Aleksii establish Moscow’s Chudov Monastery in 1365 as a coenobium.41 At any rate, Sergii’s disciples and several generations of their acolytes proceeded to found most of central

37

  On the pre-Sergii northern monasteries, from Pskov to Riazan´, Vladimir to Velikii Ustiug, see I. Iu. Budovnits, Monastyri na Rusi i bor´ba s nimi krestian (Moscow: Nauka, 1966), 46–76. Of Novgorod’s old monasteries, only Iur´ev, founded in the eleventh century, was originally a coenobium. The sources indicate no Byzantine coenobitic influence on Sava Nemanja’s Novgorodian contemporary, Dobrynia/Andrei Iadreikovich, who visited Constantinople in 1200, described Theotokos Evergetis in his travelogue, and became a monk in the local Khutynskii Transfiguration Monastery (founded 1192) and then archbishop of Novgorod. Tver´’s leading Otroch Monastery (founded 1265) had clergy and treasurer-stewards (kliuchniki), but no clear markings of a coenobium. See Akty sobrannye v bibliotekakh i arkhivakh Rossiiskoi imperii Arkheograficheskoi ekspeditsiei Akademii nauk [hereafter AAE], 4 vols. (St. Petersburg: Tip. 2. Otd. Sobstvennoi E.I.B. kantseliarii, 1836), 1.5: 2–3. The unreliable Tatishchev claims that “Archimandrite” Ioann of Moscow’s (recently founded) Petrovksii (or Vysokopetrovskii) Monastery, who accompanied Metropolitan Aleksii’s would-be successor Mitaj to Constantinople in 1378, was “Moscow’s first coenobiarch.” See V. N. Tatishchev, Istoriia rossiiskaia v semi tomakh (Istoriia rossiiiskaia s samykh drevneishikh vremen), ed. S. N. Valk and M. N. Tikhomirov (Moscow: Nauka, 1962–68), 5: 134. 38

  Gelian M. Prokhorov, “Keleinaia isikhastskaia literatura (Ioann Lestvichnik, Avva Dorofei, Isaak Sirin, Simeon Novyi Bogoslov, Grigorii Sinait) v biblioteke Troitse-Sergievoi lavry s XIV po XVII v.,” TODRL 28 (1974): 317–24. 39

  Ludolf Müller, Die Legenden des Heiligen Sergij von Radonež, reprint of N. S. Tikhonravov, Drevniaia zhitiia prepodobnogo Sergiia Radonezhskogo, 2 pts. (Moscow: n.p., 1892), with separate introduction and bibliography, Slavische Propylaien, no. 17 (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1967), 43–46.

40

  Jordan notes that the Evergetian interest in philanthropy was not novel but was not general either. See Evergetis, BMFD, 465. 41

  Polnoe sobranie russkikh letopisei [hereafter, PSRL] (St. Petersburg: Arkheograficheskaia komissiia, Nauka, Arkheograficheskii tsentr, 1843–), 8: 28; and Goldfrank, The Monastic Rule of Iosif Volotskiy, rev. ed., trans., ed., and intro. David M. Goldfrank, Cistercian Studies 36 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2000), 236–37.

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and northern Russia’s major coenobia,42 and his Trinity Lavra became and still is Russia’s most prestigious monastic establishment. The role of the ecumenical patriarch, this time Neilos (1380–88), was crucial for Russia’s first surviving coenobitic rule. The author, Bishop Dionisii of Suzdal´ (r. 1374–85), writing in 1382 in the form of a statutory missive with patriarchal authority to Pskov’s eminent Snetogorsk Monastery, demanded the restoration of the (thirteenth-century) founder’s alleged order. Dionisii’s regulations required communal eating without individual demands on the cellarer, and the exclusive use of the monastery’s storeroom for obtaining clothing and rejection of fine European materials, but not the specific Evergetian stricture on equality.43 Thirteen years later (1395), Dionisii’s former rival, the Bulgarian-born, ex-Athonite Metropolitan Kiprian (r. in Moscow, 1389–1408),44 rescinded Dionisii’s rule as out of his jurisdiction. This ruling was confirmed again in 1418, by the Greek-born Metropolitan Fotii (r. 1410–31), who nevertheless insisted that the traditional patristic coenobitic principles held for the monastery.45 Snetogorsk in Pskov was not part of Sergii’s network. Kirillov in Beloozero, founded in 1397, was. We know of the purported rule of the founder Kirill (d. 1427) from his vita, composed by the Serbian immigrant and ex-Athonite, Pakhomii Logofet. The fragmentary regulations therein, somewhat in keeping with the ustav po

42

  Seen from the economic standpoint, Budovnits, Monastyri na Rusi, 112–258; from the traditional standpoint, inter alia, George Fedotov, The Russian Religious Mind (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1946–66), 2: 246–64; and Fennell, A History of the Russian Church to 1448 (London: Longman, 1995), 205–07. More detailed recent analyses include Pierre Gonneau, La maison de Sainte Trinité: Un grand monastère russe du Moyen-Age tardif (1345–1533) (Paris: Klincksieck, 1992); Gonneau, “The Trinity-Sergius Brotherhood in State and Society,” in Moskovskaia Rus´ (1359–1584): Kul´tura i istoricheskoe samosoznanie = Culture and Identity in Muscovy, 1359–1584, ed. G. D. Lenhoff and A. M. Kleimola (Moscow: ITZ-Garant, 1997), 116–45; Gonneau, “Los troublions au monastère (bezchinniki monastyrskie): Indiscipline et partage du pouvoir à la Trinité Sainte-Serge au XVe siècle,” Revue des études slaves 63 (1991): 195–206; and David B. Miller, “Donors to the Trinity-Sergius Monastery as a Community of Venerators: Origins, 1360s–1462,” in Lenhoff and Kleimola, Moskovskaia Rus´, 450–74. 43

  Akty istoricheskie sobrannye i izdannye Arkheograficheskoi komissiei, 5 vols. [hereafter, AI] (St. Petersburg: Tip. 2. Otd. Sobstvennoi E.I.B. kantseliarii, 1841–42), 1.5: 7–9; Russkaia istoricheskaia biblioteka, 39 vols. (St. Petersburg: V. I. Golovina, 1872–1927), 6: 205–10; German translation in Lilienfeld, Nil Sorskij, 277–90.

44

  Dimitri Obolensky, “A Philhormaios Anthropos: Metropolitan Cyprian of Kiev and All Russia (1375–1406),” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 32 (1978): 81–82. We are certain only that Kiprian visited Athos. 45   AI 1.10: 19; 26: 52–55. David B. Miller, “The Velikie Minei Cheti and the Stepennaia Kniga of Metropolitan Makarii and the Origins of Russian National Consciousness,” Forschungen zur osteuropäischen Geschichte 26 (1979): 290; and Lilienfeld, Nil Sorskij, 290–95. Fotii further noted that the founder had not written a rule.

80 David Goldfrank

starchestvu (cell rule typikon),46 outline behavior in the church refectory and cells; the table regulation and strict adherence to common meals and common property, with treasury issue of simple clothing and receipt of profits of handicrafts; serious attentiveness to community labor; abbatial control over correspondence and individual ascetic regimens; and a real innovation—the prohibition of intoxicating beverages.47 The few hortatory clips indicate that sermonizing accompanied these regulations.48 The Kirillov fragments have a hesychastic moment in the insistence that there be no disturbance of the time dedicated to prayer (molitvovati) after the main meal, but nothing particularly Evergetian, unless the use of dokhia or ksenodakhia for the depository was an allusion to a functioning hospice.49 On the other hand, Kirillov ended up with the reputation in the 1470s as the only Russian monastery which maintained the common life,50 and around 1550 one of the two which observed equality among the monks.51 Kirill may never have composed a formal rule at all—what we have being instead the invention of Pakhomii around 1460, which is the start of what I see as the second phase of Russian coenobitic reform. This period, stretching from the 1460s into the early 1500s, was the most dynamic and creative time of Muscovite monastic legislation, when not only two outstanding coenobiarchs, Evfrosin of Pskov (d. 1479) and Iosif Volotskii (1439/40–1515), articulated the communal life in fresh ways, but also Russia’s “great elder” Nil Sorskii (1433–1508) taught hesychasm by means of his example and his original, spiritual Typikon (ustav). Nil’s brief Tradition (predanie) or rule, composed for his kelliotic hermitage, which was a filial of Kirillov, hearkens back in part to the coenobite Nikon of the Black Mountain (1025–1100s), one of Timo46

  A sixteenth-century Kirillov starchestvo (gerontikon) contains, besides the Kirillov cell rule (also those of the Nil Sorskii Hermitage and Iosifov), regulations for the communal aspects of the monastery, including several of the stipulations noted by Pakhomii: Kniga glagolaema Starchestvo. See M. E. Saltykov-Shchedrin State Public Library, St. Petersburg, Kirillov-Belozerskii Collection, Codex No. 721/1198, 5–7.

47

  V. Iablonskii, Pakhomii Serb i ego agiograficheskie pisaniia: Biograficheskii i bibliograficheski-literaturnyi ocherk (St. Petersburg, 1908; reprint of the appendix, Munich: Eidos, 1963), prilozhenie, 22–24.

48

  See below, n. 100.

49

  Perhaps the early fourteenth-century (extra-Evergetian) Byzantine prohibition of drinking parties, itself prefigured in Evergetis and his family of typika, can be seen as a foreshadowing of the stricter Russian provision. See Evergetis 9: 480; Athanasios I 4: 1501 (no sworn associations or drinking parties); Kellibara II: Typikon of Andronikos I Palaiologos for the Monastery of St. Demetrios-Killibara in Constantinople (1315?–28) 3 (no drinking bouts), trans. and ed. George Dennis, BMFD, 1508. 50

  Savva Chernyi, “Zhitie i prebyvanie v krattse prepodobnogo ottsa nashego igumena Iosifa, grada Volokolamskogo,” Velikie Minei chetii, sobrannye vserossiiskim Mitropolitom Makariem (St. Petersburg: Arkheograficheskaia kommissiia, 1868–1917), 462–65. 51

  G. Z. Kuntsevich, Chelobitnia inokov Tsariu Ivanu Vasil´evichu (Petrograd: Tip. M. A. Aleksandrova, 1916).

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thy of Evergetis’s younger contemporaries. Nil’s Tradition junctures with Evergetis in requiring that the hungry be fed, but more with the Athonite than the Evergetian legacy in demanding confession to one’s superior.52 Otherwise, neither Nil’s Tradition nor the derivative, brief Testament (zavet) of his disciple, the coenobiarch Innokentii Okhlebinin (d. 1491), lies within the Evergetian tradition.53 Like Kirill, however, Innokentii forbade intoxicating beverages. A sense that the Evergetian reform tradition was having some impact on Russia by 1461 is evident in the thirty-chapter typikon Rule which Evfrosin of Pskov composed for his rural Elizarov Monastery around that year.54 Somewhat derivative of Bishop Dionisii’s statutory missive, Evfrosin’s rule is the strictest of the entire period. It has numerous junctures with Timothy’s rule, such as the brief story of the founding of the cloister in the beginning, demands that it be independent, discussion of the qualities required of the abbot and of the oikonomos, a provision allowing the sick to bathe,55 protection of the monastery’s property, institutional charity, and no requirement of an entry offering or grant of privileges to those who make one freely. It would also seem as if Evfrosin implicitly intends some of the other, even more specifically Evergetian stipulations – at least material equality in light of the common table and wardrobe, as well as shared governance and prohibition of personal servants. If so, then Evfrosin can be considered the closest Russian embodiment of Evergetian traditions. His Eliazarov Monastery, it should be noted, was the home of the elder Filofei, who around 1523–24, according to the best recent scholarship, articulated the famous, and often misinterpreted “Third Rome” doctrine.56

52   Nil’s hermitage rule (Tradition) and spiritual Typikon are found in Nila Sorskogo Predanie i Ustav, ed. M. C. Borovkova-Maikova, Pamiatniki drevnei pis´mennosti i iskusstva 179 (St. Petersburg: Tip. M. A. Aleksandrova, 1912); German trans. in Lilienfeld, Nil Sorskij und Seine Schriften, 193–255; French trans. in Saint Nil Sorsky (1433–1508): La Vie, les écrits, le skite d’un starets de Trans-Volga, trans. and ed. Sr. Sophia M. Jacamon, OSB, Spiritualité et vie monastique 32 (Bégrolles-en-Mauges: Abbaye de Bellefontaine, 1980). For the dependence of Nil’s Predanie upon Nikon, see the foreword to Taktikon … Nikon Chernogortsa (Pochaev, 1795), 7–11; Borovkova-Maikova, Nila Sorskogo Predanie i Ustav, 1–5. Since Nil and the hermitage superior in general were not priests, this kind of confession was of a different sort from what Timothy demanded. 53

  For Innokentii’s testament, see Arkhangel´skii, Nil Sorskii i Vassian Patrikeev I, prilozhenie, 14–16.

54   M. Serebrianskii, Ocherki po istorii monastyrskoi zhizni v Pskovskoi zemle (Moscow: Izdatel´stvo Imperatorskogo Obshchestva istorii i drevnostei rossiiskikh pri Moskovskom universitete, 1908), 508–26; German trans. in Lilienfeld, Nil Sorskij, 295–313. 55

  Evergetis and most of its progeny also allowed the healthy to bathe a few times a year, while Evfrosin would not. 56

  A. L. Gol´dberg, “Tri ‘poslaniia’ Filofeia: Opyt tekstologicheskogo analiza,” TODRL 37 (1976): 139–49; N. V. Sinitsyna, Tretii Rim: Istoki i evoliutsiia russkoi srednevekovoi kontseptsii (Moscow: Indrik, 1998); and Donald Ostrowski, Muscovy and the Mongols: Cross Cul-

82 David Goldfrank

With Iosif Volotskii, the Evergetian reform tradition finally found a nearly full Russian expression. Iosif, as has been understood for over a century, was masterful at incorporating in his own way the works of his authorities, and we find that his fullblown testamentary rule is dependent upon writings by, attributed to, about, or in the Desert Fathers, Basil of Caesarea, John Chrysostom, John Climacus, the liturgical Sabaite or Jerusalem Typikon, Theodore Studite, Athanasius of Athos, Symeon the New Theologian, and Nikon of the Black Mountain.57 A source for many of Iosif’s other sources, Nikon of the Black Mountain is especially important for our analysis, because his works combined the florilegia model of Paul Evergetinos and the stricter typikon tradition, which Timothy adopted.58 Hence one could argue that from the literary or rhetorical standpoint, Evergetis, or at least the movement it represented, influenced Iosif via the mediation of Nikon. Iosif’s Extended Rule has numerous junctures with Timothy’s, especially regarding the refectory, but also includes all of the specifically Evergetian principles— material equality, regular confession, public reading of the rule (in an accessible, abbreviated form),59 prohibition of personal servants, and cogovernance—as well as such characteristic ones as concern for the quality of officials, protection of the monastery’s property, memorial services, and institutional charity.60 In fact, the only Evergetian principles not covered by Iosif at all are the specifics of enrollment and

tural Influences on the Steppe Frontier, 1304–1589 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 219–43. 57

˜David Goldfrank, ed. and trans., The Monastic Rule of Iosif Volotsky, rev. ed., Cistercian Studies, no. 36 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2000), 61–70. The revised edition differs significantly in commentary, notes, bibliography, and in having the full text of Iosif’s Brief Rule. One could add as well the example and traditions of the Kirillov Monastery as Iosif experienced them.

58  Nikon’s Pandekty is an extensive sixty-three-chapter florilegium and compilation of canon law and moralia; his forty-chapter Taktikon is a combination of typika, missives, and florilegium-sermons; Nikon of the Black Mountain (Nikon ho Mauroeites; Nicon Monachus, of Raithos Monastery on the Black Mountain near Antioch), Pandekty … Nikona Chernogortsa (Church Slavic trans., Spaso-Prilutskii pod Vologdoi, 1670; repr., Pochaev, 1795), Table of Contents in PG 106: 1359–82; Taktikon … Nikona Chernogortsa (Church Slavic trans., Pochaev, 1795); original Greek, to Discourse 4: Taktikon Nikona Chernogortsa, ed. V. N. Beneshevich (Petrograd: Tip. V. Kirshbauma, 1917); trans. of Discourses 1–2, Robert Allison, BMFD, 377–439. 59

  Slovo XII more or less repeats the stipulations of the first nine discourses, without the sermons, condensed to fifty-three regulations. Iosif also created a model individualized mini-rule in the form of a missive to an incoming monk. See Ia. S. Lur´e and A. A. Zimin, Poslaniia Iosifa Volotskogo (Moscow: Nauka, 1959), 286–88.

60

  See Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, II.6–7, 10–12; I.II.15, 18; IV.2; IX.8–9; XII.9, 12; XIII.i.22; XIII.ii.5, 9; XIII.ix.2, 6; XIV.14. These and such subsequent notations refer to the division of chapters or discourses into sections by the editor.

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the novitiate, bathing, inspection of cells, property management, and investiture of officials, and these are virtually implied.61 Iosif’s Rule also has several interesting post-Evergetis features, representing logical developments of Timothy’s principles. One of them, found in the typikon of an original first-generation Evergetian, the Rule of John of Phoberos, allows for the superior to sanction deviations from the sumptuary regimen in the direction of stricter asceticism62 —something inherent, I would argue, in the foregrounding of the example of the extreme ascetics in the florilegia. Iosif regularized such regimens with three ustroeniia (orders). This measure, curiously, was similar, but the reverse of what Timothy’s contemporary, the more lenient soldier-coenobiarch, Gregory Pakourianos (d. 1086), whose typikon (1083) also enjoined equality of foods, but established three orders, with the more prestigious monks obtaining the higher clothing allowances.63 In the middle of the twelfth century, another Evergetian typikon, that of Athanasios Philanthropenos for St. Mamas, added “especially after compline” to the original’s strictures against monks’ gathering for idle talk.64 Iosif’s rule, unlike any this historian has seen, devoted an entire if brief chapter to silence after compline,65 but his theme is foreshadowed by the early fourteenth-century Evergetian testament-rule of Joachim of Zichna for Prodromos-Menoikeion.66 Early in the thirteenth century, Bishop Neilos of Tamasia adapted the monastic penitential attributed to Basil of Caesarea for a dozen or so transgressions,67 as did his textually non-Evergetian Cypriot

61

  Iosif discusses how in the first, building stage of his monastery, he and his companions would accept almost anyone (XIII.52). His checking on monks who miss liturgies (XIII.i.10–11) and the formula, “if they seize drinks in somebody’s cell” (XIV.26, also XIII.v.10) assumes some inspections. His injunctions to officials not to speculate (III.22), and his mention of the stewards, bailiffs, and supervisors of stables, mills, tailors, brewery, and villages (IX.12, XIII.v.13, XIII.ix.3, 9–13), as well as his concern for the synodikon and memorial services (XIII.i.22), assumes property management. On the other hand, his supervised trips outside the cloister for refreshing or to the nearby pond for drawing water and washing clothing (XIII.v.3, 11) may imply a general prohibition of bathing. 62

  Phoberos 5, BMFD, 889; and Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, II.28.

63

  Pakourianos: Typikon of Gregory Pakourianos for the Monastery of the Mother of God Petritzonitissa Baãkovo, BMFD, 507–08, 9: 535. Founded as a Georgian-Armenian monastery south of Philippopolis (Plovdiv), this cloister was solidly Bulgarian and culturally active by the mid-fourteenth century and could have influenced Russia via Metropolitan Kiprian (r. 1375–89 in Lithuanian Rus´; 1382, 1389–1408 in all Rus´). The surviving sixteenth-century copy of the typikon is in both Georgian and Greek. 64

  Mamas 35: 1018; it was repeated in 1332 the Evergetian Menoikeion 17: 1602.

65

 Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, VIB/IV.

66

  Menoikeion 22: 1606–07.

67

  Machairas 121–34: 1157–58.

84 David Goldfrank

contemporary, Neophytos.68 Iosif’s rule ends with a much more extensive and systematic list of penances, which was derived from both Basil and Theodore Studite.69 One of the most important post-Evergetian elaborations that Iosif applied concerned commemorations. Irina Doukaina Komnena’s first-generation Evergetian typikon contains a mini-commemorative synodikon for nuns and benefactors.70 Athanasios Philanthopenos adapted his own more modest memorial provision from Irina’s.71 Neilos of Tamasia repeated the original Evergetis stipulations, preceded by a place for the list of property donors to be commemorated.72 Iosif, like Neilos, stipulates the commemorations only briefly, but referred to his separate Synodikon.73 This was no happenstance, since Iosif’s monastery was a pioneering institution in rationalizing Russian commemoration practices in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries.74 Given the central role of memorial services in the spiritual, material, and charitable life of monasteries, it should come as no surprise that Byzantine rules outside of the Evergetian tradition also had such provisions. Two examples are the Testament of Neilos to the small John Prodromos Monastery on Mt. Athos75 or the Testament of Patriarch Matthew I (r. 1397-1410) for John Charsianeites Monastery of Theotokos Nea Peribleptos in Constantinople (1407).76 But the most extensive of all the published Byzantine treatments of commemorations was that of the imperial niece, Theodora Synadene for the Convent of Theotokos Bebaia Elpis (1327–35), with appended

68

  Neophytos, Testamentary Rule of Neophytos of Cyprus for the Hermitage of the Holy Cross near Ktima in Cyprus [1214], trans. and ed. Catia Galatariotou, BMFD, 1367–68. On the basis of content, however, John Thomas considers Neophytos Evergetian (“Documentary Evidence,” 273). 69

 Goldfrank, Iosif … Rule, Slovo XIV, in nine sections, which correspond almost exactly to his Slovo XII—his “Rule in Brief,” a modified epitome of the provisions of his first nine discourses. 70 71

  Kecharitome 70–71: 699–702; also see Steindorff, Memoria, 125–26.

  Mamas 39–40: 1020–22.

72

  Machairas 155–57: 1163; also see, 22–25: 1131. The list on the manuscript, which is the hegemon’s autograph, is empty. 73

 Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, XIII.i.22, 277.

74

 Steindorff, Memoria, 164–236; also “Commemorations and Administrative Techniques in Muscovite Monasteries,” Russian History/Histoire russe 22, 4 (1995): 433–54.

75

  Prodromos: Testament of Neilo, for the Monastery of St. John the Forerunner (Prodromos) on Mount Athos (1330–31) 9, trans. and ed. Stephen Reinert, BMFD, 1392–93.

76

  Charsianeites: Testament of Patriarch Matthew I for the Monastery of Charsianeites Dedicated to the Mother of God Nea Peribleptos (1407) C 13, 15, trans. and ed. Alice-Mary Talbot, BMFD, 1659–60.

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details of major donations and earmarked services.77 This might be an example of a hypothetical Byzantine prototype for Russian commemoration books, while a more direct ancestor could be the Serbian pomenici.78 Russia’s connections to Athos and specifically to Hilandar may have been important in this regard. Some coenobitic principles not specific to Evergetis, but found in Iosif’s rule, evolved in late Byzantium outside of the Evergetian family of typika. Makarios Chumnos of Thessalonike urged moderation and gradualism in training novices (before 1374).79 The model typikon of Emperor Manuel II (r. 1391–1425) to the Athonite monasteries allowed for personal possessions with the permission of the superior, a practical deviation from the strictest coenobitic traditions,80 but one which Iosifov monks early on considered a customary right regarding books and icons.81 The greatest of such developments is found in Theodora of Synadene’s typikon, where she insisted that nothing be overlooked in safeguarding the service order and elaborated extensively on confession and the superior’s responsibilities.82 An additional post-Evergetian development in non-Evergetian rules was the monastic council, which institutionalized cogovernance. Manuel II’s model typikon for Athos stipulated that fifteen bouleutai (councilors), along with preeminent attached monks residing outside the cloister, select the superior.83 This was surely representa77

  Bebaia Elpis: Typikon of Theodora/Theodule Synadene for the Convent of the Mother of God Bebaia Elpis in Constantinople [1327–35] XXII, appendix, trans. and ed. Alice-Mary Talbot, BMFD, 1555–68; cf. Steindorff, Memoria, 128. 78  Steindorff, Memoria, 132–35; see also Stojan Novakoviç, “Srpski pomenici XV–XVIII veka,” Glasnik srpskog učenog društva 42 (1875): 1–152; “Pshinski pomenik,” Spomenik 29 (1895): 1–20. 79

  Chumnos, Rule and Testament of Makarios Chumnos for the Nea Mone of the Mother of God in Thessalonike (shortly before 1314) 9, trans. and ed. Alice-Mary Talbot, BMFD, 1448; see also, Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, XIII.52. 80

  Manuel II: Typikon of Manuel II Palaiologos for the Monasteries of Mount Athos [1406] 2, trans. and ed. George Dennis, BMFD, 1618–19; cf. Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, III.21, but also V B, which earlier rejected any ownership whatsoever in a classical fashion. 81

  V. O. Zhmakin, Mitropolit Daniil i ego sochineniia (Moscow: Obshchestvo istorii i drevnostei rossiiskikh, 1881); repr., Chteniia v Imperatorskom Obshchestve istorii i drevnostei rossiiskikh (Moscow: Moskovskii universitet, 1846–81), 1881, 1.2, prilozheniia, 19: 55–57. 82

  Bebaia Elpis IV, VI, VIII–IX, XX: 1531–33, 1537–41, 1553–54; cf. Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, I: 19, IV, XI. As Iosif did later, she also made unattributed use of John Chrysostom in her sermonizing on the community church services.

83

  Manuel II: Typikon of Manuel II Palaiologos for the Monasteries of Mount Athos 3, trans. and ed. George Dennis, BMFD, 1619. See also Sinitsyna, “Poslanie Maksima Greka,” 132. How the Athonite monastic council arose, and whether it may have been connected to the separate status of elite choir monks lies outside the purview of this study. Of the known choir nuns, those of Bebaia Elpis (VIII) seem only to have chanted, while twelve of those of the imperial Lips Convent in the capital would accompany the new superior to the emperor for her ordination. See Lips: Typikon of Theodora Palaiologina for the Convent of Lips in Constanti-

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tive of the model for the fifteen major Kirillov brothers, whose temporary departure from the monastery in 1483–84 forced a change of leadership,84 and for the (twelve) sobornye startsy (council brothers),85 who figured so heavily in Iosif’s rule.86 Even here, such an arrangement, “as a seal to the testament,” and its justification is found in the Evergetian Joachim of Zichna’s appointment of four model brothers to be advisors and co-judges with the superior of the monastery’s officials.87 It could hardly have been an accident that Iosifov, the Russian monastery which had by far the most extensive rule and innovative administrative thinking in the early sixteenth century, was also the most successful culturally, ideologically, and politically towards the end of the founder’s life and for the next half century. Iosifov trainees dominated the episcopacy, curbed rival reformers and dissenters, helped forge imperial ritual, ideology, and expansion policies, and even created the dominant grand narrative of Russian history.88 As for the developed Evergetian aspects of the Iosifov rule, sumptuary egalitarianism must have been good for morale as well as reputation, the reading of the abbreviated rule and regular confession useful for character development as well as control, focus on the administrative elite excellent for training bishops, and systematized commemorations a boon for finances. If the second phase of Muscovite coenobitic reform saw Evfrosin expand on the legacy of Bishop Dionisii, and Iosif on that of Kirill of Beloozero, the third phase, from roughly 1515–60, carried on from the second. Soon after the learned Maksim Grek arrived from Athos (Vatopedi) in 1517, he composed a missive to Grand Prince Vasilii III outlining Athonite coenobitic practices and emphasized three characteristically Evergetine traits, which combine what a fusion of Evfrosin’s and Iosif’s rules would yield: material equality, cogovernance, and avoidance of required entry nople (1294–1301) 7, trans. and ed. Alice-Mary Talbot, BMFD, 1267. Fifteen of the thirty-six brothers of the Kellibara Monastery were choir monks. See Kellibara I: Typikon of Michael VIII Palaiologos for the Monastery of St. Demetrios of Palaiologoi-Kellibara in Constantinople (1282) 17–18, trans. and ed. George Dennis, BMFD, 1250–52. 84

  Ia. S. Lur´e, Ideologicheskaia bor´ba v russkoi publitsistike kontsa XV–nachala XVI veka (Moscow: Nauka, 1960), 57.

85

  Sobor means both a major church (katholikon) and a council/synod/assembly.

86

  XIII–XIV (including the “Traditions”) over a third of Iosif’s Extended Rule is directed specifically to the “council elders and monastery officials.” Inspired by the exile of the Kirillov elders, but modeling on the Apostles and information from the vitae of Theodore Studite and Athanasios of Athos, Iosif fetishized the number twelve for his council (X.16, XIII.42–47). 87

  Menoikeion 22.1607–08; cf. Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, XIII.12–14, 44, 46; 256 n. 19 missed the analogy to Joachim. 88

  A. A. Zimin, I. S. Peresvetov i ego sovremenniki (Moscow: Izdatel´stvo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1958), 71–108; Krupnaia feodal´naia votchina i sotsial´no-politicheskaia bor´ba v Rossii (konets XV–XVI v.) (Moscow: Nauka, 1977), 233–80; B. M. Kloss, Nikonovskii svod i russkie letopisi XVI–XVII vekov (Moscow: Nauka, 1980), 55–133; and D. S. Likhachev et al., Knizhnye tsentry drevnei Rusi: Iosifo-Volokolamskii monastyr´ (Leningrad: Nauka, 1991), 3–15.

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gifts.89 Indeed, Evfrosin’s and Iosif’s rules were recognized officially as models, by the enterprising Makarii (b. 1481/1482), who was trained in the same monastery as Iosif had been. As archbishop of Novgorod (1526–42) and metropolitan of Moscow (1543–63), Makarii organized the compilation and promulgation of the Great Menologium, which added some native works to the vast translated corpus and included both Evfrosin’s and Iosif’s rules.90 Iosif’s rule also inspired some of the fresh coenobitic legislation of this period, but it is here that the analogy with Evergetis ends. For if Timothy’s typikon was the start of a Byzantine tradition that was later expanded, Iosif’s was the Russian summit: no subsequent rule was nearly so extensive or elaborate. To my knowledge, five or six rules or their equivalents survive from this period, two created by founders, the other four by prelates. One of the latter, a metropolitan’s formula, may stem from about 1500.91 Two others are Makarii’s rule for Novgorod’s small Dukhov (Holy Spirit) Monastery, issued during 1526–30, in the early years of his archepiscopacy,92 and the missive-rule to St. Nicholas in Volosovo near Vladimir by Metropolitan Daniil (r. 1521–39).93 The two founders’ testamentary rules came from outlying provinces: Kornilii Komel´skii’s more extensive one of 1535 from the dense Vologda forests,94 and Gerasim Boldinskii’s of 1543 from near Dorogobuzh along the watershed route between Smolensk and central Russia.95 Finally, the Stoglav or Hundred Chapters Synod of 1551 in Moscow under Makarii, now the metropolitan, issued some coenobitic ordinances.96 All four of these figures were linked to Iosif in some way or other. Makarii (1481/82–1563) came from Pafnutiev Monastery, where Iosif had been trained; so did the mentor of Gerasim (1489–1554), Daniil of Pereiaslavl (ca. 1460–1540).97 Metropolitan Daniil (d. 1547) had been Iosif’s successor abbot and active in the Iosifov scriptorium. Kornilii (1455–1535) commenced his career in Kirillov (which Iosif had personally visited before he founded his monastery), served 89

  Sinitsyna, “Poslanie Maksima Greka,” 232–35. Maksim also emphasized the Sabaite-Jerusalem liturgical typikon, labor, and the officials, which hearken back to the pre-Evergetian Studite-Athonite traditions. 90 91

  Miller, “Velikie Minei Cheti,” 268–313, especially 289.

  AAE I, no. 381, 482–84.

92

  AI 1, 531–34 (no. 292). In 1528, Makarii forced a coenobitic reform on a slew of Novgorodian cloisters. See PSRL 6: 284–85.

93

 Zhmakin, Daniil, supplement XII, 39–44.

94

  “Kornilii Komel´skii, II. Ustav ili pravila,” ed. Amvrosii, bishop of Saratov and Penza, in Istoriia Rossiiskoi ierarkhii, 5 vols. (Moscow: Sinod, 1807–22), 4 (1812): 661–704. 95

  E. V. Krushel´nitskaia, “Zaveshchanie-ustav Gerasima Boldinskogo,” TODRL 48 (1983): 264–70.

96

  E. B. Emchenko, ed, Stoglav: Issledovanie i tekst (Moscow: Indrik, 2000), 49–50: 328–38, 52: 339–43. 97

 Budovnits, Monastyri, 336–37, 342, 347.

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as an assistant to Iosif’s political and ideological ally with the church, Archbishop Gennadii of Novgorod (r. 1484–1504), and spent time near another of Iosif’s favorite model cloisters, the Tver´-Savvateev Hermitage.98 Kornilii’s rule and the Stoglav stipulations are somewhat textually dependent upon Iosif’s, Kornilii’s also upon Nil Sorskii’s regulatory Tradition.99 The common, developed Evergetian feature of all of these regulatory pieces is the cogoverning council or its equivalent,100 along with the general coenobitic insistence on communal property and the common table. None of them have regular confession to the superior (or his designee)101 or public reading of the rule, the latter, evidently, not catching on in Russia. Gerasim’s and Kornilii’s rules and Stoglav, on the other hand, stipulate equality, which indicates that this Kirillov-Evergetian measure not only attracted reforming founders, but also by midcentury had captured the attention of the official church. Gerasim, Kornilii, and Stoglav also prohibited strong drinks, as did several other coenobiarchs,102 pursuing a peculiar, national mode of reform, based on the practical reasoning, right or wrong, that Russians could not drink in moderation.103 98

  Ibid., 280–82; and Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, X.27–28.

99

  Taktikon … Nikona Chernogortsa, foreword, 7–11; Nila Sorskogo Predanie i Ustav, 1–4; Kornilii Komel´skii II, 662–65; see above n. 52. Kamilii, however, made an interesting change from Nikon’s text, which Nil had reproduced. Where Nikon and Nil claim that “not wishing to be superior, I sent away many who came to me,” Kornilii wrote, “not wishing to be superior, I accepted all who came to me.”

100

  Kornilii has “model” (voobrazhennye) brothers, and his vita relates that during an extended absence he entrusted his cloister to twelve monks. Gerasim has Iosif’s twelve council elders. Dukhov only had twelve monks, of whom two or three were supposed to be council brothers.

101

  However, Daniil or his scribe-collaborator Foma Shmoilov did insist on regular confession in a sermon in an unofficial fourteen-slovo treatise on monastic life, Volokolamsk Sbornik (no. 526) (structurally, a companion to Iosif’s Extended Rule, with an elaboration on the inner aspects of the monk’s life and discussion of several issues, such as the novitiate, not discussed by Iosif). For a description, see Zhmakin, Daniil, 750–51; and Ieromonakh Iosif, Opis´ rukopisei perenesennykh iz biblioteki Iosifova monastyria v biblioteku Moskovskoi dukhovnoi Akademii (Moscow: Obshchestvo istorii i drevnostei rossiiskikh, 1882; also in Chteniia, no. 3 [1883]), 177–78; for Foma Shmuilov, see Kloss, Nikonovskii svod, 81–82. The absence of such a basic Orthodox Christian obligation as confession may be explained as its having been understood. 102

  Makarii’s coenobitic reform affected the foundation of Aleksandr Svirskii (1448–1533), near Lake Onega, whose brief testament, textually based on Kirill’s, prohibited strong drinks. The vita of his junior contemporary from the north, Antonii Siiskii (d. 1556), repeats the fragments of Kirill’s rule, from Pakhomii. See AI 1.135: 195–96; Budovnits, Monastyri, 322–29, 270–77. 103

  Pakhomii’s rendition of Kirill’s stipulation indicates part of the basic text that Iosif used: “He banned from the monastery mead, all other intoxicating beverages, and thus with this typikon cut off the serpent’s head of drunkenness.” Iosif’s sermon, possibly taken from John

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Gerasim himself founded four coenobia, and five of Kornilii’s disciples established their own communal abbeys.104 The Stoglav synod, however, represented the last textual chapter of this coenobitic reform movement, whose base had chiefly been monasteries with wider cultural, theological, and political significance, from the time of the learned Cappodocian father Basil of Caesarea, through the anti-Iconoclastic Theodore Studite, the florilegia-compiling Theotokos Evergetis, multinational and autonomous Athos, its Russian quasi-imitator Kirillov, and militantly super-Orthodox Iosifov. The exceptions in Stoglav, allowing European wines and other comforts to visitors to shrines and elite retirees using cloisters as retirement homes,105 are indicative of the practical considerations that compromise ideal strict standards anywhere at any time. Like Gerasim, Stoglav allowed the well-off certain liberties, while it protected equality for everyone else. In the second half of the sixteenth century, the center of Russian culture shifted dynamically to the court and the capital, and in the seventeenth century Western-influenced learning became decisive.106 In the fight of a few of the cloisters for traditions and the autonomy to preserve them, ritual was the chief religious issue. The last Evergetian principle to make a stand in Russia was thus monastic independence under the cogovernance of the superior and council brothers, and with the support of not only monks, but also affiliated laity. When, in 1676, after eight years of lackadaisical siege and futile negotiations, the Solovki rebellion was crushed by the modest government military force, snuck through a secret entrance in the fortress-cloister walls by a turncoat, the Evergetian motif in Russian coenobitic reform had, to all intents and purposes, played itself out. The older, liturgically oriented impulse of the Sabaite-Studite reform still remained potent in Russian, not only within the monasteries, but also among the laity, and more so schismatics. Such an orientation, despite all kinds of specific changes in verbal and musical modality, remained a hallmark of the Russian Church and is again today having a revival. That, however, is an altogether different story.

Chrysostom, and repeated in Stoglav, includes: “let him who would be free … abhor drunkenness and thus cut off the serpent’s head and crush his entire body.” See Pakhomii Serb, prilozhenie 24; Goldfrank, Rule … Iosif, IX B.5/VII.5; Stoglav, 52: 174–77. 104 105

 Budovnits, Monastyri, 293–306, 345–46.

  Stoglav, 52: 178.

106

  See Paul Bushkovitch’s interesting comments on the waning of monastic prestige and the eventual rise of the sermon in elite Russian life after the middle of the sixteenth century in Religion and Society in Russia: The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992).

The Petrine Church Reform Revisited James Cracraft

In the fall of 1996 Theofanis Stavrou, our most worthy honorand, arranged for me to speak in two quite different forums at the University of Minnesota. The first was a gathering of the History Department to hear a talk about research in progress, the second, an audience assembled to hear the second annual James W. Cunningham Memorial Lecture on Eastern Orthodoxy and Culture. For both occasions Professor Stavrou suggested that I somehow address this question about Peter the Great’s church reform in Russia, on which I had published a book some twenty-five years before:1 did the reform look any different now, with the passage of time and in the light of my continuing research, than it did back then, when the book was published? It was somewhat troubling to discover that I did have something to say, or admit, on the subject, and I remain grateful to Theo for irresistibly (as usual!) urging me on. In the world of the 1960s, when that book was researched and written, the churches were manifestly in decline and religion was on the wane, nowhere more so, as it also seemed at the time, than in Russia, where the brutal imposition of Communist rule had only sharpened and hastened the process. That process, which in 1971 I dubbed “secularization” and viewed as a universal movement in modern history, was in Russia irresistibly set in motion, I further posited, by the church reform of Peter the Great. Indeed, of all the achievements of Peter’s reign his church reform constituted the most decisive break with the past. The abolition of the patriarchate, an institution of great prestige and economic, social, and political importance—an institution that potentially was, therefore, a focus of opposition to the ever more exigent, impersonal, secularized, absolute state—destroyed the age-old autonomy of the Russian Church and left the emperor with no possible rival for his subjects’ loyalty. It left them with no independent court of appeal, no alternative source of justice, no hope of escape from the tsar’s power. The simultaneous creation of the Holy Synod, a governing committee of the tsar’s appointees, provided the means whereby the administrative apparatus of the church was incorporated in, indeed swallowed up by, the much larger bureaucracy of the 1

  James Cracraft, The Church Reform of Peter the Great (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1971).

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 91–100.

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state, a virtual absorption of the church by the state which for all intents and purposes was completed by the time of Peter’s death. And this state-church regime imposed by Peter, which prevailed in Russia until 1918, worked to the severe detriment, I said or implied in my book, of both church and people.2 That was then. In the world of the mid-1990s, as I struggled to respond to Professor Stavrou’s question, Communist rule in Russia had collapsed, an event that was accompanied and even in part precipitated by a revival of the Russian Orthodox Church, which in 1988 had rather grandly celebrated its one-thousandth anniversary and was again claiming a special place in society.3 Elsewhere in the once-Communist lands, most notably in Poland and East Germany, the churches had obviously played a major part in ending Communist rule. Was history reversing itself? Or was my earlier assertion of inevitable secularization in the modern world, an assertion that was amply supported by Marxist and other modernization theories,4 somewhat overdrawn? And if Peter’s church reform did not in fact inaugurate the long-term secularization of Russian society, what was its larger historical significance? In my informal remarks to the group of historians and more, in my published Cunningham lecture,5 I suggested that if my account of the Petrine church reform was still factually sound (and confirmed as such by the leading Russian historian of the period, E. V. Anisimov), there certainly was room for debate about the reform’s longer-term consequences. Here I would like to expand on those remarks, and in this way offer some small tribute to a scholar who has done so much over the last four decades to promote Greek, Russian, and Orthodox studies in this country and abroad. I might begin by emphasizing the distinction that needs to be drawn between the larger psycho-cultural phenomenon of religion and the specifically institutional reality of the church. Ninian Smart, a leading historian of religion in the modern world, decisively refutes the “thesis of increasing secularization” and proposes that we approach the subject by looking at religion’s seven different “aspects or dimensions”: the practical and ritual; the experiential and emotional; the narrative or mythic; the doctrinal and philosophical; the ethical and legal; the social and institutional; and

2

  Ibid., vii–viii, 306–07.

3

  See also Michael Bourdeaux, Gorbachev, Glasnost and the Gospel (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1990); Nicolai N. Petro, ed., Christianity and Russian Culture in Soviet Society (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1990); Niels C. Nielsen, ed., Christianity after Communism: Social, Political, and Cultural Struggle in Russia (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1994); Jane Ellis, The Russian Orthodox Church: Triumphalism and Defensiveness (London: Macmillan, 1996); and K. Kääriäinen, Religion in Russia after the Collapse of Communism (Lewiston, ME: Edwin Mellen Press, 1998). 4

  E.g., David Martin, A General Theory of Secularization (Oxford: Blackwell, 1978).

5

  James Cracraft, “Church and Revolution in Russia,” Modern Greek Studies Yearbook 12/13 (1996–97): 21–34.

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the material (buildings, works of visual art, holy books, etc.).6 We notice at once the relatively low level, or confined space, that the “social and institutional” dimensions of religion along with the “material” occupy in this deliberately capacious scheme; for often it is not, as Professor Smart has found, the organized church–“the formal officials of a religion”–who “turn out to be the most important persons in a tradition” but instead “charismatic or sacred personages … saintly people, gurus, mystics and prophets,” or “revolutionaries [who] set religion on new courses.”7 In the case before us, it was the institutional church of Russia that Peter I “reformed” by replacing the office of patriarch with a clerical board or “Holy Governing Synod,” not Russian Orthodoxy as such; and he did so, I would now also emphasize, at least partly for religious reasons. This much is attested by a close reading of the working draft of the Ecclesiastical Regulation (Dukhovnyi reglament) of 1721, the principal legislative act embodying Peter’s church reform.8 The draft was written at his behest by Bishop Feofan Prokopovich, the learned Ukrainian divine whose formative years in Kiev and abroad, in Poland, Rome, and various of the German lands, I have discussed elsewhere, also at Professor Stavrou’s urging.9 Peter went over Prokopovich’s draft on 11 February 1720, annotating or amending it at various points, whereupon a final draft was prepared for the formal approval later that month of a group of senators and senior clergy called to St. Petersburg for this purpose. There can be no doubt that the immediate aim of the Ecclesiastical Regulation and related documents, as duly promulgated in January 1721, was to extend the collegial principle of administration, which Peter was busily applying to the whole of his central government, to the administration of the church, and thereby to complete his bureaucratization of the Russian state along contemporary European (Swedish, German, cameralist) lines. Nor can there be any doubt that in so doing Peter was deliberately asserting a new notion—new in Russia—of monarchical absolutism, one that was also contemporary European in inspiration (Sweden again, Prussia, France) and one that Prokopovich had helped him define in these very same documents as well as in other published texts. But the explicit goal of this 6

 See Ninian Smart, The World’s Religions: Old Traditions and Modern Transformations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 12–21; and further, Smart, Dimensions of the Sacred: The Anatomy of the World’s Beliefs (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 267–73, for his critique of secularization theory.

7

 Smart, The World’s Religions, 19.

8

  P. V. Verkhovskoi, Uchrezhdenie Dukhovnoi Kollegii i Dukhovnyi reglament, 2 vols. (Rostov-on-Don: Tip. V. F. Kirshbauma, 1916). See vol. 2, Materialy, pt. 1, nos. 1–4 (3–105), for Verkhovskoi’s critical edition of the Dukhovnyi reglament and closely related documents based on the original manuscripts.

9

  James Cracraft, “Feofan Prokopovich and the Kiev Academy,” in Russian Orthodoxy under the Old Regime, ed. Robert L. Nichols and Theofanis G. Stavrou (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1978), 44–64. See also, for Prokopovich’s entire career, Cracraft, “Feofan Prokopovich,” in The Eighteenth Century in Russia, ed. J. G. Garrard (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973), 75–105.

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bureaucratic revolution was to make the state a more efficient instrument of the monarch’s will as he worked to promote the “common good,” another imported notion that was largely secular in content, to be sure, yet bore moral and religious overtones that we should not arbitrarily ignore. It also deserves noting, with respect to the church itself, that most of Peter’s thirty-five or so marks on the draft of the Ecclesiastical Regulation or emendations to its text affirmed with all his imperious force the importance of proper religious and especially moral instruction for both clergy and people as well as the necessity of maintaining tight clerical discipline, the latter to include the prompt removal from office of incompetent bishops. The picture thus painted by Peter and his chief clerical collaborator is of a church and especially a clergy badly in need not of a doctrinal or liturgical reformation, but of a moral and spiritual rebirth. And who now can say for sure which of these two readily identifiable motives here, the political or the religious (or moral), was more important—more basic—in Peter’s decision to “reform” (ispravit´: improve, correct) the Russian church—an institution, as he explained in his Manifesto announcing the reform, for whose welfare he felt personally responsible before God. I fear that practically all historians who have studied the matter, myself and Anisimov included,10 have emphasized the political motive to the virtual exclusion of the religious, apparently on the assumption that religion was not really important to Peter. But is the assumption warranted? This is not the place for a detailed description and analysis of Peter the Great’s religious beliefs. Suffice it to say that my own earlier effort in this regard, encapsulated in the attribution to him of a “simple soldier’s faith,”11 I now think quite inadequate to the task: only a part of the story, at best. Nor do most other such attempts by historians seem any more successful. For instance, A. V. Kartashev, the last procurator of the Holy Synod (1917) who later became a professor of church history at the Russian Orthodox Theological Institute in Paris, characterized the “personal religiousness” (religioznost´) of the synod’s founder as traditional in style, the “style [stil´] of traditional church piety.” In his view, Peter’s sensible positive mind did not lead him into a deadly deism; [he] preserved in his heart an image of the living biblical God.… Peter sincerely expressed in words his vivid sense of Providence and the will of God permeating human affairs.… A utilitarian, practical attitude to the role of religion in matters of state was natural to him, unquestionably; but this did not exclude in him a deep and lively understanding of religion.… Though intolerant of ignorant cultish superstition, Peter himself loved the beauty of the services, often read the Scriptures with enthusiasm, and took an interest in the details of church

10

  Reference is to my Church Reform, passim, and to E. V. Anisimov, Vremia petrovskikh reform (Leningrad: Lenizdat, 1989), 7–14, 330–51. Anisimov’s book has been published in an abridged English translation by John T. Alexander, The Reforms of Peter the Great: Progress through Coercion in Russia (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1993).

11

 Cracraft, Church Reform, 22.

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ritual. He was too intelligent and talented for the fashionable rationalism he found congenial to distort his completely Orthodox religiousness.12 But this view of Peter’s religious beliefs, somewhat revisionist at the time and founded, it seems, mainly on the testimony of Petrine loyalists, has not been widely shared by historians. Thus, in his lengthy introduction to a large collection of contemporary observations, reminiscences, and anecdotes about Peter, to cite another approach, E. V. Anisimov asks whether the great tsar-reformer was religious at all, noting that “most investigators have not come to a definitive answer to this question—so contradictory is the surviving evidence.” On the one hand, as Anisimov rightly says, a whole series of Petrine initiatives, “above all the reform of the church, leading to its complete subordination to state power,” gave rise to Peter’s “undying reputation among the popular masses as the ‘tobacco atheist,’ the ‘antichrist.’” Yet on reading Peter’s “thousands of surviving letters,” on the other hand, Anisimov is struck, as anyone must be, by their “testimony to an indubitable religious sentiment.” So I think [Anisimov rather abruptly concludes] that on the whole the tsar was not overly involved with God. He drew on a series of principles which reconciled his faith with reason. He thought that it made no sense to starve soldiers on campaign by not giving them meat on fastdays—they needed their strength for a victory for Russia, which also meant for Orthodoxy. It’s well known how suspiciously Peter looked on all miracles, relics, and such like.13 We notice, in moving on, the sharp contrast, if not contradiction, between these two interpretations of the evidence regarding Peter’s religious beliefs, a disparity which reflects, perhaps, their authors’ own divergent views of religion more than it does Peter’s. Still another answer to the question before us has been offered by a leading British student of the Petrine period, L. R. Lewitter, whose tack is evident in the title of his relevant essay, “Peter the Great’s Attitude towards Religion: From Traditional Piety to Rational Theology.”14 Professor Lewitter finds that in maturity Peter was “an objective sympathizer with the spirit of Protestantism” rather than a “crypto-Protestant” (as has often been alleged by Orthodox critics).15 This was the “spirit” an12

  A. V. Kartashev, Ocherki po istorii russkoi tserkvi (Paris: YMCA Press, 1959; repr., Moscow: Terra, 1992–93), 2: 320–32.

13   E. V. Anisimov, “Tsar´-reformator,” in Petr Velikii: Vospominaniia, dnevnikovye zapisi, anekdoty, ed. B. V. Anan´ich et al. (Moscow: Vneshsigma, 1993), 21–22. 14   In Roger P. Bartlett et al., eds., Russia and the World of the Eighteenth Century (Columbus, OH: Slavica, 1986), 62–77. 15

  Most famously, by Father Georges Florovsky, in his Ways of Russian Theology, trans. Robert L. Nichols, 2 vols. (Belmont, MA: Nordland, 1979, 1987), vol. 1, chap. 4 (esp. 114–30); originally published as G. Florovskii, Puti russkogo bogosloviia (Paris: YMCA-Press, 1937; repr., Paris: YMCA-Press, 1981).

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imating society in the countries which “furnished him with models for his work of modernization and reform—Holland, Sweden and Denmark”: England and Prussia should be added. But more than this “Protestant component,” Lewitter proposes, “Peter’s private creed included another essential or possibly overriding factor,” namely, his belief, as recorded by Peter himself in one of his notebooks, that (Lewitter’s translation) “reasoned judgement [rassuzhdenie] is above all virtues, for any virtue without reason is hollow.”16 This “maxim” of Peter’s later years, Lewitter continues, is a “fitting motto to a whole chain of acts, decisions and intentions,” including the church reform. Peter’s mature “conception of salvation was an individual one,” and rested in “the belief in justification by faith alone,” wherefore he “died, as he may for many years have lived, a justified sinner.” It was also “consistent with this inwardness that, as far as he himself was concerned, he should have regarded the Church of which he was the de facto head not as a vehicle for salvation but as a convenient instrument of control, through catechization, of the private and public conduct of is subjects.” Lewitter’s formulations are considerably more attentive to the documents than any other known to me,17 and are particularly sensitive to what Peter himself actually wrote about religion in connection with his church reform, or otherwise. His approach needs to be further explored and documented. This has been one direction, in fact, of my own continuing research. A Pietist-like view of sin and salvation, one which sought to supplement or even replace the emphasis on institutions, rites, and dogma in orthodox Christianity (to include Russian Orthodoxy) by concentrating on the “practice of piety,” the latter as rooted in inner spiritual experience, had by his later years come to form the core of Peter’s religious beliefs and hence, in his eyes, to justify if not to necessitate his church reform—a reform which, as indicated above, went well beyond the institution of new administrative arrangements. This austere, moralistic, Providential, scrupulously scriptural, internalized kind of Christianity, at once mystical and “enlightened,” or rational, had flowered in Peter’s time especially in northern Europe, the Europe in which he had traveled extensively in 1697–98 and again in 1716–17 (a total of nearly three years), on both tours invariably stopping to visit local churches and talk with local divines. It was the Europe, too, from which many of his senior officers and assistants had come, including Vice Admiral Cornelius Cruys, General James Bruce, Doctors Nicholas Bidloo, Robert Erskine, and Laurens Blumentrost, and Herr Heinrich Fick, who jointly and severally helped him to found the Russian navy, a modern army and 16

  Lewitter, “Peter’s Attitude towards Religion,” 72; Lewitter does not cite his source here, but obviously is quoting from a note by Peter: “Vyshe vsekh dobrodetelei razsuzhdenie, ibo vsiakaia dobradetel bez razuma—pusta,” as printed in Zakonodatel´nye akty Petra I [hereafter ZAP], ed. N. A. Voskresenskii (Moscow: Akademiia nauk, 1945), no. 211 (p. 151), from the original in Peter’s own hand. 17

  This includes the complex, cultural-historical interpretation, emphasizing Baroque affinities, offered by Reinhard Wittram, “Peters des Grossen Verhältnis zur Religion und den Kirchen: Glaube, Vernunft, Leidenschaft,” Historische Zeitschrift 173 (1952): 261–96; also Wittram, Peter I, Czar und Kaiser: Zur Geschichte Peters des Grossen in seiner Zeit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1964), 2: 170–81.

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medical service, the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences, and the collegial system of central government of which the Holy Synod (originally called the Ecclesiastical College) formed an integral part. Two additional traits distinguished this spreading Pietism from other mystical and reformist trends in Reformation and Counter-Reformation Europe, to quote the late Leonard Krieger, namely, “individualism and activism: pietists were individualistic in that they regarded the religious experience as essentially personal, and they were activist in their encouragement of good social works as the only authentic expressions of piety.”18 By the time he returned from his second major tour of Europe, I would now argue, Peter had been thoroughly influenced by a generic form of Pietism, one marked by a strongly Providential outlook and set of public moral values that nowise required him to renounce the institutional church of his fathers—no more than it had required its adherents elsewhere in Christendom to renounce the Reformed, Lutheran, Anglican, or Roman Catholic Churches in which they had been reared. This was the Peter who vigorously affirmed the ambitious educational provisions of the Ecclesiastical Regulation of 1721, which envisioned the foundation of a school for sons of clergy in every diocese and an advanced ecclesiastical academy in St. Petersburg. This was the Peter who pushed for an up-to-date translation of the Bible, which had only once before been printed in Russia, back in 1663, a Moscow edition of the Ruthenian (Ostrikh) Bible of 1581; in February 1724 he ordered the Synod to proceed with the printing of this “newly corrected Bible” [novoispravlennaia bibliia], though for one reason or another that was not done until 1751, in the reign of his daughter, Empress Elizabeth.19 And this was the Peter who in a letter to the synod of 19 April 1724, the last year of his life, wrote: Most Holy Synod. I have long urged in conversation, and now [do so] in writing, that brief precepts be composed for people (since we have very few educated preachers); also a book wherein would be explained what is unchanging divine law, what are counsels, what patristic traditions, and what intermediate things, and what is done only for rite and ritual, and what is unchanged and what has changed according to time and chance, so that they can know what sort of importance each has. On the first [the precepts], it seems to me that … in them should be explained what is the straight path of salvation, and especially Faith, Hope, and Charity (for about the first and the last they know very little, and that incorrectly [ne priamo], while about the middle one they have 18

  L. Krieger, Kings and Philosophers, 1689–1789 (New York: Norton, 1970), 149; and see now, for the religious background, James D. Tracy, Europe’s Reformations, 1450–1650 (New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 1999). On Pietism, the subject of a large literature, see the Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 1286, with full bibliography; and for its role in contemporary Prussian state-building, for example, Richard L. Gawthrop, Pietism and the Making of Eighteenth-Century Prussia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).

19

  ZAP, no. 193 (pp. 142–43); and further, M. I. Rizhskii, Istoriia perevodov Biblii v Rossii (Novosibirsk: Nauka, 1978), 116–20.

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not heard, since they put all their hope in church singing, fasts, prostrations, and such like, and in building churches, candles, and incense); and about the suffering of Christ they believe that it was only for a single original sin, and that they will be saved by their own works, such as those just mentioned.20 By the end of his life, arguably, Peter himself had come to believe in the doctrine of salvation by faith alone, as Professor Lewitter suggested. It was an individualistic creed by any reckoning and one that discounted “church singing, fasts, prostrations, and such like,” precisely the traditional forms of Russian Orthodox piety, in favor of the leading of an upright moral life. Such a life meant, for the mass of his subjects, essentially one of duty and obedience to higher authority, ultimately the tsar’s; for the tsar himself, as a “Christian monarch,” a phrase he repeatedly used, it meant total submission to the will of God, which was to be discerned in the course of events, along with acceptance of the responsibility actively to guide his subjects on the “straight path of salvation,” another favorite phrase. Indeed, this was the message conveyed unmistakably in the catechism that was composed at Peter’s urging by Feofan Prokopovich and first printed at St. Petersburg in 1720, after which it was so frequently reprinted as to become, very possibly, the most widely distributed book in eighteenth-century Russia.21 It was a Pietist kind of Orthodoxy that in significant measure motivated Peter’s church reform, in sum; and some of the longer-term outcomes of that reform, particularly of its educational provisions, were surely as beneficial for both church and society in Russia as others—those usually highlighted by us secular historians—were detrimental.22 At the very least, this possibility might serve as a hypothesis guiding future research in the still under-studied field of Russian Orthodoxy in the imperial or synodal period. Equally important, we might more profitably approach the subject by looking at all seven of Orthodoxy’s aspects following the scheme outlined earlier in this essay by Ninian Smart, not just at the institutional or social dimensions on which historians, even church historians, have so far tended to concentrate.23 And when this much has been done, we can reasonably predict, the legacy of the Petrine church reform in Russia will be seen in positive as well as negative terms—as a crucial step, for one thing, in the europeanization (or modernization) of Russian religious culture. The Petrine reform, in still other words, infused Russian Orthodoxy—and by extension, Russian society, especially educated society—with a moral seriousness, an attention to duty and a social conscience, that was not there before. 20

  ZAP, no. 195 (pp. 143–44); original in Peter’s hand.

21

 Cracraft, Church Reform, 276–87; and further, Cracraft, “Feofan Prokopovich: A Bibliography of His Works,” Oxford Slavonic Papers, n.s. 8 (1975), 26–27 (no. 123). 22

  For a conspicuous example of the detrimental view, see the well-known work by Richard Pipes, Russia under the Old Regime (New York: Scribner, 1974), chap. 9: “The Church as Servant of the State,” which draws on my Church Reform. 23

  E.g., Gregory L. Freeze, The Parish Clergy in Nineteenth-Century Russia: Crisis, Reform, Counter-Reform (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983).

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The other main point of this essay, which can be stated briefly, concerns the new or better perspective on Peter’s church reform and the ensuing synodal regime in Russia that has been afforded us by the further passage of time. For the collapse of Communist rule in Russia has entailed an intensified scrutiny by scholars of various aspects of the history of that rule, a scrutiny that has of course been facilitated by the relatively freer access to state and party archives that has ensued. This newly invigorated research, in combination perhaps with the declining force of secularization theory, has focused increasing attention on the fate of religion and the church in Soviet Russia, among other previously neglected topics. I cite some of the published results of this research in my Cunningham Memorial Lecture, the better to understand the Russian (rather than “Marxist”) roots of the devastation that befell the Russian Orthodox Church in 1917 and the virulence of the successive anti-church campaigns.24 But a larger concern of the lecture was to highlight the contrasts (rather than alleged continuities) between the anti-church regime established in Russia under Lenin and Stalin and the state-church regime established by Peter. The contrasts—in declared intention, methods of implementation, concrete results—are indeed stark, and alone negate the contention, I suggested in my lecture and would repeat here, that the Petrine reform was somehow ultimately responsible for what happened to the church in Russia, and to countless religious believers, after 1917.25 Peter, clearly, sought by his reform to strengthen the Russian Church as a moral and educational institution, and this mainly by curbing the clergy’s involvement in financial, political, and other “unseemly” affairs and by drastically improving their training. The Communists, by contrast, sought to destroy the church by any and all means, this as a prerequisite for the eradication of religion in Russia and the establishment of a socialist utopia. The tragic folly of their program becomes clearer the more its history is dispassionately uncovered and exposed to the light of a new day. It was certainly plausible for church reformers in Russia in 1917 to indict the synodal administration for its excessive dependence on the reactionary and thoroughly discredited government of Nicholas II, which had made it an obstacle to, rather than

24

  In addition to works cited in Cracraft, “Church and Revolution,” 34 nn. 20, 23, see Gedr Shtrikker, ed., Russkaia Pravoslavnaia Tserkov´ v sovetskoe vremia (1917–1991): Materialy i dokumenty po istorii otnoshenii mezhdu gosudarstvom i tserkov´iu, 2 vols. (Moscow: PROPILEI, 1995); M. V. Shkarovskii, Russkaia pravoslavnaia tserkov´ i sovetskoe gosudarstvo v 1943–1964 godakh: Ot “peremiriia” k novoi voine (St. Petersburg: DEAN+ADIA-M, 1995); Shkarovskii, Russkaia Pravoslavnaia Tserkov´ pri Staline i Khrushcheve (Moscow: Graal´, 1999); Glennys Young, Power and the Sacred in Revolutionary Russia: Religious Activists in the Village (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1997); and N. N. Pokrovskii and S. G. Petrov, eds., Arkhivy Kremlia: Politbiuro i tserkov´, 1922–1925, 2 vols. (Moscow: Rosspen, 1997–98). 25

  The contention is conspicuously advanced, as noted in my Cunningham lecture, by the historians P. N. Miliukov and E. V. Anisimov, the latter in the work cited above (n. 10).

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an instrument of, ecclesiastical and religious renewal.26 But that is a far cry from similarly condemning the synodal regime of the entire imperial period, from its foundation in 1721 to its demise in 1917–18. And the mistake of so doing, I would urge in conclusion, will be obvious when its full record is compared with that of the anti-church regime of the whole Soviet period, now being documented by the new research. Indeed, it will be seen as a mistake comparable to, and perhaps derived from, that of confusing early modern political absolutism with twentieth-century totalitarianism, which surely are as different, on close comparison, as water and wine.27 My sincere thanks again to Professor Stavrou for urging me to pursue these questions, though I cannot assume, fine scholar that he is, and judicious colleague, that he will approve of how I have done so: Amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas!

26

  See also Catherine Evtuhov, “The Church in the Russian Revolution: Arguments for and against Restoring the Patriarchate at the Church Council of 1917–1918,” Slavic Review 50, 3 (1991): 497–511. 27

  A point vigorously argued by G. Oestreich, Neostoicism and the Early Modern State, trans. David McLintock (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), chap. 15.

A Russian Pilgrim in Ottoman Jerusalem Theophilus C. Prousis

Introduction The prospects of travel, trade, and religious pilgrimage in the Levant fascinated generations of Russia’s men and women from the twelfth to the early twentieth century. In particular, the storied sacred sites of Jerusalem attracted the curiosity of myriad Russian travelers: monks and priests, merchants and diplomats, writers and artists, scholars and tourists.1 Dmitrii V. Dashkov (1784–1839) etched his name in the annals of these visitors with a brief sojourn in Ottoman Palestine in 1820, and his travelogue, rendered here in English, merits attention as a document that offers eyewitness testimony, firsthand observation, and telling detail. These qualities make the narrative a likely choice to be included in a projected collection of resources on tsarist Russia’s relations with the Ottoman Near East, a compendium that assembles select archival, manuscript, and published sources and presents them in an accessible format for students and scholars alike.2 1   For the extensive travel literature on Palestine, see Theofanis G. Stavrou and Peter R. Weisensel, Russian Travelers to the Christian East from the Twelfth to the Twentieth Centuries (Columbus, OH: Slavica Publishers, 1986). For the larger story of Imperial Russia’s activities in Palestine, see Theofanis G. Stavrou, Russian Interests in Palestine: A Study of Religious and Educational Enterprise (Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1963); Derek Hopwood, The Russian Presence in Syria and Palestine, 1843–1914: Church and Politics in the Near East (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969); and Stephen K. Batalden and Michael D. Palma, “Orthodox Pilgrimage and Russian Landholding in Jerusalem: The British Colonial Record,” in Seeking God: The Recovery of Religious Identity in Orthodox Russia, Ukraine, and Georgia, ed. Batalden (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1993), 251–63. See also the publication by Nikolai N. Lisovoi, Russkoe dukhovnoe i politicheskoe prisutstvie v Sviatoi Zemle i na Blizhnem Vostoke v XIX–nachale XX v. (Moscow: Indrik, 2006). 2

  A resource aide, drawing upon Russian records and reports, would sharpen our view of various aspects of imperial Russia’s involvement in the Mediterranean and Black Sea regions and in the wider Eastern Question. Worthy models to emulate are the useful compendia of sources on Ottoman Greece by neohellenist Richard Clogg, ed., The Movement for Greek Independence, 1770–1821: A Collection of Documents (London: Macmillan, 1976); and on Ottoman Turkey by Middle East scholar Charles Issawi, ed., The Economic History of Turkey, 1800–1914 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980). See also the two-volume collection Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 101–25.

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An enlightened state official with a literary flair, Dashkov served a six-year term as diplomatic adviser and secretary at the Russian Embassy in Istanbul from 1817 to 1822. Envoy Grigorii A. Stroganov (1770–1857) assigned Dashkov to inspect consulates in the Levant as part of the embassy’s effort to upgrade the conduct and competence of Russian consular staff.3 The expedition entailed a stop in Palestine, where, as part of his itinerary, the inspector had to gather concrete information on the seemingly endless “monks’ quarrel,” the dispute between Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and other Christian sects over the right to control various holy places in Jerusalem, most notably the legendary tomb of Christ in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Dashkov’s unpublished correspondence with Stroganov and the consuls deals with the investigation of consular offices; but his published descriptions of the excursion, appearing in the almanac Northern Flowers edited by poet and critic Anton A. Del´vig (1798–1831), relate impressions and observations of Mount Athos, the Topkapi Library, and Jerusalem.4 For three weeks, in August and September 1820, Dashkov toured fabled sites in and around the Holy City: Mount Zion, Bethlehem, Gethsemane, the Mount of Olives, the Jordan River, and the Dead Sea. With keen perception, lyricism, and erudition, his chronicle evokes some of the sights, sounds, and struggles of arguably the world’s most contested “battlegrounds of memory.”5 Dashkov combines vignettes of resources edited by Nikolai N. Lisovoi, Rossiia v Sviatoi Zemle: Dokumenty i materialy (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnye otnosheniia, 2000). 3

  On Dashkov’s inspection of consulates, as well as his sundry writings and memoranda on Near Eastern affairs, see my book, Russian-Ottoman Relations in the Levant: The Dashkov Archive, Minnesota Mediterranean and East European Monographs, no. 10 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 2002), largely based on Dashkov’s personal fond in the Russian State Historical Archive, St. Petersburg. This publication includes my translations of selected passages from Dashkov’s Palestine report (106–12). Excerpts can also be found in my “The Holy Places: A Russian Travel Perspective,” St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 49, 3 (2005): 271–96; “Landscape of the Levant: A Russian View,” Chronos 10 (2004): 49–67; and “Romanticism and Russian Travel Literature: Dashkov’s Tour of Ottoman Palestine,” Canadian American Slavic Studies 38, 4 (2004): 431–42. 4

  Dashkov published the following pieces in Northern Flowers (Severnye tsvety): “Afonskaia gora: Otryvok iz puteshestviia po Gretsii v 1820 godu” (1825): 119–61, with descriptions of the monasteries on Mount Athos, the fount of Orthodox spirituality; “Izvestiia o grecheskikh i latinskikh rukopisiakh v seral´skoi biblioteke” (1825): 162–65, and “Eshche neskol´ko slov o seral´skoi biblioteke” (1826): 283–96, on Latin and Greek manuscripts in the Topkapi Library, Istanbul; and “Russkie poklonniki v Ierusalime: Otryvok iz puteshestviia po Gretsii i Palestine v 1820 godu” (1826): 214–83, reprinted as a supplement to Russkii arkhiv (1881): 203–69. On Del´vig’s literary journal, see John Mersereau, Jr., Baron Delvig’s “Northern Flowers,” 1825–1832: Literary Almanac of the Pushkin Pleiad (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1967).

5

  Amos Elon, Jerusalem: Battlegrounds of Memory (New York: Kodansha America, 1995); and Thomas A. Idinopulos, Jerusalem: A History of the Holiest City as Seen Through the Struggles of Jews, Christians, and Muslims (Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 1994). Also useful is the

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of the natural landscape with geographic, topographical, and historical particulars on the prominent landmarks. Citing Old and New Testaments, Virgil and Petrarch, Tasso and Milton, Gibbon and Chateaubriand, as well as previous Russian pilgrims, the work displays a sharp eye for detail, an aesthetic sensibility, and vivid descriptive power. His passages resonate with some of the defining qualities of Romanticism, such as fascination with the “exotic” and the “picturesque” and reverence for the power, mystery, and primitive beauty of nature. The account echoes conventional images and prevalent biases in European travel writing on the Ottoman Empire, as Dashkov paints an overly negative picture of the “oriental other.” He accents episodes of oppression, extortion, and related abuses of power by regional administrative officials, in this case Palestine’s chief authority, the pasha of Damascus and Acre.6 In sections on the holy places, the author voices harsh criticism of the internecine squabble between Christian communities over worship and custodial rights. Deep-seated resentment, malice, and bitterness, shared by all sides in this rivalry, offer little hope of forbearance or reconciliation between Latins, Greeks, and other feuding sects. Lastly, the inspector provides specific data on Russia’s pilgrims—their itinerary, expenses, accommodation, and worship at different sites. Excerpts from Dashkov’s report have been published in an anthology of Russian travel literature on the holy lands in the first half of the nineteenth century.7 I have worked from the Dashkov passages in this edition, endeavoring to render the narrative into clear idiomatic English without altering its meaning or essence. Though I have changed Dashkov’s sentence structure and syntax in some spots to make the composition more readable, I have generally remained faithful to the author’s writing style, including such particulars as his use of capital letters, colons, semicolons, and exclamation marks. Any material in parenthesis is part of Dashkov’s original text; I collection of travel excerpts in Francis E. Peters, Jerusalem: The Holy City in the Eyes of Chroniclers, Visitors, Pilgrims, and Prophets from the Days of Abraham to the Beginnings of Modern Times (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985). 6

  For a good introduction to the perceptions of European travelers on the Ottoman Empire in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, see Allan Cunningham, “The Sick Man and the British Physician,” in Eastern Questions in the Nineteenth Century: Collected Essays (London: Frank Cass, 1993), 72–107. Also useful on traditional European attitudes towards Muslims in general and Ottoman Turks in particular are Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books, 1979); and Norman Daniel, Islam, Europe and Empire (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1966). Dashkov’s account of Palestine belongs to the larger story of Europe’s renewed fascination for Jerusalem and the holy places in the nineteenth century. See Yehoshua Ben-Arieh, The Rediscovery of the Holy Land in the Nineteenth Century (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, Hebrew University, 1979); and Naomi Shepherd, The Zealous Intruders: The Western Rediscovery of Palestine (London: William Collins Sons, 1987). 7

  K. Urguzova et al., Sviatye mesta v blizi i izdali: Putevye zametki russkikh pisatelei i poloviny XIX veka (Moscow: Vostochnaia literatura, RAN and Shkola-Press, 1995), 17-36, 289-300. This noteworthy anthology, with explanatory notes and a helpful introduction, contains passages from the Near Eastern travels of Osip I. Senkovskii, Andrei N. Murav´ev, Avraam S. Norov, and Petr A. Viazemskii.

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have added brackets for my own emendations, translations of foreign terms, and brief explications. The occasional ellipsis denotes a word or phrase I considered extraneous, Dashkov’s scholarly references which I have inserted in the notes, or an ellipsis in the excerpts published in the anthology. I have retained Dashkov’s notes, either summarizing or translating his comments, and have added some notes of my own for supplemental information or relevant sources on a particular topic. All dates are in the Old Style Julian calendar, which in the nineteenth century lagged twelve days behind the New Style Gregorian calendar. I have translated geographic place names in the form employed by Dashkov, for instance Smyrna instead of modern-day Izmir, and Constantinople instead of Istanbul. Clarification is needed on Dashkov’s usage of the term “Turks.” Frequently, he is referring to Ottoman Muslims, both Turks and Arabs; yet in some cases he differentiates between the two groups, as when he mentions Arab Muslims of Jerusalem or Bedouin Arab tribes of Palestine. More confusion reigns when he cites “Greeks,” “Greek religion,” or “Greek church.” The official Ottoman designation for Orthodox Christian subjects, Millet-i Rum, or Greek millet, encompassed all Orthodox believers in the sultan’s domain, including Serbs, Romanians, Bulgars, Vlachs, Albanians, and Arabs, as well as Greeks.8 Since Greeks or Hellenized Orthodox often controlled the patriarchates, coffers, and administrative offices of the church’s ecclesiastical hierarchy until the latter part of the nineteenth century, it was quite common for travelers and scholars to use “Greek faith” or “Greek church” to signify the Eastern Orthodox church in Ottoman-ruled lands. Thus, for Dashkov, “Greek religion” and “Greek church” are usually synonymous with the Eastern Orthodox faith and church in the Ottoman Empire, while “Greeks” often refers to Ottoman Orthodox Christians. To complicate matters, in addition to “Greeks,” Dashkov identifies various other Eastern Orthodox sects or churches—Syrians, Georgians, Abyssinians, Maronites, Armenians—with competing claims to the holy places. Dmitrii V. Dashkov: “Russkie poklonniki v Ierusalime: Otryvok iz puteshestviia po Gretsii i Palestine v 1820 godu” (“Russian Pilgrims in Jerusalem: An Excerpt from a Journey to Greece and Palestine in 1820”) Anyone who has never been at sea cannot readily fathom that a beautiful summer day can sometimes seem more unbearable than bad weather in winter. Yet we discovered this firsthand during the tedious crossing from Rhodes to Jaffa. A calm sea caught us unawares in view of the fortress of Castel-Rosso, on the coast of Karamania, and for five whole days we could not move from this spot.9 Our eyes wearied from the monotony in every aspect of nature: from morning till evening the sea gleamed like 8   Richard Clogg, “The Greek Millet in the Ottoman Empire,” in Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire: The Functioning of a Plural Society, ed. Benjamin Braude and Bernard Lewis, 2 vols. (New York: Holmes and Meier, 1982), 1: 185–202. 9

  Castel-Rosso, or Kastelorizon, is the Italian name for a small Greek island off the coast of Turkey. Karamania, the coastal area of south central Turkey, is named after the town of Karaman.

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a looking-glass, while the sky was cloudless. The intolerable heat and stuffiness in the cabin, the sweltering intense heat on the deck (where melting tar bubbled on the ropes and planks), [and] the mournful tap of sails on the masts aroused despondency in us and made us regret the storms we had contended with in these very same places en route from Egypt to the Morea.… Like those times when, after a storm of passions, in moral slumber and with disgust for whatever had previously captivated us, we regret the profound misfortunes that have shaken our existence but elevated the soul!… Eventually, a slight breeze helped us enter the pier at Castel-Rosso, where with difficulty we stocked up with fetid water. The fortress is built on a small precipitous island, looking as if it has been torn from the mainland, and the inhabitants must procure requisite foodstuffs from afar. We continued to idle for more than a day opposite the southern promontory of Cyprus (Cao Gatte), waiting for a fair wind.10 A powerful sea current pulled the ship westward and carried us away from [our] desired destination. The Syrian coast did not come into view until 20 August [1820]: first, the summit of Mount Carmel appeared to the left; then, directly in front of us, the whitish seacoast of Caesarea; and to the right the range of lofty mountains near Jerusalem. With intensity and avid curiosity we gazed upon this land, so consequential in the history of mankind, rich in wonders and in monumental events, cradle of the Christian faith; the land where the legends of the Old and New Testaments live, where every hill, every thicket, every ruin resonate with deeds of the Prophets and of celebrated heroes. The entire area, from Sur (ancient Tyre) to Gaza, is extremely dangerous for vessels during the stormy season; and Greek sailors, excluding daring islanders from Hydra, Psara, and Spetsae, were on the whole inexperienced seafarers outside the Archipelago at that time. Fortunately, our karavokyris (captain of the ship), a native of Skiathos, had already brought worshipers to Jaffa on several occasions and, with firm knowledge of these parts, pledged to steer the ship to the roadstead even at night. He kept his word and at daybreak dropped anchor one or two versts from town.11 We made it to shore with him in a small boat, maneuvering carefully between huge boulders against which the waves crashed with a roar, and went to rest at the Greek metochion [monastic living quarters or cloister], where the abbot received us with hospitality. With his help, we dispatched to the episcopal deputies in Jerusalem the certificate, from Most Blessed Patriarch Polykarp,12 informing them of our visit. Jaffa (ancient Joppa) was once a focal point of trade between Palestine, Egypt, and adjacent islands. Today, under the negligent and rapacious rule of the Turks, the 10

  Cao Gatte, or Cape of Cats, lies near the Monastery of St. Nicholas. According to medieval legend, monks relied on cats to attack the many snakes of the region. 11

 One verst is the equivalent of around 3,500 feet.

12

  This explanatory note by Dashkov gives the full title of the patriarch of Jerusalem: “Most Blessed and Most Holy Father and Patriarch of the Holy City of Jerusalem and of all Palestine, Syria, Arabia beyond the Jordan River, Galilean Canaan, and Holy Zion.” When the patriarch of Jerusalem transferred his residence to Istanbul, church affairs in Jerusalem were handled by two episcopal deputies.

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wharf is covered with sand and comes to life only during the passage of pilgrims. The town is built with terraces, almost all hewn from stone, with a deep moat and a wall that abuts the sea on both sides; the streets are narrow, while the houses are unsightly and look as if they have been crushed by the flat roofs. Yet the outskirts, on the road to Jerusalem, are attractive: from the very [town] gates extend the large gardens and vineyards praised by all travelers. We found the inhabitants [of Jaffa] in a state of confusion and fear. Abdullah, the new pasha of Damascus and Acre (Jaffa is under his jurisdiction), having disregarded the important services rendered to him by a Jew named Chaim, ordered this unfortunate soul killed and his corpse thrown into the sea: all religious believers, Greeks as well as Muslims, regretted the undeserved execution of a person who had been a benefactor to them.13 At the same time, a detachment of troops suddenly encircled the town of Safed, populated by Jews, and forcibly collected from them a tribute payment equivalent to a ten-year tax levy. Turks and foreign merchants did not escape abuse; European consuls, persons of little significance and timid, did not dare resist, and all authorities trembled before the new ruler, whose unlawful absolute power and rage threatened Palestine with a second Ahmet Cezzar Pasha.14 But for us these circumstances were propitious. The mütesellim (deputy governor) of Jaffa, afraid to cause complaints, swiftly took measures to protect us from any sort of disturbance all the way to Jerusalem and sternly prohibited Arab sheiks from demanding the customary kafaro, or road dues, which Russian subjects have been released [from paying] by Article Eight of the Treaty of Kutchuk-Kainardji.15 13

  Dashkov elaborates this incident in his footnote: “Chaim enjoyed the trust of the previous pashas, Cezzar and Suleiman; but having angered the former on one occasion, he lost his ears and nose. One of the European consuls advised [Chaim], in a friendly conversation, to leave for any Christian state, where his acquired wealth (the spoils of his murder!) would have provided him with the means to end his days in plenty and in peace.… Stinginess did not keep [Chaim] in a land where the property and life of each person are in constant danger, but force of habit, blind faith in destiny, and a certain innate indifference, [all of which] comprise a distinctive feature in the character of eastern [Near Eastern] peoples.” Shepherd (The Zealous Intruders, 20) mentions that Cezzar (Djezzar) Pasha disfigured and mutilated the face of the Jewish banker Chaim (Haim) Farhi. 14

  The arbitrariness and cruelty of Abdullah (Abdallah), pasha of Damascus and Acre from 1819 to 1831, reminded Dashkov of the former governor of Ottoman Syria, Ahmet Cezzar Pasha (d. 1804), who brutally suppressed local risings, extended his personal rule over much of Palestine, and defended Acre against Napoleonic forces in 1799. On Ahmet Cezzar (Djezzar) Pasha, the “butcher of Acre,” see Stanford J. Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, 1: Empire of the Gazis: The Rise and Decline of the Ottoman Empire, 1280–1808 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 253, 268–70; and Ben-Arieh, The Rediscovery of the Holy Land, 26–31. On the extensive powers of local warlords in Ottoman Syria, such as Abdullah Pasha, see Thomas Philipp, Acre: The Rise and Fall of a Palestinian City, 1730–1831 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001). 15

  This landmark treaty (1774), following the Russo-Turkish War of 1768–74, granted Russia wide-ranging commercial, diplomatic, and religious rights in the Ottoman Empire, including freedom of passage for Russian pilgrims to Jerusalem. Article Eight stipulated that “no …

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Having procured, for a moderate price, the necessary horses and camels, we left Jaffa before evening on 22 August, accompanied by an official from the mütesellim and by monastic dragomans [interpreters], and rode past the lovely Sharon Valley to Ramleh (ancient Arimathea): we spent several hours there, waiting for the moon to appear above the horizon.16 From [Ramleh] the plain rises imperceptibly to the base of the Judean mountains, barren and inhabited by sparsely populated tribes of rapacious Arabs. Entering a gorge, we saw another aspect of nature: wild places, with almost no signs of human activity, where ruins traced with shrubbery appear here and there on the hills, like graves from ancient times. The road, rocky and difficult, now winds along steep grades, now descends to deep hollows on the bottom of parched streams. This look of a wilderness, quite vividly and accurately portrayed by Chateaubriand …, imbues the soul with melancholy: there, the whistling wind and the piercing bark of jackals muffle the clamor of escorts and the clatter of horses’ hoofs.17 Upon arrival in a poor Arab village, about fifteen versts from Jerusalem, we were stopped by order of Sheik Abu Ghush, the terror of pilgrims, with an urgent request to call on him for a rest.18 We found him in a small courtyard, sitting in the shade on contribution, duty, or other tax shall be exacted from those pilgrims and travelers by any one whomsoever, either at Jerusalem or elsewhere, or on the road.… During their sojourn in the Ottoman Empire, they shall not suffer the least wrong or injury; but, on the contrary, shall be under the strictest protection of the laws. Quoted in Jacob C. Hurewitz, ed., The Middle East and North Africa in World Politics: A Documentary Record, 1: European Expansion, 1535–1914, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975), 95. 16

  The Sharon or Saron Valley, a plain along the coast of Palestine from Mount Carmel to Jaffa, is known for the “Rose of Sharon” and for its fertility in biblical times. Ramleh (Ramla today), supposedly the birthplace of Joseph of Arimathea, the disciple who provided the tomb for Christ’s body after the crucifixion, became a prominent Islamic center after the Muslim conquest and served as the Arab capital of Palestine before the First Crusade. 17   On numerous occasions in his narrative, Dashkov acknowledges the influence of the romanticized Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem (1811) by François René Chateaubriand (1768–1848), citing passages from this hugely successful and widely read work, which appeared in twelve editions from 1811 to 1814. Ironically, Chateaubriand visited Jerusalem for only four days during his two-week tour of Palestine in 1806; yet his vivid but disparaging remarks on the region’s barren landscape, poverty, misery, and lawlessness, as well as his bias against Muslims, echoed in the travel writings of countless European tourists and pilgrims, including Dashkov. For more on Chateaubriand’s highly subjective account of the Holy City, see Said, Orientalism, 169–79; Peters, Jerusalem, 545–46, 560–64, 578–83; and Elon, Jerusalem, 131–34. 18

  With the breakdown of Ottoman ruling institutions in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, administrative control over Palestine and Syria was endangered by unruly Bedouin tribes who disrupted trade and pilgrimage caravans in the region. To thwart these disorders, the Ottoman government selected various families and tribes to safeguard these routes. The tribe headed by Abu Ghush was assigned to police the pilgrimage road from Jaffa to Jerusalem, an appointment abused by the sheik to squeeze excessive tolls and dues from Christian worshipers. See Kamil J. Asali, “Jerusalem under the Ottomans, 1516–1831 AD,” in Jerusalem in History: 3000 BC to the Present Day, ed. Asali, rev. ed. (London: Kegan Paul International, 1997), 200–27, especially 208–09; and Peters, Jerusalem, 543–45.

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bast mats and surrounded by elders of his tribe. They all received us very warmly. Abu Ghush boasted of his acquaintance with the English queen, the spouse of George IV, and with the eminent Sidney Smith, displayed the gifts he had received from them with the obvious intention of arousing our own generosity and, treating us amicably, set out to accompany the caravan beyond the village.19 He sat on a splendid horse and rode it with remarkable agility; while descending the Terebinth Valley, he rushed at full tilt down the precipitous slope, not reeling in the saddle and ceaselessly urging on the horse with wide and sharp spurs.20 Bidding farewell, he promised to visit us in al-Quds, vowed never to harass Russian travelers, and asked us to put in a kind word for him with the dreaded pasha of Damascus and Acre.21 It is impossible to imagine anything more desolate than the environs of Jerusalem: mountains, precipices, ravines without greenery, nearly treeless, everywhere blanketed with round stones; it appeared as if a shower of stones had fallen from the sky upon this ungodly land. Around midday, exhausted by the intense heat, we ascended a height and saw before us a line of crenellated walls and towers, surrounded by neither settlements nor scattered huts and looking as if they were stirring slightly in the middle of the desert. Upon first glance at these ancient ramparts—the city of David, Herod, and Godfrey of Bouillon—thousands of recollections, one more vivid than another, one more holy than another, press against the heart.22 Let cold-hearted minds deride the raptures of worshipers! Here, at the foot of Zion, everyone is a Christian, everyone a believer, who has but retained an ardent heart and a love for the majestic! Notified in advance from Jaffa, Greek monks met us at the western gate (Bab alKhalil), welcoming us on behalf of the second episcopal deputy, Procopius (the chief deputy, the archbishop of Arabian Petra, was visiting his diocese at that time), and took us to the monastic house set aside for us near the patriarchate and the Church

19

  Sir Sidney Smith (1764–1840) was the English admiral who successfully defended the fortress of Acre from Napoleon’s army in 1799. Dashkov’s footnote mentions that Smith gave Sheik Abu Ghush an offprint inscribed with Arabic quotations from the Koran in praise of Christians and their zeal for prayer. 20

  The Terebinth is the valley where David gathered stones for his sling before the battle with Goliath. 21

  Dashkov’s explanatory note correctly states that Muslims considered Jerusalem a holy city, ranked with Mecca and Medina as the most important sacred centers of the Islamic faith. Muslims call Jerusalem al-Quds (The Holy One), Bait al-Maqdis (City of the Sanctuary), or Haram al-Sharif (Noble Sanctuary). 22

  David, the second king of Israel and Judah after Saul, captured the fortress of Zion and supposedly wrote the Psalms. Herod the Great was king of Judea (37–4 BC) during the time of Christ, while his son Herod Antipas ruled Galilee from 4 BC to 39 AD Godfrey of Bouillon, leader of the First Crusade, conquered Jerusalem in 1099 and became the first Latin ruler of the Holy City and defender of the Lord’s Tomb.

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of the Resurrection [Church of the Holy Sepulcher].23 They provided us with the greatest possible aid and comfort in this hospitable refuge, and in absolute freedom we devoted ourselves to worshiping sacred places and to seeing every noteworthy site in and around the city. I will not begin to relate what has already been described countless times by erudite and perceptive travelers, about which so many have argued and continue to argue, expounding differently the tales of the ancients. Every pace in the new [city of] Jerusalem is measured; but the extent of the old city is still subject to question, and the whereabouts of some spots, mentioned in the Old Testament and the Gospels, have not been satisfactorily determined. We know that the new city encompasses only a portion of the former [city], destroyed by Titus in 71 AD [the destruction actually occurred in 70 AD]. Flavius Josephus … asserts that the circumference of the walls comprised thirty-three stadia [somewhat more than 6.5 miles]; today it contains, according to the testimony of Maundrell, only 4,630 standard paces, or around three versts.24 Some critics, trying to reconcile on-site observations with the text of the Jewish historian, reduce the dimensions of his stadia; others simply accuse him of inaccuracy and exaggeration—though experience has proven that one should never be so quick to criticize ancient writers and that the most recent exact surveys have often corroborated their information, which had seemed like fables to us. The inquisitive can get an idea of the debates, upon which are based the various opinions of scholars on the location of Mount Zion, Golgotha, and related sites, having read the essay by d’Anville … and the article by Ritter.25 … Chateaubriand accepts the authority of the

23

  Petra, an early center of Christianity today located in Jordan, is renowned for its picturesque ancient tombs carved in the pink rock. Known to Roman Catholics as the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and to Eastern Orthodox as the Church of the Resurrection, this central shrine of Christianity comprises a cavernous complex of chapels, altars, and passageways commemorating the places of Christ’s crucifixion, burial, and resurrection. See Charles Coüasnon, The Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem (London: Oxford University Press, 1974); and Peters, Jerusalem, 133–37, 203–06, 311–14, 437–42, 566–67, 572–79. Recent descriptions of this foremost Christian shrine include Martin Biddle, The Tomb of Christ (Gloucestershire, UK: Sutton, 1999); and Martin Biddle et al., The Church of the Holy Sepulchre (New York: Rizzoli, 2000). 24

  Dashkov refers to two of the most reliable sources on the topography and circumference of Jerusalem: The Jewish War, by Jewish historian Flavius Josephus (37–100 AD), and A Journey from Aleppo to Jerusalem, at Easter, A.D. 1697 (1703), by Henry Maundrell (1665–1701), chaplain of the Aleppo factory of the English Levant Company. For more on these works, see Peters, Jerusalem, 42–43, 67–72, 77–89, 516–24. A standard pace, covered by a step or a stride, is generally estimated at around three feet, in contrast to the Roman or geometric pace, which measures about five feet. 25

  Dashkov cites the scholarly writings of French geographer and cartographer Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville (1697–1782) (Dissertation sur l’étendue de l’ancienne Jérusalem et de son temple, 1747) and of German geographer Karl Ritter (1779–1859) (Einleitung zur allgemeinen vergleichenden Geographie, 1817–18).

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former in everything.26 Eschewing pointless repetitions, I shall offer Russian readers some personal observations on the current state of the major places of worship and on the life of our compatriots [Russian pilgrims] in Jerusalem. The foremost sacred place for Christians, the Lord’s Tomb, is located within the walls of the vast Church of the Resurrection, founded by St. Helen around 326. In vain were doubts raised about the authenticity of this monument: a great many compelling proofs attest that Christians, in the course of the first three centuries [of the faith], preserved accurate knowledge about the site of the Savior’s suffering and burial. [The early Christians], in the words of Gibbon, “marked the scene of every memorable event, in accordance with indisputable legend.”27 A fire in October 1807 [the fire actually occurred in September 1808] destroyed nearly half the church. The Tomb remained unharmed; but the cedar dome of the church, engulfed in flame, fell on the stone cast aside [by an angel] at the resurrection and smashed it to bits; the Greek Katholikon (chapel) and the adjoining side-altars burned down. Western Europe, which once shed rivers of blood for the possession of this sanctuary, indifferently looked upon its ruins. Some of the Greeks, in servitude and oppression, collected nearly seven million lev28 (more than 4.5 million rubles), purchased the Porte’s permission for the price of gold, and restored the entire edifice on its former foundations, under the supervision of a mere kalfa, or apprentice. Old men, children, and women toiled with zeal, and many to this day take comfort in the memory that they hauled earth during the construction of the church. These offerings, along with other favorable circumstances, gained for our coreligionists the right to celebrate the divine liturgy at the Holy Sepulcher: a right confirmed by the hatti-sherif [edict] of Sultan Mahmud II [r. 1808–39], but still disputed by the Catholics. 26

  Though he praises Chateaubriand’s depiction of Palestine, he rebukes the French writer’s highly personalized and melancholic portrait of Greece: “In general, the information of Chateaubriand on present-day Jerusalem is as exact and accurate as his notes on Greece are incorrect and superficial.” Said and Peters (see above, n. 17) have argued that the same criticism applies to Chateaubriand’s work on Jerusalem. 27

  Instead of identifying the source of this statement by acclaimed English historian Edward Gibbon (1737–94), Dashkov directs his readers to the writings of d’Anville and Chateaubriand for particulars on the holy places. 28

  Dashkov’s use of lev (lion) refers to an Ottoman coin in Palestine called esedi (with the lion) or esedi gurush. The Levant did not have a common or standardized currency for business transactions in the early nineteenth century; Ottoman gold and silver coins circulated along with money from Austria, Spain, Venice, France, Holland, and Britain. On the confusing array of Levantine currencies, see Issawi, The Economic History of Turkey, 326–29; and Şevket Pamuk, “Evolution of the Ottoman Monetary System, 1326–1914,” in An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Halil Inalcik and Donald Quataert (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 947–80. After much diplomatic and financial negotiation, the Sublime Porte authorized Greek Christians to restore the church, supposedly after payment of a bribe of nearly 2.5 million rubles, almost twice the cost of the rebuilding itself. On the fire and the reconstruction of the church, see Elon, Jerusalem, 69–70; and Idinopulos, Jerusalem, 190.

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Upon entering the church, a worshiper with indignation sees a Turkish guard greedily sizing up the arrivals for collecting the fixed tax. His superior, as a sign of respect, often walks in front of them even to the altar, points out the holy sites with a chibouk [tobacco pipe with long stem], or disperses the throngs of people with a lash!… About forty steps from the doors, in the middle of the majestic rotunda, an edicule (kouvouklion) [baldachin or canopied altar] of yellowish marble is raised over the Tomb of Christ and faces eastward: inside [the edicule] one at first comes across the chapel of the Angel and then the narrow grotto where, according to ancient custom, the body [of Christ] was placed on a large stone, in the very mound that is illuminated and covered today by a marble slab. Thirty-six icon-lamps, from the cupola opening above, burn over it day and night. The offertory is performed on this imperishable sacrificial altar; and at the start of the liturgy, the vessels are brought to the chapel, where part of the stone cast aside by the Angel serves as a communion table. The walls of the edicule, outside and inside, are adorned with fabrics: the occasion for many quarrels between the various denominations! At every step in this church, a believer finds traces of the magnificent act of redemption. Here, Christ was shackled and bound to the pillar;29 here, he appeared after the resurrection to Mary Magdalene and (if one is to believe legend) to the grieving Holy Mother; here, his cross was discovered. There, the stone of unction, on which his body was anointed with fragrances and wrapped in a shroud; the chapels of the mocking (impropere), of the division of the raiment, of the good thief, of Centurion Longinus;30 [and] the tombs of Joseph [of Arimathea] and Nicodemus. Overhead, at Golgotha, two small communion tables signify where they nailed Christ to the tree [cross] and where it was raised. Below, the descent tothe cave, in which Empress Helen found the cross, excavating the blocked up foot of the hill.… In vain did Emperor Hadrian [r. 117–38 A.D.], during the time of persecution, try to appropriate these sites for idolatry, erecting a statue of Venus at Golgotha and [a statue] of Jupiter over the Lord’s Tomb. These idols did not consign the sacred objects of worship to oblivion, but all the more preserved their remembrance until the arrival in Jerusalem of the pious empress, who secured the mark of the Christian faith on the ruins of paganism. Compact houses and an edifice that belongs to the Greek monastery press upon the outer walls of the church. The church previously had two entrances; one, however, on the northern side, has been walled up: only the southern gates, known as the holy doors, remain. [Designated] Turks keep the keys and unlock the doors only in the presence of the mütevelli (overseer), appointed by the pasha of Damascus and Acre, 29

  Dashkov offers this information in his footnote: “A fragment of the pillar is kept in the Franciscan monks’ chapel, behind an iron grille, in such a way so that worshipers are not able to kiss it but can only touch it with the tip of a walking-stick. The Catholics, in explaining this much resented precaution, claim that the Greeks have repeatedly tried to steal this sacred object. The Greek clergy, for their part, accuse [the Catholics] of similar attempts, and even they shelter, behind a grille under an altar, part of the pillar which soldiers [used] to bind and to scourge the Savior.” 30

  These side-chapels commemorate subjects and events associated with the crucifixion.

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and of the dragomans for the Greek, Catholic, and Armenian religious communities. Inhabitants of the city and worshipers of all denominations then proceed to make the rounds of the various chapels without any restriction, but they are not allowed to conduct services in portions that belong to other faiths. Several [pilgrims], obtaining permission from the religious authorities, spend some time inside the church with monks and priests who take turns, and together with them receive victuals through small openings in the doors and in the vault over the main Greek altar. And we, too, spent several days, for me unforgettable, in this holy solitude. All of the surroundings awakened ineffable feelings in my soul. Often, in the dead of night, when monks accustomed to this spectacle slept peacefully in cells, I stood, leaning on a pillar, in the middle of the spacious church. Cupolas, galleries, and the entire Greek Katholikon, all the way to the altar, were shrouded in darkness; but the sacred monuments appeared as if enveloped by rows of inextinguishable icon-lamps and resembled shining oases in a dark thicket. The ancient past was resurrected in my imagination: the sufferings of the Righteous One; the source of life, emanating from here, when the inscribed tablets of Moses [Mosaic law] gave way to the New Testament; the triumph of the Crusaders, genuflecting before the magnificent tomb delivered by their swords; and the crowning of the hero-leader with a diadem of thorn. I looked at the grave of Godfrey, and Tasso’s inspired canto rang in my ear.31 Toward morning these reveries were cut short by the ringing of a church bell in the wooden belfry; priests and deacons flickered by like phantoms, with burning censers in their hands; chants from the gathered worshipers blended with the sound of organs; and praise to God rose up in different languages, with different rites, but in a single church.… All the places of worship are divided among the Greeks, the Catholics, and the [Monophysite] Armenians. The Copts have only one altar, affixed to the edicule over the Tomb; and the Syrians (Nestorians), the Georgians, the Abyssinians, and the Maronites … have been removed by force from the church, or have voluntarily conceded their rights to other [religious] communities.32 Each [denomination] adorns its property as it desires; but in those areas jointly controlled by two sects, the number of icons and icon-lamps has been set once and for all with the consent of the Turks. The sequence of services and rites has likewise been determined at great length by special regulations—and ever since then an immediate cause for discord among Jerusalem’s Christians has ceased. Mutual vexations still linger in hearts, and gold brought for the 31

  Dashkov alludes to Tasso’s sixteenth-century epic Jerusalem Delivered, which exalted the heroic feats of Godfrey of Bouillon, leader of the First Crusade. As for the controversy regarding the Greeks’ alleged destruction of Crusader crypts in the Church of the Resurrection during its reconstruction after the 1808 fire, Dashkov weighs in: “The Greeks are mistakenly accused of damaging the tombs over the graves of Godfrey and his brother [and heir] Baldwin, erected in the period of Latin rule. Fire destroyed these monuments; but their sites are marked by brick mounds, and the Catholics themselves have always had the authority to restore the old tombs and inscriptions.”

32

  For more on the varied Christian sects of Ottoman Jerusalem, as well as Ottoman rule in Palestine, see the essays in Braude and Lewis, Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire, vol. 2.

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decoration of the church is still squandered in Acre, Damascus, and Tsargrad [Constantinople] in order to harm rivals. At least the heads of the clergy, not passing up a chance to accuse each other of daily insults, try not to let monks take part in public and sordid quarrels, which formerly happened at the Holy Sepulcher, to the sorrow of coreligionists. The malice originates in the deep-rooted resentment of each denomination toward another and in the desire to exert exclusive control over the places where the blood of the Savior was shed for everyone. Ever since the division of the Roman church from the church in Constantinople, a spirit of meekness and love has rarely governed their relations. In the eyes of the Crusaders, the Greeks were almost worse than the worshipers of Mohammad; in the eyes of the Greeks, the Catholics did not have the right to be called Christian.33 The spite inherited by [Catholics and Greeks] has not subsided even today, particularly in numerous seaside towns and on islands, subject to the Porte, where some of the inhabitants have embraced Roman [Catholic] doctrines. A Catholic who converts to Orthodoxy is subjected to a second baptism by the Greeks. On the other hand, a Catholic who has married an Orthodox woman must be divorced from her: this is what European clergy, born in the land of enlightenment and tolerance, preached in Smyrna in 1817! “Of such wrath are the gods?”34 As for the Holy Sepulcher, both sides base their claims on official documents of various caliphs and sultans, from Umar [caliph, 634–44] to Mahmud II. The Greeks want equality, but the Catholics—dominance, contending that this sacred spot is their property and that its custody belongs solely to them. Until the renovation of the “great church” (i megali ekklisia, as the Greeks call the Church of the Resurrection), the Catholics did not permit the Orthodox to conduct services at the edicule and, even after the hatti-sherif issued in 1815, attempted to retrieve their lost advantages by utilizing the influence of their envoys at the Porte. A shortage of money and a dispute that broke out with the Armenians over the Church of the Nativity [in Bethlehem] compelled them to leave the Greeks in peace and to comply with the given situation. By virtue of this [arrangement], the Greeks and the Catholics take turns washing and sweeping the edicule and the stone of unction; they have an equal number of icons, icon-lamps, and candlesticks and an equal right to decorate the walls with coverings. 33

  Dashkov remarks in his note: “When present-day Greeks speak about Christians, they always mean themselves or Russians; Catholics are called Latins, Franks, or simply Westerners (οι Δυτικοί).” Dashkov gleaned additional material on sectarian disputes over the holy places from the travelogue by English chaplain Maundrell (see above, n. 24), who voiced amazement at the intensity of these squabbles. Peters, Jerusalem, 516–24, with excerpts from Maundrell, one of Dashkov’s sources on Jerusalem. For more information on this sectarian strife, see also Victoria Clark, Holy Fire: The Battle for Christ’s Tomb (London: Macmillan, 2005). 34

  Dashkov’s text cites the original Latin from Virgil’s Aeneid (1.11): “Tantaene animis caelestibus irae?” (Is there so much anger in the minds of the gods?). The line refers to battles among the gods and to the gods’ treatment of Aeneas during and after the Trojan War. Two recent studies of the Crimean War cover the sectarian quarrels over the holy sites: Trevor Royle, Crimea: The Great Crimean War, 1854–1856 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2000); and Orlando Figes, The Crimean War: A History (New York: Henry Holt, 2010).

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The Armenians are deprived of most of these privileges: they have only an icon above the doors and several icon-lamps. In all religious rites, they occupy third place. The four-cornered stone columns, encircling the edicule, and the upper and lower galleries are also apportioned among the denominations. The southern part of Golgotha belongs to the Catholics, while the Greeks have obtained from the Georgians the northern portion, where the cross was raised. As for the site of its discovery, the grotto itself, narrow and permeated with dampness, it is still in dispute among [the sects]. The former [the Catholics] do not allow other denominations to arrange iconlamps here, while the latter [the Greeks] complain about the deliberate damage to marble slabs placed there by the Orthodox.35 But, censuring justifiably these feuds, we maintain that the mode of eastern [Ottoman] judicial proceedings contributes a great deal to their continuation. The verdicts of kadis [Muslim judges] are based almost always on the testimonies of witnesses, especially of Muslims: and that is why each litigant tries to win over to his side the church guards and Jerusalem’s notables.36 To convince them that a law is beyond question, custom and long standing are essential; in the eyes of the Turks, both are more important than lifeless official documents. For example (according to their notions), the edicule is controlled by whichever [denomination] sweeps and decorates it: knowing this, each [sect] is afraid to yield to a rival and resists adamantly the smallest change. Moreover, the pashas, mütesellims [deputy governors], and kadis constantly nourish hostility among the Christians for their own interests. Today protecting certain [groups], tomorrow they promise others staunch intercession and rejoice in the rise of complaints and denunciations. In 1819, the pasha of Damascus, the chief authority over Jerusalem, allowed the Armenians, for sixty thousand lev, to cut a doorway near their altar in the Bethlehem church, to the great annoyance of the Catholics: and the latter were offered a chance, for a lower price, to rescind the granted permission. They did not pay [the pasha] the requested fee—and so the door remained open. During the next year, setting up camp outside the walls of the city with a caravan headed for Mecca, he exacted from the Armenians another thirty thousand lev and for a second time proposed to the Catholics the very same conditions.… If it is true that laws and governments shape the morality of people every35

  Dashkov chose to omit many details about the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, asserting that these facts, while indispensable for anyone who wanted an exact picture of the shrine, “would be tedious and obscure” in his narrative. But he anticipated that readers’ curiosity “will soon be satisfied with the publication of the exquisite and complete plan of the great church, made on site by academician Vorob´ev.” The painter Maksim N. Vorob´ev (1787–1855), appointed professor at Russia’s Academy of Fine Arts in 1823, accompanied Dashkov on his trip to Jerusalem. Dashkov extolled the artistic talents of his travel companion, reporting that Vorob´ev’s drawings would include particulars on the main religious denominations in the church, their icons and icon-lamps, and related matters. 36

  “Notables” refers to the leading and most influential families in Jerusalem. On local elites, not just in Jerusalem but in other parts of the Ottoman Levant, see Donald Quataert, The Ottoman Empire, 1700–1922 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 46–50, 62–64, 101–07.

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where, then an impartial observer must look to the spirit of Turkish rule to find fault for the vices he condemns. It is hard to calculate the cost to Jerusalem’s Christians for the sham tolerance of the Porte and for the indulgence of local authorities. Based on information we gathered, the Greeks spent around fifty thousand lev on presents in the course of only a single month, August 1820. We should add to this [sum] basic expenses for church building, for the [Jerusalem] patriarchate, and for similar purposes—and we affirm that rumors of secret monastic riches, supposedly increasing every year through lavish offerings, are just as mythical as the tale of Abulkazem’s inexhaustible treasury in Arabian stories.37 On the contrary, at the time of our visit, monks of all denominations were reduced to extremity. The Catholics, seldom encountering Latin pilgrims and receiving very meager assistance from Rome, unexpectedly lost [income from] the large estates in Spain seized by the cortes [representative assemblies]. The Greeks were barely able to pay their debts and to support themselves with the revenues from lands and monasteries, outside Palestine, that belong to the Holy Sepulcher and with the offerings from Orthodox worshipers. Even the Armenians, the wealthiest of all Eastern Christians, were nearly ruined after the misfortune which befell their coreligionist sarafs (bankers) in Constantinople in 1819, some of whom were executed while others were sentenced to captivity by edict of the sultan. We shall return to our report. Several ruins to the southeast of the great church denote the road of suffering (via dolorosa)38 along which the Savior trod from the Pretorium to Golgotha: citing testimony of the holy fathers and other writers, one finds there the houses of Pilate and of the pious woman Veronica, the dwelling of the evil rich man, the place where the Holy Mother met her Son carrying the cross, [and] the gate of judgment which sentenced criminals to death outside the city walls. But ancient legends are incomplete regarding [the Way of the Cross]: they need to be augmented by tales from mirhadjis (guides) and by the imagination of worshipers. We thus mention the houses of high priests Annas and Caiaphas, of SS. Joachim and Anne, the prison of Apostle Peter, and so on. Time, the myriad captivities of Jerusalem, and the oppressive Muslim yoke have erased nearly all traces of these secondary monuments of Christianity. On the site where, according to general opinion, the Apostle James was sentenced to death, there stands a magnificent cloister, owned in turn by the Georgians, 37

  According to Dashkov, at least one recent travelogue on Greece repeated the unfounded and unconfirmed story that the Greek monastery near the Church of the Holy Sepulcher contained an undisclosed amount of wealth in a secret treasury, coveted by sultans, who had yet to discover its exact whereabouts. Based on his own investigations, Dashkov adamantly refutes these rumors, declaring that the monastery’s treasury consisted only of pilgrims’ offerings and other church revenues: “In the monastery’s sacristy, we saw silver chandeliers, crucifixes, Gospels, and gold-embroidered vestments, for the most part of Russian craftsmanship; but it is surpassed in wealth by many of the sacristies on Mount Athos.” 38

  The Way of the Cross traced the path or last steps of Christ across Jerusalem, from his trial by Pontius Pilate to his execution, burial, and resurrection. See Peters, Jerusalem, 155–56, 501–03.

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the Greeks, and the Armenians. The last [of these sects] (so they say) seized it by force during the patriarchate of Paisios. Today [this monastery] is under the authority of a separate Armenian patriarch, who is subject neither to the [catholicus-patriarch] of Echmiadzin nor to the [patriarch] of Constantinople.39 Only through offerings have the Greeks been able to retain possession of their major monastery, for them all the more important because of its proximity to the Church of the Resurrection. The episcopal deputies reside here, and pilgrims are welcomed during the initial days of [their] arrival: small churches and cells are scattered about, in no particular order, amid open vestibules and passageways; and nearby are granaries for feeding the many monks and Orthodox Arabs.40 The Catholic convent of the Franks is controlled by the Franciscan Order. Its abbot is officially recognized as the guardian of the Holy Sepulcher [on behalf of the Catholics] and usually replaced every three years.41 Of the ancient edifices within the walls [of Jerusalem], the curiosity of travelers is especially drawn to the fortified bastion, supposedly the home of David, and to the renowned mosque of Umar. The former, according to the opinion of d’Anville, is situated on the same spot where the Citadel of the king-psalmist [David], and subsequently the Psephinus Tower, once stood and where, at sunrise, one could see all the way to the borders of Arabia, to the sea, and to the furthest edge of the land of Judea.42 … The view from the present-day stronghold encompasses all of the environs: in between and beyond the tops of the nearby stony hills another mountain range rises up, just as barren, on which the remains of old towers and fallen minarets are visible. The mosque [Dome of the Rock] was built on Mount Moriah, separated from Zion by a deep hollow—on the very foundations of the Temple of Solomon, restored by Zerubbabel [in 520 BC] and ultimately destroyed by Titus. Ruins enveloped this site during the persecution of the Apostolic church, and also during its triumph. When [Caliph] Umar captured Jerusalem and sought a place to begin construction of his mosque, Greek patriarch Sophronios [634–38], fearing the loss of the Lord’s 39

  When Paisios, patriarch of Jerusalem from 1646 to 1660, visited Moscow in 1649, the Armenian clergy succeeded in obtaining the sultan’s permission to acquire the cloister. The “separate Armenian patriarch” refers to the bishop of the Armenian community in Jerusalem, whose title was raised to patriarch by the middle of the eighteenth century. The town of Echmiadzin, capital of the ancient Christian kingdom of Armenia, continued to serve as the center of the Armenian church and the place of residence of the catholicus-patriarch. 40

  Dashkov writes that in addition to the monastic house attached to the Orthodox patriarchate of Jerusalem, the Greeks owned several other monasteries and nunneries in the Holy City. The most noteworthy, he recounts, were “John the Baptist, for the beauty of its church and entire structure; St. Nicholas, where there is a school for Arabs; [and] St. George, with a hospital and an alms-house for elderly men.” 41

  In 1342, Pope Clement VI named the Franciscan Order the official caretaker of the holy places for Roman Catholics. On the Franciscans in the Holy City, see Peters, Jerusalem, 369– 70, 498–501, 506–09, 556–61, 580–84; and Idinopulos, Jerusalem, 186–89. 42

  In addition to d’Anville, Dashkov cites The Jewish War by Flavius Josephus.

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Tomb, pointed the conqueror to Moriah. Caliph al-Walid ibn Abd al-Malik [r. 705–15] completed the structure, a masterpiece of art, resembling (says Chateaubriand) a tent pitched in the middle of the desert. Christians are strictly forbidden to enter: any attempt would expose a European to great danger, and a Turkish subject—to certain execution, unless he converts. In the year before our arrival [1819], an unfortunate Greek [went] there, disguised as a prominent official of the pasha of Damascus; but later he paid for this with his life, since he did not want to save himself by apostatizing.43 The southern part of Mount Zion, formerly within the walls, today lies outside the city. The Last Supper took place there; the tombs of David and Solomon are also there, in a mosque, where the Turks do not allow believers of different faiths. On the same hill lies the cemetery for Jerusalem’s Christians of all denominations (pilgrims are buried in Potter’s Field), while at the foot of the slope, spouting from stone, is the pool of Siloam, evoked by the poet of Paradise Lost when summoning the celestial Muse: … if Sion hill Delight thee more, and Siloa’s brook that flow’d Fast by the oracle of God.44 The Valley of Jehoshaphat, covered in ruins, separates the Mount of Olives, shaded in places with olive trees, from Zion and Moriah. A turbid stream, supposedly the brook of Kedron, flows in the middle of the valley during rainy season; but it dries up altogether in summer and fall. The masterly pen of Chateaubriand vividly depicted this thicket where, according to the prophet Joel, at some point the entire human race will be assembled for judgment: The stones in the cemetery of the Jews are piled up, like a heap of fragments, at the base of the settlement of Siloam; it is difficult to distinguish the huts themselves from the graves that surround them. Three ancient monuments tower above this field of destruction, the tombs of Zechariah, Jehoshaphat, and Absalom. Before one’s eyes lies sad Jerusalem, over which the slightest smoke is not visible [and] from which not a sound is heard; gazing at the desolation of the mountains, where there is no living creature, and at all those 43

  One of the most sacred shrines in Islam, the Dome of the Rock or Qubbal al-Sakh, commemorating the prophet Muhammad’s ascent to heaven, was built during the caliphate of Abd al-Malik (685–704), the father and predecessor of al-Walid. Dashkov remarks that Catholic pilgrims, such as Archbishop William of Tyre (1099–1187), historian and chronicler of the Crusades, recorded their observations of this famed mosque. These impressions “have been corroborated for us by information provided by our janissary, purposely sent [to the mosque] at prayer time. He saw the stone (sacred for Muslims), from which Muhammad mounted [the winged steed] al-Buraq in preparation for his flight to heaven, and the two small pillars which allegedly crush sinners who walk through them.” See Elon, Jerusalem, 213–24; and Idinopulos, Jerusalem, 224–35, for a brief discussion of al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock. 44

  Dashkov’s text includes these English lines from John Milton.

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graves in disorder, broken, smashed to bits, ajar, one might think that the sound of a trumpet has already resounded, calling to judgment, and that the dead are ready to rise from the valley.45 The site of the Lord’s ascension is thought to be on the middle summit of the Mount of Olives. The remains of a splendid church, erected in the time of Constantine [d. 337], have been turned into a mosque. [This prompts] an observation that from time immemorial Muslims have appropriated for themselves all the heights around the city. They believe that during the final days of the world, the wild [warrior tribes] Gog and Magog will besiege the prophet Jesus Christ in Jerusalem and occupy the adjacent mountains: from [the summits] they will fling shafts that strike the heads of the impudent, staining them with blood. Returning from [the Mount of Olives] to the gates of Gethsemane and descending the valley all the way to the brook of Kedron, worshipers with zeal visit the Tomb of the Holy Mother, located in a grotto. The Orthodox and the Armenians celebrate the liturgy at this shrine; the Catholics do not have this right. When the enmity among Christians of the East ceases, the first pledge of mutual tolerance and peace will be their equal participation in a service at this sacred place, revered by all the sects.… A detailed account of Jerusalem’s famous sites can be found in every travelogue, from the fourth century … to the present.46 All the information is similar, and recent travelers repeat what was said before, most likely unintentionally. Relying on them, I shall add a few words about the location of the Savior’s birth, respected even by Muslims. The road to Bethlehem lies due south past Mount Zion and the Greek Monastery of Elijah the Prophet. In the valleys one comes across sown fields and vineyards; traces of age-old industriousness are visible on the stony hills, notched with terraces for the planting of vines and fig trees. The large [Church of the Nativity] in Bethlehem, built in a cruciform shape, was once quite splendid; four rows of marble pillars of rare beauty are still intact at the altar. [The church] belongs to the Greeks and the Armenians. Latin monks in vain request a portion of it for themselves, since it is impossible to consider an ordinary 45

  This is my translation of Dashkov’s Russian rendition of Chateaubriand’s evocative vignette. 46

  Dashkov’s narrative cites the earliest extant travelogue on the holy places, the account by the Pilgrim from Bordeaux who visited Palestine in the year 333, Itinerarium a Burdigala Hierusalem. Dashkov’s footnote makes reference to the Greek-language Proskynitarion, published in Vienna in 1787, on prayer rituals and places of worship in Jerusalem, and to several Russian accounts. “Of the works by Russian pilgrims, worthy of attention are the descriptions by Vasilii Barskii, who worshiped at the Holy Sepulcher in 1726 and 1729; by ieromonakh [monk] Meletii, 1793–94; and by the serf of Count Sheremetev, Kir Bronnikov, 1820–21, noteworthy because of his [social] rank and because of the dangers he was exposed to on the return voyage to the fatherland at the start of the Greek war.” For bibliographical material on the travelogues of Barskii, Meletii, and Bronnikov, see Stavrou and Weisensel, Russian Travelers to the Christian East, 70–73, 129–30, 171.

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shrine as a common place of worship, such as the Lord’s Tomb or Golgotha. Along the sides of the main altar, two staircases lead to the Holy Nativity; there, on the eastern wall, marked by a silver star, where the Christ Child was born, a communion table is set up for the Orthodox and the Armenians to celebrate the mass. The manger stood nearby, in a spacious hollow, where today there is a Catholic altar. The entire grotto is lined with precious marble and illuminated by icon-lamps, with each denomination having its own fixed number. Bethlehem’s Arabs have partially converted to the Christian faith; but this has not mollified their harsh customs. They make a good bit of money, fashioning from bone and mother-of-pearl the rosaries and crosses that are bought up by devout visitors. In general, the arrival of worshipers in Jerusalem coincides with the harvest season for local inhabitants. Only this animates a land, for a long time now not flowing with milk and honey, where agriculture is in decline and there is no industry, where the population has fallen victim to robbery and to all sorts of violence, where, eventually, according to the words of Chateaubriand, “each village dies off annually hut by hut and family by family, and soon only a cemetery marks the site of a previous settlement.” The Greeks and the Armenians visit the holy places more than [other denominations]. The zeal of the former is worthy of special amazement; the faith, having preserved their existence as a nation, has been a major consolation for them in servitude. They gathered from everywhere, without distinction of gender and age; fathers of families brought to Palestine the fruit of many years’ hard work, leaving children in need; old men, fortified by desire (like the aged worshiper in the beautiful sonnet by Petrarch: “An old man white as snow set out on the road”),47 dragged themselves along on crutches to the tomb of the being, whose presence they hoped to receive in heaven. Many, having kept their vow, devoted the remainder of life to religious worship in church. The number of Orthodox pilgrims, before 1821, sometimes reached about three thousand—among them were around two hundred Russians. Our embassy [in Istanbul] did its utmost to afford the greatest possible assistance and protection to our compatriots in Ottoman domains. [Russian pilgrims] usually embarked from Odessa in late August and upon arrival in Constantinople stayed [in a specially designated spot] out of doors, where they were not subjected to the plague or to insults from the Turkish mob; the poor received monetary help. The envoy notified the patriarch of the Holy City about [the pilgrims’] accommodation, free of charge, on a ship that departed every year in early September with worshipers; in addition to passports, [the envoy] issued to them firmans (edicts of the sultan) that exempted Russian subjects from any tax during the journey and at the Church [of the Resurrection], where other Christians are required to pay around twenty-four lev [apiece] for entry. In Jaffa, received as guests in the Greek metochion [monastic residence or cloister], they were pleased with everything, provided customarily at the monastery’s expense: for this [hospitality] they left the abbot a small donation. 47

  In his text, Dashkov quotes the Italian line from the Petrarch sonnet: “Movesi il vecchierel canuto e bianco.”

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Many trekked on foot from [Jaffa], while the wealthy and the infirm were able to rent saddle-horses for a low price.48 On reaching Jerusalem, they spent the first few days at the patriarchate and gave contributions to the church treasury, however much they wanted; but those who desired to enter the names of their relatives in a remembrance book for eternal prayer for the dead paid fifty lev or more for each [name], depending on their means. They then selected for themselves cells in various cloisters for the entire winter. Rent and food, the most moderate, cost from one hundred fifty to two hundred lev. In anticipation of Lent, pilgrims visited the closest places of worship, in Bethlehem, Bethany, Nazareth, and other towns. Some even traveled to Mount Sinai, via Gaza and Suez. The throng of people in Jerusalem grows with the approach of Easter. Armenians and Asiatic Greeks gather in droves from Karamania, Syria, and Egypt; Georgians are also with them. The entire city comes to life, especially on Holy Saturday, when the holy fire makes its appearance.49 After the holy days, the mütesellim and a detachment of troops accompany the worshipers to Jericho and the Jordan River; and shortly afterwards they return to their native land via the route they came. Passage from Jaffa to Constantinople, on a good ship and with necessary provisions, costs around a hundred lev. Adding to this estimate another one hundred eighty or two hundred lev for offerings to various monasteries and churches during the entire stay in Palestine, for the rental of horses, and for other small items, we deduce that the essential expenses for our pilgrims did not exceed five hundred rubles. But many of them arrived without any money whatsoever and had to attend to monks or seek alms near the gates of the patriarchate, where they are never denied food. For donations to these needy pilgrims, 48

  In his footnote, Dashkov specifies distances between key points along the pilgrimage trail: “From Jaffa to Jerusalem it is thought to be around sixty versts (twelve hours [by horse]). From Jerusalem to Jericho not more than twenty versts; and from [Jericho] to the Jordan River about fifteen versts.” 49

  In a lengthy footnote on the miraculous appearance of the holy fire over the Tomb of Christ, Dashkov refers readers to the works of Russian pilgrims and travelers who had witnessed this sacred event. Drawing on their experiences and observations, he then offers his own summary: “With the mütesellim [deputy governor] and the Armenian clergy in attendance, all the candles and icon-lamps in the church are extinguished—except for those in the Catholic section. The Greek hierarch enters the kouvouklion [edicule] alone and with a cotton wick gathers the light that, resembling beads of sweat, arises on the marble slab of the Holy Sepulcher. Others relate that it appears in the form of a bright nonflammable flame and that one can place it by hand in a vessel without getting burned. Ieromonakh Meletii writes that the light shines on the lid of the tomb like small scattered beads of color that turn red when they run together. The Catholics are not at all willing to believe this phenomenon. Be that as it may, the hierarch carries the burning tapers from the grotto to the chapel of the Angel and places them in two small openings: on one side for the Armenians, on the other for the Orthodox, from whom the fire overflows the church like a river (according to Meletii), to the accompaniment of loud exclamations: ‘There is no faith, but the Christian faith!’” For more on the holy fire, see Elon, Jerusalem, 70–71, 209–13; and Peters, Jerusalem, 261–67, 523–24, 571–78.

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and also for their supervision, a special official with the rank of vice-consul has been dispatched to Jaffa.… The events of 1821 have impeded the success of this endeavor [pilgrimage to Jerusalem] and made the voyage to the Holy Sepulcher difficult for Russians.50 Jews, no less than Christians, are eager to visit the land of their ancestors, though they know in advance what oppression awaits them there. They pay dearly for permission to enter Jerusalem and still more dearly for a plot of land in the Valley of Jehoshaphat for a future grave. Their sufferings and poverty do not arouse pity in anyone; they are held in equal disdain by Greeks, Arabs, and Turks. Among the ruins of their capital, amid recollections of ancient independence and glory, this unfortunate people with amazing submissiveness bears unending insults even from children. Our acquaintance, Sheik Abu Ghush, not understanding how Jews could be subjects of the Muscovite padishah [sultan], said, “I am glad to welcome in my land thousands of Russian worshipers, but my heart bursts with exasperation when a single chifut (zhid) [Jew] arrives duty-free.…” Held in such disparagement, [Jewish visitors] console themselves with the view of Zion and with the steadfast hope for a King-Savior! The permanent residents of Jerusalem are thought to be around thirteen thousand, of whom the large part are Arabs who believe in the Muslim faith;51 among them, however, are some Christians. These persons, on the whole, are quite poor and live on alms from Greek and Catholic monasteries. All of the town administration is in the hands of the Turks. We noted above that Jerusalem is under the jurisdiction of the pasha of Damascus [and Acre]; the duty from pilgrims for access to the Holy Sepulcher belongs to the pasha … [but] is collected by his mütevelli.52 This odd arrangement is highly detrimental to European monks, since it exposes them to a double oppression and undermines the entreaty of consuls who reside in Acre and Jaffa. The mütesellim is appointed from Damascus, and the mullah (supreme judge) directly from Constantinople: the latter enjoys great respect.

50

  The outbreak of the Greek War of Independence against the sultan strained Russo-Ottoman diplomatic relations, disrupted Russia’s trade in the Black Sea and Levant, and greatly reduced the numbers of Russian pilgrims making the journey to Palestine during the ensuing conflict in the 1820s. On the larger issue of Russia and the Greek rebellion, including the friction in Russo-Ottoman relations, see my Russian Society and the Greek Revolution (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1994). 51

  Dashkov claims in his note that it was impossible to verify the accuracy of this estimate, because “in all of Turkey there are neither birth records nor a poll-tax census.” Asali (“Jerusalem under the Ottomans,” 220 n. 18) and Peters (Jerusalem, 564–65) cite a population figure of twelve thousand for Jerusalem in 1806; thus, Dashkov’s approximation of thirteen thousand in 1820 may very well be correct. 52   Dashkov clarifies this statement in his footnote: “We were told that the pasha [of Damascus] and Acre receives these revenues in his capacity as guardian of the central mosque in the town of Ramleh, which is under his direct authority, and that the land near the Church of the Resurrection belongs to [the mosque].”

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Before leaving this memorable land, we wanted to see the Jordan River and the Dead Sea. We knew that in summer predatory Arabs migrate with their flocks from the river to the mountaintops and that the road is less dangerous than in spring. We were also assured of this by the esteemed archbishop of Petra, who had recently returned from his diocese, but he advised that we request escorts from the Turkish authorities. Everything was arranged as we wished. On 7 September, we were met by several persons from the mütesellim’s guard, including his chief of police, all on magnificent horses. [Also accompanying us] were a monastic dragoman and two sheiks from the Arab tribes that had migrated beyond the Jordan River. Waiting until the intense midday heat had passed, we set out on the road near Gethsemane, on the right-hand side of the Mount of Olives; in the evening we stopped to rest at a well outside an abandoned caravanserai. Here, three or four months before our arrival, a young Englishman, who had no one with him except a manservant and a janissary, had been robbed. Defending himself stubbornly, he wounded one of the brigands with a saber and as punishment received the exact same wound from them: an example of justice, worthy of these primitive sons of nature [dikie syny prirody]! From there we traveled across slopes and ravines to a large plain surrounding Jericho, and by midnight we reached the pitiful remains of this once renowned town. The local aga [title for a minor military or administrative official] amicably ordered us to his residence—a tower, where peasants with their herds seek shelter from rapacious forays. [Our] supper and lodging were on the overhead landing under the open sky. At dawn everything around us came to life: the escorts hastened to saddle the horses, while we marveled at the lovely views from our lofty bedroom. Trees and shrubs turned green in the valley, [and] wild boars roamed cultivated fields all the way to huts. On the other side of the Jordan River, a large forest cast dark shadows; and directly in front of us, between two rows of mountains, the Dead Sea brilliantly reflected the rays of the rising sun. Legends of sacred antiquity framed a picture of rural life. A majestic Arab, a descendant of Ishmael, half-naked, with a long gun across the shoulders, drove goats and sheep to pasture near the stream made famous by the miracle of the prophet Elijah; others dug garden beds, perhaps at the spot where Rahab’s house stood and where the Levites carried the Ark of the Covenant during the destruction of Jericho.… While leaving the town, we came across women walking with earthenware pitchers on their heads to fetch water, [wearing] dark blue, loose-fitting garments, and with veils folded back; our approach did not alarm them. One word, hadji (pilgrim), satisfied the curiosity of everyone and put an end to any questions. The broad plain separating the Jericho oasis from the Jordan River resembles the bottom of a sea forsaken by the waves; tamarinds, which ordinarily grow along brooks, and prickly blackthorn can be seen here and there near sandy knolls. A great many monasteries and skity (eremitoria graciosa) [pious hermitages] were located in this wilderness during the days of Christian rule; traces of them are barely visible today. The site of the Savior’s baptism, according to the Greeks, is five or six versts

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from the ruins of the cloister of St. Gerasimos:53 upon reaching it, we descended a precipitous bank, with reeds and small shrubs scattered below, and waded to the opposite, more sloped shore. The upper reaches of the Jordan lie at the foot of the wooded Hermon and Anti-Lebanon mountains: from there the river courses southward in a straight line, passes through Lake Tiberias (Gennesaret), and, like a chain, connects it to the Dead Sea. In summer this celebrated river is no wider than ten sazhens [around 21 meters]54 and of medium depth, but it flows with remarkable swiftness along the stony bottom; when the snows of Lebanon begin to melt, it runs twice as fast. We bathed in [the river] and then, following custom, filled our chotry (flat traveling utensils) with some of its turbid but pleasant water.55 Worshipers who are not satisfied with this [ritual] also soak sheets here and are then supposed to use them as a burial shroud. The brooks flowing into the Jordan for the most part dry up in the hot weather; the surrounding sands are completely parched. [The river’s] estuary is marked on the surface of the Dead Sea by a long streak—as if the waters, sacred from earliest times, petrify when they join the accursed waves of the lake that inundated Sodom and Gomorrah. In the past people thought that [the river] continued its course underground and merged with the Nile in Egypt or the Pharro [Euphrates] in Syria.56 … But along with other proof refuting this opinion, we know from the evidence of eyewitnesses that the Dead Sea rises and falls depending on the rise and fall of the Jordan. The river bends to the left not far from the estuary, and only the tops of shrubs reveal its direction; we set out straight ahead, without any road, along shifting sand snow-white from its coat of salt. The heat was unbearable. The sun glowed in the impenetrable scorching sky as at sunset. On one side, the range of Arabian mountains—a steep wall without distinct peaks, without teeth and ridges—extends along the lake like an immeasurable border. On the other, by the magical play of nature, the chalky hills display pitched tents, small fortresses, and towers adorned with cornices. Everything here is unlike any other place on earth. Even in the plains of the Sahara, the proximity of water changes the aspect of nature: moisture penetrates the desiccated gravel and blankets it with green grass; the putrid air becomes pure; living creatures find refuge in palm groves; and the barren desert is transformed into a flowering oasis—the image of paradise. On the contrary, the environs of the Dead Sea are desolate and deprived of any vestiges of life: no coolness or freshness; no wild animals, birds, or plants; shriveled trees, uprooted along the bank, washed ashore by a wave 53

  St. Gerasimos, a fifth-century hermit, founded a monastery near the Jordan River; attacked on many occasions by Bedouin tribes, the cloister was finally abandoned in the sixteenth century. 54

 A sazhen is the equivalent of around 2.133 meters.

55

  According to Dashkov, “this water did not taste salty, as Chateaubriand reports, though we were at the Jordan River at roughly the same time of the year. Lying nearly still, the water becomes completely limpid and a darkish silt covers the bottom of [our] utensils.” 56

  Pharro is most likely a corruption of al-Furat, Arabic for Euphrates. Dashkov draws his information from the research of German geographer Ritter (see above, n. 25).

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from the eastern edge or perhaps by the Jordan during a flood. The water is clear, but saturated with bitter salts. It is difficult to believe what Pococke57 and Chateaubriand heard from a monk and from some Bethlehem Arabs, that fish abound in [the sea]: the guides told us that even those approaching by chance from the river die immediately. The Dead Sea (in Arabic Bahr al-Lut, or the Sea of Lot) extends nearly seventy-five versts in length and about twenty versts in width; Seetzen surmises that its circumference can be traversed in a five-day journey.58 This most recent traveler, and as far back as Abbot Daniil who visited the Monastery of St. Sabas,59 collected fairly elaborate information on [the sea’s] southern tip, partly confirmed for us by inhabitants of Jerusalem who had traveled to Petra. It indeed terminates in a narrow bay, which in summer can be crossed by wading up to the knee. The strange sight of salt clumps, discarded by the lake, of course gave cause for the oft-repeated story of worshipers having seen the pillar [that had once been] Lot’s wife. As for the famous fruit of Sodom, no one agrees with the opinion of Chateaubriand. The blackened, bitter seeds from the small lemons he found do not resemble ashes, and on the whole his account does not correspond with our notion of the deceptive apple, ripe on the outside, rotten inside—like the joys of the world, remarks one traveler. We spent the night again in Jericho and on the next day returned to Jerusalem along a new route, by way of the Monastery of St. Sabas. A deep ravine known as the Valley of Sorrow extends all the way from the stream of Kedron to the Dead Sea: along [the ravine’s] parched bottom we approached the cloister, built with terraces on a terrifying steep slope, and climbed upward, quaking involuntarily at each turn. The entire structure is enveloped by high walls and looks more like a fortified castle than a sanctuary for peaceful monks. Following the abbot along steps carved into the stone, we venerated the relics of the holy fathers, persecuted by infidels, and the tomb of St. Sabas; we saw the cave of this devout toiler and the date palm tree he himself had planted. At the highest point stand two four-cornered turrets used by the monks as watchtowers. The neighboring hills are hollowed out with a great many caves where nearly ten thousand anchorites once lived. [The monks] also showed us the opening, from which they distribute bread daily to Arabs who have migrated not far from here. A long time ago (so they maintain), 57

  English orientalist and traveler Richard Pococke (1704–65) visited the Near East in 1734– 40 and published Description of the East (1743–45). 58

  German traveler Ulrich Seetzen (1767–1811) toured Palestine in 1806, the same year as Chateaubriand. Excerpts from Seetzen are in Peters, Jerusalem, 544–45, 550–56, 564–72, 581–82. 59

  Abbot Daniil visited many of the holy sites in Palestine in the early twelfth century and authored the earliest extant Russian pilgrimage account of Jerusalem. Daniil spent over a year at the monastery founded by St. Sabas (439–532), a charismatic hermit and one of the most influential figures in the development of monasticism in Palestine. On Daniil and St. Sabas, see Stavrou and Weisensel, Russian Travelers to the Christian East, 1–5; Peters, Jerusalem, 162–63, 263–67, 313–14; and Joseph Patrich, Sabas, Leader of Palestinian Monasticism: A Comparative Study in Eastern Monasticism, Fourth to Seventh Centuries (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1995).

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Greek emperors assigned this tribe to the monastery for service, which explains why they received food from it: nowadays, however, they demand it with threats, as though it were tribute that belongs to them; mothers bring newborn infants to the opening and take leftovers for them. In the event of a quarrel with the monks, these half-primitive Muslims [poludikie musul´mane] lay siege to [the monastery] and cut off communication with Jerusalem. While visiting the monasteries of Palestine, we did not forget to examine their libraries—although the lack of success of our investigations on Mount Athos gave us little hope for here. The patriarchate has some manuscripts: but all are prayer-books, Lives of the Fathers, and works of the church fathers. Official documents, relating to the customs of the Greeks, were sent to Constantinople a long time ago; other records we saw are interesting only because they supplement the sad picture of abuses endured by the Christians of Jerusalem. On 14 September, the day of the Exaltation of the Cross, we venerated for the last time the Lord’s Tomb and all the sacred objects in the great church. The archbishop of Gethsemane celebrated the liturgy at Golgotha; later a ceremonial procession began from the Greek Katholikon to the grotto of St. Helen. The hierarch held upright the silver Crucifix that contained part of the Life-giving tree [cross]; behind him the procession carried banners, crosses, icons; people covered the steps of the staircases with green branches and flowers. During the service the symbol of salvation was thrice raised at the very place of its discovery. On the same day, we bid farewell to the gracious episcopal deputies and, hiring escorts from the mütesellim for the journey to Acre, left the Holy City.…

Alexander Lycurgus: An Ecumenical Pioneer Josef L. Altholz†

In 1837 the Patriarch of Constantinople did not know what an archbishop of Canterbury was, and could not understand it even when he was told.1 This epitomizes the relationship of Anglicanism and Orthodoxy at that time: lack of contact,2 lack of knowledge, lack of understanding. This was about to change. The inspiration for the change came from within the Church of England, specifically the Tractarian movement and its High Church or Anglo-Catholic successors. Their ecclesiology, centered on the doctrine of the apostolic succession of bishops, gave rise to a “branch theory” of the Church Catholic, with three episcopally-governed branches, Anglican, Roman Catholic, and Eastern Orthodox. Although the original Tractarians themselves showed little interest in the Orthodox churches,3 they would inspire a movement for intercommunion or reunion. Much of the story of this movement reads as a series of eager overtures from Anglicans meeting with cool responses from the Orthodox. It began with an extreme and eccentric Tractarian, William Palmer of Magdalen College, Oxford, who went to Russia in the early 1840s seeking to be admitted to Orthodox communion while remaining in the Anglican Church; the Holy Synod took this seriously enough to enter into lengthy discussions before denying his request.4 Palmer entered into an extensive 1

  Henry R. T. Brandreth, “The Church of England and the Orthodox Churches in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,” in Anglican Initiatives in Christian Unity: Lectures Delivered in Lambeth Palace Library, 1966, ed. E. G. W. Bill (London: S.P.C.K., 1967), 19–39. 2

  In 1815 the points of contact were chaplaincies maintained by the British Embassy in St. Petersburg, the Russia Company in Kronstadt, and the Levant Company at Constantinople (Pera), Smyrna, and Aleppo. In that year the British Crown acquired the Ionian Islands, where there was a Greek Orthodox population. The independence of Greece brought a chaplain there. On the Orthodox side, the Russian embassy had a chaplain with the rank of archpriest, and there was a growing Greek colony in London with a church. 3

  John Henry Newman visited the Ionian Greek churches on his Mediterranean tour in 1832– 33, but was unimpressed. See The Letters and Diaries of John Henry Newman, 3: New Bearings, January 1832 to June 1833 (London: T. Nelson, 1979), 180–81. 4

  I am indebted to my student Anne Fredrickson, whose honors thesis was “The Anglican Crisis of Identity: The Case of William Palmer, 1811–1879” (University of Minnesota, 2000). Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 127–35.

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correspondence with the Pan-Slavist and lay theologian A. S. Khomiakov, evoking from him a profound statement of the fundamental position of Orthodoxy.5 A more serious student of Orthodoxy was John Mason Neale, who wrote voluminously on the history and liturgiology of the Eastern churches.6 In 1864 there was founded the Eastern Churches Association to enlighten Englishmen about the Orthodox and the Eastern churches about Anglicanism, and some of its members traveled to the Near East to make contact with Orthodox clergy.7 A committee of the Convocation of the Church of England met from 1863 to consider the question of intercommunion with the Orthodox; and there was an occasional stately correspondence between the archbishop of Canterbury and the patriarchs.8 Some of these efforts sought personal intercommunion, in practice the right of Anglicans traveling in Orthodox countries to receive Orthodox communion; others sought actual reunion between the two communions. They obtained neither, but in the process they discovered the difficulties in the way of a favorable result. Many of these were specific doctrines or practices on which the Orthodox insisted but which Anglicans could not accept. The invariable objection concerned the credal doctrine of the Procession of the Holy Spirit, whether from the Father alone, as in the words of the original Nicene Creed on which the Orthodox insisted, or from the Father “and the Son” (Filioque), which the Western Church (and consequently the Anglicans) had added. There were numerous other points, but these varied and might admit of allowability under the Orthodox concept of “economy”; the Filioque always remained an Orthodox objection.

Palmer pursued his quest for intercommunion with the Orthodox until 1855, when he converted to Rome. 5

  W. J. Birkbeck, Russia and the Eastern Church during the Last Fifty Years (London: Rivington, Percival, 1895; repr., 1969) contains the correspondence and Khomiakov’s Essay on the Unity of the Church, itself reprinted several times.

6

  The most relevant study is Leon Litvack, John Mason Neale and the Quest for Sobornost (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994). Neale was more than a pioneer of reunion: he was a student of church architecture and a liturgiologist and writer of hymns, including some translations of Greek hymns included in the Anglican hymn book Hymns Ancient and Modern. 7

  The E.C.A. published a useful series of Occasional Papers. There were two other societies with ecumenical interests: the Anglo-Continental Society, Low rather than High Church, interested primarily in foreign Protestants; and the Association for the Promotion of the Unity of Christendom, extremely High Church, based on the branch theory but interested mainly in the Roman Catholics. 8

  In 1841 Archbishop Howley wrote to reassure the patriarchs that the new Anglo-Prussian bishopric in Jerusalem would not proselytize among the Orthodox. In 1867 Archbishop Logley sent the patriarchs the encyclical of the first Lambeth Conference of Anglican bishops. In 1869 Archbishop Tait communicated the desire of convocation for discussions on intercommunion. The patriarchs’ 1870 replies intertwine these earlier contacts with the visit of Alexander Lycurgus.

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But behind these formal points of difference lay a more fundamental (and less easily understood) problem, in the very concept of Orthodoxy. The Orthodox had maintained their faith unchanged from the first seven Ecumenical Councils notwithstanding the pressures of heretical emperors and Muslim conquerors; they were in fact orthodox and conscious of it. This was behind their objection to the Filioque: they literally would not add a word to the creed defined at the first council and confirmed by others. They knew that Orthodoxy was the true Church, and that there was only one true Church. This concept of the essential unity of the Church had been elaborated by Khomiakov under the Slavonic term sobornost. If the Church is one, there cannot be branches; this annihilated the branch theory, although High Anglicans could not accept this. Reunion required that Anglicans accept the principles of Orthodoxy; individual intercommunion might be negotiable, though unlikely. But Anglicans persisted in the quest for both. Statements of the Orthodox position were almost invariably responses to Anglican initiatives; the Orthodox almost never initiated feelers of their own. Some Orthodox students were sent to German universities, the most advanced of their time, where they learned about Lutheran or Reformed Protestantism; they had no means of learning the peculiar place of Anglicanism in the non-Roman Western spectrum. To this there was one exception, and not a helpful one. A Greek professor of theology, Nicholas Damalas, spent three years in London and published a book in 1867 on the relations of the Anglican Church to the Orthodox, advancing a theological red herring by claiming that a statement in the Thirty-nine Articles that the ancient patriarchates had erred was an insuperable objection to union.9 More helpful was the Russian chaplain in London, Archpriest Eugène Popoff, who assisted the Convocation committee on intercommunion.10 And an emissary of the Eastern Churches Association obtained a statement from a Greek bishop sympathetic to the project of reunion.11

9

  Nicholas Zernov, Orthodox Encounter: The Christian East and the Ecumenical Movement (London: J. Clarke, 1961), 144. The nineteenth article (Zernov says the twenty-first) has the incidental remark that “the Churches of Jerusalem, Alexandria, and Antioch have erred.” The Thirty-nine Articles are the official confessional statement of Anglicanism, but binding only on the clergy. Damalas’s argument was not followed up until it resurfaced around the turn of the century, again to disappear. The Russians had presented to Palmer forty-four errors in the Thirty-nine Articles; he agreed that they were errors but denied that they were found in the Articles.

10

  Noted in The Report on the Resolutions of the Bonn Conference of 1875, by the Committee on Inter-communion with the Orthodox Eastern Churches (London: Oxford, 1876), 11. The spelling of Popoff’s name was his own.

11

  George Williams, ed., Occasional Paper of the Eastern Churches Association. No. IV. A Letter from the Most Reverend Gregory of Byzantium, Metropolitan of Chios, on the Project of Union between the Anglican and the Orthodox Church of the East (London: Batty Bros., 1867). Gregory found that Anglicans agreed with the Orthodox “much more than Romanism or Protestantism” (9). Williams also met with patriarchs who suggested the appointment of delegates to confer on intercommunion.

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So matters stood when Alexander Lycurgus appeared on the scene. Born in 1827, he was initially educated at Athens. Clearly destined for higher things in the church, he was sent to Germany, where he studied from 1851 to 1858 at several universities. He thus came to know continental Protestantism but not Anglicanism. He returned to become a professor of theology at Athens, being ordained priest in 1862. In 1866 he was chosen archbishop of Syros and Tenos in the Cyclades. In 1869 Lycurgus was selected by the synod of the autonomous Church of Greece to visit England. The occasion was the consecration of a new church in Liverpool, with visits to the existing congregations in London and Manchester. Lycurgus seems to have been chosen for his general knowledge of the West, based on his studies in Germany; the synod made no reference to contacts with the Church of England. It was his own idea to use the occasion to learn about the Anglican Church with a view to reunion.12 The Greek Synod must have informed the patriarch of Constantinople about the planned visit, because it became known to the English through the chaplain at Constantinople, C. G. Curtis, who was also a corresponding secretary of the Anglo-Continental Society. The society, which was chiefly interested in continental Protestantism, did contact Lycurgus during his visit and presented him with books about Anglicanism.13 But it was the High Church Eastern Churches Association which “made the most of the occasion.”14 It arranged for Archbishop A. C. Tait of Canterbury to designate one of its most active members, Rev. George Williams, as the official guide for Lycurgus in an extensive tour of the Church of England, with visits to many representative clergy and eminent laity. Lycurgus arrived in Liverpool on 22 December 1868; he duly consecrated the church and visited the Manchester and London Greek communities. But almost from the first his tour was taken over by Williams in a manner which both surprised and pleased the archbishop. He was put through a round of interviews, meetings, and dinners. He was especially impressed by being invited to dinner at the house of the prime minister, W. E. Gladstone, himself a High Church reunionist, with whom he later corresponded. He was presented to Queen Victoria. He received doctorates from both Oxford and Cambridge. He toured Westminster Abbey with Dean Stanley as his guide. He met several bishops, most notably Christopher Wordsworth of Lincoln, who gave him an honored place at a service which he attended. He addressed both the Eastern Churches Association and the very High Church Association for the Promotion of the Unity of Christendom. The theological high point of Lycurgus’s visit came on 4 February 1870, with a conference at Ely at the palace of the bishop, Harold Browne, an eminent theologian and a patron of the Anglo-Continental Society. Among the Anglicans were the secretary of the society, Frederick Meyrick, who took notes, Williams, who translated, 12

  Biographical details are from F[rances] M. F. Skene, The Life of Alexander Lycurgus, Archbishop of the Cyclades (London: Rivingtons, 1877). Skene’s informant was Lycurgus’s niece, with whom he corresponded extensively. 13

 Ibid.

14

  Brandreth, “The Church of England and the Orthodox Churches,” 33.

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and H. P. Liddon, who represented the leading figure of the High Church party, E. B. Pusey. There was a full and frank discussion of all points of difference. Lycurgus went further than any previous Orthodox discussant (and nearly any later one) in conceding that these differences—except for the Filioque—presented no necessary bar to unity. Even transubstantiation, which the Russians had told Palmer was as essential an issue as the Filioque, was to Lycurgus “not authoritatively settled.”15 The only point on which he insisted was rejection of the Filioque. “It is an essential point. … there cannot be unity without identity of creed.”16 The spirit in which Lycurgus dealt with these issues was shown in his interview with Archbishop Tait, which had been postponed due to Tait’s illness. Lycurgus “expressed himself so far satisfied with what he had heard from the other representatives of the Anglican Church,—especially the Bishops of Ely and Lincoln—on other points of controversy, that it was unnecessary to re-open those questions.” When Tait (who was not as enthusiastic for reunion as some others) asked him why the Orthodox insisted on rebaptizing (by trine immersion) those who had been baptized by the Anglican mode of “affusion” or sprinkling, Lycurgus “admitted its validity as conveying the Grace of Regeneration” but considered it so irregular as to justify repetition.17 Lycurgus’s visit to England was a breakthrough in Anglican-Orthodox relations. To the English, it revealed a church indubitably catholic which differed on a few essential points but which had the great merit of not being Roman Catholic (this was the year in which Papal Infallibility became dogma). Lycurgus was able to present Orthodoxy in a manner to which Anglicans could respond favorably. For his part, Lycurgus was overwhelmed by the enthusiastic welcome he had received. In a report which he prepared for the patriarch of Constantinople, whom he visited on his way home, he stated that the English people had manifested “towards our Eastern Orthodox Church extraordinary, and to me unexpected, feelings of honour and respect.” The Anglican Church had “developed a particular feeling of sympathy and love for our Orthodox Church.” He recognized the key role of the High Church in this development. What he had learned from visiting England was something he had not known in Germany: “in this, the Anglican Church, there existed an Ecclesiastical Order, totally different from the other Protestant Sects, and in conformity with the Primitive Church.” There was a strong desire at least for “a friendly approximation” (he cited Gladstone in favor of this), which would consist in “the recognition by each Church of the other as a Christian community … and in the exhibition, from time to time, of proofs of mutual love, by intercommunication between the Bishops of both Churches, and by the grant

15

  George Williams, ed., Occasional Paper of the Eastern Churches Association No. XIV. A Collection of Documents relating chiefly to the visit of Alexander Archbishop of Syros and Tenos to England in 1870 (London: Batty Bros., 1872), 20. The report of the conference was prepared by Meyrick, a moderate Evangelical and anti-Roman controversialist. 16

  Ibid., 16. But Pusey, to whom Liddon reported, was “crushed” by the rejection of the Filioque: “it would take from me my conception of God” (ibid., 24). 17

  Ibid., 4–5.

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of certain simple privileges to the members.”18 (The latter referred not to communion but to baptism and burial.) The patriarch of Constantinople was impressed by the warmth of the welcome which Lycurgus had received in England. Replying in the summer of 1870 to a letter which Tait had sent him in 1869, the patriarch thanked the archbishop for the kindness with which Lycurgus had been received. The letter also conceded to Tait a privilege which he had requested, that Anglicans dying while traveling in the East might receive an Orthodox Christian burial. This interburial turned out to be the nearest that the two churches ever came to intercommunion. It is tempting to attribute this to Lycurgus’s visit and report, but it was a matter which had to be negotiated among the several patriarchates and churches even while Lycurgus was in England. Nevertheless, Patriarch Gregory used language which William Palmer would have appreciated: “we are as branches growing together of the one tree planted of heaven.” Other patriarchs, and the Greek Synod, in writing to Tait about the privilege of burial, also thanked him for English kindness to Lycurgus.19 Lycurgus earned the personal approval of the patriarch of Constantinople, who was to involve him as a consultant in 1873 in the condemnation of the separatist Bulgarian Church.20 Lycurgus might never have participated in further efforts at reunion but for another event which was happening at the time of his visit to England: the first Vatican Council, which in 1870 defined the dogma of Papal Infallibility. Both the archbishop of Canterbury and the patriarchs protested against the council and its dogma, drawing attention to the similarities of their two communions. More immediately important was a reaction among German (and some other Continental) Roman Catholics, who refused to accept the new dogma, under the leadership of the church historian Ignaz von Döllinger, who was excommunicated in 1871. Many of the dissidents formed themselves into what they called the Old Catholic Church, obtaining a bishop in 1873.21 Though few in numbers, the Old Catholics found themselves in an excellent position to bridge the Anglican and Orthodox communions, sharing their common episcopacy, adherence to the early councils and rejection of Roman innovations. Döllinger, who independently of the issue of Infallibility had an interest in reunion, proceeded to take advantage of this bridge position to raise the issue of church 18

  This report was printed in Greek and English and republished in the Williams Collection of Documents. I quote from a copy in Lambeth Palace Library bound in Lambeth Conferences, vol. 170.

19

  This correspondence is in Lambeth Palace Library, Lambeth Conferences, vol. 170. Tait had reluctantly included the request for burial when pressed by the committee of convocation on intercommunion. Greeks in England already had reciprocity, for any baptized Christian may be buried by the Anglican Church, a function of its being a national church. 20

 Skene, Life, 113–17.

21   Döllinger did not himself join the Old Catholic Church which he had helped to form, regarding himself as a Roman Catholic priest who had been unjustly excommunicated. But he had moral authority among the Old Catholics, and his prestige and individual status gave him freedom of action in the matter of reunion.

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reunion from a new perspective, much larger than the tentative Anglican-Orthodox discussions of intercommunion. He gave a series of lectures on reunion in 1872 which, when published in translation, gave international circulation to the cause of reunion. He then called an international conference on reunion to meet at Bonn in 1874 under his presidency. This may be regarded as the beginning of what would in the twentieth century be called the ecumenical movement, and it has been described as “the first type of Faith and Order Conference” in Christian history.22 The largest contingent was Anglican, both British and American Episcopalians; there were Old Catholics and other Germans and Europeans. The Orthodox were represented by an obscure Greek professor and four Russians, the most prominent of whom was Dr. Janyschev, head of the St. Petersburg theological seminary. The conference promptly agreed on the principle of accepting the councils of the undivided Church of the first six centuries. But that immediately raised the question of the Nicene Creed and the Filioque. On this the Russians were adamant, and they had to agree to disagree. But agreement, or at least acceptance that disagreements were no bar to intercommunion, was reached on an astonishing number of other points among the episcopalian churches, Anglican, Old Catholic, and Eastern Orthodox. The only other insoluble question at that time was the invocation of saints. Döllinger planned a second Bonn Conference for 12–14 August 1875. He issued an open invitation, but he wrote privately to the theologians at Constantinople well in advance. It was this that brought Alexander Lycurgus to the conference, no doubt at the suggestion of the patriarch or his advisors, though all participants stressed that they were there solely as private individuals. He was one of two bishops (the other was Rumanian) in a more diverse Orthodox contingent, though Janyschev (not a bishop) seems to have taken the lead among them.23 The Anglican delegates were more numerous but theologically weaker and mostly unable to participate in discussions conducted in German, which the Easterners understood. The result was that the discussions focused on the concerns of the Orthodox, chiefly the Filioque, on which Döllinger was willing to accommodate them in the interest of reunion. Döllinger and the Westerners conceded, as they had in 1874, that the Filioque had been “irregularly” introduced into the Nicene Creed and ought not to be there. However, he had to deal with the fact that the doctrine of the Double Procession of the Holy Spirit expressed by the words “and the Son” was established in the beliefs of the Western churches and would not go away; he would have to minimize the differences of East and West on the subject so that the Orthodox would be able to tolerate the Western faith. He found a brilliant solution in a theological tour de force. He was able to show that St. John of Damascus, the last of the Greek Fathers of the Church, had made statements which, while denying that the Holy Spirit proceeded from the 22

  Owen Chadwick, “Döllinger and Reunion,” in Christian Authority: Essays in Honour of Henry Chadwick, ed. G. R. Evans (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), 316. The article provides the basis for this discussion of the 1874 conference.

23

  Chadwick does not note Lycurgus, mentioning only “Greeks from the Aegean” (ibid., 329). He notes the Romanian bishop only because of his long-windedness.

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Son, conceded to the Son a role in the manifestation of the Spirit.24 The Easterners, for whom St. John’s work was the principal textbook, could not resist this solution, which was embodied in the Resolutions passed by the conference:25 We accept the teaching of St. John Damascene on the Holy Ghost, as it is expressed in the following paragraphs, in the sense of the teaching of the ancient undivided Church. 1. The Holy Ghost issues out of the Father, as the Beginning, the Cause, the Source of the Godhead. 2. The Holy Ghost does not issue out of the Son, because there is in the Godhead but one Beginning, one Cause, through which all that is in the Godhead is produced. 3. The Holy Ghost issues out of the Father through the Son. 4. The Holy Ghost is the Image of the Son, who is the Image of the Father, issuing out of the Father and resting in the Son as His revealing power. 5. The Holy Ghost is the personal production out of the Father, belonging to the Son, but not out of the Son, because He is the spirit of the mouth of God declarative of the Word. 6. The Holy Ghost forms the link between the Father and the Son, and is linked to the Father by the Son. Agreement to this resolution was the closest anyone has ever come to resolving the question of the Filioque; it was a potentially decisive breakthrough. It could have paved the way to intercommunion, because the Orthodox dropped their other objections.26 Lycurgus agreed to the resolution and was cautiously optimistic.27 He began his return journey while drafting his report to the patriarch of Constantinople. And then—nothing. The Bonn Resolutions were never followed up. Indeed, direct discussions ceased for a decade between Anglicans and Orthodox, and the movement for intercommunion came to a standstill at least until the 1890s. We know why Döllinger, who had intended to call another Bonn Conference in 1876, did not do so. His personal position came under attack by J. J. Overbeck, a former Roman Catholic priest converted first to Anglicanism and then to Orthodoxy, 24

  St. John of Damascus (or Damascenus; ca. 675–749) is canonized by both East and West. Some consider his theology of the Holy Spirit to be weak. 25

  Report on the Resolutions of the Bonn Conference, 9–10.

26

  Invocation of saints was not discussed (perhaps because the issue had been raised by Anglicans only), and the question of apostolic succession of Anglican bishops had been laid to rest by Döllinger in 1874. 27

  Lycurgus denied “that the existence of the Spirit depends also on the Son,” as did all the Orthodox. But “finally Dr. Döllinger proposed as a compromise that the dogma of the Procession of the Holy Ghost was to be accepted in all essential points, as John of Damascus explained it. The proposal was accepted by everyone.… I hope the plan will not prove illusory” (Lycurgus to Gladstone, 3 September 1875, in Skene, Life, 152–53).

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who did not want Orthodox-Anglican intercommunion but sought to supplant the Anglican Church by a Western Orthodox Church.28 And the Old Catholic Church lost its initial momentum and became irrelevant when German Catholics rallied to their bishops who were being persecuted by Bismarck’s government in the Kulturkampf. We know why the Church of England did not follow through. The Bonn Resolutions were reviewed by Convocation’s Committee on Inter-Communion; St. John Damascene’s propositions were found to be acceptable or at least allowable; and a favorable report was submitted to Convocation in 1876, supported by speeches by bishops Browne and Wordsworth. But Convocation was engaged in discussions of revision of the Book of Common Prayer, a subject which Anglican clergy can debate interminably (and did until 1928). The report was never considered; it was quietly shelved when an explosion by Pusey in favor of the Filioque showed that the issue might be divisive.29 The Eastern Churches Association, which might have pushed the matter, had gone out of business under the mistaken impression that the American Episcopal Church would be more productive. We think we know why the Russians did not follow through. The Eastern Question erupted in 1876, shaking Russians out of their previous sympathy with the West. Meanwhile, Overbeck’s alternative of a Western Orthodox Church received some official favor.30 Nobody has even asked why the Greek Churches did not follow through with the Bonn Resolutions. The chief reason was a personal event little noticed at the time. While still on his return journey, Alexander Lycurgus, whose health had been precarious, died.31 There is no evidence that his report, which may not have been completed, was ever presented to the patriarch of Constantinople. With the death of Alexander Lycurgus, there was no longer a significant proponent of intercommunion among the Greek Orthodox. He had been an ecumenical pioneer, but without results. His two appearances on the scene, however promising at the time, proved to be isolated incidents.

28

  Chadwick, “Döllinger and Reunion,” 329, 331.

29   Pusey was indignant at the rejection of the Filioque, which he thought to have been the original Western form of the Nicene Creed and held even by some Eastern fathers. E. B. Pusey, On the Clause “And the Son,” in regard to the Eastern Church and the Bonn Conference (London: J. Parker, 1876). 30

  See Zernov, Orthodox Encounter, 145–46. The chaplain Popoff, who had cooperated with the committee on intercommunion, died in 1875, and was replaced by Eugene Smirnoff, who sympathized with Overbeck. Overbeck’s scheme was not dropped until 1884. 31

  For details, see Skene, Life, 127–38.

The Septuagint Challenge to Russian Old Testament Translation: Fault Lines in Fin-de-Siècle Russian Religious Culture Stephen K. Batalden

The earliest Greek version of the Old Testament, the Septuagint, is generally attributed to the Jewish community of third-century BCE Alexandria. That Alexandrian Jewish community, probably having lost their knowledge of Hebrew, arranged for translation of the Hebrew Bible into Greek for use in the synagogues. The translation’s title derived from the great sanhedrin of seventy-two members; thus, the text of the seventy, or “Septuagint.” After being rendered into the Hellenistic Greek of the Alexandrian Attic dialect, the Septuagint was corrected by the Patristic writer Origen and became an authoritative version of the Old Testament in the early church, despite exclusion of certain noncanonical or deuterocanonical Septuagint books from the early biblical canon. The Septuagint became the basic authority behind the Old Testament of the Eastern Church, even though Western translations, including Jerome’s Vulgate and the early modern English editions, would draw directly upon the Hebrew Masoretic tradition. Until the post–World War II discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, extant Septuagint editions predated most existing Hebrew manuscripts, and thus the Septuagint also served to illumine Hebrew textology. Despite its occasional misreading of the Hebrew original, its frequently inserted glosses, and its paraphrastic character, the Septuagint has retained its value for modern biblical criticism, not least of all because most of the New Testament quotations from the Old Testament were drawn from a Septuagint base text.1 Because of its function as the base text for much, though not all, of the Slavonic Old Testament, the Septuagint has carried a special authority within the Russian Orthodox Church. Yet, despite this traditional authority of the Septuagint for Slavonic textology, modern Russian biblical translation in the nineteenth century came to accept the Hebrew Masoretic text as its base. That acceptance led to one of the most contentious issues involving the modern Russian Bible. By the end of the nineteenth century, following final publication of an authorized Russian synodal edition (sinodal´nyi perevod) of the Old Testament, the issue of the Septuagint and its subordination to the Hebrew Masoretic text in modern Russian Bible translation came to reflect a 1

  See Emanuel Tov, The Text-Critical Use of the Septuagint in Biblical Research (Jerusalem: Simor, 1981); and Ernst Würthwein, The Text of the Old Testament: An Introduction to the Biblica Hebraica, trans. Erroll F. Rhodes, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994).

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 137–46.

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much deeper division, or fault line, running through the center of official Russian religious culture. The decision to use the ancient Hebrew text in modern Russian biblical translation was affected by two critical developments in Russian biblical textology of the nineteenth century. First, Russian biblical textology was directly impacted by Western scholarship, which by the nineteenth century uniformly accepted the Hebrew text as the authentic original text of the Old Testament. On the eve of the Russian Bible Society era (1812–26) the Commission on Ecclesiastical Schools brought to St. Petersburg and its Theological Academy two leading European Hebraists, Ignatius Fessler and Jean de Horn. These two orientalists became popular lecturers; Fessler would later be discharged in connection with charges of freemasonry.2 Nevertheless, by 1816, when a leading Scottish Hebraist, Ebenezer Henderson (1784–1858), was sent to Petersburg by the British and Foreign Bible Society to assist with the work of the Russian Bible Society’s Translations Subcommittee, he found Russian churchmen already well grounded in the study of Hebrew.3 Conforming to the British and Foreign Bible Society’s commitment to use of the Hebrew original in Old Testament translation, the Russian Bible Society specifically acknowledged the authority of the Hebrew text in the preface to its first Russian Psalter.4 The Hebrew text was also employed in preparation of the Russian Octateuch (the first eight books of the Old Testament, printed and left unbound in sheets at the time of the 1826 closure of the Bible Society).

2

  On Fessler and freemasonry, see A. N. Pypin, Issledovaniia i stat´i po epokhe Aleksandra I, 3: Obshchestvennoe dvizhenie v Rossii pri Aleksandre I (Petrograd: Izdatel´stvo “OGNI,” 1918), 318–25; and S. Tr., “Ignatii Avrelii Fessler,” Russkii biograficheskii slovar´ (St. Petersburg: Izdatel´stvo Imperatorskogo Russkogo Istoricheskogo Obshchestva, 1901), 59–60. On his career in Russia, see Jean de Horn, Mémoire sur ma carrière civile et militaire en Russie (London, 1843).

3

  On Henderson’s work in Russia, see his Biblical Researches and Travels in Russia; including a tour in the Crimea, and the passage of the Caucasus: With observations on the state of the Rabbinical and Karaite Jews, and the Mohammedan and pagan tribes, inhabiting the southern provinces of the Russian empire (London: J. Nisbet, 1826). For his evaluation of the young Russian Hebraist Gerasim Petrovich Pavskii as that “liberal and enlightened clergyman,” see Henderson to Bishop Frederick Münter, 20 September 1822, “Ny Kgl. Samling,” fol. 1698, Royal Library of Copenhagen.

4

  The first edition of the Russian Bible Society’s Psalter was published in 1822, Kniga Khvalenii ili Psaltir´ na rossiiskom iazyke (St. Petersburg: Nikolai Grech´). It contained a preface, “K khristoliubivomu chitateliu” (i–xi), signed by Metropolitan Serafim of Novgorod and St. Petersburg, Archbishop Filaret of Moscow, and Archbishop Simeon of Iaroslav. The preface noted the use of the Hebrew “original” alongside the Greek Septuagint, which it acknowledged as the textual base for the Slavonic Psalter. Examples are provided of cases in which the translation gave precedence to the Hebrew for purposes of clarity. Although not included in this first edition of the Russian Psalter, Psalm 151, which is found only in the Septuagint, is printed in all subsequent editions of the Bible Society’s Russian Psalter.

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The Western Hebraic scholarship of Fessler, von Horn, and Henderson would have been viewed simply as alien and external interventions had not Russia’s own Hebraists achieved international prominence in the decades following closure of the Russian Bible Society. The rise of Hebraic studies in Russia, which paralleled the development of oriental studies more broadly in the nineteenth century, served to reinforce the use of the Hebrew Masoretic text in modern Russian biblical translation. In the distinguished line of nineteenth-century Russian Hebraists, the names of four Petersburg scholars stand out: Gerasim Petrovich Pavskii, Vasilii Andreevich Levison, Daniil Avramovich Khvol´son, and Ivan Gavriilovich Troitskii, all of them instructors at the St. Petersburg Theological Academy. Gerasim Petrovich Pavskii completed the first full translation of the Russian Old Testament in an edition lithographed for use in his Hebrew courses at the St. Petersburg Academy in the 1830s. The underground circulation of that Russian Old Testament ultimately generated in the 1840s a broad-ranging investigation, the Pavskii Affair (delo Pavskogo), leading to the seizure and burning of 300 of the 490 lithographed copies of the Pavskii translation.5 Nevertheless, when Old Testament translation resumed in the 1850s, the Pavskii text (textus primus) of the Russian Old Testament, and the Hebrew textology it employed, served as an important point of departure for the work of Daniil Khvol´son, the distinguished orientalist and translator who, with Metropolitan Filaret (Drozdov) and Pavel Savvaitov, is most closely associated with the preparation of the final Synodal edition (sinodal´nyi perevod) of the Russian Old Testament (1861–75). In their appeal to Hebraic textological traditions of the West, Russian Old Testament translators were sheltered by Russia’s most prominent prelate of the nineteenth century, Metropolitan Filaret of Moscow. The attack against Russian Old Testament textology was enjoined at the time of the renewal of Russian biblical translation in the 1850s. At that time, the ecumenical question was raised over how such a translation would affect the relationship between the Russian Church and other Orthodox peoples of the Russian Empire and the wider Orthodox East. Initially, Metropolitan Filaret of Kiev posed the issue in such a way as to question the textological principles of Filaret Drozdov. The Kievan prelate, seeking to discredit earlier Russian Old Testament translations that had used a Hebrew Masoretic textual base, argued that Russian translation based upon the Hebrew Bible parted with the Orthodox textological tradition of the Slavonic Bible, grounded as it was upon the Greek Septuagint. But, that argument was quickly expanded to note that the ecumenical patriarch had earlier anathematized any comparable effort to render the Holy Scriptures into modern Greek. By engaging in modern Russian biblical translation, the Russian Church in the eyes of the Kievan prelate would be condoning the kind of activity that was elsewhere spurned within the Orthodox family. With respect to Orthodox Slavs, the argument was made that modern translation would effectively separate Russia from Slavic peo-

5

  On the Pavskii Affair, see S. K. Batalden, “Gerasim Pavskii’s Clandestine Old Testament: The Politics of Nineteenth-Century Russian Biblical Translation,” Church History 57 (1988): 486–98.

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ples (Ukrainians, Belarusians, Bulgarians, and others) who were joined to Russia through their common Slavonic and Greek biblical and Greek liturgical tradition.6 This opposition from Kiev met with a firm response from Metropolitan Filaret Drozdov of Moscow. On the matter of the Greek Septuagint, Metropolitan Filaret was as much opposed to the canonization of the Greek Septuagint as he was to the earlier attempt to canonize the Slavonic Bible. For the Moscow prelate, the Septuagint was an important textual base for the Old Testament, but it did not stand alone in that respect. Filaret Drozdov’s credibility on this issue of Old Testament textology was well known from his work, O dogmaticheskom dostoinstve i okhranitel´nom upotreblenii grecheskogo sedmidesiati tolkovnikov i slavenskogo perevodov sviashchennogo pisaniia (On the Dogmatic Merit and Preservative Utility of the Greek Septuagint and Slavonic Translation of Holy Scripture).7 Rather, Metropolitan Filaret argued that the Greek Septuagint did have a special place in the Eastern Church. But, since the Septuagint was itself a translation—the oldest extant translation from the Hebrew— the Hebrew textual tradition also needed to be embraced. For good or for ill, Filaret Drozdov’s effort to accommodate both textual traditions came to be reflected in the sinodal´nyi perevod by that characteristic use of variant Septuagint readings footnoted throughout the pages of the Russian Old Testament. In the years that followed publication of the Synodal Russian Old Testament in the 1870s, the continuing discussion of Hebrew and Septuagint textology constituted one small part of a sharply conflicted debate within late nineteenth-century Russian religious culture. By raising the wider issue of the Russian Church’s relation to the ecumenical patriarchate, the Kievan metropolitan also posed issues of a more transparently political character. What the archival record reveals is the straightforward clarity and candor of Filaret Drozdov’s responses. The distinguished Moscow metropolitan was known for his principled independence on matters involving Russian ties with the Orthodox East, often defending the Constantinople patriarchate’s position on such matters as Bulgarian Church autocephaly, despite strong pan-Slavic sentiment in Russia supporting the Bulgars. Yet, on the issue of modern Russian biblical translation, Filaret 6

  The position of the Kievan Metropolitan Filaret (Amfiteatrov) is identified in I. A. Chistovich, Istoriia perevoda Biblii na russkii iazyk, 2d ed. (St. Petersburg: Tip. M. M. Stasiulevicha, 1899), 270–71. The conflict between the two prelates, Metropolitan Filaret of Kiev and Metropolitan Filaret of Moscow, is amply documented in the secondary literature. In addition to the standard Chistovich history, see also Serdechnyi privet: Sbornik statei, izdannykh S.-Peterburgskoi dukhovnoi akademiei v pamiat´ piatidesiatiletiia sviatitel´skogo sluzheniia vysokopreosviashchenneishego Isidora Mitropolita Novgorodskogo, S.-Peterburgskogo i Finliandskogo (St. Petersburg: Tipografiia F. Eleonskogo, 1884). For the manuscript record of the exchange between the two prelates, see “Sbornik statei o raznykh predmetakh,” Rukopisnyi otdel, Rossiiskaia natsional´naia biblioteka (RORNB) f. S.-Peterburgskaia dukhovnaia akademiia, d. #A.I.80, 381 ll. 7   This treatise of Metropolitan Filaret (Drozdov), originally prepared for the debate over canonization of the Slavonic Bible and Greek Septuagint in 1845, was subsequently published in Pribavleniia k tvoreniiam sviatykh ottsov v russkom perevode 32 (1858): 2nd pagination, 452–84.

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of Moscow saw no need to secure the approval of the ecumenical patriarchate, whose opposition to demotic translation was well known. The metropolitan noted that, even as the ecumenical patriarch was not consulted on Russian translations of the Greek church fathers, so also no prior consultation was called for in the case of biblical translation. Acutely aware of the degenerated condition of the ecumenical patriarchate, Filaret argued that the Greek hierarchy did not have the necessary information on which to base a judgment regarding Russian biblical translation. Concluding his response on the issue, Filaret argued that the Constantinople patriarchate was dependent upon an unbelieving government (the Ottoman Empire) that could depose it at will, and that therefore the Greek hierarchy lacked the full church freedom necessary to judge the issue of Russian biblical translation.8 Metropolitan Filaret of Moscow firmly believed that the issue of modern Russian biblical translation was not a matter for Constantinople to decide. The controversy over the Russian Old Testament and its employment of the Hebrew Masoretic text did not diminish following Metropolitan Filaret’s death and the ensuing publication of the full Synodal Russian Bible in 1875. Despite the authority of the Moscow metropolitan and the achievements of Russian Hebraists of the nineteenth century—a tradition of Hebraic studies that would continue in the work of Ivan Troitskii and Pavel Konstantinovich Kokovtsev (1861–1942) well into the twentieth century—the Russian Old Testament generated a decidedly mixed reaction. It is in this reaction to the Russian Old Testament and the defense of the Greek Septuagint that we find the real fault lines in official religious culture of fin-de-siècle Russia. Immediately following the 1875 publication of the Russian Old Testament, the issue was enjoined by one of the most ardent defenders of the Greek Septuagint, Bishop Feofan (Govorov) of Vladimir. Writing in the pages of Dushepoleznoe chtenie, Feofan maintained that the Septuagint was the only acceptable ancient Orthodox text, having been translated flawlessly from the original Hebrew Masoretic text.9 Responding to the problem of obscure passages in the Slavonic and Septuagint editions of the Old Testament, the bishop argued that the obscurities were present in the original text and merely confirmed that God’s divine intent is often beyond the understanding of mere mortals. What is notable also in Bishop Feofan’s writing is an explicitly anti-Semitic line of argumentation that would resurface in the critiques of many, though not all, defenders of Septuagint and Slavonic textology. His argument, which was highly dubious then, and altogether unsustainable in the post–Dead Sea Scrolls era, was that there had been intentional Jewish corruption of post-Septuagint redactions of the 8

  Moscow Metropolitan Filaret’s response on this issue of the Greek patriarchate is missing from the Chistovich history but can be found in “Konfidentsial´naia zametka o raznoglasii vzgliadov dvukh mitropolitov Filaretov … o perevode Sv. Pisaniia,” ROGPB f. S.-Peterburgskaia dukhovnaia akademiia, d. #A.I.80, ll. 111–111ob. 9

  Feofan (Govorov), “Po povodu izdaniia sviashchennykh knig vetkhogo zaveta v russkom perevode,” Dushepoleznoe chtenie, no. 11 (1875): 42–352. See also the discussion of Bishop Feofan’s position in Arthur Christian Repp, “In Search of an Orthodox Way: The Development of Biblical Studies in Late Imperial Russia” (Ph.D. diss., University of Illinois at Chicago, 1999), 137–39.

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Hebrew Masoretic text in order thereby to expunge the more explicit references to Christ in the Old Testament prophetic books found in the Slavonic text. While the charges of Bishop Feofan were immediately and convincingly refuted by one of Gerasim Pavskii’s own former seminary students, Pavel Ivanovich Gorskii-Platonov, the issue of anti-Semitism had become a central weapon in the debate over the Russian Old Testament.10 This anti-Semitic theme in Russian biblical text criticism—a consistent agenda throughout the remainder of the imperial period and continuing through the twentieth century—increasingly blinded the more conservative nationalist side of official Russian religious culture, creating a fissure between official nationalist religious culture and those scholars, lay and clerical, who appealed to a more open Orthodox tradition. In this critical divide, the issue of the Septuagint became a crucial litmus test. To understand how it was that the Russian Old Testament came to divide Russian Orthodox religious culture in the last half of the nineteenth century, it is necessary to review the painful background to this division, set as that was in the highly controversial issue of blood libel, specifically the “Saratov Affair.”11 In the 1850s, concurrent with the reopening of modern Russian biblical translation, the three most prominent St. Petersburg Hebraists and Russian Old Testament translators—Pavskii, Levison, and Khvol´son—came to share joint membership on a special commission convened in 1855 to investigate the allegation in Saratov that Jews had sacrificed Christian blood for ritual religious purposes. In the lengthy investigation that ensued, the three Hebraists came to the defense of Russian Jewry, fearlessly challenging the prejudicial charges levied against the local Jews of Saratov. The charge was blood libel—namely, that Jewish residents of Saratov had murdered two Christian children in the winter of 1852–53 for the purposes of ritual use of Christian blood in Jewish observances. The Ministry of Internal Affairs’ mishandling of the Saratov investigation eventually led to wildly irrational charges of wholesale kidnapping of boys. In the end, the Saratov prisons and police department jails were unable to hold all those arrested in the affair, with the result that private premises were rented for the incarceration of local residents. Incapable of containing the investigation, the ministry closed its proceedings in November 1853. In 1854, a special judicial commission was established in St. Petersburg under the presidency of Aleksandr Karlovich Giers to investigate the guilt or innocence of those charged in Saratov. One part of that judicial investigation required investigation “whether there

10

  P. I. Gorskii-Platonov, “Neskol´ko slov o stat´e preosviashchennogo episkopa Feofana: Po povodu izdaniia sviashchennykh knig vetkhogo zaveta v russkom perevode,” Pravoslavnoe obozrenie 3, 11 (1875): 506–07. 11

  S. K. Batalden, “Nineteenth-Century Russian Old Testament Translation and the Jewish Question,” in Kirchen im Kontext unterschiedlicher Kulturen: Auf dem Weg ins dritte Jahrtausend, ed. Kaarl Christian Felmy and Fairy von Lilienfeld et al. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 577–87.

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were any secret dogmas of Jews that might explain their use of Christian blood.”12 To investigate this matter of potential secret dogmas, Giers appointed a “special commission” composed of Khvol´son, Pavskii, Levison, and one of Pavskii’s former students, Fedor Sidonskii. In short, in 1855, on the eve of the reopening of modern Russian biblical translation, the major architects of the modern Russian Old Testament were chosen for their expertise in Hebraic studies in order to determine “whether in books or manuscripts anything could be found relating to the Jewish use of Christian blood for religious purposes.” The special commission determined, of course, that there was no documentary or other evidence whatsoever in the Hebrew tradition for the use of Christian blood in Jewish ritual. Although the Saratov affair ended disgracefully with Tsar Alexander II’s support of the 22–2 majority in the State Council to maintain two of the falsely charged Jews under arrest, one of the more positive outcomes of this special commission of Hebraists was Daniil Khvol´son’s landmark study O nekotorykh srednevekovykh obvineniiakh protiv evreev (Concerning some Medieval Accusations against Jews). Published in three subsequent Russian editions, as well as in German, the Khvol´son work became the most authoritative published challenge to blood libel of the nineteenth century.13 As Ronald Hsia has noted for Germany, so also in this instance modern Hebraic and Old Testament scholarship ultimately spearheaded the challenge to blood libel and anti-Semitism.14 In the years that followed, Khvol´son and the architects of modern Russian biblical translation would confront outspoken opposition from those whose defense of the Septuagint text frequently veiled deeper anti-Semitic sentiments. Among those, none was more ad hominem in his charges than the historian Nikolai Kostomarov (1817–85), who charged Khvol´son with “partiality toward Jews,” while renewing charges of Jewish use of Christian blood in ritual ceremonies. Khvol´son responded: Mr. Kostomarov alludes to my “patriotism” and speaks about my “partiality toward Jews.” Yes, I admit that I nourish an empathy for Jews … and I think that it is far more honest to defend those of my fellow race and my former religion from erroneous accusations than to slander them with various fabrications and with false representation of the most innocent facts. To be sure, 12

  For the specific charge given the judicial commission, see Iu. Gessen, “Saratovskoe delo,” Evreiskaia entsiklopediia (St. Petersburg: Izdatel´stvo Obshchestva dlia nauchnykh evreiskikh izdanii i Izdatel´stvo Brokgauz-Efron, 1914), 14: 2–8; also Gessen’s work Istoriia evreev v Rossii (St. Petersburg: Tipografiia L. Ia. Ganzburga, 1914); and P. Ia. Levenson, “Eshche o saratovskom dele,” Voskhod, no. 4 (1881): 163–78. 13

  D. A. Khvol´son, O nekotorykh srednevekovykh obvineniiakh protiv evreev: Istoricheskoe issledovanie po istochnikam (St. Petersburg: n.p., 1861). See also an expanded 1880 edition published in St. Petersburg (Tipografiia Tsederbauma i Gol´denbliuma). The German edition was published by J. Kauffmann Press in Frankfurt in 1901, Die Blutanklage und sonstige mittel-alterliche Beschuldigungen der Juden: Eine historische Untersuchung nach den Quellen. 14

  R. Po-chia Hsia, The Myth of Ritual Murder: Jews and Magic in Reformation Germany (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988).

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a defender of Jews cannot count upon the approbation of the majority who invariably throw in their lot with the slanderers of Judaism. But why does an honest man need such approbation? I hold true to my conscience in struggling for justice and for truth.15 The forceful message of Daniil Khvol´son and his fellow Old Testament translators effectively challenged prevailing nineteenth-century superstitions directed against Russian Jewry, and put racially motivated anti-Semitic superstitions on the defensive.16 In their reasoned appeal for understanding across racial, ethnic, and religious lines, these Orthodox scholars offered a profoundly ecumenical witness across the divide of fin-de-siècle Russian religious culture. In rare instances this divide within official Russian religious culture has yielded open-minded Russian biblical scholars whose critical textological insights were nevertheless combined with transparently exclusionary language with respect to Russian Jewry. This was the case of Nikolai Nikanorovich Glubokovskii, who published in 1911, the year of Khvol´son’s death, a Holy Synod tract opposing Jewish use of Christian names.17 While the Septuagint occasionally became a foil for anti-Semitic polemic in the contested debate over Russian Old Testament textology, there was another, quite different context in which Septuagint studies became a part of the development of independent historico-critical biblical textology in fin-de-siècle Russia. The foundation for this more serious scholarly study of the Septuagint was of course the discoveries of the German biblical critic and paleographer Konstantin von Tischendorf (1815–74) at St. Catherine’s Monastery on Mount Sinai. First in 1844, and then returning to Mount Sinai at Russian governmental expense in 1859, von Tischendorf unearthed and provided for the Russians separate parts of what would ultimately become the famous Codex Sinaiticus, the fourth-century AD Greek text of the Bible, including the earliest extant text of the Septuagint or Greek Old Testament. The magnificent facsimile edition of the Codex Sinaiticus published in St. Petersburg in 1869 served to stimulate serious scholarly study of the Septuagint, not only in Russia but throughout the world. 15

  D. A. Khvol´son, “Prilozhenie III: Otvet na zamechanie N. I. Kostomarova,” in Upotrebliaiut-li evrei khristianskuiu krov´? 3rd ed. (Kiev: Tipografiia Gubernskogo pravleniia, 1912), 77.

16

  Although Khvol´son’s impact was felt on several different levels, perhaps the most sensational immediate impact of his position was the extraordinaary apology of Ippolit Liutostanskii, a converted Catholic priest and student at the Moscow Theological Academy. Persuaded of the error of his own position, Liutostanskii issued in 1882 a remarkable defense of the Jews, entitled Sovremennyi vzgliad na evreiskii vopros, wherein he recants his former writings on the subject. See “Liutostanskii, Ippolit,” in Entsiklopedicheskii slovar´, 18: 265. 17

  N. N. Glubokovskii, Po voprosu o prave evreev imenovat´sia khristianskimi imenami (St. Petersburg: Sinodal´naia tipografiia, 1911). I am indebted to the Repp dissertation for unearthing this Glubokovskii work (“In Search of an Orthodox Way,” 207).

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By the close of the nineteenth century, two Russian translation projects came to be tied to this study of the Septuagint. The first featured the Russian prelate and Near East traveler who figured prominently in Russia’s acquisition of the Codex Sinaiticus, Bishop Porfirii (Uspenskii, 1804–85). Although published posthumously by the Holy Synod only in 1893, Porfirii Uspenskii’s translation of the Psalter was the first Russian edition ever to be translated exclusively from the Septuagint.18 Its publication by the synod reflected the open-ended debate that continued over Old Testament translation following publication of the sinodal´nyi perevod of the 1870s. Even more influential in that regard was the translation and critical scholarship of Pavel Aleksandrovich Iungerov (1856–1921). Unlike other biblical textologists who tended to center around St. Petersburg, Iungerov was a product of the Kazan´ Theological Academy, where he taught from the end of the 1870s. His landmark two-volume study of the Old Testament followed the basic outlines suggested by Metropolitan Filaret of Moscow—namely, that the Septuagint could at times serve as a corrective, but that the appropriate source for Old Testament translation was that used in Russian biblical translation, the Hebrew Masoretic original.19 Iungerov was sensitive, however, to the dogmatic interpretive importance of the Septuagint, and focused his energies particularly on the importance of the aprocrypha or non-canonical books for which the Septuagint remained the only source. Subjected to criticism from his colleague at the Kazan´ Academy, M. I. Bogoslovskii, a strident advocate of the Septuagint, Iungerov launched in 1907 an ambitious project to translate the entire Septuagint into modern Russian.20 By the time of Bogoslovskii’s death, the two scholars had completed translation of the prophetic and non-canonical books, as well as Genesis and Proverbs.21 In short, even Septuagint studies, which had all too frequently been used as a weapon of Orthodox “tradition” to denigrate Hebrew textology generally, 18   Psaltir´ v russkom perevode s grecheskogo Ep. Porfiriia (St. Petersburg: Sinodal´naia Tipografiia, 1893), 242 pp. See the edition in the Russian National Library in St. Petersburg, RNB #18.267.5.40. 19

  P. A. Iungerov, Obshchee istoriko-kriticheskoe vvedenie v sviashchennye vetkhozavetnye knigi (Kazan´: Tsentral´naia tipografiia, 1902), and Chastnoe istoriko-kriticheskoe vvedenie v sviashchennye vetkhozavetnye knigi (Kazan´: Tsentral´naia tipografiia, 1907). 20

  For the critique by Mikhail Ivanovich Bogoslovskii, see “Otzyv prof. M. I. Bogoslovskogo o sochinenii ordinarn. Professora P. A. Iungerova, pod zaglaviem: ‘Obshchee istoriko-kriticheskoe vvedenie v sviashchennye vetkhozavetnye knigi,’ rekomendovannom na premiiu pokoinogo preosviashen. mitropolita Moskovskogo Makariia,” Pravoslavnyi sobesednik 3, 9 (1907): 3–4. Iungerov credits Bogoslovskii with the inspiration for their joint project to translate the Septuagint. See P. Iungerov, “Professor Mikhail Ivanovich Bogoslovskii,” in Pamiati professora Mikhaila Ivanovicha Bogoslovskogo (Kazan´: Tsentral´naia tipografiia, 1916), 8–9. The Septuagint/Hebrew Masoretic debate between Bogoslovski and Iungerov is well treated in Repp, “In Search of an Orthodox Way,” 203–07. 21

  This is confirmed in Repp (“In Search of an Orthodox Way,” 207), who relies upon N. N. Glubokovskii’s Russkaia bogoslovskaia nauka v ee istoricheskom razvitii i noveishem sostoianii (Warsaw: Sinodal´naia tipografiia, 1928), 29.

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became elevated onto the plane of modern historical critical text studies in the years immediately prior to the Russian Revolution. What is remarkable in the history of the modern Russian Bible is how, by the beginning of the twentieth century, the fault line running through Russian Old Testament studies—a line dividing adherents of the Hebrew Masoretic text from strident defenders of the Greek Septuagint—had begun to be subsumed within a much larger debate over historical text criticism and the place of Orthodox tradition in that debate. Russian nationalists in their defense of the Septuagint clung to a patriotic textology (otechestvennaia tekstologiia). But, the advent of modern text criticism posed unique problems for modern Russian religious culture, and left a divided landscape on the eve of the Russian Revolution. Within the academies and the professoriate, the effort to defend the traditions of the Orthodox Church increasingly needed to be adjusted to take into account modern methods of biblical text studies. But there remained large segments in the Russian church where an exclusivist vision of Orthodox tradition, including at times explicitly anti-Semitic formulations, still held sway. For most of the seventy-five years of Soviet rule, that defining fault line within Russian religious culture was camouflaged by the crude manipulations of state authorities bent on destroying the religious culture itself. Today, even as debates swirl around ecumenism within Russian religious culture, the issue of authority in Russian religious culture continues to be arbitrated in part through the ongoing, and still largely unresolved, conflict over sacred texts and modern biblical criticism.22

22

  For one of the more interesting summary statements of this problem from an Orthodox perspective, see the essay published by the martyred Father Aleksandr Men´, “K istorii russkoi pravoslavnoi bibleistiki,” Bogoslovskie trudy 28 (1987): 272–89.

Russian Interpretations of Ernest Renan’s Life of Jesus Heather Bailey

Ernest Renan’s Vie de Jésus (Life of Jesus, 1863), dealing with the historical Jesus, the “central theological problem of the nineteenth century,”1 caused a tremendous uproar throughout Europe. Yet the significance of the first popular biography of Jesus Christ has not been fully appreciated. Upon publication the book was almost immediately translated into over a dozen languages, including Russian, and the French edition ran into thirteen printings in the first two years along with fifteen printings of a popular version that appeared in 1864.2 Renan treated his subject as authentically historical, and portrayed the Jesus of history as merely human, though the perfect ideal. Jesus’s great contribution to humanity was his consciousness of God as father. For Renan, Jesus’s God-consciousness is the true essence of Christianity. When Renan’s book first appeared, summarizing “in a single book the result of the whole process of German

For a fuller treatment of this subject, see Heather Bailey, Orthodoxy, Modernity, and Authenticity: The Reception of Ernest Renan’s “Life of Jesus” in Russia (Newcastle, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2008). This article is based on the author’s doctoral dissertation, “Ernest Renan’s ‘Life of Jesus’ and the Orthodox Struggle against the De-Christianization of Christ in Russia” (University of Minnesota, 2001). Research for this study was supported in part by the Regional Scholar Exchange Program, which is funded by the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs of the United States Information Agency (USIA), under the authority of the Fulbright-Hays Act of 1961 as amended, and administered by the American Council for International Education: ACTR/ACCELS. The opinions expressed herein are the author’s own and do not necessarily express the views of either USIA or the American Councils. Additional financial support was provided by a Doctoral Dissertation Special Grant from the University of Minnesota Graduate School, as well as by a grant from the McMillan Research Travel Fund. All translations are mine unless otherwise indicated. 1

  Theodore Ziolkowski, Fictional Transfigurations of Jesus (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1972), 36. Thousands of lives of Jesus were published in Europe during the nineteenth century. See Peter Fuller, Images of God: The Consolations of Lost Illusions (London: Chatto and Windus, 1985), 299.

2

 Ziolkowski, Fictional Transfigurations of Jesus, 37. The first Russian edition of Life of Jesus was translated by I. Monakov and published in Dresden in 1864. Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 147–55.

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criticism”3 for middle-class readers, his treatment shocked the broad reading public. As Sergei Bulgakov, one of Russia’s Marxist-turned-Orthodox religious philosophers put it, with his “merry, rollicking skepticism” and “aesthetic-religious garnish,” Renan substituted a cheap novel for the Gospel.4 Life of Jesus made deep inroads in Russian society between 1863 and 1917. Prohibition of the work by the Ecclesiastic Censorship Committee contributed to the success and popularity of the book, as was pointed out by everyone from literary figures such as Evgeniia Tur and Dostoevsky to concerned representatives of the Russian Orthodox Church. As Dostoevsky put it: Every banned idea immediately, as soon as it is banned, is placed on a pedestal by the very fact that it is forbidden. If Strauss and Renan had not been banned, for example, who would know about them in our country? Every banned idea is like that very petrol that they poured over the floors and the offices of the Tuillerie and set fire to before the conflagration.5 In many respects, Life of Jesus divided Russian public opinion between those who supported the traditional dogmatic teaching of the Orthodox Church and those who opposed the church, whether on religious, philosophical, or political grounds. Yet when it came to the question of the work’s significance, there was considerable agreement among Renan’s antagonists and defenders alike. They understood Renan primarily as a religious thinker whose central contribution was separating religious consciousness from dogmatic constraints and the established church. The arguments between Renan’s antagonists and defenders were primarily about the merits of his brand of spirituality. In Life of Jesus, Renan combines a positivist approach to history with philosophic idealism. He writes, for example: Tainted by a coarse materialism, and aspiring to the impossible, that is to say, to found universal happiness upon political and economic measures, the “socialist” attempts of our time will remain unfruitful until they take as their

3

  Albert Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus: A Critical Study of Its Progress from Reimarus to Wrede, trans. W. Montgomery, with an introduction by James M. Robinson (New York: Macmillan, 1968), 181.

4

  S. N. Bulgakov, Khristianskii sotsializm (Novosibirsk: Nauka, 1991), 70. Bulgakov was one of several Russian radical intellectuals to abandon Marxism and materialism in favor of Orthodoxy and idealism in the first decade of the 1900s. He became a priest in 1918 and devoted himself to the study of theology. 5

  Fedor Dostoevskii, “Zapiski k Dnevniku pisatelia 1878 g. iz rabochikh tetradei 1875–1877,” in Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh [henceforth PSS] (Leningrad: Nauka, 1972– 90), 24: 95. Dostoevsky goes on to lament the fact that people do not want to admit that banning an idea has an effect opposite of that intended.

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rule the true spirit of Jesus, I mean absolute idealism—the principle that, in order to possess the world, we must renounce it.6 This approach alienated Renan from strict materialists; little was written about Renan by the radical intelligentsia of the 1860s and 1870s, who took a rather dismissive attitude towards Renan’s idealism. Due to Renan’s synthesis of positivism and idealism, critics sometimes asserted that Renan failed to satisfy anyone. “It turned out that by his account about the earthly life of Jesus Renan did not satisfy anyone: neither believers nor unbelievers, Catholics nor Protestants, positivists nor atheists, freethinkers nor deists.”7 Renan’s synthesis of positivism and idealism, however, did satisfy many who wanted to hold onto both a sense of religious feeling and the basic scientific assumptions of modernity. It represented an alternative to traditional dogma and to mere materialism. As one writer put it in his introduction to the Life of Jesus: It is possible to be excommunicated from the church without being excommunicated from the deep necessity of faith and the desire to plant it in others. Renan belongs to those people, who, in the materialist currents of the last century raised the wave of the ideal and of interests of the spirit.8 As a synthesizer, Renan tried to avoid any one-sided, exclusive point of view. His relativism drew criticism from some quarters and praise from others. As one of those who regarded Renan’s fence-sitting as a deficiency, Nikolai Strakhov observes that Renan’s significant characteristic is not that he embraces any one philosophical or religious system, but that he embraces them all, denying objectivity in philosophy and religion. Renan does not deny either philosophy or religion, or the spiritual world; but he acknowledges them in such a way that nothing comes of this recognition—neither a definite religion, nor a definite philosophy, nor a definite conception about the spiritual world: everything definite is denied, as a particular, inadequate form, in which, under the influence of place and time, the general foundation is reflected. Beyond that, all religions, all philosophies, all historical forms of belief in the spiritual world are recognized as equals.… From such a state of thought it comes about that a man respects every belief, but he himself has none.9 6

  Ernest Renan, The Life of Jesus, with an introduction by John Haynes Holmes (New York: Modern Library, 1955), 271–72. 7

  V. V. Chuiko, “Ernest Renan,” in Renan, ed. Chuiko, Evropeiskie pisateli i mysliteli (St. Petersburg: Izd. knigoprodavtsa V. Gubinskogo, 1886), 2.

8

  A. N. Veselovskii, “Predislovie,” in Zhizn´ Iisusa, by E. Renan, trans. A. S. Usova, ed. Veselovskii (St. Petersburg: Tip. t-va Narodnaia pol´za, 1906), xvi.

9

  Nikolai Strakhov, “Renan,” in Bor´ba s zapadom v nashei literature, ed. C. H. van Schooneveld, Slavistic Printings and Reprintings (The Hague: Mouton, 1969), 1: 242.

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In an 1885 article that first appeared in Rus´ called “Historians without Principles (Notes about Renan and Taine),” Strakhov suggests that Renan, who devoted so much of his career to writing about religion, understands the importance of religion, unlike the ordinary freethinker. Ultimately, however, Renan’s history of Christianity is unsuccessful because Renan was too self-confident and did not recognize the loftiness of his subject.10 Strakhov recognizes Renan as a person with remarkable insights into religious impulses of the human spirit, and calls Life of Jesus his most important work. “Undoubtedly in Renan was significant spirituality, and in that is contained the main secret of his importance and success.”11 While Strakhov recognized Renan as characterized by religious feeling, the French academic’s spirituality subordinated too much to aesthetic considerations and lacked the moral seriousness that Strakhov believed characteristic of both the Protestant and Slavic temperaments. Echoing Strakhov, Prince S. N. Trubetskoi thinks Renan fails to understand the very essence of religion. In fact, the significance of Renan is that he really abolished the religion in religion: “that abolition of religion in religion itself—in Christ, the prophets, apostles, and martyrs, which appears to us the most crude error of Renan, gave his works their totally special significance.”12 For Trubetskoi, Renanism is defined as the application of an aesthetic measure to philosophy, morality, history, religion, and the state.13 By subordinating his discussion of Christ and religion to aesthetic considerations, Renan failed to create an integral image either of Christ or religion. Pointing to Renan’s profound spirituality, another critic contested Trubetskoi’s claim that Renan subordinated everything to aesthetic interests. He replies “it seems here that the Russian philosopher was led into temptation by the peculiar, whimsical, and capricious voice of Renan.”14 Aesthetics for Renan was not just prettiness and pleasure, not the “voluptuous savoring” that Trubetskoi accuses him of, but something organic—vitality and truth itself. 10

  Nikolai Strakhov, “Istoriki bez printsipov (Zametki ob Renane i Tene),” in Bor´ba s zapadom, 1: 320–46. 11

  Nikolai Strakhov, “Neskol´ko slov ob Renane,” in Bor´ba s zapadom, 3: 41–42. Renan’s sense of religious feeling as a fundamental characteristic of his work was pointed out already in the 1870s in A. Kozlov’s review of Dialogues et fragments philosophiques that appeared in Universitetskie izvestiia (March 1877): 53–60. As so many other critics, Kozlov points out that however much one may disagree with Renan it is impossible not to give him credit for his inimitable ability to reproduce the religious moods that characterized the epoch of early Christianity. 12

  S. N. Trubetskoi, “Renan i ego filosofiia,” Russkaia mysl´, no. 3 (1898): 92.

13

  Ibid., 109.

14

  P. M. Bitsilli, “Predislovie k knige E. Renana Filosofskie dialogi,” Literaturnoe obozrenie, no. 3/4 (1993): 87. Reprinted from Ernest Renan, Filosofskie dialogi (Odessa: B. K. Fuks, 1919).

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Everything that is living is a symbol of Truth—incomprehensible in itself— and furthermore, all symbols are equivalent. The great destroyer of “church” truth, Renan fights in the name of equality of symbols. On what basis does one of the symbols demand for itself exclusive right to represent Truth? How, with our mind—limited by the boundaries of the finite—can we attribute to our ideas the identity of the Ideal? So strong is the religious sense of life in this “denier,” that he refuses to bend his knee before any one altar, as for him every corner of the universe is an altar on which tireless and eternal service happens to the future deity.… the former theologian rejected all historical religions because he recognized the relative trueness of each. For Renan there is no difference between the “religious,” the “divine” and the “secular”—he perceives everything from the point of view of religion. The world is divine, because deification is found in the tireless process. The great task which was laid on the universe is to create God, and in this sense, and only in this sense, is it possible to say that there is a God.15 Similarly, in an article in the well-known Problemy idealizma (Problems of Idealism, 1902), Sergei Ol´denburg argues that Renan’s approach to Christianity reflects a healthy idealism and spirituality; he praises Renan for his application of science to the Christian religion, while not in the spirit of positivism.16 Ol´denburg heralded Renan as a champion of freedom of thought, cleansing and reviving religious feeling from theological dogmatism, thereby refining it, since “religion in our day cannot stand apart from sincere refinement and from intellectual progress.”17 He argues that Renan understood the true scientific spirit, which does not destroy or abolish Christianity, but places it in the boundaries of a definite time and culture. He then invokes Renan in support of his argument that “Indians, Jews, and Europeans are all spokesmen of that same eternal truth: ‘Believe according to what you know, and allow everyone to believe according to what he knows.’”18 Yet, it is notable that those critics who praised Renan’s relativism with respect towards religion nonetheless recognized that Renan’s spirituality did not only challenge traditional Christian dogma, but the new scientific dogmas of the second half of the nineteenth century. According to Owen Chadwick, the new dogma that was taking

15

  Ibid., 87–88.

16

  Sergei F. Ol´denburg, “Renan, kak pobornik svobody mysli,” in Problemy idealizma: Sbornik statei, ed. P. I. Novgorodtsev (Moscow: Moskovskoe Psikhologicheskoe Obshchestvo, 1902). Problemy idealizma is one of two well-known compilations of essays that expressed the religious awakening—characterized by the ideological transition from materialism to idealism—among Russian intellectuals at the turn of the twentieth century. The other collection of essays is Vekhi (1909). As a group, those intellectuals who abandoned materialism in favor of religious worldviews came to be known as God-seekers (bogoiskateli). 17

  Ibid., 493.

18

  Ibid., 503.

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root in Europe in the 1860s was the view that “Science has disproved Religion.”19 Renan recognized the historical importance of religion during an era when it was believed that science had permanently displaced religion. Thus, some of Renan’s critics viewed Renan as a skeptic not in the realm of religion, but in the realm of science. As one author put it: “Everything that Renan wrote and everything that he said clearly proves that he was simultaneously in the realm of science a skeptic, in the realm of religion a believing deist, and in everything else a cheerful idealist.”20 He continues with the observation that it is possible to disagree with Renan’s denial of Catholic dogmas and to contest his combination of positivism and religious spirit without calling him an atheist and blasphemer. In a word, if in the last years an awakening of religious feelings began to be noticed in France, religious questions came into fashion, and the so-called neo-Christian school even arose, then the French owe all this to the one clerics cursed as the devil incarnate and Antichrist.21 Among ecclesiastic writers and religious philosophers, Renan’s Life of Jesus was sometimes regarded as a godless, atheistic book. Dostoevsky, for example, said the work was full of unbelief.22 Yet, several Orthodox writers also recognized Renan’s spirituality as an important characteristic of the work, only they critiqued his spirituality and the God-consciousness that he, like other Western biblical critics attributed to Jesus, as a substitute for the authentic Christianity of the Gospel and Orthodox Church. Some felt that Life of Jesus was actively contributing to a crisis of faith in prerevolutionary Russian society, while others thought the book was an excellent expression of the fact that European society had already lost faith in genuine Christianity and was seeking to fill the void. Whereas S. N. Trubetskoi defined Renanism as the subordination of philosophy, morality, history, and religion to aesthetic considerations, some representatives of the Russian Orthodox Church used the term to refer to Renan’s new substitute religion.23 As expressed in the first major Orthodox rebuttal of Renan written by a French convert to Orthodoxy: “Don’t call your religion Christianity, for it has nothing in common with Christ; call it Renanism—that’s its real name.”24 19

  Owen Chadwick, The Secularization of the European Mind in the Nineteenth Century: The Gifford Lectures in the University of Edinburgh for 1973–4 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 180.

20

  V.T., “Zhizneradostnyi skeptik,” Istoricheskii vestnik 50 (November 1892): 501–16, here 506. 21

  Ibid., 507.

22

 Dostoevsky, Dnevnik pisatelia (1873), in PSS, 21: 10–11.

23

  Trubetskoi, “Renan i ego filosofiia,” 86–121.

24

  Vladimir Gete [Réné François Guettée], Oproverzhenie na vydumanuiu “Zhizn´ Iisusa” sochineniia Ernesta Renana,” s troistvennoi tochki zreniia bibleiskoi ekzegetiki, istoricheskii

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One reviewer notes that Renan offers his readers a thinned-out Christianity that amounts to an idolatrous worship of humanism, culture, progress, and civilization. Dogma is replaced with skepticism, while affirmation is replaced by denial. Skepticism is a state of indifference; there are merely possibilities, and each individual chooses which possibilities to believe in, according to his own tastes. Thus, it remained possible for Renan to see himself under the rubric of “Christian,” while rejecting the church.25 The view that Life of Jesus offered a cheap substitute in place of authentic Christianity, representing the unhealthy spiritual condition of Europe, was widely shared. As Father Tikhon Alekseevich Donetskii described it, the work was a reflection of the spiritual and moral condition of nineteenth-century Europe in general, and of France in particular: belief in progress instead of the living God, admiration of positive philosophy and self-sufficiency without consciousness of sin and without the thirst for redemption. Life of Jesus, he argues, was more about nineteenth-century France than about the history of Christ and the Jews, and could only satisfy those who had never read the Gospels, or who had never really thought about Christ. Renan’s Life of Jesus offered a substitute religion to those who, like Renan, lost the Christ of the Gospels but still yearned for His image and had not abandoned religious questions altogether. Donetskii pointed out that Christ’s teaching itself could not be divorced from His divinity, since His teaching was to believe in Him and love God. While acknowledging that the book could have a positive influence, possibly igniting the first spark of religious feeling in a person previously cold to religious questions, it was also destructive by substituting the light of God with a “god” fabricated by Renan through which, as for Smerdiakov, everything is permissible.26 As a pastoral figure, he does not advise people not to read Life of Jesus, but to read it only after familiarizing themselves with the Gospels and to consult the guidance of learned Orthodox clergy on the Gospels.

kritiki i filosofii, trans. K. Timkomskii (St. Petersburg: Tip. I. I. Glazunova, 1864–66), 376. The second French edition of Guettée’s work appeared in Russian translation under the title E. Renan pred sudom nauki, ili oproverzhenie izvestnogo sochinenia E. Renana “Zhizn´ Iisusa,” osnovannoe na vyvodakh iz Biblii i rassmatrivaemoe s tochek zreniia istoricheskoi kritiki i filosofii, trans. L. A. Feigin (Moscow: Izd. I. A. Morozova, 1889). It contains supplementary materials: Iu. Shikoppa, “Sed´maia beseda o litse Iisusa Khrista,” trans. I.Z.; and “Dostovernost´ evangel´skikh skazanii: Lektsiia chitannaia v kembridzhskom universitete doktorom bogosloviia V. Farrarom,” trans. Matveev. 25

 N.G., Mysli o prochtenii knigi Renana Ernesta “Zhizn´ Iisusa” (Pochaev: Tipografiia Pochaevo-Uspenskoi Lavry, 1906).

26

  “Everything is permissible” is an obvious reference to Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Ivan Karamazov, a Western-style rationalist inclined towards atheism, nonetheless recognizes that if there is no God and no immortality, everything is permissible. Smerdiakov, possibly the illegitimate son of Fedor Karamazov, took Ivan’s ideas to heart and murdered Fedor, then later committed suicide.

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With the proper preparation, there will be no doubt in the reader’s mind which Christ is purer, higher, and holier: the Christ of the Gospels, or the Christ of Renan.27 In his study Jesus Christ in the Understanding of Renan and Harnack, V. P. Vinogradov calls the substitution of a false, fabricated image of Christ for the real image of the Savior of the world the most terrible and grievous danger that ever threatened Christianity—a matter of life or death for Christianity. In particular, the books of Renan and Harnack are singled out as a threat to authentic gospel Christianity in Russia. Vinogradov observes that every age has its struggle between light and darkness, good and evil, truth and falsehood, and that in the current age the struggle centers around the person and life of Jesus Christ.28 Renan’s spirituality was praised from one side for its rejection of any one-sided worldview, whether that of church dogma or blind faith in science and materialism. It was criticized by the defenders of dogma for substituting sentimentality and God-consciousness in place of humanity’s redemption from sin and genuine, intimate communion between humanity and God. Yet Renan’s antagonists and defenders alike recognized that Renan had reawakened interest in religious questions in a materialist era when science was regarded as supreme. This prerevolutionary critique of Renan holds true for the Soviet era as well. A century after Life of Jesus first appeared, Soviet society experienced an ideological reexamination and reaction against materialism. Interest in Renan, suppressed after the Bolsheviks secured power and adopted as the official party line the position that Jesus was not a historical person, began to surface once again. Renan’s treatment of Jesus as historical, and having a transcendence as the ideal man, became a novelty. One expression of the changing atmosphere was the publication of Mikhail Bulgakov’s novel The Master and Margarita, written between 1928 and 1940; because the novel satirizes Soviet society and explores metaphysical themes, it was not published until 1966–67. Bulgakov weaves a life of Pontius Pilate into the novel, the main sources of which were Renan’s Life of Jesus and F. W. Farrar’s Life of Christ (1874). At the other end of the spectrum, two Orthodox priests, Dmitrii Dudko and Aleksandr Men´, in an effort to engage Russian society in exploration of religious questions, suggested that Renan’s Life of Jesus could be read in connection with the idea that Jesus Christ was a historical figure. They believed Renan’s biography could foster interest in Christ and religious questions, though they added the caveats that belief in the Godman required faith and that the true source for knowledge about Christ was 27   T. A. Donetskii, Publichnoe chtenie o renanovskoi “Zhizni Iisusa” (Novocherkassk: Chastnaia Donskaia Tipografiia, 1909). Donetskii recommends the apologetic works of Mikhail and B. I. Gladkov to the reader. See Arkhimandrit Mikhail [Matvei Ivanovich Luzhin], Evangelie meshchan: Renan i ego Iisus (St. Petersburg: Tipo-litografiia M. P. Frolovoi, 1906); Arkhimandrit Mikhail, “O evangeliiakh i evangel´skoi istorii: Po povodu knigi E. Renana Zhizn´ Iisusa,” Pribavleniia k izdaniiu tvorenii sviatykh ottsev v russkom perevode 23 (1864): 28–98, 109–205, 411–82, 503–634; and B. I. Gladkov, Tolkovanie Evangeliia, 3d ed. (St. Petersburg: Izdanie avtora, 1909). 28

  V. Vinogradov, Iisus Khristos v ponimanii Renana i Garnaka (Sergiev Posad: Tipografiia Sv.-Tr. Sergievoi Lavry, 1908).

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the Gospel.29 Tracing the debate about the historicity of Jesus Christ in Soviet society, Dudko observed that the official Soviet line of the 1920s and 1930s—that the person of Jesus was pure fabrication—had become unfashionable by the 1960s, when belief in the historical Jesus was considered “progressive.”30 Renewed interest in the person of Jesus Christ in general and Renan’s Life of Jesus in particular is verified by the reprinting of well over one million copies of Life of Jesus in 1990 and 1991 in Russia and the CIS.31 The Life of Jesus was voted one of the fifty best books of 1991 by readers of Knizhnoe obozrenie (The Book Review).32 The work’s popularity can be explained, in part, by the fact that it has provided many readers with their first exposure to Jesus as an actual historical person. In conclusion, among his prerevolutionary antagonists and defenders, there was a general consensus that Renan was not primarily a materialist, but a religious thinker. His overall significance lay in his spirituality, and in both prerevolutionary and Soviet Russia, Renan’s regard for religious feeling freed from dogmatic constraints represented an alternative to the established orthodoxies: Orthodox dogma on the one hand and the dogmas of empiricism and materialism on the other.

29

  See Alexander Men, Son of Man, trans. Samuel Brown (Torrance, CA: Oakwood Publications, 1998), first published as Syn chelovecheskii in Brussels in 1968 under Men´’s pseudonym, Andrei Bogoliubov; Men´, “Posleslovie,” in Zhizn´ Iisusa (Moscow: Slovo, 1990). This edition of Life of Jesus is a reprint of the translation by E. Sviatlovskii (St. Petersburg: Pirozhkov, 1906); and Father Dmitrii Dudko, Our Hope, trans. Paul D. Garrett, with a foreword by John Meyendorff (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1977).

30

 Dudko, Our Hope, 37.

31

  This statistic is based on data published in Knizhnoe obozrenie for 1990–92 as well as on information from the card catalog and various editions at the Russian State Library in Moscow.

32

  Knizhnoe obozrenie, 21 August 1992, 8. On the popularity of Life of Jesus in the early 1990s, see also M. P. Odeskii and M. L. Spivak, “Zhizn´ Iisusa: Istoricheskie metamorfozy,” Literaturnoe obozrenie, no. 3/4 (1993): 99. The Life of Jesus has been reprinted in Russia as recently as 2007.

Between the Cross and the Eagle: The Russian Orthodox Missionary Society and the Politics of Religion in Late Imperial Russia Aaron N. Michaelson

This essay is part of a larger project which seeks, through the prism of a little-known enterprise—the Russian Orthodox Missionary Society (1870–1917)—to reconsider two commonly held views or assumptions regarding an aspect of late imperial Russia. The first assumption is that the Russian Orthodox Church was not involved in aggressive or successful missionary institutions; the second is that such activities, if any, were both ineffectual and, given the nature of church-state relations, determined by crude calculations of state policy. In fact, the Russian Orthodox Missionary Society1 reflected the fluid confessional and national landscape of imperial Russia. Missionary guidelines, commentaries, correspondence, and debate reveal the society’s attitude toward the religious-national controversy in late imperial missions.2 In the far corners of the empire, Russian missionaries faced geographic, climatic, ethnographic, and linguistic difficulties. Many languages encountered had never been systematically studied, while some, spoken for centuries in an austere environment, lacked terms necessary to translate Orthodox material in a vivid and meaningful manner. Just as often, established religions were present. Missionary enterprise required more workers, churches, schools, and money.3 The Orthodox Missionary Society provided personnel and training, distributed funds, and facilitated translation 1

  The Missionary Society functioned, according to its ustav (charter), as the primary Russian Orthodox missionary service to non-Russians, including Muslims, Buddhists, and pagans, in the eastern part of the Russian Empire. On a few rare occasions it was involved in the conversion of Jews but was not active in the west among Catholics or Lutherans, nor among schismatics and sects. The society’s mission was defined by the terms inorodcheskaia (non-Russian), vneshniaia (external, outside the internal, vnutrenniaia, sphere associated with Orthodoxy which would have included schismatics), and inostrannaia (foreign).

2

  The most useful discussion of the term russification, its context, evolution, and meaning, is found in Edward C. Thaden, ed., Russification in the Baltic Provinces and Finland, 1855–1914 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), 7–9.

3

  E. K. Smirnov, Ocherk istoricheskogo razvitiia i sovremennogo sostoianiia russkoi pravoslavnoi missii (St. Petersburg: Sinodal´naia tipografiia, 1904), 68. Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 157–68.

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and publication of religious books. Over the long term, the society made a considerable impact. The liberalization measures enacted in 1904 and 1905 forced the society to redouble its proselytizing efforts.4 Progress was interrupted by revolution, but the endeavor continued with further Russian Orthodox missionary successes in the Far East. Bringing Orthodoxy to the far parts of the empire was no simple task. Nor was it without controversy. At times the Orthodox Missionary Society worked alongside ordinary clergy, performing special missionary functions, while in some places society missions were the sole representatives of Russian Orthodoxy. Consideration of the typical parish duties of Orthodox priests gives us a useful perspective on the society’s work.5 The clergy’s service in the Russian Orthodox Church could be divided into four categories, according to hieromonakh Dionisii, a scholar active in the study of Orthodox missions around the turn of the century. The categories were the rural parish (sel´skii prikhod), non-Orthodox or non-Russian service (inovercheskii or inorodcheskii deiatel´), urban (gorodskoi deiatel´) service, and teaching the faith in schools (zakonouchitel´stvo).6 The work of the Russian Orthodox Missionary Society concerned, in order of prominence, the second, first, and fourth categories, but missionerstvo in the broader sense, anti-Schismatic and anti-sectarian missions, as well as fundraising, concerned all four. The society faced considerable challenges in an empire shaken by secularization. As Dmitrii Govorov noted in his commentary, a lack of public interest in church affairs hurt missionary work.7 As the concept of religious freedom had gained credence in progressive circles late in the eighteenth century, methods of repression, coercion, or deception in missionary enterprise were condemned. As a result, Russian missionaries exercised considerable caution, and promoted conversion with painstaking care, 4

  The “laws of 1905” often discussed in sources on missions include the Law on Religious Toleration of 17 April 1905, freedoms granted in the Bulygin Manifesto publicized 6 August 1905, and the October Manifesto (17 October 1905). The Orthodox faith’s official status was weakened. The first law was officially publicized as “Ob ukreplenii nachal veroterpimosti”; it outlawed any sanction against apostatizers, and was mainly oriented toward sects and Old Belief. Although no firm rulings emerged on Islam or Lamaism, the Committee of Ministers would work out such questions and believers of those faiths would benefit from some liberalization and limited government support included in the 17 April act. Polnoe sobranie zakonov Rossiiskoi Imperii (St. Petersburg: V tipografii II otdeleniia sobstvennoi E.I.V. kantseliarii, 1882–1916), 25: 257–62. 5

  The work of Gregory Freeze has been the only English-language scholarly investigation of this phenomenon. Gregory L. Freeze, Russian Levites: Parish Clergy in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977), and The Parish Clergy in Nineteenth-Century Russia: Crisis, Reform, Counter-Reform (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983). 6

  Dionisii (ieromonakh), Idealy pravoslavno-russkogo inorodcheskogo missionerstva (Kazan´: Tipo-litografiia Imperatorskogo universiteta, 1901), 187. 7

  Dmitrii Govorov (protoierei), Zadachi missionerstva, vyzyvaemye potrebnostiami nashego vremeni (Kiev: Rukovodstvo dlia sel´skikh-pastyrei, 1909), 20.



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because such an approach was in tune with the Gospel, experience in the field, and progressive thought of the time.8 The Missionary Society was genuinely concerned with these issues. Secularization had gradually alienated the Russian intelligentsia from the Orthodox establishment as well. Nikolai Lipskii, a missioner-intelligent, wrote that he faced pressure from two sides. As the intelligentsia had largely turned away from the traditional faith, he no longer felt welcome in their circles. At the same time, in his work as a missionary, he faced pressure from the higher ecclesiastical administration, whose rigid rules discouraged flexibility and creativity.9 Such a conflict was a key to the distance between the missionary effort and a changing, secularizing society.10 In the end, the Missionary Society, an independent organization, could not close the yawing gap between the progressive intelligentsia and a deeply conservative administration. Key Missionary Society figures and their contributions elucidate the true content and thrust of late imperial Russian Orthodox missionary activity. Innokentii Veniaminov was a central figure not only in the Missionary Society’s Moscow operation but also in the development of the Orthodox evangelizing enterprise in Siberia and North America, where he had served. Veniaminov’s guidelines for missionaries would have a strong influence throughout the period of the society’s operation and served as a fundamental document in inorodcheskoe missionerstvo. The guidelines indicate the mixture of motives, national and spiritual, although nationalistic elements are far weaker than among conservative-nationalist publicists who would comment on missionary enterprise in the decades to come. Innokentii wrote in his nastavlenie or instruction to missionaries, that even as early as 1771, according to a synod ukaz, “a missionary should not consider his duty the rapid accomplishment of baptisms,” but should try to achieve his goals by patient Christian teaching, because baptism by any other means was “an abuse of one of the most central rites of the Christian faith.”11 By Innokentii’s method, the missionary must employ prayer, modesty, serenity, thoughtfulness, and, of course, love. The missionary should use sermons and preach wherever possible, to as many people as possible. If one does not know the language 8

  Govorov argues that such missionary methods developed in the century after the Enlightenment had taken hold in Russia (ibid., 1). 9

  N. I. Lipskii, Psikhologicheskie dannye v voprose o missionerskoi taktike (Khar´kov: Vera i Razum, 1910), 11–12. 10

  This conflict is perhaps an echo of the dilemma and controversy in which Vladimir Solov´ev was so deeply involved. Not only Lipskii, but also Archmonk Dionisii were left in the ideological gap between conservative-nationalist and liberal positions. See Greg Gaut, “Can a Christian Be a Nationalist? Vladimir Solov´ev’s Critique of Nationalism,” Slavic Review 57, 1 (1998): 79–80. 11   Innokentii (Veniaminov), Nastavlenie sviashchenniku naznachaemomu dlia obrashcheniia inovernykh i rukovodstvovaniia obrashchennykh v khristianskuiu veru, sostavlennoe vysoko-preosviashchennym Moskovskim mitropolitom Innokentiem pred vstupleniem ego na Kamchatskuiu kafedru (Irkutsk: Tipografiia N. N. Sinitsina, 1880), 1–3.

160 A aron N. Michaelson

of the audience, an interpreter must be chosen carefully. Innokentii recommended that the missionary preach to the heart, from the heart, in order to counteract the insatiable curiosity of the mind. The teaching should be directed at the appropriate level, which often meant an elementary one. The missionary should begin with Genesis and the story of creation, tell about the Commandments and their consequences; he should convince the listener of humanity’s sinful nature and then reveal Christ’s saving message, continuing with the Gospels and Apostles. Only after listeners have understood this material can the missionary ask if they would consider joining the “believers of Christ.” The missionary should always speak clearly and concisely. “The whole teaching of Jesus Christ is grounded in the pure, unselfish love, toward him and all people, which we believers possess.”12 The missionary must then explain the conditions of Baptism, its meaning, and how a Christian should live. These conditions include: renouncing any other faith, abandoning shamanism completely, committing no acts which would conflict with Christianity, confession of sins, and fulfilling that which the baptized’s new law and church require. Only with God’s help, through the Holy Spirit and prayer, can all this be achieved; not by human will alone.13 Innokentii advised the missionary to be sensitive about pagan marriages, even those to close relatives, which took place before Orthodox baptism. Such relationships represent no barrier to proselytizing work, and the missionary should not interfere in the family bonds created by them. The missionary should offer no gifts, only crosses. Gifts to prospective converts serve the wrong purpose, and the missionary must ensure that the desire to accept Orthodox baptism is genuine. The baptismal service should be performed in a building or tent, but can be done in the open air if necessary. The place of the baptism should be marked with crosses so that believers can make return visits. The fundamentals of the teaching must be covered slowly and carefully to prevent difficulties later. The missionary must not employ any false miracles or revelations; what smacked of trickery could be severely punished, Innokentii warned. “Unusual occurrences” in a missionary’s work must be investigated before being employed in preaching, and then only after consultation with the local ecclesiastical authorities. The missionary can never use coercion, threats, presents, promises, or flattery, and must act with apostolic sincerity.14 Practical allowances, though, were made for local conditions. Fasts could be observed as best as climate and available food allow; sometimes a change in the food or just the time of meals would have to suffice. One could avoid eating in the morning hours. Fasting should be quite strict especially when Easter approaches. Non-Russian converts should attend church frequently, but the missionary should not insist on the same regularity of attendance as in European Russia. A reminder to pray is a useful substitute. Orthodox marriages, however, must be performed as strictly as in Russia (this in regard to close relatives especially). 12

  Ibid., 3–8.

13

  Ibid., 8–10.

14

  Ibid., 13–14.



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In terms of native culture, the missionary should not deny non-Russians any of their old customs which do not conflict with Christianity, and should explain that such customs are still allowed. The missionary should let non-Russians listen to the whole liturgy if they so desire, even though the Liturgy of the Faithful (Liturgiia vernykh) may seem questionable. After all, the ambassadors of St. Vladimir were allowed to do so in Constantinople though they were pagans.15 But Russian missionaries represented more than just the Orthodox Church. Innokentii recommended that the missionary tell the audience of the supremacy and beneficial nature of the Russian government, without declaring oneself a government agent or even an authoritative figure. Instead, the missionary should appear as a simple, virtuous traveler. The missionary should never show distaste for non-Russian habits or lifestyle, and should always be ready to assist non-Russians with deed and advice. The missionary should answer questions gently and reasonably, employing each as an opportunity to teach as well as learn. He should treat the unbaptized just as well as the baptized; good will is evidence of good intentions. One should preach against polygamy gently and reasonably, and should demand no offerings, but should take them if given. The missionary should not force non-Russians to work for the mission after baptism, but if they wish to assist in some way, pay them justly. Again, the missionary should never accept gifts or be occupied with trade. Missionary visits to non-Russians should not interfere with vital activities such as fishing or hunting, nor should one burden private companies too heavily either with requests of transport facilities or other material goods.16 Innokentii insisted that the missionary learn the language of local non-Russian populations, at least in order to understand them, and should know their customs as well as their pagan faith. He reiterates that customs not harmful to the Christian faith mean a great deal to non-Russians, and respect for them contributes to missionary success. The missionary must avoid legal or property squabbles, and should defend himself physically only in extreme danger, keeping in mind that great blessing comes to those who suffer in the name of Jesus Christ.17 These instructions were reminiscent of the ustav of the Missionary Society, also formulated by Innokentii, which laid the foundation of the society’s central organization. In short, Innokentii’s ideas on the conduct of missionary work in the field served as a foundation of Orthodox missions. Like Veniaminov, Makarii Glukharev was predominantly concerned with the firmness of the converts’ faith. Founder of the Altai mission, Glukharev arrived in Biisk okrug in 1830, where he constructed three missionary stany (bases or stations), began studying the local languages, and eventually created vital missionary transla-

15

  Ibid., 11–13.

16

  Ibid., 14–16.

17

  Ibid., 18–19.

162 A aron N. Michaelson

tions. In keeping with the focus on soundness of faith, Glukharev converted a modest number (675 persons) during his career in Altai.18 How fully the average missionary in the field absorbed the ideals of the elite missionaries is difficult to surmise. Penza province (guberniia) missionary Vasilii Kamenskii provides several insights into the operation of local missions. His writings also reflect the degree to which the ideas of Innokentii Veniaminov and the Missionary Society were employed outside the academies and consistories. Kamenskii’s instructions and recommendations bear a strong similarity to those of Innokentii Veniaminov. Like Innokentii, Kamenskii recommended that the missionary not promise himself too much; the missionary should rely on God, seeking strength and peace in prayer. The missionary must learn the language needed for his appointed parish, in this case Tatar and Arabic. Kamenskii’s image of the missionary as apostle and strannik also corresponds directly to Innokentii’s writings.19 The Missionary Society employed not only administrative tools but linguistic and pedagogical ones in the effort to convert non-Russians to the Orthodox faith. Missions, as a central part of their work, produced religious translations and administered Orthodox schools. Orthodox translations and missionary schools were also key issues in the religious-national debate. After the passing in 1891 of N. I. Il´minskii, who was not only a member of the Translating Commission in Kazan´, but the most active organizer of missionary schools in the Russian Empire, countless primary schools and other ecclesiastical institutions perpetuated Il´minskii’s method of non-Russian parochial education.20 His systems of translation and primary education remained in use, and controversial, in the decades after his death. A. M. Pozdneev, in the journal of the Ministry of Popular Enlightenment, voiced criticisms of Il´minskii’s system of vernacular translation in 1895. Pozdneev, a scholar in Eastern languages, insisted that knowledge of literary non-Russian languages was vital for precise rendering of text. He felt that the vernacular lacked the flexibility and depth of the literary language, even though that literary lexicon may have been closely connected with a non-Christian faith. In fact, Pozdneev thought that the purely religious goals of Il´minskii’s time were no longer central issues. This debate indicates once again a rift in worldviews, as well as a divide between established academic procedure, characterized by a secular and literary approach, and the missionary focus on the language of everyday communication.21 18   Mikhail Iakovlevich Glukharev (1792–1847). Trained in the Smolensk seminary and St. Petersburg Ecclesiastical Academy, he became a monk in 1819. See Entsiklopedicheskii slovar´ (St. Petersburg: F. A. Brokgauz i I. A. Efron, 1890–1904), 18: 35. 19

  Vasilii Kamenskii, Na sluzhbe missii: Deiatel´nost´ inorodcheskogo missionera sredi tatar (Penza: Gubernskaia tipografiia, 1913), 16–24. 20

  Otchet Pravoslavnogo Missionerskogo Obshchestva za 1891 g. (Moscow: Sinodal´naia tipografiia, 1892), 36–37.

21

  K. Kharlamovich, O missionerskikh perevodakh na inorodcheskie iazyki: Pis´mo arkhimandrita Vladimira, nachal´nika Altaiskoi missii, k Irkutskomu arkhiepiskopu Veniaminu (Kazan´: Tipografiia Imperatorskogo universiteta, 1904), 3–4.



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Pozdneev elicited a response from Archimandrite Vladimir22 of the Altai mission. Although Vladimir felt that translations were vital to missions, they need not be produced in great quantity or in every dialect. One translation reasonably accessible to several related ethnic groups was a feasible alternative. As for the alphabet, Vladimir supported use of a Cyrillic script but was not opposed to the use of Mongolian script where that would be more suitable to readers. Pozdneev had noted that Russian translations of Orthodox works done in prior decades in Mongolian script were still circulating in Mongolia. Vladimir nonetheless insisted on Cyrillic script, so useful for learning Russian later. Pozdneev’s recommended Mongolian script was unrealistic for Russian missionaries, Vladimir argued. Missionary training was already complex enough.23 Archbishop Veniamin of Irkutsk, it turns out, adopted the literary translation system used earlier in the Irkutsk mission by Nil´, that which Pozdneev had advocated. Veniamin adapted Nil´’s translations into local dialects after the synod had granted missions that right in 1883. Unfortunately, some of the finished product was unintelligible to local Buryats. Il´minskii felt that Veniamin was a great historian, but lacked linguistic skills. As Il´minskii put it, “he [Veniamin] always vacillated among various translations, academic and vernacular, literary and popular, and to this time, in Irkutsk missions, translation has not been given a solid, fundamental foundation, nor necessary development.”24 Il´minskii was certain of his views. Veniamin, and others, in light of local conditions, and under a variety of pressures, continued to experiment. The impact of translations, both as an orthodoxifying and russifying instrument, was blunted by controversy and disorganization. But schools clearly influenced hundreds of thousands if not millions of non-Russians. For example, the society’s local committee in Ufa supported forty-five schools in 1904. Its non-Russian schools were said to have outpaced their Russian counterparts in singing. Some classes learned the entire liturgy in their native languages.25 In many cases, the devotion of recent non-Russian converts was reported to be exemplary. To the dismay of those who valued missions primarily as instruments of russification, after the Manifesto on Religious Tolerance (Manifest o veroterpimosti) of 17 April 1905, attendance at Orthodox services was no longer, even in the letter of 22

  Vladimir (Filaret Sin´kovskii), a leader in the Kirgiz and Altai missions, was named bishop of Biisk (1891), bishop of Vladikavkaz (1893), and bishop of Kishinev and Khotin (1904). He was also the author of many missionary translations. See Entsiklopedicheskii slovar´, 1 (dopolnitel´nyi): 439. 23

  Kharlamovich, O missionerskikh perevodakh, 5–7.

24

  Ibid., 10–11. Il´minskii’s comment appears in a letter to Konstantin Pobedonostsev. Pis´ma N. I. Il´minskogo k K. P. Pobedonostsevu (Kazan´: Tipografiia Imperatorskogo universiteta, 1895), 186.

25

  Eight others received support from the synod, a local brotherhood, and a monastery. All fifty-three schools had 1,838 pupils. “Otchet PMO za 1904 g.,” Pravoslavnyi blagovestnik, no. 19 (1905): 80–83.

164 A aron N. Michaelson

the law, mandatory, and many perceived that this would weaken Orthodox missions, at least in the short term.26 Others saw it as an opportunity for Orthodoxy to adapt to fair competition with other Christian and non-Christian faiths. Nikolai Lipskii, among many, blamed the April 1905 manifesto for increased numbers turning away from Orthodoxy in subsequent years.27 Five years later, in the wake of the Kazan´ missionary congress, the religious-national debate continued. A Father Grigor´ev wrote that Russians must treat non-Russians in a loving, friendly manner, not haughtily, otherwise they could be driven to separatism. Too often, though, just the opposite was done. Even in the Baltics, where institutions prior to uniformization or institutional russification were superior to Russian ones, the plan to construct a Russian clone was fulfilled. One can say, in the end, that positions on the role of language in missions, schooling, or society in general were determined by priorities. If Russian nationalism came first, missions and their schools must work in Russian as soon and as much as possible. If Orthodoxy came first, the language used could be a non-Russian one, and the general approach was more gradual. Even after the Kazan´ and Irkutsk congresses, the following questions remained: What should missions’ prime objectives be? How should they be administered and funded? And, finally, how could they achieve greater success? The points raised in the debate often reflected broad political and intellectual divisions, within and outside the Missionary Society. Conservative-nationalist figures saw many possibilities, usually of a political or social nature, in the work of missions. Such an idea must have been with Russian missionaries well before the existence of the Missionary Society. One such thinker (initials V.A.I.) felt that missions, if they could resolve the age-old problems of inoverie (other faiths) and raskol (schism), would achieve a great triumph for the state.28 The state for its part should provide the missions with material support, while leaving their operation to the church.29 The author argued for the independence of missions because of his belief that Russian liberalism differed from classical English liberalism in its absence of religious feeling. Given its secular prejudices, the Russian liberal press gave little positive publicity to church or faith. It would be best, he asserted, to remove completely the struggle with inoverie and raskol from the state’s hands, where a preponderance of such liberal thinking weakened the effort.30 Conversion required considerable effort, more than liberal circles would allow for. Often pagans acknowledged the superiority of Christianity but continued to resist baptism. They often feared they would not be treated like Russians even after 26 27

 Govorov, Zadachi missionerstva, 11–13.

 Lipskii, Psikhologicheskie dannye, 5.

28  V.A.I., Obiazannost´ russkogo gosudarstva po obrashcheniiu raskol´nikov i inovertsev k pravoslavnoi russkoi tserkvi (Irkutsk: N. N. Sinitsyn, 1882), 5. 29

  Ibid., 9.

30

  Ibid., 1.



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conversion because they lacked Russian traits; lived in iurty (animal-hide huts) instead of izby (traditional Russian peasant dwelling; often of hewn-log construction); spoke Russian poorly; and were unable to plow the land. The author insisted that what inorodtsy awaited most fervently was the tsar’s order for them to convert.31 That was this conservative-nationalist’s most ardent wish, but was not necessarily what missionaries desired. Judging by the statements and activities of Russian missionaries, a more purely ecclesiastical formula was also widespread. Popular perception of “Russianness” caused some complications for missions as well. Referring to Russians, “V.A.I.” maintains that “no inorodets will respect a people that does not respect itself.” The Russian sense of nation was closely tied to Orthodoxy’s perceived prestige and attractiveness for inorodtsy.32 Special government benefits given to baptized inorodtsy should be ended, because their status often surpassed that of their Russian neighbors which made complete obrusenie (russification) a step down for them. Instead the author supports the sort of russification or uniformization which was underway in the Baltics.33 The author “V.A.I.” made no attempt to disguise his views; he attacked the whole idea of tolerance of faiths, such as reconversion to Judaism of Jews who had become Christians; he attacked the 1861 guidelines for converting non-Orthodox to Orthodoxy and the 1858 law protecting schismatics. The author awaited the reunification of Russian national feeling with national faith.34 Another conservative-nationalist commentator, V. Malakhov, expressed the belief in Russian nationality as portrayed in Dostoyevsky’s Brothers Karamazov. Malakhov held the term narod-bogonosets35 especially dear, and tied Dostoevskii’s Diary of a Writer to the theory of a Third Rome, while believing that popular illusion could turn into fact.36 He asserted that Finnic peoples had disappeared into the Russian narod, and that greater missionary effort would resolve the Far Eastern question in Russia’s favor.37 Such is a sample of the hopes, or delusions, prevalent among conservative-nationalist figures in the debate on Orthodox missions. Ordinary citizens, too, participated in the debate over missions. One of several peasants to do so, Aktash Andronnik Stefanov of Menzelinskii district (uezd), sent his greetings and congratulations to the Orthodox Missionary Society on the society’s twenty-fifth anniversary. Stefanov wished the organization further success in its

31

  Ibid., 2–4.

32

  Ibid., 10.

33

  Ibid., 13.

34

  Ibid., 15.

35

  Literally, “people-bearer-of-God.”

36

  V. Malakhov, Russkaia pravoslavnaia missiia v ee proshlom i nastoiashchem (Pochaev: Tipografiia pochaevo-uspenskoi lavry, 1907), 1–2.

37

  Ibid., 3, 10–11.

166 A aron N. Michaelson

endeavor which was, as he wrote, so important for the “holy church and dear fatherland.”38 In his perception, faith and state were closely bound. In response to the conservative-nationalists, missionary archmonk Dionisii wrote that missionary work cannot be political in its essence. Foreign policy should be the job of diplomats, not churchmen; it was a sad reality that the situation was otherwise.39 Dionisii felt that missions must not focus too strongly on cultural russification either. A one-sided Russian cultural influence was harmful; instead, missions must be predominantly religious and moral.40 It was perhaps this perception, that politics and secular culture played too large a role in the external missions, which kept many clerics outside the Orthodox Missionary Society. Nationalism, by the same token, Dionisii argued, had no place in missionary work.41 Dionisii’s definition of the missionary’s task was the narrowest and most ecclesiastical and echoed best the sentiments of Veniaminov and Glukharev. The synod’s Missionary Convocation, meeting in April 1912, chimed in on the debate over the role of missions, reaffirming Il´minskii’s system of primary education for non-Russians. In a lengthy discussion, the convocation supported the gradual introduction of Russian, employment of non-Russian teachers, etc., concluding that Il´minskii’s system facilitates an internal, psychological convergence (sblizhenie) of non-Russians with Russians; “from the root, not the summit.”42 The synod would renew this support on several occasions. During World War I, the political significance of the missions grew. Evstafii Voronets, writing in Pravoslavnyi blagovestnik, emphasized the importance of missions in the russification of various nationalities, indicating that Nicholas I had refused to include laws recognizing Lamaism in his Svod zakonov.43 The wartime attitude seems an exception to the ecclesiastical formulation prevalent among missionaries since 1870. Like other vital institutional issues, the question of missionary goals remained unanswered as the revolution approached. Some observers claimed that Russian Orthodox missions were merely a cover for russification. Russian culture was enmeshed in Orthodox missions, but missionaries did not view russification of non-Russians as their chief task. Both Il´minskii and Veniaminov (as well as their missionary successors) were primarily concerned with faith and did not wish to tamper with non-Russian culture or language. What did not contradict Orthodox teaching did not merit interference or prohibition. Missionaries were far more concerned with the devoutness of their non-Russian flock. Teaching 38

  “Otchet PMO za 1895 g.,” Pravoslavnyi blagovestnik, no. 13 (1896): 6.

39

 Dionisii, Idealy, 8.

40

  Ibid., 13, 15.

41

  Ibid., 28.

42 43

  RGIA f. 796, op. 445, 1808–1918, l. 120.

  “Prosveshchenie Sibiri khristianstvom i vliianie nemetskogo zasil´ia na blagovestnichestvo v Sibiri,” Pravoslavnyi blagovestnik, no. 2 (1915): 72–105. The “German influence” in Siberia was negligible.



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in Il´minskii-type schools was conducted in non-Russian languages, namely so that pupils would more fully understand the principles of the Orthodox faith. The same was true of direct missionary work. Use of the native language, for example, ensured that non-Russians understood the step of baptism. In either case this was a lesson learned from long experience, some of it recent, as not all missionaries followed the guidelines given the difficult conditions under which they operated. If one examines the Missionary Society and Russian missionaries in the broad terms of Uvarov’s tripartite ideology (Orthodoxy, Autocracy, Nationality), it is clear that appeals to the person and authority of the tsar were prominent, both in missionary approaches and non-Russian responses, while an appeal to Russian nationalism was at best weakly tied to missionary Orthodoxy.44 In one interesting episode, missionaries in Viatka eparchate employed three thousand copies of the tsar’s rescript of 1900 to convince pagans to accept Orthodox baptism. Nicholas’s words were: “May God fortify the faithful, embrace those who waver, reunite those torn away, and bless the Russian state so firmly rooted in the unshakable truth of Orthodoxy.”45 But the reality of the effort varied. For instance, many non-Russians became Orthodox, but never learned Russian; there was no such requirement. Others, such as the Mordvins, became linguistically russified, and merged into the Russian population. This is not unlike the case of Altai and Baikal pagans; some became Lamaists without learning Buryat, others did both. Lamaist Buryats and Orthodox Russians vied for the hearts and minds of the Baikal region’s indigenous people. In general, smaller ethnic groups like the Mordvins and Yasak Voguls converted to Orthodoxy and became linguistically russified, while larger ethnic groups, which were more self-contained communities, converted but retained their language. In overseas missions, like those in Korea and Japan, clearly the religious presence was one which pleased the Russian government, but Great Russian chauvinism would hardly attract converts there. Of Uvarov’s troika, Orthodoxy was far superior in the eyes of Russian missionaries and the Missionary Society, though fervent nationalists, hoped it could serve as a means to other ends. Instead of russification, the Missionary Society’s activity can be interpreted as a strategic countermove against the spread of secularization from the Slavic population of the empire to non-Russians. By planting the Orthodox seed among non-Russians, the society sought to deflect the momentum of social change. In general, the Missionary Society and its affiliated missions exhibited a dual image: a more staunchly nationalist one employed in appeals and publications directed toward the Russian audience of potential contributors; and a much more purely religious one presented to non-Russians in written materials or through personal work in the far-flung provinces of the empire. But the essence of its productive work was Orthodox. A missionary who followed guidelines would find that it was possible to do the work of the Ortho44

  See Nicholas V. Riasanovsky, Nicholas I and Official Nationality in Russia, 1825–1855 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1959), especially pt. 3.

45

  “Da podkrepit Gospod´ veruiushchikh, da uderzhit kolebliushchikhsia, da vossoedinit ottorgnuvshikhsia i blagoslovit Rossiiskuiu derzhavu, prochno pokoiushchuiusia na nezyblemoi istine pravoslaviia,” “Otchet PMO za 1900 g.,” Pravoslavnyi blagovestnik, no. 15 (1901): 59.

168 A aron N. Michaelson

dox mission and respect liberal norms. Those liberal norms, expressed in the legislation on religious tolerance enacted by 1905, were a part of the culture in which the society operated.

Recreation of Seventeenth-Century Tile Forms on St. Petersburg’s Temple-Memorial “Savior on the Blood” Kristi A. Groberg

The architect Al´fred Parland stated plainly that his plan for the Temple of the Resurrection of the Savior “on the Blood” (Spas na Krovi), a temple-memorial (khram-pamiat´) built on the site of Tsar Alexander II’s 1881 assassination, followed the form taken by seventeenth-century Russian ecclesiastical buildings.1 Construction took place between 1883 and 1907, creating a visual anachronism on the “necklace of the classical ensemble” of old central St. Petersburg along the Catherine Canal.2 Parland’s employers were Tsar Alexander III and a building commission under the direction of the tsar’s infamous brother Grand Duke Vladimir Aleksandrovich, and later Tsar Nicholas II. To carry out the project, Parland solicited Russian artists and master craftsmen, most of them connected to the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts as educators, graduates, or students. He employed Russian firms, workshops, and manu­ factories, especially those with the designation “Purveyors to the Imperial Court.” Whenever possible he used materials native to Russia. Parland’s rationale for a seventeenth-century focus was the tsar’s insistence that the temple reflect the hyper-nationalism that marked his reign and that of his son. Results of the initial design competition failed to impress the tsar, who rejected all entries in March 1882. He claimed that none captured the spirit of Russian architecture and ordered a second competition, with the theme “Russian Renaissance,” to pro­ duce a tribute “in the seventeenth-century Russian manner,” with an emphasis on the churches of Iaroslavl´.3 He commanded that designs encompass variants of the pre-Petrine architecture of sixteenth-century imperial votive churches such as the Decapitation of St. John the Baptist at Diakovo and the Intercession of the Virgin I wish to thank William Brumfield, Michael Flier, Shirley Glade, Karen Kettering, and Ann Kleimola for reading this manuscript and for their thoughtful insights. 1

  Al´fred A. Parland, “Khram Voskreseniia Khristova,” Zodchii, no. 35 (1907): 375; and Parland, Otchet o sooruzhenii Khrama Voskreseniia Khristova (St. Petersburg: Komissiia po sooruzheniiu Khrama, 1907), 2. 2

  Boris M. Kirikov, “Pamiatniki ‘russkogo stilia,’” Leningradskaia panorama 10 (1983): 33.

3

  Memorandum of 19 March 1882, in Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv (RGIA) f. 1282, op. 3, d. 585, l. 21, and f. 1293, op. 114, d. 35, l. 1. Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 169–79.

170 Kristi A. Groberg

on the Moat (St. Basil), imperial churches in Moscow and Iaroslavl´, other elabo­ rate brick churches of the seventeenth century (e.g., those in Rostov the Great), and those of the mid–nineteenth-century Byzantine Revival brought about by the archi­ tect Konstantin Ton.4 Following much palace intrigue, the tsar selected an entry by Archimandrite Ignatii (Ivan Malyshev), who was not an architect and whose de­ sign likely was prepared by Parland.5 Parland submitted a separate design entitled “Antiquity” (“Starina”), based on the Church of the Decapitation of St. John the Baptist at Diakovo. In the end, he was named official architect to the project.6 Further, he was classified as the “author” (avtor)—an architect/artist competent enough to prepare the overall decorative program of a church as well as oversee its execution.7 He was a graduate of—and an academician and later professor of architecture at— the Academy, where he specialized in Greco-Roman architecture; a member of the Ministry of the Interior’s Technical Committee, which supervised the construction of ecclesiastical buildings throughout the empire; and he taught technical and aquarelle drawing at the Shtiglits Central College of Technical Drawing, where the plans for the temple and its exterior and interior appointments were drawn.8 Parland developed a cross-in-square, tri-apsidal, pentacupolar plan with an asymmetrical composition typical of seventeenth-century Iaroslavl´ churches.9 This plan was reworked until finalized by the tsar on 1 May 1887—a few years after construction began. The ele­ vations reveal a traditional eight-on-four (vos´merik na chetverike) composition, in which a central octahedron tent-tower (shater), flanked by four smaller towers on drums, rises above the central cube; still smaller towers surmount the central apse and each of the two side apses. Each of the nine towers is finished with an onion-dome

4

  Al´fred A. Parland, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova, sooruzhennyi na meste smertel´nogo poraneniia v Bozhe pochivshego Imperatora Aleksandra II na Ekaterininskom kanale v S.-Peterburge (St. Petersburg: Tovarishchestvo R. Golike i A. Vil´borg, 1907), 3. 5

  See Michael S. Flier, “At Daggers Drawn: The Competition for the Church of the Savior on the Blood,” in For SK: In Celebration of the Life and Career of Simon Karlinsky, ed. Flier and Robert P. Hughes (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 95–115. 6

 Parland, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova, 16–17. In his monograph, Parland does not mention Archimandrite Ignatii.

7

  This convention dates to 1669, when Tsar Alexei confirmed the Gramota of the Three Patriarchs, which so classified church architects and artists. See Viktor N. Lazarev, Russkaia srednevekovaia zhivopis´ (Moscow: Nauka, 1970), 7–12. On the use of avtor by Russian architects, a Roman imperial convention, see Kristi Groberg and Letta Christianson, “Keywords: Author,” SHERA Bulletin 6, 2 (2001).

8

  A biographical sketch of Parland’s work at the Academy is located in RGIA f. 789, op. 6, d. 109. See also Heinrich Heidebrecht, “Der Beitrag deutscher Architekten zur Bildung des ‘Russischen’ Stils im 19. Jahrhundert,” Architectura 30, 2 (2000): 189–201. 9

  Plan located in RGIA f. 513, op. 102, d. 9715a.

Recreation of Seventeenth-Century Tile Forms

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cupola (lukovitsa).10 The influence of St. Basil, with its red brick, white limestone, and multicolored ceramic tile ornamentation, as well as its original chapels “on the blood,” is evident, and was something that Parland had in mind,11 if for no other reason than, as William Brumfield has written, it represented the epitome of “the extravagance of Muscovite imagination” so dear to the tsar’s heart.12 Parland’s plan was calculated to meet criteria that included a modified martyrium, the tsar’s thematic ideal, the allotted budget, the limitations of the available property, and the staggering weight of the structure, which had to be built on watery ground. In addition, Parland had to adhere to an 1848 building code, legislated by Tsar Nicholas I via Konstantin Ton, which dictated acceptable styles of architecture in central St. Petersburg.13 Tremendous financial resources were amassed for the project; its estimated cost was 3.6 million silver rubles, but the actual cost was over a million rubles more.14 Monies were amassed from generous donations made by wealthy merchants, social and religious organizations, and the extended imperial family, as well as meager donations from the poverty-stricken general public. Most of the funds were spent to introduce and apply new technologies, manufacture high-quality materials, and purchase the finest decorative appointments.15 While details were negotiated, Parland studied ancient Russian monuments, assembled his cast of artists and artisan workers, acquired necessary supplies, and oversaw the initial construction. He had no choice but to draw from a remarkable and sometimes curious variety of sources to create a temple that would reflect, or at least echo, seventeenth-century churches. Parland applied a formula of reddish-brown brick building, white stone trim, and ceramic tile ornamentation, to which he added enough ceramic, glass, and stone tesserae to create a church which can claim an astonishing amount of mosaic work: 519 square meters on the exterior and 7,065 on the interior. Red brick trimmed in white stone was a convention of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Moscow Style church architecture, and that of Iaroslavl´, which added decorative tin-glazed majolica tiles in the traditional colors of blue, green, white, and yellow to the formula.16 Parland also tapped into a revival of the use of brick in Russian architecture that 10

  Elevations located in Tsentral´nyi gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Sankt-Peterburga f. 506, op. 1, d. 246, ll. 5–10. 11

 Parland, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova, 3.

12

  William C. Brumfield, Landmarks of Russian Architecture (Amsterdam: Gordon and Breach, 1997), 95. 13

  James H. Bater, St. Petersburg: Industrialization and Change (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1976), 24. 14

  Georgii P. Butikov, “Muzei-pamiatnik ‘Spas na krovi,’” in Muzei “Isaakievskii sobor” (Leningrad: Lenizdat, 1991), 157, 169. 15

  Iurii V. Trubinov, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova (Spas na Krovi) (St. Petersburg: Beloe i chernoe, 1997), 34. 16

  William C. Brumfield, “Photographic Documentation of Seventeenth-Century Architectural Monuments in Yaroslavl,” Visual Resources 11, 2 (1995): 135–65.

172 Kristi A. Groberg

began in the 1860s. This was the so-called Brick Style (kirpichnyi stil´), an eclectic “style” popularized by the architects Viktor Gartman and Ivan Ropet in their quest to recover Old Russian decorative details.17 Known to its antagonists as Ropetovshchina, its main purpose was the creation of functional buildings whose surfaces were enlivened with colorful glazed bricks and/or ceramic tiles. Known in Europe as the Ziegelbau Movement, it utilized premanufactured glazed bricks for housing projects, public buildings, and large churches. A practical vogue, it provided for cheap, sturdy, and virtually maintenance-free buildings. In Russia, the addition of decorative tiles allowed for highly attractive color combinations that recalled earlier national forms. It had special resonance in St. Petersburg after 1870, when two of its proponents, the architects Viktor Shreter and Ieronim Kitner, demonstrated its effective use with especially decorative patterns and colors.18 And, it fit under the hard-to-define and highly eclectic rubric Russian Style (Russkii stil´ or Style Russe).19 Architects such as Parland, who took seriously the return to seventeenth-century decorative elements, turned for inspiration to art historian Vladimir Stasov’s 1872 album Samples of Russian Ornamentation. Stasov claimed contemporary Russian architecture and the decorative arts were well served by nationalistic designs which mimicked traditional embroidery patterns and motifs from ancient manuscripts.20 Nikolai Sultanov, the Holy Synod’s resident expert on church architecture, countered that the application of folk motifs to brickwork constituted indiscriminate transferences from one medium to another. He considered these “salient features” of the vogue for Russian kitsch in architecture and sarcastically referred to them as “marble hand-woven towels and brick embroideries.”21 Nonetheless, Sultanov gave a speech in 1882 in which he argued on behalf of the Russian Style’s practical use of brick as one means to convey “the national ethos.”22 Parland, however, had to please the tsar and not his critical colleagues. He adhered to efforts to restore cultural integrity by 17

  Evgeniia I. Kirichenko, Russkaia arkhitektura 1830–1910-x godov (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1978), 159–69; and Kirichenko, “Arkhitekt I. P. Ropet,” Arkhitekturnoe nasledstvo 20 (1972): 85–93. 18

  Ieronim S. Kitner, “Kirpichnaia arkhitektura,” Zodchii, no. 6 (1882): 84. Both Shreter and Kitner submitted designs to the competition for the temple.

19

  The difficulties of defining this style are made abundantly clear in Evgeniia I. Kirichenko, Russkii stil´: Poiski vyrazheniia natsional´noi samobytnosti. Narodnost´ i natsional´nost´. Traditsiii drevnerusskogo i narodnogo iskusstva i russkom iskusstve xviii–xx veka (Moscow: Izd-vo AST, 1997), especially 183–99; and Evgenia Kirichenko, “The Russian Style 1850– 1900,” in Russian Design and the Fine Arts, 1750–1917, comp. Mikhail Anikst (New York: Abrams, 1991), 91–133. 20

  Vladimir V. Stasov, Obraztsy russkogo ornamenta (Moscow: Obshchestvo pooshchreniia khudozhnikov, 1872), no pagination. 21

  Nikolai V. Sultanov, “Vozrozhdenie russkogo iskusstva,” Zodchii, no. 2 (1881): 11.

22

  Nikolai V. Sultanov, “Odna iz zadach stroitel´nogo uchilishcha,” Zodchii, no. 5 (1882): 71; also noted (with examples), in Sultanov, Opisanie novoi pridvornoi tserkvi (St. Petersburg: Oblik, 1905).

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reviving folk art forms and assimilating them into “high culture.” There was a political edge to this approach, in that it was most fully expressed in the architectural patronage of the imperial government.23 And Tsar Alexander III was nothing if not a patron of the Russian arts.24 In the spring of 1884, construction on the temple began. It took three years to drain a section of the Catherine Canal, create a coffer dam and caisson (in the manner of a deep lighthouse support system), and pour the foundation. Parland insisted the canal be filled with water when the project was complete, so the temple would be reflected in the water in the manner of many seventeenth-century churches.25 Property around the site was cleared to build workshops, workers’ barracks, and storage for construction supplies; a rail line was laid to a materials depot at the edge of the Field of Mars adjacent to the Neva River. Fantastic new equipment, such as steam-powered pile drivers, and experimental construction methods drew enormous crowds to the construction site. Atop the foundation, walls were constructed of high-quality horizontal redbrown and yellow brick commissioned and purchased from Pirogranit, the largest brick factory in Russia, and Nadezhda, a lesser-known manufactory. Hundreds of thousands of bricks were stored on site. As the brick was laid by stonemasons, decorative insets were added; these alone comprised ten metric tons of multicolored ceramic-glazed bricks imported from the Zigersdorff Factory in German Silesia. Bricks glazed in blue, green, and yellow were set in symmetrical patterns to add color, texture, and symbolic motifs to the walls; many were molded in unusual shapes. A total of 331,389 bricks were imported at a cost of 57,542 rubles and 38 kopeks.26 Once the structural shell of the temple was in place, the brick façade was reveted as well as further decorated with red granite quarried in Norway, grey granite from nearby quarries, and limestone27 provided by the Estonian stonecutters’ firm of Kos

23

  Vladimir G. Lisovskii, Natsional´nye traditsii v russkoi arkhitekture kontsa XIX–nachala XX veka (Leningrad: Obshchestvo Znanie, 1988), 118. 24

  See John O. Norman, “Alexander III as Patron of the Arts,” in New Perspectives on Russian and Soviet Artistic Culture, ed. Norman (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994), 25–40.

25

 Parland, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova, 14.

26

  V. V. Antonov and A. V. Kobak, Sviatyni Sankt-Peterburga: Istoriko-tserkovnaia entsiklopediia, 3 vols. (St. Petersburg: Izdatel´stvo Chernysheva, 1994–96), 1: 102; and L. V. Shmelling, “Neskol´ko tsifr iz otcheta po sooruzheniiu khrama vo imia Voskreseniia Khristova,” Zodchii, no. 49 (1907): 49. Shmelling’s original documentation on the cost of building the temple is in his unpublished manuscript, “Otchet po sooruzheniiu khrama vo imia Voskreseniia Khristova na meste smertel´nogo raneniia Imperatora Aleksandra II” (St. Petersburg, 1907), located in RGIA f. 1293, op. 103 (1907), d. 106.

27

  Known as Estonian Limestone or Estland Marble, it is a grey-white dolomite that is soft and easily carved, but hardens when exposed to the elements.

174 Kristi A. Groberg

& Diurr.28 In the seventeenth-century manner, the white stone was applied to the belts, cornices, decorative gables (kokoshniki), window frames (nalichniki), and door casings, to provide contrast to the red brick and accent the temple’s architectural components.29 Other decorative details in white stone were cut, worked, and applied by the Petersburg stonecutting workshop of A. E. Blagodarev.30 Total cost for the exterior included 945,536 rubles and 8 kopeks for the stone and the labor of the stonemasons, 75,215 rubles and 39 kopeks for the masonry on the brick walls and arches, 227,862 rubles and 14 kopeks for the cutting, finishing, and application of limestone, and 38,724 rubles and 69 kopeks for the remaining stonework.31 This, while it is not technically ceramic work, is a vital component of the seventeenth-century image that Parland strove to emulate. Many of the decorative elements created with ceramic were not integral to the actual structure of the temple. A striking wealth of ornament was attached for the sheer saturation characteristic of the seventeenth-century churches so admired by the tsar, who was involved in every phase of planning and construction. These included such pieces as the patterned majolica tile insets for the recessed squares (shirinki) which accentuate the verticality of the building. These large tiles were molded in high-relief floral patterns, glazed in light colors, and fired in Kholui at the ceramics firm owned by the icon painter N. N. Kharlamov. Delicate faceting as well as archivolts for the large drum under the central tent-tower were specially ordered from St. Petersburg’s Imperial Porcelain Factory—Purveyors to His Highness the Tsar of Glass, Porcelain, China, and Stoneware. Into the large south, east, and north façade pediments, the four porch pediments, the face of the bell-tower, and the tympanae of the exterior kokoshniki, highly symbolic icons and designs in mosaic were set. These included the patron saints of the imperial family and the coats of arms of the great cities and provinces of Russia. The mosaic work on the exterior of the temple was completed in 1907, just in time for consecration, at a cost of 809,952 rubles and 85 kopeks.32 The interior of the temple was, with the exception of fine stone and metalwork, completely covered in mosaic compositions created with ceramic and glass tesserae. Surfaces included the ceiling, vaults, cupola interiors, walls, pillars, and pilasters. This was a bold and exceptionally expensive undertaking. Parland made the decision to forego the more typical, traditional use of frescoes for interior decoration. Here 28

  Vladimir Rudnev, “I masterstvo, i vdokhnoven´e,” S.-Peterburgskaia panorama 5 (1993): 26; and Boris M. Kirikov, “Khram Voskreseniia Khristova (k istorii ‘russkogo stilia’ v Peterburge),” in Nevskii arkhiv: Istoriko-kraevedcheskii sbornik, ed. A. I. Dobkin and A. V. Kobak (Moscow: Atheneum-Feniks, 1993), 225. Precious and semiprecious stone for the interior appointments was cut and installed by the Imperial Lapidary Workshops at Petergof, Ekaterinburg, and Kolyvan.

29

 Parland, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova, 6.

30 31

  Rudnev, “I masterstvo, i vdokhnoven´e,” 26.

  Shmelling, “Neskol´ko tsifr,” 49.

32

 Ibid.

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he deviated dramatically from the return to seventeenth-century forms and argued for the unusual use of mosaics by demonstrating their practicality and longevity, and he pointed to some very early prototypes to prove it. It was to surpass in size and grandiosity the mosaic surface areas of the imperially inspired mosaic work in the Byzantine churches of Hagia Sophia (532–37) in Constantinople, San Vitale (547) in Ravenna, St. Mikhail of the Golden Domes (1108) in Kiev, and San Marco (ca. 1200) in Venice—all referred to by Parland in his monograph.33 In each of these churches, the mosaics only covered sections of the walls and ceiling, while at the temple Parland called for 7,065 square meters of mosaic, interrupted only by stone iconostases, icon frames, steps, and a Roman-style floor.34 The iconographical program was prepared by Vasilii Uspenskii, a specialist in Byzantine iconography. Parland corresponded with dozens of famous painters of religious subjects in his efforts to add their talents to the project. He was extremely successful in that thirty-three artists, including Mikhail Nesterov and Viktor Vasnetsov, agreed to contribute designs for the mosaics. The resulting gallery of Old Testament prophets, church fathers, Orthodox saints and martyrs, seraphim, cherubim, archangels, angels, and animals consisted of 277 different named figures and 68 additional biblical and evangelical themes in 308 separate compositions.35 The Building Commission announced a contest in 1895 for the manufacture and application of mosaics to each individual artist’s specifications. Competitive orders were accepted from both Russian and foreign firms, including the Mosaic Department of the Academy, the Frolov Firm of Master Mosaicists in Petersburg, the Kharlamov Firm of Kholui, Antonio Salviati & Co. of Venice (makers of Murano glass tesserae with gold leaf inserts), and Fritz Puhl & August Wagner of Berlin (makers of glass tesserae with silver leaf inserts). The commission preferred the first order to come in, that of the Frolov firm, well known for its mosaic work on churches, public buildings, and funerary monuments. Frolov drew up the overall plan for applying mosaic to the interior walls, although Parland had the final say in the event questions arose. The actual tesserae were small ceramic cubes (.25 vershoks cubed) created, glazed, and fired by the Kharlamov firm of Kholui.36 Frolov defined them as “molecules” in the same way that today we might think of them as pixels on a grid. Samples of each color—developed by Sergei Petukhov, the chemist for the Mosaic Department of the Academy—were placed in the archives of the Academy.37 The Frolovs were in charge of creating the mosaics (some of which were assembled at their Petersburg studio and others in the temple) from the tesserae, installing them, and sealing the compo33

 Parland, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova, 5; and Parland, “Khram Voskreseniia Khristova,” 377.

34

  Anonymous, “Khram Voskreseniia Khristova,” Niva 36 (1907): 596.

35

 Trubinov, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova, 37–38.

36

  Boris M. Kirikov and Vladimir A. Frolov, “Iz Istorii russkoi i sovetskoi mozaiki,” in Khudozhnik i gorod, ed. Marina L. Terekhovich (Moscow: Sovetskii khudozhnik, 1988), 299. 37

  Ibid., 294 n. 42.

176 Kristi A. Groberg

sitions with jewelers’ enamel.38 The exceptions were the mosaics for the iconostasis, completed in the Mosaic Department of the Academy, four icons for the side apses executed by Puhl & Wagner in Berlin, and a few pieces created by Antonio Salviati & Co. in Venice. The non-Russian firms likely were solicited because the younger Frolov brothers had gone to Venice to learn the reverse Venetian technique of mosaic composition and to Puhl & Wagner in Berlin to work with the masters there; both firms specialized in the creation of glass tesserae (smalti), inset with gold and silver leaf, and set at an angle in the Byzantine manner to reflect light. This technique was new to Russia and completely unlike that taught at and favored by the Academy and the Imperial Lapidary Workshops. The project continued from the execution of cartoons in 1896 until 1907 and caused years of delay in the completion of the temple. The total cost for the creation of the monumental cartoons and frames for the mosaics was 204,585 rubles, and the mosaics themselves totaled well over 100,000 rubles.39 The roofs of the porches, the main tent-tower, and apse roofs were covered in blue, green, yellow, and white ceramic tiles manufactured in seventy-four different shapes. The four tiled cupolas were executed in bright, clear colors and patterns inset with religious symbols. The multidimensional tiles on the large cupola were all polychrome majolica in separate, distinct colors. They were fired in various sizes and shapes—pyramids, squares, and braids—and created in molds curved to the exact shape of the cupolas. The work of molding, firing, and glazing these unusual tiles was done by the Moscow jewelers’ firm of A. M. Postnikov, selected because it had developed a permanent enamel glaze with which to seal the ceramic tiles against the elements. The involved process began with an iron framework that formed the basic cupola; the frame was covered with copper sheeting and a thin layer of encaustic, into which the ceramic tiles were set. To seal them, the lightweight, frost-resistant, water-repellent enamel sealant was applied over the tiles. The total area of roofing protected by ceramic tile was approximately one thousand square meters. So, now we face the question of the seventeenth-century precedent and whether or not Parland accomplished his goal. Architectural tiles (izrazets) were not new to Russia in the seventeenth century; in fact, the large-scale manufacture and distribution of glazed bricks and tiles was documented as early as the fifteenth century. Potteries were located near clay deposits, and whenever possible near the larger towns or monasteries which made use of the ceramic forms on their architecture.40 By this time, tile was an important alternative to expensive stone facing. Used in combination with brick, bands of unglazed terra cotta tiles were white-washed to mimic the carved white stone on earlier churches in Novgorod and Suzdal.41 The sixteenth century introduced green-glazed tiles, and other enamel colors were introduced in the sev38

  See the excerpts of Frolov’s memoirs published in ibid., 285–86.

39

  Boris M. Kirikov and Vladimir A. Frolov, “Nemerknushchie kraski mozaiki,” Stroitel´stvo i arkhitektura Leningrada 10 (1978): 40.

40

  Alison Hilton, “Materials and Forms,” in Russian Folk Art (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995), 115.

41

  I. I. Sergeenko, Russkii izrazets (Moscow: MGOMZ, 1982), 1–5.

Recreation of Seventeenth-Century Tile Forms

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enteenth century and prolifically applied to church architecture. New techniques to create tin-glazed majolica, faience, and porcelain were developed late in the century at a time when architectural tiles were produced by both simple and technologically complex procedures and reflected folk traditions as well as urban fashion. Multicolored tiles were favored, featuring large floral motifs, framing devices from early manuscripts, scenes from folk tales and peasant life, and even images adapted from Classical, European, and Oriental sources.42 Parland looked, under the watchful eye of Tsar Alexander III and Tsar Nicholas II, to Tsar Alexei, whose long and peaceful reign (1645–76) stimulated a proliferation of brick churches decorated in bright polychrome tiles. Despite their ornamental effusiveness, the designs achieved an unusual degree of stability in a plan known as the “ship”—a central cube, topped by five cupolas, and attached to a bell-tower surmounted by a tent-tower. This was the so-called Moscow Style of architecture to which Parland turned in part for inspiration in his design for the temple, which essentially was a pentacupolar church fused to a bell-tower like a ship church. An irregular plan with exceedingly intricate ornamentation appears in the Church of the Trinity in Nikitniki (1628–53), which was completed during Alexei’s reign. The national recovery called for by the nineteenth-century Russian Style looked to this church, which demonstrated the economic basis of ornamentalism: the rise of wealthy merchants.43 Constructed in an urban Moscow setting, it was created by the tsar’s artisans. Against the red brick façade with its carved white limestone trim were set the ornamental devices of seventeenth-century Moscow: deeply recessed square panels; multiple tiers of corbelled gables sculpted with perspective arches; cornices of colored tile; pendants (girki) in the entrance arches; attached columns, pilasters, and arcading on the cupola drums; and arches of every conceivable sort. Despite Patriarch Nikon’s insistence that after 1652 all church architecture return to the Byzantine form of a cube topped by three or five domes, the preoccupation with highly ornamented brick churches continued. In fact, Nikon’s plan to build his monastery of the New Jerusalem at Istra west of Moscow in 1654 stimulated the use of tile making for architectural purposes. He sent for the best tile makers from manufactories in Rostov, Moscow, and other cities to decorate the Church of the Resurrection.44 After exiling Nikon in 1658, Tsar Alexei called the masters of architectural tile making to the Kremlin Armory Chamber, and their work made Moscow the center of tile production. The technique of tile enameling (tsenina) became popular. Tiles molded in high relief decorated the façades of many brick churches and public buildings.

42

  Hilton, “Materials and Forms,” 116.

43

  Richard S. Wortman, Scenarios of Power: Myth and Ceremony in Russian Monarchy, 2 vols. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 1: 383.

44

  I. Grabar´ and S. Toporov, “Arkhitekturnye sokrovishcha Novogo Ierusalima,” in Pamiatniki iskusstva razrushennye nemetskimi zakhavatchikami v SSSR, ed. Grabar´ (Moscow: Izdatel´stvo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1948), 175–76.

178 Kristi A. Groberg

From Moscow, the new fashion spread through the major cities, especially Rostov the Great and Iarolslavl´.45 The Church of the Trinity at Ostankino (1678–83) demonstrates the character of brick itself as a decorative surface. Bricks of various sizes, shapes, and colors were laid in a variety of patterns, some of them even molded for a particular course as tiles would be at Savior on the Blood. Carved limestone provided both structural detail and window treatments, and the addition of gilded and painted cupolas brought this polychromatic structure to such a degree of pictorial richness that Parland’s contemporary Andrei Aplaksin adjectivized any highly decorative Russian Style church— such as Parland’s temple—as Ostankovshchina.46 The same “attitude toward brick”47 —intensively worked to produce the utmost variety of color, shape, and play of light and shade over wall surfaces—was characteristic of the large group of seventeenth-century churches in Iaroslavl´ to which Parland referred as among his prototypes for the temple.48 These simple cubes of brick, built to the vocabulary of earlier Russian architecture, had as their most unique attribute an abundance of decorative brickwork and ceramic tile. Despite the variety of brick churches in Moscow in the final decades of the seventeenth-century, the apogee of traditional forms of church architecture occurred in Iaroslavl´, a burgeoning trade center on the Volga River. These richly decorated churches were built under the patronage of wealthy merchants, city districts, and trade associations—all of which tried to out-do one another until Iaroslavl´ began to decline with the rise of St. Petersburg. Large and ingeniously decorated, they returned to the earlier sixteenth-century tri-apsidal plan, flanked by chapels and a gallery with porches on three sides. Architects were obliged to accept Nikon’s injunction against the use of more than five domes, but in many cases they retained the pyramidal or octahedron tent-roof on their bell towers, which became a feature of Iaroslavl´ church architecture. Toward the end of the seventeenth century, Rostov the Great, also on the Volga River—and another source of inspiration for Parland—became the site of the last and largest building projects of medieval Muscovy. Its patron was Metropolitan Iona, close to Tsar Alexei but the holder of an eparchate rich in funds, craftsmen, and laborers. Between 1670 and 1690, stonemasons erected several large urban churches in Rostov; components borrowed from them by Parland include saturated ceramic ornamentation on both building and cupolas. Entire church and monastery complexes were meant to be viewed from the water—another idea Parland insisted upon for Spas na Krovi. 45

  James Cracraft, The Petrine Revolution in Russian Architecture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 71. 46

  Andrei P. Aplaksin, “Russkoe tserkovnoe iskusstvo i ego sovremennye zadachi,” Zodchii, no. 3 (1911): 24.

47

  George Heard Hamilton, The Art and Architecture of Russia (New York: Penguin Books, 1975), 210. 48

 Parland, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova, 3.

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By the end of the nineteenth century, these ideas had been fully co-opted to the degree that not only the Russian Style, but the use of Russian artists and materials, was considered a given—especially with regard to the construction of churches under the patronage of the imperial family. The idea of ornamental church art and architecture as representative of the national ethos was supported by the architect Vladimir Shervud in 1895, when he expressed a conviction that the “spiritual idea in architecture” best reflected Russianness.49 The few Russian Style churches built in St. Petersburg were often the most outrageously russianized as a counterattack on the Western values which had created the city; many were built on canal quays so that they would become prominent features of the skyline and disrupt the Classical architectural ensemble of the city.50 Parland wrote that he wanted the temple’s design to “have no Western influence.”51 And in keeping with his understanding of eclecticism, he backed his decision to incorporate a variety of prototypes, design styles, and personal artistic styles in order to present a “treasure house of national ornament.”52 This was completely in keeping with the Russian Style, which was marked by an increasing accentuation or exaggeration of the prototype, a kind of optical enlargement in which the divisions between parts of a church were blurred by excessive ornamentation. The end result is a hybrid church like Savior on the Blood.

49

  Vladimir O. Shervud, Opyt issledovaniia zakonov iskusstva: Zhivopis´, skul´ptura, arkhitektura i ornamentika (Moscow: Universitetskaia tipografiia, 1895), 128–29. 50

  Kirichenko and Anikst, Russian Design and the Fine Arts, 1759–1917, 72.

51

 Parland, Khram Voskreseniia Khristova, 5.

52

  Ibid., 6.

Looking East: The American YMCA’s Interaction with Russian Orthodox Christians, 1900–40 Matthew Lee Miller

The American branch of the Young Men’s Christian Association (the YMCA, or the Y) entered Russia in 1900 and developed a variety of educational, religious, and athletic programs—the primary goal was to support the intellectual, spiritual, and physical development of young men. YMCA leaders began their work by establishing a public gymnasium, organizing Bible study groups, and providing direction to a Christian student movement. During World War I, many Y workers organized assistance for soldiers and prisoners of war. After the emigration of a number of Russians to western Europe, they assisted the new Russian Student Christian Movement, the YMCA Press, and the St. Sergius Theological Academy in Paris. During these years, Y leaders, such as Paul B. Anderson and Donald Lowrie, developed partnerships with a number of outstanding Orthodox leaders, including Sergei Bulgakov, Nikolai Berdiaev, and Georges Florovsky. In this way, the YMCA contributed to the preservation, enrichment, and expansion of Eastern Orthodox faith and culture. Especially through its support of the émigré student movement, publishing house, and theological academy, the YMCA played a major role in preserving an important part of prerevolutionary Russian culture in western Europe during the Soviet period. The American Protestant YMCA contributed to the enrichment of Russian Orthodox Christianity by making significant financial contributions, advising administrative development, encouraging flexibility on theological and ministry issues, setting an example of practical service to people, and developing a strong network of global relationships. These contributions combined to form a catalyst for the expansion of Eastern Orthodoxy and its influence throughout Europe, the United States, and beyond. The relationship of the YMCA with Orthodox leaders provides a rare example of fruitful interconfessional cooperation between Protestant and Orthodox Christians and an extraordinary period of interaction between American and Russian cultures. This essay focuses on the shifting outlook of the YMCA on Orthodoxy—the Y did not begin its work as a champion of Eastern churches. More specifically, over the years, the association’s approach shifted from resigned toleration to pragmatic support to limited support to enthusiastic support.1 1

  For discussion of the social, political, and religious context of the YMCA, see two works by the author: The American YMCA and Russian Culture: The Preservation and Expansion of Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 181–209.

182 Matthew Lee Miller

Contact between evangelical Protestants and Eastern Orthodox gradually increased during the nineteenth century through the westward emigration of Orthodox believers from eastern Europe and the European outreach of American and British missionaries. This essay examines scholarly views on Orthodoxy and Orthodox-Protestant relations, discusses the varying perceptions of English-speaking evangelicals toward the Eastern churches during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and provides a survey of secondary and primary sources which shed light on the issue. In addition, the essay illustrates the connection between these perceptions and the descriptions of Eastern Orthodoxy contained in the historical, political, travel, and theological literature of this period. This background provides context for the focus of this essay, the shifting outlook of the YMCA on Orthodoxy. Scholarly Perspectives on Orthodoxy A brief reflection on the academic study of Russian Orthodoxy highlights the significance of the YMCA’s approach to the Eastern churches. Thirty years ago, few historians paid any attention to the dominant faith of the Russian people. In 1985, Gregory Freeze, a leading American scholar on the history of Russian Orthodoxy, commented: “The history of the Russian Orthodox Church, especially in the modern imperial period (1700–1917), has been a woefully neglected field of scholarly research.” Fortunately, during the last twenty-five years, the situation has been improving, with regular publication of research on many aspects of Orthodoxy.2 In 2003, Valerie A. Kivelson and Robert H. Greene wrote that after “seventy years of neglect, the study of Russian religious life has entered an exciting period of growth in the decade since the fall of the Soviet Union.” They explain: Orthodox Christianity, 1900–1940 (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2013) and “The American YMCA and Russian Politics: Critics and Supporters of Socialism, 1900–1940,” in New Perspectives on Russian-American Relations, ed. William Benton Whisenhunt and Norman E. Saul (New York: Routledge, 2015). These works analyze the influence of the activities of the YMCA on Russians during the late imperial and early Soviet periods. This research is based on the YMCA’s archival records, observations found in Moscow and Paris archives, and memoirs of both Russian and American participants. 2   Gregory L. Freeze, “Handmaiden of the State? The Church in Imperial Russia Reconsidered,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 36, 1 (1985): 82. A few examples of this new research on the recent history of Russian Orthodoxy are Paul W. Werth, At the Margins of Orthodoxy: Mission, Governance, and Confessional Politics in Russia’s Volga-Kama Region, 1827–1905 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002); Chris J. Chulos, Converging Worlds: Religion and Community in Peasant Russia, 1861–1917 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2003); Jennifer Jean Wynot, Keeping the Faith: Russian Orthodox Monasticism in the Soviet Union, 1917–1939 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2004); Jennifer Hedda, His Kingdom Come: Orthodox Pastorship and Social Activism in Revolutionary Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2008); and Laurie Manchester, Holy Fathers, Secular Sons: Clergy, Intelligentsia, and the Modern Self in Revolutionary Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2008).



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By fortuitous coincidence, the transformation of the political climate of Russia since 1991 coincided with shifts in the intellectual currents in Western scholarship, where renewed interest in cultural anthropology has driven a rush of work on religious life and culture.3 Textbook descriptions usually presented a rigid system of dogma and ritual which has operated as a closed system. Recent work, however, has looked at the interplay of Orthodoxy with local and national historical trends as well as at the individual desires of laity and clergy. Historians are examining the church not simply as an organization, but as a participant in the wider culture of Russia. More recently, Freeze has observed: Only in the last decade has Russian Orthodoxy finally become a major focus of research. If nothing else, that research has posed a challenge to antireligious assumptions and encouraged historians to give more attention to the role of the church and religion—in politics, social relations, and culture.4 A leading trend among scholars in this field is a focus on popular religion, the lived experience of Orthodox believers, rather than on episcopal politics and church-state relations. As one scholar summarizes, “we also need more studies of popular religion in the years before the revolution in order to substantiate statements about change in the early Soviet period.”5 The experiences of Orthodox office workers, students, and émigrés are considered in detail in this study of the YMCA. In spite of this historiographical progress, very little scholarly attention has been paid to one of the church’s leading concerns from the 1870s to 1917—the spread of the Baptist and Evangelical Christian movements in the Russian Empire. Two recent exceptions are the monographs by Heather Coleman and Sergei Zhuk.6 One reason for this limitation in American historiography may lie within the tradition of church history developed 3

  Valerie A. Kivelson and Robert H. Greene, eds., Orthodox Russia: Belief and Practice under the Tsars (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), 1. 4

  Gregory L. Freeze, “Recent Scholarship on Russian Orthodoxy: A Critique,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 2, 2 (2001): 269. 5

  Heather J. Coleman, “Atheism versus Secularization? Religion in Soviet Russia, 1917–1961,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 1, 3 (2000): 557–58. 6

  Heather J. Coleman, Russian Baptists and Spiritual Revolution, 1905–1929 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005); and Sergei I. Zhuk, Russia’s Lost Reformation: Peasants, Millennialism, and Radical Sects in Southern Russia and Ukraine, 1830–1917 (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004). Another recent study on Orthodox-Protestant contacts is Arkhimandrit Avgustin (Nikitin), Metodizm i Pravoslavie (St. Petersburg: Svetoch, 2001). This volume contains an overview of contacts between American Protestants and Russian Orthodox, with a focus on Methodists, and highlights of the YMCA’s work with Russians on pages 149–51 and 157–66. See also Karina Ann Ham, “Interplay between Orthodoxy and Protestantism in Russia, 1905–1995” (Ph.D. diss., Fuller Theological Seminary, 1998).

184 Matthew Lee Miller

within the Russian Orthodox Church. As Gregory Freeze has noted, scholars have often shown disregard of non-Orthodox groups and simply labeled them as heretical or schismatic.7 Many lay observers before and after 1900 noted the rapid growth of Russian Protestantism and saw it as a reaction to the postreform social changes and the shortcomings of the state church. The majority of bishops, however, simply assumed that Protestantism was treasonous and a threat to society. At this time, Konstantin Pobedonostsev was ober-procurator of the Holy Synod, the lay state official who supervised the Russian Orthodox Church. He “was firmly convinced that society could be kept together only by a single authority (the autocracy) and a single faith.” State and church officials developed a two-pronged approach to these heterodox Russians: state repression and church education. The state would attempt to hinder Protestant leaders, and the church would increase popular and clerical religious education.8 The YMCA entered Russia at a time when the Russian Orthodox Church was engaging more actively with social issues and philanthropy. Since 1860, clergy and lay leaders had been moving the church into new programs of charity and popular religious education; the center of this trend was St. Petersburg. Jennifer Hedda summarizes her research on this topic by arguing that by 1900, “the local church had become a vigorous institution that played a prominent role in the city’s public life.” St. Petersburg clergy were motivated primarily by their evaluation of growing social problems as an ethical challenge to the church. “They did not see poverty, intemperance and class tension as social problems that could be eliminated by legislating higher wages or providing better municipal services. They saw them as moral ills.” Their approach could not be described as overly optimistic or utopian, since The church did not teach that poverty could be eliminated or that the material differences between the fortunate and the unfortunate could be erased. Rather, it taught that people should not allow such material distinctions to divide them from each other or to alienate them from God.9 St. Petersburg’s largest voluntary association was the Society for the Dissemination of Moral-Religious Enlightenment in the Spirit of the Orthodox Church. The catalyst for the formation of this program had been the popularity of meetings led by the British evangelist Lord Radstock and his Russian friend Colonel Pashkov for the capital’s social elite in the 1870s. These meetings included discussions of the Bible, hymn 7

  Freeze, “Recent Scholarship,” 276.

8

  A. Iu. Polunov, “The State and Religious Heterodoxy in Russia (from 1880 to the Beginning of the 1890s),” Russian Studies in History 39, 4 (2001): 54–58. 9

  Jennifer Hedda, “Good Shepherds: The St. Petersburg Pastorate and the Emergence of Social Activism in the Russian Orthodox Church, 1855–1917” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1998), iii, 215, 220. For discussion of a number of fundamental issues concerning the Orthodox Church during this period, see Robert L. Nichols and Theofanis George Stavrou, eds., Russian Orthodoxy under the Old Regime (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1978).



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singing, and informal prayer. They did not promote direct opposition to the Russian church, but Radstock’s informal ministry appealed to many among the nobility who were unsatisfied with their worship experiences in the state church.10 Hedda remarks, “Seeing how effective Radstock’s methods were, this concerned group of clergymen and laymen decided to adopt his methods for their own purposes.” She also notes the significant role played by this society in the development of civil society in St. Petersburg, as it encouraged voluntarism and civic responsibility.11 Simon Dixon’s research on the growing social awareness of clergy comes to similar conclusions and emphasizes the role played by Orthodoxy’s competitors in sparking new forms of activity within the state church.12 This essay will show how a number of clergy studied and utilized the YMCA’s programs and ideas—since the Y and social Orthodoxy shared a number of basic convictions. Protestant Perceptions of Orthodoxy As the YMCA entered Russia and began its interaction with society and the state church, all was not business as usual. For Y secretaries, gaining even a basic grasp on the spectrum of responses to church concerns was no simple matter. As Vera Shevzov’s groundbreaking monograph points out, the Russian Orthodox Church faced a variety of external and internal challenges to its own self-understanding. Marxists and other atheists challenged the church on political and philosophical grounds, while competing factions within the church attempted to shape its values.13 She compares this period to the Protestant Reformation and the Second Vatican Council: True, the “evolution” or brewing “revolution” (depending on one’s interpretation of those debates) in Russian Orthodoxy never had the chance to become

10

  See Mark Myers McCarthy, “Religious Conflict and Social Order in Nineteenth-Century Russia: Orthodoxy and the Protestant Challenge, 1812–1905” (Ph.D. diss., University of Notre Dame, 2004); and Sharyl Corrado, “The Philosophy of Ministry of Colonel Vasiliy Pashkov” (Master’s thesis, Wheaton College, 2000). 11

  Hedda, “Good Shepherds,” 250–53, 217.

12

  Simon Dixon, “The Church’s Social Role in St. Petersburg, 1880–1914,” in Church, Nation and State in Russia and Ukraine, ed. Geoffrey A. Hosking (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1991), 168, 175. See also Dixon, “The Orthodox Church and the Workers of St. Petersburg 1880–1914,” in European Religion in the Age of Great Cities, 1830–1930, ed. Hugh McLeod (New York: Routledge, 1995), 119–41. For a discussion on the cross-cultural expansion of Orthodoxy, see James J. Stamoolis, Eastern Orthodox Mission Theology Today (Minneapolis: Light and Life Publishing Company, 1986). 13

  Vera Shevzov, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 258.

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a comparable definitive “event,” largely on account of the political aftermath of the 1917 revolutions.14 During the 1920s, YMCA leader E. T. Colton described what he saw as the three major American Protestant responses to the Russian Orthodox Church: proselytization, condemnation, and support. According to Colton, the first group included Baptists and Methodists. The second group was made up of left-wing Protestants, such as Anna Louise Strong and Harry Ward, who condoned Soviet measures to demolish an outdated church so that a new one could replace it. The third group, Anglicans, Episcopalians, and YMCA members, was attempting to support the more liberal and progressive wing of the Orthodox Church.15 An extensive review of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Protestant literature on Eastern Orthodoxy suggests that Protestant views on Eastern Christianity have often been linked to views on Roman Catholicism and Islam. Those Protestants who had been sympathetic to Catholics and desirous of reforms had also been open to the Orthodox churches. Those with a strict anti-Catholic approach usually presented a very negative view of the Eastern bodies. A number of writers were pragmatically guided by their strong desire to see Christianity advance in the Muslim world. Some advocated assisting the Eastern churches in evangelizing Muslims. Others suggested it would be better to avoid relationships with these clergy in order not to offend adherents to Islam. American Protestants formed a variety of opinions as they became more aware of Orthodoxy. The speakers at a 1918 conference discussing the evangelization of Russia demonstrated one very negative position. At this Chicago assembly, one speaker referred to the Russian church as a “condemned ecclesiasticism.” Another speaker explained that in this tradition “there is little room for intellectual worship” because of the “gorgeous display, semi-barbaric pomp, and endless changes of sacerdotal dress, crossings, genuflections.” Other American Protestants chose a divergent position—a romanticized admiration with a “veneration bordering upon enthusiasm and exuberance.”16 These opinions, ranging on a continuum from disdain to veneration, were primarily based on superficial impressions, for Protestants and Orthodox had lived separate lives since the Reformation. Few American and British Protestants had made a serious attempt to understand the heart and mind of Eastern believers. Evangelical and Orthodox Christians shared a number of common foundational elements but lived in different worlds. Their common theological heritage included the authority of the divinely inspired scriptures and a common understanding of 14

  Vera Shevzov, “Icons, Miracles, and the Ecclesial Identity of Laity in Late Imperial Russian Orthodoxy,” Church History 69, 3 (2000): 610. 15

  Letter from E. T. Colton to F. W. Ramsey, 16 July 1926, 3, Russia, Colton E. T., Reports, Addresses, and Papers, volume 2, Kautz Family YMCA Archives, University of Minnesota Libraries, Minneapolis [hereafter KFYA]. 16

  Jesse W. Brooks, ed., Good News for Russia (Chicago: Bible Institute Colportage Association, 1918), 75, 156, 211.



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the Trinity and Christ defined by the councils of Nicaea (325 AD) and Chalcedon (451 AD). Protestants and Orthodox experienced a variety of contacts since the sixteenth-century Reformation. Philip Melancthon, the German reformer, initiated the first formal contact in 1559, when he sent a copy of the Augsburg Confession to Patriarch Joasaph of Constantinople. More than twenty years later, Joasaph’s successor responded, condemning central aspects of the Confession’s explanation of justification and biblical interpretation.17 However, seventy years later, the new Ecumenical Patriarch, Cyril Lucaris, published a confession which included teachings adapted from the writings of John Calvin. The entire Orthodox Church rejected this confession—several councils of the church hierarchy condemned Lucaris’s views.18 In the following years, Anglo-Catholic theologians of the Church of England and the Russian Orthodox Church initiated an ongoing dialogue which continued into the twentieth century.19 After World War I, friendly contacts between Orthodox and Anglicans increased steadily. Both sides expressed a desire for Christian oneness and mutual respect. Of course, the motivations for these meetings were not only religious in nature. Russian church leaders in Europe were experiencing life after disestablishment; the Ecumenical Patriarchate found itself within a newly secular Turkish state, so support from the Church of England became desirable. Orthodox and Anglican history also played a role in forming new ties. A number of Anglo-Catholic and Orthodox leaders felt an extra measure of Christian brotherhood. Both communities argued that they represented authentic apostolic Christianity. Their common mutual opposition to certain positions of the Roman bishop and their belief that the Roman Catholic Church had created the existing schisms led some Orthodox and Anglicans to see existing differences between their communions as more apparent than real.20 The growing strength of Roman Catholicism in Britain, and its attractiveness to younger Anglo-Catholics, was a great concern to the older generation of high church Anglicans. Some of these elders saw the possibility of Orthodox recognition of Anglican clergy as a counterweight to the growing popularity of the Roman Church. During the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, a variety of Protestant mission organizations conducted ministry with Russians, Greeks, Cypriots, Bulgarians, and other traditionally Orthodox ethnic groups. Missionaries, representing a variety of denominations, expressed a range of views on the nature and condition of the churches. The British and Foreign Bible Society (BFBS), an interdenominational Christian organization founded in 1804, coordinated the translation and distribution of the Bible throughout 17

  P. D. Steeves, “The Orthodox Tradition,” in Evangelical Dictionary of Theology, ed. Walter A. Elwell (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House, 1984), 807. 18

  Carnegie S. Calian, Icon and Pulpit: The Protestant-Orthodox Encounter (Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press, 1968), 22–23. 19

  Josef L. Altholz, “Anglican-Orthodox Relations in the Nineteenth Century,” Modern Greek Studies Yearbook 18–19 (2002–03): 1–14. 20

  Bryn Geffert, Eastern Orthodox and Anglicans: Diplomacy, Theology, and the Politics of Interwar Ecumenism (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010), 3–4.

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the world.21 The BFBS quickly expanded its work to many regions, including Russia. The Russian Bible Society was organized in 1812 with the support of Alexander I, who maintained friendly contacts with evangelicals. The Russian organization’s work led to increasing involvement with the church hierarchy, and soon thereafter several priests served as members of the society’s leadership council. Initially, the Bible society was quite successful in distributing the Scriptures widely. The society’s efforts led to the translation of the Bible into modern Russian, as well as other significant minority languages within the empire. The society began its work with the hesitant support of the established church, but many clergy grew to resent its growing influence. Eventually, many began to view the society as a subversive organization, and in 1826 Nicholas I declared that it must cease operation. The service of the BFBS with the Russian Bible Society was significant, since it stands as a unique case in the history of Russian Christianity of sustained cooperation between the Orthodox hierarchy and the clergy of non-Orthodox Christian churches.22 The establishment of Methodism in Russia began in the late nineteenth century, primarily through the work of American missionary George Albert Simons.23 In 1908 Simons began his ministry in St. Petersburg. He ministered through evangelism, publishing, and social service until his departure in 1918. By 1928 the denomination claimed 2,300 adherents. Apparently, Methodist missionaries worked in Russia without any significant communication with the Orthodox Church. Simons viewed Orthodoxy negatively, yet he chose to speak carefully about the church in order not to provoke opposition.24 Historian David Foglesong has described the work and views of a number of Protestant missionaries, especially Methodists and Adventists. He argues that these workers shared a number of views regarding Russian Orthodoxy; for example, they assumed that the Russian people were only “superficially Christianised.” Also, they believed that they were justified in conducting missionary work in a traditionally Orthodox nation due to the limitations of the church’s missionary efforts and the immense size of the country. Foglesong presents additional information on Methodist 21

  Judith Cohen Zacek, “The Russian Bible Society and the Russian Orthodox Church,” Church History 25 (December 1966): 413. For additional insight on the Bible Society, see James Urry, “John Melville and the Mennonites: A British Evangelist in South Russia, 1837– ca. 1875,” Mennonite Quarterly Review 54, 4 (1980): 305–22. For a Soviet perspective on this project, see Andrei Rostovtsev, “‘Britanskoe Bibleiskoe Obshchestvo’ i rasprostranenie Biblii: Torgovlia ‘dukhovnoi sivukhoi’ v Rossii,” Bezbozhnik, no. 24 (December 1927): 5–9. 22

  Zacek, “The Russian Bible Society,” 414–16, 436–37.

23

  Mark Elliott, “Methodism in Russia and the Soviet Union,” in Modern Encyclopedia of Russian and Soviet History, ed. Joseph L. Wieczynski (Gulf Breeze, FL: Academic International Press, 1981), 22:15–18. For an analysis of similarities and differences in Orthodox and Methodist religion, see S. T. Kimbrough, Jr., ed., Orthodox and Wesleyan Spirituality (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2002). 24

  John Dunstan, “George A. Simons and the Khristianski Pobornik: A Neglected Source on St. Petersburg Methodism,” Methodist History 19 (1980): 24–25, 40, 38.



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missionary George Simons, who wrote to his supervisors, “The Russo Greek Church does not preach. Hers is a religion of male singing, ritual and image-worship. Like other branches of paganized Christianity, she offers a stone to those who are hungering for the Bread of Life.”25 American Congregational and Episcopal missionaries worked actively among Greeks in independent Greece and the Ottoman Empire and expressed different perceptions of the Orthodox churches. Pliny Fisk, one of the first Congregational workers, sharply criticized the established Greek church: “for though nominal Christians, they [the Greeks] pay an idolatrous regard to pictures, holy places and saints. Their clergy are ignorant in the extreme.” The Episcopal missionaries expressed a more positive evaluation. They wrote of how an understanding of Jesus Christ had been passed down from the apostolic Greek churches through years of tradition. The Episcopalians claimed that problems, such as “errors of doctrine” and “clerical ignorance,” were due to conditions of oppression under the Ottoman Empire. Therefore, they did not attempt to organize their own churches in Greece but focused on publications and the education of children.26 Congregationalists attempted to invigorate Greek churches in various ways, including education of children and distribution of Bibles. While carrying out these plans, they criticized local traditions, such as monasteries and the special attention accorded to Mary. They hoped that a focus on individual repentance would be more appealing to Greeks than ceremonies.27 In Cyprus, the attitudes of Congregational missionaries appeared to have been similar to the views held by their colleagues in independent Greece, but these workers were more restrained in their public criticism to avoid conflict. For this reason they attempted to build relationships with local priests. The stated goal was to reform the religious life of the island. The root motivation in their ministry seems to have been to increase the intellectual understanding of the Bible: they believed that biblical knowledge had been obscured on the island by clerical ignorance and superstitious rituals. Missionaries organized schools to raise the level of literacy and attempted to recruit local priests to distribute Bibles in the villages.28 The interdenominational British and Foreign Bible Society, Methodists, Congregationalists, and Episcopalians, all ministered actively within predominantly Orthodox countries. The Bible society chose to serve alongside the Orthodox in a 25

  David S. Foglesong, “Redeeming Russia? American Missionaries and Tsarist Russia, 1886–1917,” Religion, State and Society 25, 4 (1997): 355–56. 26

  Theodore Saloutos, “American Missionaries in Greece: 1820–1869,” Church History 24 (1955): 155, 164–65. 27

 Joseph L. Grabill, Protestant Diplomacy and the Near East: Missionary Influence on American Policy, 1810–1927 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1971), 8. See also P. E. Shaw, American Contacts with the Eastern Churches, 1820–1870 (Chicago: American Society of Church History, 1937). 28

  Terry Tollefson, “American Missionary Schools for Cyprus (1834–1842): A Case Study in Cultural Differences,” Modern Greek Studies Yearbook 10–11 (1994–95): 37, 50. See also John O. Iatrides, “Missionary Educators and the Asia Minor Disaster: Anatolia College’s Move to Greece,” Journal of Modern Greek Studies 4, 2 (1986): 143–57.

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way which assisted a wide variety of Russians, while the Methodists chose to serve through independent outreach. Congregationalists and Episcopalians both attempted to facilitate reform, but the Congregationalists were far more critical of weaknesses and distinctive practices. These encounters serve as points of comparison to the interaction between the YMCA and Orthodox believers. This wide variety of reactions to Eastern churches suggests that denominational membership played a key role in determining a missionary’s perception. Baptists and Methodists usually denounced the Orthodox faith and conducted their ministry independently of the established churches. Congregationalists frequently criticized certain aspects of Eastern Christianity, but expressed sympathy for the difficult conditions faced by the churches in Europe. Often missionaries from this denomination described the goal as “reformation” of the established church. Episcopalians and Anglicans typically expressed admiration more frequently than criticism. These workers often attempted to provide ministry support. In addition, interdenominational alliances also tended to express sympathy and aimed at a ministry of reformation. In general, staff members of denominations which included more traditional forms of ritual in their worship were more accepting of Orthodoxy than those from denominations which rejected traditional forms for a simpler sermon-centered worship. Russian Orthodox leaders also encountered Protestants in the Middle East, as both groups worked to set up schools in Palestine and Syria. While American Christians worked to expand their service in Russia through the YMCA and other organizations, Russian Christians actively supported educational development abroad through the Orthodox Palestine Society. Cross-cultural philanthropy did not simply operate as a one-way phenomenon.29 Missionary perceptions of the Eastern churches developed under the influence of American attitudes toward Orthodox immigrants. Negative perceptions in the United States and in Europe seem to have been mutually dependent. Relatively few publications written in English during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries examine Orthodoxy in depth. Several of these books presented a sympathetic description, but the negative evaluation provided by Edward Gibbon’s influential Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire overshadowed the other viewpoints in the minds of nineteenth-century Americans. During this century, many Americans feared the immigration of non-Protestants, such as Catholics, Jews—and the Orthodox. Different social values, financial practices, religious traditions, and ethnic heritages seemed to threaten accepted understandings of the American “way of life.”30 A key factor shaping missionaries’ understandings of Eastern Christianity was the information presented in books available in the United States and Great Britain. One could assume that travel and ministry accounts were popular reading choices for missionaries, especially before their departure for service. The Story of Moscow, Wirt 29

  Theofanis George Stavrou, Russian Interests in Palestine, 1882–1914: A Study of Religious and Educational Enterprise (Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1963), especially 62–63.

30

  Peter Carl Haskell, “American Civil Religion and the Greek Immigration: Religious Confrontation before the First World War,” St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 18, 4 (1974): 167, 180–81, 173.



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Gerrare’s travel account published in 1903, provided a description of the practices, beliefs, and landmarks of Russian Orthodox Christianity. One uncommon feature of the book was the warning that foreigners need to be careful when making observations of the Russian church. He wrote: For many, who are quite ignorant of its tenets and practice, the Eastern Church has an irresistible fascination; the danger is that these, on a first acquaintance will over-praise such details as they may appreciate and too hastily condemn others they may not rightly comprehend.31 John Bookwalter described his travels in the Russian Empire in Siberia and Central Asia (1899). He paid special attention to the role of icons in prerevolutionary Russia and used this theme to illustrate his claim that “the strongest trait of the Russian’s character is his intense religious sentiment.”32 A. McCaig published a very different view in his book, Grace Astounding in Bolshevik Russia. McCaig served as principal of Spurgeon’s College in London, a study center for conservative European Baptists. During a visit to Riga, he met Cornelius Martens, who told of his recent ministry in Russia. McCaig then collected and edited the accounts of Martens. One chapter, “Victory over Priestly Opposition,” included a dramatic story of how an Orthodox priest came with a group of followers to disturb one of Martens’s preaching services. His friends told him to flee “to save his life as they had intended to kill him.”33 During this period, key Protestant textbooks of systematic theology and church history included little information on Eastern Orthodoxy. This may have contributed to the assumption that distinctive Eastern theological positions and historical realities did not deserve serious consideration. A. H. Strong’s popular three-volume set, Systematic Theology (1909), did not comment on any theological positions of Orthodoxy after the Middle Ages. George Fisher’s History of the Christian Church (1897) and Williston Walker’s A History of the Christian Church (1918) also virtually ignored developments in Eastern Christianity after the medieval era. These were, for the most part, well-researched textbooks written by respected professors at Yale University. One exception to this trend was the English translation of the standard German textbook Church History, by J. H. Kurtz (1890), which commented extensively on developments in Greece and other countries. Many Protestant Christian leaders of this period adopted a negative view of Orthodoxy, due to the evaluation of Adolf Harnack, the influential German theologian and church historian. Harnack’s writings included an “uncompromising condemnation of the Eastern Churches as relics of the syncretistic cults of late classical antiquity coated by a thin Christian veneer.”34 31

  Wirt Gerrare, The Story of Moscow (London: J. M. Dent and Co., 1903), 173.

32

  John W. Bookwalter, Siberia and Central Asia (Springfield, OH: n.p., 1899), 242.

33

  A. McCaig, Grace Astounding in Bolshevik Russia: A Record of the Lord’s Dealings with Brother Cornelius Martens (London: Russian Missionary Society, 1920), 99. 34

  Heinrich A. Stammler, “Russian Orthodoxy in Recent Protestant Church History and Theology,” St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 23, 3–4 (1979): 208.

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YMCA Perceptions on Orthodoxy The YMCA’s efforts in Russia and Greece were unusual examples of cooperation between American Protestants and Orthodox Christians. In 1875, few association members would have dreamed that fifty years later their organization would be publishing works of Eastern Orthodox theology. At that time, almost all YMCA members belonged to evangelical churches and accepted a traditional form of Protestant theology. Few of these men knew Orthodox believers or studied the history of the Eastern Church. The position of the American YMCA regarding the Eastern faith shifted significantly from 1900 to 1940; the attitudes of its leaders and secretaries ranged widely across a spectrum from dismissal to praise over these years. It is simply not possible to identify one YMCA stance on Orthodoxy at any one time. However, basic steps in the shift in the prevailing position may be identified among this diversity of views—the following section provides a number of illustrations. From 1900 to 1918, the leaders of the YMCA’s Mayak ministry for urban men in St. Petersburg and Petrograd expressed and demonstrated resigned toleration of Orthodoxy—its doctrine, practices, and leaders. Mayak leaders functioned with state approval, so they maintained polite relations with the church in order to safeguard freedom for their activity. Though they encouraged and supported young Orthodox believers, they hoped for a day when they would be able to teach evangelical Protestant belief and behavior without restrictions. They resented the necessity of leaving all Bible teaching to state church priests and doubted the salvation of many clergy. They were, however, able to operate without serious opposition from the hierarchy. This attitude was similar to that held by the British and Foreign Bible Society. In the early nineteenth century, the Bible society chose to cooperate with the Orthodox Church in order to serve larger numbers of Russians. During the same period, the Russian Student Christian Movement (RSCM) usually operated without formal state approval, so it was not required to rely on clergy for religious programs. The Americans working with the RSCM welcomed the participation and leadership of Orthodox students but promoted an interconfessional approach which attempted to emphasize the common beliefs shared by all Christians and avoid religious controversy. In this way the American Protestant leaders offered pragmatic support for Orthodox believers but did not encourage them to share the distinctives of their heritage with those of other backgrounds. For a variety of reasons the leaders of the YMCA became more intentional and enthusiastic in their support of the Orthodox Church during the challenging years of world war, revolutions, and civil war. These leaders encouraged Y secretaries to back the ministry of clergy. However, the stated position of the YMCA for work in Russia did not exclude support for other non-Orthodox confessions: this period’s philosophy was one of limited support for Orthodox believers. After the revolution, the YMCA Russian work leaders in Europe eventually adopted a position of enthusiastic support: they even avoided supporting Russian Protestant ventures. This YMCA policy of a confessional approach was unusual and did not develop without challenges from some secretaries. By 1940, however, the Y had moved from resigned toleration to



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enthusiastic support of Russian Orthodoxy. Yet there was always a vocal minority ready to criticize the church and the YMCA’s support of its leadership. The YMCA’s growing support of Orthodoxy occurred as many of its secretaries abandoned several Protestant distinctives, such as the primacy of scripture over reason and tradition and justification by faith alone. Paradoxically, as the general Y organization in the United States moved away from the doctrines of traditional Protestantism, the Russian work staff became more supportive of Eastern Orthodox churches which held on to far more traditional doctrines. John R. Mott led the way for the YMCA with his sympathies for the Eastern churches and his desire to support and expand their ministry. Shortly before the opening of YMCA work in Russia, Mott met Archbishop Nikolai, the Russian missionary who had established Japan’s Orthodox Church. Meeting this hierarch challenged his perception of a corrupt and servile church. Mott “saw that one Orthodox missionary had established a large church even in a hostile country.”35 His enthusiasm grew as a result of his meetings with church leaders during his participation in the Root Mission of 1917. He sensed a mood of renewal and optimism. His public comments and writings frequently emphasized his enthusiastic evaluation. The first YMCA field worker to live and work in Russia was Franklin Gaylord, who was often critical of the traditional faith in his letters and reports. After eight years of work with the Mayak he wrote: There is great difficulty in securing Christian men as voluntary workers. Orthodox Russian Christianity is a low grade of Christianity and to find men of real spiritual development is next to impossible. He reported that the prominent religion was of little consequence in everyday life: [T]he Russian priests and the Russian people generally, are formally most religious. In fact, there is a shocking lack of Christianity in all of Russian society. The great need of Russia as indeed of every country is men of character and of all round Christian development. He was especially frustrated by the limitations placed by its official charter on the religious work of the Mayak: Although its work is largely preventive at the present time there is hope that with increasing religious liberty in Russia, the Society will become more and more similar to the American Young Men’s Christian Association on which, as far as possible, it has been modeled.36 35

  Paul B. Anderson, “A Study of Orthodoxy and the YMCA,” booklet printed in Geneva by the World Alliance of Young Men’s Christian Associations, 1963, 15, Pamphlets on Orthodoxy, YMCA of the USA, Anderson, Paul B, 1, KFYA. 36

  Franklin Gaylord, “Extracts from Report for the Year 1908 of the Society for the Moral, Intellectual and Physical Development of Young Men in St Petersburg Russia,” 10–11. Corre-

194 Matthew Lee Miller

Gaylord attempted to work with priests who could connect with young people and communicate well but was frequently disappointed by what he sensed as lack of spiritual fervor and Bible teaching ability: “Among the thousands of priests in this city, some must be true Christians.”37 Gaylord’s assistant, Erich Moraller, shared his negative views and hoped for wider opportunities in the future: We hope the time is not far distant when the name of Christian with its full meaning will dawn upon the whole nation. That all men may know Christ, as personal Saviour, and God in life and deed. As yet He is to them a far off inaccessible Being.38 The Y men who worked among university students held similar critical attitudes. In his 1914 annual report Philip A. Swartz gave an extended summary of his views: “The Orthodox Church is utterly inadequate for the new conditions to say nothing about its failure in meeting the spiritual demands of former years.” His evaluation was entirely negative and repeated the common criticisms of lack of biblical knowledge, entanglement with the state, popular superstition, clerical greed, and immoral leadership.39 The attitude of most secretaries became more positive as the Russian work expanded after 1914. Mott’s influence continued, especially after he became acquainted with the future Patriarch Tikhon during the Root Mission thanks to Charles R. Crane, a wealthy American philanthropist who was especially concerned with Russia and had financed Tikhon’s New York cathedral choir. After 1917 the entire Y program had the blessing of Patriarch Tikhon. Ethan T. Colton, senior secretary for the Russian work beginning in 1918, developed relationships of trust with the Orthodox hierarchy. In the years to follow Tikhon passed instructions to Metropolitan Evlogii in Berlin via Colton. However, Colton states that from 1917 to 1921 the YMCA received a mixed reaction from Russian Orthodox clergy: “We found perhaps half friendly, the others aloof.”40 In 1920 William Banton, a YMCA leader for the Russian program who was based in New York, wrote a letter that expressed the policy of limited support for Orspondence and Reports, 1903–1910, Russian Work Restricted, Correspondence and Reports, 1903–1917, KFYA. 37   Letter from Franklin Gaylord to John R. Mott, 11 March 1912, 1, Correspondence and Reports, 1911–1912, Russian Work Restricted, Correspondence and Reports, 1903–1917, KFYA. 38

  [Erich Moraller], “Report of the Physical Department and the Department of Bible Study in the Society “Miyak,” (an alternate spelling of Mayak) [1910], 4, Russian Work, James Stokes Society including Saint Petersburg, KFYA. 39

  Philip A. Swartz, “Annual Report of Philip A. Swartz,” [30 September 1914], 5–6, Correspondence and Reports, 1913–1914, Russian Work Restricted, Correspondence and Reports, 1903–1917, KFYA. 40

  [E. T. Colton], “The Russian Work Sequences with their Church Relations,” no date, 2–3, YMCA Relationships (1920–1925), 2, Russian Church, KFYA.



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thodoxy which had evolved to that point. Banton described Orthodoxy as “fundamentally sound” and believed that its weaknesses were rooted in years of state control. He then expressed his opinion that the Association could function in an Orthodox context: “As far as having to first evangelize the Russian nation before we plant the seed of an indigenous Association movement I do not believe that this is necessary or desirable.” Banton concluded his statement by describing his desire for the YMCA to work with the Orthodox Church—and other Christian churches in Russia: The official attitude of the Association in connection with the Orthodox Church is one of cooperation, but we do not limit ourselves to supporting this Christian body alone but desire to equally serve all Christian bodies existing in Russia.41 His letter expressed appreciation for the context of the Russian church, but listed a number of typical Protestant criticisms; the spirit seems to be sincere but not wholehearted. The approach was positive and interconfessional. Rev. Frederic Charles Meredith played a key role in educating YMCA secretaries about the history and beliefs of Orthodoxy and encouraging them to develop positive relations with clergy and lay people alike. He stopped short of full endorsement, however. His booklet, The Young Men’s Christian Association and the Russian Orthodox Church,42 was used as a staff training tool. Meredith had served as rector of the American Episcopal Church in Mayebashi, Japan, before his time of YMCA service in Siberia. He wrote that the senior national secretary of the YMCA in Russia, G. S. Phelps, saw that the youth of Russia could best be served in cooperation with the Russian Orthodox Church, since it was “the determining religious influence of the country.” This view was not shared by all the secretaries. In general the Association workers who began to work in Siberia in 1918 were “ignorant” of Orthodoxy—and the church was ignorant of the YMCA. Meredith had been working among American troops at Spasskoe, when Phelps asked him to take up the assignment of studying Orthodoxy and helping the YMCA develop a relationship with the Russian church. Meredith had been studying Orthodoxy for some time and was familiar with developments in the relationship between Anglicans and Orthodox. Meredith set out with a five-step program for his assignment: 1) study the Russian church by meeting with clergy and attending worship services; 2) explain the YMCA to the clergy and lay people of the church; 3) explain the doctrine and worship of the church to YMCA

41   Letter from Wm. Walter Banton to Oliver J. Frederickson, 3 December 1920, 1, Correspondence and Reports, 1920, Russian Work Restricted, Correspondence and Reports, 1918–1921, KFYA. 42

  Frederic Charles Meredith, The Young Men’s Christian Association and the Russian Orthodox Church (New York: The International Committee of Young Men’s Christian Associations, 1921), Russian Work, Restricted, Pamphlets, KFYA.

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workers; 4) survey the religious conditions of cities and the influences of the church; and 5) survey the conditions of student life and the influences of Orthodoxy.43 He began his study in 1919 with a meeting with Bishop Anatolii in Tomsk, who was familiar with the Y from time spent in the United States. The bishop welcomed Meredith warmly and provided many suggestions for his program of study. Meredith described the worship services he attended with great enthusiasm. He also explained his understanding of a controversy surrounding the Y triangle: The apex of the triangle in many Russian Orthodox church decorations, and especially in representations and pictures of God the Father, points upward; therefore to many the red triangle, pointing downward instead of upward, seemed to be a popular “devil sign” or a Jewish emblem. Bishop Anatolii said that Meredith “should take part in church services as soon as I had acquired certain [Russian language] proficiency.” The services seemed to create the deepest enthusiasm for Meredith, and he was overwhelmed by “the splendor of Russian worship.”44 After his survey trip, Meredith gave a message to Y secretaries in Vladivostok on the history and doctrine of Orthodoxy. He emphasized that knowledge of the church depended on attending worship services. He “insisted that the duty of every secretary working in Russia is to do so.” The booklet closed with general observations and plans for the YMCA. He presented the doctrinal conservatism of the church in a positive way: The Russian Orthodox Church has never given one uncertain sound with reference to the center and core of Christianity, the divine Son of God, Jesus Christ, and when the treasures of the Church are really unlocked to Western minds, her progress in the understanding of the Christ will be made manifest. He noted that the Russian Orthodox Church needs to gain a better understanding of Protestantism and needs to continue with its reforms. The conclusion was not entirely positive: The Church has alienated thousands and her sins of omission and commission hang around her neck as did the albatross around the neck of the Ancient Mariner. However, as has been said, “the Church is indestructible and its influence inextinguishable in Russia. It can be made an agency to reach millions for good, who can in no other way be reached. It needs sympathy and it needs aid.”45

43

  Ibid., 3–4.

44 45

  Ibid., 8, 10, 13, 30.

  Ibid., 41–45, 49, 52.



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He commented that he felt sympathy for Russia’s other Christian confessions, such as the Old Believers and “various sects.” However, he did not believe that these groups would be able to provide a unifying faith for the Russian people. He suggested that Russian Protestants may use words that are similar to those of American Protestants, but there is only a “superficial resemblance” between these groups. He desired to serve and assist the Russian Orthodox Church and based his views on adopted positions of the YMCA on serving the local church. He agreed with the general orders issued by the leadership of the YMCA in Russia to support the Orthodox Church. He made these recommendations to the YMCA in Russia: 1) study and attend Orthodox worship services; 2) compile a handbook on Russian church history; 3) cooperate with local clergy in planning programs; 4) place icons in Y buildings and host Orthodox prayer services; and 5) distribute information on the YMCA to clergy and laypeople. We can be of great help to the Russian Orthodox Church. The Russian Orthodox Church can be of great help to us. With mutual respect and hearty cooperation, each in its own sphere can do much for “Poor Russia.”46 Colton continued to work within Soviet Russia from 1922 to 1925 with the American Relief Administration. During this time, he was able to observe the work of American Methodists, Lutherans, Baptists, and Mennonites in Russia. The Methodist and Baptist workers were supporting the work of starting new churches, while the Lutheran and Mennonite workers were supporting relief efforts.47 He realized that at this time the Orthodox Church was facing stiffer opposition from the government than the “Sectarians,” which included the Baptists and Evangelical Christians. This situation doubtlessly deepened his sympathy for the Orthodox. He believed that the Soviet government was sympathetic to sectarians, since they had been persecuted during the period when revolutionaries had been opposed by the tsarist government. Also, he believed that the government was favoring the sectarians in order to help weaken the Orthodox Church.48 In 1922 Colton became involved in the church’s resistance to the Soviet government’s demand to turn over religious valuables as a contribution to famine relief. The patriarch and synod authorized a committee to obtain help from Colton: they requested that he contact the leadership of the American Relief Administration (ARA). The church hoped to turn over the valuables as security for a loan from the United States which could then be directed to provide additional state famine relief. In this way the church planned to protect its valuables from destruction. Colton spoke personally with Colonel Haskell, who expressed sympathy for the plight of the church but refused to go through with this plan for three reasons. First, the plan would be seen as a political move in violation of the ARA’s charter for Russia. Second, reliable 46

  Ibid., 53, 56–60.

47

  E. T. Colton, “Contacts with the Russian Church, January to April 1922,” 3–5, Russian Orthodox Church, Russian Work, Restricted, Ethan T. Colton Collection, KFYA. 48

  Ibid., 2.

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bankers would not accept the valuables as security. Third, limitations of transportation would mean that the funds could not actually get more food to those in need.49 In the 1920s Colton also found himself involved in the efforts of the modernizing pro-government “Living Church” wing of Orthodoxy to secure support from American Methodists.50 Colton was a Methodist and sharply opposed to this movement, which he identified as schismatic; the catalyst for Methodist support of this group was a former YMCA secretary, Julius Hecker, who had an uncanny ability to draw the Y into controversy. Hecker was a prolific and engaging radical writer and an outspoken opponent of traditional Orthodoxy, which he saw as devoid of moral power or creative thinking. In one article he argued that “the Russian, indeed, is pious, although his piety has little to do with his moral standards.”51 In another work he added that “religion had little to do with shaping the moral code and practices of the Russian people.”52 He showed little awareness and even less appreciation for the intellectual ferment of the prerevolutionary period: There exists some scholarship to perpetuate the traditional theology and guard against heretics who might undermine the Orthodox faith, but for original thinking there is neither need nor place in the Orthodox Church.53 In a 1924 article he barely disguised his glee over the Soviet attack on the church; Hecker believed that “the Russian Church hierarchy is reaping its own harvest,” since it had supported the suppression of both non-Orthodox groups and revolutionaries. He hoped that in the future Russia would adopt “a synthesis of the personal element emphasized in the Gospels with the social element emphasized by communism.”54 49

  Ibid., 5–6. See Bertrand M. Patenaude, The Big Show in Bololand: The American Relief Expedition to Soviet Russia in the Famine of 1921 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002), 654–62. The church’s proposal to Colton is not included in Patenaude’s account. Colton’s report sheds additional light on the rumors surrounding the ARA and the Russian Orthodox Church; many Russians at the time believed that the church’s treasures were being taken to pay for the ARA food aid. 50

  For recent research on the Living Church, see Edward E. Roslof, Red Priests: Renovationism, Russian Orthodoxy, and Revolution, 1905–1946 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002); Scott Kenworthy, “Russian Reformation? The Program for Religious Renovation in the Orthodox Church, 1922–1925,” Modern Greek Studies Yearbook 16–17 (2000–01): 89–130; and S. T. Kimbrough, Jr., “The Living Church Conflict in the Russian Orthodox Church and the Involvement of the Methodist Episcopal Church,” Methodist History 40, 2 (2002): 105–18.

51

  Julius F. Hecker, “The Religious Characteristics of the Russian Soul,” Methodist Review 103, 6 (1920): 898. 52

  Julius F. Hecker, Religion and Communism: A Study of Religion and Atheism in Soviet Russia (London: Chapman and Hall, 1933), 33. 53

  Ibid., 29.

54

  Julius F. Hecker, “The Russian Church under the Soviets,” Methodist Review 107, 4 (1924): 554–55.



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Hecker became a counselor and promoter for the Living Church and an advisor for Aleksandr Ivanovich Vvedenskii, one of its most prominent leaders. Colton described Hecker’s efforts with a mixture of sympathy and disappointment: “He wants the social program of the Government to succeed, because he believes it has the same goal as Christianity, and therefore that the Church should be in alignment with the Government.”55 Hecker arranged for the American Methodist bishop John L. Neulsen to meet in Moscow with Living Church leaders, who invited support and assistance from the American Methodists. Neulsen was very critical of the old regime and very enthusiastic about the Living Church and their plans to modernize the Russian Orthodox Church.56 When he learned of the plans of Hecker and these Methodist leaders, Colton intervened and provided information against the Living Church to prevent the relationship from developing further. He did not care to see his own denomination “undergird the schismatic ‘Living Church’ and capture it for something like Methodism.”57 Colton also advised the Federal Council of Churches in developing its policy of non-recognition toward the Living Church.58 He steadfastly supported the patriarchal church and refused to back any competing factions. Colton’s 1925 essay “The Russian Orthodox Church—A Spiritual Liability or Asset?” challenged the view held by Hecker that the persecution of the church was a just reward and a welcome development. Colton wrote that many of the common charges of clerical immorality and abuse of power are acknowledged by informed and loyal believers. However, he called on his readers to remember the more worthy leaders who are suffering persecution: The secular authorities are undertaking on a national scale to teach childhood to deny God. Is it good economy of the Kingdom under these circumstances to defame the lovers of Christ and cheer on the assault?59 Colton’s personal views and the ministry experiences already described are clearly embedded in the policy statement “The Position of the Y.M.C.A. in Regard to Church Bodies in Russia,” which clarified the stance of the organization on two positions that generated controversy: interconfessional ministry (which was controversial in Russia) and support of the patriarchal church (which was controversial in 55

  [E. T. Colton], “The Religious Situation in Russia,” 1 November 1923, 8–9, The Religious Situation in Russia, Russian Work, Restricted, Pamphlets, KFYA. 56

  “Soviet Russia: Address of Bishop Neulsen to Annual Meeting, Board of Foreign Missions,” [1922], 1–4, YMCA Relationships (1920–25) 1, Russian Church, KFYA. See also Kimbrough, “The Living Church.” 57

  [Colton], “Russian Work Sequences,” 6.

58

  Ethan T. Colton, Forty Years with Russians (New York: Association Press, 1940), 155–56.

59

  E. T. Colton, “The Russian Orthodox Church—A Spiritual Liability or Asset?” 1 January 1925, manuscript, 5, Russia, Colton E. T., Reports, Addresses, and Papers, 2 vols., KFYA. This was later published as “Is the Russian Church Christian?” in The Christian Century, 7 May 1925, 602–04.

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the United States). He acknowledged that it would be difficult to cooperate with every Christian group which wished to cooperate. Many Russian Orthodox leaders would be troubled by YMCA support of US Protestants who sponsored evangelism in Russia. On the other hand, many conservative Protestants would oppose assisting the Russian church, “which they will regard as having lost its witness and laden with not only formalism but superstition.”60 Donald A. Lowrie, a YMCA secretary who served among émigrés in the 1920s and 1930s made serious efforts to understand the worldviews and perspectives of Orthodox believers and attempted to integrate his insights in his work. He summarized some of his ideas in “A Method of Bible Study for Orthodox Groups.” Lowrie wrote on encouraging group Bible study among these believers, who were often hesitant to discuss a selection unless a priest was leading. Lowrie pointed out that the hesitancy was rooted in respect for the Bible and a fear of heresy. He suggested using the writings of the church fathers, such as John Chrysostom, to guide the selection of discussion questions. Chrysostom was noted for his insights into the problems of everyday life.61 In 1925 the American YMCA amended its constitution on the issue of membership requirements. Now anyone who believed in the “divinity” (a term used in different ways by different groups) of Jesus Christ could be an active voting member. So, Catholics and Orthodox could become members. However, “90% of the directing or managing committees and all delegates to Association national or international legislative gatherings must be members of Protestant Evangelical Churches.”62 During the 1920s, as the YMCA began working among Orthodox émigrés, they found themselves in a new environment. Criticism of the YMCA grew among the most conservative elements of the Orthodox hierarchy. Also, the church became increasingly popular among young people searching for spiritual roots. Y secretaries found themselves moving toward an exclusive support of Orthodoxy with programs built on a confessional, rather than interconfessional, basis. In one document, they defended their work in Russia: “In no case was it the intent of responsible Association leaders to subvert Russian Christian teachings. Simply their agents were too little informed.”63 The move toward supporting confessional Orthodox programs, such as the émigré 60

  E. T. Colton, “The Position of the Y.M.C.A. in Regard to Church Bodies in Russia,” no date, Russian Orthodox Church, Russian Work, Restricted, Ethan T. Colton Collection, KFYA. A similar view is advocated by Y secretary Ralph W. Hollinger in his paper, “What American Protestant Churches Can Do for Russia,” 15 April 1920, Correspondence and Reports, 1920, Russian Work Restricted, Correspondence and Reports, 1918–1921, KFYA. 61

  “A Method of Bible Study for Orthodox Groups (Prague),” [1925], 1–2, 1925, Russian Work—Europe, Restricted, Correspondence and Reports, 1920–29, Annual Reports, 1920– 29, KFYA. 62

  [Paul B. Anderson], “Fundamentals of the Young Men’s Christian Association,” unpublished draft, 1929, 23, Paul B. Anderson Papers, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Archives [hereafter PBAP]. 63

  Ibid., 40.



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RSCM, the YMCA Press, and the St. Sergius Theological Academy, raised pointed questions from some leaders and secretaries. One view was expressed in “Survey of North American YMCA Service to Russians in Europe,” a detailed review of over 250 pages which surveyed the work through the 1920s. In the foreword the (unnamed) reviewer questioned the wisdom of exclusively supporting the Orthodox Church. This document expressed doubt that this church would ever “exert a controlling influence.” It went on to suggest that the program may be rooted in “the inevitable result of homesickness.”64 The survey, however, went on to explain the basis of the adopted policy of only supporting Orthodox programs: “Other historical denominations are of a foreign origin and until now were unable to become an integral part of Russian culture.”65 The experience and study of Paul B. Anderson, a consistent supporter of confessional ministry, were key factors in the development of this position. He outlined past and current issues which had separated the Y and the church in a 1926 three-page outline, “The YMCA and the Russian Orthodox Church.” Anderson addressed some of the conflicts that had developed between the YMCA and the more conservative elements of the church in exile. He grouped the issues under seven headings: 1) misconceptions regarding the YMCA; 2) weaknesses in Orthodoxy; 3) hostile attitude toward YMCA by authoritative bodies; 4) weaknesses in the YMCA; 5) fundamental differences, Protestant and Orthodox; 6) conservatism vs. liberalism in both Orthodox and Protestant communities; and 7) questions related to political and social theory. Each heading contained a variety of fundamental and peripheral matters which had contributed to the conflicts. For example, Anderson included the misconceptions of some Orthodox that the YMCA was a Masonic organization, that it had ulterior motives, and that it “has lost its faith in Christ as Savior and God.” Under Orthodox weaknesses, he listed jealousy of the responses of youth to the Y’s programs because the churches did not have such activities. He also included “pride of age”—disliking anything that was new. One of the Y’s weaknesses listed was “Insistence on the ‘minimalism’ of ideas on which all members might agree, rather than ‘maximalism’ which would allow each confessional group to bring its religious fullness.” From the beginning of the Russian work, the YMCA preferred that participants downplay confessional and denominational distinctives—this was the position of minimalism. Eventually, Orthodox participants argued that they should be able to express their Orthodox convictions fully within the Y movement—this was the position of maximalism. Also included were “Secretaries’ ignorance of Orthodoxy” and “Use of money creates mush64

  [International Survey Committee], “Survey of North American YMCA Service to Russians in Europe” [1930], ii, Russia, International Survey—1930, Roumania, Russia, South Africa, Box 12, KFYA. 65

  Ibid., 14–15. There is some irony in the fact that YMCA leaders consistently described Russian Protestantism as “foreign.” The first Baptist and Evangelical Christian churches in the Russian Empire were not organized by foreigners. There certainly was influence from Germany and Great Britain, but it was likely not more than the influence of the Byzantine Empire on Kievan Rus´ in the tenth and eleventh centuries. Russian Protestants did translate some Protestant hymns, just as the Kievan church used liturgical texts translated from Greek.

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room growth, not on firm spiritual basis.” Under fundamental differences, Anderson wrote, “Protestantism a developing doctrine. Orthodoxy rests on dogma.” In general, Anderson attempted to consider every possible angle for understanding the clashes, rather than seeing them as simple black and white problems. It is significant that he frequently challenged the YMCA’s previous actions, but never its theological shift.66 Anderson’s support for the Orthodox Church led him to avoid support of even the largest Russian Protestant church movements, the Baptists and Evangelical Christians, since he believed they were guilty of proselytization, the active recruiting of a person from one religious group to another. He was reluctant to offer support for Ivan Prokhanov, the key leader of the Evangelical Christians.67 Anderson seemed to equate any Protestant evangelism in Russia with proselytization, which is a problematic conclusion for a nation with a history of an established state church. He did not address in his books and articles how this view coexisted with his frequent calls for full religious freedom. Donald Lowrie’s book The Light of Russia provided readers with an introduction to Orthodox life and faith but also offered insight into the evolving position of the YMCA. He positively reviewed the unique role played by the church since the earliest days of Kievan Rus´.68 In spite of his enthusiastic support for the Russian church, Lowrie believed that the Y could make a significant contribution. Like other Y men, he never stated that the church was without weaknesses: they remained Protestants and believed that their heritage had something to offer. He hoped to see a greater emphasis on Scripture: Perhaps a new emphasis upon the study of the Bible is another step which Russian Christianity could take in its reorganization, using the gospel not simply in a devotional or inspirational sense, but as a source of method for making Christian every phase of daily life, social as well as personal. Lowrie believed that programs such as the theological institute could inspire change with “a new type of clergy, retaining all the good of the old order and still alive with the broader ideals and a higher cultural standard” so “the Church will again occupy its proper place as guiding the nation’s moral and religious life.” He summarized his conviction in this way: 66

  “The YMCA and the Russian Orthodox Church,” 27 November 1926, 1–3, 1925, Russian Work—Europe, Restricted, Correspondence and Reports, 1920–29, Annual Reports, 1920– 29, KFYA. A general work by Anderson on Orthodoxy is his article “The Eastern Orthodox Church in a Time of Transition,” published in “Over There with the Churches of Christ,” Bulletin 15, 1936 (New York: Central Bureau for Relief of the Evangelical Churches of Europe), 7–13, Pamphlets in English, Russian Work, Restricted, Pamphlets, KFYA, PBAP. 67

  Letter from Paul B. Anderson to E. T. Colton, 14 February 1933, ROTA, 1930–33, Russian Work—Europe, Restricted, Russian Orthodox Theological Academy, Russian Student Christian Movement, Russian Student Fund, KFYA. 68

  Donald A. Lowrie, The Light of Russia: An Introduction to the Russian Church (Prague: YMCA Press, 1923), 126, 190–91.



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If religion consists solely in beautiful worship, adherence to ancient belief and custom, reverence for holiness in every age, and a sincere desire to spread the name of Jesus Christ, Protestants have nothing to teach Russia: but if it means, beside all this, a growing activity in the service of mankind, a keen appreciation of the needs of modern life, and a desire to educate its youth to minister to the needy of the future, perhaps Protestantism has its message for Russian Christianity. Lowrie believed that American Protestants must work with the supply lines rather than take a spot on the front lines: “The Orthodox Church wishes every aid other Christian bodies can give it, but its preaching must be done by Russians if it is to appeal to the Russian mind.”69 This conviction motivated the YMCA staff as they worked behind the scenes to facilitate the work of Russian believers. Ethan Colton summed up the relationship between the two groups after 1917 in this way: The two groups were Eastern and Western, Orthodox and Protestant, sacerdotal and evangelical, trying to find basis and method for a common program. In both groups were men with scant knowledge and appreciation of the spiritual value in the doctrines, worship, and observances of the others. A few stayed so. Such had to be relegated. The uninformed but willing ones learned. The clumsy acquired skill.70 Many Russian Orthodox believers genuinely appreciated the generous financial support and program assistance provided by the YMCA. Patriarch Tikhon issued this endorsement of the YMCA on 10 May 1918: “[W]e give to those carrying out this good work our prayerful blessing, asking the Lord to help them in the successful fulfillment of this task.”71 Metropolitan Evlogii explained why the YMCA and the World Student Christian Federation had his blessing: “[N]o other foreign organizations had helped, more thoughtfully and respectfully, Russian youth on its way back to the Church and the Church itself.”72 However, many Orthodox leaders vehemently opposed the association as a subversive sub-Christian organization aiming for their destruction; others received aid while holding unspoken suspicions of this American venture. The most common accusation was that the YMCA was Masonic, while others feared that the YMCA was a Jewish scheme, a demonic movement, or a program of insincere Protestant proselytization. Freemasonry appeared in Russia in the eighteenth century as an international organization promoting “brotherhood,” love of one’s neighbor, and the equality of 69

  Ibid., 196–97, 232.

70

 Colton, Forty Years, 151.

71

  Vestnik khristianskogo soiuza molodykh liudei, Vladivostok, 17 August 1919, First year of publication, Number 1, 4, Lighthouse Herald, Russian Work, Restricted, Periodicals, KFYA.

72

  Letter from G. G. Kullmann to E. T. Colton, 28 July 1926, 1, YMCA Relations (1926–), Russian Church, KFYA.

204 Matthew Lee Miller

all men. Masons emphasized a general belief in God rather than the specific beliefs of any one religious group, such as the Orthodox Church. Historian James Billington describes Masonry as a “supra-confessional deist church.”73 The movement did not openly oppose the Orthodox Church and included Russian priests in its activities, but some Masons demonstrated more loyalty to Masonry than Orthodoxy. Catherine II prohibited Masonic activity in 1792; Alexander I reversed this position but banned it again in 1822.74 In 1900 many elements of Russian church and state continued to oppose the ideas of Masonry. The apparent similarities of belief, rather than documented organizational ties, led to suspicion of the YMCA being Masonic during its first years in Russia. As a result, American Masons were not allowed to serve as Mayak staff members.75 From 1900 to 1940 a number of Russians accused the Y of being a Masonic organization; these charges usually came from more conservative Orthodox leaders. As émigré leader Nikolai Zernov later wrote, many clergymen argued that the YMCA was simply a wing of the Freemason movement. Therefore, the goal of the Y was to undermine the traditional theology of Orthodoxy and destroy the church. According to these critics, any believers who participated in the work of the association were considered to be “dupes” or agents paid by the YMCA.76 Charges against the Y were especially intense and public during the mid-1920s, when the YMCA and the émigré church were developing closer ties. As Zernov pointed out, one frequent criticism was directed at the view held by many secretaries about Jesus Christ, that he was only an exemplary human rather than being fully God and fully man. As one critical report charged, the YMCA presents “Jesus Christ not as our God and Savior, but only as a great teacher.” This report cited a book by Hecker on the YMCA and two other books published in Russian translation by the YMCA: Social Principles 73

  James H. Billington, The Icon and the Axe: An Interpretive History of Russian Culture (New York: Vintage Books, 1970), 245; for his description of Masonry in Russia, see 242–52. For two recent studies of freemasonry in Russia and America, see Douglas Smith, Working the Rough Stone: Freemasonry and Society in Eighteenth-Century Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1999); and Lynn Dumenil, “Religion and Freemasonry in Late Nineteenth-Century America,” in Freemasonry on Both Sides of the Atlantic: Essays Concerning the Craft in the British Isles, Europe, the United States, and Mexico, ed. R. William Weisberger, Wallace McLeod, and S. Brent Morris (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 605–20. 74

  Zacek, “The Russian Bible Society,” 412.

75

  D. E. Davis, “YMCA Russian Work: An Interview with Dr. Paul B. Anderson, September 9, 1971,” 62, Interview with Paul B. Anderson, Russian Work, Restricted, General, Personal Accounts, KFYA. Anderson also comments on this page, “Of course, during the war it didn’t make any difference.” 76

  Nicolas Zernov, “The Eastern Churches and the Ecumenical Movement in the Twentieth Century,” in A History of the Ecumenical Movement: 1517–1948, 2nd ed., ed. Ruth Rouse and Stephen Charles Neill (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1967), 670. Two examples of such accusations, written in the 1930s, were recently reprinted: V. Ivanov, Pravoslavnyi mir i masonstvo (1935; repr., Moscow: Trim, 1993); and V. F. Ivanov, Russkaia intelligentsiia i masonstvo: Ot Petra Pervogo do nashikh dnei, reprint (Moscow: Moskva, 1997).



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of Christ by Walter Rauschenbusch, and The Manhood of the Master by Harry Emerson Fosdick. The report compared comments from Masonic handbooks to YMCA principles and concluded: “The similarity between these two ideologies—that of the Masons and that of the YMCA is very evident.” He quoted V. V. Zenkovskii, an Orthodox leader associated with the organization, to prove his point; according to this report, Zenkovskii had written, “We must forget the proud thought that God’s Spirit can only be found among us. When I was among Christians of other denominations I still felt myself to be in a Church.”77 This view would have been scandalous among the most conservative Orthodox. Conservative Russians often used the word “masonic” to describe a person or organization which displayed the essence of Masonry (anti-dogma, rationalist, etc.). They usually were not referring to membership in a Masonic lodge. In a sense, the YMCA work in Russia was not Masonic, in that no evidence has been seen which links the work of the YMCA and Masonic lodges in Russia. No evidence has been found which identifies which secretaries were Masons: an obituary for Louis P. Penningroth (1888–1973) notes that he was a member of a Masonic lodge, but this membership could have begun after his wartime service. However, one could argue that the Y was masonic, since it promoted several of the general principles of Masonry. In the United States these Orthodox conservatives might have called the Y “modernist” or “liberal,” but the fundamentalist-modernist controversy had not developed in Russia, so they used the word “Masons,” the nearest word in their vocabulary. Of course, a lack of documentary evidence does not prove that a connection did not exist. Documents on the YMCA in Poland reveal clear evidence of links between Masonic lodges and YMCA leadership. These ties may have been known to the Y’s opponents in Russia, especially due to the close political and cultural connections between these two cultures. The YMCA was also charged with participation in a “Judeo-Masonic” conspiracy: according to this theory, Jews had taken over the Masons in the past to destroy Orthodoxy, so now the YMCA had been snared by Jewish leaders. Critics often pointed at the Jewish interpreters hired by the Y.78 During the early years of the Russian ministry, YMCA secretary uniforms and other equipment often featured a logo which included an inverted triangle. Some Russians believed this to be a sign of the devil, since the point was directed down rather than up.79 Many clergy were simply convinced that the YMCA was intent on converting Russians to Protestant belief, in spite of assurances to the contrary. As one report 77

  Vladimir Vostokoff and N. S. Batiushkin, “Report Handed Over May 18/31, 1925 to the Episcopal Synod of the Russian Orthodox Church in Foreign Countries by the Former Members of the Church Administration Abroad,” 5, 1–2, 7, 9, ROTA 1923–29, Russian Work—Europe, Restricted, Russian Orthodox Theological Academy, Russian Student Christian Movement, Russian Student Fund, KFYA. 78

  Davis, “YMCA Russian Work: An Interview with Dr. Paul B. Anderson,” 62.

79

  R. J. Reitzel, “Brief Report on YMCA Work for Russians,” Irkutsk, 18 December 1919, [3], Siberia 2, Russian Work, Restricted, North Russia: Archangel, Murmansk, Siberia, KFYA.

206 Matthew Lee Miller

suggested, “The tendency of this work is evidently Protestant. Cooperation with the Orthodox church is only tolerated.”80 As Zernov described the process, The fact that these international bodies [the YMCA, the Young Women’s Christian Association, and the World Student Christian Fellowship] publicly denied any intention of proselytism, and conducted their work in the spirit of respect for Eastern traditions, only increased the apprehensions of conservative-minded Christians who suspected some particularly sinister and secret designs behind the friendliness displayed by the Western leaders of the movements.81 This view of the YMCA was popularized as newspaper and other periodical articles commented on the Y with varying tones of anger and caution. This first example, published in 1925 in Novoe vremia, a paper for monarchist Russian émigrés in Belgrade, confidently demonstrated that the organization was an idealist group of capitalist Americans under the control of Jews and Masons—with proof contained in the fraudulent “Protocols of the Elders of Zion”: As is known, well-organized Semitism seeks to get into its hands the entire spiritual life of Christian peoples. How this should take place is described in the so-called “Zion Protocols.” … Semitism endeavors to gather into its hands organizations which influence the spiritual life of European Christian peoples. Thus Masonry became a simple tool in Jewish hands. It may be that other organizations, having nothing in common with Semitism, will fall into its grasp. Even the Y.M.C.A. has not resisted this fate.82 A second example, published in a 1927 issue of the organ of the RSCM, provides a more moderate, but no less intense, criticism of the YMCA. The author, Archbishop Mefodii, recommended that the association be cautiously evaluated on a case-by-case basis—with the final decision about any relationship left to church authorities. The editor introduced the archbishop’s statement with this comment: In the passionate atmosphere of our church disagreement, voices attract to themselves special attention from the general public by accusing their opponents of Masonry and secret heresies. Especially popular among us are references to the allegedly Masonic character of the YMCA.

80

  Vostokoff and Batiushkin, “Report,” 3.

81

  Zernov, “The Eastern Churches,” 670.

82

  A. Pogodin, “Unexpected Unpleasantness,” Novoe vremia, 3 April 1925, no. 1179, translation in archive, 2, Corr. And Reports 1925–49, Russian Work, Restricted, Publications, YMCA Press in Paris, KFYA.



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The archbishop wrote that the association was obviously sincere in its service to Christ and its support of Orthodox youth. However, he also urged caution in receiving gifts from this organization: “The Association helps the Orthodox with one hand, but with the other helps the enemies of Orthodoxy; that which the right hand does is destroyed by the left hand.”83 The fullest and most direct American YMCA response to all these criticisms is contained in Osnovy khristianskago soiuza molodykh liudei (The Fundamentals of the Young Men’s Christian Association), a 107-page booklet which gave a general overview of history and policy and commented on the history of the Russian ministry up to 1929. It included significant self-criticism, which is rare for most works published by the YMCA on its service among Russians. The booklet stated that secretaries made cultural misjudgments during their wartime service: It is understandable that in these conditions more than a few mistakes were made, particularly in relation to the Orthodox Church. The Association regrets these mistakes and is ready to confess that for which it is actually responsible. The book discussed the rumors and misunderstandings which developed after the war. The author acknowledged that the organization did not have enough qualified people to achieve its plans for serving soldiers and prisoners of war. Due to a perceived urgent demand for staff members, the association accepted people who did not possess the necessary cultural and language skills. The Y also employed workers who had been assigned by Russian military leaders—these workers did not reflect the values of the YMCA. The author emphasized that the Y took full responsibility for these choices. He addressed the Y’s publication of books written by American liberal Christian authors and stressed that leaders did not and do not agree with all the ideas in these books, which reflected the philosophical debates in America at that time. The booklet stated, A particular theology of the Young Men’s Christian Association does not exist. There only exist the theologies of the churches and confessions of the Association members—Protestants, Roman Catholics, and Orthodox.84 Informal discussions between YMCA leaders and Orthodox leaders from several countries led to three formal consultations held between 1928 and 1933. John Mott presided over these sessions, held in Sofia, Bulgaria; Kephissia, Greece; and Bucharest, Romania. At the 1928 consultation, participants adopted an “Understanding between Representatives of the Orthodox Churches and the World’s Committee of the Y.M.C.A.” According to this document, in predominantly Orthodox nations the 83

  Arkhiepiskop Mefodii, “Soiuz Y.M.C.A.,” Vestnik russkogo studencheskogo khristianskogo dvizheniia, June 1927, no. 6, second year of publication, 11–13. 84

  [YMCA], Osnovy khristianskogo soiuza molodykh liudei (Paris: YMCA Press, 1929), 57–61.

208 Matthew Lee Miller

YMCA was to organize its services in consultation with church leaders. This statement discouraged and condemned proselytism. Also, in Orthodox groups, Y leaders were to teach the Bible only in “full harmony with Orthodox doctrine.”85 After the 1928 consultation, international YMCA leader W. A. Visser ’T Hooft compiled his “Remarks on the Present Situation of the Orthodox Churches in the Balkan Area.” This essay summarized the status of the Eastern churches and then discussed a wide range of issues related to the Y’s work in Greece and other Balkan nations. Sections included: “Background,” “Signs of Vitality,” “Youth,” “The Y.M.C.A. in Orthodox Countries,” “Relations Between the Orthodox Churches,” and “Orthodoxy and Western Christianity.” Visser ’T Hooft demonstrated his knowledge of historical context when summarizing the effects of Ottoman domination and Greek nationalism. In addressing the conservativism of the Eastern churches, he also pointed out areas of relative openness and the significance of the Orthodox “renaissance” of the early twentieth century. He discussed the personalities of the Orthodox hierarchs, whom he knew personally. When addressing two acknowledged problems of the era, clergy preparation and preaching, he demonstrated a thorough knowledge of the issues and pointed out progress being made. He showed an understanding of the internal life of the Greek church by describing two movements, the Zoe Brotherhood and the Orthodox Youth Movement. Visser ’T Hooft also provided an open description of the struggle faced within the YMCA as it considered how to adjust to working in Orthodox countries. In the closing sections of the document on Orthodox-Protestant relations he displayed his attempt to see controversial issues from the point of view of the Orthodox, the believers he was attempting to serve. Visser ’T Hooft ended the essay with a summary of the YMCA’s vision for their work in the Balkans: The question now asked of the Protestant world is whether it is willing to enter in a true fellowship with Orthodoxy—based on mutual respect and understanding— and whether it will help the Orthodox world to express its own God-given mission in a fuller way. If such would become the attitude of Protestantism one may not only hope for new fruits in the lives of the Orthodox nations, but also for a great quickening of the Western church by the old, reborn churches of the East.86 The three consultations led to the publication of the Objectives, Principles, and Programme of Y.M.C.A’s in Orthodox Countries, which summarized and clarified the policies adopted in 1928.87 This 1933 document reflected the shift of the association’s 85

  D. A. Davis, “Understanding Between Representatives of the Orthodox Churches and the World’s Committee of the Y.M.C.A.,” unpublished report, 1928, World’s Committee—World’s Committee and the Orthodox Church, KFYA. 86

  W. A. Visser ’T Hooft, “Remarks on the Present Situation of the Orthodox Churches in the Balkan Area,” 1929, 15, Visser ’T Hooft Association Papers, May 1929, KFYA. 87

  Objectives, Principles, and Programme of Y.M.C.A’s in Orthodox Countries (Geneva: World’s Committee of Y.M.C.A.s, 1933), 16–17, PBAP.



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approach to Orthodoxy: from resigned toleration to pragmatic support to limited support to enthusiastic support. From 1900 to 1940 many Y secretaries developed a sympathetic and supportive approach to the Orthodox Church as they developed relationships, worked in partnership, studied culture and theology, and experienced the complex realities of the early twentieth century.

“Bolshevik Bishops” and the Russian Orthodox Mission in America: A Question of Church, Politics, and the Law, 1917–52 Keith P. Dyrud

In 1952, at the height of (Joseph) McCarthyism, when any hint of “left leaning” sympathies was considered treasonous, the United States Supreme Court reversed a New York Court of Appeals decision and ruled that St. Nicholas Cathedral in New York City was owned by the appointed representatives of the patriarch of Moscow, as opposed to the Russian Orthodox Church in America (the Metropolia). The Metropolia was the successor to the Russian Orthodox Mission in North America. This ruling came in spite of allegations that the patriarch’s appointed representatives had close ties to the “Bolshevik” government in Moscow. The Court argued that the Russian Orthodox Church was a hierarchical church and, therefore, that the hierarchical authority, the patriarch, had control of church property.1 That decision ignored the continuity in membership and leadership that had existed in the Russian Orthodox Mission and its successor, the Metropolia, from the founding of the mission until 1952, when the court made the final decision on the ownership of the church property. The Russian Orthodox Mission In the last decade of the eighteenth century, Russia had expanded into North America by way of Alaska. That expansion into Alaska was not a particularly significant event. Alaska, on the North American continent, was a logical extension of the Siberian exploration. The motive for the Alaska settlements was primarily economic. The private company that settled there was intent on harvesting furs.2 Even though the original expansion into Alaska was economic, concerned religious leaders in Russia convinced the tsar to require the Alaskan company to christianize the local populations. There is some evidence that the fur company was not interested in such intrusion into their domain, so they implemented that instruction 1

  Myles C. Stenshoel, Religious Liberty: A Constitutional Quest (Minneapolis: Self-published, c. 1999), 8–9.

2

  For more on this, see Hector Chevigny, Russian America: The Great Alaskan Venture, 1741– 1867 (London: The Cresset Press, 1965); and Constance J. Tarasar, ed., Orthodox America, 1794–1976 (Syosset, NY: Orthodox Church in America, 1975).

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 211–22.

212 Keith P. Dyrud

very sluggishly. After several failures to reach Alaska, the first missionaries were finally able to reach Kodiak Island in 1794, where they established a hermitage. In 1824 a young priest, Father John Veniaminov-Popov arrived in Alaska. He learned the native languages, translated Russian religious books into Aluet, and published his ethnographic studies on the Aluets. Father John later became Metropolitan Innocent of Moscow. He worked vigorously to establish a mission among the Aleuts and Indians. In 1834 he was transferred from Unalaska to New Archangel (Sitka). His wife died in 1839, so he accepted tonsure as a monk in 1840, and in December of that year he was consecrated Bishop of Kamchatka, the Kuriles and Aleutians. Thus began the Russian mission in Alaska, and the developments which eventually led to the argument about ownership of St. Nicholas Cathedral in New York. Alaska was sold to the United States in 1867. Russian negotiators of the Alaskan treaty were very conscious of the complications the sale would have for the Russian Church in Alaska. They also knew how cruel Americans were to their native populations. The treaty allowed any Russian citizens, including baptized natives, to move to Russian territory. But the treaty also required the United States to treat the “civilized” natives properly. “Civilized” presumably meant baptized members of the Russian Orthodox Mission. Furthermore, the Russian Orthodox Church was to remain in Alaska as a church now under American jurisdiction. In addition, Russia was to be allowed to protect the interests of that church. The treaty allowed the Orthodox bishop to report problems to St. Petersburg. The tsarist government could then complain to Washington if there were problems in the relationship between the Orthodox Church and the American governing authorities.3 The American governor general of Alaska, General Davis, did not have any regard for the Orthodox Church, and the church’s numerous complaints to Washington were, unfortunately, ignored. As a result of the extreme mistreatment by General Davis, the Orthodox bishop moved his cathedral from Sitka to San Francisco. While the Russian Orthodox Church came to the United States via the purchase of Alaska, the greatest expansion of the Russian Orthodox Church in America was not a result of the Alaskan mission but of the conversion to Russian Orthodoxy of tens of thousands of Eastern Rite immigrants who had been subjects of the Austrian Empire. This conversion took place in the United States after 1890. The Austrian subjects were the Ruthenians or Rusyns. Their homeland was in Galicia, an Austrian province, and in Ruthenia, a sub-Carpathian area in Northeastern Hungary. These Rusyns had come to the United States for economic reasons. While in the United States, they wished to establish their church. Their church was known as a “Uniate” Church. Sometimes it was called a “Greek Catholic” Church. In the sixteenth century, the church had been an Eastern Orthodox Church, but domination by Roman-

3

 Chevigny, Russian America, 223–44.



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oriented governments led to compromises, creating a Roman Church of the Eastern or “Greek” rite.4 When thousands of those Rusyns migrated to the United States, they wished to establish that Uniate Church in the United States. Unfortunately, the American Catholic Church was determined that the Latin rite would be the only Catholic Church in the United States. The Rusyns responded by building their own churches and calling pastors directly from their home dioceses. Thus, their legal status with Rome was ambiguous. The American bishops led by Archbishop John Ireland of Saint Paul, Minnesota felt so strongly that they did not want the Eastern rite to be established in the United States that they were willing to lose the members of that rite who refused to adopt the Latin rite. The American bishops’ meeting in Chicago in 1893 concluded: “the sooner this point of discipline is abolished…, the better for religion, because the possible loss of a few souls of the Greek rite bears no proportion to the blessings resulting from uniformity of discipline.”5 The Rusyns responded to the intransigence of the Catholic bishops by converting to Russian Orthodoxy, learning Russian, subscribing to Russian newspapers, and praying for the well-being of the tsar while they were residing in the United States. This massive conversion created a new Russian Orthodox Church in North America and raised new questions about the relationship between the Russian Orthodox Church and the state.6 Actually, the question was twofold: What was the relationship between the Russian state and the Russian Orthodox Mission in the United States, and what was the relationship between the Russian Orthodox Mission in the United States and its host state? This study will focus on the latter question, which can be phrased, how did the Russian Orthodox Mission adapt to the sociopolitical environment in the United States? In Eurasia, the Russian ideal for this adaptation has been labeled “symphonia,” implying harmony. Certainly, that harmony has never been achieved, but the Russian Church has always expected to have some kind of relationship with the secular state—even Lenin’s atheistic state. In Eurasia, at least, the church did not accept the American concept of “separation of church and state.”7 The Russian Orthodox Mission’s American experience ministering to the Rusyns demonstrated a remarkable ability to adapt to the American environment. In 4   For more on this, see Keith P. Dyrud, The Quest for the Rusyn Soul: The Politics of Religion and Culture in Eastern Europe and in America, 1890–World War I (Philadelphia: The Balch Institute Press; London: Associated University Presses, 1992). 5

  Gerald P. Fogarty, “The American Hierarchy and Oriental Rite Catholics, 1890–1907,” Records of the American Catholic Historical Society of Philadelphia 85 (1974): 18. 6

  See Dyrud, The Quest for the Rusyn Soul.

7   See James W. Cunningham, The Gates of Hell: The Great Sobor of the Russian Orthodox Church, 1917–1918, Minnesota Mediterranean and East European Monographs 9 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, Modern Greek Studies, 2002), especially chap. 7, “The Challenge of Symphonia.”

214 Keith P. Dyrud

their home environments both the Orthodox Church and the Catholic Church could count on state coercion to enforce conformity. Among other benefits, to state the issue crassly, the state enforced the collection of funds to support the church. The European missions lacked that coercive power in the United States. In the United States, the Catholic Church adapted by attempting, with some success, to use its spiritual powers in a coercive manner. It could enforce conformity by placing “interdicts” on wayward parishes and by excommunicating wayward individuals. The cost of this less than perfect coercion was the “loss of a few souls.” In other words, the loss of a few souls was the price the Catholic Church paid to establish a centralized church authority in the United States while not being an “established” church. The Catholic Church also reinforced the powers of spiritual coercion by episcopal ownership of property. If the congregation resisted the orders of the bishop, the bishop could order the church closed.8 The Russian Orthodox Mission, on the other hand, had no automatic immigrant membership that carried over from the old country. If it wished to expand among the Rusyn Uniates, the Mission needed to attract its members. Thus, the Russian Orthodox Mission began to build its American Church based on the voluntary association of its members. That voluntary association was the cornerstone of American denominationalism. Lacking the coercive power of state support, the Russian Mission was left with only positive means of influence. It is little wonder that about one-third of the Rusyns joined the Russian Orthodox Mission.9 To meet the needs of the Rusyn immigrants who converted to Russian Orthodoxy, official Russian interests built a cathedral in New York. This cathedral, St. Nicholas Cathedral, was built with money donated by the tsar, by voluntary donations in churches back in Russia, by contributions from the Holy Synod, and by some donations from members in the United States. Normally, the church organization would own the cathedral. St. Nicholas Cathedral was not owned by the North American Mission, but by two trustees. The two trustees were owners by virtue of their offices: the Russian ambassador to the United States and the Russian consul general in New York. Under normal conditions such ownership would not be a problem, but that ownership and many other issues of leadership were called into question as a result of the Russian Revolution. The Effects of the Russian Revolution The original Russian Church Sobor, called in 1917 in Moscow, caused no questions of leadership. That sobor elected Tikhon to be the new patriarch of the Russian Church.

8

  See Fogarty, “The American Hierarchy and Oriental Rite Catholics.”

9

 Dyrud, The Quest for the Rusyn Soul, especially chap. 3, “The Influence of the Russian Orthodox Church on the Cultural Consciousness of the Rusyns in America.”



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Tikhon had been an archbishop of the North American Mission, so he would have been a responsive leader on issues dealing with the mission.10 The crisis of church leadership occurred with the Bolshevik Revolution and the establishment of a competing church leadership identified as the “Living Church” or the “Renovated” Church. The Living Church dissolved in less than a decade so its influence on the church in Russia was limited, but its existence left a long-term impact on the Russian Orthodox Church in the United States.11 In 1917, when the Kerensky government authorized the long-planned church sobor, the archbishop of the American mission, Evdokim, left for Russia to participate in that sobor. He left the American mission in the hands of Bishop Alexander of the Canadian diocese. When it appeared that Evdokim would stay in Russia for an extended time, Evdokim allegedly sent Bishop Alexander a telegram extending his temporary authority as head of the Orthodox mission. Alexander’s authority was immediately challenged in a New York court by a priest named John Kedrovsky. Kedrovsky charged that Bishop Alexander of Canada had been unlawfully appointed temporary bishop of the United States. He argued that, while Bishop Evdokim had been delayed in the Soviet Union, he was still the lawful bishop of North America and Bishop Alexander had no telegram extending his authority.12 While Kedrovsky’s challenge to Alexander’s authority was working its way through the courts, events in Russia continued to unfold. Apparently, the Bolshevik government, which succeeded the Kerensky government, had encouraged the development of the “Living” or “Renovated” Orthodox Church. In 1923 this Living Church temporarily wrested control of the church from the patriarch long enough to hold a “sobor” which ousted Tikhon as patriarch and, among other actions, elected John Kedrovsky, who participated in that sobor, archbishop of the North American Mission.13 When he came back to the United States Bishop Kedrovsky attempted to lay claim to St. Nicholas Orthodox Cathedral in New York. He physically walked into the cathedral, claimed it as his, and after a few hours was ejected with enough force that he could claim that he did not leave voluntarily. On the basis of his ejection, he brought suit against Archbishop Platon Rojdestvensky (the spelling is from court documents).14 The trial court upheld Platon’s possession of the cathedral, but on 27 November 1925 an appellate court reversed that decision and favored Kedrovsky, because 10   See Cunningham, The Gates of Hell, especially chap. 5, “Establishing the Patriarchate in the Shadow of the Revolution.” 11   Dimitry Pospielovsky, The Russian Church under the Soviet Regime, 1917–1982, 2 vols. (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1984), 60–65 and 285–89. 12

  Kedroff v. St. Nicholas Cathedral of Russian Orthodox Church in North America, 96 NE 2d 60 (1951). 13

 Pospielovsky, The Russian Church, 56–65.

14

  Kedrovsky v. Rojdesvensky, 204 NYS 442 (1924).

216 Keith P. Dyrud

he could demonstrate that he had been appointed by the mother church in Moscow. Throughout years of appeals, the New York Court of Appeals consistently supported the Kedrovsky challenge.15 To face such challenges, the Russian Orthodox Mission reconstituted itself as a temporarily autocephalous church at a church sobor held in Detroit in 1924 (generally called the Metropolia). That sobor elected Platon as its archbishop. The New York appeals court did not accept the authority of the Detroit sobor, and it did not accept the legality or authenticity of an oral message delivered from Patriarch Tikhon to the North American Mission. That message had been personally received and delivered by a representative of the YMCA and had verbally appointed Platon to the North American Metropolitan Diocese. The New York appeals court consistently accepted the authenticity of the Living Church Sobor of 1923. John Kedrovsky took possession of the cathedral and kept it until he died in 1934. His oldest son, Nicholas,16 continued his residency at the cathedral until he too died in 1944. At that time, Kedrovsky’s second son, known in the court documents as John Kedrov or Kedroff, took possession of St. Nicholas Cathedral.17 That history is only part of the story, and from the perspective of church-state relations, it is certainly the lesser part of the story. Legislation and Litigation When it became apparent that the New York courts were willing to support John Kedrovsky’s argument that he was the lawful representative of the Moscow Church, the Russian Orthodox Mission (Metropolia) went to the New York legislature. In 1925, the legislature amended the Religious Corporations Law of New York to specifically identify the Russian Orthodox Mission (Metropolia), not Kedrovsky, as the legal owner of all Russian Orthodox property in the State of New York.18 Thus, the Russian Orthodox Church in the United States developed a relationship with the state—New York State—that was akin to its familiar role in tsarist Russia. The “Russian Church in America,” as the New York law identified it, was created and protected by the New York legislature. It is ironic that the very church that was so successful in the United States because it recognized that it could only be successful if it conformed to the emerging American ideal of a “voluntary association” should seek the legislated protection of the state to legally exclude its competitor, the church represented by Kedrovsky. The courts did not accept that legislated settlement, however, at least not until 1950, when the cold war anti-Communist environment clarified their thinking. Repeatedly, the New York courts sidestepped the constitutional question concerning the 15

  Kedrovsky v. Archbishop, 212 NYS 273.

16   Kedroff, 96 NE 2d 64. In one court document the son was identified as Michael J. Kedroff (Kedroff et al. v. St. Nicholas Cathedral, 77 NYS 2d 336). 17

  Kedroff, 96 NE 2d 64.

18

  Id. at 68.



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legislature’s authority to resolve a legal dispute between competing churches. The courts consistently suggested that the legislature could not have intended to specifically identify the Russian Church in America as the only Russian Church in New York and therefore entitled to all Russian Orthodox Church property. The courts argued that the legislative intent was that the law is applicable only to Russian Orthodox Churches which might thereafter be organized or which, having theretofore been incorporated, should thereafter be reincorporated, but it is not intended to accomplish a transfer of property of all Russian Orthodox Churches in the United States to the use of the newly recognized independent “Russian Church in America.”19 Actually, the New York legislature intended to do exactly the opposite of what the courts insisted they intended. So, the legislature found it necessary to amend the Religious Corporations Law two times after originally defining the Russian Church in America. They amended the original 1925 definition in 1945 and again in 1948 to overcome every possible misinterpretation of its intent.20 As late as January 1950, the New York court system was still supporting the Kedrovsky-Kedroff position. The Supreme Court, Appellate Division, First Department noted that the original 1925 ruling in favor of Kedrovsky may have been based on inaccurate knowledge of the canonical status of that Living Church Sobor in 1923. The court agreed that the sobor evidently was not canonical, and so Kedrovsky’s original appointment may not have been properly defended by the New York court; but in 1950, they argued, they were not dealing with that issue. The issue before the court in 1950 depended on whether or not Patriarch Aleksii of Moscow was the recognized leader of the Russian Orthodox Church. Both parties to the dispute agreed that Aleksii was the recognized leader of the Moscow Patriarchate. Both parties recognized that Aleksii had appointed Archbishop Benjamin Fedchenkoff to be the bishop of North America. Thus, the appellate court majority ruled, it had no choice but to allow Archbishop Benjamin and his co-defendant, John Kedroff, to remain in St. Nicholas Cathedral. The majority rejected the “iron curtain” argument, suggesting: Whether these church heads are truly religious men trying to keep the faith alive and to serve the religious needs of their people of Russia to the best of their ability or whether they are willing and servile tools of an anti-religious government is not to be decided by this court adversely to the contentions of the parties on any theory that we may take judicial notice of actual conditions behind the “iron curtain” in Russia today. Such matters are not so notorious as to be subject to the rule of judicial notice.21 19

  Kedroff et al., 77 NYS 2d 334 (1951).

20

  Kedroff et al. v. St. Nicholas Cathedral, 344 US 94, 97 (1953).

21

  Kedroff et al. v. St. Nicholas Cathedral, 94 NYS 2d 461–62.

218 Keith P. Dyrud

The jurists who dissented from that opinion made an interesting historical observation. They suggested that the Russian Orthodox Church itself was formed by breaking away from the patriarch of Constantinople, after he became subject to the “infidels”—to a lesser degree, however, than in Russia today—upon the fall of Constantinople to the Turks at the end of the Middle Ages in 1453. This, says a leading historian (Adeney, p. 392), had the immediate consequence of gaining ecclesiastical independence for the Russian Church, resulting in the election of the Metropolitan of Moscow by a council of Russian bishops instead of being appointed by the patriarch of Constantinople.22 Those dissenting judges concluded that “the Legislature has acted within the historical pattern of the Orthodox Eastern Church in accordance with which the church in Russia itself was established.”23 The Cold War Enlightenment In December 1950 the New York Court of Appeals, the state’s highest court, for the first time agreed to reverse its pro-Moscow position. The appeals court majority concluded: By our decision, we are not intruding unlawfully into the internal affairs of a religious body, but rather refusing to sanction such intrusion by an atheistic foreign government, so far as it affects property within our jurisdiction.24 In supporting the majority, Judge Froessel wrote: As I view the controversy, we have the rather unusual situation of a foreign government, which all of us agree is grossly antireligious, assuming domination and control over The Russian Orthodox Church, leaving that church fettered, helpless, and restrained of its freedom.25 In that argument the court implied but never proved, or sought evidence to prove, that the Moscow Patriarchate was controlled by the Soviet government. Actually, however, the appeals court did not wish to depend entirely on that argument. The court formally decided to accept the legislative revision of the Religious

22

  Id. at 481.

23

  Id. at 482.

24

  Kedroff, 96 NE 2d 75.

25

  Id. at 74.



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Corporations Law as the legal basis for rejecting the Moscow Patriarchate’s control over the Russian Orthodox Church in North America. They wrote: If there were any doubt as to the proper determination of the case along common-law lines, it has been completely eliminated by the Legislature. In April of 1945, L. 1945, ch. 693, the Governor signed a bill adding a new article 5-C to the Religious Corporations Law consisting of four sections, two of which, sections 105 and 107, are presently material. In 1948, L. 1948, ch. 711, important amendments were made to these sections.… [T]he Legislature defined the “Russian Church in America” … and carefully traced its origin.26 That legislative history specifically identified the Russian Church in America (the Metropolia) as the church body that had held a “convention (sobor) in Detroit, Michigan on or about or between April 2nd to 4th, 1924.”27 It is difficult for a law to get more specific than that, and the court finally accepted the legislature’s authority to establish a specific church body to the exclusion of another church body. It is important to note that the court did not appeal to the Constitution but made “the proper determination of the case along common-law lines.” The dissenters to the majority position maintained the previously consistent legal argument: We confidently assert that there is nothing in the statute itself to suggest such a legislative coup, that there is much to show that such was not the legislative purpose, and that the statute, if so intended or so construed, is plainly unconstitutional.28 The Supreme Court The dissenters proved to be legally correct. John Kedroff and Archbishop Benjamin Fedchenkoff appealed that decision to the United States Supreme Court. In 1952, the Supreme Court heard arguments on the constitutional question. Actually, the Court heard arguments twice. After the first arguments, which were not focused purely on the constitutional issue, the Court requested argument based solely on the right of the state legislature to legislate ownership. The Court suspected that there were two legal problems with the legislative action. First was the question of the legislature violating the First Amendment to the Constitution regarding separation of church and state, and second was the problem of the legislature attempting to usurp the Court’s role by legislating a settlement to a property dispute between two parties.

26 27

  Id. at 69.

  Id.

28

  Id. at 78.

220 Keith P. Dyrud

The Supreme Court reversed the decree of the New York Court of Appeals. In so doing, the Supreme Court also analyzed the argument that the Moscow Patriarchate may be under the influence of a foreign power. The Court’s logic was interesting. The Court ruled that hierarchical churches needed to be ruled by the highest authority of that church. In the case of the Russian Orthodox Church, that authority was the Moscow Patriarchate. It was of no consequence to the American courts that the patriarchate was controlled by the Soviet government. The First Amendment right to free speech required that the church be allowed to function as it wished even if it should be expressing the views of a foreign power.29 The Supreme Court also ruled that the New York law was unconstitutional because by fiat it displaces one church administrator with another. It passes the control of matters strictly ecclesiastical from one church authority to another. It thus intrudes for the benefit of one segment of a church the power of the state into the forbidden area of religious freedom contrary to the principles of the First Amendment.30 Finally, the Supreme Court suggested that the legislature was improperly usurping the role of the courts. Ours is a government which by the “law of its being” allows no statute, state or national, that prohibits the free exercise of religion. There are occasions when civil courts must draw lines between the responsibilities of church and state for the disposition or use of property. Even in those cases when the property right follows as an incident from decisions of the church custom or law on ecclesiastical issues, the church rule controls. This under our Constitution necessarily follows in order that there may be free exercise of religion.31 In that statement, the Supreme Court indicated how emphatically church and state were to be separated. It noted, however, that “there are occasions when civil courts must draw lines.” Only the courts, not the legislature, might gingerly cross that line, and when they do, they must apply the rules of the church, not state law, to the dispute.

29

  Kedroff et al., 344 US 118–19. That specific argument is difficult to follow because it is phrased as a rejection of the argument accepted in American Communications Asso. C. I. O. v. Douds, 339 US 382, in which the Supreme Court agreed that Congress could intervene in outlawing a union that may be controlled by a foreign power. The Court suggested that the union was in a position to interfere with commerce. In the case of the Russian Orthodox Church, in contrast, the issue was not commerce but freedom of speech. Thus, the legislature could not intervene even if the church were controlled by a foreign power. 30 31

  Kedroff et al., 344 US 119.

  Id. at 120–21.



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Conclusions It seems that in this case, for some reason, the carefully established and argued principle of the separation of church and state, and the application of the principle of applying church law, not state law, to the resolution of disputes that reach the courts, failed. The history of the North American Mission of the Russian Orthodox Church does seem to identify a recognizable “church body.” That body of the church was headed by Archbishop Platon. It was the church body that met in Detroit in 1924. That American (Russian) Orthodox Church was not represented by John Kedrovsky. Perhaps the dissenting judges quoted above were correct when they noted that it was a tradition of the Eastern Church, specifically in the example provided by the Russian Church, that the new national church body breaks away from the mother church in a manner that is contrary to church law. The Supreme Court gave several indications that their view of the churches in the United States was a very limited view. The New York Court of Appeals and the US Supreme Court noted that both sides agreed that there were no doctrinal differences between them. Apparently, that issue was significant. Second, the Supreme Court compared this case with a labor union case it had decided a few years earlier.32 In the labor union case, the Court ruled that unions with leaders who were influenced by communism could not enjoy the protections of the National Labor Relations Act. In that case, the Court argued that First Amendment rights could be abridged. The Court concluded, “legitimate attempts to protect the public, not from the remote possible effects of noxious ideologies, but from present excesses of direct, active conduct, are not presumptively bad because they interfere with and, in some of its manifestations, restrain the exercise of First Amendment rights.”33 That exercise of state authority did not, however, extend to church leadership, presumably because churches could only promote “the remote possible effects of noxious ideologies.” Foreign leadership of a church may well have been used for propaganda purposes and the foreign government may well have been anti-American, but the First Amendment protected such foreign activity. The Court felt that the heart of labor activity was the power of the strike, and thus it might be necessary to “restrain the exercise of [their] First Amendment rights.” But the Court also felt that the heart of the church is doctrine (even if the doctrine represents possible “noxious ideologies”), thus the state could not regulate it. The development of denominationalism in the United States may well have created American churches that are identified as doctrinal and for whom weekly assembly to discuss doctrine or ideas is the core of the church. But the Rusyns’ church (the Eastern European immigrants that made up a majority of the Russian Orthodox Church in America) was not just doctrine and ideas. Their church was the center of their community. It was a social and cultural institution. It was an “ethnic” institution, and as such it was “created” in America to serve the needs of the immigrant 32

  Douds, 344 US 119.

33

  Id. at 120–21.

222 Keith P. Dyrud

community. It was an American, not a Russian institution. The Rusyns had never been Russian citizens and they had not identified themselves as Russians until they came to the United States and adopted the Russian Orthodox Church as their church. The Supreme Court did not consider that the Russian Orthodox Mission was an American institution created to serve the needs of American immigrants. Its ruling, based on the hierarchical principle of the Russian Orthodox Church, never acknowledged the existence of the functional dimension to an American religious institution, nor did the ruling recognize that the Metropolia, not Kedrovsky, represented a continuity of the Russian Orthodox Church in America from before the Russian Revolution to the present.

Understanding Evangelical/Fundamentalist Approaches to “Anti-Communism,” 1953–91: A Critique of Billy Graham’s Participation in the World Peace Conference, 1982 G. William Carlson†

Introduction The Evangelical/Fundamentalist Protestant communities in the United States, like all religious communities, were forced to respond to the challenge of Communism in the post-World War II period. The spread of Communism into such areas as Eastern Europe, China, Cuba, and Southeast Asia presented several challenges, including the need to interact effectively with their religious counterparts who faced persecution and significant legal restraints in Communist countries, develop ideological underpinnings for exploring effective theological and ideological interpretations of Marxian-Communism, and respond to the issues facing American foreign policy during the Cold War. These three areas were the focus of the Evangelical/Fundamentalist church communities as they interpreted the activities of such mainstream Evangelical organizations’ actions as the Baptist World Alliance and Billy Graham Evangelistic Organization. They were parachurch groups who made significant efforts to relate to the experiences of Russian Baptists from 1953 to 1991. One of the features of this interaction is the rise of the theme of “anti-Communism” as a model which fostered significant religious and political debate within the Evangelical/Fundamentalist community. Three major approaches sought support from various religious organizations. The first was the Fundamentalist far right, who developed a strong “anti-Communist” motif attached to a Communist conspiracy theory of world and national events. Many of the themes of this group were also adopted and articulated in the 1980s by the New Evangelical Right. A second option was entitled traditionalist conservative Evangelical anti-Communism. It paralleled and often supported the mainstream Western foreign policy commitments of containment as illustrated in the rise of NATO and the implementation of the Marshall Plan. This group endorsed a consensus Cold War foreign policy which will be more moderate in its understanding of American religious politics and a willingness to accept diverse points of view on national policy in areas such as civil rights, social welfare, and economic development.

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 223–50.

224 G. William Carlson

A third viewpoint was entitled the Evangelical anti-anti-Communism perspective. It would be articulated by a variety of Evangelical theologians and political activists. Although they were committed to anti-Communist ideological beliefs and believed that Communism was a major challenge to the Christian community, they argued for a more broad-based understanding of the reasons for Communist expansion, believed that social and economic justice issues were a major component of Western internal policy, and accepted the necessity of selective negotiations with Communist countries to reduce world tension. They tended to believe that other issues such as poverty, world peace, and human rights may be more important in understanding American foreign policy options and that anti-Communism was not always a very helpful image in understanding many of the international problems at work in the world. Very few of these individuals went so far as to endorse the revisionism of the secular left and therefore maintained a reluctance to challenge the mainstream norms of American life and culture. Stalin’s death in 1953 began a new era for American responses to the Communist world and particularly the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union under Khrushchev went through a selective de-Stalinization effort and expanded direct contacts with the outside world. It meant the restoration of the authoritarian, one-party state, extensive travels abroad by the Soviet political leadership and preliminary discussions of possible arms control agreements, and increasing contacts between religious leaders from the Soviet Union and their counterparts in the Western world. The Soviet Union increased its foreign policy range to include greater influence in the Mediterranean and in Third World areas such as India and Cuba. However, it also exhibited a firm commitment to silence dissent and maintain Communist single-party states in Eastern Europe (which it claimed was its rightful sphere of influence after World War II) and experienced its first major crises concerning Soviet hegemony in the Communist world in China and Yugoslavia. Khrushchev, although somewhat tolerant of diverse scientific and cultural expression, was unwilling to relax political pressures on religious organizations. He developed an extreme antireligion agenda. By 1964 more than “half the churches of both Orthodox and the Baptists had been closed and the number of Orthodox clergy had been reduced by two thirds.”1 There was a special attempt to harass and persecute members of the unregistered churches and strengthen the laws governing the practices of the registered church communities. Khrushchev’s policy also included an expansion of antireligious materials and scientific atheism programs. Khrushchev’s ouster from power in 1964 allowed for an emergence of a more conservative authoritarian, Communist leadership team that would remain in political power until Brezhnev’s death in 1982. This era can be entitled the rise of the “conservative gerontocracy” or the era of “bureaucratic conservatism.” Internally this meant the development of the “dacha” culture, the centralization of major political and economic policy decisions, increased repression of intellectual, cultural, and religious dissent, and efforts at Russification of the non-Russian national areas. The 1

 Walter Sawatsky, Soviet Evangelicals since World War II (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1981), 131–32.

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foreign policy of Brezhnev achieved the development of a global influence, the rise and fall of detente, expansionist activity in Afghanistan, and the crushing of substantive dissent movements in Czechoslovakia and Poland. It was buttressed by a massive expansion of the military-industrial complex. The Brezhnev era continued to adopt a rather brutal approach to religious issues. The end result was the continued split in many religious communities over issues such as acquiescence to intrusive Soviet law or the development of alternative, non-registered church communities. The protests included the rise of the refusenik movement within the Jewish community, Orthodox dissent in Solzhenitzyn’s Letter to Patriarch Pimen and religious expressions of Gleb Yakunin and Dmitri Dudko, and rise of the dissident Reform Baptists under the leadership of Georgi Vins and Gennadi Kriuchkov.2 The rise of Gorbachev ushered in a new era in Soviet religious history, one that was defined by the terms glasnost and perestroika. Critical for the content of this paper is his attempt to lessen external tensions with the Western world in order to provide time and funds to explore ways to increase Soviet economic development, provide for a greater latitude of freedom of religious belief and intellectual debate within the guidelines of acceptable ideological parameters, and expand contact with the Western world through personal travels and effective use of modern vehicles of political communication. The celebration of the millennium of Christianity in the Soviet Union and the emergence of the citizen peace and human rights movements, especially in Eastern Europe (including some members of the Evangelical community), provided some new trends in Soviet-American religious interrelationships that had an impact on the use of the “anti-Communism” motif in understanding American foreign policy. The fall of Communism in late 1991 brought a whole new set of relationships between Russian religious organizations and their counterparts in the West. This is outside the parameters of this essay. However, the impact of the Russian religious church leaders under Communism did have an impact on post-Communism religious politics. Who are the legitimate religious leaders? How does one develop outreach ministries? What are the legitimate and helpful influences of Western religious groups in the development of Russian church life? What role should the Orthodox Church play in the post-Communist period? Should it resume a preferential status? These were partially answered in the new constraints on religious practices found in the 1997 Law of Religious Association.3 2

  Ibid., 227–33.

3

  For a general discussion of current issues facing religious denominations in Russia, see John Witte Jr. and Michael Bourdeaux, Proselytism and Orthodoxy in Russia: The New War for Souls (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1999). For an understanding of the 1997 New Religious Laws, read the following articles: Mark Elliott, “New Restrictive Law on Religion,” East-West Church and Ministry Report 5, 3 (1997): 1–2; Lauren B. Homer, “Human Rights Lawyer Criticizes New Russian Religion Law,” East-West Church and Ministry Report 5, 3 (1997): 2–3; Mark Elliott and Sharyl Corrado, “The 1997 Russian Law on Religion: The Demographics of Discrimination,” East-West Church and Ministry Report 7, 1 (1999): 1–3; Mark Elliott, “The

226 G. William Carlson

Fundamentalist Far-Right “Anti-Communism” When one explores the “anti-Communism” motif within the American Fundamentalist/Evangelical community there is a need to analyze the roots of its rise and influence and the major actors that help shape an understanding of its relevance to American foreign policy.4 One of the major groups involved in the creation of the “anti-Communism” motif is that of the Fundamentalist far right community, who after World War II helped to set some of the political agenda issues for the larger conservative religious constituencies in American life. This community was represented in the post-1953 period by such religious leaders as Carl McIntire, Edgar Bundy of the Church League of America, John R. Rice, editor of the Sword of the Lord, Dr. Bob Jones, Billy James Hargis, and Dr. Fred Schwartz, president and founder of Christian Anti-Communism Crusade.5 These religious activists united a Fundamentalist theology with far right politics and were influential in forming religious political debates on foreign policy issues in the Evangelical communities until the mid-1960s. After that they became increasingly strident and politically isolated. To a great degree, the mainstream conservative Evangelical communities launched other agendas and tired of the religious politics fostered by the Fundamentalist far right. The moderate conservative Evangelicals began to focus on more pluralistic Evangelistic activities, created targeted parachurch organizations, and developed more inclusive religious organizations. These include

Church in Russia: Between the Law and Administrative Practice,” East-West Church and Ministry Report 8, 1 (2000): 1–3; Nikolas K. Gvosdev, “Religious Freedom: Russian Constitutional Principles—Historical and Contemporary,” Brigham Young University Law Review, no. 2 (2001): 511–36; and Marat S. Shterin and James T. Richardson, “Local Laws Restricting Religion in Russia: Precursors of Russia’s New National Law,” Journal of Church and State 40, 2 (1998): 319–41. 4   For an excellent analysis of some of the religious influences on the development of the “anti-Communist” theme in American religious politics, see Kenneth D. Wald, “The Religious Dimension of American Anti-Communism,” Journal of Church and State 36, 3 (1994): 483– 506. For a secular historical analysis of the role of “anti-Communism” in American history, see James V. Compton, Anti-Communism in American Life since the Second World War (St. Charles, MO: Forum Press, 1973). 5

  For a good discussion of the politics of the Fundamentalist far right, one could explore the following resources: Gary K. Clabaugh, Thunder on the Right: The Protestant Fundamentalists (Chicago: Nelson-Hall, 1974); Erling Jorstad, The Politics of Doomsday (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1970); Richard V. Pierard, “Christianity, Democracy, and the Radical Right,” in Protest and Politics: Christianity and Contemporary Affairs, ed. Robert G. Clouse, Robert D. Linder, and Pierard (Greenwood, SC: The Attic Press, 1968), 39–66; and Richard V. Pierard, The Unequal Yoke: Evangelical Christianity and Political Conservatism (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1970).

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World Vision, Young Life, Campus Crusade, Billy Graham Association, National Association of Evangelicals, and such periodicals as Christianity Today and Eternity.6 The Fundamentalist far right agenda included a belief in a Communist conspiracy of American history and politics, particularly since World War II; a commitment to a full-blown individualism in social, economic, and political relationships; a generally negative, pessimistic tone about the ability of America to wake up and confront the expanding Communist influence in the world; and an intense hostility to those who did not adopt the major points of their totalistic world view. These planks resulted in a political platform which included the need to develop a “pure” Christian testimony, to facilitate cooperation among only the theologically correct Christian churches, to project a stand against any form of religious modernism or political pluralism, to expose the Communist infiltration of American church life, and to oppose every economic and social system alien to the Fundamentalist interpretation of the Bible. In practical terms this meant that the Fundamentalist far right leadership opposed such “socialist” giveaways as SALT I and SALT II, the Panama Canal Treaty, the participation of the United States in such Communist-dominated institutions as the United Nations, American trade with the Soviet Union, and recognition of the People’s Republic of China. In internal American politics they opposed the welfare state programs, the Civil Rights movement, and the progressive income tax. They believe that the Supreme Court led a movement to de-Christianize American society through the removal of prayer and Bible reading in the American public school system. Each of these trends are part of an American capitulation to the ever-expanding Communist conspiracy seeking to weaken America’s religious and economic commitment to freedom. Billy James Hargis emphasized this theme in his book Why I Fight for a Christian America: I’m afraid most still do not recognize the severity of the threat to democracy in America or of the potential stifling of Christianity’s outreaches. That’s because most look on the threat of Communism as being just another political system. That’s where they are wrong. It is a religion and its author isn’t holy. It was created by Satan to enslave the world. America is a Christian country. The men and women who braved an uncharted wilderness to carve out this Republic were rich in faith. With a Bible under one arm and a musket under the other, they were willing to fight for their faith and freedom as well as talk about it.… Communism has come along with insistence that America no longer look toward God, but instead to political government. Communism, through its associates—liberalism, progressivism, socialism and modernism, is creating 6

  For an understanding of the split between Fundamentalism and Evangelicalism, see George Marsden, “From Fundamentalism to Evangelicalism: A Historical Analysis,” in The Evangelicals: What They Believe, Who They Are, Where They Are Changing, ed. David F. Wells and John D. Woodbridge (New York: Abingdon Press, 1975), 122–42; and Mark A. Noll, American Evangelical Christianity: An Introduction (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2001), 7–108.

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class warfare within America, fomenting hatred, stirring up various so-called “social crises,” destroying love of country, perverting morals of young and old. It is casting aside beloved traditions, banning the Bible from American schools and in general reducing the proud and free American citizenry to an insignificant, helpless pawn of a giant governmental system.7 Throughout the Cold War era, Carl McIntire protested any American church involvement with registered Russian church leaders. He believed they were KGB clergy and part of the Communist effort to undermine Christian America and spread Communist power. McIntire especially challenged the activities of the Baptist World Alliance and its supportive denominations, which often hosted Russian Baptist leaders and traveled to visit Russian Baptist churches. He stated: If peaceful coexistence with godless Communism is possible, then the Bible is a mistake and Christ should never have died to reconcile us to God. We could have peacefully coexisted with our sins. May I say to the preachers, we have reached our last battle line of defense. If this line cannot be held, the floodgate of Communism will overflow this country, with hundreds and thousands of Russians serving on commissions, coming for exchanges, and using what they think is best in the destruction of the USA. There must be no discharge, no retreat, no surrender to the forces of Communism and to the powers that will impose peaceful coexistence, with the militant atheists who lead Russia.8 In the 1950s Dr. Frederick C. Schwarz organized the Christian Anti-Communism Crusade and authored a widely distributed book entitled You Can Trust the Communists to Be Communists. He set up conferences and organized successful lecture circuits to spread the message. His essential anti-Communism motif went as follows: The Communists believe that they are at war with us. This conviction will never be changed in the slightest degree by any action of the Free World. If, tomorrow, the leaders of the Free Nations were to accede to every demand made by the Communist leaders, if they were to neutralize every Strategic Air Command base, if they were to grant the demands on Germany, if they were to neutralize Formosa, if they were to recognize Red China and admit it to the United Nations, if the United States were to withdraw every 7

  Billy James Hargis, Why I Fight for a Christian America (Nashville: Thomas A. Nelson, 1974), 154–55.

8

  Carl McIntire, “Christians Challenge Nixon Concerning Peaceful Coexistence,” Christian Beacon, June 1972, 2. For a history of the interaction between the Baptist World Alliance and Carl McIntire on the relationships with Soviet Baptists, see G. William Carlson, “Russian Protestants and American Evangelicals since the Death of Stalin: Patterns of Interaction and Response” (Ph.D. diss., University of Minnesota, 1986); and Carlson, “An Old Problem … Renewed in the 1980s,” The Standard, February 1984, 46, 48.

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serviceman and weapon within the borders of the continental United States, the Communists would merely believe they had won massive victories in the class war. A step toward our final conquest and destruction would have been taken. We must either recognize this and defend against it or ignore it and be destroyed. We have no other choice.9 In the late 1970s and early 1980s the emergence of the new Evangelical right reinvigorated the more strident “anti-Communism” motif within the Evangelical/Fundamentalist community and made it a major plank in their foreign policy analysis. This movement is best represented by such individuals as Rev. Jerry Falwell, Rev. Tim LaHaye, and Rev. Pat Robertson, and expressed in such organizations as the Moral Majority and the Christian Coalition. It was successful because it linked together segments of the Fundamentalist religious community, the effective use of television ministries, and a willingness to organize with non-Fundamentalist religious organizations and join forces with a right-wing conservative political organization to create a powerful ideological interest group which shaped conservative religious points of view about foreign policy concerns. The Evangelical new right was concerned about the moral decay evidenced in American life and strongly believed that secular humanism was the major ideology undermining American commitments to its former Judeo-Christian heritage. The end result is the demise of American influence in the world, the likelihood of the end times, the need for alternative institutions to teach children and adults the truths of the Christian faith, and the need to take a prophetic role in opposition to the immoral laws passed by the liberal government and sanctioned by the Supreme Court. The organizations are intensively politically active and start with the assumption that America’s wealth, prosperity, and power are a result of the Christian character found in the origins and institutions of American society. The nation’s continued blessing is dependent upon its faithfulness to God. In foreign policy issues, the new Evangelical right argued that Communism is the most blatant form of secular humanism and is Satan’s way of undermining American life and culture. Therefore, they generally opposed detente, the Panama Canal Treaty, the recognition of the People’s Republic of China, and the recent arms control agreements. They endorsed the Strategic Defense system as a necessary part of the protection of American society from Communism and believed in the doctrine “peace through strength.” These ideas were well expressed in Tim LaHaye’s monograph The Battle for the Mind. In it he wrote: And that brings us to the important subject of patriotism, or old-fashioned love for one’s country. All committed humanists are one-worlders first and Americans second.… Do you believe that “Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel?” Do your elected officials? If they are humanists, they do. And that is one of the 9

  Fred Schwartz, You Can Trust the Communists to Be Communists (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1962).

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chief reasons our politicians have turned the most powerful country in the world after World War II into a neutralized state: they are more interested in world socialism than in America. That is why humanist positions permitted Russia to conquer the satellite countries of Europe and turn them into socialist prisons. That is why we were not permitted to win in Korea and Vietnam and why they voted to give away the Panama Canal. That is why Russia was allowed to turn Cuba into an armed camp with a submarine base, stationing at least 3,000 Russian troops, and who knows what else, there? No humanist is qualified to hold any governmental office in America— United States Senator, Congressman, cabinet member, State Department employee, or any other position that requires him to think in the best interest of America. He is a socialist one-worlder first, an American second. The giveaway of the Panama Canal is a prime example of whose team is number one in the hearts of American humanist politicians. America lost on that deal, but socialist and Communist countries all gained.… I am not saying that anyone who voted for the giveaway to the Communist government of Panama is an evil person. I am asserting that the issue stands as an example of the humanist philosophy functioning in the political sphere. Their first allegiance is to a socialist one-world view, then to America. Such politicians can be counted on to vote the same way on other issues: the continuing persecution of Rhodesia; permitting Cuban troops to enslave various African countries such as Angola; breaking off relations with Taiwan; or increasing United States appropriation to the UN.10 In an interview with Pat Robertson during his candidacy for the Republican endorsement for president he was asked to explain his position on American involvement in Central America. He stated: The consolidation of totalitarian control over the Nicaraguan people is in progress. There are promising efforts, however, to resist this process: the contras are willing to sacrifice their lives in their struggle against communist slavery. We should support this quest for freedom in Nicaragua, because it is consistent with our principles. We must support that quest because it is in the strategic interest of the United States to have communist expansionism brought to an end in Central America. Furthermore, we must interdict the introduction of offensive weapons into the region.11 Robertson’s view of the Soviet Union was based on a rejection of the policy of containment. The only “intelligent policy for the United States is the total elimination of 10

  Tim LaHaye, Battle for the Mind (Old Tappan, NJ: Revell, 1983), 77–78.

11

  Pat Robertson, “Pat Robertson on the Issues,” Eternity, February 1987, 19.

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communism.”12 He combined his critique of Soviet Communism with a strong apocalyptic vision of the future, a future in which the Soviet Union would seek to expand throughout the world and lead an attack on Israel. He wrote in 1977 that the Soviet power grasp will be “God’s opportunity to rescue Israel and destroy the pretension of atheistic communism.”13 Jerry Falwell was asked to isolate the major motifs of his Christian political agenda. Although it seemed that most issues dealt with internal American policy issues such as abortion, pornography, and school prayer, he was also interested in establishing a strong anti-Communism theme: However, the debates over school prayer, abortion, and homosexuality are not as important as one issue that has recently loomed before us. If our country is militarily overshadowed by the Soviet Union, I believe that we will not have the opportunity for free and open debate about these or any other issues for long. Presently, the United States is inferior to the Soviet Union in its military buildup. We have been inferior for many years, and have cut back on defense programs while the Soviets have steadily increased their nuclear arsenal. I, for one, am not willing to sit back and wait for the Soviets either to propose nuclear blackmail or destroy us in a rain of nuclear warheads. I am not for war. But I am not a pacifist. I will do all I can to preserve my country’s freedom. I believe that America was raised up of God in this time for the purpose of world evangelization. I believe that America is a nation under God, the only nation on earth so constituted. And I believe that it is every Christian’s responsibility to take an active part in the effort to restore America’s greatness.14 A second group of people who supported the Fundamentalist anti-Communism image and emphasized its benefit in understanding American foreign policy was the Evangelical/Fundamentalist émigré community. Two major figures were popular in the Fundamentalist far-right community and also in the larger conservative religious world: Rev. Paul Voronaeff and Rev. Richard Wurmbrand. Rev. Paul Voronaeff’s father was born in Russia in 1886, emigrated to the United States, and pastored the first Russian Pentecostal Church in New York in 1919. He returned to Odessa in 1920 and began the development of a major work in that city. In 1936 he was arrested and sent to Siberia, where he most likely died. Paul Voronaeff

12

  Mark Toulouse, “Pat Robertson: Apocalyptic Theology and American Foreign Policy,” Journal of Church and State 31, 1 (1989): 91. 13

  Ibid., 91–92.

14

  Jerry Falwell, “A Bystander—How Not to be One,” Christian Life, October 1983, 22–26.

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joined Rev. McIntire in the mid-1960s and was a major commentator on Soviet religious politics, particularly those between the registered and unregistered church.15 Voronaeff’s comments in the Christian Beacon summarized and interpreted the status of Christianity in the Soviet Union as it emerged in the Soviet press, and analyzed the role and value of American-Soviet clergy exchanges and the relationship of these exchanges to Soviet foreign policy interests. He argued that the registered Soviet clergy were towing the Soviet line. They were engaged in propagating a Communist conspiracy. Any American clergy associated with these Soviet religious leaders is likely to be compromised and supportive of the Communist attempt to undermine American life and politics. The true Christian position was one that supported the Fundamentalist, far-right anti-Communism effort and separated itself from any compromised institutions.16 Richard Wurmbrand was for fourteen years a Lutheran minister in Romania. He was also a teacher of Old Testament history at a seminary in Bucharest before the Communist takeover in Romania. In 1948 he was arrested by the authorities and sentenced to prison, where he served three years in solitary confinement. From 1948 to 1964 he was in and out of Romanian prisons. In 1965 Lutheran Churches in Norway paid Communist authorities ten thousand dollars for the release of Rev. Wurmbrand to the West. In 1967 he founded an organization entitled Jesus to the Communist World, Inc., which was “dedicated to helping thousands of Christians who face persecution in Communist held countries.” The nonprofit agency sent “physical and spiritual aid to persons in the non-free world by way of secret couriers, balloons and radio broadcasts spoken in 28 different languages.”17 Wurmbrand’s testimony before the Senate Internal Security Subcommittee in May 1966 helped to launch his religious/political career in American religious politics. His books, such as Tortured for Christ, were popular reading in many churches and the basis from which many Fundamentalist/Evangelical Christians looked at American foreign policy. At an antiwar protest during the Vietnam era he told the demonstrators that “you will be forced to fight Communism here in your own country one day unless you stop it now in Vietnam.”18 Although Rev. Wurmbrand understood the dangers of a policy solely based on anti-Communism, he still supported a strong anti-Communism emphasis in American foreign policy. He wrote that “I don’t believe in what is usually called anti-Communism, and I refused to join any anti-Communist organization, but neither do I be15

  Steve Durasoff, The Russian Protestants: Evangelicals in the Soviet Union, 1944–1964 (Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1969). 16

  Paul Voronaeff, “The Communist-Run Baptists of Russia,” Christian Beacon, 3 July 1980, 1, 4.

17

  Richard Wurmbrand: A Biographical Sketch (Glendale, CA: Jesus to the Communist World, n.d.), 1, 2. 18

  Jon Reid Kennedy, “Rumanian Refugee Pastor Backs US Viet Position,” Christian Beacon, 12 May 1966, 4.

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lieve in compromising with Communism in the religious or in the political sphere.”19 He concluded that every “bridge towards Communism will make it easier for the Reds to cross rivers and oceans to destroy freedom.”20 Christians ought to be on the side of the underground Church and associate with groups that understand the nature of the Communist menace and make no compromises with Communist political systems. He chastised the American West for its unwillingness to follow through on their commitment to stop the spread of Communism in Cuba and Vietnam. Wurmbrand argued that any linkage with the registered church was dangerous. He wrote: Christians are on the side of the people oppressed by the Communists. Their duty is to help them and their churches by providing them with Bibles and Christian literature, by broadcasting to them the Gospel, by sending relief to the innumerable families of Christian martyrs. Christians are on the side of the Underground Church in Communist countries, not on the side of official church leaders there, who have become stooges of the Communists. The Communists are anti-man, something similar to what anti-matter is in the physical realm. If anybody makes friendship with them and obeys them now, what will be his attitude when the Anti-Christ will appear.21 Rev. Wurmbrand, early in his émigré status, expressed discontent with the leadership of the mainstream Evangelical/Fundamentalist conservative which did not link themselves to the Fundamentalist far-right tradition. This was evidenced during his attempt to appear at the World Congress of Evangelism in 1966 when selective clergy from Eastern Europe were allowed to participate.22 Wurmbrand concluded that if religious leaders come from registered churches from behind the Iron Curtain, they must be men who were in the clutches of the Secret Police. From these Iron Curtain clergy the attendees of the World Congress of Evangelism would never get in touch with the real churches of Eastern Europe. The Western church would also be hampered in its ability to say anything significant against the cruel anti-Christian tyranny of Communism.23 The development of a needed commitment to an anti-Communism motif therefore necessitated disassociation with the registered clergy of Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union and firm interaction with the suffering church. This was an issue on which there could be no compromise. 19

  Richard Wurmbrand, If That Were Christ, Would You Give Him Your Blanket (Waco, TX: Word, 1970), 89. 20

 Ibid.

21

  Ibid., 89–90.

22

  “Wurmbrand’s Letter Deplores Stand of World Congress on Evangelism,” Christian Beacon, 8 December 1966, 1, 8.

23

 Ibid.

234 G. William Carlson

Several other émigrés also played a role in shaping the anti-Communism motif. They include Peter Popoff of the ministry entitled Evangelism to Communist Lands, Peter Deyneka, who founded the Slavic Gospel Association, and more recently Georgi Vins, who was part of the International Representation for the Council of Evangelical Baptist Churches in the Soviet Union, Inc.24 However, they most often associated themselves with a more mainstream traditionalist conservative anti-Communism. Moderate Traditionalist Conservative Anti-Communism A second model of analysis for the anti-Communism motif emerged from the mainstream conservative Evangelicals who were most frequently part of the National Association of Evangelicals and Baptist World Alliance. Most frequently this position was found in such periodicals as Christianity Today, Moody Monthly, United Evangelical Action, and Eternity. Early in the 1950s many Evangelical journals, especially United Evangelical Action of the National Association of Evangelicals, allowed the Fundamentalist far-right community to define the anti-Communist agenda. Such included columns by John Noble and J. B. Matthews.25 When asked about the benefits of Khrushchev’s visit to the United States in 1959, John Noble was concerned about the impression his visit left in the minds of Christians in the United States. He wrote: The impression that Khrushchev left in the hearts of many is that he is at the worst a man worth talking to and at the best a man with whom we should try to negotiate. History, however, does not justify the impression. He did not bat an eye as he took the lives of millions to get control in the Ukraine. The blood that flowed while he tightened his grip on Hungry caused him no sleepless nights. Nor did it rock his conscience to shoot down and enslave American boys in order to display his power and authority. But our impression was that he is a “man with a heart.” And what was Mr. Khrushchev’s impression of American and American people? No one really knows, but whatever, it was he said that it had not changed his opinion—or, we might add, his plans.… Destruction is the inevitable result if we are not willing to obey the Word of God. America is in danger! We have to take a stand for Christ or Communism. God will not tolerate an “in between” compromise.26 24

  For information on these groups, one could read Haralan Popov, Tortured for His Faith (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1970); Norman Rohrer and Peter Deyneka, Jr., Peter Dynamite (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 1975); and Georgi Vins, Testament from Prison (Elgin, IL: David C. Cook, 1975). 25

  Periodically John Noble wrote an editorial column entitled “John Noble Slave IE241 Answers Your Questions about Communism” during the years 1959–61. See J. B. Matthews, “The World Council and Communism,” United Evangelical Action, August 1954, 3–5, 8. 26

  John Noble, “John Noble Slave IE241 Answers Your Questions About Communism,” United Evangelical Action, November 1959, 11.

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John Noble is best known for his book I Was a Slave in Russia which won the Freedom Book Award of 1959 from the American Heritage Committee. Even James Deforest Murch tended to reflect the more strident anti-Communism theme as he analyzed the presence of Eastern European clergy and the National Council of Churches meeting in Evanston in 1954. However, this drift toward a Fundamentalist far-right vision of anti-Communism was put aside for a more subtle and complex one. Traditional mainstream Evangelical conservatives generally tried to disassociate themselves from the Fundamentalist image and style. There was a strong belief in the dangers of Communism, but they were not willing to endorse the conspiratorial analysis, particularly as it might refer to differences of opinion within the religious community. However, the use of anti-Communism as a technique for an understanding of American foreign and internal policy concerns was a dominant reality in the writing of many of individuals in this model. They were influenced by such missionaries and political leaders as Walter Judd and such United Nations leaders as Charles Malik.27 Editorial comments were skeptical about, but not always in total opposition to, the benefits of talks between leaders of the Soviet Union and the United States, opposed to the recognition of Red China, supported efforts to discourage major trade relationships between the United States and the Soviet Union, and largely argued that a major problem in today’s world is the spread of Communism, a threat that the American public needed to recognize and respond to with great concern. In an editorial in Christianity Today the author expressed some concern about the talks between Eisenhower and Khrushchev: Criticisms of Mr. Eisenhower’s venturesome invitation are tart and many. Does he not confer personal dignity upon “the butcher of the Kremlin, symbol of political tyranny? Did not even Jesus speak of Herod, that ancient puppet of iniquity, as “the fox?” Will not Khrushchev’s visit widen the slobbering sentimentality for the Soviet among men who stress peace more than justice? The President bears the duty of guarding the exchange from conferring prestige on a power philosophy of naked naturalism and on the foes of freedom and Christianity. If Mr. Eisenhower can employ persuasion with a premier accustomed to renouncing persuasion for force; if he can promote the conversion of one who dismisses the fixed moral principles as sheer prejudices; if he can reflect the spirit of good will America preaches to the nations; if he can let men of violence know our high faith in a holy God charting the destinies of nations, and our firm devotion to true freedom much will be gained.28

27

  Walter Judd, “World Issues and the Christian,” Christianity Today, 23 June 1958, 6–8.

28

  “Eisenhower, Khrushchev Talks Shadowed by a Red Moon,” Christianity Today, 28 September 1959, 22.

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In the early 1960s the National Association of Evangelicals circulated a manuscript written by Thomas A. Kay of Wheaton College entitled The Christian Answer to Communism.29 In it he presented a moderate anti-Communism motif, a motif that would dominate most of the writings in Christianity Today. He concluded with the idea that “Communism is a well-established power in the world today. Because it has designs on the world—including us—we cannot ignore it.” The initial success was largely due to its claim to provide the answer to economic and material needs. The fact that this is a false claim is not important at this point, for “millions believe it is true.”30 It is in light of this that “Christians must act—or we lose by default.” Kay’s range of actions included foreign policy which assumed the reality of Soviet imperialism; a foreign aid program that lessened the attractiveness of Communism and responded to the most serious problems of poverty; diplomatic negotiations with the Soviet Union, when possible, from a position of military and diplomatic strength; and commitment to an effective ideological war with Communist totalitarianism for the hearts and minds of the free world. A significant part of the mainstream conservative agenda was a need to challenge trends in the United States which would make Americans less committed to the anti-Communism themes. Such included the dangerous expansion of the welfare state, the secularization of the public education system, the declining morality expressed in the entertainment community, and the lessening of America’s commitment to its Judeo-Christian heritage. Mainstream Evangelical “Anti-Anti-Communism” The final group of individuals entering the debate might be entitled the anti-anti-Communism activists, who took the anti-Communism motif and challenged its relevance as the major thrust in the development of a Christian response to American foreign policy. There is a risk in using this title since it had dangerous political and theological implications for mainstream Evangelical conservatives during the 1950s. It could imply that these individuals were theological liberals who had been soft in their recognition of the dangers of Communism both within the United States and the larger global community.31 However, this is not true. Although this viewpoint is not explicitly found in the literature it can be drafted to explain the viewpoints of the authors under discussion. The individuals expressing this anti-anti-Communism motif were substantively opposed to Communism and were willing to adopt Christian realism approaches to 29

  Thomas A. Kay, The Christian Answer to Communism (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1961). For a broader understanding of the role of the magazine Christianity Today in the life of mainstream Evangelicalism, see Mark G. Toulouse, “Christianity Today and American Public Life: A Case Study,” Journal of Church and State 35, 2 (1993): 241–84. 30 31

  Kay, The Christian Answer to Communism, 88–89.

  James Deforest Murch, “Anti-Anti-Communism in the Churches,” United Evangelical Action, December 1953, 12–13.

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Soviet advances. However, they tended to challenge the value of the anti-Communism motif for four major reasons: they found it debilitating to efforts designed to maximize the opportunities of interlinkages between Western Evangelicals/Fundamentalists and their colleagues in the registered churches of the Soviet Union once the channels of communication had opened up after the death of Stalin; they concluded that anti-Communism was not helpful in the development of approaches to areas where the threat of Communism is likely; they believed that it underemphasized the possibility of change inside the Soviet Union and made the West incapable of responding to those changes because of potential ideological blinders; and they believed that the strident anti-Communism of the Fundamentalist far right made for paranoid internal American religious politics and kept the American government blindly committed to unwise interventionism and military weapons system development. One of the early supporters of this idea was Charles Wells, who was the cartoonist for the Watchman-Examiner, an interdenominational Baptist journal. In his editorial explanations of his cartoons he attempted to define four essential themes: Christians need to understand the differences between Christianity and Communism; Communist tyranny and religious freedom are incompatible with each other; despite persecution, Christians in the Soviet Union and other Communist lands are continuing to thrive; and Christians need to support policies against Communism which neither mimic Communist ideology and practice nor depend too heavily on an anti-Communism image or militaristic programming.32 To support these ideas he added some practical implications: although Communism is built on an anti-God philosophy, Christians in the capitalist world need to be certain that they do not fall prey to a godless Capitalism; Communism will sooner or later come to the recognition that individuals and communities cannot live without some transcendent value system and that Christianity, as one of those value systems, is fundamentally unconquerable; Christians in the West need to extend their hand of friendship to their brethren in the Soviet and Eastern European countries; and it is possible that Christians behind the Iron Curtain can teach Christians in the West what it means to be alive in Christ. Wells wrote: Prime Minister Winston Churchill coined the phrase, “The Iron Curtain” to mark the impenetrable line of separation between Soviet Russia and her satellite nations and the nations associated in ideals and principles with the United States. This Iron Curtain permits no free intercourse; yet it can be transcended by forces that no barrier can shut out. A great host of Christians in Russia are not atheistic communists. The communists could neither liquidate nor destroy them.… Americans are seldom told about this phase of life in Russia. Here is encouragement to prayer, an appeal for patience and sympathy, friendliness, and love. No barrier can forever be impenetrable to these powerful spiritual forces. When brotherly love, faith, fellowship, and above all, prayer, become effective, they eventually will melt away even the iron 32

  Charles Wells, “The Long Shadow,” Missions, April 1954, 3.

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curtain. Instead of the prospect of war there will be global harmony, world friendliness, and true peace.33 Wells applauded the meeting between Khrushchev and Eisenhower and was encouraged by the move to implement a policy of cooperation and exploration of mutual need. He argued that the stopping of the possibility of military arms escalation superseded the anti-Communism image as the proper basis for interaction. He wrote: A few months ago, there was little hope of peace. A thousand insoluble problems bore down upon us—the darkness, the atom bombs and guns crowded close. Then out of desperation, men tried another war. Even the Russians realized that there was only one path open—that of good will. Fortunately, the United States had leadership that was quick to forget the threats, the fears, the angry words, and arose to meet the new friendliness with sincere good will.… If the good will continues, solutions will soon appear, for good will creates the atmosphere of compromise and agreement. The United States, as well as Russia, has made mistakes. Our intolerance has caused bitterness in the world, while Russia’s cruelty has caused hatred. So there is room for both sides to move closer into the light. If we can now discover that good will springs from God’s will, we can be secure.34 John Bradbury, editor of Watchman-Examiner, an American Baptist journal, developed this theme further and more directly. He stated that “people should not be so obsessed by the fear of Communism that they see nothing else.”35 He supported the idea that the penalty for allowing our judgment to be controlled by the fear of Communism was that we may find ourselves defending injustice against the human cry for justice, and tyranny against the cry of freedom. Bradbury concluded that Communism was “not the author of the revolution of our time. It is one of the movements which exploits it. The revolutionary movement of our time has deeper roots and a wider meaning than Communism understands.”36 Many of the supporters of this anti-anti-Communism position found themselves the recipients of the Fundamentalist far-right protest movement. This was especially true for those who were associated with the Baptist World Alliance and Mennonite Central Committee. After the death of Stalin in 1953 leaders of the registered churches inside the Soviet Union were allowed to travel abroad and associate with their counterparts in the Western world. For the Protestant community this basically meant that organizations such as the Baptist World Alliance and the Mennonite Central Committee were able to include leaders of the churches in the Soviet Union in 33

  Charles Wells, “Across the Iron Curtain,” Missions, October 1947, 450.

34

  Charles Wells, ‘The Power of Good Will,” Missions, January 1956, 4.

35

  John W. Bradbury, “A Needed Warning,” Watchman-Examiner, 26 January 1961, 65.

36

 Ibid.

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their organizations. One interpretation of this trend was given by Dr. Erik Ruden and Dr. Gordon Lahrson in a short history of the Baptist church communities in Eastern and Western Europe which was distributed by the Baptist World Alliance.37 They argued four ideas: it was necessary to distinguish between Communism as an ideology and socialism as a political/economic system; the current situation in the Soviet Union for the Protestant churches needed to be understood within the larger context of Russian church history; the interrelationship of Western Fundamentalist/Evangelical churches with their counterparts in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe could best be enhanced through existing legal channels, working with the registered church leadership; and the antireligious climate could change for the better and the Western church ought to play a role in enhancing that possibility. A last illustration of this model of understanding the anti-Communism image is that of Paul Geren, whose address to the San Francisco Convention of Southern Baptists was given wide distribution.38 After a discussion of the tyrannical nature of Communism in the Soviet Union and a discussion of its origin, he asked what was the best approach to its reality in the Western world. He suggested four major ideas: the struggle against the threat of Communism may last for generations; to insist that there is a global Communist conspiracy in every movement for change is imprudent; many of the reasons for the advance of Communism in the world and its likely success in the future are a result of our inability to take seriously issues of human need and non-Communist tyranny in the world; and it is dangerous for Christians to be driven by an anti-Communism position. Two passages well illustrate his thinking on these issues: To insist that there is a Communist in every pew, behind every birch tree and in every government office, and that we are, in fact, already taken over by communism is not a prudent concern for communism, but a frantic and frenzied fear. This is to hand the victory to Chairman Khrushchev, to concede that he will bury us, that our grandchildren will live under socialism and that communism will win the peaceful war in the economic realm. Let the communists be enchanted by their own atheistic version of predestination, but let us not be taken in by it.… What can Christians do about Communism? There is an action which includes all the others. We are commissioned to go into all the world to preach, to teach, to baptize, to minister to human need in the name of Christ, not in the name of anti-Communism. The Christian gospel is our concern and, if we seek it first and faithfully, our opposition to communism will be well cared for.39

37

  Erik Ruden and Gordon R. Lahrson, An Outline of Baptist Life on the European Continent (n.p.: American Baptist Foreign Mission Society, 1963).

38

  Paul Geren, “Crisis of Communism,” Watchman-Examiner, 23, 30 August 1962, 612–13.

39

  Ibid., 613.

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Critique: Billy Graham’s Participation in the World Peace Conference In May 1982 Rev. Billy Graham traveled to the Soviet Union to participate in the World Conference of Religious Workers for Saving the Sacred Gift of Life from Nuclear Catastrophe. In the late 1970s and early 1980s Billy Graham modified his earlier commitments to a traditional conservative anti-Communism motif and began to explore the need for religious leaders on both sides of the Iron Curtain to take a leadership role in lessening the Cold War weapons escalation process. While he was in the Soviet Union he addressed a controlled crowd at the Moscow Baptist Church, engaged in conversations with Georgi Arbatov, member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party and director of the Soviet Institute of the United States and Canada, addressed the Peace Conference, and visited the Siberian Pentecostals in the US embassy.40 Graham became convinced of the horror of nuclear war and expressed concern that if national and religious leaders continue to support the current nuclear buildup, it could lead to dire consequences. Rev. Graham did not argue a unilateral disarmament position nor did he outline a position that exhibited an anti-American rhetoric. He wanted to express his desire for a negotiated reduction and eventual elimination of nuclear armaments within a secure verification process. Graham also hoped to develop a process for future preaching missions in the Soviet Union, expressed his concern for religious freedom issues to major Soviet officials, and continued the process of interaction with registered church religious leaders.41 As early as the 1950s Billy Graham expressed an interest in preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ behind the Iron Curtain. This was enhanced by his visit to Red Square in 1959. One of the major figures in the development of relationships between the Billy Graham Association and Communist bloc churches was Alexander Haraszti. Haraszti was a Hungarian Baptist who translated Graham’s bestseller Peace with God into Hungarian, subtitling it Lessons in Homiletics for Students of Theology, and used it in his Baptist seminary classes in Budapest. He emigrated to the United States in 1956 and began to affiliate with the Billy Graham Association. By 1972 Haraszti used his contacts in Hungary to help facilitate Billy Graham’s trip to Hungary and Poland in 1977 and 1978, respectively. Martin writes: 40

  Tom Minnery, “Graham in the Soviet Union,” Christianity Today, 18 June 1982, 42–43, 48–49, 51, 52, 54–55, 59. The best historical analysis of Graham’s 1982 trip to the Soviet Union is found in William Martin, A Prophet with Honor: The Billy Graham Story (New York: William Morrow, 1991), 475–529. Other useful sources include Billy Graham, Just As I Am: The Autobiography of Billy Graham (New York: HarperCollins, 1997), 499–527; John Pollock, To All Nations: The Billy Graham Story (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1985), 150–62; and Jay Walker, Billy Graham: A Life in Word and Deed (New York: Avon Books, 1998), 65–94. For a general analysis of Billy Graham’s ministry, see Russ Busby, Billy Graham: God’s Ambassador (Minneapolis: Billy Graham Evangelistic Association, 1999). 41

  Kenneth Kantzer, “Graham in Moscow: What Did He Really Say?” Christianity Today, 18 June 1982, 10–12.

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At his first public appearance, hundreds who had packed into the city’s largest Baptist church heard him acknowledge that the anti-Communism message he had preached was out of date. He had come to Hungary with “an open heart and an open mind,” he declared. “I want to learn about your nation, I want to learn about your churches, I want to learn about your Christian dedication and sense of responsibility within your own social structure. But most of all, I want both of us to learn together from the Word of God.”42 Patriarch Pimen’s announcement in the summer of 1981 concerning the convening of a World Peace Conference became the focal point in early discussions of a possible Graham trip to the Soviet Union. Haraszti at first declared that Graham would have no part in this obviously Communist Party–sponsored event. However, Russian Baptist leader Aleksei Bychkov suggested that the Orthodox Church’s sponsorship was “entirely sincere” and that the Baptist Churches had contributed to the financing of the conference. Haraszti contacted Orthodox leaders to see if they would offer an invitation that Graham could accept.43 Graham would give a major address at the conference and would agreed to make “no statements criticizing Soviet foreign policy or religious or social conditions in the Soviet Union.”44 Several political leaders including Vice President George Bush and Ambassador to Russia Arthur Hartman encouraged Graham not to attend. Graham responded that only if President Reagan had told him not to go would he rescind his acceptance of the invitation. He attended the session not as a delegate but as an invited observer. Former president Nixon told Graham, “there is a great risk, but I believe that for the sake of the message you preach, the risk is worth it.” For Graham, refusal to attend would likely limit any further hope for a public ministry in the Soviet Union.45 Graham claimed that the reason he wished to attend the meeting was to speak about his growing concern for the danger of nuclear weapons and a need to find ways to avoid a nuclear war. He coded his discussion in the use of the term “SALT 10.” He was neither a pacifist nor a supporter of unilateral disarmament. I had started speaking out against nuclear weapons and calling for the elimination of all weapons of mass destruction, whether chemical or nuclear, but it was never in the press. So I decided the only way I could make my statement known was to accept the invitation to come to the peace conference in Moscow.46

42

  Martin, A Prophet with Honor, 485.

43

  Ibid., 495.

44 45

  Ibid., 496.

 Pollock, To All Nations, 153.

46

  Martin, A Prophet with Honor, 499.

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Graham’s address was given from a biblical perspective. He argued that God is the Lord of history and that “lasting peace will only come when the Kingdom of God prevails … the deepest problems of the human race are spiritual. They are rooted in man’s refusal to seek God’s way for his life. The problem is the human heart, which God alone can change.”47 He developed the need to endorse a commitment to religious freedom as it is found in the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights and Helsinki Accords. He urged all members of the conference to rededicate themselves to be “peacemakers in God’s world.”48 During his stay in the Soviet Union Graham shared a list of more than 150 prisoners for the work of the Gospel with Soviet authorities in private conversation. He took off his earphones when a delegate from the Middle East began to lambaste the United States on nuclear weapons issues, thereby encouraging Soviet officials to stop that type of rhetoric in future addresses. Above all he demanded to have a pastoral visit with the Siberian Seven, Pentecostal Christians wanting to emigrate from the Soviet Union who had taken refuge in the American embassy. There is reason to believe that Graham’s presence in the Soviet Union and his quiet advocacy on behalf of religious freedom enhanced the process of their ultimate emigration in 1983. One Billy Graham official stated that the “Soviet church leaders informed him that Graham’s influence had been decisive but acknowledged that other groups had also claimed an influence.”49 It is clear that Graham’s experiences in 1982 laid the basis for future Evangelistic trips to the Soviet Union. He developed a twelve-day preaching mission in September 1984 and later in August 1991 and October 1992. When challenged concerning his Peace Conference appearance, Graham made two assertions. First, he faithfully preached the gospel of Jesus Christ in an atheistic state. There “wasn’t a single person whom I talked to, whether in the government or in the church, that I didn’t present my beliefs in the Bible as the word of God and Jesus as my personal savior.”50 Second, he challenged the “irrational fear” that it was impossible for Americans to have cordial and sincere relations with Soviet leaders.” He argued that “they are not all alike any more than we’re all alike,” and that such “outmoded stereotypes constitute a barrier to peace.”51 This event provoked an interesting dialogue with major groups of Evangelical/ Fundamentalist leaders. These responses were derived from the major models that they developed to explore the anti-Communism motif. The two questions that they raised were: Should Graham have gone to Moscow? and Did he betray his cause by things he said or omitted saying while he was there?52 47

 Pollock, To All Nations, 157.

48

 Ibid.

49

  Martin, A Prophet with Honor, 512.

50

 Walker, Billy Graham, 73.

51

  Martin, A Prophet with Honor, 517.

52

  Kantzer, “Graham in Moscow,” 10.

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The American Fundamentalist far right responded quite negatively to both the visit and Graham’s communications. Rev. Carl McIntire expressed extreme disgust at participation in the “Communist Peace Offensive” which he believed was the major intent of the Peace Conference in Moscow. He argued: Never before in the history of the United States has this country been so treated to the Communist design as is now apparent in the peace-nuclear freeze movement. The churches are claiming credit for it. They should credit Stalin who started the World Peace Council. The latest impetus given to their deceptive peace was promoted by the Communists’ Peace Conference of World Religions, May 10–14, which Billy Graham endorsed with his pleas to the Soviets to work hard and obey their government.53 McIntire took out a full-page advertisement in the New York Times and stated that the Moscow Peace Conference was part of the Soviet peace offensive designed to undermine the political and military strength of the West, that the leaders of the registered churches in the Soviet Union were KGB clergy, that these clergy had infiltrated and used such organizations as the Baptist World Alliance for Communist purposes, and that the freeze movement was inspired by the Communists to endorse their foreign policy interests.54 He concluded that Christians needed to advance a strong anti-Communist message or it would be too late for America. Dr. Bob Jones also expressed great displeasure at Graham’s trip to the Soviet Union. He continued expressing his concern for Graham’s association with leaders of the ecumenical movement, especially his consultations with Pope John II. He wrote: It is most significant that Billy Graham, in trying to wiggle out of the predicament be got himself into by his statements that be saw no religious persecution in Russia, excused himself for attending their “peace conference” on the basis that Southern Baptist leaders and “liberal” Protestants, to whom he referred by name, were there. He also mentioned that the Vatican had advised him to attend the conference. This surely must be the first time in history that a Baptist evangelist has sought advice from the Holy See as to where he should go to preach. If Dr. Graham’s statement is true, however, and he did seek Rome’s advice, it is not surprising that he received the advice that he did. Indeed there is nothing surprising about the whole affair, including Billy’s willingness to promote the Communist line and defend the Soviets. He has been headed in that direction for more than 30 years. One cannot laud the World Council of Churches, seek the support and friendship of its leaders, and speak for its sessions as Graham has done for the last two or three 53

  “Communist Peace Offensive Garners Wide Church Support in U.S.,” Christian Beacon, 10 June 1982, 1. 54

  “You Cannot Trust the Devil,” reprinted in Christian Beacon, 10 June 1982, 1.

244 G. William Carlson

decades without becoming tainted with the socialist and Communist aims of the World Council of Churches. Since the present pope seems to be heading the same direction as the apostate Council of Churches, perhaps we should not be surprised that Billy, following the advice of the Vatican, put himself in a place where he, gullible as he has always been, becomes a mouthpiece for the Soviet line.55 One of the most strident critiques of Dr. Graham’s trip came from the Church League of America. They argued that Graham’s trip and address gave “aid and comfort to the worldwide Communist conspiracy” and was derived from Graham’s failure to preach the true Christian gospel. It was time that the followers of the evangelist wake up and distance themselves from his ministry and join those groups which are truly involved in understanding and promoting the necessary anti-Communist message. The editorialist stated that whether it was defending Hollywood movie stars, attending presidential cocktail parties on Sunday evenings while church services were on, or changing his mind about Communism and the whole leftist ecumenical church movement, “Billy Graham has gone deeper and deeper in his own compromises and dragged a lot of his fans along with him.”56 One of the most scathing denunciations of Graham came from the Fundamentalist émigré community. Pastor Richard Wurmbrand wrote an editorial on the trip in the newsletter for the organization Jesus to the Communist World. Wurmbrand had been closely associated with the Fundamentalist far-right movement and argued the Communist conspiracy thesis and the need for the church to challenge it with a separatist anti-Communism motif. He wrote: Thirty U.S.A. church leaders went to MOSCOW to curtsy to Russia’s peace initiatives. Their names and what they said are not worth mentioning. When MOSCOW says “Peace,” it means expropriating another country like AFGHANISTAN and killing people by the hundreds of thousands. A Christian should not participate in such charades nor lend his name to such deceptions. One item, however, deserves explanation. BILLY GRAHAM took time to meet with DOBRYNIN, Soviet ambassador to the U.S. and member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, an organization GRAHAM once called “THE DEVIL’S MILITIA. How GRAHAM has changed. After the visit he said, “Dobrynin and I became friends.” Is he in truth the friend of the killers of the Afghans, the oppressors of POLAND, the men who retain in their foul dungeons Billy’s own colleagues, the Baptist pastors BATURIN, RUMATCHIK, MINIAKOV, BOIKO, and SKORNIAKOV?…

55

  Bob Jones, “Editorial,” Faith for the Family 10, 7 (September 1982): 2, 23.

56

  “Billy Graham’s Moscow Performance,” News and Views, July/August 1982, 1–2.

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Billy Graham fears God. How then can he claim as a friend the murderer of millions of innocents? Would DOBRYNIN have become his friend if GRAHAM had asked, as was his duty, for the immediate release of his imprisoned fellow-believers? …We love OUR enemies, but not the enemies of God. We must be uncompromising in His defense. We cannot sip tea with the torturers of the body of Christ.57 Several other members of the émigré leadership community were not quite so damning of Dr. Graham’s trip. They were exponents of the more mainstream anti-Communism viewpoint. Although they were convinced that he made some serious mistakes, they were not about to chastise him severely. President of the Slavic Gospel Association Peter Deyneka, Jr., who argued that Billy Graham truly was a man of God, was concerned that the evangelist did not adequately respond to the needs of the persecuted church. This might lead to a misconception of the needs of the religious communities in the Soviet Union and lessen the ability of groups such as the Slavic Gospel Association to respond to those needs.58 Paul Popov, leader of an organization entitled Evangelism to Communist Lands, expressed his response in a “Commentary” in the official magazine. He set the tone of the commentary when he stated that “we have always had respect for Billy Graham as God anoints him and he puts his life into fulfilling the Great Commission. But he has deliberately allowed himself to be used by the world’s most effective propaganda machine.”59 Popov concluded that this was a “serious corruption of Christian principles which will set back any respect for the cause of Christianity in the Third World or other developing countries vulnerable to Marxist ideology.”60 Popov went out of his way to emphasize the popularity and respect that believers in the Soviet Union had for the life and ministry of Billy Graham. Graham’s serious mistakes such as preaching on the principle of submission to government and his proclamation of religious liberty in the Soviet Union were a “serious slap in the face of the Persecuted Church in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. Great harm bas been done, and I pray that God will redeem a serious mistake.”61 Rev. Graham could have addressed the problem of religious liberty more effectively. If he did intend to do such it was a mistake to go to the religious and political three-ring circus which has been “exploited successfully by the communist government.”62 Rev. Billy Graham has for most of his career been a leader in the mainstream conservative Evangelical community. Although he has a strong history of promoting 57

  Richard Wurmbrand, “Billy Graham’s Friends,” The Voice of Martyrs, July 1982, 3.

58

  “The Church in the Soviet Union Today,” Sparks, July/September 1982, 3, 4.

59

  Paul Popov, “Graham Visit to Moscow: Backfire for Liberty,” Door of Hope, June 1982, 2.

60 61

 Ibid.

 Ibid.

62

 Ibid.

246 G. William Carlson

an anti-Communism motif in his early ministry, he has modified its implications in the past ten years. Part of this is a result of his ability and desire to carry out his ministry in various Communist nations and because he strongly believes that there may be more important messages for Evangelicals to proclaim. Such might be the threat of nuclear weapons, and the need for Christians to respond to racial injustice and analyze the danger of secularism and hedonism in American society.63 Kenneth Kantzer, in a editorial about Graham’s trip to the Soviet Union, states that he believed that Graham did not go naively or blindly. Graham is quoted as saying that he “knew there were risks involved in this mission.” He knew he risked being misunderstood and even exploited but he “considered the risk worth taking.” According to Kantzer, Graham wanted to “preach the gospel publicly at the nuclear conference, at the Orthodox cathedral, at the Baptist church, and privately to Soviet political officials”; “plead the case for religious freedom in private meetings with high Soviet officials”; “warn of the tragic consequences of nuclear buildup and the armament truce”; and “be permitted eventually to hold preaching missions in large cities throughout the Soviet Union.”64 Kantzer spent much time attempting to rebuke Graham’s critics of using misinformation about his trip to advance their own agendas. He was pleased that Graham was not silent about political and religious freedom, that he was able to preach the gospel in environments which need the message, and that his nuclear weapons position was not out of the mainstream of American politics. He believed that more could be accomplished by quiet diplomacy than through openly denouncing the Soviet government. He believed that God could use his message in ways that are not predictable. He concluded: Finally, those of us who believe the gospel of Jesus Christ is the dynamite of God, able to blast away sin and the sinful structures of an unjust society, may indeed regret any slips and the unfortunate infelicities of unplanned spontaneous comments. But we rejoice at the opportunity to preach the gospel—actual and potential—with the hope that the power of the gospel can change the hearts of men, as well as the evil structures of even a Communist society.65 He defended Graham’s nuclear weapons position by suggesting that he “never advocated a U.S. retreat before Russian aggression.” He instead “warned of the awful consequences of the nuclear arms race and called for mutual, negotiated, verifiable disarmament.”66 According to Kantzer, although Graham dropped his commitment to a strident anti-Communism motif, this did not mean that he was either a dupe of the Communist movement or an underestimator of the authoritarian structures within 63

  Billy Graham, “An Agenda for the 1980s,” Christianity Today, 4 January 1980, 23–27.

64

  Kantzer, “Graham in Moscow,” 10–11.

65

  Kantzer, “Graham in Moscow,” 12.

66

 Ibid.

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247

Soviet society. In a most public way, he “called the nations of the world to justice and freedom. He did so in a manner that all understood to be a rebuke of Soviet failures in this regard.”67 Another model of approaching the Graham trip among Evangelicals was made by leaders in the Mennonite Central Committee and more radical Evangelical leaders such as Jim Wallis. These individuals believed that the Soviet Union was capable of changing, that contacts with Soviet religious clergy might help to promote change, that Graham’s concern about nuclear weapons needed to be made clear, and that much of the criticism of Graham’s visit was made by people who were irrationally driven by the strident anti-Communist motif. Many of these individuals were spokespersons for the anti-anti-Communism motif. They believed that the motif was no longer helpful, even if it might have had some value in the era of Stalin. One of the leaders of the movement was Dr. Frank Epp, a leader in the Mennonite community who suggested that from “where I sit, Moscow was also Graham’s finest hour.”68 Dr. Epp was familiar with the problems of religious persecution in the Soviet Union, as two of his uncles died in Soviet labor camps and a first cousin had just completed a prison term for involvement in the underground religious press. He felt that Graham’s presence was a significant one, for the Soviet leadership was forced to endorse powerful appeals based on religious values. Therefore, “religion in the Soviet Union can no longer mean merely belief or liturgy; it is so profoundly ethical and social, hence also political.”69 He concluded that “the church in the USSR has started an irreversible redefinition of religious, perhaps even an ideological reformation. It was religion’s finest hour, an altar call that will be heard in history for many years to come.”70 For Epp, Graham’s trip to the Moscow Peace Conference was also important for what it communicated to the American religious community. For those first-strike, limited-nuclear-war rearmers of America, stated Epp, religion too has been redefined, and at long last the much misrepresented separation-of-church-and-state doctrine can no longer mean that Evangelists don’t call nations to repentance.”71 Graham also provided a rejection of all those Evangelicals who had been influenced by Lindsey’s Late Great Planet Earth and accepted the idea that the kingdom of God “can appear only after a nuclear war and the second coming.”72 Epp stated that Graham had three conversions: when he became a child of God; when he became a racial integrationist; and when he became a nuclear abolitionist. Similar ideas were addressed by John H. Redekop, editor of the Mennonite Brethren Herald. He wrote: 67

 Ibid.

68

  Frank Epp, “Billy Graham and the Moscow Conference,” The Mennonite, 8 June 1982, 282.

69

 Ibid.

70 71

 Ibid.

 Ibid.

72

 Ibid.

248 G. William Carlson

Despite the exploitation of the visit, Graham deserves to be highly commended for his venture. At a time when many evangelists seem totally oblivious to the mind-boggling nuclear threat, Graham has at last committed his great prestige to doing something about it. More “peace power” to him. Years ago he seemed almost to be a perennial chaplain to the U.S. military establishment; now he has moved beyond that role. Finally he is stressing the full dimensions of the Gospel of Peace. Those of us who belong to the peace churches should now be encouraging and supporting him.73 One of the strongest statements of the Evangelical “anti-anti-Communist” position was Jim Wallis, editor of Sojourners magazine. Wallis complemented Graham for two significant departures from “Billy Graham’s characteristic political neutrality and accommodation.” First was his commitment to racial integration. He would not allow ethnic discrimination at any of his crusades. Second was his opposition to the nuclear arms race and his deep commitment to being a “peacemaker after the manner of his Lord.”74 Wallis commented that “to go to Moscow, to try to build some bridges, and to preach the gospel of peace clearly offended the practitioners of another religion, that of anti-Communism.” He concluded that “zealous anti-Communism of the Reagan administration and its allies on the Christian Right is a false religion, and should never be equated with biblical Christian faith.”75 Wallis was pleased that Graham had attended the Moscow Peace Conference. The mistakes that Graham might have made in his interaction with the American press were exploited by the Fundamentalist anti-Communism spokespersons and their allies in order to continue their long-standing diatribe against Graham. They were angry that Graham even considered going to Moscow. However, Wallis, while normally not a big fan of Graham’s politics, particularly his overly close association with American presidents, complemented Graham on his Moscow experience. He wrote: Billy Graham is no communist, but he is no longer the anti-communist he was in 1954 when he said, “Either communists must die or Christianity must die.” His religion is less American now than before, and therefore more biblical. Billy Graham is now trying to be a peacemaker. For that he is to be praised. In the perilous nuclear situation, one can only hope that more Christians might see his change of heart and heed his example.76

73

  John H. Redekop, “Graham in Moscow,” Mennonite Brethren Herald, 4 June 1982, 9.

74

  Jim Wallis, “Beleaguered Billy,” Sojourners, July–August 1982, 5.

75

 Ibid.

76

  Ibid., 5, 6.

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249

Conclusion The development of the “anti-Communism” motif has been an influential image in the development of Evangelical/Fundamentalist approaches to American foreign policy. First, it was a major issue in internal Fundamentalist/Evangelical American religious politics in the post–World War II era until the fall of Communism in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe by 1991. The Fundamentalist far right and to some extent the new Evangelical right have used the anti-Communism motif as a political test for religious authenticity for those who may not support its importance. They have challenged the integrity of persons in the mainstream conservative anti-Communism movement and the anti-anti-Communism group for the sacrifice of truth and their participation in the spread of the Communist message. This has been done through attacking people such as Graham, members of the Baptist World Alliance, and President Carter in the press, picketing events which they believe illustrate a compromised status, and attempting to raid mainstream organizations and recruit members who accept their vision of the Evangelical/Fundamentalist response to Communism in the world. Second, there has been a recent reflection on the influence of Fundamentalist “anti-Communism” and its impact on the ability of “saner” voices to develop a legitimate and more effective voice against Communism. The irresponsible actions of some of the Fundamentalist anti-Communists and such allies in the secular world as Senator Joe McCarthy made it difficult to sustain a legitimate, more moderate anti-Communist perspective. Diana Trilling, in a recent essay reflecting on the politics of the 1950s and 1960s, suggested that “McCarthyism had a lasting effect in polarizing the intellectuals of this country and in entrenching anti-anti-Communism as the position of choice among people of political good will.… It was Joe McCarthy who took anti-Communism out of the realm of respectable discourse and created for people of liberal impulse an automatic association between any voiced opposition to Communism and reaction.”77 Third, “anti-Communism” has tended to set the parameters within which many religious conservatives understood American foreign policy. Its use as a substantive priority tended to define the bases of other agenda items including such things as arms control, Third World poverty, crises in missions, and understanding and developing approaches toward religious communities within Communist countries. For a long period of time, the issue of the Communist menace has been the driving force in the development of a response not only to America’s foreign policy but also to America’s internal politics. Fourth, Fundamentalist far-right anti-Communism commitments made it difficult for that community not only to evaluate activities such as Billy Graham’s trip to Moscow in 1982 but also to understand and endorse the reform movements of Gorbachev. While more mainstream anti-Communism leaders were willing to work with Gorbachev and honor his changes, the Fundamentalist movement frequently challenged his legitimacy. Even Gorbachev’s support of the millennium celebration 77

  Diana Trilling, Newsweek, 11 January 1993, 32.

250 G. William Carlson

was seen as a strategy to capture the Western churches and give them a further, compromising Communist orientation. Fifth, Billy Graham should be honored for his efforts to preach the gospel behind the Iron Curtain. Jesus’ command to preach the gospel in all areas of the world did not exclude the Communist world from participation. Graham was able to strike the proper balance between working with the legal structures and registered churches and bearing witness to the cause of Jesus Christ. He argued that he believed that the propaganda “of the gospel of Christ is far stronger than any other propaganda in the world.”78 It provided not only an effective forum for articulating his nuclear weapons concerns, it also allowed him to effectively provide a base for future Evangelistic efforts in Communist societies. Finally, it would be interesting to explore whether this model of analysis might be applicable to American foreign policy responses to other Communist nations such as the People’s Republic of China and Southeast Asia, and whether it is applicable toward an understanding of the diversity of Evangelical/Fundamentalist responses to such contemporary issues as social change in South Africa, the threat of Communism in Central America and in particular Nicaragua, and the recent political changes in the People’s Republic of China.

78

  Martin, A Prophet with Honor, 516.

Greece and Cyprus

Alexander the Great’s Invincibility: Fact and Myth Achilles Avraamides

A comparison of the Macedonian territorial, economic, and population resources at the start of Alexander’s expedition against the Persians with those of the Persian Empire shows the Macedonians at a very serious disadvantage. Alexander’s decision to undertake such an expedition justifiably leads one to evaluate him as a rash, inexperienced, and immature youth who, in order to satisfy his adventurous drives, was willing to risk the fortunes of his kingdom. It is difficult to think of Alexander as a mature statesman who could deal with the complexities and tedium of administrative detail. It is easier to judge Alexander, as many have frequently done, to have been a gifted general who succeeded in defeating a superpower but who showed no interest in the administration of his newly acquired empire. This essay will try to adduce evidence that Alexander demonstrated maturity and sound judgment in the conduct of his campaigns that went beyond the actual military leadership in battles. The support for this position is to be found not in any newly discovered evidence but in a reexamination of his actions, which suggest a calculated use of public self-promotion and presentation of an image of himself that took seriously many nonmilitary aspects, such as the historical background of the people he encountered and their cultural values. For lack of a better term, we shall call such actions propaganda. That Alexander used propaganda will come as no surprise to historians of the ancient Near East. Many successful conquerors and rulers of the past, such as the Assyrian kings or Cyrus the Persian, used propaganda very effectively. Alexander was not an exception. In fact, as we shall see, he was exceptionally gifted in this area. Though Alexander’s use of propaganda has not been completely ignored by other historians, scholarship on Alexander has not focused much attention on this subject and its implications.1 A careful examination of the ancient sources on Alexander’s career

1

  For an illustration of the use of propaganda by Near Eastern rulers, one of the most effective manipulators of propaganda was Cyrus the Great, who, two hundred years before Alexander, accomplished almost comparable conquests. Cyrus used propagandistic claims to soften Babylonian resistance against him before he tried to capture the city of Babylon, whose fortifications appeared to be almost impregnable. “Cyrus Cylinder,” in Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, ed. J. B. Prichard (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1955), 315–16. Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 253–63.

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reveals many incidents which have obvious propaganda intentions.2 Limitations of space do not permit an exhaustive list, but a discussion of a few representative promotional actions will illustrate how well he used propaganda and to what purpose: mainly to strengthen his position and weaken or even demoralize the opposition. He accomplished this by having himself compared or contrasted favorably with the great historical or legendary figures of the past, by undermining the will of potential enemies to oppose him, and by influencing the people he conquered to accept his rule as being in their best interest and in harmony with their tradition. A good example presents itself very early in his career. According to Herodotus, Darius crossed the Danube in 512 against the Scythians but had to retreat in defeat, and was never able to return to the Danube.3 At the very beginning of his reign, Alexander turned against these northern people, crossed the Danube, and, taking them by surprise, dealt them a crushing defeat. He thus kept them out of Macedonia for 2

  Numerous “histories” of Alexander were written, beginning with the first years of his expedition and multiplying soon after his death. Some of these were written by eyewitnesses, such as Cleitarchus, Ptolemy, Aristoboulos, and Callisthenes. All of our extant sources, though, are much later, dating from the middle of the first century BC, nearly three centuries after the death of Alexander, to the middle of the second century AD. In chronological order of publication, these ancient studies are: (1) Diodorus Siculus, Library of History, vol. 8, bk. 17, trans. C. Bradford Welles, Loeb Classical Library 422 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963) dates from the mid-first century BC and presents Alexander in a favorable light; (2) Quintus Curtius Rufus, History of Alexander, 2 vols., 10 bks., Loeb Classical Library 368–369 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1946) was written in Latin, c. mid-first century AD, with a preference for a negative Alexander tradition; (3) Plutarch, Life of Alexander, Loeb Classical Library 47 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928) dates from the early second century AD and presents a very favorable image of Alexander; (4) Justin, the author of an abbreviated history which appears to be an abridgement of an earlier work, the original of which is now lost, by Pompeius Trogus, History of the World, of which books 11 and 12 deal with Alexander, often negatively; and (5) Flavius Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander, 2 vols., Loeb Classical Library 236 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1929–33) is from the mid-second century AD and, though openly favorable toward Alexander, it is generally considered to be one of our best sources on the military aspect, Bosworth notwithstanding. Thanks to modern literary criticism, it is now possible to move from these later classical works back to their sources, which often were the published memoirs of eyewitnesses or were based on the official diaries of Alexander’s secretaries. These works have been organized together by Felix Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, parts 2b and 2d (Berlin: Weidmann, 1927–30). They also appear in English translation in C. A. Robinson, Jr., The History of Alexander the Great, vol. 1, Brown University Studies 16 (Providence, RI: Brown University Press, 1953). For a critical analysis in English of the early histories of Alexander, see Lionel Pearson, The Lost Histories of Alexander the Great, American Philological Association Monographs 20 (New York: American Philological Association, 1960). For some of the later, especially medieval, romances on Alexander which at times preserve reliable tradition, see the study of D. J. A. Ross, Alexander Historiatus: A Guide to Medieval Illustrated Alexander Literature, Warburg Institute Surveys 1 (London: Warburg Institute, University of London, 1963). 3

  Herodotus 4.136ff.

Alexander the Great’s Invincibility

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the next fifty years.4 This was a necessary and wise military action called for by the political realities in Greece and his anticipated long absence. It was, at the same time, a campaign that could not but call attention to a comparison with that of Darius the Great. It was a historical lesson that a greater conqueror than the great Darius was now on the march, especially since Alexander’s campaign was against the empire of that same Darius, who had failed in a similar campaign. The siege and capture of Tyre belongs to the same category, a practical necessity of the campaign. After the battle of Issus it was necessary for Alexander to reduce to submission all the coastal cities of the Mediterranean before pursuing the fleeing Darius III. The sea was controlled by the Phoenician fleet, and the Greeks could not be trusted. Sparta was in open opposition against Alexander. Only the island city of Tyre, among the Phoenician cities, secure in what its rulers believed to be its impregnable defense, refused to submit to him. The Tyrians’ confidence rested on the city’s successful defense against many would-be conquerors in its past history.5 It took Alexander seven valuable months to capture the city, but the final result was worth the effort.6 The successful capture of Tyre heightened Alexander’s already considerable military reputation. Its propaganda value can be seen from the fact that between Tyre and Egypt only one city, Gaza, dared to offer any resistance. The capture of Gaza within only two months served to make the claims of his invincibility even more credible.7 Egypt wisely considered resistance to be useless and saved Alexander the trouble of another battle, welcoming him instead as liberator and honoring him as pharaoh. Alexander’s behavior in Egypt appears to have been carefully calculated to show himself in a very favorable light and especially in contrast to the scandalous behavior of Cambyses, the Persian king who conquered Egypt, that is, the Cambyses that Alexander knew from Herodotus. Alexander presented himself as a liberator of Egypt from the Persians, rather than as a conqueror. He did not deprecate the religious traditions and superstitions of Egypt, instead he sacrificed to the Apis bull, and he rebuilt the Egyptian temples, especially the Serapeum.8 His behavior was carefully 4

  Arrian 1.3.5–6.

5

  R. Campell Thompson, “The New Babylonian Empire,” in Cambridge Ancient History, ed. J. B. Bury, S. A. Cook, and F. E. Adcock (Cambridge: The University Press, 1929), 3: 214. H. W. F. Saggs, The Greatness That Was Babylon (New York: Hawthorne Books, 1962), 192–93, claims that, in the end, Tyre was taken by Nebuchadnezzar. 6

  Arrian 2.17; Curtius 4.3; Plutarch 25.1. If we disregard the propaganda value, the siege of Tyre does not make any sense. Then Ian Worthington would be right in saying that “the siege of Tyre in 332 lasted several months, cost the king a fortune in money and manpower and yet achieved little.” See Worthington, Alexander the Great: Man and God (London: Pearson Longman, 2004), 208. 7

  Arrian 2.26; Diodorus 17.48; Curtius 4.5; Plutarch 25.3.

8

  Arrian 3.1–5; Diodorus 17.49; Justin 11.1; Curtius 4.7; Plutarch 26.2. For pictorial representation of Alexander as a pharaoh, see Andrew Stewart, Faces of Power: Alexander’s Images and Hellenistic Politics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993). Figure 54 shows

256 Achilles Avraamides

orchestrated to contrast him quite favorably to the Persian rulers in many spheres. One of the most widely discussed actions of Alexander in Egypt was his journey to the temple of Ammon at the Oasis of Siwah. This had no obvious strategic value, and was filled with dangers, but taking great risks was a characteristic of Alexander. These risky actions transformed a difficult and apparently unnecessary expedition into a means of elevating Alexander above other leaders and especially the first Persian conqueror of Egypt, Cambyses, who, according to Herodotus, had led an army of fifty thousand men through the Libyan desert with its destination the temple of Ammon at the Oasis of Siwah. He probably had other intentions than visiting the oracle. The expedition was a fiasco. Thousands of his soldiers died on the way, and their bodies remained buried in the desert of Egypt.9 Alexander journeyed to the same oasis, not as an invader but as an Egyptian pharaoh10 and pilgrim to this highly respected ancient oracle to consult it on a number of issues. At the temple, Alexander was received as the son of Zeus-Ammon, and the news of this recognition quickly reached Greece.11 The recognition of his divinity and his successful expedition were just what Alexander wanted. Now, he could match the Egyptian pharaohs as a ruler of Egypt. Before he left Egypt he placed the defense of the frontier districts under the control of Greeks and Macedonians, but he left two Egyptians in charge of the civil administration of Egypt. The stigma of the conquest was moderated by these actions, though the armed garrison kept Egypt secure for Alexander. This expedition to the temple of Ammon served many purposes not only for the present but also for the future, and perhaps even in reinterpreting past events. It provided Alexander with the required respected authority for claims of divinity which soon found expression in sculpture and numismatic portraiture. His superiority over the early Cambyses, and thus over all Persian rulers, could receive easy credit immediately. His claim to divinity and universal rule would be satirized by the Athenians

Alexander twice as a pharaoh on the exterior east wall of the Shrine of the Bark in the temple of Ammon, Mut, and Khorsu at Luxor. Once (on the left) he stands before Ammon Khanutef and in the other (on the right) Mentu introduces Alexander to Ammon. 9   Herodotus 3.26. A recent archaeological exploration in western Egypt has uncovered numerous skeletons of dead soldiers, corroborating Herodotus’s information. 10   Ernst Badian, The Deification of Alexander the Great: Protocol of the Twenty-First Colloquy, 7 March 1976 (Berkeley: The Center for Hermeneutical Studies in Hellenistic and Modern Culture, 1976). A variety of opinions and discussions by various scholars is presented on the nature and meaning of this expedition, particularly as it relates to Alexander’s “deification.” Badian subsequently revised some of these views, and his revisions appear in “The Deification of Alexander the Great,” in Ancient Macedonian Studies in Honor of Charles F. Edson (Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1981), 27–71. 11

  This is the testimony of Arrian 3.3.2, 4–5, but some of our sources have both question and answer, though obviously embellished. Diodorus 17.51 provides a long dialogue between Alexander and the priest of Ammon. See also Justin 11.11; Curtius 4.7; Plutarch 27.3.

Alexander the Great’s Invincibility

257

behind his back and by the Macedonians more openly.12 It was, however, a useful claim for his new subjects in Egypt and in other Near Eastern countries who had a long tradition of connecting their rulers to the gods. This successful encounter with Ammon may also have been the motivation for going back to previous events and reinterpreting them to support the new claims. For example, when two years earlier Alexander was about to cross a coastal road in Pamphylia, southwestern Anatolia, the road was covered by the sea. This was the result of the tide being in while the southern wind was blowing. Suddenly, though, the wind shifted, and the road was uncovered for Alexander to pass. His diviners immediately interpreted this as a good omen from the gods. It was probably after the visit to the temple of Ammon that his historian and panegyrist, Callisthenes, publicized the miraculous interpretation of this event as a recognition of Alexander’s divinity by the sea itself, “so that in withdrawing it might somehow seem to make obeisance to him.”13 Such exaggerations did not come from Alexander’s publicists without his approval or even instigation. He showed a real flair for propaganda and the dramatic. There are occasions which appear to have no other purpose than propaganda and which give the distinct impression of being his own spontaneous acts. For example, we know of his love for Homer and especially the Iliad.14 The encouragement by his mother to believe that he was a descendant of Achilles probably cultivated in him a 12

  Demosthenes said of Alexander’s claims to be the son of Zeus, “[Let] Alexander be the son of Zeus and of Poseidon too if he wishes.” Quoted by Eugene N. Borza, in Ulrich Wilcken, Alexander The Great, trans. G. C. Richards (New York: W. W. Norton, 1967), 213 n. 342. The Macedonians’ objections to Alexander’s divinity were in line with their rejection of his adoption of Persian habits in governmental ceremonies and the introduction of Persians into his army. 13

  Artists presented Alexander as a divine being, without any protest on his part. Many of the representations are easily accessible in some of the recent studies on Alexander, such as the popular but sound study by Peter Green, Alexander The Great (New York: Praeger Publications, 1970; rev. ed., Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991); and Robin Lane Fox, The Search for Alexander (Boston: Little, Brown, 1980). Though Fox’s text is disappointing, the illustrations are good, numerous, well chosen, and beautifully presented. On coins, Alexander appears as Zeus-Ammon (Green, Alexander, 75; Fox, Search, 201); as Heracles (Green, Alexander, 158); and as the god Ammon, conqueror of India (Fox, Search, 207). The sculpture created by Lysippus, Alexander’s favorite artist, carefully cultivated the presentation of Alexander as a divine being in the best artistic style. Perhaps the best example is the famous “Azara Herm” in Egypt, which is a Roman copy of Lysippus’s original (Green, Alexander, 174). Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, no. 124 f. 31. The Callisthenes passage is translated by Robinson, History of Alexander, 1: 69. Plutarch 17.4 quotes Alexander’s contemporary, poet of the New Comedy Menander, as alluding to this event in jest: “How Alexander-like, indeed this; and if I seek someone, Spontaneous he’ll present himself: and if I clearly must Pass through some place by sea, this will open to my steps.” 14

  According to Curtius 1.11, “He so venerated Homer that he was called amator Homeri.… He always carried with him a copy of the poet’s works in the recension of Aristotle, called the ‘Iliad of the Casket’ and placed it under his pillow when he slept.” Cf. also Plutarch 8.2 and 26.1.

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sincere conviction that he was a second Achilles and his friend Hephaestion a second Patroklos. Thus, he could continue the familiar theme of the conflict of the West against the East, of Greek against Barbarian. It was in harmony with his heroic ancestry. It is not surprising, then, to find Alexander promoting the claim that a modern Achilles was now reenacting the invasion of Asia. Some of our sources inform us that, as he approached Asia Minor, Alexander, from the ship, hurled his spear onto the Asian coast, jumped down in full armor, and cried out that he received Asia from the gods won by his spear.15 The following spring at Gordium, Alexander continued the theme of this symbolism with the loosening, or, more likely, cutting of the Gordian knot.16 Having left behind him a defeated but resentful Greece, he did his utmost to gain as much good will with the Greeks as possible. He presented himself as an heir and champion of Greek culture, religion, and historical pride. In that role, even before he left Greece, he moderated the decision to destroy Thebes by saving the house of Pindar and the temples of the city. He made it look as though the decision for the destruction of the city and slaughter of numerous Thebans was the decision of his Greek allies.17 On his campaigns he promoted the impression that his respect for Greek civilization was so genuine as to exact punishment from the Persians for invading Greece and burning Athens. The burning of Persepolis in the winter of 331/30, intentional or unintentional, was promoted and accepted as revenge for the burning of Athens in 480. The sending of the statues of Harmodius and Aristogeiton from Susa back to Athens must have pleased many Athenians. Alexander’s love for propaganda extended beyond international relations and embraced the appeal to his own soldiers, whose admiration he continually fed with many gestures and symbolic acts that endeared him to them while at the same time causing them to magnify him in their minds as much larger than life. This can be seen in his behavior after the battle of Granicus, when Alexander honored the twenty-five dead companions with statues by Lysippus, permanent exemptions of their families from taxation, honorable burial of the dead, Macedonian as well as Persian, and visits to the wounded. He helped out with their medical needs and, above all, lent a very interested ear to their stories, even encouraging them to magnify their accomplishments.18 In the desert of Gedrosia, he further promoted identification with his soldiers 15

  Diodorus 17.17; Arrian 1.12.1; Justin 11.5.

16

  Arrian 2.3.1–8; Plutarch 18.1–2; Curtius 3.1.14–18.

17

  Arrian 1.7.1–9; Diodorus 17.8.12–14; Plutarch 11.4–13.

18   Arrian 3.8.10–12; Diodorus 17.70.1–72; Plutarch 37.1–38; Curtius 5.6.1–7. One should associate with this the sending back of the statues of Harmodius and Aristogeiton (Arrian 2.16.7), the statues of the honored Athenian tyrannicides of the sixth century whom Xerxes carried away in 480 BC to Susa. He also sent money to rebuild Plataea, the heroic small city that stood alone with Athens in 490 against the Persians at the battle of Marathon. The city was destroyed by the Spartans and Thebans in the early years of the Peloponnesian War. Alexander, with one gesture, championed Athenian Hellenism and condemned Sparta, the one city that refused to recognize him as hegemon. A. B. Bosworth, A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History Of

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by sharing the hardships of his foot soldiers rather than choosing the comfort of being carried by either horse or chariot. In this same desert, when, after a long and severe absence of water during the march, someone brought him a little bit of water, Alexander, rather than satisfying his thirst while his soldiers had nothing to drink, poured it out.19 To his soldiers, he always tried to show himself to be one of them, especially in times of crisis, and carefully took advantage of every opportunity to make this obvious.20 But, most frequently, Alexander directed his propaganda for political and military purposes, especially to undermine opposition. His many military successes gave him ample opportunity to do so. Each victory was treated as the result of his supreme generalship and the invincibility of his armies. The odds against which he fought were exaggerated considerably, inflating the numbers of the Persian armies and casualties.21 There can be no doubt that many looked at such numbers with skepticism. The numbers, however, kept growing, together with the legend of Alexander. Nevertheless, the long record of uninterrupted success made the doubters of the details unable to find many followers. It was manifest that this general led his army for thousands of miles through Persian territory with uninterrupted success. That made any exaggeration quite believable, and the effect of such exaggeration was the demoralization of the enemy, which either surrendered or put up a less effective resistance. The uncontested surrender of Egypt after the battle of Issus and the capture of Tyre and Gaza was repeated by the surrender of Babylon after the victory over Darius at Gaugamela. Alexander used propaganda also for the control of the people who became his subjects. Ancient history provides many illustrations of arrogant rulers who treated Alexander (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), F1: 126, itemizes the rather considerable exemptions involved in Alexander’s gesture to the families of the dead at Granicus. 19

  Arrian 1.16.4–6; see also Diodorus 17.21.6; Plutarch 16.8, Arrian 6.26.3, “and at this action the whole army was so much heartened that you would have said that each and every man had drunk that water which Alexander thus poured out” (Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander, 2: 185). 20

  Arrian 6.26.

21

  The numbers for both Alexander’s forces and those of the Persians are impossible to estimate. The sources exaggerate the numbers of Persian soldiers and their dead in battle to an unbelievable level: 600,000 at Issus and 1,000,000 at Gaugamela. Alexander’s army is very ably calculated by Donald W. Engels, Alexander the Great and the Logistics of the Macedonian Army (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978) to a grand total of 48,100 at Granicus, about the same at Issus, and a little bigger at Gaugamela (see appendix 5, tables 4 and 5, pp. 146–48). For the disproportionately higher number of Persians vs. Alexander, see Diodorus 17.19.4; Justin 11.6; Arrian 1.16, 2.8–11; Curtius 3.9–11; Plutarch 20.5. The last three give huge numbers for Persian losses: Arrian 3.8.6, 2.15.6; Curtius 4.12.12–13, 16.26; Diodorus 17.61. That the losses of the defeated were disproportionately greater than those of the victors is credible, but not the actual figures, and in accordance with ancient warfare. The inflated numbers, though, show that there was intentional exaggeration. The more sober Oxyrinchus Papyrus 1798 gives the losses as 1,200 for Alexander and 53,000 for the Persians. See, Η Ιστορία του Ελληνικού Έθνους (History of the Greek Nation) (Athens: Ekdotike Athenon, 1973), 4: 123.

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their subjects with disdain or kept them under control with calculated terrorism.22 The Assyrians were a prime example, but the reputation of the Persians among the Greeks was not much better. Alexander, in spite of his youth and the indoctrination he received from Aristotle against all Easterners, showed a great sensitivity toward the traditions and values of his new subjects. He became well informed about local issues and history and successfully presented himself in sympathy with his subjects’ traditions.23 He noted the diversity of the people under his control, their different traditions, institutions, and attitudes, and appealed to them with sympathetic understanding. Until his return from India, he tried to adapt his rule to all of these diversities rather than to force all onto a common level. He remained to the Macedonians a king, to the Corinthian League of Greek city-states a president (hegemon), to the Egyptians a divine pharaoh, to the Persians the king of kings, and so on. On a more immediate appeal, though, Alexander presented himself as the restorer of traditional and popular values. To the Lydians he restored their traditional pre-Persian laws.24 To the Ionian Greeks he proclaimed political liberty, supporting the replacement of pro-Persian oligarchies or tyrannies with democracies.25 The same awareness characterized his relations with both subjects and masters of the Persian Empire. After his final major victory over Darius, at Gaugamela, Alexander could have captured the major capitals of the Persian Empire by use of naked force. Yet, when he approached Babylon, the first of the imperial administrative centers, he did not attack it like an invader. In a manner reminiscent of Cyrus the Great in 539 BC, Alexander proclaimed liberty to the Babylonians.26 He accepted their traditional and religious practices for the coronation of the king by the Babylonian god Marduk. Just as he associated himself in Egypt with the nearly three-thousandyear-old pharaonic tradition, so also he associated himself with the nearly two-thou22

  Cambyses’s behavior in Egypt is presented by Herodotus as that of the proverbial bull in a china shop (Herodotus 2.14–33), and especially his alleged sacrilegious killing of the Apis bull. For a discussion of other evidence concerning Cambyses, see W. W. How and J. Wells, A Commentary On Herodotus (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1928), 1: 260. More recently, Artaxerxes III (Ochus) in 343, after supressing an Egyptian revolt, also killed the Apis bull. See Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, no. 690 f. 21. 23

  Alexander had a big following of selected scholars traveling with him and collecting information. Much of the information was also sent back to Greece and especially to Aristotle’s Lyceum. Arrian (4.10.11) shows a debate of these scholars. 24

  Arrian 1.17.4.

25

  Alexander’s dealings with the Greeks were never uniform. He treated different Greek cities in different ways, and the same city, such as Athens, differently at different times, as his fortunes changed. A careful study is that of Victor Ehrenberg, Alexander and the Greeks (Oxford: Blackwell, 1938). See also Ernst Badian, “Alexander the Great and the Greeks of Asia,” in Ancient Societies and Institutions: Studies Presented to Victor Ehrenberg on his 75th Birthday, ed. Badian (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1966), 37–69. 26

  J. B. Prichard, ed., Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1955), 315–16.

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sand-year-old Babylonian tradition.27 Alexander presented himself as a divine representative to restore the claims of the Babylonian religion and kingship. He also left the satrap Mazaeus, a Babylonian who fought impressively on the side of Darius a few months earlier, as the civil administrator of the Babylonian satrapy. The military garrison, though, he left in the hands of a Macedonian.28 He did not disrupt the Persian imperial organization into satrapies and generally kept the Persian satraps as the civil administrators, with Macedonian military watch. He left kings in their places with royal titles, such as the king of Taxila and the Indian Porus.29 Without wasting any time, Alexander moved quickly and took effective possession of all the other capitals of the Persian Empire, Susa, Persepolis, Pasargadae, and, finally, of the Median capital Ecbatana, where the fleeing Darius spent the winter of 331/30. The defeat of the Persian Empire was complete, both by victory on the battlefield and by the capture of the administrative centers. Two tasks only remained: the elimination of Darius and the actual occupation of inner Iran. Alexander pursued both goals simultaneously by chasing Darius into inner Iran. Bessus, Darius’s lieutenant, who, thinking that by leaving Darius’s corpse for Alexander, he would stop the Macedonian’s relentless pursuit and even earn his gratitude, killed his king. Bessus fatally miscalculated, for Alexander immediately saw the propaganda possibilities of this event. He sent the body of Darius to Persepolis to receive honorable burial, while he, from this moment on, presented himself as the legitimate heir to the Achaemenid throne.30 He made it his public responsibility to avenge the treasonous assassination of his predecessor and, at the same time, to take effective control of eastern Iran. The death of Darius and Alexander’s assumption of the authority to establish order and justice in the empire was a turning point in the self-image of Alexander. From this moment on, he presented himself not as a conquering Macedonian but as the Persian king, the Great King, who set himself the task of suppressing rebels and consolidating his empire.31 Bessus turned out to be an unworthy opponent, but his capture 27

  Arrian 3.16. Bosworth correctly identifies the temple of Belus with the ancient Esagila but denies that Xerxes destroyed it (Historical Commentary, 314). Whether Xerxes destroyed it or not, the Babylonians viewed him and many of his successors with strong opposition. Cf. A. T. Olmstead, History of the Persian Empire (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1948), 236–37. See also Diodorus 17.64; Curtius 5.1; Plutarch 35.1. 28

  Robin Lane Fox, Alexander the Great: A Biography (London: Penguin, 1973), 227, suggests that there was a collusion between Mazeus and Parmenio, and that Mazeus probably held back at the battle of Gaugamela, as he was the commander on the Persian right, opposite Parmenio. Then, he surrendered Babylon willingly, and his reward was to continue to be a satrap under Alexander, as he was under Darius. There is no evidence to support this, but it is an intriguing possibility.

29

  Claude Mossé, Alexander: Destiny and Myth, translated from the French by Janet Lloyd (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 70.

30 31

  Arrian 3.22; Diodorus 17.73.3; Justin 11.15.16; Pliny Natural History 36.132.

  Diodorus 18.77.4–7. Alexander assumed the title “King of Kings,” Persian attire, the royal diadem, and a harem of concubines, as many as the days of the year.

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and cruel execution as a traitor and rebel brought into the Persian resistance a gifted leader, Spitamenes, who, from the death of Bessus in 330 to the winter of 328/27, gave Alexander more trouble than any other opponent. Alexander treated Spitamenes and all other opponents as rebels to be subdued and punished.32 Having built an empire through military conquest, it was Alexander’s intention, to the end of his life, on the one hand, to govern effectively what he had already conquered and, on the other, to continue to expand it. On his return from India, Alexander chose not to return by the same route that he took on his way there but instead to explore and conquer new areas by going down the Indus River, traversing new land and sea. Before he left India, though, he made the customary sacrifices to the gods, but in this case there was added to the ceremony a propagandistic touch, a psychological weapon against the natives. He had his men erect twelve enormous altars to the twelve Olympians, expanded the circumference of the camp, enclosed with deep trenches and high walls, and left many artifacts, such as huge beds, military arms for men of gigantic size, and horse troughs and bits of bridle for abnormally large horses. As Plutarch observed, “his idea in this was to make a camp of heroic proportions and to leave to the natives evidence of men of huge stature, displaying the strength of giants.”33 When we direct our attention to Alexander’s use of propaganda, we are able to go beyond the traditional image of Alexander and see this man, who was indisputably competent and interested in military activities, to have had also competent administrative potential. His appeal to the great variety of people with whom he had to deal shows a sensitivity to different cultures, historical traditions, and institutions. He dealt with subtle diplomacy and showed such respect as to win widespread support. His actions were not those of an impulsive young man whose success went to his head, but rather of a crafty statesman who had somehow grasped the complexity of his world and approached its different problems with the tact of a mature statesman. This is not an attempt to deny that Alexander was a complex person. One can find many illustrations of the impulsive youth who, on occasion, went to extremes.34 What we have stressed here is this other side of a shrewd, calculating man. This is the aspect 32

  Ptolemy, as quoted by Arrian 3.30.5; additions and variations of Bessus’s execution appear in Diodorus 17.83.9; Curtius 7.5; Justin 12.5.11. After two years of desperate opposition, Spitamenes met his death at the hands of his Bactrian and Sogdianian allies, who hoped thus to satisfy Alexander and stop his pursuit (Arrian 4.17.7). Alexander treated rebels very severely. He had Philotas killed because of treason and ordered the secret execution of Philotas’s father, the old loyal Parmenio, because he might turn against him. See E. Badian, “The Death of Parmenio,” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 91 (1960): 324–38. When Callisthenes opposed Alexander’s policies, he paid with his life. See Truesdell S. Brown, “Callisthenes and Alexander,” American Journal of Philology 70 (1949): 225–48. When Alexander returned from India, he was merciless in his punishment of unfaithful lieutenants (Ernst Badian, “Harpalus,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 81 [1961]: 19–20). See also Arrian 3.22; Diodorus 17.73.3; Justin 11.15.16; Pliny Natural History 36.132. 33

  Diodorus 17.95.2; see also Plutarch 62.4; Curtius 9.3.19.

34

  His killing of his close friend Cleitus is the best illustration for it.

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of his personality that comes through to us when we consider his use of propaganda. It shows that Alexander took advantage of every opportunity to make himself appear and behave in a way that inspired both fear and love, anxiety and respect. He was able to use his successes in specific and unique situations in such a way as to reveal himself to his contemporaries as one who possessed superlative qualities and powers. A particular victory argued for Alexander’s invincibility. A particular capture of a city proved that no city was capable of defense against him. The humane treatment of a captured city was an illustration of his benevolent rule. The severe punishment of a rebel was a warning against any would-be rebel. His humane and flattering treatment of a few of his soldiers was proof of his humane and considerate treatment of all his soldiers. He successfully coordinated his considerable assets of an inventive mind, enormous self-confidence, an indomitable will, as well as his physical powers of endurance to promote an image of a superhuman person. In an age when the divine and the human were separated by a chasm capable of being bridged by exceptional individuals, Alexander may well have believed in his own divinity. Whether he did or not, he was willing and effective in advertising his divinity throughout his empire.35 Through his successful use of propaganda, Alexander prepared his contemporaries and future generations to accept his great military and political accomplishments as products of some superlative genius. His early death did not allow him or us to see how he would rule his empire, but the signs suggest that he would have done better than many historians have concluded.

35

  There has been much debate on this subject. Badian’s studies, mentioned in note 10, are among the most comprehensive. See also J. P. V. D. Balsdon, “The Divinity of Alexander,” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 1, 3 (1950): 363–88.

Psichari Father and Son: A Generation at Odds J. Kim Munholland

This story is part of a generation’s intellectual and spiritual conflict, perhaps one of the most famous of such conflicts in modern French history. In this example, it involved a son, Ernest Psichari, a talented young writer who was killed in one of the opening battles of World War I, and his father, the well-known philologist and advocate of modern Greek, Jean Psichari, or Ioannis Psycharis. There are two other important figures in this relationship, the grandfather of Ernest and the father-in-law of Jean, Ernest Renan, and his daughter, Noémi Renan, who married Jean and was the mother of Ernest. This was a generation’s conflict that had a personal, family dimension to it. We turn first to the son, Ernest Psichari. Among the young French intellectuals who came of age at the turn of the twentieth century, and who would rebel against the secular, scientific, and pacifist values of their fathers’ generation, none was more uncompromising than Ernest Psichari. Grandson on his mother’s side of the historian and biblical scholar Ernest Renan, Psichari has left a series of writings that chronicle a spiritual quest that took him away from the secular, positivist, Republican, and antimilitary atmosphere of his youth and his family environment at the time of the Dreyfus Affair. This quest led first toward a military career in the French colonies and then brought him to the Catholic Church on the eve of World War I, when he entered the Third Order of St. Dominic, intending to become a village priest, perhaps in the strongly Catholic Brittany of his agnostic grandfather, Ernest Renan.1 This goal would never be reached. Within nine months of Psichari’s admission to the Dominican Order war broke out in Europe, and the young Catholic officer, serving at his colonial army garrison in Cherbourg, went to the front to lead his men in the just cause of France. On 22 August 1914, he fell in battle, one of the first casualties of that deadly conflict. Like his friend, Charles Péguy, who also had followed a course from Republican secularism to an ardent French nationalism, and who also would be killed in battle in September 1914, Ernest Psichari became a symbol and

1

  Henri Massis, Notre ami Psichari (Paris: Flammarion, 1936), 230.

Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 265–79.

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martyr for this staunchly nationalistic and intellectually conservative generation’s national sacrifice.2 Ernest Psichari’s trajectory from his early secular skepticism in religion, seen as a legacy from his grandfather Renan, toward the church by way of the colonial army has been extensively chronicled.3 As a young lycée student, Ernest Psichari at first adhered to the values of his father’s generation. In religious matters he was a skeptic and anticlerical. He became partisan in the cause on behalf of Captain Dreyfus and Republican justice in opposition to the military’s condemnation of the Jewish officer, an accusation of treason inspired by rampant anti-Semitism within the French Army. In a lengthy letter to his father Ernest deplored the way that “Catholicism and clericalism, anti-Semitism and narrow ideas have invaded France.” The late 1890s was a time of political engagement and controversy in France, and the lycée student was among those who were active in condemning the forces of reaction, seen in the army and the church. Yet even in this early, Dreyfusard phase of Ernest’s life, he greatly admired France, a France, as he put it, “that surpassed all other nations with its beautiful and great ideas.”4 Ernest’s father, Jean Psichari, was even more deeply involved in pursuing justice for Captain Dreyfus. The Psichari household became one of the active Dreyfusard salons, animated by discussions of events of the moment and agitated by debates over new social theories and projects for founding popular universities for working people. The turbulence of the Dreyfusard debates and the passions it aroused transformed the Psichari household. Ernest’s sister, Henriette, has described the way in which her father would discuss for hours legal texts and their meaning with his political allies and with his own family.5 Jean Psichari became one of the founding members of the Ligue pour les droits de l’homme in 1898.

2

  Ronald Thomas Sussex, The Sacrificed Generation: Studies of Charles Péguy, Ernest Psichari and Alain-Fournier (Townsville, Australia: University of North Queensland, 1980).

3

  The young generation has been described in several texts, among them, Agathon [Henri Massis and Alfred de Tarde], Les jeunes gens d’aujourd’hui (Paris: Plon-Nourrit, 1913); Richard Griffiths, The Reactionary Revolution: The Catholic Revival in French Literature, 1870– 1914 (London: Constable, 1966); and Sussex, The Sacrificed Generation. Important works on Ernest Psichari include Wallace Fowlie, Ernest Psichari: A Study in Religious Conversion (New York: Longmans, 1939); Eugen Weber, “Psichari and God,” Yale French Studies, no. 12 (1953): 19–53; Henri Massis, La vie d’Ernest Psichari (Paris: L’Art Catholique, 1916); Massis, Notre ami Psichari; Daniel-Rops, Psichari (Paris: Plon, 1942; rev. ed., 1947); A.-M. Goichon, Ernest Psichari d’après des documents inédits (Paris; Éditions de la Revue des Jeunes, 1921; 1933, 1946); Henriette Psichari, Ernest Psichari, mon frère (Paris: Plon, 1933); and Paul Pédech, Ernest Psichari ou les chemins de l’ordre (Paris: Tequi, 1988). 4

  Ernest Psichari to Jean Psichari, 13 July 1898, in Lettres du Centurion, vol. 3 of Oeuvres complètes de Ernest Psichari (Paris: Conard, 1948), 110–13. 5

  Henriette Psichari, Ernest Psichari, mon frère, 73.



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Jacques Maritain has left a sympathetic portrait of the open, warm, and welcoming atmosphere of the Psichari household during these days.6 The Psicharis entertained a wide circle of friends, reflecting Noémi’s graciousness and Jean’s convivial and enthusiastic personality. Accounts of the time describe Jean Psichari and Noémi as a “brilliant couple,” although, as Jean Psichari’s biographer notes, the brilliance of their salon provoked envy among some intellectuals, who were inclined to look upon Jean Psichari as something of a parvenu.7 A more critical portrait may be found in Henri Massis’s account of the “liberal, political and literary anarchism … [that] had established its headquarters there during the Dreyfus Affair.”8 The proceedings and discussions were symbolically overseen by the portrait of Ernest Renan, painted by his son Ary, that hung in the salon, looking down like a benevolent, optimistic deity, seemingly lost in abstract thought and detached from the struggles of the real world. Eight years later this atmosphere had changed. Again Massis provides the description of a gathering in the spring of 1908 in which Noémi Psichari, despite her allegiance to her father’s ideals, seemed to give a spiritual serenity to the proceedings. Those present were mostly friends of Ernest Psichari, who was just back from Africa, where he had begun his career in the French colonial army. Among the visitors was Jacques Maritain, Ernest Psichari’s close friend from their days as lycée students together. Maritain had been with Ernest in the debates and engagement of the Dreyfus years, including a strong commitment to social causes, but he and his young wife, Raïsa, had recently abandoned their agnosticism and had converted to the Catholic faith. The turn away from the secular climate of their elders had already begun during the lycée years, when Jacques and Ernest had attended the lectures of Henri Bergson, whose critique of positivism, materialism, and abstract reason had attracted large crowds to the Collège de France. Both Ernest Psichari and Jacques Maritain were close to Charles Péguy, another Dreyfusard who also was in search of a new spiritual truth amid the secular climate of the now triumphant radical Republic. After his Dreyfusard years Péguy had adopted an intense nationalism that focused upon the perceived threat of Germany following the international crisis of 1905 that had nearly brought Europe to war. His journal, Cahiers de la Quinzaine, was a vehicle for the new thinking that gave voice to this generation of nationalists and spiritual seekers. Amid this search for spiritual and emotional truth, the figure of Ernest’s father, Jean Psichari, seemed increasingly irrelevant, at least in the eyes of Ernest’s friend and constant admirer, Henri Massis. Jean Psichari was a rationalist who, following the advice of his father-in-law and mentor, Ernest Renan, had abandoned his early dreams of becoming a writer. Instead, he applied scientific methods to the study of 6

  Jacques Maritain, Antimoderne (Paris: Éd. de la Revue des Jeunes, 1922), 211–12, cited in Ioanna Constantoulaki-Chantzou, Jean Psichari et les lettres françaises (Athens: Emman. Papadakes, 1982), 129.

7

  E. Haraucourt, Des jours et des gens (Paris: E. Flammarion, 1946), 154–56, cited in Constantoulaki-Chantzou, Jean Psichari, 4.

8

  Massis, Notre ami Psichari, 11–13.

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the Greek language, opening the way to the emergence of modern Greek that broke with the high culture of classical Greek tradition. Jean Psichari’s revolutionary approach to the language question provoked a storm of controversy in Greece when his seminal work, Taxidi (My Voyage), was published in 1888.9 Massis’s description of Jean Psichari’s presence in the Psichari home on rue Chaptal contrasted the serene and almost spiritual quality of Noémi Psichari with the exuberant and, in Massis’s judgment, almost comical appearances of the scholar and linguist. During these evening gatherings Jean Psichari would emerge from his large library, which was mainly devoted to scientific works on philology, to declaim what Massis condescendingly described as his “misplaced enthusiasms.” He would recite poetry in a “coarse and vulgar voice” to the young crowd gathered around Ernest Psichari and Noémi Renan. He would then retire to his library, to which he admitted only his students from the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Massis more than implies that Jean Psichari’s preoccupations with his scientific work, however worthy, seemed arid, abstract, remote, and out of touch even with the calm, spiritual quality that Noémi expressed in keeping with the philosophical serenity of her father, Ernest Renan, whose presence continued to hover over the household. Clearly Massis, whose own work, Les jeunes gens d’aujourd’hui, chronicled the transformation of his generation into advocates of action in place of reason and skepticism, regarded the senior Psichari as a figure from the past. These contrasting images of the Psichari foyer suggest the sea change that was taking place in the intellectual climate of France at this time. Ernest Psichari represented the new voice of those who preferred action to reason, spiritual values to scientific ones, and a militant nationalism to the universal, humanistic concepts and pacifism of their fathers. What had happened in the space of eight very short but important years? The changes can be found in the experience of Ernest Psichari and his personal crisis, which in extremis became representative of his generation’s questioning of their received values. Ernest Psichari’s personal and intellectual crisis occurred when he was just eighteen. He had passed his baccalauréat impressively and seemed destined for an academic career in keeping with his family tradition. Throughout his youth his father had watched carefully over his progress, providing him with guidance and encouragement, particularly in the mastery of languages and in a love for French literature. Above all, there was an emphasis upon reason and scientific methods. In one of his early letters to his father, Ernest Psichari expressed his uncertainty on the choice between a career in science or in literature. He seemed better endowed for the latter, and his talent showed in his essays and youthful experiments in poetry. His father introduced him to Latin and Greek, applying his own methods of teaching. Yet Ernest Psichari would reject a seemingly logical, almost programmed turn toward the academic side of literature or philology. The break came when he was spurned in a love affair. He had become enamored of the elder sister of his good friend Jacques Maritain, but she was seven years his 9

  Hommage à Jean Psichari (1854–1929) à l’occasion du vingtième annniversaire de sa mort (29 septembre 1929) (Paris: Klincksieck, 1950), 17.



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senior, quite a difference when one is eighteen. Her decision to marry someone else plunged Ernest into despair. He left home and spent several months wandering the streets of Paris in search of menial employment, staying in cheap, rundown hotels. He twice attempted suicide and was stopped only by the intervention of a friend. He then decided to bury himself in the army. In the aftermath of the Dreyfus Affair all young men were required to serve as draftees for two years in the French Army, although for lycée graduates the term of service was reduced to one year. Ernest volunteered to serve a year earlier than the law required. At the time he wanted no more than to forget the past and to submit to the discipline and obedience of a military hierarchy while putting his unhappy love affair behind him. As he put it in one of his diary entries, the army offered order against the disorder of his time. But he worried about the reaction of his family with its strong antimilitary traditions to his decision.10 He felt that only his mother would understand what had compelled him to follow in that path. From this point Ernest Psichari would confide in her and also in the mother of Jacques Maritain, Mme. Geneviève Favre, herself the daughter of Jules Favre, a Republican politician who had been instrumental in the forming of the Third Republic. Although still respectful in tone, letters to his father became less frequent than in his days at the lycée when he had sought paternal approval, but the relationship was not broken. Despite the distance, both intellectually and physically, Ernest kept in contact with his father. During his first tour of duty in the Congo, he wrote to his father that he was engaged in creating a grammar for the Baya language and he sought his father’s advice and approval. He also began his writing career with a series of journal entries that would be published after his death as Carnets de Route. These reflections served as the basis for his first autobiographical novella, Terres de Soleil et de Sommeil. Again he sent these early efforts to his mother asking for both her opinion and his father’s.11 On the other side of this relationship, his father was more sympathetic with his eldest son’s quest than someone like Massis might have imagined. On the eve of Ernest Psichari’s departure for a second tour of African duty in Mauritania, Jean Psichari recommended that he carry with him the Sermons of Bossuet and Pensées of Pascal, surprising recommendations from a religious freethinker. “If one wants to know a man,” Jean Psichari advised, “it is necessary to read Bossuet and read him in his sermons.”12 Jean Psichari was obviously not the total agnostic he was reputed to be. At the end of his first year in the army, Ernest Psichari’s reenlistment dismayed his family, as he had feared, and it caught his friends by surprise. Even his superiors were astonished that the grandson of Ernest Renan should embark upon a military career. He informed his parents and his commanding officer that a desire for action

10

  Henriette Psichari, Ernest Psichari, mon frère, 107.

11

  Ibid., 45–47.

12

  Jean Peyrade, Psichari: Maître de grandeur (Paris: Julliard, 1947), 35.

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and his distaste for Paris and a life as a bureaucrat inspired his decision.13 He wanted to go on campaign, which led him to choose service in the colonial army. Soon he was on his way to Africa, where he would encounter Islam and begin to reflect upon his own religious heritage. In his letters to his mother and to Mme. Favre, who even more than his mother became confidante to his innermost thoughts, he spoke of his spiritual dissatisfaction and his rejection of the skepticism and materialism of metropolitan France. The army appeared to be order against what he perceived as the disorder, the intellectual questioning, the decadence, and the spiritual emptiness of his time.14 He looked upon colonial service as a form of crusade on behalf of French civilization and its traditions. He also found a passion for writing, beginning first with his diary, in which he recorded his reflections and thoughts, evidence of his personal voyage of discovery. His spiritual quest had begun, but he was not yet ready to embrace the church. In a reply to a lengthy letter from Maritain, who hoped that he would return from his solitary adventures believing in God, Psichari readily admitted that he found the church’s values superior to those of the positivists and rationalists of the day. While he was attracted to the house, he informed his good friend, he was not yet ready to enter.15 After gaining a commission in the colonial artillery, Ernest Psichari returned again to Africa in 1909, this time to the solitude of the desert in Mauritania. It was here that his quest brought him to the brink of embracing a fervent Catholicism, and it was in the course of his experience in Mauritania that his break with the ideas and ideals of his father and his father’s generation became even more apparent. His encounter with Islam challenged his own culture and its material values. As a Moroccan put it, “You French, you have the realm of the earth, but we, the Moors, we have the realm of heaven.”16 What the French had, Psichari believed, was the civilization of Christendom, and this tradition was necessary to counter the faith of Islam. Earlier he had written that in Africa, France was “indeed alone in our pride and our domination.”17 France could secure its domain in Africa only by gaining or forcing the Moors to respect the religion of France. In a crucial passage he wrote, “During the six years I have known the African Moslems, I have realized the folly of certain moderns who want to separate the French race from the religion which has made it what it is, and whence comes all

13

  Ernest Psichari to Jean Psichari, 2 February 1904, in Lettres du Centurion, 125–27.

14

  Henriette Psichari, introduction to Oeuvres, 1: 15, 17.

15

  Ernest Psichari to Jacques Maritain, 6 August 1908, in Lettres du Centurion, 130; and Henriette Psichari, Ernest Psichari, mon frère, 129.

16

  Ernest Psichari to Maurice Barrès, 15 June 1912, in Lettres du Centurion, 229, cited in Henriette Psichari, introduction to Oeuvres, 1: 15.

17

 Psichari, Terres de Soleil et de Sommeil, in Carnets de route. Terres de soleil et de sommeil, vol. 1 of Oeuvres, 270.



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its greatness.”18 Only by returning to the tradition of the church could France prevail in its civilizing mission. Recovering faith meant rejecting the materialism of his father’s generation. Ernest Psichari’s experience may be found in his last work, published after his death, Le Voyage du Centurion. In this final, autobiographical novella the protagonist, Maxence, observes that the so-called educators and masters of French literature, such as Maxence’s own father, had forgotten the existence of a soul, of the human capacity for belief, love, and hope.19 Through Maxence, Ernest Psichari thanked Africa for having saved him from “a detestable life.”20 Above all he rejected all that was “modern.” The army and increasingly the church represented a French tradition that was permanent, even eternal, in opposition to the forces of change and progress. “Progress is one form of Americanism,” he has his protagonist of L’appel des armes complain, “and Americanism disgusted him.”21 In another passage he has two generations confronting one another. He wrote, “By a kind of transmutation of values, it was the father who represented the present and the son who represented the past, the son who turned toward history and the father who appealed to the future” in the name of progress rather than tradition.22 Rejecting his father’s scientific materialism, Psichari was almost ready to embrace the church, but struggling with his own conscience and knowing the pain that his conversion would cause his father and his mother as well, Psichari hesitated until the eve of his return to France at the end of 1912. In August he wrote to Mme. Favre that tradition rather than dogma attracted him to the church, and in a letter to Maritain two months earlier he admitted that he still lacked faith and Divine Grace.23 Then, on the eve of his return he wrote to Maritain that his days of meditation in the desert had brought him to God.24 In the crucial first weeks of 1913 he would find the faith and Divine Grace that would bring him fully, passionately, and unconditionally into the church. While he turned for support to Jacques Maritain during these crucial days, he also found consolation and support from Maritain’s older sister, whose marriage a decade earlier had left Ernest Psichari broken and despondent. Jeanne Maritain had a daughter from her marriage, but she had separated from her husband and had turned 18

  Ernest Psichari to Monsigneur Jalabert, bishop of Senegambia in Dakar, 1912, in Lettres du Centurion, 233, cited in Weber, “Psichari and God,” 24.

19

  Cited in Peyrade, Psichari: Maître de grandeur, 24.

20

  Ernest Psichari, Voyage du Centurion, in Lettres du Centurion, 42.

21

  Ernest Psichari, L’appel des armes, in L’appel des armes. Lex voix qui crient dans le désert, vol. 2 of Oeuvres, 25.

22

  Ibid., 93.

23

  Letters of 26 August 1912 and 15 June 1912, in Lettres du Centurion, 230–31, 224–27, cited in Weber, “Psichari and God,” 24–25.

24

  Ernest Psichari to Jacques Maritain, December 1912, in Lettres du Centurion, 239.

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toward the church for spiritual guidance. During his time in Africa, Ernest Psichari always had carried with him a small photograph of her. Upon his return from Mauritania at the end of 1912 he found her transformed by her faith, and she asked him to join her in prayers for his conversion.25 Psichari’s sister claimed that there was some thought of marriage, since Jeanne Maritain’s marriage had been only a civil ceremony that had not been sanctified by the church. Ernest Psichari, whatever his emotions, respected the institution of marriage as indissoluble, even if it were outside the church.26 Their relation resumed but in a purely spiritual sense, and Psichari always referred to her as “my beloved friend” and thought of himself as her spiritual brother. But he did convert. He decided to take up the faith that his father and his grandfather had abandoned. On 4 February 1913 Psichari read his confession of faith in a small chapel in the Maritain household where he received the benediction of the priest present. He also received absolution and was assured that his Greek Orthodox baptism was valid, something that he had questioned during his time in Africa. The following Saturday he became confirmed by Monsigneur Gibier, the bishop of Versailles. The next day he took his first communion. Father Clérissac, a Dominican who had been a major guiding spirit for Psichari, said mass, and Jacques Maritain assisted. That afternoon under a brilliant sky they made a pilgrimage to Chartres.27 Ernest Psichari’s conversion to the Catholic faith was complete and wholehearted. Almost immediately his spirit was tested by a family crisis. Upon his return from Mauritania in December, he had discovered to his sorrow that his parents were getting a divorce. The cause was Jean Psichari’s affair with a younger woman. The previous summer the senior Psichari had taken a cure where he met a twenty-year-old music student, Irene Baume, and fell deeply in love with her. He was so smitten with his young mistress that he had the audacity to invite her to Rosmapamon, the Renan home in Brittany where the family spent their summer vacations. Noémi could not put up with this blatant insult, and she asked for a divorce. This was not Jean’s first infidelity. He earlier had had an affair with a servant at Rosmapamon. The woman died young, and Jean had composed an epitaph in Greek, “komaso kala,” or “sleep well,” for her headstone. The divorce caused a scandal. Most of their friends understandably blamed and turned their backs on Jean Psichari, taking the side of Noémi. This family crisis, coming at the very moment of his conversion, tested Ernest Psichari, who retained strong emotional ties to his family. He was torn between respect for his father and tender affection for his mother. Whatever pain it cost him, he chose to stay with his mother. He wrote to Maritain that on the Sunday when he accompanied his father to the gate of the house on rue Chaptal he had “truly seen the depths of human misery, 25

 Pédech, Ernest Psichari, 169.

26

  After his conversion, Ernest Psichari asked that Jeanne help him “walk the difficult path” where God had called him and called upon her to follow as well. He concluded this letter by referring to himself as “your brother forever.” See Ernest Psichari to Madame T…, 20 February 1913, in Lettres du Centurion, 243–45. 27

 Pédech, Ernest Psichari, 162–64.



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and since then each hour has been poisoned, terrible.”28 His mother had become “an elderly, abandoned woman,” and he remained constantly at her side. As a sign of her bitterness over her husband’s betrayal, his mother resumed her premarriage name, Noémi Renan. Ernest regretted that his mother in her misery could not be consoled by his newly found faith, and he feared that the announcement of his conversion might add to her despair. When he told her of his conversion during this “long and miserable week” following Jean Psichari’s departure, she was sympathetic to his decision and told him that what he had done was right if he believed that faith was necessary for him. She then gave him the golden cross of his Orthodox baptism, which he wore constantly and was with him when he was killed in battle in August 1914.29 In an effort to distract her, he accompanied her on a tour in Belgium during Holy Week. After his post-African leave ended, Ernest Psichari rejoined his garrison in Cherbourg. His religious odyssey would continue, culminating in his initiation into the Dominican Order. The discipline and asceticism of the Dominicans appealed to Psichari. His decision to enter the Dominican Order marked a decisive turn toward the church and a step beyond his earlier commitment to the traditions of the army. Still, he intended to continue active military service, expecting to be sent to Morocco in October of 1914 while he prepared for a further advancement in the Dominican Order. He also completed his work on Voyage du Centurion, which he regarded as a kind of repentance for his previous work, L’appel des armes, which he considered not sufficiently devout since it was written before he had turned fully to the church. Nevertheless, the book won great critical acclaim, particularly among those close to the Action Française and its editor, Charles Maurras, and a number of Catholic writers also praised it. This would be his final work, and he would never make the next step in his religious vocation. Whatever the future might have held, Psichari had completed his pilgrimage toward an absolute devotion to France’s military and religious heritage. He would give his life in the service of this national devotion. His friend Massis would later claim that Ernest Psichari had died on the Western Front in order to expiate the sins of his grandfather, Ernest Renan.30 His sister, Henriette, denied that he had sought a martyr’s death and redemption or revenge for the sins of his grandfather (or his father, for that matter). This assumption distorted Ernest Psichari’s relationship to his grandfather, Henriette claimed, since Ernest had greatly loved Renan and admired the searching quality of his thought. According to her recollection, Noémi Renan saw a connection between her father and her son in their uncompromising search for truth. From Africa Ernest Psichari had complained

28

  Letter to Jacques Maritain, 25 February 1913, in Lettres du Centurion, 246, quoted in Massis, Notre ami Psichari, 170.

29

 Pédech, Ernest Psichari, 165–66.

30

  Richard Griffiths, The Reactionary Revolution: The Catholic Revival in French Literature 1870–1914 (London: Constable, 1966), 217.

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of the harm that Anatole France had done to his grandfather’s memory.31 In any event, Ernest disliked being used in polemical controversy, and in 1913 he took exception with a priest who said that his grandfather would roast in Hell.32 When Father Clérissac assured him that it would be up to God to pass judgment on Renan, Ernest was reassured that his grandfather was not entirely lost. On the eve of the war Ernest’s father, accompanied by his young, second wife, had returned to Greece on a mission connected with his scholarly work. War broke out, and shortly after his return from Greece, Jean Psichari learned of his son’s death on the battlefield. Although they had been at odds intellectually and spiritually, the death of Ernest deeply affected Jean Psichari. In 1915 he published a poem in honor of Ernest, “Au fils tué à l’ennemi,” in which he gave vent to his grief. The death of his son was a lesson for the father that brought Jean Psichari closer to a rediscovery of his own faith. Jean Psichari’s grief further deepened upon news of the death of his second son, Ernest Psichari’s younger brother Michel, who fell in battle in Champagne in 1917 after having survived and been decorated for his exploits during the battle over Verdun in 1916. The brothers, although different in temperament, had shared a common interest in the military and in the intense spirit of French nationalism and taste for action that had developed among their generation before the war. Once again Jean Psichari expressed his sorrow in poetry, “Au second fils tué à l’ennemi” (1919). These losses deeply affected and greatly changed Jean Psichari. No longer the radical agnostic, pacifist, and detached “scientific” intellectual of the 1890s, Jean Psichari became an ardent, emotionally passionate nationalist. In the poem to his son Ernest he expressed his understanding and sympathy with his son’s spiritual quest, and in this poem and his poem to his second son killed in battle, he gave expression to his sympathy for the nationalism of the younger generation. Jean Psichari’s nationalism assumed a bitterly anti-German direction at the end of the war. His was among a minority five votes (out of thirty-three) that called for the exclusion of those German members of the Linguistic Society who had signed the petition of German intellectuals supporting the war effort.33 After the war, Jean Psichari’s intellectual and literary associations also changed. Like his son, Ernest, the elder Psichari drew close to the ultranationalistic Action Française and began writing for it. He admired conservative Catholic writers such as Paul Bourget. In his turn toward a staunch nationalism, his trajectory followed that of such illustrious republicans as Georges Clemenceau, who had evolved from a leading Dreyfusard and supporter of a radical, secular republic into the prime minister who drove France to victory in the last year of the war. Jean Psichari had fully approved of Clemenceau’s crackdown on advocates of a negotiated peace with Germany during the war, often turning against former political allies of an earlier time. Jean Psichari’s 31

  Henriette Psichari, citing from her brother’s unpublished “Pensées à dos de chameau,” in Ernest Psichari, mon frère, 208–09. 32

  Ibid., 210.

33

 Constantoulaki-Chantzou, Jean Psichari, 136.



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intellectual evolution toward nationalism and a questioning of the values of his own generation would be recorded in his postwar novel, Soeur Anselmine (Sister Anselm). This novel represented a return to fiction after a twenty-year absence punctuated by his poetic interlude of the war years. It marked a spiritual and personal turning point for Jean Psichari. Through the voices of two friends, a middle-class intellectual and an aristocratic man of letters, Jean Psichari reinterpreted his own spiritual and intellectual odyssey and that of his generation, which had witnessed both the war and the defeat of 1870–71 as well as the costly victory of the war of 1914–18. The plot bears resemblance not only to Jean Psichari’s life, but also to that of his eldest son, Ernest. The main protagonist is the bourgeois intellectual, André Pauron, who is a voice for Jean Psichari. Pauron is attracted to the younger sister of his aristocratic, literary friend, Jean de Warlaing. The two friends are poets who are admirers of the Parnassians, and they are also rationalists of their time, despite de Warlaing’s early education with the Jesuits. André chided his companion for his attending mass to please his mother for sake of appearances. As for the sister, despite André’s free-thinking, he admires what he perceives as an ideal piety in her devotion to her prayers, calling her “an angel of nature.” He considered her to be an ideal wife and mother, but he turned elsewhere and married Sophie, a non-believer whose intellectual certainties separated her from the spiritual torments of his friend’s sister, Anselmine. Devoting himself to his studies and a university career that followed, he distanced himself from Anselmine and even from her brother, Jean, who suffered from an illness that brought his premature death. André’s marriage to Sophie can be seen as a key to Jean Psichari’s own marriage to Noémi Renan, and intended as a narrative of Jean Psichari’s own intellectual and personal development. On the eve of war, André became increasingly dissatisfied with his life, constrained by the narrow rationalism of his household. Increasingly he felt separated from his wife, as if they were two individuals living apart. What separated them was André’s continued passion for poetry and writing and his impatience with the scientific, philological, and university environment. He blamed Sophie for ignoring his imaginative side and for drawing him away from the literary environment of his life before they were married. He no longer wanted to restrict himself to the life of a professor, but longed to escape into the world of poetry, fulfilling his long dream of a life in literature. Seeking to distance himself from Sophie, he traveled to England in search of English authors. When war erupted, André returned to France. Before his death, André’s friend, Jean de Warlaing, had asked his sister to send a book to André, which reflected his own turn toward a spiritual longing as he faced death. At that time both brother and sister had lost track of André, and the book with its message went undelivered. In the meantime, Anselmine married, but when she was left a widow not long after her marriage, she entered a convent and devoted herself to pious thoughts and charitable deeds. Only when André published a book in 1916 was she able to locate him and deliver the book as her brother had requested. Suddenly André, who had been depressed by his own personal life and greatly upset by the war, having turned strongly nationalistic in his views, found himself renewed and rejuvenated in the presence of Anselmine. In the twilight of his life, André found

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a new love, not the love of passion but a tranquil and serene love and a calm sense of renewal and purpose at the end of his life. Anselmine brought him a sense of spiritual renewal and emotional tranquility. He no longer found the company of priests disturbing. Instead, he sought them out. The spiritual climax of Soeur Anselmine comes rather melodramatically when André experiences a very high fever and fears that he is to die. He recovers, however, and with his recovery comes his faith and a new sense of Charity. This leads him to an awareness of a certain reality in the aftermath of a fratricidal war that was “‘a historical truth, a moral truth, a necessary truth,’ a French truth, which was the Catholic Church. That was his only reality, the only true lifeline.”34 In this thinly disguised autobiographical novel, Jean Psichari visited the events of his own life that had given him a certain direction. As his biographer notes, Jean Psichari’s postwar novel, Soeur Anselmine, and its message of renewal, nationalism, and faith, contrasted and made a diptych with his novel from the 1890s, La Croyante, which was harsh in its antireligious, anti-Catholic message. By the time he published Soeur Anselmine, Jean Psichari, changed by the hatred and cruelty of the war, seemed to achieve a kind of spiritual, philosophical balance.35 He left behind the turbulence and passionate debates of the Dreyfusard years to seek a spiritual and moral serenity upon which to rebuild a new sense of order after the trauma of the war. In this way, the message of André Pauron/Jean Psichari was also a national appeal for the French to overcome their differences, particularly in religious matters, that had divided them for half a century. If Soeur Anselmine marked a personal turning point for Jean Psichari and a return to literature, his second important postwar work revealed a philosophical evolution away from the intellectual legacy of Ernest Renan. The celebration in 1923 of the centenary of Ernest Renan’s birth was the occasion for Jean Psichari to rethink his relationship to this towering figure of French intellectual history. The publication of Ernest Renan–Jugements et Souvenirs was both a personal and a critical account of Jean Psichari’s relationship to his famous father-in-law. In his preface to this book, Jean Psichari warned the reader that this would not be a book like others on Renan. It would be less eulogy or appreciation than a reconsideration of Renan as a writer and as an influence upon Jean Psichari and his own career. His study and memory of Renan would reveal his turn from his self-description as “the old fountain of positivism” of the 1890s to a person who was more in awe of the unknown in the universe than certain about the prospect of knowing all the truths of the material world. He recalled his early relationship with Renan before his marriage to Noémi. In an early encounter shortly after passing his university examinations, he expressed his enthusiasm for French literature, particularly the golden age of the seventeenth century. He wanted to join the great writers and carve his own niche in the pantheon of French letters. Renan quickly discouraged him from thoughts of a literary career by attacking the

34

  The plot of this novel, to say the least, is a bit forced. The account is based upon ibid., 141–45. 35

  Ibid., 145.



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craft of fiction as a form of lying. Fiction was subjective, and from Renan’s scientific perspective, this was falsehood, not the search for truth. Renan’s was a dictated judgment that caused the young Jean Psichari to abandon thoughts of a literary career and take up philology, employing Renanian skepticism and scientific methods in the study of the Greek language.36 Renan strongly supported him in this direction, and Jean Psichari became his disciple, although the two had quite different temperaments, with Renan the more detached philosopher and Jean Psichari the more emotionally engaged crusader for a cause, a person of passion as much as one of objective, detached reason. Jean Psichari tried to reconcile the scientific and poetic in an essay that appeared in La Nouvelle Revue in 1884, which was a defense of the Parnassians, titled “La Science et les destinées nouvelles de la poésie.” He maintained his friendship with Leconte de l’Isle, whose writings he recommended to his son Ernest. There was little doubt about the consequences of Jean Psichari’s scientific approach to linguistic analysis, however, and in this sense modern Greek letters owes at least an indirect debt to the influence of Renan. Jean Psichari’s work led to a revolutionary transformation of Greek into the modern language that made possible the works of Kazantzakis, Sefaris, Elytis, and others among the remarkable lexicon of writers who shaped Greek literature in the twentieth century.37 The result was that in Greece, Ioannis Psycharis became as famous, influential, and controversial an individual as Ernest Renan had been in France.38 Although he accepted Renan’s advice, Jean Psichari still longed for an outlet that would enable him to exercise his imagination and express the emotional side of his nature. In 1891 on the eve of Renan’s death the following year, Jean Psichari took his first step toward liberating himself from Renan’s shadow when he published a work of fiction, Jalousie. As Jean Psichari’s biographer notes, this was a brief act of defiance on the part of a “son” (or son-in-law) releasing his own personality from a more famous elder. Here, of course, was a parallel with Ernest Psichari’s act of liberation from both his famous father and his even more famous grandfather. Yet this disobedience did not have an immediate sequel. Only with the war and its aftermath was Jean Psichari prepared to confront Ernest Renan. One of his objectives in writing Ernest Renan–Judgements et Souvenirs was to demolish what he regarded as the “negativism” in Renan’s thought, the constant skepticism and doubting. In so doing, he argued that Renan was in reality something of a mix, a cross between Voltaire and Chateaubriand, a rather strained juxtaposition but one that revealed his desire to find common ground for reason and faith. Another way of doing this was to stress Renan’s literary style as a writer alongside his strengths as a scholar. In so doing, Psichari opened up another controversy among Renan supporters and scholars who felt that Psichari was distorting Renan’s message as a result of his own intellec36

  Ibid., 173–74.

37

  Hommage à Jean Psichari, 17.

38

 Constantoulaki-Chantzou, Jean Psichari, 173. Constantoulaki-Chantzou also notes that Jean Psichari had many supporters and many enemies in Greece, just as Renan found advocates and severe critics, particularly from the Catholic Church, in France.

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tual and spiritual transformation. Jean Psichari’s biographer justifies his critique as making possible a more critical look at Renan, claiming that at the age of Ecclesiastes Jean Psichari could be permitted a judgment on his intellectual “father” without abandoning his filial respect. Yet Jean Psichari, as we have seen, had moved away from the rationalism and skepticism of the Dreyfusard years. In his twilight years he turned toward a spiritual order and regained his faith. The decisive influence upon him was no longer Renan but his own son, Ernest Psichari. His wartime poem in eulogy to the fallen soldier had been sympathetic to Ernest Psichari’s passionate quest of the immediate prewar years that had led him to the Catholic Church. As he put it in his reminiscences of Ernest Renan, it had been his son Ernest who had awakened his own faith and had exposed the shortcomings of Renanian rationalism. Jean Psichari now possessed the same commitment to order and spiritual certainty that his son had sought. He recalled that when he was sixteen he had nearly entered the order under the influence of a Dominican Father Didon. Now he returned to religion, and he had embraced the nationalism of the Action Française, admiring nationalistic and Catholic writers such as Maurice Barrès or Paul Bourget. Jean Psichari also embraced the doctrines of action in opposition to the reflection and detachment of reason. In this further distancing from the ideals of the Renanian generation, Jean Psichari reconsidered the pacifism that fed the antimilitarism of that generation’s ideology. Of course, the experience of the war and the tragedy of losing his two sons played an important part in this re-evaluation. He claimed that Renan’s spirit was inclined toward peace, but Jean Psichari argued that law as a guarantee of peace was a fragile instrument and had to be backed by force. The contrast in outlook toward questions of war and peace, reason and passion, to be found among the three generations, Ernest Renan, the grandson, Ernest Psichari, and the father, Jean Psichari, may be seen in three differing visions of the Acropolis and the spirit of Athena. In Ernest Renan—Jugements et Souvenirs, Jean Psichari turned to Renan’s “Prayer on the Acropolis” (“Prière sur l’Acropole”) and essentially revised Renan, producing a quite different interpretation. The Great War and the events in Smyrna in 1922, which led to the expulsion of the Greek community, led him to consider that Athena as a symbol of Justice had also something of the warrior spirit that was essential to the goddess of reason and justice. For France and for Greece, justice and the law could only be assured by force. Rather than a prayer to reason, Jean Psichari argued that his son, Ernest, “would have prayed differently on the Acropolis.”39 There is no doubt that Ernest Psichari’s vision of the Acropolis and its symbolism differed from Renan’s. Henriette Psichari noted that while Ernest Renan and Ernest Psichari shared an uncompromising search for truth, Ernest Psichari’s prayer would not be to the apostle of reason and wisdom that Renan had found in the Acropolis, but to the “mystical rose, a house of gold, … the morning star.”40 By the time Jean Psichari approached the end of his life, his vision of the Acropolis as the embodiment of wisdom, 39

  Cited in ibid., 181.

40

  Henriette Psichari, Ernest Psichari, mon frère, 142.



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reason, and justice was closer to the mystical one of his son than the rationalist one of his father-in-law. He admitted as much when he confessed that his two sons, Michel as well as Ernest, had opened him to unexpected points of view. Constantoulaki-Chantzou has argued that the nationalism that Jean Psichari embraced after the war and his admiration for the traditions of the Catholic Church anchored him firmly in French soil. But how firm was his attachment to France, and was he not rooted in two soils? Jean Psichari was at the crossroads of both French and Greek culture, French by education and Greek by birth. At the end of his life he turned not to the faith of the Catholic Church but returned to that of Greek Orthodoxy. Following his last trip to Greece in 1925, he prepared to face death, which would come four years later. He chose to be buried according to the Greek Orthodox rite and asked that his tomb be placed on the island of Chios facing Asia Minor.41 Jean Psichari participated in two intellectual and spiritual worlds, but on the French side he has remained in the shadow of both son and father-in-law, while he has stood as a towering figure for the culture on whose soil and in accordance with whose traditions he was buried.

41

 Constantoulaki-Chantzou, Jean Psichari, 216.

George Seferis and the Prophetic Voice Peter Mackridge

The significance of voice in George Seferis’s poetry is obvious right from its early stages. For Seferis (1900–71), as for all adherents of the Greek demoticist movement, the living voice was of supreme significance for the creation and reception of poetry and for human communication in general. As early as 1936, Seferis wrote, “Poetry that doesn’t invite the voice is bad poetry.”1 Fifteen years later (6 August 1951), in an unpublished letter to Philip Sherrard from London, he wrote: “[I]f you want to write a single word which sounds you must extract it from your guts,” and he went on to castigate those who are able only “to perceive printed characters on the paper; no wonder that they make no sense of anything.”2 These words bring to mind “certain old sailors of my childhood” in the poem “Upon a Foreign Verse,” who “used to recite, with tears in their eyes, the song of Erotokritos.” For Seferis, as for all Greeks until very recent times, the seventeenth-century verse romance Ερωτόκιτος (Erotokritos) was not a poem but a song, which had been handed down from generation to generation by word of mouth. For Seferis, poetry was not a monologue but a dialogue between living people. In general, dialogue was a vital necessity for Seferis, whose essay entitled “Διάλογος πάνω στην ποίηση” (Dialogue on Poetry; 1939) only became a “Μονόλογος πάνω στην ποίηση” (Monologue on Poetry) after his interlocutor—his brother-in-law, the philosopher Constantine Tsatsos, had ceased to listen to him. In our technological world, communication by way of the living voice is becoming more and more scarce, as Seferis implies with reference to the recording of the voice on disk: “Is it the voice / of our dead friends / or the gramophone?” he wonders in one of his haikus. Seferis returns to the gramophone in the poem “Τρίτη” (Tuesday) from “Σημειώσεις για μια ‘εβδομάδα’” (Notes for a “Week”), where “on every disk / a living person plays with a dead one,” and the poet goes on to contrast the grooves of the disk with “the seams of the human skull.” As he writes sarcastically in the next 1

  George Seferis, Δοκιμές [Essays], 3rd ed. (Athens: Ikaros, 1974), 1: 33. The English translations of Seferis’s poetry in this essay are based on those by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard: George Seferis, Complete Poems (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), but I have felt free to alter them where appropriate. All other translations are my own.

2

  Denise Sherrard, ed., This Dialectic of Blood and Light: George Seferis – Philip Sherrard, An Exchange: 1947–1971 (Limni, Evia, Greece: Denise Harvey, 2015). Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 281–92.

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poem in the same series, “Τετάρτη” (Wednesday), “our life is rich because we’ve invented perfected machines / for when our senses decay.” In the poem “Πάνω σ’ έναν ξένο στίχο” (Upon a Foreign Verse), the shade of Odysseus appears before the poet, “whispering […] words in our language,” and tells him “how strangely you grow into manhood conversing with the dead when the living who remain are no longer enough.” In this early poem the poet does not quote Odysseus’s actual words, but instead conveys them through reported speech. By contrast, in this essay I want to focus on cases where Seferis quotes the words of other persons, in direct speech, in order to express his views. It is well known that in his early poetry Seferis uses the voices of imaginary characters such as Stratis Thalassinos and Mathios Paschalis. Through these fictional characters Seferis was able to express certain emotions in a more objective manner.3 But Μυθιστόρημα (Mythistorima) too is a work for various voices—or for a voice that speaks in different tones—in which the poet plays various roles, among them those of Odysseus, Orestes, and Andromeda. It would be feasible to stage a theatrical performance of Mythistorima in which various actors spoke the dramatic monologues of the various characters.4 Mythistorima—literally “myth-story”—is the normal Greek word for “novel.” But, despite its title, Mythistorima is a dramatic poem par excellence. A note that Seferis once intended to accompany Mythistorima contains the following sentence: “My aim isn’t to write poems but to describe a character.”5 Even though in this note Seferis suggests he’s writing fiction, it’s clear that this multiple character speaks throughout the poem; far from being described, he presents himself to an audience as a dramatic character might do. A study of the role of the theater in Seferis’s poetry would reveal significant aspects of his poetics. But I do not propose to concern myself with this here; I will confine myself simply to pointing the reader to three relevant poems: “Saturday” from “Notes on a ‘Week,’” where the poet presents us with a Pirandello-like scene in which an actor does not know what role he is supposed to play (the indications are that it is Orestes); “Θεατρίνοι, Μ.Α.” (Actors, Middle East) from Ημερολόγιο καταστρώματος, Β΄ (Logbook II); and the section “Επί σκηνής” (On Stage) from Τρία κρυφά ποιήματα (Three Secret Poems). In his mature poetry Seferis makes increasing use of voices that do not belong to some persona or some alter ego of the poet, like Stratis Thassalinos and Mathios Paschalis, but to real (rather than mythological) characters, now dead, who possess some special authority and whose words carry particular weight. We can observe this 3

  See Dora Menti, “Στράτης Θαλασσινός και Μαθιός Πασχάλης: δυο προσωπεία του Γιώργου Σεφέρη” [Stratis Thalassinos and Mathios Paschalis: Two masks of Giorgos Seferis], Ποίηση [Poetry] 13 (1999): 188–204. 4

  It is characteristic of the Modernist aspirations of Mythistorima that Virginia Woolf’s “novel” The Waves, which is exactly contemporaneous with it (1931), also consists of the monologues of various characters.

5

  G. Giatromanolakis, “Η ποίηση-μοντάζ του Σεφέρη” [Seferis’s montage poetry], Το Βήμα [To Vima], 5 May 1995, quoted from Menti, “Στράτης Θαλασσινός και Μαθιός Πασχάλης,” 196.

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phenomenon especially in poems that were written in particularly critical historical and political circumstances. In such poems Seferis appropriates prophetic voices that comment on the situation of his time and in many cases warn of some impending catastrophe. Seferis was painfully aware that, like Cassandra, he had prophetic gifts that other people ignored.6 Thus, in the poems in Ημερολόγιο καταστρώματος, Α΄ (Logbook I; written 1937–40), he spoke about the imminent world war; in Κίχλη (Thrush; written in 1946), about the Greek Civil War, and in Ημερολόγιο καταστρώματος, Γ΄ (Logbook III; written 1953–55), about the liberation struggle of the Greek Cypriots and the intercommunal slaughter that accompanied it.7 The opprobrious description of Seferis by one of the Greek junta’s newspapers as “the old Smyrniot Pythian” after his famous public statement against the Colonels’ dictatorship in 1969—which indirectly prophesied the Cyprus debacle of 1974—was not wide of the mark. Despite this, however, and unlike the older poet Angelos Sikelianos, Seferis normally avoided displaying his prophetic gifts, at least in his own voice. Perhaps this was because he lacked Sikelianos’s faith and self-confidence.8 An exception is “Η μορφή της μοίρας” (The Shape of Fate), written during World War II, which ends with the following lines: Don’t ask, just wait: the blood, the blood will rise one morning like Saint George the horseman to nail the dragon to earth with his lance. We find an early form of the prophetic voice in “Ο δικός μας ήλιος” (Our Sun), written on 6 September 1937, a month before the creation of the Axis by Hitler and Mussolini. While the poet and his companion share the sun that conceals the violence and cruelty of reality, a woman shouts: “Cowards, / they’ve taken my children and cut them to pieces, it’s you who have killed them.” Here the poet and his like seem to 6

  As an official of the Greek Foreign Ministry, George Seferiadis had privileged access to information about world affairs. But in this essay I am talking about Seferis the poet, not Seferiadis the diplomat. By the same token, there is no evidence that Seferis himself actually heard disembodied voices. 7

  The late Th. D. Frangopoulos, writing in 1977 about the poet who “with his prophetic intuition that makes him see […] what is about to happen,” adds that Seferis had prefigured the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974: “It is no coincidence that the only two figures to whom whole poems of this collection are devoted, and who seem at first sight to lack an immediate connection with Cyprus, are Pentheus and Euripides, both of whom suffer a ferocious physical dismemberment. The poet (and maybe the diplomat) had a premonition of the partition [of Cyprus].” Th. D. Frangopoulos, “Ες Κύπρον: δευτερολόγημα πάνω στα κυπριακά ποιήματα του Σεφέρη” [To Cyprus: Second thoughts about the Cypriot poems of Seferis], in Καθημερινές τομές [Daily incisions] (Athens: Dioyenis, 1977), 29. I wish to thank my friend N. K. Petropoulos for bringing this passage to my attention. 8

  Edmund Keeley devotes an article to Seferis’s political voice in Modern Greek Poetry: Voice and Myth (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), 95–118. Keeley is more concerned with the message than the technique, which is what interests me in this essay.

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be held partially responsible for the violent actions that took place in the recent past because they were caught up in purely aesthetic concerns. Later, some messengers arrive after a long journey. The poet’s friend tells them to relax first and then to deliver their message, but they reply, “We don’t have time,” whereupon they immediately expire. Finally, the friend leaves, taking with her “the golden silk” that had veiled the reality of the world and thus enabling the poet to realize that the messengers were right: indeed, “we don’t have time,” since war is approaching and “tomorrow our souls set sail,” as Seferis puts it in a later poem, “Ένας γέροντας στην ακροποταμιά” (An Old Man on the River Bank).9 Later, Seferis uses prophetic voices that are not heard throughout the poem but are framed by the poet’s speech, as happens in “Our Sun,” except that now the voices belong to historical characters. Such voices belong to people who have some special relationship with the divine. In the prologue to his Modern Greek version of the Book of Revelation (1966), Seferis wrote: “The word of the prophet is the word of God, it isn’t his own. Sometimes it may be transmitted to him without the intervention of the consciousness.”10 Indeed, in some of his poems Seferis narrates the visitation of some voice that comes to him unbidden. In the final poem of Logbook II, “Τελευταίος σταθμός” (Last Stop), written on 5 October 1944, a few days after the signing of the short-lived Caserta Agreement between the Greek government of George Papandreou and the representatives of the resistance organizations, various voices of the dead are heard: the Old Testament prophets and St. Paul, the War of Independence hero General Makriyannis (who learned to write after that war), and a heroic soldier from the campaign against the Italians in Albania in 1940–41 named Michalis. The poet uses Makriyannis’s phrase “guile and deceit” with reference to the crimes committed in war in general, but especially, perhaps, the unjust actions committed both by the officials of the Greek government-in-exile and by those who remained in Greece. The poet goes on to introduce the motif of grass: Man is soft and thirsty as grass, insatiable as grass, his nerves roots that spread; when the harvest comes he would rather the scythes whistled in some other field. These lines are reminiscent of the words of Isaiah 40:6: “All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field.” At the end of the same verse-para9

  Perhaps because of the time when he was living, Seferis believed that every poem he wrote might be his last. See the words he wrote to Andreas Karandonis on 10 February 1950—words that he would have liked to address to their friend George Katsimbalis: “Chief, you must get used to saying that everything I publish is my last; and, if there’s anything more, you should know that for Seferis it’s an exceptional extension of time on behalf of fate, which has granted him a few extra hours.” See G. Seferis and A. Karandonis, Αλληλογραφία 1931–1960 [Correspondence 1931–1960] (Athens: Kastaniotis, 1988), 178. 10

  Η Αποκάλυψη του Ιωάννη [The revelation of John] (Athens: Ikaros, 1975), 10–11.

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graph we hear the pseudobiblical phrase, “A time to sow and a time to reap,”11 which announces “the time for payment,” implying that, now that the Greek politicians are returning to their homeland, unjust deeds will be punished. Two of these voices, then (that of Makriyannis and the pseudobiblical phrase), prophesy that justice will be done. At the end of the poem we hear the words of the soldier Michalis: “We go in the dark / we move forward in the dark”—words that imply that those who wish to do good are obliged to act without leaders and without compasses, simply following their consciences. It is significant that most of the voices heard in “Last Stop” utter phrases that are primarily oral and only secondarily textual.12 Seferis’s “symphonic” poem Thrush was completed on 21 October 1946, the month that saw the announcement of the foundation of the “Democratic Army of Greece” and the official beginning of the Civil War. Thrush is especially rich in voices—quite apart from that of Odysseus, who is heard throughout, and those of Elpenor and Circe in part 2. At the end of part 2 we hear the voice of a government minister on the radio announcing the beginning of the war. It does not matter whether this is the beginning of the Albanian campaign in 1940, or the German invasion in 1941, or the Civil War: the poet is referring to the successive announcements of war that were heard during those unhappy years. It is no coincidence that the first fragment of the minister’s speech that we hear, “There is no more time,” repeats almost word-for-word the prophetic words of the messengers in the prewar poem “Our Sun.” In part 3 of Thrush the poet-Odysseus makes the last of several descents into Hades to consult the dead. There he hears various voices: first Elpenor, then Tiresias, and finally Socrates. After the Athenian philosopher’s words, which refer to justice, exile, and death, the first section of part 3 culminates in the lines: Countries of the sun yet you can’t face the sun. Countries of man yet you can’t face man. These words do not belong to Socrates himself, but they appear as the conclusion to what he has previously said. The preceding words, “only God knows,” perhaps imply that these two lines, with their prophetic style, belong to some divine voice. At all

11

  This phrase is reminiscent of the following: “A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted” (Eccles. 3:2), and “whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap” (Gal. 6:7). 12

  Michalis’s words (see their origin in the diary entries of 11, 20, and 26 February 1941, in G. Seferis, Μέρες [Days] [Athens: Ikaros, 1986], 4: 23, 28, 30) echo a favorite phrase from St. John of the Cross that Seferis had already quoted in one of his essays: “He who is learning the finest details of an art moves forward in the dark and not with his initial knowledge, because if he did not leave it behind he would be unable to free himself from it” (“Monologue on poetry,” May 1939, in Seferis, Δοκιμές, 1: 154). Seferis had already recorded the same passage in his diary on 31 December 1931: Μέρες [Days] (Athens: Ikaros, 1984), 2: 34. It is characteristic of Seferis that he identifies the process of groping one’s way to artistic creation with groping one’s way through the moral maze.

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events, the transition from mythical characters (Elpenor and Tiresias) to the historic (Socrates) is worth noting.13 In the second section of part 3 of Thrush, however, the voices disappear: “[A] s the years go by […] you converse with fewer voices, / you see the sun with different eyes”;14 in this final section of the poem voice gives way to vision, even though we still hear the words of the Pervigilium Veneris: “[W]hoever has never loved will love”—“in the light,” adds Seferis. In Logbook III, by contrast, voices abound, as Seferis watches the wound of Cyprus fester because of the persistent refusal of the British government to grant the right of self-determination to the Greek Cypriots.15 The first poem of Seferis’s Cyprus collection, Αγιάναπα, Α΄ (Ayanapa I), represents a farewell to the Odyssean Nekyia. Here the poet-Odysseus realizes that during his successive visits to Hades over the years he has been unable to hear the voices of the dead, but has seen them instead. The voices he has encountered in Hades have proved to be unsatisfactory.16 At the fishing village of Ayanapa in Cyprus he sees, as if for the first time, the light of reality. (Compare the words from the immediately preceding poem, Thrush, which I quoted earlier.) From now on the poet ceases to descend to Hades to consult the dead; instead, the voices of the dead now come to him unbidden, in this world.17

13

  Roderick Beaton, George Seferis (Bristol: Bristol Classical Press, 1991), 46, points out that while in his later poetry Seferis “is still seeking communication with earlier periods of Greek history, he is now doing it primarily through the written record, rather than through the primitive vehicle of myth.”

14

  On this point compare “you gaze at the sun, then you’re lost in darkness,” and “you see them in the sun, behind the sun” in the same section of this poem. 15

  Cf. the words of G. P. Savvidis, “Μια περιδιάβαση” [An excursion], in Για τον Σεφέρη [For Seferis] (Athens: Konstantinidis and Mihalas, 1961), 393: “It is, I think, worth noting how many otherworldly voices, how many whispers, how many disembodied or fleeting presences haunt every page of this collection.” Savvidis goes on to list the titles of ten out of the seventeen poems of the collection in which such voices or presences make themselves known. It is significant that in part 3 of Thrush the voices of the dead are described as “whispers,” just as in some of the poems of Logbook III.

16

  Giorgos Giorgis, Ο Σεφέρης περί των κατά την χώραν Κύπρον σκαιών [Seferis on the mischievous events ion the land of Cyprus] (Athens: Smili, 1991), 114–15, implies indirectly that when Seferis refers to the voices of the dead, he means the reading of texts. 17

 In Μέρες [Days], vol. 7 (Athens: Ikaros, 1990), 43 (diary entry of 28 February 1957), after describing his wandering through the streets of the New York neighborhood where his dead brother Angelos had lived, he likens his visit to his childhood home at Skala Vourlon in Asia Minor in 1950 to a “descent into Hades” and concludes that he does not want to repeat this experience.

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The voice that is heard throughout the poem “Ελένη” (Helen) belongs “to some Teucer or other.”18 Teucer’s voice is a rare example of a mythical (as opposed to historical) voice in Seferis’s later poetry. Usually the voices we hear in his Cyprus poems belong either to historical characters such as Neophytos the Cloisterer or to pseudohistorical characters such as the anonymous speakers in “The Demon of Fornication.” Even though Seferis occasionally quotes the ipsissima verba of the renowned dead, more often he places in their mouths either free paraphrases of their words or else words they never spoke at all.19 The poem “Νεόφυτος ο Έγλειστος μιλά–” (Neophytos the Cloisterer speaks–) is one of the two poems of the Cyprus collection that have a dateline (“Enkleistra, November 21, ’53”).20 This rare indication of place and date highlights the topicality of this poem. The other such poem, “Σαλαμίνα της Κύπρος” (Salamis in Cyprus) (“Salamis, Cyprus, November ’53”), also conveys a highly political message. It is no coincidence that Neophytos is a monk, since most of the voices that Seferis appropriates in his mature poetry belong, as I said earlier, to persons whose authority stems from a privileged relationship with the divine. Neophytos’s is another voice from the past that comments allegorically on the present situation. In his poem Seferis has the twelfth–thirteenth-century monk Neophytos speak about the sorry state of Cyprus under Western domination and foretell the punishment of those responsible. According to the Cypriot historian Giorgos Giorgis, in this poem Seferis makes “an associative transition from the first to the second English occupation.”21 At the end of the poem, using a highly ironic anachronism, Seferis has Neophytos appropriate the voice of the English national poet, who, in his turn, speaks through the cynical and disillusioned voice of Othello: “You are welcome, sirs, to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys!”22 —words that, for Seferis, reflect the contempt shown by the British imperialists toward the Cypriot people (i.e., that Cyprus is full of goats and monkeys).

18

  In the first draft of “Helen,” after the epigraph and before the main body of the poem, Seferis wrote: “Teucer, taking his cue from a phrase he heard, speaks.” Compare the title “Neophytos the Cloisterer speaks –” in the same collection. 19

  At the end of “Helen” too we note the reference to messengers, who announce “that so much suffering, so much life, / went into the abyss / all for an empty tunic, all for a Helen.” This poem was partly inspired by the failure of the struggle against Hitler’s evil empire to enable the peoples of the world to gain their freedom from other empires. 20

  In each case the dateline most probably refers to Seferis’s visit to the particular site rather than to the date of composition. 21

 Giorgis, O Σεφέρης, 119.

22

  For this poem, see Katerina Krikos-Davis, Kolokes: A Study of George Seferis’ “Logbook III” (1953–1955) (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1994), 72–84. With these words (using the singular “sir”) Othello welcomes Ludovico, who has brought him the order replacing him with Cassio, whom he believes to be Desdemona’s lover. In a letter written on 26 August 1954 to G. P. Savvidis, Seferis mentions that the Cyprus Tourist Board uses the slogan “You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus…,” and he comments that “the ellipsis makes you complete the line: Goats and

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In a similar way the voice that speaks in “Ο δαίμων της πορνείας” (The Demon of Fornication) comments on current events by paraphrasing the narrative of the fifteenth-century chronicler Machairas—the Cypriot equivalent of Makriyannis as the voice of justice in Seferis’s view.23 “The Demon of Fornication” is Seferis’s most Cavafian poem; according to Georgis, it is also the most political.24 The first 59 lines present, from the viewpoint of the counsellors, the events that culminate in the assassination of King Peter. The counsellors, driven by political expediency, opt not for “truth” (l. 1) or “right” (l. 45), but for “the lesser evil” (l. 46), thus condemning the honest Juan Visconti to death in a dungeon.25 Perhaps Seferis is referring indirectly to the political leaders of Greece who opposed the union of Cyprus with Greece, preferring the independence of the island as “the lesser evil” (according to this interpretation the Catalans with their fleet might represent the British). While the question of references to contemporary reality in Cavafy’s poetry remains contentious, there is no doubt that Seferis’s reading of Cavafy as a political poet helped him to become a political poet himself. At the end of the poem, in order to comment on the fate of King Peter, Seferis abandons the viewpoint of the counsellors and adopts instead the voice of an omniscient narrator. After informing us that the knights killed the king and the Turcopolier cut off “his member and his testicles,” the narrator concludes: “This was the end / appointed for King Peter by the demon of fornication”—words that sanction the just punishment meted out to Peter for his unbridled sexual lust after his discovery of his wife’s infidelity.26 In “Salamis in Cyprus” the poet narrates a visit to the archaeological site of Salamis at a time when, according to Giorgis, “Cyprus was a volcano waiting to erupt.”27 At one point, says the poet, “I heard footsteps on the stones. / I didn’t see faces […] / But the voice, heavy like the tread of oxen.” This is once again the voice of Makriyannis, which is heard in a Seferian paraphrase: Earth has no handles to be shouldered and carried off, monkeys!” See G. Seferis, “Κυπριακές” επιστολές του Σεφέρη 1954–1962 [“Cypriot” letters from Seferis 1954–1962] (Nicosia: Politistiko Idryma Trapezis Kyprou, 1991), 42. 23

  For the similarities between the careers of the civil servant Machairas and the civil servant Seferis, see Georgis, O Σεφέρης, 114–15; for Seferis’s disagreements over their attitude toward the common people, see ibid., 126. 24

  Ibid., 130 and 135.

25

  See Georgis (ibid., 139), who talks about the “political opportunism” and the “political amoralism” of the counsellors (152 and 164). 26

  For this poem, see Krikos-Davis, Kolokes, 84–94. Another instance of the just punishment of a tyrant is to be found in Seferis’s late poem “On Gorse,” where the voice that utters the moral is Plato’s.

27

 Giorgis, O Σεφέρης, 86.

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nor can they, however thirsty they are, sweeten the sea with half a dram of water.28 Here the words of the just general, who had a special relationship with God, are mobilized by Seferis to condemn the unjust attitude of British imperialism towards Cyprus. Makriyannis’s prophetic words are amplified through the addition of fourteen lines by Seferis himself, who places them in the general’s mouth: And these bodies [i.e., the Cypriots], formed of a clay they know not, have souls. They [i.e., the others, the British] gather tools to change them; they won’t succeed […]. Wheat doesn’t take long to ripen, it doesn’t take much time for the yeast of bitterness to rise, it doesn’t take much time for evil to raise its head, and the sick mind emptying doesn’t take much time to fill with madness— These last words echo Machairas.29 The disembodied voice finishes with the phrase “there is an island,” which Seferis quotes from Aeschylus’s Persians.30 Soon afterwards we hear a paraphrase of the prayer of the heroic Royal Navy commander Lord Hugh Beresford, killed by the Germans near Crete in April 1941, who prays God to make us remember the causes of war: “greed, dishonesty, selfishness, / the desiccation of love.” The second of the three causes presented by Beresford (δόλο in the poem) accords entirely with the words of that other heroic soldier, Makriyannis, quoted by Seferis in “Last Stop,” namely, “δόλο και απάτη” (guile and 28

  Makriyannis’s actual words can be rendered as follows: “For the earth has no handles for people to carry it on their backs, neither the strong nor the weak.” The source of the second pair of lines has been located by Xenofon Kokolis, Σεφερικά μιας εικοσαετίας [Twenty years of articles on Seferis] (Thessaloniki: Epikentro, 1993), 346–47: “And what’s he (the king) struggling to achieve? To change the religion of an exhausted and tiny nation—to take half a dram of water and throw it in the sea to sweeten it so he can drink it.” Kokolis adds that Makriyannis is here addressing the “interloping representatives of authority.” 29

  For the connections with Machairas, see Savvidis, “Μια περιδιάβαση,” 373 and 395. Also see Roderick Beaton, Ο Γιώργος Σεφέρης και η χρήση της ιστορίας: Μαχαιράς και Ημερολόγιο καστρώματος, Γ΄ [George Seferis and the use of history: Machairas and Logbook III], in Πρακτικά Συμποσίου “Λεόντιος Μαχαιράς-Γεώργιος Βουστρώνιος, δυο χρονικά της μεσαιωνικής Κύπρου” [Proceedings of the symposium “Leontios Machairas—Georgios Voustronios, two chronicles of medieval Cyprus] (Nicosia: Idryma A. G. Leventi, 1997), 107–11. 30

  “There is an island in front of Salamis” (Persians, 447); the islet in question is Psyttaleia.

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deceit), while the third word, ιδιοτέλεια (translating Beresford’s “selfishness”) recurs frequently in Makriyannis’s memoirs. It is however worth noting that, whereas Beresford himself spoke of “the lack of love,” Seferis speaks of “the desiccation of love,” which echoes the phrase “love’s dried up” in “Santorini,” a poem he wrote twenty years earlier. Here we catch Seferis placing his own words in the mouth of some authoritative dead person, and we see clearly that the prophetic voices that speak in his poetry are not purely external but are closely related to the poet’s inner voice. Toward the end of “Salamis in Cyprus” the poet assures his interlocutor that the messenger moves swiftly and however long his journey, he’ll bring to those who tried to shackle the Hellespont the terrible news from Salamis, and the poem closes with the disembodied “Voice of the Lord upon the waters” repeating the words of Aeschylus and the imaginary Makriyannis: “There is an island.” Thus the voice that speaks within the “apocalyptic and mantic atmosphere” of the poem, as Katerina Krikos-Davis describes it,31 is identified with the omniscient voice of the Lord.32 In this way the poet’s voice, by appropriating the words of the just Makriyannis and the words of God himself speaking through the mouth of David (Psalm 29), acquires “divine sanction.”33 It is significant that in “Salamis in Cyprus” we are dealing with a complex of seven voices (the psalmist David—and, through him, God, Aeschylus, Machairas, Makriyannis, Beresford, and Seferis himself) that are all of one mind. It is also worth noting that the simple Greek Makriyannis takes his place beside other prophets, just as the simple soldier Michalis in “Last Stop” utters words that echo those of the Spanish mystic St. John of the Cross. In the lecture on Makriyannis that he gave in Alexandria and Cairo in May 1943, Seferis describes the Greek general as “the sure messenger of our long and unbroken popular tradition” who speaks “with the voice of many men.”34 We recall Alcuin’s saying, Vox populi, vox Dei. In the same lecture Seferis points to the remarkable similarity between the words that Makriyannis puts in the mouth of a Turkish bey (“We’ll be ruined because we’ve been unjust”35) and Aeschylus’s message in the Persians, that Xerxes was defeated at the battle of Salamis because of his hubris: he was punished by the sea because he had committed the “overweening act” of flagellating it. In this lecture we see clearly some of the first 31

  Krikos-Davis, Kolokes, 147.

32

  Ibid., 140–41.

33

  Ibid., 147. Krikos-Davis connects the “voice of the Lord upon the waters” with the references to the voice that is heard repeatedly by St. John in the Book of Revelation (1: 15, 14: 2, 19: 6; we find the same image in Ezek. 42: 2). 34

 Seferis, Δοκιμές, 1: 261.

35

  Ibid., 257.

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seeds of the poem “Salamis in Cyprus.” At the end of his lecture, having described Makriyannis as “a guide,”36 Seferis says: “The only thing we can do is to converse with companions who are known or unknown to us; to heed the messages.”37 Up to now I have noted that the words of other characters are quoted especially in poems that bear some relation to the contemporary political situation. By contrast, in poems where the political dimension is less obvious, such as the final section of Thrush, “Το φως” (The light), “Έγκωμη” (Engomi), and Three Secret Poems, we are dealing with a vision rather than a voice. Yet the voices that speak in Seferis’s mature poetry don’t always utter prophecies relating to the political situation. We see an instance of this in the earlier poem “Les anges sont blancs,” where Seferis presents Henry Miller speaking in mythological guise. In two poems of Logbook III the voices are reminiscent of the end of the poem “Sacred Way” by Sikelianos, where the poet wonders if there will come “a time / when the souls of the bear and the Gypsy / and my own soul […] will celebrate together,” whereupon “a murmur spread over me […] / and it seemed to say: ‘It will come.’” We find a similar metaphysical prophecy in Seferis’s “Memory II,” written after the death of two men named Angelos: Sikelianos and Seferis’s younger brother. Most of the lines in this poem, which Seferis was inspired to write during his visit to Ephesus in 1950, are uttered by a figure reminiscent of Sikelianos, who appears before the poet as he sits in the ancient theater. When the poet asks the figure whether “the empty shells” of the theaters “will […] be full again some day,” it replies, “Maybe, at the hour of death.” If this prophecy is uttered without any particular certainty (“maybe”) and without any particular optimism (“at the hour of death”), at the end of another poem from the same collection “Μνήμη, Α΄” (Memory I) we hear a voice expressing a more positive message. This message is not uttered entirely by the voice of one of the renowned dead, but rather by the inner voice of the poet, though in the fourth line the poet appropriates the voice of Christ: one morning the resurrection will come, dawn’s light will blossom red as trees glow in spring, the sea will be born again and the wave will again fling forth Aphrodite. We are the seed that dies. I am reminded again of the lecture on Makriyannis that Seferis gave during World War II: “[S]uffering like ours today cannot but lead to a great resurrection.”38 Finally, in the second poem that contains references to Machairas, “Τρεις μούλες” (Three Mules), the poet hears a voice speaking to him in a dream; this is the voice of Oum Haram, aunt of the prophet Mohammed, who died at Larnaca when she fell from her mule during a visit to Cyprus. The description of this voice is similar to 36

  Ibid., 256.

37

  Ibid., 263.

38

 Ibid.

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the description of Makriyannis’s voice in “Salamis in Cyprus”: “I heard the clatter of hooves like silver dinars / and it was as if she was crossing hills of salt / towards Larnaca, astride her mule.” The poet, then, not only hears but sees Oum Haram, who speaks in a whisper about her death. It is significant that the holy woman does not blame the mule that toppled her to her death: I was full of the will of God; a mule can’t bear that much weight; don’t forget, and don’t wrong the mule. As we have seen, in certain poems by Seferis a dead person addresses us with his living voice: such is the case with Teucer in “Helen” and with Neophytos the Cloisterer in the poem of that name. In “Μνήμη, B΄” (Memory II) the Sikelianos-like figure appears to converse with the poet. But even in those cases where the character who speaks is not visibly present, Seferis does not simply quote a passage from a text; on the contrary, in his mature poetry the old text is brought back to life and reactivated as a living voice. When personages from the past speak to us and offer us advice, Seferis implies, we have a duty—both to ourselves and to history—to listen to their voices.

The Thoughts and Uncertainties of Good Citizen Anestis Volemenos1 George Philippou Pierides Translated from the Greek by Donald E. Martin

During the past three years since I retired, cut off from the contacts that bind us all to the world of our colleagues, I have come to feel somehow that I am in a void, without support. For all the thirty-five years I spent as an official at the Bank, I felt that I was solidly based, that I was solid myself, that I had a place in the community (as a bank official), a job waiting for me every day, even if it was only that dull routine at the Bank. I had something to look forward to, as an individual—my career—but also as a member of a group—my colleagues at the Bank—in the periodic musters that we do for one reason or another. But now that I am idle for hours at a time, I remember again the words of Mr. Lekousiotis, that beloved teacher of ours back when we were in high school: “The psychological make-up of every person is a many-sided composite, a serious part of which is the role he plays in the community, either in the profession he practices or in his dedication to an art or whatever he adopts as his social mission.” We loved Mr. Lekousiotis because he stood out as a teacher, for his humanity and for that way he had of stretching the narrow confines of a course subject to relate it to life. If those words of Mr. Lekousiotis remain engraved on my memory, it is because you, my good friend Crito, spoke to me of them many times to emphasize their meaning. I was not particularly interested in wise words and theories. But I would listen to you closely whenever you became engrossed with such matters. And I felt a pride in listening to you reflect so clearly about these subjects just as we are proud of anyone who speaks beautifully and correctly, even if (or precisely because) he does not share our own way of thinking. You were the best student in our class, while I was among the middling. But that does not mean that I was short on brains. If I did not get into literature, as they say, it was because my thoughts work—and work very sharply—upon the practical side of The original Greek text appears in Ο καλός πολίτης και οι άλλοι [The good citizen and the others] (Athens: Nefeli, 2003). Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 293–305.

294 Translated from the Greek by Donald E. Martin

my life, the immediate goal of each instant, a goal that I very often reach. In that area no wise man could think better than I. Is not my success as a citizen of the community a proof of my shrewdness? How many of my fellow students who got into literature are successful today, as I am? And yet even today something beautiful moves me from within when I recall the friendship that bound us, Crito, and I see you standing there, fine, independent; though how prosperous a citizen you succeeded in becoming is a matter that time and distance have kept me from knowing. Actually, you helped me get through my courses and examinations. And I owe you a favor for that. You concentrated entirely upon your school work because you were thirsty for learning and thinking, while for me study was a boring business, a necessity for getting from one level to the next in order finally to get the longed-for diploma. I found what I needed in your friendly efforts to help me, while for your part I think you found satisfaction in helping a friend, a noble intention not often seen. And we were neighbors. We would sit and study together, more often at your house, which was poorer but more peaceful. Tasia, your older sister, would sit at her sewing or take care of things around the house, careful not to disturb our work. Your father, a tailor, was at work during those hours. Your mother was no longer living. My house was anything but peaceful, with Gregoris and Panayotis, my two younger brothers, either playing or fighting and hollering, and my mother yelling even louder when she got after them. My father was a grocer at the market place. As the first-born, I should have been named after my grandfather Grigoris Volemenos, according to tradition. But since I was born on the night of the Resurrection, my pious parents agreed with Father Neophytos to honor the Resurrection of Christ and baptized me Anastasios. Even my grandfather, a stickler about what he considered his privileges, thought it inadvisable to resist the ecclesiastical opinion and gave in. Fortunately, he lived to see his name restored when the second son was born and baptized Grigorios. –

—

Now that my work at the Bank no longer fills up most of my day and I can sit idle by the hour, memories of those years often come flooding through my mind. Vague, fragmented, incomplete memories jostle one another, and something impels me to take up pen and write; perhaps it is the necessity to put them into order, to restore their continuity and shape. And as I write I feel for some unknown reason that I am speaking to you, that it is to you that I am writing, Crito. Perhaps because all these memories are bound up with the role you played in them. I feel that my former self, just as I was back then, is emerging with these memories into the present, obliterating years and distance; that we are returning, you and I and the others, whom I recall one by one such as they

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were back then, returning, not as shadows, but as ourselves, palpable, given a new life. Strange! You left shortly after graduation and went to England to work wherever you could find jobs. At the same time you were studying at some university in London. History. We used to correspond regularly back then. That is how I found out that you married an English girl, Jennifer, and later had a child, a boy. As time passed, our correspondence thinned out, perhaps because we took different paths. At one point I got a letter from you from Melbourne, where you said you were settled and teaching at a school. I gathered that you had become an English-speaking teacher. What else could you do? You had to survive and take care of your family. You did not say that in so many words in your letter. I got it from the wearied tone that I sensed in what you wrote. I hope that I am wrong. –

—

At the Bank I discovered a professional pursuit that I found satisfying in two ways. It put me in with reputable members of society, and it gave me well-grounded hopes that if I pursued a career at the Bank, I would not be long in becoming comfortably welloff; in a position to obtain whatever I pleased and to live well (as in fact it turned out). That is what every sensible person wants most. That and one other thing: to stand out. To stand out from the rest, in his possessions, in the luxury of his house, in the ease with which he spends money and maintains a good life. Often we even call upon God in our prayers to fulfill these desires. (What is not in your interest is to stand out from the rest in the matter of ideas. You will be regarded as unsocial if they see you as thinking differently from them.) After this fine arrangement there remains only to spend your time pleasantly, to fill your free time and your thoughts with whatever suits your natural inclinations, as you see so many men and women of the upper crust doing. One will be a fan of the soccer games or the horse races, another will keep up with the latest fashions, others will socialize at teas and parties, another will play cards, another will be into organized philanthropy, and on and on. Our society offers so many easy ways for the good citizen to kill time, to enjoy a comfortable life, a clear conscience, and sound sleep. And the assurance that everything is going well or, if it isn’t, it will. Even including the persistent struggle to save Cyprus from the Turkish occupation. You will say, what do I contribute to this struggle? Well, of course, I contribute in my own way. I belong to the class of citizens who have to do with the economy. And everyone knows that our economic strength, our economic development is the prop upon which the struggle for vindication leans. And if fortune smiles upon me and I prosper, I am no less patriotic than anyone else. –

—

296 Translated from the Greek by Donald E. Martin

As for me, I became a devotee of the automobile: automobiles in general and my own automobile in particular, to trade in regularly for the newer model. When I was still at the Bank I would frequently spend hours in the morning on some of my days off washing and shining it. I still do when it needs it. But I especially like driving it and knowing that it gleams and stands out as one of the most perfect and most expensive. Of course, I could indulge myself in this satisfaction only after I was making progress at the Bank and commanding an appropriately increasing income. While we are on the subject, the automobile is not just a useful means of transport. If it was just that, they would not have to make it so costly and expensive to keep up. The luxury car is a jewel, as is a beautiful house, with its luxurious furnishings, a jewel that shows good taste and comfortable economic circumstances. –

—

As for my wife Erato, I can say that we live well. We have been married for over twenty-six years, and she has never given me reason to say that I regret my choice, even though I took her with no more dowry than her piano and a number of books. In spite of the difference in our ages (I was thirty-seven and Erato twenty-four when we were married), she has never shown signs of the flightiness often characteristic of young women. Nor have I any reason to be dissatisfied with the way she runs the household, her carefulness always to appear well dressed and affable, as befits a lady of the house in our class. However, I have a vague impression that she gives only a part of herself to her role as lady of the house, though she plays it with all proper care and graciousness. She has a strange way of being and not being present when we are alone or with company. It is as if the other part of her is concentrated somewhere else; I know not where. What can that thing be which she feels the lack of or which she used to have that got away? She did not have anything. She used to take care of herself and her mother by giving piano lessons to young beginners. Now she has whatever any sensible woman would want: a beautiful house, financial security, a friendly circle of acquaintances in the upper crust. She has never indicated any objection to the way I manage our life and well-being or to my automotive hobby. And yet she would sit right there next to me in the car and make it subtly clear that she was not really there, that she was not sharing in my pleasure. In the first years of our married life she would occasionally attempt to persuade me to read some book that she was reading and thought important, or to go to a concert or a lecture. To make her happy I would make the attempt to read, or I would go to some cultural event. But how could I go on doing that? I was bored with the reading and all the rest. I did not say that to her, but of course she knew it. Later came pregnancy and birth. Erato dedicated herself entirely to the child, the only one we ever had, Vathoula. And the only other concern she had thereafter for all those years, as I said, was her housekeeping and social duties.

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But I see that our daughter has my own down-to-earth character. She likes living well. She is beautiful, and she knows it. (Fortunately, she got her beauty from her mother: fair skin, brown hair, svelte figure, almond-shaped green eyes.) The year before last, when she was twenty-two, she took part in a beauty contest, but came in second. That put her way out of sorts. Her mother tried to talk her around, but when she saw her persistence, she backed off. But there was no going with us to the beauty pageant festivities. That was the only occasion she refused to go anywhere with me. For several days after that episode Vathoula was bitter and not at all nice to her mother. But even then Erato did not lose her composure. Vathoula is gone now. For a year she has been in Italy, where she is studying commercial art. She plans to go into advertising. She picked this area and her future career by herself. I think it is a good choice. Advertising is a wide-open and lucrative profession for anyone, man or woman, who has the means to open his own office and is sharp enough to steer at will the shopping tastes of the consuming public. Erato, for her part, tried to suggest something else to her daughter. Painting, yes, she said, good, very good, but real painting, real art. I know, mama, Vathoula answered; what you are calling real painting can be great art, but you have to dedicate yourself to it without being sure of success. I belong to my generation, and I prefer my security. –

—

Now that we are alone, Erato and I, we continue to live well and harmoniously in the way that I described. I have stopped wondering about the “other” Erato, with that closed-up self that seems absent when we are together. After all, as long as she does her duties and behaves properly, why should I worry myself about what appears to be her mental absence? Perhaps it is not the way I think it is. And anyway, I do my duty and more on her behalf, seeing to it that she lacks for nothing. She even has a maid every other day for the housework, in spite of the high wages charwomen demand. Naturally, the years have begun to weigh upon us both. But I appear—and feel— younger than my age. I usually spend the morning at my club, drive my car as before, drink a couple of whiskeys when we entertain or are entertained; in short, I continue to live my life as well as I can. Erato looks older than she is. Still, she has not left off sitting down at the piano once in a while. In the evenings she usually spends her free time reading or listening to something from her collection of music on cassette tapes. She plays it softly, and with the dining room between us, it does not bother me in the big living room where I watch TV. Rarely does she join me, and then only for as long as the program she wanted to see lasts. Why she picks that particular program off the daily TV menu only she knows. With the exception of children’s programs, which I do not watch, anything, or almost anything, that comes on the screen is for me an effortless way of killing the evening hours before bedtime. You sit comfortably in your easy chair and the little screen serves up in color and in substantial quantities whatever you want: love stories, travelogues, heroic exploits, crime, adventures, wars, and

298 Translated from the Greek by Donald E. Martin

on and on. And all this without tiring your mind. Television does your thinking for you. I am especially interested in watching broadcasts of automobile rallies, local or foreign. Even the advertisements are interesting when they show something new and improved: cars, furniture, appliances, etc., which one can buy, so long as there is money enough to replace the old one. Erato has two friends of her own age who occasionally come over to visit, now one, now the other. They are, she said to me, fellow students from back in high school, with whom she shares intellectual interests and unforgettable memories. So she said, rose from her chair, went over to the open window, stood there a few moments looking out, came back, sat down again in the same chair, rested her hands on her knees, and remained there hunched over. She smiled an afflicted smile. “And dreams,” she murmured as if talking to herself. Her usual way of being there and elsewhere at the same time. When Erato mentions unforgettable memories, she means the uprising and struggle of 1955–59, in which she was somehow involved, then a high school student. She does not speak often about that time of her life, back when, in the enthusiasm of her youth, she took part in demonstrations, handed out fliers, and probably carried out other assignments, and, like so many other boys and girls, encountered dangers and coarse treatment at the hands of the English military.… As I was then a good deal older and was working at the Bank, I looked upon these things from the outside, as did most people of my generation, some with empathy, some with pride, some with anxiety. But those kids were in the thick of things. They lived through them passionately. And they followed from up close the fighters who were only a bit older than they were, practically of the same age, and they saw the sacrifices that many of them made. And as for what she means by “dreams”… As if I didn’t have dreams myself! We all did—each one according to what he wanted out of life—back when we had not yet confronted reality. Some of us came to our senses and forgot our dreams, others not. They stayed in limbo. It is just that which I do not understand in Erato, who in other respects I see is a sensible person. Why does she not wholeheartedly get into the happy life I offer her? Now and then I worry when I remember that we married for love. I cannot say how much she loves me anymore, but I do love her. –

—

It was natural for us, too, to dream; I mean us fellow students in high school. This coming together in the first flowering of youth is for every generation the first experience of shared friendship—and the only one free from cares. And each one of them who made up the group would guard it as an ideal in his memory. But, come now! This ideal picture is only an illusion, an imaginary and lost paradise. Even then, before we scattered, each taking his own road, the harmony that united us (in spite of our wrangling over ideas and theories) was based on our ignorance of reality. For us at that time reality was what books told us. And the books did not always tell us

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the bitter truth, the truth that one sees when he starts fighting and compromising in order to stay alive. What reality did each of us emerge into and how did we confront it when we came out of the warmth of student life and took the road carved by circumstances? I never gave it a thought for as long as I was occupied with my work at the Bank. Only now that my thoughts have set out to unfold on their own has the question come up. And I am at a loss when I see that I am in a position to answer it for but few members of that group. Among the photographs in my drawer there is one of us in our last year in high school. In the front row, seated in chairs, are our teachers, some with feet planted on the ground, others with legs crossed. In the middle is our principal, wearing his permanently austere expression (I cannot remember him ever smiling). Behind the teachers, standing in three rows, each of the back ones higher than the one in front of it, were the students, all twenty-three of us, all male (in those days the schools were divided into the boys’ and the girls’ schools). I look them over one by one, their faces and expressions, recalling the names of each, his character, his manner, all that was needed to sketch a person connected with my school years. But out of the twenty-three posing in this photograph, each of whom thought that our friendships would last for the rest of our lives, how many can I trace down to the present? I study their faces one by one and name off Crito, Pieros, Nikitas, Miltos, Kotsos, Giosifis … that’s all. I do not know where any of the others is or what he is doing now. I did not expect there to be so few … I know perfectly well that forty-five years have gone by since then, but I have never given them much thought, and it seems only yesterday. Now I understand that forty-five years ago is not yesterday. And I reckon that all these fellow students of mine, whom I have preserved unchanged in my memory, just as they appear in the photograph, are now over sixty—those who are alive at all! For a while after graduation, a short while for some, longer for others, we had stayed close and accessible, even if we saw one another but rarely. Then fate took them one by one out of our circle onto other roads, to other places, where they would keep the rest of us deep in their memories just as we appear in the photograph. –

—

I was in charge of the Department of Deposits at the Bank. I was sitting at my desk behind the counter where the other employees of the Department wait on the customers. While busy doing paperwork and signing documents, I heard a woman’s voice call out to me: Anestis! I turned and whom do I see standing on the other side of the counter? Lovely Tasia, your sister, Crito. She had just come in and was taking her place in line. She was not young any longer, but her face, with its normal features, its calm, open expression and laughing gold-brown eyes, was preserved almost unchanged. Tasia was not beautiful, but her good nature, mirrored in her face, made everyone like her. She was wearing a grey dress, no jewelry, hair cut short, as many women who worked with their hands normally wore it. I was torn by two opposite feelings. I was pleased to see

300 Translated from the Greek by Donald E. Martin

Tasia and at the same time I was annoyed that a woman dressed so commonly called to me so familiarly in front of the customers and my subordinates. I got up from my desk and went over to her, I on one side of the counter and she on the other. “I’m happy to see you, Tasia,” I said. “I’m happy to see you, too, Anestis,” she said. “I didn’t know you worked here. I came to open an account to put my savings in. How are you, Anestis? It’s been a long time.” I was just as eager to chat with Tasia, to find out what was new with her, but I could not forget my position, dally about the business of the Bank, and stand around shooting the breeze with her. I found a solution. “Are you still at the same place?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, “I’m there with my husband.” “I’ll come over one day for a chat.” “Come in the evening,” she said. “Both of us work during the day.” I handed her over to the teller and returned to my place. I indeed went over to Tasia’s one evening. I met her husband there. They lived at the same common level as before and I gathered that they got along well thanks to Tasia’s ability to accept with good humor the circumstances of her life and to create a cheerful ambience for them. From the little she told me I gathered that they had gone through difficult times after her father’s death, but she did not hesitate to find work in a garment factory, first ironing then sewing on the machines, where she has worked ever since. I was impressed by her husband. I believe that they are a good match. He is a farmer, a refugee from Morphou. His name is Vasilis. Starting from scratch he set up an independent landscaping firm here in town: taking care of the gardens around private homes whose owners, usually well-off, have either no time or no inclination to do this work. He equipped himself with the appropriate tools, hoes, spades, clippers, saws; he had a phone installed, put an ad in the papers, and set out with the first call he got. “And did it work out well?” I asked. “Yes, it’s going well,” he answered. “Now I’m working almost every day and make a good living.” He was speaking quietly and looking straight at me with his grey eyes, shaded by thick black brows. Tall, lean, and sun-burned, he sat with his hands, two great, sinewy bands, resting on his knees. “Do you ever think about Morphou, your family home?” I asked. “That’s always on my mind,” he answered. “But what can I do but hope that we’ll get back. No matter what the situation you’re in, the first thing you have to do is to get a livelihood.” “Do you have brothers and sisters?” “A sister, widowed in the first year of her marriage. Her husband was killed in the invasion. He was in the army. She’s with our parents now in a refugee settlement.”

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And he said these things calmly, without raising his voice, his hands untroubled on his knees. I was impressed. –

—

As I said before, I am in touch with very few of my old school friends. Not because I want it that way; it turned out quite contrary to my expectations. It is life, harsh reality, and not ourselves, which marks out the road each of us will take. We scattered. And most of them are now beyond my own horizon—as I am beyond theirs. But I cannot say that even the few of us who occasionally meet do so in the same climate of fellowship we once knew. The roads we followed, the ambitions, the circumstances, all the many details that compose the inner horizon of each, were different. –

—

Pieros was one of the best students in our class. A shortish, slight fellow with large brown eyes and thick brown hair, he was dedicated to his studies, clumsy in sports and games. His clumsiness did not raise him up in our esteem, but we loved him because he was honest and guileless, so much so that he was gullible to a laughable degree. We thought he was, in a funny sort of way, a good and serviceable fellow. After high school he attended the College of Education for the two years then required, and came out a teacher. I did not come across him again until only the year before last, after we had both retired. But I used to hear about him from Aunt Myrto. She was my father’s cousin and unbelievably competent for a woman that fat and immobile. She succeeded in being well informed about what every one of her acquaintances was doing and going through; she knew exactly what was happening in every household. But she knew especially about Pieros, because she got him his wife. Aunt Myrto was absolutely set on the notion of finding spouses for the people she liked. She considered it a meritorious act. At one point she met Ismene, a girl who worked in sales at a clothing salon. She was a bit older, with a lovely dark complexion and a slender figure. She took good care of herself, knew how to dress tastefully, even though—or perhaps because—she had begun to fear that she might never get married. Once or twice she confided to Aunt Myrto her uneasiness and her secret hope that a good man would be found to make her his wife.… he would be her pride and glory. As was natural (and Ismene knew it) Aunt Myrto laid her plans for a meritorious act. She knew Pieros and was aware that he was a good person, eager to do the right thing, to help others. And she touched precisely that string of his heart to help Ismene and make her his devoted spouse. And good Pieros, touched not only by Aunt Myrto’s words but also by Ismene’s beauty and modesty, married her.

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But Ismene was not long in showing her other side. She praised the Lord, but only because he helped her find a husband. Then she began to hen-peck Pieros to have her way in everything. And good Pieros never thought for a moment that he might fight back. He just left himself in her power. That is the story of Pieros, as Aunt Myrto recounted it to me when I told her that I chanced upon Pieros after so many years and that I was struck by his appearing so aged, both physically and mentally. “His difficulties are eating away at the fellow,” Aunt Myrto informed me. “But truth be told, he has himself to blame, too. The man who gets involved with a stubborn woman has two ways to deal with her. One way is to pay no attention to her. The other is to come on stronger than she does and knock the stubbornness out of her. Our good Pieros could do neither. Instead, he buckled under and now eats his heart out because he did so. For as long as he taught, he found solace in his work. Everyone says he was a good teacher and loved his work. But now he doesn’t have that consolation and he’s ended up as you see him. Who’s to blame for him?” It never entered Myrto’s mind for an instant that she might be to blame herself, when she applied all her expertise to get Pieros married. –

—

Nikitas was the opposite of Pieros. The only son of a wholesale cloth merchant, ill-mannered, he respected nothing and no one. His whims were his only guiding principle. He was among the last in the class and he did not care. Somewhat short and stocky, with a square jaw and curly hair, he would carry his points by shouting more loudly that anyone else, even though he did not usually have the slightest idea of what the conversation was about. After high school his father sent him to London to one of the trade schools that they call “institutes,” where he took a two-year course in finance and returned equipped with relevant certification for continuing more effectively his economic studies in the business, under the guidance of his father. Now he directs the business (his father died long ago). He is a very capable wheeler and dealer, very rich, and, naturally, passes for very clever, even though his mental capacity—what he has of it—does not go beyond the confines of his business. He has a private office, closed off with glass paneling, in one of the corners of his gigantic warehouse. Two picture frames hang on the wall, one containing a photograph of his father, the founder of the enterprise, and the other his “diploma” from the London Economics Institute. I go once in a while to see him, just to pass the time. His conversation is pleasant, because he is well informed about all the shenanigans and gossip of the market place. And whenever he tells you something he thinks is funny, he breaks out in a great guffaw.

The Thoughts and Uncertainties of Good Citizen Anestis Volemenos

–

303

—

Miltos was our poet. He was writing verses even back in our high school years. He was a regular borrower from the literature section of the school library, taking out a book and returning it in two or three days only to get another. One would have thought that he was in a hurry lest he leave one unread. I could never understand that appetite for books. Sure, reading your lessons is necessary to get your grades, to pass your exams, but to read just to be reading—that I do not understand. Nevertheless, in spite of the fact that most everyone in our class had interests differing from those that occupied Miltos, we liked him because he was friendly to everyone, and he was never swell-headed about his poetical proficiency or the praises he got from the teachers or his good grades. Even his appearance—skinny, with sparse, light brown hair and big, blue, optimistic eyes—made him likeable. He went to Athens to study literature, but lasted only three years. He had to do without to make it that far. His father, a supervisor at the public works, had had a stroke and was not in any position to send him the little money he did send. He came back, then, and has been living ever since, into his sixties, giving private lessons to the weaker students at the high school. In time he found a second occupation as a proofreader for a daily newspaper. A difficult life. Yet he remained just as he was back in high school, head in the clouds, trusting in humanity, as he says, and writing poems. (From what I hear, he is one of our most distinguished poets.) We see one another now and then, early in the morning, when I chance to be out in my garden, as I often am at that hour, and he is out for a walk. The apartment building where he lives is not far from my house. We stand around talking, sometimes on opposite sides of the garden fence, sometimes in the garden. We have friendly talks, but we each preserve our own way of thinking and of living. I am satisfied with myself and my way of life, and I would not exchange it for the way Miltos lives. What can he earn from his two jobs? Chicken feed. And for him to have a wife and a daughter Vathoula’s age! And yet he seems carefree, or so I gather from seeing him always calm and thinking about things unrelated to his personal circumstances. I picture him as dedicated to something he believes true and beautiful, unheeding of the very human instinct of self-interest. But in spite of the fact that I am sure his head is in the clouds, I like and admire Miltos. Is that not strange? –

—

Kotsos was full of life, a non-stop mover and shaker and general hell-raiser. He liked to be in charge and was almost always the one to speak up for the class whenever there was to be some showdown. He studied law, went into politics, and became a leading political figure. I follow him in the newspaper and watch him on TV whenever he happens to be on. He is, in fact, an able politician and a good speaker, especially when he forgets

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that he does not believe what he is saying. With his deep, official-sounding, somewhat gravelly voice and the way he has of emphasizing his words by flailing the air with his fist, he persuades you to believe what he says, since it is always in agreement with what you want to hear. –

—

Giosifis, nicknamed “Arab” from his darkish complexion, was always first in the religion classes. When his father sent him off to Athens to study, we thought he would take up theology. I have not had any communication with him since then. Our relations have never been cordial. I used to be annoyed by his dedication to whatever had anything to do with religion, and by his ability to look good in church with his show of zeal. Not that I am not in sympathy with him: I, too, think that every devout man with any sense knows that it is to his advantage to make a show of his devotion. Giosifis gets to me in this matter because he is better at it than I am. I was puzzled, then, when I found out that he returned as a doctor, and a specialist at that. After he graduated in Athens, he did two years of post-graduate work in a university in London on a fellowship underwritten by some Christian brotherhood. Back here he married very richly, thrived in his profession, built a palatial clinic, and got rich. Even though I still cannot stand him, I admit that he is a very competent man. –

—

A number of others stayed here to live, but since then we have met only on rare occasions, and I do not know much about their lives. Things change and circumstances arise for each of us which willy-nilly alienate us from each other as if we were not living in the same place. Minas entered public service initially under the English, and continued under the democracy. He went far, up to the level of director. Now he is retired, too. Tasos was in insurance. Now he is a representative of a large English insurance company and earns a lot of money. He even owns race horses. Louis, cute little Louis, who loved music and took piano lessons from our high school days, kept on playing until he passed the examinations that take place here in the British Council. He founded a music conservatory which he is still director of. They say that even today, at his age, he is still a stylish fellow. He never married. He lives with his mother, who is over eighty. For most of us Pambos was nothing more than a dreamer. He milked his ideas out of his favorite books, which he would read and then speak beautifully about social justice, equality, and other such things.

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He entered the work force as soon as he got out of high school, but did not apply his common sense. He did not think to stick to one job and get ahead. He just wasted his time writing and publishing in the press comments and polemics to defend his socialist ideas or to attack whatever seemed shady to him. Finally, he became a reporter and continues writing his articles up to the present with the same spirit and the same devotion. The only thing that he has acquired after so many years of work is the good reputation he enjoys among the common folk and part of the intellectua1 set. But if you looked at the matter dispassionately, how many of the commoners or the intellectua1s who agree with his ideas would be willing to overlook their personal interests or even to stop pursuing and working for them to the exclusion of all else? They all proclaim together their esteem for whatever contributes to the good of all, but individually each one sees to it that he comes off as well as possible. –

—

I study the photograph again and find it strange. I have no clue about the rest of them, where their lot placed them, where their roads took them, what they look like now. It’s impossible for me to imagine them as different from what I see right here in the photo, as if the forty years gone by had not existed for them. And strangest of all is that the disappearance of the passing years suddenly brings me, too, back to that time, to recreate it in my mind, or rather in my heart, to relive it as though it were yesterday, and to want it back. The good part is that such seizures of the imagination come over me but rarely and do not last long. I find my solid self again. And I am puzzled: what can it be that now and again compels me—me, the practical, successful man—to pine after those times when I was still young and green, and unaware of what I wanted. Here I am, satisfied with myself and with my life, and yet suddenly willy-nilly a cloud of vague feelings moves inside me, feelings I have long ceased to bother with. I am puzzled, but I do not find an answer. 1988

The Cyprus Question: International Politics and the Survival of the Republic of Cyprus Van Coufoudakis

This essay is dedicated to Theo Stavrou, a colleague, a friend, a historian, and a Cypriot par excellence. From his position at the University of Minnesota he promoted the study of Greece and Cyprus in the academy and the community. He taught courses, edited journals and books, and organized conferences and lectures on topics of interest to Hellenism. These activities have provided a most valuable service to those with interests in Modern Greek Studies. Moreover, Theo Stavrou contributed to the development of the University of Cyprus, the first public university to be established in postindependence Cyprus. For these and for his many other contributions we owe Theo Stavrou a word of thanks. This essay is about his homeland, Cyprus. It addresses the international dimensions of the problems that beset sovereign Cyprus and threaten its independent existence and cultural heritage. –

—

In 1959, the governments of Great Britain, Turkey, and Greece arrived at a series of agreements providing for the independence of Cyprus from British colonial rule. The London and Zurich agreements ended a four-year-long Greek Cypriot uprising against the colonial authorities. However, the anticolonial struggle was complicated by the Cold War interests of the superpowers, by political conditions in Greece and Turkey, by rivalries between the two countries, by the relations of each of the Cypriot communities to their respective motherlands, and by Britain’s divide-and-rule tactics. The London and Zurich agreements on Cyprus provided the rigid framework on which the constitution of the Republic of Cyprus was based. Eminent constitutional experts characterized the Cypriot constitution as unique and unprecedented1 because of the unusual veto powers reserved for the Turkish Cypriot minority and the difficulty of amending the constitution. Confidential American diplomatic as1

  Thomas Ehrlich, “Cyprus, the ‘Warlike Isle’: Origins and Elements of the Current Crisis,” Stanford Law Review 18, 6 (1966): 1021–98; also, see Stanley A. de Smith, The New Commonwealth and Its Constitutions (London: Stevens and Sons, 1964). Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth: Essays in Honor of Theofanis G. Stavrou. Lucien J. Frary, ed. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2017, 307–28.

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sessments2 accurately pointed to the likelihood of deadlock and long-term instability in the new republic because of these complicated agreements. This was indeed the case. Minority obstructionism3 led President Makarios of Cyprus to propose thirteen constitutional amendments late in 1963, which were rejected first by the government of Turkey and then by the Turkish Cypriots, who promptly withdrew from the government. By December 1963, intercommunal violence had erupted on Cyprus, threatening the stability of southeastern Europe and NATO’s cohesion, and opening the door to possible Soviet involvement. In view of the limitations imposed on the Cypriot republic by its guarantor powers, the government of Cyprus sought to consolidate its independence and sovereignty through its participation in international organizations and by actively maintaining diplomatic relations around the world. Thus, the crisis that erupted on Cyprus in December 1963 set in motion a number of policies whose fundamental assumptions are still affecting the evolution of this perpetuated dispute. One such policy is that of the internationalization of the Cyprus dispute. The government of Cyprus saw the United Nations and other regional organizations as a means of upholding the legitimacy of the Cypriot republic and its government and of safeguarding its sovereignty and territorial integrity, especially in the aftermath of the withdrawal of the Turkish Cypriots from the government of the republic, and Turkey’s military threats against Cyprus. In contrast, de-internationalization was the policy thrust of the United States, whose preference was for quiet diplomacy through NATO, or through a Greco-Turkish dialogue. Washington sought to protect and promote American and Turkish interests in the dispute,4 because Washington valued Turkey’s strategic importance in the region. Washington and other influential actors viewed the Cyprus problem through the prism of international and regional politics, thus distorting the internal dimensions of the dispute. This has been a constant in the evolution of the Cyprus problem. Since the independence of Cyprus in August 1960, successive Cypriot governments, against overwhelming odds, have had as their primary policy priority the maintenance of the sovereignty and territorial integrity of the republic and the recognition of its government. Thus, the issue of the continuity of the Republic of Cyprus has been another constant in the evolution of this dispute. From December 1963 to the 1974 Turkish invasion, the republic survived despite threats to its existence which included the threat of a Turkish invasion, Turkish Cypriot secessionist activities, and the destabilization of the Cyprus government by the Greek junta. There were also diplomatic initiatives by the United States, NATO, Greece, and Turkey that sought

2

  United States Department of State, Bureau of Intelligence and Research, Intelligence Report No. 8047, “Analysis of the Cyprus Agreements,” 14 July 1959. 3

  On this, see Stanley Kyriakides, Cyprus: Constitutionalism and Crisis Government (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1968).

4

  A classic example is the rejection of UN mediator Galo Plaza’s 1965 report. This report is one of the most perceptive documents on the Cyprus problem.

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the limitation, if not also the termination, of the independence of Cyprus. These initiatives were justified as serving Western strategic interests in the region.5 Under the urgency of the situation a UN peacekeeping force (UNFICYP) was placed on the island in March 1964, under the control of the Security Council. Although significantly reduced in size, the UNFICYP remains on Cyprus to this day. Peacemaking complemented the UN’s peacekeeping activities under the good offices of the secretary-general. However, UN peacemaking initiatives were systematically rejected or undermined when they contradicted Washington’s objectives.6 In seeking a settlement of the Cyprus problem acceptable to Turkey, three other tactics were used: (1) the destabilization of the government of Cyprus by the junta ruling Greece (1967–74); (2) the fostering of Turkish Cypriot secessionist activities in Cyprus through the formation of Turkish Cypriot enclaves, funded and armed by Turkey; and (3) the threat of force against the sovereign island state. This included the bombing of Cyprus by the Turkish Air Force in the summer of 1964, and the threat of a Turkish invasion in June 1964 and November 1967. Washington was instrumental in stopping both invasions. In the 1964 incident, President Lyndon B. Johnson, apprehensive of Moscow’s warning to Turkey and reluctant to face another confrontation with the Soviet Union in the aftermath of the Cuban Missile Crisis, delivered an “ultimatum” to Prime Minister Inonu. It should be noted, however, that, as Dean Acheson’s 1964 Geneva initiatives showed, Washington disagreed not with Turkey’s objectives in Cyprus, but only with its tactics, which risked broader American security interests. The 1967 American intervention also took place at a time of regional instability, following a devastating Arab-Israeli war. Moreover, the concessions made by the Greek junta to Cyrus Vance appeared to satisfy Turkey. Why then did Washington and NATO allow Turkey to invade Cyprus in 1974? While the coup from Athens provided the rationalizations for the invasion, the absence of a Russian threat gave Henry Kissinger the opportunity to permanently change the negotiating balance of power in Cyprus and to satisfy Turkey’s long-standing demands on the island. The post-1972 detente with the Soviet Union and the Kissinger-Gromyko understandings about regional superpower interests made Soviet-American relations very different from those of 1964. Kissinger assessed the role of the Soviet Union during the 1974 crisis in terms of what the Russians did not do. Moreover, contrary to his attribution of the 1974 crisis to the Watergate paraly-

5

  Following the constitutional crisis of December 1963, Washington and London considered various peacekeeping and peacemaking options through NATO, through the replacement of President Makarios, and even through limited Turkish military actions in Cyprus. The chief architect of these policies was George Ball. Dean Acheson’s Geneva initiatives in 1964 and the Greek-Turkish “Lisbon Consensus” of June 1971 were additional examples of American-inspired attempts to limit or even terminate Cypriot independence. 6

  As in the case of the 1965 Galo Plaza report and the mediation initiative by Secretary-General U-Thant in 1971.

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sis,7 Kissinger had far greater opportunity to manipulate events without White House supervision. With nearly 38 percent of its territory under foreign occupation and its legitimate president in virtual exile, Cyprus had reached another fork on its tortuous road to independence. The Greek-sponsored coup of 15 July 1974 not only gave Turkey the opportunity to attain a long-standing goal, it also destroyed the agreement reached between the two communities on 13 July 1974 on the issues that had divided them since 1963. Needless to say, Rauf Denktash had consented to virtually all “thirteen points” that had triggered the 1963 constitutional crisis. In the aftermath of the Turkish invasion, Cypriot diplomats, with support from various foreign governments, the US Congress, and the Greek-American community, were able to gain Washington’s reluctant recognition of the continuity of the Republic of Cyprus and its government since the 1963 constitutional crisis. Even though Cyprus won this diplomatic battle, with all its important consequences for the long-term settlement of the dispute, this issue remains a major point of leverage for American diplomats. This is especially true in the aftermath of the 1983 Turkish Cypriot Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI) and the creation of the so-called Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus in the occupied areas. Another constant in the evolution of the Cyprus problem involves the relations between Athens and Nicosia. Since the last quarter of the nineteenth century, Cyprus has been an issue affecting popular sentiment in Greece and, consequently, Greek politics. Cypriots consider themselves culturally and historically to be part of the Greek nation despite the island’s geographical distance from the Greek mainland and the unique characteristics of Cypriot culture. Successive Greek governments confronted the dilemma of the domestic political pressures created by each phase of the Cyprus issue, which was ripe for exploitation by Greek opposition parties, and in the post–World War II period complicated Greece’s pro-Western foreign and security policy. When forced to choose, Greece relegated the issue of Cyprus to a secondary priority. This trend persists until today, further providing a source of policy continuity.8 The Cyprus problem caused the downfall of many Greek governments. Thus, in contrast to the total dependence of the Turkish Cypriots on Turkey, especially prior to the last decade of the twentieth century, Greek Cypriots, despite their dependence on Greece, were able to influence Greek policies and politics. In turn, Greece, often acting as the Ethnikon Kentron (the national center of Hellenism), attempted to impose its policies on the Cypriots. This reached a climax when the junta ruling Greece (1967–74) destabilized and eventually overthrew the Cyprus government in a coup that provided Turkey with the pretext to invade Cyprus. The bitter aftermath of the invasion and the inability of the newly restored democratic Greek government to stop the second phase of the Turkish invasion in August 1974 brought relations be7

  Henry Kissinger, Years of Renewal (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1999), 192–239, 330–43.

8

  The latest examples are the decisions surrounding the deployment of the S-300 anti-aircraft missile system in December 1998, and the impact of the Greek-Turkish rapprochement on the current phase of negotiations on Cyprus.

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tween Greece and Cyprus to a new level of maturity. Each side gained a better understanding of the other’s limitations and commitments. Political elites in both countries viewed the invasion and occupation of Cyprus not as an isolated event but as part of the broader threat posed by Turkey’s revisionist policies in the Aegean and in Thrace. This required coordination, consultation, and cooperation between the two countries in diplomatic, economic, and military matters. Athens, publicly at least, defined its role as a supportive one, while policy decision-making was centered in Nicosia. A final element of continuity characteristic of the Cyprus problem has been the consistency of Turkish policy and its adaptation to the evolving international environment. The 1959 Zurich and London agreements formalized Turkey’s position as a party of equal interest in Cyprus. While Turkey adopted a strict constructionist view of the Cypriot constitution and of the degree of the independence of the new republic, it liberally interpreted its role as a guarantor power, especially following the December 1963 constitutional crisis. Turkey argued that the right of intervention under the Treaty of Guarantee included the right of unilateral military intervention in Cyprus, even though such an interpretation was in conflict with the UN Charter. Turkey also maintained that the Turkish Cypriots were one of the two co-founder communities and not a minority in the Republic of Cyprus. This is why it promoted their maximum autonomy and opposed any limitation of the veto powers granted to the Turkish Cypriots by the Zurich and London agreements. Following the 1963 constitutional crisis, Turkey continued financing, arming, training, and directing Turkish Cypriot politics, and managing the movement of Turkish Cypriots into enclaves not under government control. These actions in turn, along with the various schemes for the partition of Cyprus, enhanced the suspicions of the Cypriot government as to the motivations of Turkey and its surrogates on the island. The issue of the degree of Turkish Cypriot autonomy confounded intercommunal negotiations from 1968 to 1974, because these demands were seen as a step towards the partition of the island. The fear of partition affected Greek Cypriot negotiating behavior even prior to independence, and has remained a constant of Cypriot policy since 1960.9 In the aftermath of the Turkish invasion and the escalating Greco-Turkish confrontation, Turkey lost interest in a traditional-type partition of Cyprus, as this would have extended Greece’s border to Turkey’s southern coast. Instead, Turkey shifted its position in favor of a loose confederation that would maintain a weakened Republic of Cyprus under Turkey’s hegemonial control. The 1974 Turkish Invasion and Its Aftermath Turkey’s 1974 invasion of Cyprus, the ethnic cleansing that was carried out by the Turkish army, and the occupation of nearly 38 percent of the republic’s territory not 9

  The issue of partition was first raised in 1955 in discussions between Greece and Turkey, and the idea was endorsed by the United States. Britain’s Macmillan plan, proposed in the closing days of colonial rule, would have partitioned Cyprus between Greece and Turkey. The idea of partition reappeared in various forms under the 1964 Acheson plan, the Toumbas-Caglayangil 1966 protocol, and under the Greek-Turkish “Lisbon Consensus” of 1971.

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only changed the negotiating balance between the two communities but also drastically altered the demographic makeup of the island. The organized influx of Turkish mainland settlers, who now appear to outnumber the Turkish Cypriot population, added a new dimension to the problem. The search for a comprehensive solution began in 1975 in Vienna and has continued to this day. After twenty-six years, some one hundred UN resolutions on Cyprus, and the involvement of special emissaries, representatives of the secretary-general, and other international mediators, the problem remains unresolved. At least four factors account for the perpetuation of the Cyprus problem. These include: (1) the failure to implement the UN Security Council resolutions on Cyprus; (2) the prevalence of strategic, economic, and political considerations over a functional and viable solution; (3) the intransigent policies of successive Turkish governments; and (4) the political conditions existing in each Cypriot community. Washington’s approach, in contrast to that of Nicosia, emphasized the de-internationalization of the Cyprus problem. All UN Security Council resolutions on Cyprus were adopted unanimously. They contain the fundamental principles for a viable solution of the problem. However, Washington succeeded in protecting Turkey from any effective sanctions for its violations of international law; it has watered down the wording of many resolutions, while introducing terminology compatible with American and Turkish goals; and it has opposed the implementation of these resolutions.10 President Gerald Ford, under considerable domestic and international pressure, continued American recognition of the restored democratic government of Cyprus as the government of the republic, despite the Turkish occupation of nearly 38 percent of the republic’s territory. That recognition was continued by President Jimmy Carter in the aftermath of President Makarios’s death in August 1977 and former foreign minister Spyros Kyprianou’s succession. As previously indicated, the issues of the continuity of the republic and recognition of the government as the government of all of Cyprus remained a constant of Cypriot policy. This goal attained even greater urgency in the aftermath of the 1974 invasion and occupation, and the unilateral declaration of independence of the occupied areas in 1983, when the so-called Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) was established under Turkish auspices. Even though the TRNC has been recognized only by Turkey, the mere threat of its recognition by other states and American pressure, particularly in the last five years, for “acknowledgment” of the existence of a “political entity” in the occupied areas has become a new source of diplomatic pressure on the Greek Cypriots.

10

 The issue of implementation of UN resolutions gained prominence following the 1990 Iraqi invasion of Kuwait and American demands for Iraq’s compliance with all UN Security Council resolutions. Washington has argued that the resolutions on Iraq were adopted under Chapter 7 of the Charter and not under Chapter 6, as in the case of Cyprus. International law experts argue that Article 25 of the Charter obligates UN members to carry out all Security Council resolutions.

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Washington’s post-1974 Cyprus policy attempted to minimize the impact of the Turkish invasion on Greek-Turkish relations,11 while also engaging in peacemaking efforts on Cyprus without undermining America’s strategic and economic ties to Turkey. Washington therefore focused on obtaining concessions from the Greek Cypriots in order to achieve movement on the peacemaking front. This was recognized by Turkey and the Turkish Cypriots, who anticipated that their goals would be met through a long-term, consistent, and intransigent policy that anticipated Greek Cypriot acceptance of the reality created by the 1974 invasion and occupation. American policy statements and peacemaking initiatives reflect this balancing act. The first formal American policy statement on Cyprus following the 1974 Turkish invasion was Kissinger’s 22 September 1975 statement before the UN General Assembly. His “Five Points” on a Cyprus settlement included acceptance of the independence, sovereignty, and territorial integrity of Cyprus. He emphasized the need for a territorial allocation that accounted for the economic and security interests of both communities and for Turkish Cypriot autonomy. Since then, for the Greek Cypriots, the challenge has been getting Washington to fulfill promises included in policy statements that appear to contain basic Cypriot objectives. The stalemate in the Vienna rounds of talks brought Clark Clifford, President Carter’s emissary, to Cyprus in February 1977. His primary purpose was to express Washington’s support for substantive talks on Cyprus reflecting constitutional tradeoffs for territory. He therefore sought from the Cypriot government unilateral concessions that would bring the Turks and the Turkish Cypriots back to the negotiating table with more flexible positions.12 This included the fulfillment of the Makarios-Denktash agreement on a bicommunal federation, which constituted a major shift in Greek Cypriot policy. Clifford employed a negotiating tactic that I describe as the “salamization” of the Cyprus problem. This involved getting a unilateral concession from the Greek Cypriots without anything in return from the Turkish Cypriots, in order to restart stalemated negotiations. Negotiations would end in a new stalemate due to Turkish Cypriot/Turkish intransigence, and the cycle would repeat itself. Clifford represented President Carter, whose principled stand on the Cyprus problem during the 1976 American presidential campaign had raised high hopes for an early, just, and viable solution of the Cyprus problem both in Cyprus and in the Greek-American community. This is why influential Cypriot leaders feel bitter to this day about the sincerity and credibility of American emissaries. Clifford’s visit came days after a UN-sponsored meeting between President Makarios and Turkish Cypriot leader Rauf Denktash that produced a set of broad guidelines for the solution of the Cyprus problem.13 A couple of years later, Makarios’s successor attempted to refine these guidelines in another meeting with Denktash. 11

  The possibility of a Greek-Turkish conflict, the reintegration of Greece in NATO’s military wing, etc. 12

  Miltiades Christodoulou, Κύπρος, η Διχοτόμηση. Μία Πορεία Χωρίς Ανακοπή [Cyprus the partition: A course without pause] (Nicosia: Proodos, 1996), 164.

13

  Republic of Cyprus, Public Information Office, Cyprus Intercommunal Talks (Nicosia: P.I.O., 1979), 23.

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However, the Makarios-Denktash agreement, which was based on the constitutional principle of a bicommunal federation, changed the nature of the peacemaking efforts on Cyprus and opened the way to constitutional schemes akin to confederation demanded by the Turkish Cypriots and Turkey. In the spring and summer of 1978 the Carter administration, contrary to its pre-election promises, intensified its efforts to lift the congressionally mandated arms embargo on Turkey. This once more reflected Washington’s opposition to any sanctions on Turkey, based on the rationalization that sanctions would only strengthen Turkey’s intransigence. The embargo had at any rate become a merely symbolic act, because the executive branch systematically undermined the congressional action by making it possible for Turkey to procure weapons through NATO and other sources. President Carter narrowly succeeded in lifting the embargo late in the summer of 1978 by promising to redouble Washington’s peacemaking efforts in addition to providing Congress with bimonthly reports on the progress made towards a resolution of the Cyprus problem. These symbolic and rather meaningless reports present sanitized accounts of “progress” while failing to criticize Turkey for its actions. Turkey’s astute diplomacy has not failed to notice the fundamental assumptions of American policy. Some three months after the lifting of the arms embargo on Turkey, Washington presented its first comprehensive plan for the resolution of the Cyprus problem. Known as the “ABC” plan14 because of its co-sponsorship by Britain and Canada, the plan was the brainchild of Matthew Nimetz, legal adviser at the US Department of State. The plan presented on 10 November 1978, on the eve of the discussion of the Cyprus problem at the United Nations,15 included detailed constitutional proposals indicating Washington’s preference for a loose federation. The plan tempered its acceptance of the UN resolutions with “other agreements,” i.e., the 1977 Makarios/ Denktash agreement, and left open to negotiation issues critical to the Greek Cypriots such as those of territory, security, the withdrawal of the occupation forces, etc. Even though the “Nimetz Plan” failed to break the deadlock in the intercommunal talks, it is fair to say that it has become the foundation of subsequent American and UN initiatives on Cyprus. For this reason, the first substantive American plan is an important landmark in the post-1974 history of Cyprus. The 1983 unilateral declaration of independence by the Turkish Cypriots was the culmination of Turkey’s long-standing plans on Cyprus, despite Turkish arguments that Turkish Cypriot leader Denktash acted unilaterally. Even though Denktash was slowly gaining stature in the Turkish political world, his dependence on Turkish economic and military support made such a move virtually impossible without a “green light” from Turkey’s nationalist military establishment. Even though a rudimentary Turkish Cypriot “administration” attempted to control the Turkish Cypriot enclaves that were established in the aftermath of the 1963 constitutional crisis, and a suc14

  Ibid., 62–65.

15

  An old American tactic intended to preempt discussion at the UN that could “negatively impact” a new round of talks on Cyprus.

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cessor “administration” was set up in the aftermath of the invasion, the 1983 UDI was a turning point in the evolution of the Cyprus problem. The so-called TRNC remains unrecognized by all states except Turkey. It has also been condemned by all international and regional organizations,16 while states have been called upon not to recognize this entity. Moreover, national and regional courts have refused to give validity to acts of the so-called TRNC. However, Turkey has held steadfast in its actions, hoping that time will bring about an acknowledgment of the post-1974 realities, first by the international community and eventually by the government of Cyprus. At the time of this writing, Turkey’s long-term strategy appears to be working, while the government of Cyprus is fighting rearguard actions at the United Nations and elsewhere attempting to stem Turkey’s attempts to upgrade the standing of Denktash’s status and that of his regime. The creation of the so-called TRNC has also given impetus to the Turkish Cypriot calls for a confederation of two equal, sovereign, and recognized states. Washington’s diplomatic efforts face a number of dilemmas: how to keep the parties talking even though the gap separating their positions has increased, and how to get the Greek Cypriots to make the ultimate concession, i.e., acknowledgment of the TRNC, in what amounts to a constitutional confederation. The Cyprus Problem since the End of the Cold War The last decade of the twentieth century brought significant changes in the international dimension of the Cyprus problem. The end of the Cold War left the United States as the dominant power in the international system. The collapse of the former Soviet Union reduced even further Russia’s limited influence in this dispute. The ensuing collapse of Yugoslavia restored legitimacy to partition and ethnic cleansing as solutions to ethnic problems, creating a bad precedent for Cyprus. Finally, an invigorated European Union set a new framework for expansion in post–Cold War Europe. Cyprus concluded an association agreement with the European Community in 1972. In 1990, the government of Cyprus applied formally for membership in the European Community, and since then membership in the EU became a top Cypriot policy priority. In the fall of 1993 the Council of Ministers of the European Union accepted the Cypriot application, despite concerns expressed by the commission over the lack of a political settlement. Integration talks with Cyprus commenced in March 1998. The European Union recognized the continuity of the Republic of Cyprus and its government, and this was reflected in actions of European courts and other EU bodies. The prospect of membership and the application of the acquis communautaire offered new options for resolving intractable issues, such as those of human rights, borders, and security. The United States, until the Clinton administration, had not looked favorably at the involvement of the EU in the Cyprus problem. The change in American policy served a number of objectives. It provided a new source of pressure on the Cypriot government to resolve the problem. Working in cooperation with Brit16

  UN Security Council Resolution 541, adopted 18 November 1983.

316 Van Coufoudakis

ain, Germany, and other EU members, Washington promoted the idea of a solution prior to the entry of Cyprus to the EU. This was done despite public statements at the highest level of the EU that even though a political settlement was desirable prior to membership, the lack of a settlement would not stop the integration of Cyprus. Washington’s advocacy of a solution prior to entry gave Turkey an indirect veto over the membership of Cyprus, a power that Turkey did not formally have. Further, a solution prior to integration would legitimize derogations from recognized human rights17 that normally would be protected under the acquis and other European legislation. Washington’s policy change also served another objective. By pressing the Europeans to grant candidate status to Turkey,18 Washington gained political credit in Ankara by being Turkey’s sole promoter among the reluctant Europeans. The diplomatic activism of the 1990s carried over into the new millennium. UN Security Council resolutions on Cyprus called on the secretary-general to utilize his “good offices” in the peacemaking process. He was therefore primarily responsible for maintaining the dialogue between the government of Cyprus and the Turkish Cypriots. In this task the secretary-general has been assisted by his own special representatives, in addition to the special representatives of the United States, Great Britain, and other foreign countries, initiatives by secretaries of state and foreign secretaries, and the usual embassy level contacts. The involvement of so many foreign diplomats under the guise of supporting the secretary-general raised questions about the coordination of their efforts, their commitment to a substantive process, their knowledge of the issues, and the players involved in these talks.19 There were also questions about the aims and the tactics employed by these negotiators. The Americans in particular expressed their frustration with the inconclusive negotiations. They attributed the lack of progress to the two parties and their “lack of political will” to make necessary concessions. However, Washington did not question its assumptions about Turkey and its foreign policy, and its unwillingness to support the implementation of UN resolutions on Cyprus. The American approach appeared to be along the lines of “keep them talking,” even though the gap separating the two sides was growing larger each year with new Turkish/Turkish Cypriot demands. The negotiating initiatives fluctuated between attempts at a comprehensive solution through a framework agreement arrived at in high-level meetings, to limited confidence-building measures that could open the way to a comprehensive solution. Some of these meetings involved face-to-face ne-

17

  In particular, the implementation of the “three freedoms,” i.e., movement, settlement, and property ownership. 18

  Candidate status was granted to Turkey at the Helsinki meeting of the EU in December 1999. Turkey was expected to meet a number of conditions by 2004, prior to the commencement of integration talks. 19

  For example, President Clerides and Denktash have been involved in the Cyprus problem since its colonial days.

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gotiations between the president of Cyprus and Turkish Cypriot leader Denktash,20 proximity talks,21 or even informal exploratory talks among foreign representatives and representatives of the two sides.22 These meetings often produced documents such as the 1992 Boutros-Ghali “set of ideas” which reflected commonalities in the positions of the two sides and identified areas in need of further negotiation, or the 1993–94 proposals for confidence-building measures. These documents could not break the deadlock because the Turkish Cypriots used them as stepping stones to promote their separatist policies. On 29 August 1994, the so-called Turkish Cypriot Assembly endorsed Denktash’s negotiating position dropping federation as the aim of the comprehensive settlement in favor of a confederation. Needless to say that the formal shift violated the 1977 and 1979 high-level agreements and the UN resolution that endorsed the principle of a bizonal-bicommunal federation. While the Turkish Cypriots and Turkey continued with their unilateral actions,23 the government of Cyprus negotiated along lines agreed upon since 1977. Successive Cypriot governments never had the political courage to force the negotiations back to a zero base to counter Turkish Cypriot unilateral actions. By proving that they negotiated in good faith, the Greek Cypriots were forced into continuous concessions in order to keep the negotiations alive without any reciprocity from the other side. In a series on “non-papers” the secretary-general’s representatives in the 1997 face-to-face talks in Troutbeck, New York and Glion, Switzerland attempted to “bridge the gap” in the position of the two sides by attempting to force the Cyprus government closer to the idea of confederation and of an acceptance of Turkish Cypriot sovereignty. The government of Cyprus, however, did take some bold initiatives in an attempt to break the deadlock on security issues by presenting on 17 December 1993 a detailed demilitarization proposal. Turkey and the Turkish Cypriots rejected this proposal and insisted on a continued Turkish military presence and intervention rights. The United States in turn has used this proposal to push for Greek Cypriot demilitarization, while maintaining a smaller Turkish military presence in the occupied areas with limited intervention rights in a reconstituted international force, preferably under NATO command. Thus, by the end of the Clinton administration, the Cyprus problem was treated not as a problem of invasion and occupation but as an intercommunal dispute. The break-up of Yugoslavia had given new legitimacy to confederation schemes and to ethnic separation. Turkey maintained that the Cyprus problem had been solved in 1974, and that the purpose of any negotiations was to legitimize the condition created since 1974, while clarifying issues of borders and property compensation. Turkey’s 20

  Such as those between President Vassiliou and Denktash in New York in July and October 1992, the May 1993 meeting in New York between President Clerides and Denktash, and those of 1997 at Troutbeck, New York, Glion, Switzerland, and Nicosia. 21

  Such as those in the current phase of negotiations in Geneva.

22

  Informal talks held in London during the spring of 1995.

23

  The 1983 Turkish Cypriot UDI, the formal abandonment of federation in 1994, etc.

318 Van Coufoudakis

long-term strategy on Cyprus was finally paying off. Aware of American attitudes on the importance of Turkey, it considered the de facto recognition of the political entity in the occupied areas to be a matter of time, and that international mediators would force the Cyprus government to acknowledge that reality. In the second term of the Clinton administration the resolution of the Cyprus problem and the improvement of Greek-Turkish relations became a higher priority of American foreign policy. Greek-Turkish relations entered a new phase of instability in the aftermath of the January 1996 crisis over the Imia islets. Since 1974, Cyprus burdened Greek-Turkish relations even though implicitly it was not a Greek-Turkish issue. A resolution of the Cyprus problem was expected to have a positive effect on Greek-Turkish relations, while an improvement in Greek-Turkish relations would create a more positive climate for the resolution of the Cyprus dispute. Three other developments directly impacted the negotiations on Cyprus. First was the European Court of Human Rights ruling on the Loizidou case on 18 December 1996, which upheld not only the continuity of the Republic of Cyprus but once more held Turkey accountable for its control of the occupied areas and the consequent loss of Loizidou’s enjoyment of her property rights.24 This ruling directly impacted the American and Turkish attempt to resolve property issues through compensation and by limiting the rights of settlement and property ownership in the occupied areas by Greek Cypriots. The second development related to the killing in cold blood of unarmed Greek Cypriot demonstrators along the dividing line near Dehrynia in October 1996 by Turkish Cypriot security forces and members of Turkey’s right-wing terrorist group, the “Grey Wolves.” The third issue was the joint decision of the governments of Greece and Cyprus to acquire the S-300 anti-aircraft missile system to enhance Cypriot air defenses in view of Turkey’s overwhelming air superiority. Washington did not allow the sale of American defensive weapons to Cyprus. It also opposed the deployment of the S-300 system in Cyprus, while remaining virtually silent as Turkey threatened military action against Cyprus in the event the anti-aircraft system were to be deployed. Under American pressure, in December 1998 the government of Cyprus announced that the S-300s would not be deployed in Cyprus but, instead, would be sent to Greece for deployment on the island of Crete. This decision effectively destroyed myth of a Greece-Cyprus unified defense dogma. Turkey had threatened the use of force, and Greece and Cyprus blinked. For Turkey, this was a significant victory, as it proved that its diplomats could rely on their country’s military strength to achieve their objectives. Washington in turn recognized Turkey as a regional hegemonial power. Greek-Turkish relations reached a low point with the arrest of Kurdish leader Abdullah Ocalan in Kenya in the spring of 1999.25 The Ocalan affair caused a shake-up 24   The Loizidou ruling, along with the US Federal District Court ruling on the Kanakaria mosaics, had significant political and legal implications. The European Court of Human Rights ruling on the Loizidou case remains unimplemented at this time, despite calls by the Council of Ministers of the Council of Europe for Turkey’s compliance. 25

  Abdullah Ocalan, the leader of the Kurdish rebellion against Turkey, had been evicted from Syria in October 1988 after Turkey threatened military action against Syria. In his quest

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in the Greek Foreign Ministry. George Papandreou, son of the late Greek Prime Minister Andreas Papandreou, assumed command of Greek foreign policy. The impact of the Ocalan affair and a summer of devastating earthquakes in Turkey and Greece gave Papandreou the opportunity to take bold initiatives vis-à-vis Turkey. These initiatives, and especially the support Greece extended at the Helsinki EU meeting to Turkey’s EU candidacy in December 1999, improved the image of Greek foreign policy in Europe and in the United States.26 The conditions imposed at Helsinki on Turkey’s candidacy placed the ball squarely in Turkey’s court and in the court of the EU, as the lack of progress in Turkey’s European vocation up until then had been conveniently blamed on Greece. The improvement in Greek-Turkish relations in the last year of the twentieth century has not had a positive effect on the Cyprus negotiations, as the next section will show. The United States, the G-8 Formula, and the 2000 Round of Proximity Talks Washington, capitalizing on the euphoria of the improved climate in Greek-Turkish relations, embarked on a campaign to make the governments of Greece and Cyprus more responsive to Turkey’s regional concerns. It also lobbied for Turkey’s EU candidacy, without linking Turkey’s compliance to any of the conditions set by the EU and expected of members and candidates of the EU. At the United Nations, Washington attempted to quietly upgrade the status of the regime in the occupied areas of Cyprus during the discussions on the renewal of the UN peacekeeping force. UN secretary-general Kofi Annan, in a letter to the president of the UN Security Council dated 20 April 1998, concluded that Turkey defined its Cyprus policy in the context of “two states and three problems.” This included the recognition of Turkish Cypriot statehood as the prerequisite for a solution. In turn, the three problems in need of resolution were those of security, settlement of property claims, and the delineation of borders. Further, they demanded the acknowledgment of the legitimacy of Denktash’s government and its political procedures; the lifting of the economic embargo; the continuation of Turkey’s military guarantee; and the acknowledgment of the political equality of the two sides in all aspects of the negotiations. Denktash also demanded the withdrawal of the Cypriot application to the EU, and that the UN and all external mediators accept this “new political reality.” The secretary-general acknowledged that Denktash’s “new positions” essentially rejected the intercommunal framework discussed in all previous rounds of negotiations. Turkish and Turkish Cypriot officials blatantly argued that the Cyprus problem had been solved with Turkey’s 1974 intervention and with the “population exchange” that followed. Turkey, in order to facilitate its EU aspirations, agreed late in 1999 to re-open talks on Cyprus for asylum Ocalan received clandestine support from members of the Greek government. He was arrested in Kenya in the spring of 1999 in a joint operation between the United States and Turkey. 26

  Helsinki European Council, presidency conclusion, 10 and 11 December 1999. Note in particular paragraphs 4, 9 (a) (b), and 12.

320 Van Coufoudakis

and seek a peaceful resolution of its differences with Greece. However, having attained candidacy status, it became clear that Turkey sought the de facto recognition of the occupied areas and the formation of a confederation of two independent, sovereign, and recognized states on Cyprus. It was in this context that they were willing to address issues of property compensation, security, and limited border adjustments. Turkey was fully aware of Washington’s progressive support of most of these ideas, especially because, in his mission to Nicosia in May 1998, Richard Holbrooke promoted the idea of an “acknowledgment” of the Turkish Cypriot political entity by the Greek Cypriots. That acknowledgment included the legitimacy of the laws and institutions established there since 1974, and the fact that the Cyprus government did not speak on behalf of the Turkish Cypriot community. Instead, the Turkish Cypriots were represented by leaders elected through legitimate procedures. Sir David Hannay, the British representative on Cyprus, shared similar views. Both argued that such an acknowledgment would provide the needed momentum in a new round of talks. This, of course, had been the history of the Cyprus negotiations since 1974. Washington once more took steps to undermine the United Nations by bringing the Cyprus problem to the meeting of the G-8 in Cologne, Germany, on 20 June 1999. The attempt to minimize the role of the United Nations has been a constant element of American policy since the 1950s. The G-8 formula27 on Cyprus was later endorsed by UN Security Council resolutions 1250 and 1251 of 1999. The two sides were called to a new round of talks based on the following four principles: talks without preconditions; discussion of all issues; sustained talks in good faith and until a solution is found; and full consideration of relevant UN resolutions and treaties. The G-8 formula contained both “good” and “bad” news. The reference to the UN resolutions implied an endorsement of a bizonal-bicommunal federation, with single sovereignty, international personality, and citizenship. Further, earlier resolutions condemned the pseudostate created by the Turkish army in the occupied areas and called for its nonrecognition. The “bad news,” however, was that “the parties” could put on the table all issues without preconditions. This meant that Denktash could present himself as president of a sovereign and independent state, and that he could present his proposal for a confederation of two sovereign states. The reference to the “other” international agreements implied discussion of the Treaty of Guarantee and Turkey’s intervention rights, in addition to the 1977 and 1979 high level agreements. Secretary-General Annan, in his report to the Security Council on 22 June 1999, closely reflected the American and British ideas by noting that the political status of the Turkish Cypriots needed to be addressed. He attempted to do that in an addendum on the status of UNFICYP in December 1999, but his attempt to do the same in June 2000 failed after repeated warnings by the Cyprus government. This was the reality facing the Cyprus government as it entered inconclusive rounds of UN-sponsored proximity talks with the Turkish Cypriots in the spring and summer of 2000. The proximity talks were also attended by American and British negotiators. What advice did Washington offer the “two sides” as they entered this latest phase of proximity talks? 27

  Press Release 20 June 1999, “G-8 Statement on Regional Issues,” 3.

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1. Look to the future and not to the past. 2. Do not debate whether the events of 1974 were an invasion or an intervention. 3. Do not debate abstract notions of federation/confederation, or the nature of sovereignty. Arrive at a constitutional solution first, and name it later. 4. Leave out of the negotiations “humanitarian” issues. These issues, in addition to the missing, included the 90,000+ Turkish settlers. 5. The government of Cyprus should commit to confidence-building measures, including the gradual lifting of sanctions against the so-called TRNC. 6. President Clerides and Denktash were urged to show political courage and imagination so as to close their careers with an agreement, because they have the moral authority over their respective publics, and can unburden their successors from politically costly choices. The irony and cynicism of American policy is that while publicly American officials endorse a settlement based on a bizonal, bicommunal federation, privately they have given their full support to a confederation of two independent, sovereign states. American officials promote the “land for constitutional concessions” principle. The greater the territorial compromise, the looser the confederation becomes. In 1992, the United States had presented some ninety-two map variations that were rejected by the Turkish Cypriots. These territorial concessions ranged from over 25 percent to almost 32 percent of the territory for the Turkish Cypriot “state.” Alternative scenarios have also been prepared on the structure of the executive branch, while selective provision from the Swiss, German, Belgian, and Canadian constitutions have provided justifications as to how sovereignty can be divided in a two-state confederation, despite the UN resolutions calling for a state with a single sovereignty. The following ten points offer insights as to how Washington has attempted to address the Turkish and Turkish Cypriot demand for recognition of the so-called TRNC as a precondition for substantive talks. 1. The United States will not support recognition as a precondition for the talks, but will assist the Turkish Cypriots to attain recognition as an outcome of the talks. 2. The United States is interested in having continuous negotiations between the two parties to keep the momentum created by American initiatives and by the recent improvement in Greek-Turkish relations. 3. Meaningful talks require that the Greek Cypriots need to come to terms with the reality that has been created since 1974, and to be sensitive to Turkish Cypriot needs and concerns. For Washington the problem is one of intercommunal power-sharing and not one of invasion and occupation. 4. It is up to the parties to decide what relationship they will have. They need to show flexibility, realism, and political courage. The United States will offer constructive suggestions and alternative scenarios to guide the talks.

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5. Even though federation may be desirable, it must be wanted by both sides. The reality, however, is that the new constitutional arrangement requires an acceptance of elements of “legitimized partition” reflecting the conditions existing since 1974. A stable partition will be better than the current unstable status quo. 6. The two sides need to negotiate the core issues and not debate issues like federation or confederation, invasion or occupation. The core issues involve: boundaries, property exchanges, resettlement of displaced persons, three freedoms, and compensation. Therefore, in these talks, it is the substance that counts, not the form! Once a settlement is reached, then, constitutional experts and politicians can name it whatever they may! 7. Rauf Denktash and the Turks are realists and will come to the talks with something less than the de jure recognition of the TRNC as an independent and sovereign state. Denktash will accept an “acknowledgment” by the government of Cyprus that he and his administration represent the Turkish Cypriots and speak on their behalf. Once granted such an acknowledgment he will negotiate in good faith. The US Department of State, Britain, and Australia suggest that the September 1993 exchange of letters between the government of Israel and the Palestinians be used as a precedent. 8. An “acknowledgment” by the government of Cyprus does not have to be disclosed publicly until negotiations have reached a satisfactory stage. 9. Even though “acknowledgment” amounts to recognition of the Denktash administration as the de facto government of the territory under its control, it will not have other legal consequences. Assurances will be offered to the Greek Cypriots that the international community, with the exception of Turkey, will not recognize de jure a Turkish Cypriot state. 10. When a full agreement has been reached, the international community will allow “a brief moment of sovereignty” to the Turkish Cypriots, so that both sides can form a new partnership on Cyprus based on the political equality of the two constituent states. By the end of July 2000, the gap separating the two sides was growing, and this created a serious dilemma for the government of Cyprus. Abandoning the talks would have serious political consequences, especially on the progress of the talks with the EU. Remaining in the talks exposed the government of Cyprus to American, British, and UN pressures for an acknowledgment of the Turkish Cypriot “state” and for the formation of a confederation of two independent, recognized, and sovereign states. Aware of these conditions, Turkey and the Turkish Cypriots held fast to their position on confederation, as shown in the paper submitted by Denktash to Alvaro de Soto, the representative of the secretary-general in Geneva during the July 2000 phase of the talks.28 28

  For an extensive, accurate summary in English, see Cyprus Weekly (14–20 July 2000), 5.

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The Proximity Talks during the Year 2000: An Assessment The much touted proximity talks failed to reconvene in January 2001 as UN, American, and British negotiators had anticipated. Turkish and Turkish Cypriot leaders held fast on their demand for the recognition of the TRNC29 as a precondition for any further talks. They also declared that the proximity talks had ended and that a new framework for negotiations was needed so as to account for the interests of two independent and sovereign states on Cyprus. In a desperate attempt to save the talks in the fall of 2000, UN secretary-general Annan made an opening statement to President Clerides and Denktash in New York on 13 September 2000. In that opening statement the secretary-general indicated that “each of the ‘parties’ represents its side—and no one else—as the political equal of the other … the equal status of the parties must and should be recognized explicitly in the comprehensive settlement.” Al Moses, President Clinton’s emissary to the Cyprus talks, indicated that the “deliberate ambiguity” surrounding this statement was intended to keep Denktash in the talks and that the secretary-general’s statement was made with the full knowledge and cooperation of the US government. To Denktash the statement of the secretary-general was welcome news, as it implied the first step toward the de facto recognition of his “state.” It is this “deliberate ambiguity,” the contradictory statements by various foreign diplomats,30 and the lack of any sanctions on Turkey and the Turkish Cypriots that has brought the Cyprus problem to the point where the existence of the Republic of Cyprus is now at risk. However, there is no ambiguity on most other key issues, including (1) that the United States and Turkey share the objective of a confederation on Cyprus despite American assertions on behalf of a bizonal-bicommunal federation; (2) that the final political settlement is likely to reflect the “realities” created since 1974, and will likely contain “elements of legitimized partition”; and (3) that the United States is seeking a comprehensive settlement prior to the entry of Cyprus in the EU in order to limit the effects of the acquis communautaire, especially on the “three freedoms” (movement, settlement, property ownership). The proposals contained in the “non-papers” handed to the two parties during the November-December phase of the talks fully support the assessments made in this essay. A few examples will suffice.

29

  The minimum Turkish/Turkish Cypriot position centers on a de facto rather than a de jure recognition of the so-called TRNC. Much as the United States suggested, Turkish Cypriot leader Rauf Denktash, speaking to the Turkish Daily News on 8 December 2000, suggested that he would accept a “Palestinian status” for his “government” as it assured equality and sovereignty. Denktash acknowledged that this would not bring recognition by the UN or other Western powers. However, even President Clinton extended “red carpet treatment” to Arafat, who negotiated on an equal basis with the Israeli government.

30

  Especially on whether Cyprus can enter the EU without a political settlement.

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The Turkish Settlers International law is clear on the issue of settlements and settlers in occupied territories. Yet the United States for more than ten years has described the issue of the illegal setters as a “humanitarian” one that must be kept out of any political negotiations for a comprehensive settlement. Key American diplomats acknowledge that few settlers will relocate from areas that will be restored to government control, but that they will not necessarily return to Turkey. For those desiring to return to Turkey, the United States proposes international assistance. In reality, the more than ninety thousand illegal Turkish settlers now in the occupied areas are likely to remain there, compounding the flight of the Turkish Cypriots to Germany and Britain, thus totally changing the demographic profile of the Turkish Cypriot community. The Freedom of Movement In principle, Cypriot citizens will enjoy freedom of movement across the “border” after an appropriate transitional period. However, the Turkish Cypriot “authorities” will have the ability to limit access to the Turkish Cypriot sector to “undesirable” persons that may present a threat to the Turkish Cypriot community and its institutions. The preparation of these lists will be the exclusive right of the Turkish Cypriots and there will be no appeals from such restrictions. Territorial Adjustments The United States, in concert with UN negotiators, is proposing an “equitable” solution on this issue. The US/UN proposals provide from 25–32 percent of the territory for the Turkish Cypriot sector, with over 29 percent as an ideal arrangement. The actual territorial allocation will be affected by the nature of the constitutional formula that will be accepted by the Greek Cypriots. That is, the looser the confederation, the greater the territorial concessions by the Turkish Cypriots and Turkey. Four additional criteria will guide the final territorial allocation: (1) security, (2) population ratios, (3) productivity, and (4) economic development. For example, the Turkish Cypriot civilian airfield at Tymbou will remain in the Turkish Cypriot sector as it is vital to the economy of that sector. There is also a new condition introduced in the November 2000 round of the talks that is even more restrictive. Paragraph 15 of the secretary-general’s text calls for balance between the maximum number of Greek Cypriots who will return to areas formerly under Turkish Cypriot control and the least dislocation of Turkish Cypriots. This is why the secretary-general calls for the “least inconvenience” as the key factor behind any territorial adjustments. With these qualifications, the actual territorial adjustments will not amount to much.

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Property This issue of property rights relates to the freedom of movement, settlement, and territorial adjustments. It also raises the problem of derogations from the acquis communautaire. The U.S. and UN negotiators presented a “non-paper” on this issue early in the proximity talks. This was done for two reasons: (1) to preempt the application of the acquis through a restrictive bilateral agreement between the two communities; and (2) to stop efforts for the implementation of the Loizidou case and other similar cases by the European Court of Human Rights. Turkey, by refusing to implement this ruling, is likely to hinder its candidacy for membership in the EU. The issue of property ownership has another dimension. Property rights are individual rights under European law that may not be negotiated away by third parties. The secretary-general’s November proposals contain the usual mix of “good news and bad news,” with the latter dominating the negotiating drafts. Paragraph 14 of the US/UN proposals recognizes property rights under international law. However, the same paragraph qualifies the right to property by indicating that it cannot undermine the character of the “constituent states.” This is why Annan’s “non-paper” proposes a combination of exchange and compensation as a means of addressing the issue of property rights. Paragraph 13, in many respects, discloses the real intent of the US/UN mediation effort. Recognizing that proposed restrictions will violate the protection of the acquis, it asks for the understanding of the EU so that these terms will not have to be renegotiated. As for the “non-paper” on the constitutional structure of the new Republic of Cyprus,31 it makes the constitution based on the London-Zurich agreements look like an ideal constitution. The long history of the Cyprus problem shows how economic and strategic interests of external powers contributed to the deadlock and to the tragedy of Cyprus. In the process, the rights of all Cypriots were violated, along with the rules of international and American law. In addition, American policy undermined further the stature of the UN as an agent of conflict prevention and conflict resolution. The prospect of EU membership provides new opportunities for resolving this perpetuated problem. A solution based on the implementation of all UN resolutions on Cyprus and the principles of the acquis can only provide stability and protection of the rights of all Cypriots. Meanwhile, at the start of the new millennium, Cyprus remains the last divided and occupied country of Europe. Postscript The preceding pages have outlined the critical role played by the United States and the United Kingdom in the evolution of what has come to be known as the Cyprus Problem. Since the original essay was completed, a number of major developments

31

  The text has been reprinted in Cyprus Weekly, 24–30 November 2000, 4.

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have taken place confirming the continuity of Anglo-American policy and providing new venues for the resolution of this perpetuated problem. On 16 April 2003, the Republic of Cyprus along with nine other candidate countries signed the Treaty of Athens, which opened the way for the 1 May 2004 EU enlargement. Soon afterwards, Cyprus also became a member of the euro zone. Next to the 1974 Turkish invasion of the Republic of Cyprus, the accession of Cyprus to the EU remains the most significant event in the history of the republic. Delicate Cypriot diplomacy overcame objections raised by the United States, the United Kingdom, and Turkey, and EU discord over the direction of its next enlargement. The accession of Cyprus to the EU should facilitate the resolution of the Cyprus Problem if UN mediators pursue a solution based on the principles of democracy, human rights, and the rule of law, the very principles on which the EU is based. The UN Secretary-General’s mission of good offices in Cyprus was defined by UN Security Council Resolution 186 (1964). The failure to reach a comprehensive and viable resolution of the Cyprus Problem led to a shift in the Secretary-General’s role and tactics. After intense preliminary negotiations held between the fall of 2002 and the end of 2003 with the government of the Republic of Cyprus and the Turkish Cypriot leadership, Secretary-General Kofi Annan, assisted by American and British negotiators, assumed the role of an arbitrator in the Cyprus dispute. He had no explicit Security Council authorization for the change in his mission from one of “good offices” to one of binding arbitration. Between 2002 and 2004, Kofi Annan produced five versions of a comprehensive resolution plan. The final version, “Annan-V,” was presented at a meeting in Burgenstock, Switzerland in March 2004. It amounted to a complete adoption by the UN of all of Turkey’s demands. The text of the comprehensive solution included more than nine thousand pages of complex legal texts and annexes. This text was presented for approval by separate and simultaneous referenda to the two major Cypriot communities. There was little time for discussion of a complex document that confounded even legal experts. The president of Cyprus, the late Tassos Papadopoulos, inherited the concessions made by his predecessor. He addressed the Greek Cypriot public on 7 April 2004 and called for a “no” vote on the proposed settlement. As he stated, a “no” vote was not against reconciliation and reunification in Cyprus. It was a vote against a dysfunctional plan that legalized the outcome of the Turkish invasion. The Greek Cypriot public, already alarmed by the concessions made to Turkey without any reciprocity, overwhelmingly rejected the plan by 76 percent of the vote. In contrast, the Turkish Cypriot community and the Turkish settlers, who made up the majority of the population of occupied Cyprus, voted in favor of the plan by a nearly