Imperiology

5

INTRODUCTION

During the last several years the history of the Russian Empire has attracted unusual academic interest. Conferences and workshops focused on nationalities, regions, religions, and languages of this empire are held every few months in various cities of the world – Moscow, New York, Cambridge (Massachusetts), Sapporo, Vilnius, Warsaw, Voronezh, and others. Most of these conferences subsequently produced collections of essays.1 Similarly, this volume includes the papers presented at a series of conferences focused on the Russian Empire, held in Japan during 2004-05 under the aegis of the Twenty First Century Program, “Making a Discipline of Slavic Eurasian Studies: Meso-areas and Globalization.”2 This collection divides the thirteen essays into four parts under the titles of “A Mega-System of Empires, “Contact Zones and Ethnoconfessional

1 To name but a few, David L. Hoffmann and Yanni Kotsonis, eds., Russian Modernity: Politics, Knowledge and Practices (New York, 2000); Hayashi Tadayuki, ed., The Construction and Deconstruction of National Histories in Slavic Eurasia (Sapporo, 2003); Alexei Miller and Alfred J. Rieber, eds., Imperial Rule (Budapest, 2004); M. D. Karpacheva et al., eds., Ros-siiskaia imperiia: strategii stabilizatsii i opyty obnovleniia (Voronezh, 2004); Darius Staliűnas, Raidžių draudimo metai (Vilnius, 2004); Kimitaka Matsuzato, ed., Emerging Meso-Areas in the Former Socialist Countires: Histories Revived or Improvised? (Sapporo, 2005); and Andrzej Nowak, ed., Russia and Eastern Europe: Applied “Imperiology” / Rosja i Europa Wschodna: “imperiologia” stosowana (Krakow, 2006).2 International Symposium, "Emerging Meso-Areas in the Former Socialist Countries: Histories Revived or Improvised?" (Sapporo, January 28-31, 2004); International Work-shop, “Towards Imperiology. New Trends in the Study of the Russian Empire” (Sapporo, October 22, 2004); Panel held at the VII World Congress of the ICCEES, “New Trends in Russian Imperiology: International Comparison, Regional and Socio-Ethnic Approach” (Berlin, July 26, 2005); and the annual congress of the Japanese Society for Slavic and East European Studies (Kyoto, November 6, 2005).

6

KIMITAKA MATSUZATO

Politics,” “Thorny Paths from Empire to Nations,” and “Distant but Central: The Far East Fringes of the Russian Empire.”

The epoch making events for Russian imperiology were the found-ing of the two journals, Ab Imperio and Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History, in 2000, which the emerging imperiologists, in turn, promoted. The impact of imperiology reached far beyond historical studies per se, but no doubt facilitated the transformation of the former study of socialist countries into Slavic Eurasian studies by nursing a new spatial perception of this region.3

Mainly focusing on ethno-confessional issues, Russian imperiol-ogy enriched constructivist analyses of history. No approach prior to imperiology was so successful in incorporating the Soviet period into the general history of Russia.4 With all respect to these achievements, however, readers of the recent literature on the Russian Empire may perhaps gain the impression that a poorly equipped vessel of theory has been overwhelmed by a tempest of empirical descriptions.5 This is a normal phenomenon for the fi rst stage of any breakthrough in historical studies. However, several years have passed since the boom of Russian imperiology began, and an academic community of historians, sharing a certain methodological consensus, has surely taken shape. The time seems to have come to summarize the accumulated empirical studies and to abstract widely applicable theories from these studies. Keeping this historiographic situation in mind, most authors of this collection tried to examine as many arguments as possible, while evading exces-sive demonstration of facts and data. In other words, they tried to set (or just confi rm) a research agenda, rather than to demonstrate their

3 See my “Russian Imperiology and Area Studies (Impressions on the ICCEES Berlin Congress),” Ab Imperio 3 (2005), pp. 443-445.4 Most visible achievements on this point are Terry D. Martin, The Affi rmative Action Empire: Nations and Nationalism in the Soviet Union, 1923-1939 (Ithaca, 2001); David Brandenburger, "The Short Course to Modernity: Stalinist History Textbooks, Mass Culture, and the For-mation of Popular Russian National Identity, 1934-1956" (Ph. D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1999); Ronald Grigor Suny and Terry Martin, eds., A State of Nations: Empire and Nation-Making in the Age of Lenin and Stalin (New York, 2001); B. V. Anan’ich and S. I. Barzilov, eds., Prostranstvo vlasti: istoricheskii opyt Rossii i vyzovy sovremennosti (Moscow, 2001).5 Even the collection New Imperial History of the Post-Soviet Space [Novaia imperskaia istoriia postsovetskogo prostranstva] (Kazan, 2004), compiled by the editors of Ab Imperio obviously for the purpose of theorizing imperial studies of Russia, does not change this impression.

7

INTRODUCTION

empirical fi ndings, expecting that owls of Minerva can sometimes be more innovative than ambitious harbingers.

Whereas imperiology as a current intellectual fashion has been inspired by the rise of contemporary empires (USA’s supwerpower monopoly and the EU’s eastern expansion),6 its Russian version was motivated by the collapse of the “last multinational empire in human history,” namely the Soviet Union. This event facilitated the globaliza-tion of historical studies of Russia. Foreign historians for the fi rst time enjoyed the possibility to go beyond the borders of Leningrad and Moscow and work at regional archives. Under the previous limited access to archival sources, these historians tended to perceive the Rus-sian Empire as something like a cone with the imperial center and the Great Russians at its top and the ruled nations in imperial peripher-ies at its bottom. Moreover, they often projected retrospectively the present national territories (the Union Republics and later the former Soviet countries) into the past. In this sense, Western historiography was no less primordialist than its Soviet counterparts. Acquaintance with abundant archival sources after 1990 made foreign historians reexamine the Great Russians’ apparent cultural hegemony, as well as the government’s administrative resources, available for assimilation.7 Because of the insuffi ciency of resources, the government could only maintain the empire by manipulating the existing ethnic relations in peripheries. Considering this, historians began to analyze interethnic relations in the empire not through a bipolar scheme of the impe-rial center and the ruled nations, but rather a tripolar scheme of the imperial center, “aristocratic” / dominant nation(s), and “peasant” / unprivileged nation(s) of the region.8 The Russian Empire began to be seen as a conglomerate of macro-regions, such as the Volga-Ural, Left Bank Ukrainian, Western, and Ostzei provinces, Steppe, and West and East Siberia. All of these regions had relatively autonomous historical dynamics. Interactions between the imperial center and these macro-re-6 For a typical example, see Michael Hardt, Antonio Negri, Empire (Cambridge: Mass., 2000).7 Raymond Pearson remarked on the Russian Empire’s inability to assimilate non-Russians in the 1980s. See his "Privileges, Rights, Russifi cation," in Civil Rights in Imperial Russia (Oxford, 1988), ed. O. Crisp and L. Edmonson, pp. 85-102.8 Aleksei Miller, Imperiia Romanovykh i natsionalizm (Moscow, 2006), p. 31.

8

KIMITAKA MATSUZATO

gions and between these macro-regions themselves determined imperial management. The Russian Empire was unique in the sense that these peripheral macro-regions were largely wrapped by the institution of the governor generalships.

On the other hand, academic contacts with foreign historians, as well as acquaintance with Western historiography, made historians of the former Soviet countries critically reexamine their traditional national histories. In contrast to its widespread image of the second edition of the “prison of nations,” the Soviet regime encouraged non-Russian historians to create their own national historiographies, even though some of these nations (typically Ukrainians) had no universally accepted ethnonyms before the revolution of 1917. However, national historiographies were promoted for the purpose of justifying the exist-ing hierarchy of nations (in particular, the privileged status of union republics vis-à-vis autonomous republics) and administrative borders, a signifi cant part of which became state borders after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union adopted the Leninist method of state building, which required the convergence of territorial ethnic distribution and administrative division. This method generated a specifi c concept of “titular nation,” for which the hegemonic position in the ethnic administrative territory was granted. Soviet historiography advocated the concept of aborigine-ness (avtokhtonnost’) as a “histori-cal” basis for this hegemony.9 With amazing ease Soviet historiography forsook the Marxist view that nations are an attribute of the “bourgeois” (modern) stage of history and, instead, embraced primordialism in its most eccentric form, according to which origins of nations can be traced to the tens of thousand years past.10 In contrast to the domination of constructivism in Western historiography, the Soviet Union looked like an island of primordialism. The nationalist sentiment prevalent among the national intelligentsia in the late perestroika and early independ-ence period made this tendency even more extreme.

9 On the other side of the same coin, the Soviet regime tacitly prohibited Moscow and Leningrad historians to study histories of the union republics. Miller, Imperiia Romanovykh, p. 20.10 Many studies have been done concerning primordialism in post-Soviet national histo-riographies. See, for example, Victor A. Shnirelman, The Value of the Past: Myths, Identity and Politics in Transcaucasia (Osaka, 2001).

9

INTRODUCTION

It appears that post-Soviet historiography took shape through harsh criticism of Soviet “internationalist” historiography, exactly as Soviet historiography emerged after devastating criticism of Romantic nationalist historiographies of the pre-revolutionary era. However, To-mohiko Uyama argues that there has been a tangible continuity between these three stages of historiography; despite apparent criticism of the preceding historiography, primordialism and the concept of aborigine-ness consolidated consistently throughout the entire pre-Soviet, Soviet, and post-Soviet periods.11

This was the historiographic situation which the nascent Russian imperiology faced ten years ago. Imperiologists worked hard to construct a more balanced, multifaceted, and less politicized multinational history. Now, historians of Slavic Eurasia do not regard nations as self-evident entities, but analyze them in interactions with other ethnic groups of the region—a method which Andreas Kappeler called the regional approach.12 Recent studies show more interest in actual interactions between ethnic groups than in disputes among their representatives. For example, if previous studies underlined anti-Tatar motives in the introduction of the Il’minskii system, recent studies pay more attention to its pedagogic effects and infl uence on the consciousness of small nations, such as the Chuvashi, Udmurts, and Maris. In other words, methods in ethnic histories converged with those of anthropology. In this volume, this tendency is represented by Valentyna Nadolska and Leonid Taimasov, who focus on two typical contact zones of the Russian Empire, Volyn and the Middle Volga region (Chapters 5 and 6). Nadol-ska maintains that in Volyn interactions between Polish and Ukrainian traditions and languages were mutual, not one-sided from dominant Polish to dominated Ukrainian tradition.13

11 Uyama Tomohiko, “From ‘Bulgharism’ through ‘Marrism’ to Nationalist Myths: Dis-courses on the Tatar, the Chuvash and the Bashkir Ethnogenesis,” Acta Slavica Iaponica 19 (2002), pp. 163-190.12 Ab Imperio 1 (2000), p. 19.13 These authors’ approaches are discussed also in Leonid Taimasov, “Nerusskie monastyri Kazanskogo kraia: orientiry konfessional’nogo obnovleniia (vtoraia polovina XIX veka),” Acta Slavica Iaponica 21 (2004), pp. 88-114; Valentina Nadol’skaia, “Khoziaistvennaia deiatel’nost’ inostrannykh kolonistov Volynskoi gubernii (vtoraia pol. XIX – nachalo XX vv.),” Sotsial’naia transformatsiia i mezhetnicheskie otnosheniia na Pravoberezhnoi Ukraine XIX

10

KIMITAKA MATSUZATO

As Mikhail Dolbilov argues in Chapter 7, imperiologists do not regard the relations between empires and nations as antipodal. If tradi-tional national histories saw the possibility for ethnic minorities’ nation-building exclusively in their resistance to the policies conducted by the imperial center and dominant nations, imperiologists regard empires as contexts or arenas, in which various national projects competed and interacted. In contrast to the teleological understanding of nation-build-ing in the traditional national historiographies, imperiologists highlight the plurality of nation-building projects, including the very categoriza-tion of nations (ethnonyms). If the traditional national histories took for granted the existence of a dominant imperial strategy of Russifi cation, imperiologists underline the fact that Great Russians’ self-defi nitions and nation projects demonstrated no less diversity than their non-Rus-sians counterparts.14 As Paul Werth (Chapter 3) and Norihiro Naganawa (Chapter 4) exemplify, recent studies highlight that non-Russians and non-Orthodox believers exploited imperial institutions, such as governor generalships and the Spiritual Boards of Muslims, for the promotion of their identities and interests. Not confrontation but cooperation between the state and religious communities institutionalized non-Orthodox religions in the empire.15

In the course of this (mostly unconscious) intra-empire nation-building, the relations between spatial ethnic distribution and adminis-trative boundaries often became a serious issue. Based on a case study of a hardly known project of gubernia reform during the 1830-40s, Leonid Gorizontov (Chapter 9) argues that in this reform project, along with the traditional tendency to combine differing ethnicities in the same ter-ritory for the purpose of assimilation, there was already an attempt to consolidate more or less homogeneous national territories, even though

– nachalo XX vv. (Sapporo, Moscow, 2005), pp. 89-131.14 This problem is discussed in detail in A. I. Miller, “Ukrainskii vopros” v politike vlastei i russkom obshchestvennom mnenii (Vtoraia polovina XIX v.) (St. Petersburg, 2000).15 The following studies share this view: Robert Crews, “Empire and the Confessional State: Islam and Religious Politics in Nineteenth-Century Russia,” The American Histori-cal Review 108:1 (2003), pp. 50-83; Allen Frank, “Islamic Transformation on the Kazakh Steppe, 1742-1917: Toward an Islamic History of Kazakhstan under Russian Rule,” Hayashi Tadayuki, ed., The Construction and Deconstruction of National Histories in Slavic Eurasia (Sapporo, 2003), pp. 261-290.

11

INTRODUCTION

the applicability of this strategy seems to be limited to non-defi ant na-tions, such as Lithuanians. Tiit Rosenberg remarks that the request for national territorial division (Estonian and Latvian) vis-à-vis the existing three knighthoods (Estland, Livland, and Kurland) was an important landmark in the development of Estonian and Latvian nationalism.16 Alexei Miller and Mikhail Dolbilov share the opinion that the viability of the multinational Russian Empire was far from exhaustion at the be-ginning of the twentieth century and the reasons for the collapse of this empire should be traced to specifi c conditions caused by World War I.17 Tiit Rosenberg confi rms this view through his case study of Estonian nationalism (Chapter 10).

In the post-Soviet context, imperiology emerged as a powerful op-position to traditional narratives of national history. In most of the former 16 The Soviet Union made ethno-territorial autonomy a universal principle for socialist state building, while Western states prefer non-territorial, individual affi rmative actions for the promotion of minority rights. However, the system of territorial affi rmative action was bolstered by the communist party’s monopoly of the right to categorize nationalities, rank them to create a hierarchy of ethno-territorial entities, and, last but not least, merci-lessly repress any “deviation from the Leninist principles of nationality policy.” When this monopoly collapsed, the principle of ethno-territorial autonomy, combined with the above mentioned fetishism of aborigine-ness, turned into a theoretical basis for military confl icts in the former Soviet Union and Yugoslavia. Today, the principle of ethno-territo-rial autonomy is discredited and criticized from both within (the Russian Federation) and outside (the European Union). The European Union, suffering from its own traditional separatism of Basque, North Ireland, etc., does not wish to have additional sources of headaches in the New Europe. Thus, the EU is critical, for example, of the Hungarian population’s quest for territorial autonomy in Transylvania. A typical criticism comes from Russia itself in President Putin’s policy of amalgamation of federal constituents. Some observers anticipate that having liquidated weak national districts, such as Komi-Permiak and Ust’-Orda, the Russian government will launch more serious amalgamations of national republics and Russian regions, marking a decisive departure from the Leninist principle of ethno-territorial autonomy.17 Eric Lohr refers to Roger Brubaker’s thesis on nationalism as “nullifi cation of complex identities” to explain the abrupt emergence of German national assertion in the Russian Empire during World War I. Eric Lohr, Nationalizing the Russian Empire: The Campaign against Enemy Aliens During World War I (Cambridge, Mass., 2003), p. 8. I examined the question of whether the Russian Empire collapsed because of the alleged failure of its modernization or the peculiar situation caused by World War I, arguing against the ste-reotype in historiography about the incompetent Russian total war regime as a result of its unsuccessful modernization. Kimitaka Matsuzato, “The Role of Zemstva in the Creation and Collapse of Tsarism's War Efforts During World War One,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 46:3 (1998), pp. 321-337.

12

KIMITAKA MATSUZATO

Soviet countries, traditional national histories, enjoying state support, had become dominant. Although constitutions of these countries declare their multi-national characteristics, in fact, their national histories were systematically substituted with the history of the titular nation both in education and research. However funny it might appear in hindsight, in Ukraine during the fi rst half of the 1990s, some university lecturers requested to substitute the former scientifi c communism with “scientifi c nationalism.” Fortunately, in Ukraine this abnormal situation did not last long. The infl ux of constructivism and the regional approach from abroad resulted in the establishment of overtly revisionist historical institutes in prestigious state universities, such as Kyivo-Mohyla Acad-emy, Lviv National, Kharkiv National Universities, and of historical journals of constructivist orientation, such as Ukrains’kyi Humanitarnyi Ohliad, Ukraina Moderna, and Skhid-Zakhid. The contemporary Ukrainian historiography reveals an amazing diversity.18 The Ukrainian diaspora‘s historiography abroad, which contributed to the establishment of the Ukrainian national historiography in Ukraine at the beginning of the 1990s, changed as well. When I learnt the ABCs of Ukrainian studies at the Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute in the mid-1990s, it was very easy to identify the staff and graduate students of this institute by their names; only offspring of the Ukrainian diaspora entered into Ukrainian studies. Now ordinary youth without any Ukrainian origin en masse de-vote themselves to Ukrainian studies, which drastically de-ideologized Ukrainian studies in North America.

The last three chapters of this collection focus on economic, social, and geopolitical aspects of the management of the Russian Far East, Alaska, and the adjacent seas. The three authors maintain that acquisition and management of its peripheries represented crucial characteristics of the Russian Empire and that these characteristics can only be understood in trans-border context, as part of Northeast Asian history. Through a 18 A reason for this relatively progressive characteristic of Ukrainian historiography, inconceivable for other historiographies of non-Russian CIS countries, is the existence of Ukraine’s own tradition of constructivism, originated by Viacheslav Lypyns’kyi. Debates between him and Mikhailo Hrushevs’kyi during the 1920s, and between Ivan Rudnytskyi and George Grabowicz (the future director of the Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute) during the 1970s harbingered the contemporary debate between constructivists and pri-mordialists. See Ivan L. Rudnytsky, “Observations on the Problem of ‘Historical’ and ‘Non-historical’ Nations,” Essays in Modern Ukrainian History (Edmonton, 1987), pp. 37-48.

13

INTRODUCTION

case study of the Priamur governor generalship’s fi shery policy, Eisuke Kaminaga (Chapter 13) elucidates the dilemma inherent in the manage-ment of imperial peripheries. The imperial government requested the peripheries to work out and implement prompt development strate-gies without relying upon the resources procurable from the center. This induced the peripheral actors to rely upon trans-border trade and cooperation, but this “globalist” strategy seemed to endanger the self-reliance of the national economy and state security of the border regions. Andrei Grinev (Chapter 12) sees a fundamental reason for the sale of Alaska in the “politarist” characteristics of Russian society. Describing the reshuffl ing of initiators of tsarist Far East policies, from Sergei Witte to the Bezobrazovites during the 1990s, Igor Lukoianov maintains that the fatal weakness of the empire’s Far East policies had already been imbedded in Witte’s initiative.

Irrespective of the readers’ judgment of the pessimistic view pro-posed by these St. Petersburg historians on the empire’s social and eco-nomic potentialities, these chapters’ focus on geopolitics, economy, and foreign trade is refreshing. Imperiologists have neglected these topics, while overconcentrating on ethno-confessional issues. As empires were not only multinational spaces but also vast territories, an imperiology disregarding macro-regional administration, economic development, military, geopolitics, transportation, and migration cannot be full fl edged. Exactly in regard to these issues Russian imperiology needs funda-mental self-reexamination and innovation. In other words, the study of nationalities should be reunifi ed with general social and state history. Leonid Gorizontov’s discreet analysis (Chapter 9) reveals how closely imperial policy makers’ concerns with ethnic and general management were intertwined, and how rich research potentials imperiologists may secure, if they are released from the habit of artifi cial segregation of nationality studies from general history. I cannot but support Dominic Lieven’s statement:

“At present academic historians of empires are much more inclined to concentrate on questions of culture, epistemology, identity and race—for reasons linked to current trends in Western thinking and current issues in the domestic policies of Western states. …however, it is naїve to imagine

14

KIMITAKA MATSUZATO

that these factors alone tell one all one needs to know about the emergence, survival and impact of empires.”19

The Russian Empire’s territorial expansion during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was partly a result of its counter-reformative strategy. This empire easily attracted the Baltic Germans and the Polo-nized East Slavic and Lithuanian nobilities, who were dissatisfi ed with the centralizing and anti-serfdom policies conducted by Stockholm and Warsaw.20 The Russian Empire had actually become the last bastion of serfdom in Europe, and this fi t the classic model of empire as a union of multiethnic nobles via dynastic loyalty. However, this model faced serious challenges under Nicholas I, the most threatening of which was the Polish uprising of 1830. The Slavophile intelligentsia (fi rst) and the imperial government (reluctantly) rethought the traditional, pro-aristo-cratic method of imperial integration, and began to use “peasant” nations as the counterbalance against “aristocratic” nations, such as Poles and, to a lesser extent, Baltic Germans. Characteristic of the Russian Empire was that because of the ethnic heterogeneity and the insuffi cient demo-graphic weight of Eastern Slavs, the image of peasants substituted for the image of a nation. This made Russia’s new course of imperial man-agement even more populist and socially oriented. The interpretation of the abolition of serfdom of 1861 as an attempt to create an imperial nation via renewal of primordial justice belongs to Mikhail Dolbilov,21 who in this volume describes the self-contradictory characteristics of this populist strategy (Chapter 7). Takeshi Matsumura examines the viability of this strategy through the prism of agrarian history. He remarks that the form of peasant land ownership was inseparable from the structure of peasant domestic groups (families) and work organization of land-owners’ estates. The proposed reform of peasant land ownership was unrealizable without changing the other two elements of the agrarian structure. A total reform of this triad could not be achieved without a

19 Dominic Lieven, “Empire on Europe’s Periphery: Russian and Western Comparisons,” Imperial Rule, p. 134.20 Orest Subtelny, Domination of Eastern Europe: Native Nobilities and Foreign Absolutism, 1500-1715 (Kingston, 1986).21 Mikhail Dolbilov, “The Emancipation Reform of 1861 in Russia and the Nationalism of the Imperial Bureaucracy,” in The Construction and Deconstruction, pp. 205-236.

15

INTRODUCTION

devastating “cost of changes.” This is why the implemented peasant reform was modest enough to preserve the pre-emancipation agrarian structures in all of european Russia and why the pro-peasant discourse in government and public circles did not go beyond empty talk. Again, one would fi nd it very revealing to bring social history back into Rus-sian imperial studies.

Another neglected research strategy is comparison of empires, though specialists have always emphasized its importance. Even the rising academic interest in the Russian and Ottoman Empires has not changed this situation; even the rare exceptions that focus on multiple empires22 suffer a lack of articulated criteria for comparison. Perhaps, this unpopularity of inter-imperial comparison was not only caused by the requested additional endeavor to study other empires, in which one is not specialized, but also the poor results procurable from this endeavor. Neglected calls in the past for comparison often assumed that empires, even neighboring ones, had existed independently of each other. Alexei Miller, Jun Akiba, Paul Werth try to make inter-imperial comparisons more attractive and fruitful for historians by combining them with macro-systemic analyses of empires. Miller and Akiba advocate macro-systemic concepts, such as “contiguous empires,” “a common world time,” and argue that empires composed a single macro-system and thus were interdependent. Paul Werth confi rms this view empirically, analyzing trans-border interaction and movement of religions and believers. The participation of Jun Akiba, a Japanese Ottoman specialist, in this collec-tion is quite valuable. The readers will be surprised to see this Ottoman specialist’s knowledge of the Russian Empire. I honestly desire the continuation and expansion of dialogue between the specialists of the Ottoman and Romanov Empires.

The end of an empire (the Soviet Union) gave an impetus for the study of empires. Though the achievements of this new subdiscipline, called imperiology, have been largely empirical, it has emerged as a powerful opposition to traditional national histories. Russian imperiol-ogy has so far overconcentrated on ethno-confessional issues and been segregated from general and social history. This is a specifi c feature which

22 Dominic Lieven, Empire: The Russian Empire and Its Rivals (New Haven, London, 2002); A. I. Miller, ed., Rossiiskaia imperiia v sravnitel’noi perspective (Moscow, 2004).

cannot be observed, for example, in the study of the Ottoman Empire. If this self-segregation is overcome and comparative studies of empires are enriched with the macro-systemic perspective, Russian imperiology will proceed to a new stage of its development.

January 8, 2007, Sapporo

Kimitaka MatsuzatoDoctor of Law, ProfessorSlavic Research CenterHokkaido University

19

1THE VALUE AND THE LIMITS

OF A COMPARATIVE APPROACH

TO THE HISTORY OF CONTIGUOUS EMPIRES

ON THE EUROPEAN PERIPHERY

ALEXEY MILLER

COMPARING CONTIGUOUS EMPIRES

The idea that the contiguous empires of the Romanovs, Habsburgs and Ottomans should be compared to each other as traditional polities that became more and more outdated over the last two centuries of their existence has been common wisdom for a long time. It fi tted perfectly the grand narrative of the decline and fall of empires, rooted in the writing of Gibbon. It is, however, surprising, how little historians have done in the previous decades to make such a comparison. If comparisons were indeed made, in most cases, they embraced only the Romanov and Habsburg Empires.1 Only recently did the Ottoman Empire become more involved in such comparative analysis. Almost totally (and undeserv-ingly) missing from the comparative perspective on contiguous empires has been the German Reich or the Hohenzollern Empire.2

In recent years, we observe a growing interest in a comparative approach to the history of empires in general and to contiguous empires 1 What comes to mind are articles by John-Paul Himka, Paul Robert Magocsi, Sergei Ro-manenko, Istvan Deak and Miroslav Hroch in Richard L. Rudolph and David F. Good, eds., Nationalism and Empire. The Habsburg Monarchy and the Soviet Union (New York, 1994) and articles by Orest Subtelny and György Köver in Teruyuki Hara and Kimitaka Matsuzato, eds., Empire and Society, ed. Teruyuki Hara and Kimitaka Matsuzato (Sapporo, 1997). See also Karen Barkey and Mark von Hagen, eds., After Empire. Multiethnic Socie-ties and Nation-Building. The Soviet Union and the Russian, Ottoman and Habsburg Empires (Boulder, Co., 1997).2 See Philipp Ther, “Imperial instead of National History: Positioning Modern German History on the Map of European Empires,” in Imperial Rule, ed. A. Miller and Alfred J. Rieber (Budapest, New York, 2004), pp. 47-69.

20

ALEXEY MILLER

in particular. The main methodological innovation of the new research is that the focus of comparison has moved from the traditional elements and characteristics of the empires to the patterns of their responses and adaptations to the challenges of modernity. The Ottoman, Habsburg and Romanov Empires faced similar challenges of modernity and survival in the highly competitive environment of the more developed empires. All of them became gradually involved in the economic world system, in which they were assigned peripheral or semi-peripheral roles. All of them tried to survive by adopting new techniques of imperial manage-ment and the mobilization of resources, while maintaining some elements of the traditional regime and its social order. These empires are now increasingly seen as empires in transformation. Some prefer to speak about different (multiple) modernities, represented by these and other peripheral polities.3 Whether historians continue to call these empires (as regards the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries) traditional or not, all agree that it would be a mistake to see even the Ottoman Empire of the nineteenth century, let alone the Habsburg and Romanov Empires, as a strictly traditional polity, totally deprived of the features of a modern state.4 The eighteenth century in all contiguous empires also witnessed some serious changes and even organized reforms, which aimed at build-ing a modern state and bureaucracy, and included the fi rst steps for the promotion of an elite by education in addition to an elite by birth.

On the other hand, although the modernizing agendas of these contiguous empires had some common features, we should keep in mind how different their reactions were, both in strategy and in results. The tendency to “normalize” the history of these polities, particularly that of the Romanov and Ottoman Empires, and to overestimate their success in adapting to modernity is a new extreme in historiography. Only a decade ago, there was almost total negation of their ability to adapt and change, now we are witnessing the opposite extreme.5

3 See Samuel Eisenstadt, “Multiple Modernities in the Era of Globalization,” Daedalus 129: 1 (Winter 2000), pp. 1-29.4 See, e.g., Selim Deringil, “‘They Live in a State of Nomadism and Savagery’: the Late Ottoman Empire and the Post-Colonial Debate,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 2 (2003), pp. 311-3425 See Boris Mironov, Sotsial’naia istoriia Rossii perioda imperii (XVIII—nachalo XXv) (St. Peters-burg, 1999), for some striking examples of this trend of “normalizing” Russian history.

21

HISTORY OF CONTIGUOUS EMPIRES

When comparing the modernizing economic efforts undertaken by these empires, we should also keep in mind diffi culties in measuring their effectiveness. For example, it is obvious that the level of dependency of the Sublime Porte on her foreign creditors was higher than that of Rus-sia. However, it is hard to estimate to what extent Russia’s qualitatively higher level of economic independence was due to her more effective fi nancial policy, and to what extent it was a result of her success on the battlefi eld. Military strength and a better strategic position allowed Russia to borrow new money on better conditions than was possible for the Ottomans. It was not only that money infl uenced military potential, but also that higher military potential helped some empires to obtain a better position in the economic world system.

Another problem when estimating the backwardness and tradi-tional character of these polities is that in speaking about traditional contiguous empires, historians used to imply total opposition to their modern maritime rivals. In reality, these “modern” sea-based empires had plenty of elements of traditional social order or patterns of rule, not only in colonies overseas, but also in their core-areas. That is particularly true of Spain, but to some extent also of France and Britain. Generally, this means that the concepts of “traditional” and “modern” have become more problematic and that they should not be simplistically attributed exclusively to contiguous or maritime empires.

The area to which comparative methods have been applied most intensively and productively is probably the history of elites in contigu-ous empires. Some very interesting, although not necessarily unques-tionable, comparative observations about the mobilized diasporas in the Ottoman and Romanov Empires were made by John Armstrong.6 An important contribution to the topic was the volume edited by Andreas Kappeler and Fikret Adanir.7 A set of comparative-oriented case studies on the elites of all three empires has appeared recently in Russian.8 The

6 John A. Armstrong, “Mobilized and Proletarian Diasporas,”. The American Political Science Review 70 (1976), pp. 393-408.7 Andreas Kappeler (ed.) in collaboration with Fikret Adanir and Alan O’Day, The Forma-tion of National Elites (New York, 1992; Comparative Studies on Governments and Non-dominant Ethnic Groups in Europe, 1850-1940, Vol. 6).8 Khans Peter Khee (Hans Peter Hye), “Elity i imperskie elity v Gabsburgskoi imperii, 1815-1914” (pp. 150-176); Selchuk Akshin Somel’ (Selcuk Aksin Somel), “Osmanskaia Imperiia:

22

ALEXEY MILLER

most important summarizing contribution to the fi eld is a compara-tive synthetic paper on the elites of contiguous empires by Andreas Kappeler.9 The interest in elites is part of a more general trend, which calls attention to the patterns of imperial rule, to the fl uctuations from indirect to direct rule and back to indirect rule on a new basis, which were so characteristic of all contiguous empires.10 Another promising trend, which could soon bring interesting results, is the comparative research of the religious policies of these empires, including conversion and apostasy.11

An important methodological aspect of the new research is atten-tion to the processes of interaction among multiple actors, both central and local: in other words, the use (also in comparative perspective) of a situational approach.12 That is also characteristic of some new research into the history of national movements in empires. Previously, many of these studies tended to concentrate almost exclusively on a particular na-tional movement, marginalizing the role of the imperial center. Bringing empire back is an important change in the new approach to the history of nationalism. This means that national movements are now seen in interaction with local and central authorities, and with other (sometimes rival) national movements. It is exactly this focus on the interactions of multiple actors concerning loyalties, identity formation and nationalist

Mestnye elity i mekhanizmy ikh integratsii” (pp. 177-205); Aleksandr Kamenskii, “Elity Rossiiskoi Imperii i mekhanizmy administrativnogo upravleniia” (pp. 115-139), in Rossi-iskaia Imperiia v sravnitel’noi perspektive. Sbornik statei, ed. Aleksei Miller (Moscow, 2004).9 Andreas Kappeler, “Imperiales Zentrum und Eliten der Peripherie,” contribution to a project, conducted by the Historical Commission of the Austrian Academy of Sciences, “Rulers and Ruled in Continental European Empires in Comparison, 1700-1920.”10 See Alexey Miller and Alfred J. Rieber, “Introduction,” in Imperial Rule, ed. Miller and Rieber, pp. 1-6. The Austrian Academy of Sciences will soon publish the materials of the project “Rulers and Ruled in Continental European Empires in Comparison, 1700-1920,” which also focused on this topic.11 See Paul W. Werth, “Schism Once Removed: Sects, State Authority and Meanings of Religious Toleration in Imperial Russia,” (pp. 85-108) and Selim Deringil, “Redefi ning Identities in the Late Ottoman Empire: Policies of Conversion and Apostasy,” (pp. 109-134) in Imperial Rule, ed. Miller and Rieber.12 On the situational approach, see Alexey Miller, “Between Local and Interimperial. Rus-sian Imperial History in Search for Scope and Paradigm,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 5:1 (2004), pp. 1-26, esp. 8-18.

23


agendas with their possible alternative outcomes that allows us to grasp the fabric of imperial history.13

BEYOND TRADITIONAL COMPARISON

An important achievement of recent years is the understanding that we should go beyond a traditional comparison of contiguous em-pires, and also compare land-based empires to maritime empires. Such a comparison can be particularly fruitful when we address the issue of nation-building in the core areas of empires. Ronald Suny argues con-vincingly that many of the oldest nation-states of our time, including France, began their historic evolution as heterogeneous dynastic con-glomerates with the characteristics of an imperial relationship between the metropolis and the periphery. Only after the hard work of national-izing homogenization were hierarchical empires transformed in their core areas into relatively egalitarian nation-states based on a horizontal notion of equal citizenship.14

“‘The nation-state’ has become too centered in conceptions of European history since the late eighteenth century, and ‘empire’ not centered enough.” This very important methodological observation was formulated by Ann Laura Stoler and Frederick Cooper in connection with maritime empires.15 “We are accustomed to the idea that Spain created its empire, but it is more useful to work with the idea that the empire created Spain,” wrote Henry Kamen recently.16 This theoretical

13 See more in Alexei Miller, The Ukrainian Question. The Russian Empire and Nationalism in the Nineteenth Century (New York, 2003), pp. 2-38; idem, “Shaping Russian and Ukrainian Identities in the Russian Empire During the Nineteenth Century: Some Methodological Remarks,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 49: 4 (2001), pp. 257-263.14 Ronald Grigor Sunny, “The Empire Strikes Out: Imperial Russia, ‘National’ Identity, and Theories of Empire” in A State of Nations: Empire and Nation-Making in the Age of Lenin and Stalin, ed. Ronald G. Suny and Terry Martin (Oxford, 2001), p. 27.15 Ann Laura Stoler and Frederick Cooper, “Between Metropole and Colony. Rethinking a Research Agenda” in Ann Laura Stoler and Frederick Cooper, eds., Tensions of Empire. Colonial Cultures in a Bourgeois World (Berkeley, Los Angeles, 1997), p. 22.16 Henry Kamen, Spain’s Road to Empire: The Making of a World Power (London, 2002). Quo-tation comes from Ronald Wright, “For a wild surmise,” TLS, December 20, 2002, p. 3.

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ALEXEY MILLER

premise is also valid for Russia and Hungary as Habsburgian subempire after 1867, and is also helpful in an interpretation of the policies of the Young Turks.

I would argue that it was exactly this lack of a comparative perspec-tive that caused the inability of many historians of the Romanov Empire to recognize the very important fact that the Russian nation-building project did distinguish between the Empire and Russian national territory.17

There are many more areas where comparison of land-based and maritime empires can be productive. Steven Velychenko has demon-strated how instructive a quantitative comparison of imperial bureauc-racy and army can be.18

Wayne Dowler and other students of Russian imperial politics regarding the schooling of Muslim populations compare them to the politics of the French and Britons regarding the schooling of their Mus-lim subjects in Africa and India.19 These studies remind us of the very

For a similar argument on Britain, see Linda Colley, Britons: Forging a Nation, 1707-1837 (London, 1992).17 For examples of how the works of Eugen Weber (Peasants into Frenchmen. The Moderniza-tion of Rural France, 1870-1914. Stanford: Cal., 1976), Linda Colley (Britons. Forging a Nation), Michael Hechter (Internal Colonialism. The Celtic Fringe in British National Development. 1556-1966. Berkeley, 1975) and other students of nation-building in the core areas of maritime empires can help the analysis of Russian nationalism, see Miller, The Ukrainian Question… and A. Miller. “The Empire and the Nation in the Imagination of Russian Nationalism,” in Imperial Rule, ed. Miller and Rieber, pp. 9-27. See also in the same volume Sebastian Bal-four, “The Spanish Empire and its End: a Comparative View in Nineteenth and Twentieth Century Europe,” pp. 153-162; and Steven Velychenko, “Empire Loyalism and Minority Nationalism in Great Britain and Imperial Russia, 1707 to 1914: Institutions, Laws, and Nationality in Scotland and Ukraine,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 39: 3 (July 1997), pp. 413-441. At the same time, one should keep in mind that such comparisons can be very misleading, if they are not based on a proper knowledge of the Russian material. See, for example, the misinterpretation of the Russian case in Krishan Kumar, “Nation and Empire: English and British National Identity in Comparative Perspective,” Theory and Society 29:5 (2000), pp. 579-608, esp. pp. 584-588.18 Stephen Velychenko, “The Bureaucracy, Police and Army in Twentieth-Century Ukraine. A Comparative Quantitative Study,” Harvard Ukrainian Studies 23:3-4 (1999), pp. 63-103; idem, “The Size of the Imperial Russian Bureaucracy and Army in Comparative Perspec-tive,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 49:3 (2001), pp. 346-62.19 Wayne Dowler, Classroom and Empire: The Politics of Schooling Russia’s Eastern Nationali-ties, 1860-1917 (Toronto, 2001); Robert P. Geraci, Window to the East. National and Imperial Identities in Late Tsarist Russia (Ithaca, 2001).

25


important fact that what we are comparing are not isolated entities. The Russian government sent several experts on offi cial and non-offi cial mis-sions to French and British colonies to study their experiences. Closely related to these studies is another interesting comparison, that of the western and Russian versions of orientalism.20

There are many other examples of the transfer of imperial expertise and colonial institutions. One such study has been recently conducted by Ilya Vinkovetsky, who wrote a history of the Russian-American Company, which was run on the principles of British colonial trade companies. A comparative perspective allows Vinkovetsky to analyze the mutations of an institution in a different institutional and cultural environment.21

Last but by no means least, I should mention the work of Dominic Lieven, who brilliantly compares the geopolitical strategies of land-based and maritime empires.22 Lieven also contributed some important comparative observations on the internal politics of maritime and land-base empires. He argues that common to all empires was the “key dilemma … how, on the one hand, to hold together polities of great territory, population and therefore power, and, on the other, to square this priority with satisfying the demands of nationalism, democracy and economic dynamism.”23

20 Nathaniel Knight, “Grigor’ev in Orenburg, 1851-1862: Russian Orientalism in the Service of Empire?” Slavic Review 59:1 (2000), pp. 74-100; idem, “On Russian Orientalism: A Response to Adeeb Khalid,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History, 1:4 (2000), pp. 701-715; Adeeb Khalid, “Russian History and the Debate over Orientalism,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 1:4 (2000), pp. 691-699; Maria Todorova, “Does Russian Orientalism Have a Russian Soul? A Contribution to the Debate between Nathaniel Knight and Adeeb Khalid,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 1:4 (2000), pp. 717-727.21 Ilya Vinkovetsky, “The Russian-American Company as a Colonial Contractor for the Russian Empire,” in Imperial Rule, ed. Miller and Rieber, pp. 163-178.22 See his opus magnum: Dominic Lieven, Empire. The Russian Empire and its Rivals (Lon-don, 2000); idem, “Empire on Europe’s Periphery: Russian and Western Comparisons,” in Imperial Rule, ed. Miller and Rieber, pp. 135-152.23 Dominic Lieven, “Dilemmas of Empire 1850-1918. Power, Territory, Identity,” Journal of Contemporary History 34: 2 (1999), p. 165.

26

ALEXEY MILLER

In sum, such research was instrumental in the destruction of a “Berlin wall” between maritime and land-based empires, which seemed so solid in the historical writings of the previous decades.

Another important extension of the comparative approach is the inclusion into the comparative perspective of some more distant (from the European perspective) empires. A recent article of Alfred Rieber demonstrates how one can compare not only the complex frontiers of the Ottoman, Romanov, and Habsburg Empires, but also of the Chinese and Persian Empires.24

BEYOND COMPARISON:TOWARDS ENTANGLED HISTORIES

When studying the nationality politics and processes of nation-building, at least in the nineteenth century, it is important to speak of the macrosystem of the continental empires of the Romanovs, Habsburgs, Hohenzollerns, and Ottomans. The fi rst two had extensive and rather mobile (both in reality and potentially) borders with all the other em-pires of this macrosystem, and the latter two, with the Romanovs and the Habsburgs.

Several factors had signifi cance with regard to this interaction. The fi rst was a religious factor. The Romanov Empire put herself forward as the protector of all Orthodox believers, both inside and outside its bor-ders. The Sublime Porte played the same role in relation to Muslims. The Habsburgs protected Catholics, and Vienna often worked hand in hand with the Vatican, including its politics concerning the Greek Catholics.25 Repressive policies directed against Catholics in Germany (Kulturkampf, which particularly targeted Poles), and anti-Polish politics towards

24 Alfred J. Rieber, “Comparative Ecology of Complex Frontiers,” in Imperial Rule, ed. Miller and Rieber, pp. 179-210. See also an interesting recent attempt to compare property (rights and institutions) in the Ottoman and Chinese Empires in Huri Islamoglu, ed., Constituting Modernity: Private Property in the East and West (New York, 2004).25 For a demonstration of how the triangular relationship of Vienna—Vatican—Petrograd operated during the First World War, see Aleksandra Iu. Bakhturina, Politika Rossiiskoi imperii v Vostochnoi Galitsii v gody pervoi mirovoi voiny (Moscow, 2000).

27


Catholics and Greek-Catholics in Russia infl uenced Habsburg attitudes toward its Protestant, Greek-Catholic and Orthodox populations. In the earlier period, the relative tolerance of the treatment of Protestants by the Habsburgs resulted from the necessity to fi ght for their loyalty with the Ottomans, who adopted a favorable attitude towards Protestants. It was only after the defeat of the Porte army (with many Hungarian Protestants in its ranks) near Vienna that the Habsburgs could afford to crush the Protestants in their empire.

The second important factor was that of the pan-ethnic ideologies: pan-Slavism, pan-Germanism, and pan-Turkism. These ideologies at-tempted to utilize religious factors for their own goals, but even in the cases of pan-Turkism and pan-Islamism, which were very closely con-nected, they had their own signifi cant differences.

If Russia undertook a war for the “hearts and souls” of the Slavs of the Ottoman empire, often under the banner of pan-Slavism, then the Porte struggled for the loyalty of the Muslim subjects of the tsar. It is not accidental that Kemal Karpat, author of a wide-ranging monograph, The Politicization of Islam, gives his chapter on the “Formation of the contemporary nation” the subtitle “Turkism and pan-Islamism in the Russian and Ottoman Empires.”26 The processes that took place among the Muslims of the two empires were indeed intricately connected. Emigrants from Russia were no less involved in the foundation of the pan-Turkic and pan-Islamic movements than the Ottoman subjects. Moreover, because of the large Arab population in the Ottoman Empire, pan-Turkism long remained a more suitable item for export than for internal consumption in the Ottoman domains.

Pan-Slavism was addressed to the Habsburgian Slavs no less than to the Ottomans. Czechs and Slovaks, not to mention Galician Rusyns, were at times quite receptive to this propaganda. In its neo-Slavist version, it even gained the attention of the Prussian Poles in the early twentieth century. Pan-Germanism was another challenge for the Habsburgs since they had lost their quest for the leading role in the German unifi cation in 1848 and, fi nally, in 1866 after the Battle of Sadova. This was because pan-Germanism was putting a huge question mark over the loyalty of 26 Kemal H. Karpat, The Politicization of Islam. Reconstructing Identity, State, Faith and Com-munity in the Late Ottoman State (Oxford, 2001), pp. 276 and 286. The importance of this factor has been noted by Geraci in his Window to the East, p. 279.

28

ALEXEY MILLER

the Austrian Germans to the house of the Habsburgs. In 1867, Austrian Prime Minister Friedrich Ferdinand von Beust argued that if the Slavs were also included in the projected national compromise, German-Austrians would be reduced to a neglected minority and would begin to orient themselves politically towards Prussia. Thus, this dualism was to a large extent a by-product of the Prussian unifi cation of Germany on the one hand and a fear of pan-Slavism on the other.27

However, pan-Germanism was also a challenge to the Romanovs. Prussia’s unifi cation of Germany not only prompted Russian national-ists and the authorities of the Russian Empire to understand the need to accelerate their own plans for consolidation of the eastern Slavs into a single imperial nation. Pan-Germanism was supposed to claim, sooner than later, the Baltic provinces of the Russian Empire as a part of a grater Germany. Moreover, the loyalties of the numerous German-origin Rus-sian subjects, irrespective of whether they were Baltic nobles, so impor-tant in ruling the empire since the beginning of the eighteenth century, or peasant colonists, who populated strategically important regions of the Empire, including her western and southern frontiers began to be questioned. It was precisely since the 1880s, after the unifi cation of Ger-many and the formation of the anti-Russian bloc of Central powers, that Baltic Germans ceased to be a problem of the frondeur Russian nobility (from General Ermolov to the Slavophile Iurii Samarin) and became a major factor in the authorities’ geopolitical fears and plans. Armstrong was correct in that it was the rise of the second Reich that triggered the gradual decline of the multimillion German diaspora in all of Eastern Europe, and fi rst of all in the Romanov Empire.28 Moreover, during World

27 Joseph Redlich, Das österreichische Staats- und Reichsproblem (Leipzig, 1920), vol. 2, p. 559 ff., as quoted in Kann, Das Nationalitätenproblem, vol. 2, p. 143 f. See also the comment by Heinrich Lutz in Die Donaumonarchie und die südslawische Frage von 1848 bis 1918. Texte des Ersten österrreichisch-jugoslawischen Historikertreffens, Gösin, 1976, ed. Adam Wandruszka et al., (Vienna, 1978), p. 58 f. See also Fikret Adanir, “Religious Communities and Ethnic Groups under Imperial Sway: Ottoman and Habsburg Lands in Comparison,” in The Historical Practice of Diversity: Transcultural Interactions from the Early Modern Mediterranean to the Postcolonial World, ed. Dirk Hoerder, Christiane Harzig, and Adrian Shubert (New York, 2003), pp. 54-86.28 Armstrong, “Mobilized and Proletarian Diasporas…”

29


War I, the possessions of Germans, be they alien or Russian subjects, was challenged altogether.29

It is important to recognize that many ethnic and ethno-religious as-sociations inhabited two or three neighboring empires. The outcome of the processes of identity formation and consolidation of the images of national territories in many of these cases depended greatly on the macrosystem-scale interactions taking place amongst the continental empires.30

The loyalty of these ethno-social groups, whose national identity was relatively longstanding and stable (the Germans, the Polish szlachta, the Jews) can also be understood only in the context of the macrosystem. The political hesitations of the Polish elite are well known, relying at vari-ous times on their connections with Berlin, Vienna and St. Petersburg. It is also well known that the loyalty of the Jews to Austro-Hungary dur-ing World War I is to a great extent explained by their understanding of tsarist policies in relation to the Jews and their situation in Russia.

It is also important to realize that it was not only ideas or material assistance for foreign supporters that were transferred across the borders of these neighboring empires. Another aspect of interaction among these empires was the movement of populations, either organized and con-ducted from above or taking more spontaneous forms from below. The contiguous borders of these empires were military frontiers, drawn and redrawn on the basis of conquest. They did not embody either natural or national principles. In order to secure them, imperial rulers frequently resorted to resettlement, deportation and colonization. Foreign and in-ternal wars displaced peoples or stimulated their emigration to join their confrères, ethnic or religious. Very often, massive migrations took place also in peaceful times. Examples abound: the migration of russophile Rusyns from Galicia to the Russian Empire, of Ukrainian nationalists from Russia to Galicia, of Poles and Jews from the Russian to the Ger-man Empire and then their exclusion back again, of Muslims from the Russian to the Ottoman Empire (the so-called mukhadzir movement) and of Balkan Slavs (mainly Bulgarians and Serbs) in the opposite direction,31 29 See Eric Lohr, Nationalizing the Russian Empire: The Campaign against Enemy Aliens during World War I (Cambridge: Mass., 2003).30 Such examples include Romanians, Azeris, Ukrainians, Tatars, Lithuanians, just to name a few within the borders of the Romanov Empire.31 On some aspects of these migrations, which sometimes looked like an organized exchange

30

ALEXEY MILLER

of German and in much fewer, but still signifi cant, numbers, Czech colonists into the Russian Empire. These movements strongly infl uenced the formation of separate cultural enclaves, and in some cases, also the identifi cation processes in the areas from which people migrated,32 and inevitably the political temper and politics of the imperial centers.

The interaction and mutual dependence of the four neighboring continental empires suggests the importance of treating them not only as distinctive units of comparison but also as a macrosystem. The empires of the modern era are all tied together by military and economic compe-tition and by the transfer of expertise in various spheres. However, the specifi c characteristics of the entangled histories of neighboring contigu-ous empires distinguish them from the competitive relationships of other continental and overseas empires. The dense and diverse interaction in the area of national politics between these empires bears a qualitatively different character compared with the geopolitical competition of those empires not coterminous with their rivals. Ronald Suny once remarked that for contiguous empires, pursuing different policies in the core and the periphery was far more diffi cult than for noncontiguous empires.33 We can go further, saying that for neighboring contiguous empires, it was more diffi cult: (A) to pursue their nationality policies within their borders without infl uencing their neighbors; and (B) to project infl uence outside their borders without serious consequences for their domestic policies.

A perfect illustration of Point A would be the unifi cation of Ger-many by Prussia, which had immediate and far-reaching infl uence on the nationality politics of all its neighbors. Here are a few examples to illustrate Point B. If Great Britain had decided to support the struggle of the mountain tribes of the Caucasus against the Romanov Empire, this of population, see an unpublished Ph.D. dissertation by Mark Pincel, “Demographic War-fare—an Aspect of Ottoman and Russian Policy, 1854-1866,” Harvard University, 1970.32 See, for example, John-Paul Himka, “The Construction of Nationality in Galician Rus’: Icarian Flights in Almost All Directions,” in Intellectuals and the Articulation of the Nation, ed. Michael Kennedy and Ronald G. Suny (Ann Arbor, 1999), pp. 109-64, and Veronika Wendland, Die Russophilen in Galizien. Ukrainische Konservative zwischen Osterreich und Russland, 1848-1915 (Vienna, 2001), which highlight the mechanisms and signifi cance of such an exchange between Galicia and “Russian” Ukraine.33 Ronald G. Suny, “The Empire Strikes Out: Imperial Russia, ‘National’ Identity, and Theories of Empire,” in A State of Nations, ed. Suny and Martin, pp. 29-30.

31


decision would have had no infl uence on how she dealt with her “own” Muslims. If France at one time or another had supported the Poles, this would have had little impact on her political relations with her own population, be it on the continent or in the colonies. However if the Habsburg Empire had encouraged the Polish or Ukrainian movements in the Russian Empire, it would have been obliged to adjust its policies toward its “own” Poles and Rusyns-Ukrainians.

A telling example of this dilemma is the policy of the Romanov Empire towards the Armenian church after the annexation in 1828 from Persia of the seat of the Supreme Patriarch of all the Armenians in Echmi-atsin. Since then, St. Petersburg used its control over the spiritual center of the Armenians to project infl uence over the Armenian population of the Ottoman and Persian Empires. As Paul Werth in his study of this policy stresses, “upholding and enhancing the prestige of the Catholicos [supreme bishop] abroad required the imperial government to make sub-stantial compromises in the administration of Armenian religious affairs within the Russian empire. In essence, there was a crucial contradiction between St. Petersburg’s ideal standards of confessional administration, on the one hand, and arrangements that would maximize the authority of the Catholicos abroad, on the other.” He reaches the conclusion that St. Petersburg always opted to sacrifi ce these ideal standards of internal imperial confessional administration for the more effective use of the Patriarchate in foreign policy.34

This macrosystem was internally stable for a rather long time be-cause, no matter how often it came to war between them, all these em-pires respected certain conventional limitations in their mutual rivalry. Generally speaking, they did not aim to destroy their neighbors, to a large extent because the three of them required cooperation in dealing with the legacies of the partitions of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. It was in the course of preparations for the Great War and during it that the empires started to play the ethnic card against their imperial rivals so actively. This means that much of the strength of the national move-ments in the region during the war should be attributed to the impact of the empires.34 Paul Werth, “Imperial Russia and the Armenian Catholicos at Home and Abroad,” in Reconstruction and Interaction of Slavic Eurasia and its Neighboring Worlds, ed. Ieda Osamu and Uyama Tomohiko (Sapporo, 2006), pp. 203-235.

32

The best illustration of this point is the German policy on the oc-cupied western borderlands of the Romanov Empire. The Russian lan-guage was outlawed in the whole region, and the Ukrainian, Belarusian and Lithuanian languages were promoted in the press and in education. Ukrainian prisoners of war were kept in separate, better supplied, camps, where Ukrainian activists worked with them to propagate Ukrainian national ideology and identity. Later, a separate Ukrainian battalion was formed from among these people. The formation of Belarusian and Lithuanian military units soon followed. At the same time, the Special Political Department was formed in the Foreign Ministry of the Russian Empire with the task of working with the Habsburg prisoners of war of the Slavic, particularly Czech, origin in the hope of preparing them to fi ght as separate units on the Russian side.35

Thus, the question, to what extent the Nemesis of these empires should be attributed to national movements, and to what extent to the empires themselves, remains open to debate. This also leaves the ques-tion of the living potential of these contiguous empires more open than generally thought. In other words, were all these empires on a decline or in crisis on the eve of World War I? Was World War I just the last nail in the coffi n of declining polities, or a dramatic clash, which brought all these empires, no matter how “ill,” to collapse? In my view, the potential of these empires (with the possible exception of the Sublime Porte) was far from exhausted. They were meeting the challenges of modernity in a way that did not determine their collapse, and it was World War I that made them the prey of history.

35 See more in Alexei Miller, “A Testament of the All-Russian Idea: Foreign Ministry Memoranda to the Imperial, Provisional and Bolshevik Governments,” in Extending the Borders of Russian History. Essays in Honor of Alfred Rieber, ed. Marsha Seifert (Budapest, 2003), pp. 233-244.

33

2PRELIMINARIES TO A COMPARATIVE HISTORY

OF THE RUSSIAN AND OTTOMAN EMPIRES:PERSPECTIVES FROM OTTOMAN STUDIES

JUN AKIBA

The Russian and Ottoman empires had many characteristics in common. Both were continental empires with vast territories compris-ing multi-religious, multi-ethnic, and multi-linguistic populations. Both originated from the frontier of their respective religious civiliza-tions: Orthodox Christianity and Islam. After the population move-ment during the eleventh and twelfth centuries (Turks’ expansion to Anatolia and Slavs’ north-eastward movement), state formation began around the twelfth to thirteenth century. The imperial history of the Ottomans goes back to the mid-fi fteenth century, when they captured the capital of the Byzantine Empire, and they established an Islamic empire after the conquest of the Arab lands in the early sixteenth century. During the same period, the Muscovite state grew into the Russian Empire after the conquest of the Kazan Khanate. Again, both empires collapsed almost simultaneously in the last phase of World War I. As neighbors, the two empires shared many stages of world history.

I will focus here on the long nineteenth century, that is, from ca. 1780 to 1917/18, when the Russian and Ottoman empires came in closest contact and were confronted with common problems. The parallelism between these empires is most conspicuous for their later period and thus it can be said that their long-nineteenth-century histories are most suit-able for comparison. Traditionally, the history of late Imperial Russia has been described as a series of failures when compared to west European countries, but the Russians have been deemed successful modernizers when compared to the Ottomans. This type of comparative approach, however, puts too much emphasis on the process of modernization and nation building and fails to look into the parallel development of the

34

JUN AKIBA

nineteenth-century imperial powers. Comparative studies of empires, including the Russian and Ottoman empires, have recently appeared and stimulated the opening of fresh discussion. One is a book entitled After Empire,1 edited by Karen Barkey and Mark von Hagen, which is an attempt to compare the Russian, Ottoman, and Habsburg Empires and the Soviet Union, concentrating on their collapse and the aftermath. Another is Dominic Lieven’s book, Empire: The Russian Empire and Its Rivals,2 which compares the Russian Empire with other empires includ-ing the Ottoman. The main focus of the comparison is on the dilemma of empire: how to preserve an empire’s unity in the face of the challenge of nationalism. Now we have a number of recent studies in the fi elds of both Russian and Ottoman histories that examine specifi c aspects of one empire with some reference to another. This signifi es that historians are becoming interested in common problems.

In this chapter I present several points of reference for compara-tive studies of the Russian and Ottoman Empires during the nineteenth century. Because I specialize in late Ottoman history, my argument mainly draws on recent studies on the late Ottoman Empire, while I also survey some of the latest studies on Imperial Russia in search of common grounds for discussing the nature of empire.

Late Ottoman history has undergone wide-ranging revision espe-cially since the 1990s.3 One can observe that a new trend of historiography has emerged. One of the common characteristics of these new historical writings is, fi rst of all, their critical position against modernization theory, which presupposes the backwardness and anomaly of the Ottoman Em-pire as against the “norm” of European countries. Historians are now trying to emphasize the simultaneity of historical developments across the globe. Late Ottoman history is viewed in a common “world time”

1 Karen Barkey and Mark von Hagen, eds., After Empire: Multiethnic Societies and Nation-Building: The Soviet Union and Russian, Ottoman, and Habsburg Empires (Boulder, 1997).2 Dominic Lieven, Empire: The Russian Empire and Its Rivals (London, 2000).3 For recent trends in Ottoman historiography, see Jun Akiba, “The Ottoman Empire as a Modern Empire: A Recent Trend in Ottoman Studies (in Japanese),” Rekishigaku Kenkyu, 798 (2005), pp. 22-30; Nadir Özbek, “Modernite, Tarih ve İdeoloji: II. Abdülhamid Dönemi Tarihçiliği Üzerine Bir Değerlendirme,” Türkiye Araştırmaları Literatür Dergisi 2:1 (2004), pp. 71-90. For the new approach to late Ottoman history, see also: Donald Quataert, The Ottoman Empire, 1700-1922 (Cambridge, 2000).

35

PERSPECTIVES FROM OTTOMAN STUDIES

or Weltzeit.4 Researchers admit that the late Ottoman Empire was facing problems similar to those of other contemporary states, especially, but not exclusively, Russia, Habsburg Austria, China, and Japan. Thus, the late Ottoman experience becomes comparable with that of other societies and ceases to be “unique” or “exceptional.” Selim Deringil’s seminal work, The Well-Protected Domains, in a sense concentrates on “de-exoticizing” the Ottoman Empire under the reign of Sultan Abdülhamid II.5 A similar trend can be observed in the historiography of Imperial Russia after the fall of the Soviet regime; historians are recently revising the traditional view on the “failures” or “crises” of late Imperial Russia.6

One must be cautious, however, about this “normalizing” tendency in the Ottoman historiography. Because the historians’ effort to present the Ottoman Empire as something “normal” somewhat echoes Turkey’s current political agenda: to gain membership in the EU, while preserving its national identity. As Nadir Özbek points out, Kemal Karpat’s book on Islam and modernity in the Ottoman-Turkish context7 is reminiscent of the revisionist view of today’s Turkish conservatives, who are trying to accommodate Islam within the Turkish national identity.8

4 Benjamin C. Fortna, Imperial Classroom: Islam, the State, and Education in the Late Ottoman Empire (Oxford, 2002), p. 12.5 Selim Deringil, The Well-Protected Domains: Ideology and the Legitimation of Power in the Ottoman Empire, 1876-1909 (London, 1997). In reviewing the existing literature, Deringil writes in his introduction: “The ‘anomaly’ of the Ottoman position has been refl ected in the historiography pertaining to the Ottoman State which has been characterized by a tendency to ‘exoticize’ this uncomfortable phenomenon.” Ibid., p. 4. The word “de-ex-oticizing” is mine.6 For the recent historiography of Imperial Russia, I referred to the following studies: “In-troduction,” in Imperial Russia: New Histories for the Empire, ed. Jane Burbank and David L. Ransel (Bloomington, 1998); Jane Burbank, “Revisioning Imperial Russia,” Slavic Review 52:3 (1993), pp. 555-567; Aleksei Miller, “Between Local and Inter-Imperial: Russian Impe-rial History in Search of Scope and Paradigm,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 5:1 (2004), pp. 7-26; and Mark von Hagen, “Empires, Borderlands, and Diasporas: Eurasia as Anti-Paradigm for the Post-Soviet Era,” The American Historical Review 109:2 (2004), pp. 445-468.7 Kemal H. Karpat, The Politicization of Islam: Reconstructing Identity, State, Faith, and Com-munity in the Late Ottoman State (New York, 2001).8 Özbek, “Modernite, Tarih ve İdeolojı,” p. 75. For the Russian counterpart, see Miller, “Between Local and Inter-Imperial,” pp. 24-26.

36

JUN AKIBA

THE MODERN FORM

OF THE MONARCHIAL REGIME

A new trend of Ottoman historiography has appeared in the re-evaluation of the period of Sultan Abdülhamid II (1876-1909). The autocratic regime of Abdülhamid is no longer presumed to be archaic, anti-modern, or irrational. Rather, the Ottoman experience during this era can be considered similar to the monarchial forms of modern state formation, which were equally seen in central Europe, Russia, and Japan. For example, Deringil illustrates how the Sultan employed the symbols of power to remind the people of his power and benefi cence through imperial ceremonies and a variety of other means.9 In his study of the politics of welfare in the late Ottoman Empire, Nadir Özbek argues that the organization of circumcision ceremonies or the construction of the poorhouses and children’s hospitals was intended to disseminate a pa-triarchal image of the ruler, which was at the same time integrated with a scientifi c, modernist, and positivist discourse.10 As Özbek suggests, Abdülhamid’s regime as a modern form of the monarchy is comparable to the contemporary tsarist regime.11

Adopting the concept of “world time,” Benjamin Fortna highlights education under the Hamidian regime and places it in the global con-text. According to his study, emphasis on Islamic morality in the new “secular” schools during the Hamidian period was a typical example of “indigenization” of modern education, and it was also in accord with the trend in other contemporary countries such as France, Japan, and Russia.12 It must be noted that the authors mentioned here consciously take a comparative approach to the analysis of the Ottoman Empire.

9 Deringil, Well-Protected, Chapter 1.10 Nadir Özbek, Osmanlı İmparatorluğu’nda Sosyal Devlet: Siyaset, İktidar ve Meşruiyet, 1876-1914 (Istanbul, 2002); idem, “The Politics of Poor Relief in the Late Ottoman Empire, 1876-1914,” New Perspectives on Turkey 21 (1999), pp. 1-33.11 Özbek, Sosyal Devlet, p. 33, n. 19; Dominic Lieven, Nicholas II: Emperor of All the Russians (London, 1993); Richard S. Wortman, Scenarios of Power: Myth and Ceremony in Russian Monarchy, Vol. 2 (Princeton, 2000).12 Fortna, Imperial Classroom; idem, “Islamic Morality in Late Ottoman “Secular” Schools,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 32 (2000), pp. 369-393. For education during the Hamidian period, see also Deringil, Well-Protected, Chapter 4; Selçuk Akşin Somel, The

37


OTTOMAN BORDERLANDS

AND THE POLICY OF INTEGRATION

Ottoman borderlands are now drawing wide scholarly interest. This trend can be seen in the fact that in 2003 two academic journals published special issues on the Ottoman borderlands.13 Common to the recent studies on the borderlands is that the histories of the particular regions are considered in the broader context of Ottoman history. Con-sidering that one of the most basic features of empire is the possession of a culturally distinct periphery, the borderlands can best provide subject matters for the historians interested in the Ottoman state as an imperial power. In the fi eld of Russian Imperial history, too, many scholars have recently turned to the re-evaluation of the multi-ethnic dimension of the empire. Many studies have been already made on Russian policy toward the borderlands and these would provide valuable suggestions for Ottoman specialists.14

Borderlands are the zones where the state is confronted with so-cieties having distinct cultures and social organizations. The cultural and political friction in the periphery became fi erce during the long nineteenth century, when the Ottoman state expanded its direct rule over the frontier regions. While some regions on the fringes of the empire attained independence or autonomous status, or came under foreign occupation during the nineteenth century, Ottoman direct rule was restored or fi rst established in other remote regions, which had long been nominally under Ottoman sovereignty. Prominent among these regions were Iraq, Libya, Hijaz, Kurdistan, Transjordan, Yemen, and Albania. In other regions too, such as in Syria and the eastern Black Sea coast, the domination of local magnates was put to an end by the

Modernization of Public Education in the Ottoman Empire, 1839-1908: Islamization, Autocracy and Discipline (Leiden, 2001).13 International Journal of Turkish Studies, 9 (Summer 2003); The MIT Electronic Journal of Middle East Studies, 3 (Spring 2003). The former was published in a book: Kemal H. Karpat and Robert W. Zens, eds., Ottoman Borderlands: Issues, Personalities and Political Changes (Madison, 2004). 14 See especially, Andreas Kappeler, The Russian Empire: A Multiethnic History, tr. Alfred Clayton (Harlow, 2001); and Miller, “Between Local and Inter-Imperial.” I also referred to the works of Paul Werth, Kimitaka Matsuzato, and Theodore Weeks, among others.

38

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mid-nineteenth century and replaced with centralized administration.15 The Ottoman policy of integration must be comparable with its Russian counterpart.

Here it would be helpful to look at the Ottoman system of local administration in general.16 The Tanzimat reform of local administration was fi rst applied only in the “core regions” in the Balkans and west and central Anatolia. But it was conceived from the beginning to comprise a wider area, and it did gradually expand to other areas in the following years. It became the practice for the Tanzimat reformists to designate model provinces for the reform and then to adopt it in other regions. Following this practice, a new set of administrative reorganizations was fi rst applied in the province of Danube in 1864. Eventually the Provin-cial Reform Law of 1864 became the standard for the whole empire, and within a decade, the new administrative structure was established in most of the Ottoman domains, including such remote regions as Yemen and Libya. Thereafter, the basic distinction of administrative status was between normal provinces, where the Provincial Reform Law was implemented, and “privileged” provinces (eyâlât-ı mümtâze), where special administrative arrangements were adopted to the detri-ment of Ottoman sovereignty, either because of foreign intervention or the predominance of local powers. After the Berlin Treaty of 1878, the privileged provinces included Egypt, Tunisia, Bulgaria, Eastern Rumelia, Bosnia, Samos and Cyprus. Mount Lebanon and Crete could also be regarded to be in the same category.17 Besides these privileged provinces, the Ottoman government avoided forming large provinces

15 For this process, see Eugene L. Rogan, Frontiers of State in the Late Ottoman Empire: Tran-sjordan, 1850-1921 (Cambridge, 2000).16 For an insightful argument on Ottoman local administration, see Jens Hanssen, “Practices of Integration: Center-Periphery Relations in the Ottoman Empire,” in The Empire in the City: Arab Provincial Capitals in the Late Ottoman Empire, ed. Jens Hanssen, Thomas Philipp, and Stefan Weber (Würzburg, 2002), pp. 49-74.17 Egypt and Tunisia were semi-independent states with hereditary Muslim rulers but were occupied by Britain and France respectively. Samos and Crete (after 1898) were autonomous provinces with Christian governments, while Bulgaria achieved semi-inde-pendence, governed by a Christian prince with its own national army. Eastern Rumelia and the Mount Lebanon were administered by Christian governors, but the former was occupied by Bulgaria in 1885. Bosnia and Cyprus were under foreign occupation (Austrian and British, respectively).

39


with powerful governors especially in the areas with complex ethnic composition. Thus, geographical Macedonia and Albania, inhabited by Slav, Greek, Albanian, and Turkish populations, was divided into fi ve provinces, whereas Eastern Anatolia, inhabited by Armenians, Kurds, and Turks, was composed of fi ve provinces, increased from three in the 1870s.

It is an interesting coincidence that in exactly the same year both the Russian and Ottoman Empires embarked on a reorganization of local administration and judicial systems. In fact, it was not a mere coincidence because both reforms were directly related to the conse-quences of the Crimean War. Perhaps the Ottoman counterpart of the Russian system of Zemstvo was the local administrative council set up in each administrative unit, consisting of the local offi cials and elected members from among the local notables. Among the elected members, Muslims and non-Muslims had an equal number of representatives. The representative principle arranged for inter-communal balance was a characteristic of Ottoman administration. The same principle was applied to the new secular Nizamiye court established as part of the provincial reform of 1864 and composed of a president judge and several elected members.

The development of administrative structures in the provinces provided the local notables with the opportunity to obtain offi ces in the provincial bureaucracy. Similarly, the expansion of the state school system enhanced the incorporation of the local notables into the Ot-toman system. For example, many urban notable families in Syrian provinces sent their children to the higher professional schools in Is-tanbul, and many of the graduates ultimately became “Ottoman-Arab bureaucrats.”18 To incorporate the Arab and Kurdish tribes, on the other hand, the Ottoman state established a special school named “the Tribal School” in Istanbul. Sons of leading tribal sheikhs from Syria, Arabia, Libya, and Kurdistan were enrolled in this school. They were expected

18 Corrine Blake, “Training Arab-Ottoman Bureaucrats: Syrian Graduates of the Mülkiye Mektebi, 1890-1920,” (Ph.D. dissertation, Princeton University, 1991). For the role of urban notables, the most infl uential study is Albert Hourani, “Ottoman Reforms and the Politics of Notables,” in Beginnings of Modernization in the Middle East: The Nineteenth Century, ed. William R. Polk and Richard L. Chambers (Chicago, 1969), pp. 41-68.

40

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to follow a career in the administration or military.19 The Tribal School was an Ottoman device to transform tribesmen into Ottomans.20

Education was thus an important vehicle for the “Ottomanization” of subjects. Non-Muslims, however, were free to go to the elementary and secondary schools of their religious communities, over which the state continuously tried to exercise close supervision to eliminate any separatist tendencies. Only higher education was “mixed.” Overall, the cultural integration policy toward non-Muslim subjects remained only to a small degree. A non-Muslim could become an “Ottoman” bureaucrat after 1856 without converting to Islam and with a poor knowledge of Turkish. Conversion to Islam, whether by force or persuasion, was never adopted as an offi cial policy. In certain provinces, the Greek, Bulgarian, Serbian, and Ladino languages were used in the offi cial or semi-offi cial provincial newspapers, while Greek, Bulgarian, and Armenian were taught in some state schools. On the other hand, Muslims in the periph-eral regions were exposed to more systematic integration pressure.21 The loyalty to the Ottoman sultan, the Caliph of Muslims, of the Muslim subjects of allegedly “heretic” faiths such as Alevis, Yazidi Kurds,22 and Iraqi Shiis, was considered to be weak. Various means were employed to convert them to Orthodox Sunni Islam: building mosques and schools, distributing religious books, and sending preachers. Albanians were not allowed to build their own schools. The Ottoman government made a great effort to construct state schools for Muslims in Albania, while sup-porting the Rum (Greek) patriarchate in the establishment of Orthodox schools to prevent independent Greece’s cultural penetration. Except for Arabic, the non-Turkish languages of Muslims were never approved 19 Eugene Rogan, “Aşiret Mektebi: Abdülhamid II‘s School for Tribes (1892-1907),” In-ternational Journal of Middle East Studies 28 (1996), pp. 83-107; Deringil, Well-Protected, pp. 101-104.20 Rogan, Frontiers, p. 14. See also Deringil, Well-Protected, p. 67: “the transformation of ‘peasant into Frenchmen’ paralleled the ‘civilizing’ or ‘Ottomanizing’ of the nomad”; p. 109: “Just as the Ottomans tried to instill Ottomanism in Arab notable children in the Tribal School, the Russians attempted ‘Russifi cation’ of non-Russian peoples.”21 Deringil, Well-Protected, Chapter 3; Somel, Modernization, Chapter. 6; Isa Blumi, Rethink-ing the Late Ottoman Empire: A Comparative Social and Political History of Albania and Yemen, 1878-1918 (Istanbul, 2002), Chapter 6.22 In fact, calling Yazidis “heretic Muslims” is inappropriate, since their religion is not a sect of Islam.

41


for offi cial usage. Even Pomaks (Bulgarian-speaking Muslims) were encouraged to speak Turkish in the primary schools.23 These practices of “Ottomanization” remind us of the Russian policy of conversion in both its western and eastern regions.24 Perhaps the Ottoman borderlands studies need further exploration on the policy-making process as well as the initiatives of indigenous peoples,25 which Russian studies have discussed extensively.

For the Ottoman elite, the “Ottomanization” of nomads and “heretic” Muslims was part of their “civilizing mission.” Ottoman of-fi cials were accustomed to describing the nomadic tribes as “wild” and “primitive” in offi cial correspondence. Actually, the word “nomadic” was synonymous with “un-civilized.” In the view of the Ottomans, no-madic people had to be uplifted to the “realm of civilization” through education and other means. As Ussama Makdisi points out, “through efforts to study, discipline, and improve imperial subjects, Ottoman reform created a notion of the pre-modern within the empire in a man-ner akin to the way European colonial administrators represented their colonial subjects.”26 This kind of Ottoman conception of the people in the borderlands can be termed “Ottoman Orientalism.”27 Although Ot-toman Orientalism did not fully developed into an academic discipline, normative discourses on the Ottoman peripheries are most likely to be 23 Somel, Modernization, pp. 216-217.24 Paul W. Werth, At the Margins of Orthodoxy: Mission, Governance, and Confessional Politics in Russia’s Volga-Kama Region, 1827-1905 (Ithaca, 2002). Theodore R. Weeks, “Russifi cation and the Lithuanians, 1863-1905,” Slavic Review 60:1 (2001), pp. 96-114; Mikhail Dolbilov, “Russifi cation and the Bureaucratic Mind in the Russian Empire’s Northwestern Region in the 1860s,” Kritika 5:2 (2004), pp. 245-271; Darius Staliunas, “Did the Government Seek to Russify Lithuanians and Poles in the Northwest Region after the Uprising of 1863-64?” Kritika 5: 2 (2004), pp. 273-289.25 In this respect, Isa Blumi’s studies give an interesting perspective: Isa Blumi, “Contest-ing the Edges of the Ottoman Empire: Rethinking Ethnic and Sectarian Boundaries in the Malësore, 1878-1912,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 35 (2003), pp. 237-256; idem, Rethinking the Late Ottoman Empire.26 Ussama Makdisi, “Ottoman Orientalism,” The American Historical Review, 107:3 (2002), p. 769.27 Makdisi, “Ottoman Orientalism.” See also: Deringil, Well-Protected, 68-111; idem, “‘They Live in a State of Nomadism and Savagery’: The Late Ottoman Empire and the Post-Colonial Debate,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 45 (2003), pp. 311-342; Thomas Kühn, “Ordering the Past of Ottoman Yemen, 1872-1914,” Turcica 34 (2002), pp. 189-220.

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found in published works of Ottoman offi cials and offi cers, who wrote about the history, geography and ethnography of the regions where they had served. Ottoman Orientalism persistently distinguished modernized Ottomans from pre-modern subjects, but at the same time it was also a self-designation, which identifi ed the Ottomans as the East in contrast to the West. While the Ottomans rejected the Western notion of backward Orient and were concerned to present a modern image, they nonethe-less, by internalizing the Western perception of the Orient, considered themselves as something unique, essentially different from the West. Ottoman Orientalism thus adopted a hierarchical vision of the world order, placing the Ottomans in between the West and the Orient. In this respect, Ottoman Orientalism more resembled the Orientalism of Russia and Japan.28

The argument about Orientalism leads to the problem of colonial-ism. The Ottoman Empire did not possess offi cial colonies. Even the remotest provinces of Yemen and Libya sent representatives to the Ottoman parliament. According to the recent studies of Thomas Kühn, however, the more the Ottomans faced resistance in Yemen, the more they were inclined to think that a different type of rule was necessary. Some offi cials even regarded the province of Yemen as a colony by the early twentieth century. The colonial administration of Britain, France, and Italy was commonly seen as a model for the Ottoman government.29 In North Africa, the Ottomans adopted the colonialists’ concept of “hin-terland” to claim their interests.30

In fact, the provinces of Yemen and Libya were given exceptional treatment regarding the application of census, conscription, land survey, and the secular Nizamiye court system, which were basic components of 28 For the Russian case, see articles in Daniel R. Brower and Edward J. Lazzerini, eds., Russian’s Orient: Imperial Borderlands and Peoples, 1700-1917 (Bloomington, 1997).29 Kühn, “Ordering the Past”; idem, “Ordering Urban Space in Ottoman Yemen, 1872-1914,” in The Empire in the City, pp. 329-347; and idem, “An Imperial Borderland as Colony: Knowledge Production and the Elaboration of Difference in Ottoman Yemen, 1872-1914,” in “Borderlands of the Ottoman Empire in the 19th and early 20th Centuries,” ed. Thomas Kühn, special issue, The MIT Electronic Journal of Middle East Studies 3 (2003), pp. 5-17 (http://web.mit.edu/cis/www/mitejmes/intro.htm).30 Michel Le Gall, “Ottoman Reaction to the European ‘Scramble for Africa’: The Defense of the Hinterland of Tripolitania and Cyrenaica,” Asian and African Studies (Haifa) 24 (1990), pp. 109-135. See also Deringil, “Nomadism and Savagery.”

43


the Tanzimat reforms. In Yemen, for example, the secular Nizamiye courts were abolished in the face of fi erce opposition from the local population. Local Zaydi and Shafi i judges mostly took over the judicial posts in the Yemeni sharia courts, despite the Ottoman attempt to appoint judges of the offi cial Hanafi school of law from Istanbul, which lasted only for a short period.31 Thus, local forms of Sharia were uplifted to offi cial status and incorporated into the Ottoman legal hierarchy. The implementation of legal reforms generally necessitated an encounter between state law, Sharia, and local customary law, and friction between the rule of law and political and fi nancial exigencies. Ottoman legal reform, viewed from the perspectives of legal cultures and the politics of law, is a subject for comparative studies,32 as already initiated in a workshop in Istanbul.33

CITIZENSHIP AND NATIONALITY

Another important issue concerns the problem of citizenship and nationality. First of all, the Ottoman “millet system” should be discussed as a background of the nineteenth-century reforms. The millet system was supposedly an Ottoman institution to govern the empire’s non-Muslim subjects, developed from the tradition of Islamic states. Although it was 31 Jun Akiba, “Bringing Order to the Lands of the Tribes: Ottoman Judges in the Arab Frontiers, 1878-1918,” paper presented at the 38th Annual Meeting of the Middle East Studies Association of North America, 2004, San Francisco; Kühn, “Imperial Borderland,” pp. 9-10; idem, “Ordering the Past,” p. 215,32 The following studies are of interest in this respect: Brinkley Messick, The Calligraphic State: Textual Domination and History in a Muslim Society (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1993); Deringil, Well-Protected, 44-67; Roger Owen, ed., New Perspectives on Property and Land in the Middle East (Cambridge, Mass., 2000); Huri İslamoğlu, ed., Constituting Modernity: Private Property in the East and West (London, 2004); Yücel Terzibaşoğlu, “Landlords, Refugees, and Nomads: Struggles for Land around Late-Nineteenth-Century Ayvalık,” New Perspectives on Turkey 24 (2001), pp. 51-82; Jane Burbank, “Legal Culture, Citizen-ship, and Peasant Jurisprudence: Perspectives from the Early Twentieth Century,” in Reforming Justice in Russia, 1864-1996: Power, Culture, and Limits of Legal Order, ed. Peter H. Solomon, Jr. (Armonk, NY, 1997), pp. 82-106; and Virginia Martin, “Kazakh Oath-Taking in Colonial Courtrooms: Legal Culture and Russian Empire-Building,” Kritika 5:3 (2004), pp. 483-514.33 Workshop on “Law and Political Economy in the Russian and Ottoman Empires,” held at Boğaziçi University, on June 18-20, 2004.

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unique to the Ottoman Empire, it was nonetheless comparable to other systems. Historians of Imperial Russia have already made reference to the Ottoman millet system in their studies of the Russian system of ad-ministering the different religious communities, and these arguments are also stimulating for Ottomanists.34 But the millet system is a controversial subject. The traditional understanding of the millet system is as follows: Non-Muslim subjects of the empire were organized into three offi cially sanctioned millets, namely Orthodox, Armenians and Jews. Each millet was an autonomous organization, headed by a clerical leader (the Patri-arch or the Chief Rabbi of Istanbul). Appointed by the Ottoman sultan, the millet leaders had a wide range of administrative, fi scal, and judicial authority within their respective communities. This framework, however, has been criticized in many respects. Some of the criticisms are that the traditional view only refl ected the nineteenth-century situation, and that the consistency of three millets as institutions can hardly be proved.35 A most recent publication on the millet system by Macit Kenanoğlu makes an interesting argument.36 While he denounces an important part of the existing criticisms, he argues against the alleged “autonomy” of each millet. For example, he demonstrates that a “millet court” did not exist, and that the clerical leader could hear the case of co-religionists only in his capacity as an arbitrator, whose opinion was not legally binding. Instead of the “millet system,” he proposes the concept “religious ilti-zam (contract, tax-farming) system.”37 In this system, the clerical leader obtained an appointment from the sultan in return for the payment of a certain sum of money. He was thus entrusted with religious, adminis-trative and fi scal authority, the extent of which was clearly defi ned by the state. In this respect, his capacity was very similar to that of the tax 34 Robert Crews, “Empire and the Confessional State: Islam and Religious Politics in Nine-teenth-Century Russia,” The American Historical Review 108:1 (2004), pp. 50-83.35 Benjamin Braude, “Foundation Myths of the Millet System,” in Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire: The Functioning of a Plural Society, 2 vols., ed. Benjamin Braude and Bernard Lewis (New York and London, 1982), Vol. 1, pp. 69-88.36 Macit Kenanoğlu, Osmanlı Millet Sistemi: Mit ve Gerçek (Istanbul, 2004).37 The use of the term “iltizam” in this context is not entirely Kenanoğlu’s invention. The term was used in the original documents and Halil İnalcık has already pointed out the parallelism between the status of the patriarch and the tax-farmer. Halil İnalcık, “The Sta-tus of the Greek Patriarch under the Ottomans,” Turcica 21-23 (1991), cited in Kenanoğlu, Millet Sistemi, pp. 65-66.

45


farmers (mültezim). An important difference was that his duty mainly concerned religious matters, and his authority could be exerted only over his co-religionists. He could exercise certain authority according to the rules and within the limit delineated by the state. In this sense, he was completely within the boundary of the state legal system.

Kenanoğlu’s theory is very stimulating one, which I hope will enhance further discussion.38 A comparative approach is essential for a deeper understanding of the Ottoman millet administration. Unfor-tunately, Kenanoğlu is silent on the millet issue after 1856, when the Reform Edict was promulgated to lay the foundation of equality between Muslims and non-Muslims. By this edict, the Ottoman policy toward the non-Muslim subjects made a decisive transformation. It seems that the structure of the millet was more consolidated after 1856, because the edict redefi ned the organization of the millet by creating the millet councils composed of the clergy and the laymen for the decision-making of the intra-communal matters. Another important change in the millet system in the nineteenth century was the compartmentalizing of millets.39 The Armenian Catholics were offi cially separated from the Armenian mil-let in 1830, which was followed by the offi cial recognition of the Greek Catholic millet in 1848. The Rum millet (the Eastern Orthodox church) was ethnically divided in 1870, when the Bulgarian church gained independence. Thus the traditional Ottoman administration of three millets through clerical leaders was no longer valid in the nineteenth century, but the autonomous status of each millet (in the administration of justice, education, and others) seems to have become more secured after the 1856 edict.

Parallel to the consolidation of the millet privileges, the idea of “Ottoman citizenship” regardless of religion as well as of status and ethnicity emerged during the nineteenth century. Traditionally, only the members of the ruling elite, who were all Muslims, were properly called “Ottoman.” The Reform Edict of 1856 radically changed this concept. Non-Muslims were theoretically liberated from the “dhimmi” 38 See Masayuki Ueno’s review (in Japanese) on Kenanoğlu’s book, Toyo-Gakuho 88 (2006), pp. 268-262.39 For the changing relationship between Muslims and non-Muslims and among the non-Muslim communities during the nineteenth century, see especially Bruce Masters, Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Arab World: The Roots of Sectarianism (Cambridge, 2001).

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status by the abolition of the poll tax and other discriminatory treat-ments, although the poll tax was replaced with a fee for exemption from military conscription.40 Non-Muslims were now admitted to state schools and the bureaucracy. The presence of non-Muslim offi cials was best established in the Foreign Ministry and to a lesser extent in the Ministry of Commerce and Public Works. Several non-Muslims could be found among the ministers, and more among the vice-ministers. Just as non-Muslims were elected as members of provincial councils from the beginning of the Tanzimat period, they were fairly represented in the Ottoman parliament during the fi rst and second constitutional periods.41 Although the historical background differs, the cosmopolitan character of the bureaucracy and parliament was common to the late Ottoman and Russian Empires.42

It is also important to add that by the early twentieth century it was widely acknowledged among the Ottoman elite that the Ottoman popula-tion was composed of several “elements” (sing., unsur, pl., anasır), which meant nations or ethnicities in today’s terms, as conceptually different from the traditional Ottoman classifi cation of its peoples according to millet. Nevertheless, Ottoman offi cial statistics persistently categorized the population according to religion, making no distinction among vari-ous ethnicities and sects of Muslim populations.43

Finally, the question of nationalism should be discussed in the global context. The development of Turkish nationalism in the Ottoman Empire owed much to the nationalist movements of Turkic peoples in Imperial Russia. However, Turkish nationalism as an Ottoman state ideology is perhaps more comparable to Russian nationalism, which the

40 Conscription was applied to the non-Muslims after 1910.41 Enver Ziya Karal, “Non-Muslim Representatives in the First Constitutional Assembly, 1876-1877,” in Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire, Vol. 1, pp. 387-400; Feroz Ahmad, “Unionist Relations with the Greek, Armenian, and Jewish Communities of the Ottoman Empire, 1908-1914,” in Ibid., pp. 401-434; Catherine Boura, “The Greek Millet in Turkish Politics: Greeks in the Ottoman Parliament (1908-1918),” in Ottoman Greeks in the Age of Nationalism: Politics, Economy, and Society in the Nineteenth Century, ed. Dimitri Gondicas and Charles Issawi (Princeton, 1999), pp. 193-206.42 Kappeler, Russian Empire, pp. 319-321.43 For the Ottoman population statistics, see Kemal H. Karpat, Ottoman Population, 1830-1914: Demographic and Social Characteristics (Madison, 1985).

47


Tsarist state adopted in the very late period, and without consistency.44 The conventional understanding of Ottoman state ideology is that it shifted from Tanzimat Ottomanism to Abdülhamid’s Islamism, and then to the Young Turks’ Turkism. Today this formula can no longer be supported. The Young Turks are not identifi ed with Turkish nationalists, and the relations of the Young Turks with the non-Turk “elements” of the empire are now being reexamined.45 There still remains, however, a tendency to regard the Young Turks as the sole agents of the Ottoman government during the second constitutional period, a point that needs reconsideration. As regards the radical measures taken during the war years—wartime mobilization, “nationalization” of the economy,46 settle-ment of nomads, immigrants, and refugees,47 and deportation of “enemy nations”—parallels may also be found in contemporary Russia.

In this chapter I have indicated several points of entry for com-parative history, chiefl y based on my knowledge of current arguments in Ottoman studies. I think scholars of both the Ottoman and Russian Empires can discuss these issues using the same categories of analysis, although more useful categories would be necessary for a more fruitful comparison. I suggest that scholarly exchange between Ottoman and Russian specialists would promote comparative studies, which would contribute to a deeper understanding of the history of each empire as well as the general conceptualization of empire.

44 Kappeler, Russian Empire, pp. 344-348.45 For the Young Turks and Arabs, see Hasan Kayalı, Arabs and Young Turks: Ottomanism, Arabism, and Islamism in the Ottoman Empire, 1908-1918 (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1997); Karpat, Politicization of Islam, esp. pp. 349-373. For the non-Muslims, see Ahmad, “Unionist Relations;” Boura, “Greek Millet;” and Fujinami Nobuyoshi, “The Greco-Bulgarian Church Problem and Ottoman Nationhood (in Japanese),” Slavic Studies 51 (2004), pp. 97-131.46 Zafer Toprak, Milli İktisat—Milli Burjuvazi (Türkiye’de Ekonomi ve Toplum, 1908-1950) (Istanbul, 1995).47 Problems of the sedentarization of nomads and resettlement of immigrants and refugees were nothing new for the twentieth-century Ottomans. But the Ottoman policy during the war years revealed a clear inclination toward the “Turkifi cation” of Anatolia. See Fuat Dündar, İttihat ve Terakki’nin Müslümanları İskân Politikası (1913-1918) (Istanbul, 2001); Erol Ülker, “Contextualising ‘Turkifi cation’: Nation-Building in the Late Ottoman Empire, 1908-18,” Nations and Nationalism 11: 4 (2005), pp. 613-636.

51

3IMPERIOLOGY AND RELIGION:

SOME THOUGHTS ON A RESEARCH AGENDA

PAUL WERTH

Although the national idea became increasingly important for the ways in which imperial elites conceptualized the diversity of their realms in the nineteenth century, it was above all by confessional criteria that the cultural diversity of Eurasian empires was ordered and institutionalized. This fact alone demonstrates the importance of confessional issues for understanding imperial polities and practices. This chapter is accordingly concerned with the contribution that the study of religious questions can make to the study of empire. My principal goal is to identify a number of topics that I consider to be especially promising in this regard and to highlight some of the resulting methodological implications. I focus primarily on Russia, while also offering some discussion of issues in neighboring empires.

On the whole there has been a remarkable renaissance of scholar-ship on religiosity in Russia in the last decade or so. Focusing primarily on Orthodox spirituality, much of this scholarship creatively treats reli-gion as “vital terrain of social imagination and practice” and shifts our gaze “from the formal confi guration of the church to the circumstances in which the religion was taught, internalized or practiced at the local level.”1 In those works and in research on religious philosophy of the Silver Age and spiritual dissent, scholars have effectively disrupted simplistic interpretations that place spirituality in stark opposition to

1 Citations from Heather Coleman and Mark Steinberg, in the introduction to Sacred Sto-ries: Religion and Spirituality in Modern Russia (Bloomington, forthcoming); and Valerie A. Kivelson and Robert H. Greene, “Introduction: Orthodox Russia,” in Orthodox Russia: Belief and Practice under the Tsars, ed. Kivelson and Greene (University Park, Penn., 2003), p. 9. Other examples of such scholarship include Nadieszda Kizenko, A Prodigal Saint: Father John of Kronstadt and the Russian People (University Park, 2000); Chris J. Chulos, Converging Worlds: Religion and Community in Peasant Russia, 1861-1917 (DeKalb, 2003); Vera Shevzov, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution (Oxford, 2004).

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modernity.2 Understandably, perhaps, this scholarship has paid only limited attention to the imperial character of the Russian polity and to the resulting implications for the development of Orthodoxy. To be sure, the imperial theme is clearly implicated in recent works on Orthodox missions, for example in the Volga region and Siberia, and Nicholas Breyfogle’s new book analyzes specifi cally links between dissent and empire-building in the Caucasus.3 I nonetheless hope in this chapter to illuminate a range of other ways in which the imperial and religious themes in Russian history may be fruitfully combined.

COMMUNAL ORGANIZATION

AND RELIGIOUS TRANSFORMATION

If we recognize diversity as representing one of the central char-acteristics of imperial polities, then we are compelled to focus our at-tention on confessional issues, for in most cases imperial governments institutionalized diversity in their vast realms principally along religious lines. From the late eighteenth century into the 1830s, the Tsarist autoc-racy created a series of institutions and statutes designed to regulate the religious affairs of Russia’s “foreign confessions.” Only in a few 2 On religious philosophy, see the contributions of Paul Valliere and Bernice Rosenthal in Sacred Stories, as well Paul Valliere, Modern Russian Theology (Edinburgh, 2000); and Catherine Evtuhov, The Cross and the Sickle: Sergei Bulgakov and the Fate of Russian Religious Philosophy (Ithaca, 1997). On dissent, see J. Eugene Clay, “Orthodox Missionaries and ‘Orthodox Heretics’ in Russia, 1886-1917,” in Of Religion and Identity: Missions, Conversion, and Tolerance in the Russian Empire, ed. Michael Khodarkovsky and Robert Geraci (Ithaca, 2001), pp. 38-69; Sergei Zhuk, Russia’s Lost Reformation: Peasants, Millenialism, and Radical Sects in Southern Russia and Ukraine, 1830-1917 (Washington, 2004); Daniel Beer, “The Medicalization of Religious Deviance in the Russian Orthodox Church (1880-1905),” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 5:3 (2004), pp. 451-482; and Heather Coleman, Russian Baptists and Spiritual Revolution, 1905-1929 (Bloomington, 2005).3 Khodarkovsky and Geraci, Of Religion and Identity; Andrei Znamenski, Shamanism and Christianity: Native Encounters with Russian Orthodox Missions in Siberia and Alaska, 1821-1917 (Westport, 1999); Robert Geraci, Window on the East: National and Imperial Identities in Late Tsarist Russia (Ithaca, 2001); Paul W. Werth, At the Margins of Orthodoxy: Mission, Governance, and Confessional Politics in Russia’s Volga-Kama Region, 1827-1905 (Ithaca, 2002); Nicholas Breyfogle, Heretics and Colonizers: Forging Russia’s Empire in the South Caucasus (Ithaca, 2005).

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IMPERIOLOGY AND RELIGION

cases—for example “pagans,” Anglicans, and Muslims in Central Asia and the North Caucasus—did religious groups remain without any of-fi cial institutions or recognition of clerical servitors.4 While this system in some cases took account of geographical distinctions, most notably in the case of Muslims and some Judaic groups, it paid virtually no attention to ethnicity, placing numerous ethnic groups under a single confessional administration. A roughly analogous situation pertained in the Ottoman empire, where the state developed a practice of organ-izing communities along religious lines and subordinating all members of a given confession to a single supreme spiritual authority. At least until the creation of the Bulgarian exarchate church in 1870 (more on this below), the Ottoman government recognized new communities by strictly confessional criteria, even creating new millets for Catholics in 1831 and for Protestants in 1850.5

A crucial concern in analyzing this institutionalization is ascertain-ing the degree to which the respective confessional communities and their practices were transformed through their interactions with state authority. There is much evidence to suggest that such transforma-tions occurred to a signifi cant degree. Maria Todorova, for example, suggests that the Orthodox church in the Ottoman empire ultimately became an “imperial institution,” whose internal structure and lines of authority by the nineteenth century depended substantially on the church’s implication in the Ottoman system of administration.6 Analogous developments are discernable in the Russian empire. Robert Crews argues that Muslim communities in Russia were refashioned through the interaction of pious activists with the state, which was made possible in new ways by the state’s formal institutionalization

4 On these institutional arrangements and their origins, see E. A. Vishlenkova, Zabotias’ o dushakh poddannykh: Religioznaia politika v Rossii pervoi chetverti XIX veka (Saratov, 2002); V. G. Vartanian, Armiansko-Grigorianskaia tserkov’ v politike Imperatora Nikolaia I (Rostov-na-Donu, 1999); D. D. Azamatov, Orenburgskoe Magometanskoe Dukhovnoe Sobranie v kontse XVIII—XIX vv. (Ufa, 1999). 5 Charles A. Frazee, Catholics and Sultans: The Church and the Ottoman Empire, 1453-1923 (London, 1983), p. 259; Roderic Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, 2nd ed. (New York, 1973), p. 122.6 Maria Todorova, “The Ottoman Legacy in the Balkans,” in Imperial Legacy: The Ottoman Imprint on the Balkans and the Middle East, ed. L. Carl Brown (New York, 1996), p. 49.

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of Islam.7 To judge from the complaints of conservative critics, laws regulating Buddhist affairs signifi cantly strengthened Buddhism in eastern Siberia, by recognizing lamas as a “clergy,” establishing Bud-dhist “parishes,” and investing supreme religious authority in a single Bandido-Khambo-Lama.8 To be sure, different religions changed as a result of imperial institutionalization to varying extents, just as the de-gree of innovation introduced by imperial authorities differed in each case as well. With a supreme head located beyond the borders of the various empires, the Catholic church proved comparatively (though by no means entirely) impervious to imperial intervention. A comparative account of the degree of religious transformation resulting from state intervention would contribute signifi cantly to our understanding of the imperial experience.

CONFESSION AND NATION

Although diversity in the Russian empire was institutionalized along confessional lines, recent scholarship has nonetheless documented the growing tendency of institutions and political elites in late-imperial Russia to deploy ethnicity as a mode of classifi cation. Even as existing bureaucratic structures and legal statutes remained geared primarily towards regulating diversity in its confessional manifestations, the politi-cal salience of ethnicity was rapidly increasing.9 It would be misleading, 7 Robert D. Crews, “Empire and the Confessional State: Islam and Religious Politics in Nine-teenth-Century Russia, American Historical Review 108:1 (2003), pp. 50-83. See also Crews’ illuminating discussion of the transformation of sharia from a pattern of ethical conduct to a fi xed code of law and a statement of orthodoxy backed by police power: “Islamic Law, Imperial Order: Muslims, Jews, and the Russian State,” Ab Imperio 3 (2004), pp. 467-90. 8 See for example Institut Bandita-Khambo-Lamy u buriat i ego otnoshenii k lamaizmu i missii (Kazan’, 1911); Veniamin (Episkop Selenginskii), O lamskom i idolopoklonnicheskom sueverii v vostochnoi Sibiri (Irkutsk, 1882). 9 See, for example, Charles Steinwedel, “To Make a Difference: The Category of Ethnicity in Late Imperial Russian Politics, 1861-1917,” in Russian Modernity: Politics, Knowledge, Practices, ed. David Hoffmann and Yanni Kotsonis (New York, 2000), pp. 67-86. A politi-cal program based on national distinctions was most fully implemented in the context of World War I. See Eric Lohr, Nationalizing the Russian Empire: The Campaign Against Enemy Aliens during World War I (Cambridge, Mass., 2003).

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however, to suggest that nationality simply eclipsed confession as the most salient factor in the conceptualization of difference. It is important also to consider the ways in which conceptions of confession and nation interacted with one another, and the ways in which nationality became increasingly important within existing confessional communities, as op-posed to merely arising in parallel to them.

In this regard the Ottoman experience is instructive. Even as the millet system construed communities almost exclusively in confessional terms, in one important case—the creation of the Bulgarian exarchate church in 1870—the Porte actually institutionalized a national distinction within a single confessional community. On the one hand, the creation of this autocephalous Bulgarian church should undoubtedly be seen in terms of the establishment of a series of new national churches in the nineteenth century in Serbia, Romania, and Greece.10 Nonetheless, even when viewed in this broader context, the Bulgarian case stands out, for in contrast to other Balkan cases, Bulgarian ecclesiastical autonomy preceded political independence rather than following it. Whereas autocephaly for the other Balkan states was in all cases a consequence of the attainment of national independence, the creation of the Bulgarian exarchate—with the explicit sanction of the Ottoman government and in the face of the bitter opposition of the Greek-dominated Patriarchate—involved the Porte’s acceptance of the national principle, alongside the confessional one, as a basis for the organization of communal autonomy.11

Although no Orthodox ethnic group received autocephaly in the Russian empire, this does not mean that the national issue was irrel-evant within the Orthodox community. On the contrary, by the early twentieth century the growth of national consciousness and tendencies towards Russifi cation in the administration of the church combined to create considerable dissatisfaction among Orthodox non-Russian popu-

10 Paschalis M. Kitromilides, “’Imagined Communities’ and the Origins of the National Question in the Balkans,” European History Quarterly 19:2 (1989), pp. 165-166; Ekkehard Kraft, “Von der Rum Milleti zur Nationalkirche: Die orthodoxe Kirche in Sudosteuropa im Zeitalter des Nationalismus,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 51:3 (2003), pp. 398-401. 11 Kraft, “Von der Rum Milleti,” pp. 401-404, 408; Carsten Riis, Religion, Politics, and His-toriography in Bulgaria (Boulder, CO, 2002), pp. 123-125. The patriarchate condemned the Bulgarians for “philetism”—the love of ethnicity, or the sin of having introduced ethnic difference into the church. See Kitromilides, “’Imagined Communities’,” pp. 181-82.

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lations. Ricarda Vulpius has recently identifi ed important Ukrainophile tendencies among some of the clergy in the “little Russian” dioceses. Initially producing critiques of assimilation and calls for the retention of local particularities, these tendencies led after 1917 to demands for Ukrainian autocephaly, which was attained—with Bolshevik support, curiously enough—in 1921.12 There were similar stirrings in Bessarabia after 1905, while in the Volga region the non-Russian Orthodox clergy began actively to criticize crude and heavy-handed forms of Russifi cation in favor of “spiritual” forms of union that would allow for the preserva-tion of ethnic particularity.13 The most striking manifestation of national sentiment within Orthodoxy, however, was undoubtedly the campaign for Georgian autocephaly, which began in 1905 and ended, after the fall of the autocracy, with the proclamation of ecclesiastical independence in 1917. Autocephalists agitated actively on behalf of this cause and even assassinated the Russian Exarch of Georgia in 1908 to protest his opposition to autocephaly.14

National distinctions were increasingly relevant not only for the Orthodox confession, but for others as well. Particularly in the early twentieth century, Lithuanians became much more insistent about the “restoration and defense of the rights of the Lithuanian language in Ro-man Catholic churches of ethnographic Lithuania,” especially in those places where that language “has already been banished by the Poloniz-ing clergy.”15 Similarly, Estonians and Latvians demanded reform of

12 Ricarda Vulpius, “Ukrainische Nation und zwei Konfessionen: Der Klerus and die ukrainische Frage, 1861-1921,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 49:2 (2001), pp. 240-256 (esp. pp. 248-254). See also Bohdan Bociurkiw, “The Rise of the Ukrainian Autocephalous Orthodox Church, 1919-1922,” in Church, Nation and State in Russia and Ukraine, ed. Geof-frey A. Hosking (London, 1991), pp. 228-249.13 Paul W. Werth, “Inorodtsy on Obrusenie: Religious Conversion, Indigenous Clergy, and the Politics of Assimilation in Late-Imperial Russia,” Ab Imperio 2 (2000), pp. 105-134. On the founding of non-Russian Orthodox monasteries, see Leonid Taimasov, “Nerusskie monastyri Kazanskogo kraia: Orientiry konfessional’nogo obnovleniia (vtoraia polovina XIX veka),” Acta Slavica Iaponica 21 (2004), pp. 88-114. 14 I have analyzed the issue of Georgian autocephaly in “Georgian Autocephaly and the Ethnic Fragmentation of Orthodoxy,” Acta Slavica Iaponica 23 (2006), pp. 74-100. 15 Cited from Ustav soiuza dlia vozstanovleniia prav litovskago iazyka v R.-Katolicheskoi Tserkvi v Litve (Vil’na, 1907), p. 1. See also RGIA, f. 821 (Department of Religious Affairs of Foreign Confessions), op. 150, d. 155 (a report of the chairman of the union).

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ecclesiastical administration, in which ethnic Germans predominated.16 Signifi cantly, in many cases the imperial state concluded that these disaf-fected and subordinate nationalities within non-Orthodox confessional communities could serve as useful allies against the dominant ones, whose aspirations and pretensions seemed increasingly at odds with the empire’s integrity. Accordingly, the state became much more interested in the national composition of the different “foreign” confessions under its administration, particularly after 1905.17 The multi-national composi-tion of different confessions created new complications—and provided new opportunities—in the age of nationalism.

If one confession could include adherents of different nationalities, in other cases a single nationality could include adherents to different confessions. Ukrainians represent a paradigmatic case in this regard, as they were divided between the Uniate (Greek Catholic) and Orthodox confessions—a distinction that after 1875 corresponded to their division between the Austrian and Russian empires.18 Romanians, too, were divided between the Orthodox and Uniate confessions, at least in Tran-sylvania.19 In the Russian empire, Belorussians were divided between the Orthodox and Catholic confessions, which created great epistemological diffi culties for those ideologues who regarded Orthodoxy as an indispen-sable attribute of Russianness.20 Armenians were also confessionally di-16 See, for example, RGIA, f. 821, op. 5, d. 6. 17 For example, in 1910 the state requested governors to report on the nationality and language of all Lutherans and Reformed believers in their respective provinces. (RGIA, f. 821, op. 150, d. 618.) 18 See Vulpius, “Ukrainische Nation und zwei Konfessionen,” and John-Paul Himka, Religion and Nationality in Western Ukraine: The Greek Catholic Church and the Ruthenian National Movement in Galicia, 1867-1900 (Montréal, 1999). In 1875 the last Uniates in the Russian empire were “reunited” with Orthodoxy. See Theodore R. Weeks, “The ‘End’ of the Uniate Church in Russia: The Vozsoedinenie of 1875,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 44:1 (1996), pp. 28–39.19 On this issue, see Keith Hitchins, Orthodoxy and Nationality: Andreiu Saguna and the Ru-manians of Transylvania, 1846-1873 (Cambridge, Mass., 1977).20 On this score, see the discussion in Theodore R. Weeks, “Religion and Russifi cation: Rus-sian Language in the Catholic Churches of the ‘Northwest Provinces’ after 1863,” Kritika: Explorations in Russiana nd Eurasian History 2:1 (2001), pp. 87-110; Darius Staliunas, “Mozhet-li katolik byt’ russkim? O vvedenii russkogo iazyka v katolicheskoe bogosluzhenie v 60-e gody XIX veka,” in Rossiiskaia imperiia v zarubezhnoi istoriografi i. Raboty poslednikh let: An-tologiia, ed. Paul Werth, Petr Kabytov, and Aleksei Miller (Moscow, 2005), pp. 577-588.

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vided between a majority that adhered to the Apostolic (Gregorian) faith and a smaller number in communion with Rome, and in the 1860s some began to convert to Protestantism under the infl uence of foreign mis-sionaries operating across the border in Persia and the Ottoman empire.21 With the appearance of the Baptist faith in Russia—and in particular with the legalization of conversion to that confession in 1905—even the Great Russian ethnicity itself began to experience divisions on the basis of confession, with signifi cant implications for the imagining of the Rus-sian community.22 In the German empire, the problem was particularly complex, as a segment of the dominant nationality—Germans—shared a confession with an especially resistant national minority—Poles.23 In each of these cases, albeit to varying degrees, these religious divisions complicated and conditioned the process of imagining and constructing national communities. They also created opportunities and complica-tions for the state, which, as the ultimate arbiter of religious affairs in the empire, found it virtually impossible to occupy a position of neutrality in adjudicating the confl icts that emerged from these divisions.

In short, because of existing confessional institutions and because of the continued salience of confessional affi liation for nationalist im-aginings, a full account of the “national question” in empires such as Russia and Turkey is impossible without attention to the religious side of the issue. Future research, one may hope, will do more to analyze the interaction of confession and nation in diverse imperial contexts, thereby permitting us to establish a more nuanced and comprehensive picture of this fundamental juxtaposition.

21 On Armenian Catholics, see Graf D. A. Tolstoi, Rimskii Katolitsizm v Rossii (St. Petersburg, 1877), vol. 2, pp. 50-54, 346-352; Rita Tolomeo, “Russko-Vatikanskie otnosheniia i armiane-katoliki Kavkaza,” in Rossiia i Vatikan v kontse XIX—pervoi treti XX vv., ed. E. S. Tokareva and A. V. Iudin (St. Petersburg, 2003), pp. 115-47. On Armenian conversions to Protestantism, which had signifi cant implications for St. Petersburg’s claims of patronage and protection for the Gregorian confession, see my article, “Schism Once Removed: State, Sects, and the Meanings of Religious Toleration in Imperial Russia,” in Imperial Rule, ed. Alexei Miller and Alfred J. Rieber (Budapest, 2004), pp. 85-108. 22 Coleman, Russian Baptists. 23 On these dynamics, see the interesting discussion in Helmut Walser Smith, German Nationalism and Religious Confl ict: Culture, Ideology, Politics, 1870-1914 (Princeton, 1995), esp. pp. 169-205.

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RELIGION AND IMPERIAL BORDERS

Another fundamental characteristic of religious issues is that they often went across the borders of imperial states, involving communi-ties and religious personnel who were the subjects of different rulers. Pilgrimage, for example, could often take believers beyond the borders of the Russian empire, whether to Mecca (Muslims), Urga (Buddhists), Rome (Catholics), or Jerusalem (Orthodox). The requests of believers for permission to travel abroad on pilgrimage raised crucial issues about issuing passports and granting leaves of absence to mullahs and imams. The travel of pilgrims abroad compelled the imperial state to develop travel and consular services and to attend to the health and welfare of its subjects during their stay abroad. The state was also compelled to contemplate the political consequences of closer contacts between believ-ers in Russia and their counterparts abroad, and whether and how to establish surveillance over such contacts. There were also opportunities to promote particular regions of the empire by developing the transport infrastructure with pilgrims in mind—for example in Transcaucasia, so as to direct Muslim pilgrims from Persia and Central Asia through that region to Mecca. A few sites in Russia itself—such as the Catholic monastery at Częstochowa in Poland—drew numerous pilgrims from abroad as well. In short, pilgrimage served to implicate both believers themselves and the imperial government more deeply in international affairs.24

Complicated issues also arose in connection with the recruitment of religious personnel from abroad, for in certain cases St. Petersburg found it desirable or necessary to fi ll clerical vacancies in Russia with the subjects of other states. In order to infl uence “foreign” Armenians, 24 On Muslims and the hajj, see Daniel Brower, Turkestan and the Fate of the Russian Em-pire (London, 2003), pp. 114-125, as well as his earlier article “Russian Roads to Mecca: Religious Tolerance and Muslim Pilgrimage in the Russian Empire,” Slavic Review 55:3 (1996), pp. 567-586. On other examples of pilgrimage, see V. Vashkevich, Lamaity v vos-tochnoi Sibiri (St. Petersburg, 1885), pp. 100-104; Theofanis George Stavrou, “The Russian Imperial Orthodox Palestine Society, 1882-1914” (Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 1961), pp. 50-53, 63-64, 136-144, 206-218, 259-264. One should also note the dissertation by Eileen Kane, “Pilgrimage and Holy Places in Russo-Ottoman Relations, 1774-1854” (Princeton University, 2005), which addresses several religious traditions (Islam, Orthodoxy, and the Armenian Apostolic confession).

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the imperial government often promoted Ottoman subjects to the posi-tion of Catholicos, the spiritual head of all Armenians of the Apostolic (Gregorian) confession.25 With the expulsion of Jesuits from Russia under Alexander I, the imperial government sought to attend to the religious needs of Catholic foreigners in Russia by recruiting (non-Polish) Catholic priests from abroad, primarily from Bavaria.26 At various times foreign missionaries of different Christian confessions received permission from St. Petersburg to conduct their activity in different borderland regions. After the insurrection of 1863, but before the “reunion” of Russia’s last remaining Uniates with Orthodoxy in 1875, St. Petersburg actively recruited Uniate clergy from Austrian Galicia, who were perceived to be more Russophile than their Polonized counterparts within Russia itself.27 Faced with a dearth of qualifi ed candidates for Protestant clerical positions trained inside Russia, the government also found it necessary to accept such candidates from abroad, especially for placement in the colonies of Samara and Saratov provinces.28 In many of these cases the im-perial government was compelled to deal with foreign states and foreign institutions—for example, the Basel Missionary Institute in Switzerland, which supplied many of the clerics for German colonists—and also had to determine whether and under which conditions these servitors from abroad would be required to become Russian subjects.29 There were also important questions about their knowledge of Russian, which was understood as being necessary both to understand the empire’s laws

25 On the Catholicos, see the brief discussion below. 26 Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii [GARF], f. 1165 (Special Chancery of the Ministry of Internal Affairs), op. 1, d. 33. 27 Himka, Religion and Nationality, pp. 33-35; E. Kryzhanovskii, Kniaz’ V. A. Cherkasskii i Kholmskie greko-uniaty, vyp. 1 (Warsaw, 1879), pp. 34-41; RGIA, f. 821, op. 4, d. 1512; RGIA, f. 821, op. 4, d. 2050. 28 RGIA, f. 821, op. 6, d. 13; RGIA, f. 821, op. 6, d. 33; RGIA, f. 821, op. 5, d. 7; RGIA, f. 821, op. 5, d. 1518; RGIA, f. 821, op. 133, d. 978. 29 In this regard it is curious that as of 1842 only candidates for placement in Lutheran parishes were required to become Russian subjects, whereas in other cases it was suf-fi cient for the government to approve the given candidate and administer a service oath [prisiaga na vernost’ sluzhby]. See Polnoe Sobranie Zakonov Rossiiskoi Imperii, 2nd series, vol. 17, no. 15658 (19 May 1842) and RGIA, f. 821, op. 5, d. 7. The Armenian Catholicos was also required to become a Russian subject if recruited from abroad.

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and to maintain parish records—one of the principal state obligations of clergies in Russia.30

Religious issues were also implicated in the conduct of diplomacy. From the signing of the treat of Küçük Kanarci in 1774, St. Petersburg afforded the status and condition of Orthodox believers in the Ottoman empire a signifi cant place in its foreign policy, while its interference in Orthodox religious affairs often represented as much a challenge to Greek domination of those affairs—for example in favor of Bulgarians and Arab Christians—as it was to the Ottoman government itself.31 But in no case was religion more fundamentally implicated in Russian diplomacy than in St. Petersburg’s relations with the papacy, which were fundamental for the regulation of Catholic religious affairs in Russia. Rome and St. Petersburg struggled to reach agreement on a range of issues, such as the rules regulating mixed marriages, the method of correspondence between bishops and the Holy See, the canonical character of the Roman Catholic College in Russia, the procedure for the appointment of bishops, and the prospect of establishing new Catholic dioceses. A number of these issues were resolved in a Concordat concluded in 1847, yet others remained in dispute, and after the Polish insurrection of 1863, relations between the two sides were severed. Still, the virtual impossibility of maintaining Catholic affairs in Russia in the absence of relations with Rome drove St. Petersburg to seek new agreements with the Holy See in the 1870s and 1880s. To the extent that the interests of the two sides remained fundamentally at odds, relations continued to be extremely diffi cult, with signifi cant consequences for Catholics in the empire.32

30 Indeed, it was precisely this function, above all others, that made clergies into state servitors. See Gene M. Avrutin, “The Power of Documentation: Vital Statistics and Jewish Accommodation in Tsarist Russia,” Ab Imperio 4 (2003), pp. 271-300; Paul W. Werth, “In the State’s Embrace? Civil Acts in an Imperial Order,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 7:3 (2006), pp. 433-458. 31 On Russian support for Arab Christians in the Holy Land, for example, see Stavrou, “Russian Imperial Palestine Society.” On Orthodox religious issues in Russia’s ‘eastern policy’ more generally, see Lora Aleksandrovna Gerd, Konstantinopol’: Peterburg: Tserkovnaia politika Rossii na pravoslavnom Vostoke, 1878-1898 (Moscow, 2006). 32 Relations between St. Petersburg and Rome have been fairly well studied. In addition to the recent collection Rossiia i Vatikan (cited above), see the various perspectives provided by A. N. Popov, Posledniaia sud’ba Papskoi politiki v Rossii, 1845-167 gg. (St. Petersburg, 1868); Adrien Boudou, Le Saint-Siège et La Russie: Leurs Rélations Diplomatiques au XIXe Siècle, 2

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Thus while Russia sought to use the Orthodox status of many Balkan peoples to promote its geopolitical interests in the region, conversely it was susceptible to interference on the part of the Holy See and, at times, Catholic powers in Europe.

The case of the Armenian Catholicos strikingly illustrates the de-gree to which confessional affairs in Russia could have an international dimension. Having liberated the Armenian monastery of Echmiadzin from Persia in 1827, Russia could claim as its subject the Supreme Pa-triarch or Catholicos, with spiritual authority over all Armenians of the Apostolic confession. Through this fi gure, the imperial government hoped to infl uence Armenians in neighboring Persia and especially the Ottoman empire. Over the course of the nineteenth century imperial authorities accordingly made great efforts to enhance the prestige of the Catholicos and to uphold his authority over the spiritual affairs of Armenian communities abroad, often at the expense of acceptable admin-istration of Armenian religious affairs within Russian itself. The imperial government also became drawn into Armenian politics in the Ottoman empire, where the bulk of the world’s Armenian population resided. At times, St. Petersburg made special efforts to ensure the election of an Ottoman subject to the throne at Echmiadzin, precisely in order to keep the Armenians of Constantinople content and spiritually subordinate to the Catholicos. With the rise of the Armenian national movement and policies of Russifi cation, maintaining the balance between internal and external aspects of the Catholicos authority became much more complex. In essence, then, the Armenian Catholicos and the associated Russian policy are incomprehensible when taken out of an international context. St. Petersburg’s attitude towards the Armenian Catholicos was deeply conditioned by processes within the Ottoman empire and indeed by the perceived viability of the Ottoman state itself.33

vols. (Paris, 1922); E. Vinter [Eduard Winter], Papstvo i tsarizm, trans. R. A. Krest’ianinov and S. M. Raskina (Moscow, 1964); and Larry Wolff, The Vatican and Poland in the Age of the Partitions: Diplomatic and Cultural Encounters at the Warsaw Nunciature (Boulder, 1988). 33 I have made a preliminary attempt to analyze the Catholicos and his place in imperial Russian religious policy in “Imperial Russia and the Armenian Catholicos at Home and Abroad,” in Reconstruction and Interaction of Slavic Eurasia and Its Neighboring Worlds, ed. Osamu Ieda and Tomohiko Uyama (Sapporo, 2006), pp. 203-36.

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In short, there were extensive religious connections that went across imperial borders, connecting imperial states and deeply implicating them in one another’s affairs.34

UNIFYING CENTER AND PERIPHERY

Focus on religious issues can also perform the useful function of bringing the central, Russian provinces of the tsarist empire and the borderland provinces into a single analytical fi eld. Such an approach not only serves to contextualize more thoroughly government policy towards borderland populations, but also to elucidate links between historical processes at the “center” and developments at the periphery. A fruit-ful way of getting at this issue is to consider institutions and practices that existed throughout the entire empire (or most of it), but that took specifi c forms as a result of confessional differences. On the imperial periphery, such institutions and practices fulfi lled—or were expected to fulfi ll—functions similar to those of the Russian center. Yet in terms of their form—and thus, to an extent, their content—they remained distinct from the corresponding Russian institutions and practices. Here I will point merely to a few suggestive examples, with the recognition that many could be addressed under this rubric.

The fi rst is marriage. Gregory Freeze has documented the cen-tral—indeed increasing—role of Orthodoxy in the regulation of mat-rimonial issues in modern imperial Russia.35 Yet the state’s support for the religious form of marriage also extended to the non-Orthodox religions. In most family matters, the imperial government deferred to the prescriptions of the different churches and religious elites, and the construction of marital law in Russia thus became primarily a matter of

34 Aleksei Miller makes a similar point about the “entangled” character of empires more generally. See his comments in “Between the Local and Inter-Imperial: Russian Imperial History in Search of Scope and Paradigm,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 5:1 (2004), pp. 7-26 (esp. pp. 18-20); as well as those in his contribution to the present volume. 35 Gregory L. Freeze, “Bringing Order to the Russian Family: Marriage and Divorce in Imperial Russia, 1760-1860,” Journal of Modern History 62:4 (1990), pp. 709-749.

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investing diverse religious requirements with the force of law.36 To be sure, the government did seek to impose greater “order” on the marital affairs of all confessions, for example by standardizing rules and proce-dures for the adherents to any one religion and by imposing identical age requirements on (almost) all subjects of the empire regardless of their religious affi liation. Yet the fact remains that because marriage depended on the provisions of different religions, it represented a dif-ferent institution in each case. Rules on divorce, consanguinity, and polygamy—all of this depended primarily on the precepts of the various confessions.37 Nowhere was this more clear than in the matter of mixed marriage, which not only complicated the state’s efforts to balance its own secular statutes with the canon of different churches, but also was deeply implicated in political contests over the relationship between Russia’s most sensitive borderland regions and its central provinces and institutions.38

Another example concerns oaths, which were administered to each person on the basis of his or her faith.39 Virginia Martin has recently analyzed the ways in which the Russian practice of oath-taking was incorporated into the colonial courtrooms of the Kazakh steppe. The Islamic oath created by imperial offi cials was foreign to Kazakh nomadic custom and Islamic legal procedure, and the spread of this practice among Kazakhs, Martin argues, should not be seen as the emergence of

36 See Laura Engelstein, The Keys to Happiness: Sex and the Search for Modernity in Fin-de-Siècle Russia (Ithaca, 1992), esp. pp. 31-41; William Wagner, Marriage, Property, and Law in Late Imperial Russia (Oxford, 1994), pp. 59-223.37 For consideration of marriage in the case of non-Christian groups, see M. Morgulis, “Ob otnoshenii nashego zakonodatel’stva k obychnomu brachnomu pravu inoplemen-nikov-nekhristian,” Zhurnal grazhdanskago i ugolovnago prava, book 4 (1884), pp. 105-127; ChaeRan Freeze, Jewish Marriage and Divorce in Imperial Russia (Hanover, 2002); and Robert D. Crews, For Prophet and Tsar: Islam and Empire in Russia and Central Asia (Cambridge, Mass., 2006)..38 On mixed marriage, see V. Shein, “K istorii voprosa o smeshannykh brakakh,” Zhurnal Ministerstva Iustitsii 3 (1907), pp. 231-273; Leonid E. Gorizontov, Paradoksy imperskoi politiki: poliaki v Rossii i russkie v Pol’she (Moscow, 1999), pp. 75-99. 39 This was true both for oaths of subjecthood (administered upon the ascension of each new emperor) and those administered to witnesses in courtroom procedures. Svod Zakonov, vol. 1 part 1 (1857 ed.), art. 34; ibid., vol. 10, Zakony grazhdanskie, (1842 ed.), art. 2383.

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the “rule of law” in the steppe.40 The confessional character of oaths also permitted religious servitors to contest demands made by the secular state. A major dispute with Armenians developed in the 1890s, when Catholicos Makarii and his successor Mkrtich rejected the demands of judicial authorities in Transcaucasia that adherents to the Apostolic confession take the oath in Russian. They insisted that the oath was not a state act but a religious one, and that its execution in canonical ancient Armenian represented a sacred obligation of the Armenian clergy.41 In short, because the oath was at least partly a religious act, the adherents to different religious traditions each invested oaths with a particular form, content, and signifi cance—or, in the case of groups like the Men-nonites, rejected the act of oath-taking altogether, thus compelling state authorities to devise alternatives.

As a third example I would point to the issue of “clergy” in imperial Russia. Our knowledge of the Orthodox clergy—its social characteristics and its legal status—is quite extensive, thanks primarily to the research of Gregory Freeze.42 The same cannot be said with respect to the reli-gious servitors of the so-called foreign confessions. The non-Christian religions lacked “clergies” in the Christian sense of the term, and it was therefore up to the imperial state to create and legitimize such a group for each religious tradition. Even so, it remained unclear who precisely constituted the “clergy” in each case and which rights and privileges they enjoyed, particularly since the state explicitly refused to recognize non-Christian servitors as distinct social orders, or sosloviia.43 Among Muslims and Jews there were also numerous unoffi cial servitors—per-sons performing religious functions without legal authorization from the state—while in the case of Buddhism, the government was faced with

40 Virginia Martin, “Kazakh Oath-Taking in Colonial Courtrooms: Legal Culture and Russian Empire-Building,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 5:3 (2004), pp. 483-514.41 RGIA, f. 821, op. 150, d. 474, pp. 86, 93-94. 42 Gregory L. Freeze, The Russian Levites; Parish Clergy in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, Mass., 1977); idem, The Parish Clergy in Nineteenth-Century Russia: Crisis, Reform, Counter-reform (Princeton, 1983). 43 The Law Digest stated explicitly, “Persons performing religious services by the rituals of non-Christian faiths do not constitute particular social orders in the country.” Svod Zakonov, vol. 9 (1842 ed.), note to art. 457.

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the proliferation of lamas well beyond the levels authorized by offi cial statutes governing Buddhist affairs.44 Even with respect to the Christian confessions the situation was complex. Like Orthodox religious servi-tors, those of the Armenian Apostolic confession represented a particular class or soslovie, while the situation for Catholic and Protestant clerics was a good deal more complicated.45 Catholic servitors of noble origin continued to enjoy the rights of nobility even as members of the clergy, while all Protestant servitors enjoyed the rights of personal (non-heredi-tary) nobility as long as they served as pastors.46 In short, “the clergy” represented quite different institutions and social confi gurations in the case of the different religions of Russia, and closer attention to both the similarities and the differences may provide us a much fuller picture of Russia’s social structure and legal system, not to mention signifi cant elements of its forms of imperial governance.

One could point to numerous other practices that existed among virtually all of the empire’s subjects but in a confessionally specifi c form for each religious group. The larger point, however, is that by focusing on such institutions and practices we gain the opportunity both to benefi t from broad comparative analysis and to incorporate the Russian prov-inces themselves—the core territories of the empire—into the analysis, thereby achieving a more fully integrated history of Russia.

44 On this problem of non-Christian clergy see Crews, For Prophet and Tsar; Freeze, Jewish Marriage and Divorce; RGIA, f. 821, op. 150, d. 423, ll. 17-19; Vashkevich, Lamaity v vostochnoi Sibiri; O lamaistve v Zabaikal’skom krae (n.p., n.d.); M. N. Farkhshatov, “Musul’manskoe dukhovenstvo,” in Islam na territorii byvshei Rossiiskoi Imperii, vyp. 2, ed. S. M. Prozorov (Moscow, 1999), pp. 67-72. On certain implications of the indeterminate status of Muslim “clergy” for criminal law, see Abby Schrader, Languages of the Lash: Corporal Punishment and Identity in Imperial Russia (DeKalb, 2002), esp. pp. 51-77.45 That is, only in the case of these two confessions was it possible for persons (wives and children, principally) to belong to the clerical estate (dukhovnoe sostoianie) without holding clerical offi ce (dukhovnyi san). See K. Kavelin, “Ob ogranichenii grazhdanskoi pravosposob-nosti v Rossii po sostoianiiam i zvaniiam,” Zhurnal Ministerstva Iustitsii 11 (1862), pp. 504-05; RGIA, f. 1268, op. 3, d. 253, ll. 23-23ob. Less clear is the extent to which the Armenian clergy constituted a closed, hereditary social order to the extent that the Orthodox clergy did. On the latter, see Freeze, Russian Levites, ch. 7; and idem, Parish Clergy, ch. 4. 46 Svod Zakonov, vol. 9 (1842 ed.), arts. 335, 385.

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CONCLUSION

This chapter has sought to be suggestive rather than conclusive. Each one of the topics identifi ed above of course deserves far more at-tention than I have been able to give it here. I have nonetheless sought to emphasize that because the imperial state understood and institution-alized the diversity of its realm in largely confessional terms, attention to religious issues remains central to our efforts to study the empire. Speaking in the broadest terms, I contend that religious issues should be analyzed not strictly in their own terms, but in terms of their rela-tionships to larger historical (and imperial) problems, such as national imaginings, international relations, and the development of imperial Russian law and institutions. In short, I call for historical analysis that recognizes the embeddedness of religion in a wide range of processes, practices, and institutions that were crucial to the development and functioning of imperial polities.

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4ISLAM AND EMPIRE OBSERVED:

MUSLIMS IN THE VOLGA-URAL REGION

AFTER THE 1905 REVOLUTION

NORIHIRO NAGANAWA

Clifford Geertz once said that in the comparative study of religion, we must distinguish between a religious attitude toward experience and the sorts of social apparatus that have customarily been associated with supporting such an attitude. Faith is sustained in this world by symbolic forms and social arrangements. What a given religion is—its specifi c content—is embodied in the images and metaphors its adherents use to characterize reality. A religion’s historical course rests upon the institutions that render these images and metaphors available to those who thus employ them.1

Recent historiography of the Russian Empire highlights the interac-tion between a religion and its believers on the one hand, and the imperial principle of the predominance of Orthodoxy and temporal power on the other.2 As for the eastern frontier of European Russia, two works deserve particular attention. Paul Werth explored what the assignment of one or another religion by the state and the belonging of the people to one or another religion could mean for society and the rulers of multi-national and multi-confessional societies.3 Charles Steinwedel, who is interested in the ethnic and national organization of the empire, considers politics within a state to be a process of interaction and competition that gener-ates its own type of culture.4

1 Clifford Geertz, Islam Observed: Religious Development in Morocco and Indonesia (New Haven and London, 1968), pp. 2-3.2 Robert Geraci and Michael Khodarkovsky, eds., Of Religion and Empire: Missions, Conver-sion, and Tolerance in Tsarist Russia (Ithaca, London, 2001).3 Paul W. Werth, At the Margins of Orthodoxy: Mission, Governance, and Confessional Politics in Russia’s Volga-Kama Region, 1827-1905 (Ithaca, London, 2002).4 Charles Steinwedel, “Invisible Threads of Empire: State, Religion, and Ethnicity in Tsarist

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This chapter aims to detect the specifi c content of Islam that Volga-Ural Muslims visualized in the social and political changes caused by the 1905 Revolution. The events of 1905 demonstrated to the central government that the construction of a powerful state depended on the subjects’ active participation in civic life and the support of the people, which signaled the transformation of the empire into a national state (if not a nation) with direct rule of a population more equal in law.5 As Geertz tells us, the values one holds are grounded in the inherent structure of reality;6 thus, my analysis also concentrates on the interac-tion between the Muslims’ understanding of Islam and the reality that appeared after the revolution.

Indeed, it was the mutual relationship with the imperial institutions that molded the Volga-Ural Muslims’ concept of Islam and identifi cation inside the empire. Allen Frank studied the historiography that had popu-larized the idea of a common Bulghar heritage for them. His interpreta-tion of Tawārīkh-i Bulghāriyya shows that the new political relationship between the state and the local religious scholars, ‘ulamā’, which had begun in the reign of Catherine II, encouraged the identifi cation of the Muslim community with the act of conversion to Islam in Bulghar. The geographical imagination of Bulghar corresponded to the jurisdiction of the Orenburg Spiritual Assembly, which had been established in 1788 in Ufa to mobilize the religious leaders for the state control of the Muslim population. This served to distinguish the community from other Muslim communities both within and outside the empire.7

The understanding of the Spiritual Assembly as a centre of the com-munity, millat, is shared by Aidar Khabutdinov and Christian Noack. However, Khabutdinov, in spite of his rich knowledge of the interac-tion with the state since the end of the eighteenth century, regards the religious identity simply as a “medieval” proto-nationalism that was replaced by a “modern” Tatar nationalism in the process of the Jadid movement at the beginning of the twentieth century. His illustration

Bashkiria, 1773-1917” (Ph.D diss., Columbia University, 1999), p. 12.5 Steinwedel, “Invisible Threads of Empire,” pp. 4-6, 290-294.6 Geertz, Islam Observed, p. 97.7 Allen Frank, Islamic Historiography and ‘Bulghar’Identity among the Tatars and Bashkirs of Russia (Leiden; Boston; Köln, 1998), pp. 61-62, 80-81, 85-86.

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especially of Jadidism and Qadimism specifi es how the model of Tatar nation-building has become a substitute for the Soviet evolutionist model of history.8 Criticizing this idea, Noack emphasizes that the Muslim identity provided the people with plausible frameworks of traditions, customs, and idioms that enabled them to cope with different stages of political development in the empire. While the Muslims in the era of the Great Reforms demanded the restoration of the confessional status quo ante, the 1905 Revolution challenged this established concept of deliber-ate self-isolation. Being a Muslim no longer meant mere self-affi rmation as part of a stable community, but demanded social mobilization of the individual for the sake of the whole community.9

Questioning the cliché of the dichotomy between Jadidists and Qadimists in the historiography, Stéphan Dudoignon suggests that it be located in the concrete reality of the Russian Empire. He discovered political wrangling over the division of capital within maħallas, parishes formed around the Friday mosque. Utilizing basically Muslim publica-tions, he saw regional economic conditions as the crux of the politics inside the Muslim communities. The development of commercial and industrial activities among Muslims around the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries exacerbated the confrontation between the two parties especially in cities. Whereas Jadidists in need of their patrons welcomed the individual accumulation of property, Qadimists persisted in the communal redistribution of capital for fear of the subdivision of the maħallas.10

8 A. Iu. Khabutdinov, Millet Orenburgskogo Dukhovnogo Sobraniia v kontse XVIII- XIX vekakh (Kazan, 2000), pp. 5, 145, and 158-159; idem, Formirovanie natsii i osnovnye napravleniia razvitiia tatarskogo obshchestva v kontse XVIII—nachale XX vekov (Kazan, 2001), pp. 32-33, 179-180, and 190.9 Christian Noack, “State Policy and its Impact on the Formation of a Muslim Identity in the Volga-Urals,” in Islam in Politics in Russia and Central Asia (Early Eighteenth to Late Twentieth Centuries), ed. Stéphane A. Dudoignon and Komatsu Hisao (London, New York, 2001), pp. 4, 12-14, 19, 25.10 Stéphane A. Dudoignon, “Qu’est-ce que la “Qadîmiya”? Éléments pour une sociologie du traditionalisme musulman, en Islam de Russie et en Transoxiane (au tournant des XIXe et XXe siècles),” in L’Islam de Russie, ed. S. A. Dudoignon, D. Ishaqov, R. Möhämmätshin (Paris, 1997), pp. 207-225; idem, “Status, Strategies and Discourses of a Muslim ‘Clergy’ under a Christian Law: Polemics about the Collection of the Zakât in Late Imperial Russia” in Islam in Politics, ed. Dudoignon and Komatsu, pp. 43-73.

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Robert Crews, more directly interested in the interpenetration of the state and the Muslim communities, demonstrated the politics concerning “Islamic orthodoxy” defi ned by the support of the state. In mobilizing police power in practice, the state’s commitment to the interpretation of Islam made imperial offi cials and institutions pivotal actors in intra-communal struggles among Muslims over religious au-thority and orthodoxy. The Muslim clergy was charged with the task of regulating, according to Islamic and imperial law, family, marriage, divorce, inheritance and relations between parents and children. State offi cials reasoned that order, morality and discipline in the everyday life of the family contributed to the solidity of the empire as a whole11. The offi cials also looked to lay members of local Muslim parishes as potential allies in regulating and disciplining a Muslim clergy. Muslims translated disputes about Islamic law, doctrine, ritual, and behaviour into terms that permitted the intervention of the imperial authorities. There emerged a specifi c legal consciousness among Muslims; they saw imperial law as well as state institutions and offi cialdom as a positive means of fulfi lling God’s command.12

I have reviewed the preceding works in terms of what the impe-rial governance meant for the Muslim subjects. Since the manner of governance is inseparable from the nature of a regime, we must ask what kind of regime was born from the 1905 Revolution. Although the term “liberalism” is usually utilized to characterize the period, it fails to identify the specifi c functions of “liberalism” in the concrete context of the Muslim as well as the Russian society. That liberal ideas in Russia began to spread when the tsarist regime had not yet lost its ability to conduct reforms “from above” is generally agreed upon. Liberals strove to utilize the creative potential of the regime, which made “Russian lib-eralism” more conservative and monarchical than the western European

11 In general, due to the inadequacies of the Russian legal system, the security police func-tioned as the chief arbitrator between husbands, wives, and children. Dominic Lieven, “The Security Police, Civil Rights, and the Fate of the Russian Empire, 1855-1917,” in Civil Rights in Imperial Russia, ed. Olga Crisp and Linda Edmondson (Oxford, 1989), p. 239.12 Robert Crews, “Allies in God’s Command: Muslim Communities and the State in Impe-rial Russia” (Ph.D. diss., Princeton University, 1999); idem, “Empire and the Confessional State: Islam and Religious Politics in Nineteenth-Century Russia,” The American Historical Review 108:1 (2003), pp. 50-83.

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model. However, most Russian authors continue in the following way: since the individual, who should have served as the buttress of liberal-ism, was “swallowed up” by both the state and the peasant communes, “Russian liberalism” remained only an idea in a narrow circle of intel-lectuals; it did not succeed in becoming a line of action for a wide range of sociopolitical groups.13

The negative description of “Russian liberalism” also defi nes the main idea of works on “Muslim liberalism.” Larisa Iamaeva admitted that the social stratum on which Muslim liberalism depended was limited to the Tatar intellectuals from the nobility, the religious men and partly the merchants. The retention of the social and mental “traditionalism,” that is, a “stable” religious consciousness and a collective psychology of maħalla prevented liberal ideas from fi nding supporters among the Muslims. She attributed this failure to the “incompleteness” of the Islamic reformation, which she thought should have emancipated the individual from “traditionalism” through ijtihād, an individual judgment of God’s command.14

However, it is worthwhile heeding how interested the popular masses were in the civil rights issue, “each with its own axe to grind.”15 The law of April 17, 1905, which revealed the government’s intention to review the existing Muslim administration, did not leave religious consciousness “stable;” the law served as a powerful spur to individual and communal activities aiming at the satisfaction of everyday religious needs.16 Iamaeva’s argument is similar to the “national” discourses of the secular intellectuals, who could not appreciate the logic of the “Mus-

13 V. V. Shalokhaev, “Russkii liberalizm kak istoriografi cheskaia i istoriosofskaia problema,” Voprosy istorii 4 (1998), pp. 31-34, 36-38.14 L. A. Iamaeva, Musul’manskii liberalism nachala XX veka kak obshchestvenno-politicheskoe dvizhenie (Ufa, 2002), pp. 6, 116, 131-132, 257.15 Linda Edmondson, “Was there a Movement for Civil Rights in Russia in 1905?” in Crisp and Edmondson, Civil Rights…, pp. 269, 282-283.16 Andrew Verner suggests that Russian peasants’ petitions be seen as instruments for negotiation with actors both outside and inside their communes. This is instructive to the case of Volga-Ural Muslims, who were involved in the petition campaign more energeti-cally than any other Muslims of the empire. Andrew Verner, “Discursive Strategies in the 1905 Revolution: Peasant Petitions from Vladimir Province,” The Russian Review 54:1 (1995), pp. 65-90.

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lim” movement under the new regime.17 However “traditional” and “religious” it may look, it can be more positively evaluated as Muslims’ reaction to and accommodation with “the epoch of liberalism”.

In the pages that follow I describe how Islam in the Volga-Ural region and the nature of the new regime were related to each other. Af-ter the revolution, while the anxiety concerning defence of the empire’s integrity occupied the minds of state offi cials, they were obliged to listen to the voices of the Muslim citizens, according to the principle of religious toleration. Taking advantage of the existing order, the Muslims strove to gain legal recognition for their requirements and to give them theological foundation. Especially in regard to daily concrete needs of faith, there was much room for negotiation with the government.18

Islam is a discursive tradition through which individual potenti-alities are realized by the designation of idioms, customs, rituals and symbols as Islamic to realize their potentialities. The boundary between what is considered Islamic or non-Islamic is not fi xed by Islam, but rather constantly reinterpreted by Muslims themselves19. The specifi c nature of Islam in the Volga-Ural region consisted of the impossibility for both the Muslims and the temporal bureaucrats to divide the implementation of shari‘a and the imperial administration. The following is one of the demands sent by the Kazan Muslims to Sergei Witte at the beginning of 1905:

“Our religious rigidity consists of the smallest deviation from the rules of the shari‘a resulting in a grave sin for each true believer. In order to eliminate all temptations to sin (…), it is necessary to legislate secularly as well, so that all Islam-believers’ rights concerning marriage, family and inheritance be regulated only by our religious law.”20

17 See my paper, “Predstavlenie Dzh. Validova o poniatii ‘natsiia’, millät posle Pervoi ros-siiskoi revolutsii,” Sbornik materialov itogovikh konferentsii molodykh uchenykh Instituta istorii imeni Sh.Mardzhani Akademii nauk RT za 2003-2004 gody (Kazan, 2004), pp. 222-228.18 This was especially the case with the fi nancial management of maħalla. See my “Molding the Muslim Community through the Tsarist Administration: Maħalla under the Jurisdic-tion of the Orenburg Mohammedan Spiritual Assembly after 1905,” Acta Slavica Iaponica 23 (2006), pp. 115-118.19 M. Hakan Yavuz, “The Patterns of Political Islamic Identity: Dynamics of National and Transnational Loyalties and Identities,” Central Asian Survey 14:3 (1995), pp. 341, 343.20 Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv (hereafter, RGIA), f. 821 (Departament dukhovnykh del inostrannykh ispovedanii), op. 8, d. 631, l. 12.

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In a report presented to the Special Conference on Muslim-Sunnite issues in 1906, even referring to a Quranic imperative to obey God, the Prophet and rulers,21 V. P. Cherevenskii wrote:

“The Russian governmental institutions also have to subject the resolu-tions (of the Muslim Spiritual Directorates—N.N.) to revision on the basis of the rules of the Qur’ān and shari‘a. (…) It is not admissible in the order of the state administration that the supreme authority is deprived of the opportunity to observe the exact implementation (…) of Islamic law.22

A REVIVAL OF ISLAM

The law of April 17 and the Manifesto of October 17 in 1905, which promised freedom of worship and popular participation in the parlia-ment, called forth Muslims’ aspiration for a pious life and the right to realize it. The Muslims, on the one hand, increasingly began to count on the Spiritual Assembly for its active arbitration of the religious disputes in maħallas. On the other hand, they tried to utilize the Muslim faction in the State Duma in order to secure their rights in a political way. The interpenetration of consciousness on faith and rights constituted a unique form of Islamic revival among the Volga-Ural Muslims.

The question of holidays in Kazan is one of the instructive proofs of the indivisible relationship between political and religious conscious-ness. In order to gain legal recognition of the right to hold Islamic holi-days, the Kazan Muslims could rely on the City councillors from the coreligionists and the Muslim faction in the State Duma. As the quarrel intensifi ed within the City Duma and in the streets, Russian residents often complained that while Muslims had opened their shops on Fridays before 1905, after freedom of worship, they began to insist on Fridays of rest, intending to earn on Sundays in place of Russians.23 In 1914, when the City Duma, despite the opposition of the Muslim councillors, ap-proved a municipal regulation that prohibited commercial activities on Sundays, a Kazan merchant, ‘Abd al-Raħman Qūshāīf made an appeal 21 Qur’ān (Cairo edition), 4th chapter, 59th verse.22 RGIA, f. 1276 (Sovet Ministrov), op. 2, d. 593, l. 137.23 Kamsko-Volzhskaia rech’, 8 January 1914; Kazanskii telegraf, 12 January 1914.

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to the Muslim deputies of the State Duma for negotiations with the Ministry of the Interior. This effort resulted in the ministry’s direction to cancel the municipal regulation.24

The religious meaning of the question was also important for imperial governance, as it was an essential criterion as to whether the Russian Empire was Dār al-Ħarb, the Abode of War, or Dār al-Islām, the Abode of Islam. Some labelled their homeland as Dār al-Ħarb, point-ing out that observance of holidays depended on the permission of the “infi del governors.”25 Another religious aspect was the Muslims’ desire for the correct defi nition of holidays according to Islamic law. The shari‘a order that the fi rst thin crescent moon be observed by the naked eye made room for differences between observers. These dif-ferences were often caused by competition over religious authority among religious scholars. Some even thought it expedient to calculate months on the basis of observatory’s data. While Muslims hoped that the Spiritual Assembly would actively involve itself in standardizing the Hegira calendar, voices of the Muslim press began to surpass Ufa’s authority after 1905.26

The multiplication of imams at the beginning of the twentieth century logically resulted from the development of Muslim capitalism and the patronage of community institutions in the framework of a specifi c Christian domination, which Dudoignon calls modernization through re-Islamization.27 Assisted also by the manifestation of the toleration of faiths, an increasing number of aspiring mullahs made the journey to Ufa for the examination and to obtain a certifi cate of the Spiritual Assembly. In this trend, there were many aspiring teachers, mu‘allims, who fi nished school under a new method, uŝūl-i jadīd. Since these schools did not have an offi cial right to issue the certifi cate, in-spectors of people’s schools could force the teachers to leave and shut the schools down. The situation was all the worse because the authori-24 Zhurnaly Kazanskoi gorodskoi dumy i doklady Upravy za 1914 (Kazan, 1914); Yuldīz, 13 August 1914, p. 4.25 Dīn wa Ma‘īshat 11 (1912), p. 164.26 There was heated controversy between two Kazan Muslim newspapers in 1914; while Yūlduz supported a literal application of shari‘a, Qūyāsh insisted on the validity of the “scientifi c” solution in terms of shari‘a.27 Dudoignon, “Status, Strategies and Discourses,” pp. 60-65, 71-73.

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ties suspected that the existing system of the Assembly’s examination contributed to the consolidation of the imperial Muslim population, thereby its “Tatarization.”28

In February 1910, Muslims in Ufa heard that the examination of mu‘allims would be prohibited. Asking for an explanation of the Spir-itual Assembly, they claimed that until then, it had issued the certifi -cates as the sole Muslim institution acknowledged by the government. They demanded that the examination continue in accordance with the religion, dīn, and the legal order, niũām-i qānūn.29 In general, the desire of the Muslims was so strong that the Muslim faction of the State Duma in 1914 prepared a bill on the right of the Spiritual Assembly to issue the certifi cate to teachers.30

The increase in the number of imams was followed by the rein-forcement of building mosques, which disturbed both the Orthodox and secular authorities. The situation became all the more serious after the law of April 17, because the “apostasy” of baptized Tatars and pagans in favour of Islam was regarded as being a result of their “Tatarization” and “Islamization.”31 Since the law banned the mosque from tempting baptized Tatars, local missionaries thought it essential that the Orthodox authorities intervene in the construction of mosques, although this had been abandoned by the ukase of June 17, 1773.32

The law of April 17 granted the right of exclusion from Orthodoxy to those who were ascribed as Orthodox, but who in reality confessed a non-Christian faith to which they themselves or their ancestors had belonged before their adherence to the Orthodoxy. The state wanted a controlled transfer of incorrectly ascribed religious populations. Thus, the new order represented an opportunity for church and state to reiniti-

28 A. Arsharuni, “Iz istorii natsional’noi politiki tsarizma,” Krasnyi arkhiv 35 (1929), pp. 111-112.29 Tsentral’nyi gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv Respubliki Bashkortostan (hereafter, TsGIA RB), f. I-295 (Orenburgskoe Magometanskoe Dukhovnoe Sobranie), op. 11, d. 878, n. p. The petition is dated April 1, 1910 and written in Tūrkī.30 L. A. Iamaeva, ed., Musul’manskie deputaty Gosudarstvennoi dumy Rossii, 1906-1917gg. Sbornik dokumentov i materialov (Ufa, 1998), pp. 235-238; Millat 7 (1914)(Russian and Tatar version), pp. 2-3.31 RGIA, f. 821, op. 133, d. 576, ll. 319, 321ob.-327.32 E. Malov, O tatarskikh mechetiakh v Rossii (Kazan, 1868), pp. 49-50.

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ate the process of Christianization with those baptized Tatars who did not leave Orthodoxy.33

It was the Spiritual Assembly that undertook the “legal Islami-zation” of baptized Tatars who had been only offi cially registered as Orthodox. Answering three mullahs whose parishes had “apostates,” the Spiritual Assembly on June 30, 1905 gave them permission to satisfy these apostates with Islamic rites. A state offi cial contended that it was this resolution that had served to incite the widespread apostasy in the region.34 Moreover, according to each apostate’s petition, the Spiritual Assembly asked volost directorates to inquire to which maħalla he or she wanted to belong, thereby ascribing the person correctly to the Muslim community.35

The principle of the law of April 17 seems similar to that of the Muslim identity derived from the Bulghar historiography. In this tradi-tion, the community’s validity as a Muslim community depended not on the ethnic origin of the community’s ancestors, but on the ancestors’ conversion to Islam.36 The local Orthodox missionaries in their turn intensifi ed the application of Il’minskii’s method, utilizing the non-Rus-sians’ ethnicity in order to counteract the “Tatarization” and to further the spread of Orthodoxy.37

RESULTS OF “RUSSIFICATION”

The Great Reform intensifi ed the relations between Muslims and the imperial administration, which made the government consider it expedient to set the Russian language as an educational qualifi cation for the post of mullah. For this purpose, two laws were issued on July

33 Paul W. Werth, “The Limits of Religious Ascription: Baptized Tatars and the Revision of ‘Apostasy,’ 1840s-1905,” The Russian Review 59:4 (2000), pp. 509-511.34 TsGIA RB, f. I-295, op. 2, d. 276 (journal on June 30, 1905); RGIA, f. 821, op. 133, d. 625, ll. 47ob.-48.35 See the many papers left in the second half of TsGIA RB, f. I-295, op. 11, d. 803.36 Frank, Islamic Historiography, pp. 41, 62.37 Steinwedel, “Invisible Threads of Empire,” pp. 353-354.

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16, 1888 and October 11, 1890.38 Up to 1905, the regulations caused waves of protests from Muslims, even among the “progressive.”39 However, after the revolution, they protested against the measures that the authorities began to take to keep secular subjects, including Russian, from their confessional schools. The change of both sides can be explained by the change of the nature of their interaction at the turn of the century.

The Great Reform appeared to the Muslim community an assault on their former guarantees of confessional autonomy granted by Catherine II,40 which accounts for the rise in demand for the restoration of “lost” rights in 1905.41 Accordingly, even the most “progressive” representatives initially prioritised preserving past autonomy. As a result, in 1910, the Special Conference on Volga Muslim issues decided to abandon efforts to introduce Russian into the Muslim community.

As Robert Geraci argues, this decision can be interpreted in terms of the conference participants’ biased attitude toward the progress of the “East.”42 Another interpretation is possible in terms of Muslim identity. To be sure, this identity itself had been shaped by the interaction with the imperial institutions since the end of the eighteenth century. How-ever, the Muslims’ articulation of their interests based on this identity was taken by the bureaucrats as proof of their closed attitude toward the “Russian” state. After 1905, the Muslim representatives began to convince the people of the necessity of the Russian language.43 Their ef-forts were devoted to reconciliation between imperial citizenship, Rūsīya ghrāzhdānlighī, and nationality, millīyat.44

38 Polnoe sobranie zakonov Rossiiskoi imperii, series 3, vol. 8 (1888) (St. Petersburg, 1890), no. 5419; Sbornik zakonov o musul’manskom dukhovenstve v Tavricheskom i Orenburgskom okrugakh i o magometanskikh uchebnykh zavedeniiakh (Kazan, 1902), pp. 18-20.39 See a petition from Kazan representatives in RGIA, f. 821, op. 8, d. 631, ll. 11-16.40 Noack, “State Policy and its Impact,” pp. 12-13.41 A criticism against such an attitude, Ridā’al-Dīn Fakhr al-Dīn, Rūsīya muslimānlarīning iħtiyājlarī wa ānlar ħaqqinda intiqād (Orenburg, 1906), pp. 8-13.42 Robert Geraci, Window on the East; National and Imperial Identities in Late Tsarist Russia (Ithaca, London, 2001), pp. 285-296.43 Waqt, 10 March 1907, pp. 2-3; Ibid., 6 June 1914, p. 1.44 Jamāl al-Dīn Walīdī, Millat wa Millīyat (Orenburg, 1914), p. 37.

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The spread of Russian did make the Muslims and the Russians much closer, although it did not always alleviate the tensions between them. On the contrary, the wide consumption of the discourses on “Pan-Islamism” among both the Russians and Muslims jeopardized not only their mutual relationship but also the politics among the Muslims. In the post-1905 political environment, religious establishments began to defi ne themselves as national institutions, or to be defi ned by others as such.45 The 1910 Special Conference had the purpose of “the formation of measures toward counteracting the Tatar-Muslim infl uence in the Volga region.”46 It may not be accidental that in the same year, the Ministry of the Interior drew up a “Memorandum regarding the activities of the Catholic clergy, aimed at the subjection of the population of the Western territory to Polish infl uence, and regarding measures to combat these infl uences.”47

Faced with the challenge of nationalism in 1905 and the conserva-tive constitutional revolutions in Iran and Turkey, Russian society forged a concept of the peril caused by the progress of the Muslims. Such discourses immediately circulated through the security police among Muslims, due to the traditional “alliance” between the police and the clergy. The lay Muslims as well as the mullahs took advantage of the Russian discourses in order to remove their rivals on a charge of “po-litical disloyalty.” Since the prejudice against the Muslim population and the traditional police intervention did not change, Muslim intel-lectuals felt themselves repressed and confl icts among Muslims were aggravated.48

In spite of the absence of a Muslim ecclesiastical class as a distinc-tive estate either in Islam or in the imperial law de jure, the imperial administrative system de facto created the Muslim dukhovenstvo in the state. The paradox was brought home to state bureaucrats after 1905,

45 Steinwedel, “Invisible Threads of Empire,” p. 342.46 A. Arsharuni, “Iz istorii natsional’noi politiki tsarizma,” Krasnyi arkhiv 35 (1929), pp. 107-127; Ibid. 36 (1929), pp. 61-83.47 Theodore R. Weeks, Nation and State in Late Imperial Russia: Nationalism and Russifi cation on the Western Frontier, 1863-1914 (DeKalb, 1996), p. 55.48 See my paper at the VII ICCEES World Congress in Berlin (July 28, 2005), “Political Reliability: The Kazan Provincial Governorship and the Control of the Muslim Clergies (1905-1917).”

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when the Muslims tried to make their mullahs equivalent to the Christian clergy in terms of civil rights and privileges.49 Policy makers attributed this “wrong” equalization and the birth of the Muslim ecclesiastical hierarchy to the bureaucratic logic in the unifi cation of legal norms and the creation of the Spiritual Assembly.50

The Muslims themselves seem to have taken the existence of their “ecclesiastical class” for granted. They called their clergy “spiritual,” rūħānīlar, as they did Christian clergy, rather than “learned,” ‘ulamā’, as is usual in other Muslim areas. However, this accepted fact some-times caused serious controversy. In 1916, when mufti Ŝafā Bāyazīduf admonished the Muslims under his authority, asking them to support their “ecclesiastics” properly,51 those who challenged the mufti’s author-ity argued that the word “rūħānīlar” was not found in the Sunna of the Prophet, and that its root “rūħ” (spirit), which was associated with the birth of Jesus Christ, was valid only in his community, umma.52

How others justifi ed this usage by weaving the language of both the imperial practice and the Islamic dogma merits attention. In terms of the imperial order, the word “dukhovenstvo” had been rooted in the legal system since the establishment of the Spiritual Assembly. That rauħ, a derivative of rūħ meaning “refreshment,” made possible the application of rūħānīlar to licensed mullahs, ukaznoi mulla, who were appointed by provincial governors after confi rming that the candidates had been “cleared” of anything confl icting with the authorities. Accord-ing to the Qur’ān, the Prophet was inspired by the Faithful Spirit, rūħ al-amīn.53 Hadīth tells us that the wives of the Prophet are the Mothers of the Muslims, that is, that Muhammad is their Father, and that ‘ālims, i.e. religious scholars, are his inheritors. Therefore, ‘ulamā’ as such had to be the spiritual fathers, rūħānī ātā, giving their parishioners the Islamic

49 RGIA, f. 1276, op. 2, d. 593, l. 127.50 RGIA, f. 821, op. 133, d. 543, l. 20. Such “equalization” led by “unifi cation” can be added to Miller’s analysis of “Russifi cation” of state machinery. Aleksei Miller, “Rusifi katsii: klassifi tsirovat’ i poniat’,” Ab Imperio 2 (2002), pp. 139-140.51 Waqt, 10 August 1916, p. 2. 52 Waqt, 24 August 1916, pp. 2-3. 53 Qur’ān (Cairo edition), 26th chapter, 193rd verse. The Faithful Spirit means the Angel Gabriel.

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discipline.54 Here again, we can see a discursive tradition of Islam among the Volga-Ural Muslims, which was molded within the framework of the Christian domination.

NATIONALISM FORGED

BY THE CONFESSIONAL ADMINISTRATION

Since the regional identity of the Volga-Ural Muslims was formed with the Spiritual Assembly at the centre, the events of 1905, which dra-matically made Muslims conscious of their relationship with the state and their own religious behavior, immediately made vital a redefi nition of the roles that the Spiritual Assembly should play.55 As Yavuz summarizes, nationalism tended to be articulated, diffused, and made part of the daily discourse through religious symbols and institutions.56 The Volga-Ural Muslims’ spatial images of the imperial Muslim population and the metaphors of their “national” identity were clearly demonstrated in the argument on the territory of the Spiritual Assembly’s jurisdiction.

Neither was the Vaisov God’s Regiment outside the scene. True, Frank says that the ideas of Bahā’al-Dīn Vaisov refl ected an intellectual continuum of anti-mufti throughout the Volga-Ural ‘ulamā’.57 However, that at least his son, ‘Inān al-Dīn, did not deny the structure itself should be underlined. In 1905, a week after the law on the toleration of faiths, ‘Inān al-Dīn asked the director of the Department of Religious Affairs for permission to organize their own spiritual directorate on the basis of the same statutes as sanctioned in 1872 for Trans-Caucasian Muslims.58

The participants of the 1906 Special Conference feared the aspira-tion of “Tatars-Muslims” to make all the imperial Muslims into Tatars,

54 Waqt, 4 September 1916, pp. 1-2; Dīn wa Ma‘īshat 40 (1916), pp. 349-351; Ibid. 48-49 (1916), pp. 436-437.55 Rogers Brubaker suggests that nationalism be seen as an “event.” See his Nationalism Re-framed: Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 18-21.56 Yavuz, “The Patterns of Political Islamic Identity,” p. 349.57 Frank, Islamic Historiography, p. 172.58 RGIA, f. 821, op. 8, d. 631, l. 53. The Transcaucasian model was also ideal for the partici-pants of the Muslim Congress in 1914. Millet 13 (1914) (Russian version), pp. 5-8.

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which motivated the idea on the subdivision of the Spiritual Assembly’s jurisdiction. Calling Ufa’s centralization the “Rome of the Muslims,” Cherevenskii suggested that separate spiritual directorates be provided to the Bashkirs and Kazakhs. He even thought it necessary to nurse their culture and “nationalism” in order to guard them against “Tatarism”.59 A similar strategy was also taken against the Polish infl uence in Belorus-sian provinces: the establishment of schools using Belorussian as the language of instruction and of churches (including Catholic churches) using Belorussian.60

The government’s fear was not without foundation. The Tatars indeed tried to realize a unifi ed administration for the Muslim popula-tion in the empire. When Bashikirs from Cheliabinsk District, Orenburg Province, demanded that one of three Qadis in Ufa be elected from their people, Bāshqurd Ŧā’ifasī, a Tatar newspaper, claimed that the subdivision of the Muslims under the Spiritual Assembly into Bashkirs, Mishars, Teptiars, Kazakhs and Tatars would devastate the common Muslim interest.61 When the reform of the juridical system in the Kazakh steppe was on the agenda, Tatar newspapers keenly propagandized the ne-cessity of including the Kazakhs under the jurisdiction of the Spiritual Assembly. This would have brought order to their family affairs on the basis of shari‘a, instead of the native custom, ‘ādat. In fact, the Kazakhs of the northern and western steppe showed a strong desire for inclusion under the Ufa’s jurisdiction.62 Their attitude is explained by the Islamic revival among them over the course of the nineteenth century, which was led by economic integration into the imperial system and Sufi and scholarly networks between the steppe and inner Russia. In the whole process, the large commercial activities of the Volga-Ural Muslims played a crucial role.63

59 RGIA, f. 1276, op. 2, d. 593, ll. 8ob.-9, 58ob.-59ob., 114, and 140ob. 60 Weeks, Nation and State, p. 66.61 Waqt, 1 April 1908, p. 1.62 RGIA, f. 821, op. 8, d. 631, ll. 3-4; Waqt, 24 June 1908, pp. 1-2; 25 June 1914, p. 1; 27 June 1914, p. 2; 1 July 1914, pp. 1-2. The Steppe Statute of 1868 excluded the Kazakh steppe from Ufa’s jurisdiction.63 Allen Frank, “Islamic Transformation on the Kazakh Steppe, 1742-1917: Toward an Islamic History of Kazakhstan under Russian Rule,” Tadayuki Hayashi, ed., The Construction and Deconstruction of National Histories in Slavic Eurasia (Sapporo, 2003), pp. 261-289.

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The Tatars’ plans to reform the Spiritual Assembly also took into account the subdivision of its jurisdiction, but they thought of it only in territorial terms for effective administration.64 They even imagined that a unifying mufti would stand in St. Petersburg. Interestingly enough, in elaborating his plan, Sadri Maksudi, a deputy of the second and third State Duma referred to the “millet” system of the Greeks, Armenians and the Jews in the Ottoman Empire. He considered the religious institu-tion a legal framework for the development of the nation. He saw in the hierarchy of ‘ulamā’ the indispensable roles in preventing the appear-ance of various confl icting schools, madhhablar, and in maintaining the original purity of Islam.65

In the 1914 Special Conference, the discussion reached an impasse. The situation of the eastern frontier reminded the participants of that of the western frontier.66 The subdivision of the Spiritual Assembly’s jurisdiction under ethnic principles was abandoned for fear that the “nationalization” of each new institution would hinder cultural rap-prochement with the Russians. The same reasoning had been used in the objection to the establishment of new Catholic episcopates in order to avert the Polish national movement. Moreover, they were obliged to accept the fact that the Tatars’ infl uence was so immense among Muslim publications and intellectuals that “Tatarization” could not be stopped. The Vilna governor admitted in 1910 that the strength of Polish culture was such that a Catholic Belorussian peasant with pretensions to “bet-tering himself” immediately identifi ed with the Polish nationality.67 The government was forced to adhere to the status quo.

CONCLUSION

After 1905, while Catherine II, a founder of the tradition of tolera-tion towards Islam, continued to be idealized as “Grandma-Empress,” 64 Waqt, 1 February 1914, p. 1; 8 May 1914, p. 1.65 Yūlduz, 4 May 1914, pp. 1-2; 18 May 1914, pp. 2-3.66 RGIA, f. 821, op. 133, d. 576, ll. 253 ob.-254 ob., and 256 ob.67 Weeks, Nation and State, p. 67. The same observation is in RGIA, f. 821, d. 576, op. 133, ll. 253ob.-254.

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’Abī Pādshāh,68 the new symbols, the law of April 17 and the manifesto of October 17, gave the Muslims a foundation to observe their religious duties more conscientiously and to involve the imperial administration in institutionalizing their confessional life. They located the Spiritual As-sembly and the Muslim faction in the State Duma as legal representative bodies for “national” interests. At the same time, the Muslims dedicated their efforts to justifying the emerging reality by theological idioms. The political acquisition of the right to hold Islamic holidays was not sepa-rable from the correct calculation of the Hegira calendar according to shari‘a. The presence of Muslim “ecclesiastics” was designated as Islamic in terms of imperial practice and Islamic knowledge. The intermingling principle of the legal and theological organization of the community was built in from the ‘ulamā’s and intellectuals’ imagined community, millat, to the construction of parish life, maħalla.

Faced with the serious challenges of nationalism, the Russian au-thorities began to categorize the population strictly, according to their own criteria of “Russianness.”69 Ascribing the Muslim elements of the baptized Tatars “correctly” to the Muslims, the government tried to unite the Christian elements with the Russian coreligionists. Although the in-teraction with the state had created the Muslim community throughout the nineteenth century, the government began to regard the Muslims’ political manifestation as the emergence of “Pan-Islamism,” which was usually equated with Tatar nationalism. The state offi cials even planned to leave the Muslim community as a “purely” religious one by depriving it of the opportunity to study Russian. They tried to use Il’minskii’s idea in order to contain “Tatarization” by nursing the cultures and national-isms of the peoples living side by side with the Tatars. However, by the beginning of World War I, the government was compelled to realize that setting various nationalisms against “Tatarism” would further alienate these peoples from “Russianness.”

68 Qūyāsh, 16 April 1914, p. 2.69 For a historical perspective, John W. Slocum, “Who, and When, Were the Inorodtsy? The Evolution of the Category of ‘Aliens’ in Imperial Russia,” The Russian Review 57:2 (1998), pp. 173-190.

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5VOLYN WITHIN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE:

MIGRATORY PROCESSES AND

CULTURAL INTERACTION

VALENTYNA NADOLSKA

INTRODUCTION

The geographical location of Ukrainian lands has been one of the main factors determining their historical development over the centu-ries as a vibrant interethnic contact zone, a territory characterized by a highly diversifi ed spectrum of socio-cultural phenomena. The repeated division of the territory that comprises present-day Ukraine and the repeated displacements of the borders between the states, religions, political and cultural systems, languages, and ethnic groups created conditions for great variety in the forms of interaction between differ-ent nationalities.1

As a specifi c form of historical synthesis characterized by the long-term co-habitation of different ethnic groups on a given territory that led to intense interaction between their cultural, religious, and other systems, contact zones have become an important object for modern research.2 Such territories not only constitute geographic areas where

1 N. Iakovenko, Paralel’nyi svit. Doslidzhennia z istorii uiavlen’ ta idei v Ukraini XVI—XVII st. (Kiev, 2002), p. 333.2 For more on the complex analysis of the historical aspects of the development processes and the structural transformation of contact zones in Eurasia in Russian historiography, see: A. M. Nekrasov et al., eds., Kontaktnye zony v istorii Vostochnoi Evropy: Perekrestki politicheskikh i kul’turnykh vzaimovliianii (Moscow, 1995); A. G. Za-dokhin, Politicheskie protsessy na periferii Evrazii (Moscow, 1998); Vostochnaia Evropa v drevnosti i srednevekov’e: Kontakty, zony kontaktov i kontaktnye zony. XI Chteniia pamiati chl.-korr. AN SSSR V. T. Pashuto (Moskva, 14-16 aprelia 1999 g.). Mat-ly k konf. (Mos-cow, 1999), and others. After a long break, the study of Ukrainian lands as a contact zone has been renewed in the last ten years in Ukrainian historiography as well. For a comprehensive analysis of the historiography of this problem, see N. Iakovenko’s

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different ethnicities live together, but display organic and self-suffi cient structures that have their own laws of development and specifi c cultural characteristics.

Contact zone formation takes place in conditions where borders are degraded and fl uid. Following from English defi nitions, it is neces-sary to distinguish “borders” from “frontiers.” Soviet historiography adopted the image of “borders” as hard-and-fast barriers separating countries, territories, and nationalities. This led the multi-ethnic character of certain regions and the historical, cultural contribution of various groups of the population to be overlooked. The majority of researchers consider the frontier concept as an important ingredient in the formation of contact zones. The domination of the latter approach among the current Ukrainian scholars has expressed itself in the emer-gence of a relatively new object of socio-humanitarian knowledge—the study of “borderlands” (porubezh’e) oriented on research of the phe-nomena of “borders,” “contact zones,” and areas of historical, cultural, social, and other forms of mutual interaction between different ethnic groups. The understanding of the term “borderland” brings together the image of a territory simultaneously separating and uniting.

The study of the Ukrainian lands as contacts zones assumes the use of not only a general, but also a regional approach to the analysis of specifi cs and characteristics of ethno-cultural interaction. Individual regions represent valuable material for observing the formation of mutual ties between different nationalities—related or unrelated. The scope and character of these ties is determined by the concrete histori-cal situation, and the socio-economic development of the ethnic groups, and the closeness or distance between the inhabitants’ languages and traditions. Volyn represents such a contact zone. Volyn’s frontier loca-tion determined to a signifi cant degree the character and direction of migration, as well as the interaction of various ethnic components tied

“Ukraina mizh Skhodom i Zakhodom”: proektsiia odniei idei,” in N. Iakovenko, Paralel’nyi svit…, pp. 333-365, or its English version, “Early Modern Ukraine Between East and West: Projecturies of an Idea,” K. Matsuzato, ed., Regions: A Prism to View the Slavic-Eurasian World. Towards a Discipline of “Regionology” (Sapporo, 2000), pp. 50-69. The theoretical aspects of natural interethnic contact zones as the territory of development of multiple nationalities are covered in the work of V. A. Dergacheva, Kontseptsiia marginal’noi komplimentarnosti (Odessa, 1995).

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to this migration. Archeologists have found evidence of this dating all the way back to ancient times.3

Volyn’s inclusion in the Kiev, Vladimir-Volyn, and Galitian-Volyn princedoms, in the Great Lithuanian Princedom from the fourteenth century, and, later, in the Rzeczpospolita had an important infl uence not only on the economic development of the region, but also on the formation of the local population’s historical memory and self-under-standing. The nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries witnessed important stages in the settlement of Volyn that had far reaching consequences for the formation of the local population’s cultural peculiarities. Administrative, territorial, political, ideological, religious, and socio-economic changes sparked certain transforma-tional processes that had a discernable effect on the region’s historical development. Contacts between different nationalities were of great signifi cance in these processes, driving the political and social history of these lands.

Studying individual ethnic groups of the Southwestern region of the Russian Empire with extensive use of statistical material4 and analyzing the changes in legal norms in the Kiev, Podolia, and Volyn provinces (gubernii),5 researchers of the second half of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century paid practically no attention to the material and spiritual culture that formed on the basis of in-terethnic contacts.

Because of ideological concerns, issues related to migratory proc-esses that led to the mixed, dispersed settlement of different ethnic groups in the region and to the development of intricate ties between these ethnic groups were not examined during Soviet times. Only one or another historical sources concerning the formation of Ukraine’s ethnic 3 L. I. Krushel’nits’ka, Vzaemozv’iazky naselennia Prykarpattia i Volyni z zemliamy Skhidnoi i Tentral’noi Evropy (Kiev, 1985); D. N. Kozak, Etnokul’turna istoriia Volyni (I st. do n.e.—IV st. n.e.) (Kiev, 1992).4 A. F. Rittikh, Atlas narodonaseleniia Zapadno-Russkogo kraia po ispovedaniiam (St. Peters-burg, 1863); Trudy etnografi chesko-statisticheskoi ekspeditsii v zapadno-Russkii krai. Materialy i issledovaniia, sobrannye P. P. Chubinskim, 7 volumes (St. Petersburg, 1872-1877); A. Zabelin, Voenno-statisticheskoe obozrenie Volynskoi gubernii 1, (Kiev, 1887); E. M. Kryzhanovskii, “Chekhi na Volyni,” Sobranie sochinenii 2 (Kiev, 1890), pp. 805—981 and others. 5 S. G. Gromachevskii, Ogranichitel’nye zakony po zemlevladeniiu v Zapadnom krae s istoricheskim obzorom ikh, zakonodatel’nymi motivami i raz”iasneniiami (St. Petersburg, 1904).

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composition were analyzed in the works of A. Rashin, V. Kabuzan, V. Naulk, S. Makarchuk, and others.6

The number of regionally focused historical and ethnological stud-ies, including research on Volyn province, has grown signifi cantly in post-communist Ukrainian historiography.7 In these works, post-com-munist researchers mainly examine the history of separate ethnic groups, their economic and social activities, cultural life, and the infl uence of the Russian Empire’s nationalities policy.8 In the past decade, researchers have begun to examine the discourse of the country’s elites, analyzing in this context the Polish question in Ukraine.

Nonetheless, concrete interaction between various ethnic groups is one of the many aspects of the region’s historical and ethnological real-ity that has so far received limited attention. This includes the study of Volyn as a contact zone, on the one hand, relegated to the periphery of the mainstream of Ukrainian culture during the nineteenth century, and, on the other hand, a territory marked by the natural and forced interaction

6 A. G. Rashin, Naselenie Rossii za 100 let (1811—1913 gg.). Statisticheskie ocherki (Moscow, 1956); V. M. Kabuzan, Narodonaselenie Rossii v XVIII—pervoi polovine XIX v. (Moscow, 1963); V. I. Naulko, Razvitie mezhetnicheskikh sviazei na Ukraine (istoriko-etnografi cheskii ocherk) (Kiev, 1975); S. A. Makarchuk, Etnosotsial’noe razvitie i natsional’nye otnosheniia na zapadno-ukrainskikh zemliakh v period imperializma (L’vov, 1983). 7 My dissertation on national minorities in Volyn can serve as an example of research of the history of different ethnic groups in Volyn from the second half of the 1990s: V. Nadol’s’ka, “Natsional’ni menshyny na Volyni (seredyna XIX—pochatok XX stolittia)” (Institute of National Relations and Political Science, National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, 1996). Other of dissertations on related topics include: M. V. Barmaka, “Mihrat-siini protsesy sered nimets’koho, ches’koho, evreis’koho naselennia Volyns’koi hubernii (1796-1914)” (Institute of National Relations and Political Science, National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, 1997); M. P. Kostiuka, “Nimets’ka kolonizatsiia na Volyni (60-ti roky XIX st.—1914 r.)” (L’viv State University, 1998); O. H. Sulimenka, “Nimtsi Volyni (kinets’ XVIII—pochatok XX st.)” (Kiev National University, 2002).8 I. T. Lisevych, U zatinku dvohlavoho orla (Pol’s’ka natsional’na menshina na Naddniprians’kii Ukraini v dr. pol. XIX—na poch. XX st.) (Kiev, 1993); I. M. Kulynych, N. V. Kryvets’, Nar-ysy istorii nimets’kykh kolonii v Ukraini (Kiev, 1995); M. G. Shcherbak, N. O. Shcherbak, Natsional’na polityka tsaryzmu na Pravoberezhnii Ukraini (druha polovyna XIX—pochatok XX stolittia (Kiev, 1997); O. M. Ivashchenko, Iu. M. Polishchuk, Evrei Volyni: Kinets’ XVIII—po-chatok XX stolittia (Zhytomyr, 1998); V. I. Palienko, Mistsia istorychnoho rozselennia pol’s’koi liudnosti v Ukraini v k. XIX—XX st. (Kiev, 1998); V. I. Naulko, Khto i vidkoly zhyve v Ukraini (Kiev, 1998); Chekhy na Volyni: istoriia i suchasnist’. Naukovyi zbirnyk “Velyka Volyn’” 24 (Zhytomyr, 2001).

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of different cultures. Bringing historical, cultural, and anthropological approaches to bear on this analysis enables the infl uence of state institutes to be compared to the infl uence of interethnic interaction on the region’s ethnic development, detailing their conditions and consequences.

Occupied with the study of the processes of migration, and the cultures and daily lifestyles of Volyn’s ethnic groups during the period of its inclusion in the Russian Empire, this chapter will focus on the dynamics of ethnic composition of the province and the mutual cultural infl uence of various ethnic groups. Ukrainian history cannot be limited to the history of the Ukrainians. This is true, in the fi rst place, of regions like Volyn where ethnic groups co-habited compactly over long periods of time. This co-habitation meant that different group’s traditions were introduced into the wider interethnic environment, leading to changes in the lifestyle and activities of the local population.

POLONIZATION AND RUSSIFICATION

For a period stretching for over 100 years, Volyn’s history is con-nected with that of the Russian state. As a result of the three partitions of Poland (in 1772, 1793, and 1795), Right Bank Ukraine was included into the Russian Empire at the end of the eighteenth century. 9 Typical Russian administrative structures were set up throughout this territory, including the establishment of Volyn province in 1795. The region’s further development became signifi cantly affected by the population’s ethnic structure, traditions of daily life, and the cultural interaction that had formed under the infl uence of the Rzeczpospolita and the Russian

9 Polnoe sobranie zakonov Rossiiskoi imperii, ser. 1 (PSZ-1), XXIII (1789-1796) (St. Petersburg, 1830), Art. 17323. Volyn province (Iziaslavskaia province from April 13, 1973 to May 1, 1795) was established on the basis of the former Volyn voevodship and the northern por-tion of the Kiev voevodship of the Rzeczpospolita. Individual changes in the administrative structure of the province were introduced by the decrees “O novom razdelenii Gosudarstva na gubernii” from December 12, 1796 and “O naznachenii granits guberniiam: Novoros-siiskoi, Kievskoi, Minskoi, Volynskoi, Podol’skoi, i Malorossiiskoi” from August 29, 1797. Volyn consisted of 12 uezdy (counties) in the second half of the nineteenth century. From 1832, the province became part of the Southeastern governor-generalship. The province existed until 1921.

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autocracy’s nationalities policy, targeted at the region’s transformation in Russian manner.

At the time of Volyn’s annexation to the Russian Empire, the re-gion’s ethno-religious structure displayed certain specifi cs. The absolute majority of the region’s inhabitants were Orthodox Malorusy (Ukrain-ians), accounting for 1,004,4000 persons or 89.3 percent of the total population of the province.10 This was one of the highest rates among the provinces constituting the Ukrainian lands. As a result of Volyn’s long inclusion in the Polish Kingdom, a Catholic (i.e., Polish) group had formed within the local population11 that accounted for at least 100,000 individuals according to the Church statistics at the end of the eighteenth century.12 Additionally, pro-Polish attitudes were signifi cantly wide-spread among the inhabitants of the region in general and, together with Uniate (Greek-Catholic) populations, can be estimated as being shared by about 40 percent of the population of the newly formed province.13

The region’s Jews lived in compact ethno-religious communities in cities and small towns. In overall size, they were the third largest ethnic group in the region, accounting for more than 54,000 persons or about 4 percent of the total population, according to imperfect data.14

Among the other ethnic groups living with the Ukrainians, the region’s Great Russians deserve special attention as representatives of

10 After the region’s unifi cation with the Russian empire, the autocracy conducted a census (reviziia) in Volyn province to determine the numbers of each estate (soslovie) members. In connection with the need to carry out the head tax, the census paid special attention to the Malorusy (Ukrainians), fi rst being counted in common terms. See: S. I. Bruk, V. M. Kabuzan, “Chislennost’ i rasselenie ukrainskogo etnosa v XVIII—nachale XX vv.,” Sovet-skaia etnografi ia 5 (1981), p. 83; V. Romanov, Ukrains’kyi etnos: na odvichnykh zemliakh ta za ikhnimy mezhamy (XVIII—XX stolittia) (Kiev, 1998, p. 158).11 In this period the local population thought that every Catholic is Polish. The religious belongings played much more important role in determining ethnic self-consciousness than language and the more west (in other words, the closer to the native Polish lands) the territory was located, the stronger the infl uence of religion became (V. I. Naulko, Etnichnyi sklad naselennia Ukrains’koi RSR, Kiev, 1965, p. 73). 12 A. L. Perkovs’kyi, “Etnichna i sotsial’na struktura naselennia Pravoberezhnoi Ukrainy u XVIII st.,” Istorychni dzherela ta ikh vykorystannia 4 (Kiev, 1969), pp. 205-208.13 Sh. Askenazi, Tsarstvo Pol’skoe. 1815-1830 (Moscow, 1915), p. 100. Askenazi was a Polish historian who wrote this book according to the proposal from Oxford University.14 Istoriia evreiskogo naroda (Moscow, 1914), p. 120.

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the titular nation of the state, in which Volyn found itself. Their portion of the population of Right-Bank Ukraine constituted only 0.1 percent of the total population,15 and they probably made up a similar portion of the population in Volyn province. To a large degree, most of the representa-tives of the Great Russian ethnos in the the Southwestern region were Old Believers, originally chased out of the Russian Empire by religious persecution. Given their religious confl ict with the offi cial Orthodox Church, the Old Believers most likely formed a kind of opposition to the Russian administration rather than a base of support.

The annexation of the western territories by the “empire forever and ever,” as the Tsarist decree from June 18, 1795 read, meant that the region’s population had “to take an oath of loyalty to the Tsar and to accept Russian citizenship within one month; those owning property that did not wish to do so should sell their property and leave the state within three months time. At the end of this time, any unsold estates will be seized by the state treasury.”16 First and foremost, the wave of emigration sparked by this decree affected the region’s Polish inhabit-ants, who made up the vast majority of the Volyn’s landowners. Those who did not wish to make the pledge of loyalty left the province for neighboring European states to the west.

The situation changed with Tsar Paul I’s coming to power in 1796. The Tsar freed around 11,000 Polish prisoners previously sentenced for their participation in the uprising led by T. Kosciusko and returned their estates to them. The further spread of Polish culture in the Southwestern region during Alexander I’s reign created especially benefi cial conditions for the Poles to retain their dominant position in all local administrative structures of the Southwestern governor-generalship. In fact, the proc-ess of Polonization continued and in some ways even grew more active in Volyn province even after the region had been incorporated into the Russian state.

The parallel functioning of the two offi cial languages, Polish and Russian; Polish predominance in administrative and judicial institutions; and the equation of the rights of the Polish szlachta and the Russian nobil-

15 A. P. Ponomar’ov, Etnichnist’ ta etnichna istoriia Ukrainy (Kiev, 1996), p. 141.16 V. Perogovskii, Materialy dlia istorii Volyni (Zhitomir, 1879), p. 228.

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ity17 became important factors in strengthening Polish infl uence in the region, despite the fact that the majority of the population was Ukrain-ian. This Polonization was felt most in the education and religious life. New Polish gymnasiums were opened in the province, among which the Kremenets lyceum became the real center of Polish culture. In this lyceum, let alone county (uezd) secondary and parish elementary schools, representatives of the local population were also educated. The number of Catholic churches and chapels18 in Volyn grew and the clergy made the maximum effort to increase the number of people attending their services. The Catholic orders also became more active.

In this manner, the tendency toward interaction between the local Ukrainian and Polish cultures that had formed as a result of the region’s lengthy inclusion in the Rzeczspospolita continued into the fi rst decades of the nineteenth century. Offi cials in the cities and small towns, landowners and szlachta, and even part of the Orthodox clergy in the villages spoke Polish. Urban commoners of Ukrainian origin also identifi ed with Polish culture to a signifi cant extent. Following their commercial interests, a portion of the Orthodox population converted to Catholicism and ben-efi ted from certain privileges in return.

On the other hand, the cohabitation of Ukrainian and Polish eth-nic groups in Volyn, a contact zone bordering purely Polish lands and accompanied by mixed marriages and various interethnic economic and cultural ties, provided a basis for the formation of a special type of poloniia (Polish Diaspora) with its own variation of the Polish language and culture. As P. Chubinskii has noted, “the Poles could not unshak-ably resist various types of infl uences of the living, organic environ-ment in which they found themselves, represented by the nationality and historic traditions of the local population.”19 Poles in Volyn were

17 O. Levitskii, O polozhenii krest’ian Iugo-Zapadnogo kraia vo 2-i chetverti XIX st. (Otdel’nyi ottisk iz zhurnala “Kievskaia starina”) (Kiev, 1906), p. 5.18 At the end of the eighteenth century, around 200 functioning churches existed in Right Bank Ukraine, half of which were located on the territory of Volyn province. In only the fi rst two decades of the nineteenth century, another 10 churches were built in the prov-ince. See: P. N. Batiushkov, Volyn’. Istoricheskie sud’by Iugo-Zapadnogo kraia (St. Petersburg, 1888), pp. 262-263.19 Tsentral’nyi derzhavnyi istorychnyi arkhiv Ukrainy u m. Kyevi (TsDAU), f. 442, op. 53, spr. 353, ark. 46.

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in constant contact with the Ukrainian linguistic elements, while the native population partly used Polish as the language of prestigious culture and latest civilization. A result of these interferences was the formation of a special, southern dialect on the basis of the Polish literary language transformed under the notable infl uence of Ukrainian.20 This dialect became a trait in the fi rst place of the educated szlachta, clergy, and urban commoners (meshchanstvo) and even developed its own lin-guistic style used in the writing of literary works, in correspondence, and in administration.

According to linguistic studies of the area’s dialects, Polish popu-lations in areas of compact settlement retained their linguistic-ethnic characteristics on top of which a Ukrainian element was added. In rural areas of Right Bank Ukraine—and predominantly in Volyn province and Polesye—a Ukrainian adstratum (i.e., the language of the local na-tives) spread over the top of a Polish substratum.21 The culture of the local Polish population absorbed many characteristics from the mate-rial and spiritual life of the Malorusy, as witnessed by the cultural and confessional mixing of the population.22 A mixed type of speech became widespread among the inhabitants living in Polish-Ukrainian border area. These areas represented spheres of contact and mutual infi ltration of the different cultures and languages as well as non-linguistic factors of historic, ethnographic, and economic interaction. The structure of this local speech united characteristics of each of the contributing languages, demonstrating specifi c features resulting from the cohabitation of the two languages over a long period of time.

Under the infl uence of Romanticism, another tendency appeared in the development of cultural and political consciousness of Poles liv-ing in the Ukrainian lands at the beginning of the nineteenth century. A certain “Ukrainofi lia” became popular among the Polish elite who espoused the idea of uniting forces with Ukrainian circles.23 Ukrainian 20 Iu. S. Voitsekhivs’kyi, “Z rodovodu ukrains’koi pol’shchyzny: osoblivosti movy i kul’tury,” Vidrodzhennia 9 (1993), p. 73.21 M. Saevych, “Etnolinhvistychnyi atlas Prybuzhzhia,” Polissia. Etnikos, tradytsii, kul’tura (Luts’k, 1997), p. 65.22 M. Lesiow, Folklor pogranicza polsko-ukrainskiego literature i chlopska (Lublin, 1977); A. Adamowski, Wierzenia i szwyczaje polsko-ruskiego pogranicza (Lublin, 1992).23 M. Popovych, Narys istorii i kul’tury Ukrainy (Kiev, 1998), pp. 332-333.

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songs were sung in aristocratic salons. Polish researchers began to be interested in Ukraine’s past. A “Ukrainian school” began to take shape in Polish historiography, the representatives of which fi rst and foremost focused on Right Bank Ukraine.24 Typical Ukrainian motifs appeared in the Ukrainian language repertoire of Polish theatrical groups that per-formed in the Southwestern region, including the cities of Volyn.25

The uprising of 1830-1831 in Poland, which also affected Right Bank Ukraine, changed Russian autocracy’s attitude toward all things Polish. A number of measures were undertaken to limit Polish infl uence on the economic and social life of the region. In addition to specifi c re-pressive measures taken against the direct participants of the uprising (deportation to Siberia, resettlement to the Kuban or the Urals, confi sca-tion of property), the Russian government also took steps against the szlachta as the most visible and main supporters of Polish patriotism.26 The government increased its involvement in religious issues, closing monasteries, reorganizing Catholic churches into Orthodox churches, issuing government regulations with the request of registering children from mixed marriages as Orthodox, and canceling a number of Catholic holidays.27 Understandably, such measures set off a Polish emigration from the Right Bank Ukraine.

With naming of D. G. Bibikov to the post of governor-general of the Southwestern region in 1837, the offi cial goal of imperial nation-alities policy became “to free the Southwestern provinces from Polish 24 W. Marczyński, Statystyczne, topografi czne i historyczne opisanie gubernii Podolskie, Vol. 1-3 (Wilno, 1820-1823); Drevniaia istoriia Volynskoi gubernii, sochinennaia grafom Ioannom Potot-skim, 2nd ed. (St. Petersburg, 1829); M. Baliński, T. Lipiński, Starożytna Polska pod wzgladem geografi cznym, historycznym i statystycznym (Warsaw, 1844), Vol. 2 and others.25 M. Zahaikevych, R. Pylypchuk, O. Fedorchuk, O. Kashuba, Ukrains’ko-pol’s’ki mystets’ki vzaemyny XIX stolittia (L’viv-Kiev, 1998), p. 26.26 On October 19, 1831, Nicholas I signed the decree “Ob odnodvortsakh i grazhdanakh v zapadnykh guberniiakh” containing the demand that claims to szlachta status be verifi ed. Persons lacking the necessary documentation and statements from the nobility councils were transferred to tax-paying estates, such as odnodvortsy (smallholders) in the villages and grazhdane (citizens) in the cities. About 340,000 landless members of the szhlachta in Right Bank Ukraine lost their noble status as a result of the implementation of the law between 1831 and 1853 by special committees of revision (Derzhavnyi arkhiv Volynskoi oblasti (DAVO), f. 361, op. 1, spr. 127, ark. 149-150).27 O. P. Kryzhanivs’kyi, S. M. Plokhii, Istoriia tserkvy ta relihiinoi dumky v Ukraini. U 3-kh knyhakh. Kn. 3 (Kinets’ XVI—seredyna XIX st.) (Kiev, 1994), pp. 224-225.

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oppression.”28 Important measures taken in this direction included the cancellation of the Lithuanian Statutes as the region’s legal codex, the carrying out of inventory reforms, the regulation of relations between estate owners and peasants, the creation of conditions conducive to the spread of Russian education and culture, the liquidation of the Greek Catholic church, and the strengthening of the position of the Orthodox church.

A large amount of attention was given to linguistic issues. In 1839, the governor-general sent a directive to the head of the province that read, “I am receiving reports through unoffi cial channels that many lo-cal offi cials of the urban and village police and other offi cials of Russian origin speak Polish not only with Poles, but also amongst themselves. I consider this Russian habit of speaking Polish to be incorrect, especially since it demonstrates active Polish infl uence,…I consider it my duty to ask you to try to get them to understand,…that they can only be of useful service here if they express their souls, hearts, tongues, and manner of thinking in pure Russian when carrying out their duties.” 29

A new stage in the Russian government’s anti-Polish policies was introduced in Volyn, as well as throughout the entire governor-gener-alship, in 1863. Following the Polish uprising that coincided with the abolition of serfdom and the destruction of privileged landownership by the noble estates, the Tsarist government developed special legislation directed at, on the one hand, reducing the Polish infl uence and, on the other hand, strengthening the Russian elements in the western provinces. Measures undertaken in this regard affected all vital spheres of Polish activities, including, in the fi rst case, their landownership.

A lead article in the newspaper, Kievlianin, expressed the offi cial organs’ understanding of the situation created in the formulation of these changes. “In the Southwest Region, the estate of landowners or landlords is made up exclusively of Poles, speaks Polish, and follows the Catholic faith, while the peasants are all Russian and Orthodox. All clashes between these estates have two sides—one carries a class element, the other a national element. Disputes between landowners and peasants

28 K. Matsuzato, “Pol’skii factor v Pravoberezhnoi Ukraine s XIX po nachalo XX veka,” Ab Imperio 1 (2000), p. 97.29 TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 789a, spr. 330, ark. 1.

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are simultaneously lawsuits between Russians and Poles; it is impossible to separate these two factors from each other. Therefore, there is a need to establish a Russian landowning class that will be strong enough to counter the Polish landowning class…”30

The government sequestered and confi scated the estates of those who participated in the turmoil in the provinces bordering the Polish Kingdom31 and banned managers of the provincial Revenue Department (kazennaia palata) to rent land to those of Polish origin. Consequently, these lands were granted to “Orthodox clergy, Old Believers, and loyal local peasants.”32 New legislation from March 5 and December 10, 1864, signifi cantly strengthened the privileges grated to persons of Russian origin in obtaining state and private land.33

Polish education completely lost its offi cial status. All newly cre-ated secret Polish educational institutions were subject to liquidation and persons who tried to open such schools were brought before the courts.34 At the same time, efforts were made to limit the infl uence of the Catholic Church. After the Polish uprising, provincial governors in the Southwestern region received secret instructions from the imperial Ministry of Internal Affairs that forbid the use of Polish in state institu-tions.35 Teaching in Polish was banned even in private schools.

30 Kievlianin, 1865, No. 56. 31 According to the offi cial data of the chancellery of the Kiev governor-general, during the decade after the uprising 130,050 desiatinas of estate, peasant, and church land together with pasture, woods, and water reservoirs were confi scated. During that time, 144 estates were confi scated, of which 50 were located in Kiev province, 16 in Podolia province, and 78 in Volyn province. The true number of confi scated properties was probably much larger, as G. I. Marakhov states, “when formatting the accounts, attention was usually paid to the owners name and not to the details of his estates. Some estate owners had a number of estates confi scated.” G. I. Marakhov, Pol’skoe vosstanie 1863 goda na Pravoberezhnoi Ukraine (Kiev, 1967), pp. 239-240; DAVO, f. 361, op. 1, spr. 1871, ark. 17. 32 S. G. Gromachevskii, Ogranichitel’nye zakony po zemlevladeniiu v Zapadnom krae, s istoricheskim obzorom ikh, zakonodatel’nymi motivami i raz”iasneniiami (St. Petersburg, 1904), p. 2. 33 Svod zakonov Rossiiskoi imperii, dopolnennyi po prodolzheniiam 1906, 1908 i 1910 gg. i pozd-neishimi uzakoneniiami 1911 i 1912 godov, kniga 2, tom V-IX (St. Petersburg, 1913), tom IX, p. 780. 34 TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 851, spr. 36, ark. 1-5.35 TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 851, spr. 36, ark. 47.

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At the same time, the government did not hinder Polish peasants from settling in Volyn’s villages. Thus, Russian statistics in the second half of the nineteenth century record the mass resettlement of Catholic peasants from the “Wisła region (Privislinskii krai),” the natives of which accounted for 89,943 persons or 44.7 percent of inhabitants not born in Volyn. The almost equal number of male and female peasant immigrants bears witness to the fact that these immigrants resettled by the family.36 Many of these Polish immigrants were subjects of foreign, neighboring countries, including the Polish Kingdom. Such a wave of migration was caused, fi rst and foremost, by economic factors and continued through the beginning of the twentieth century. For example, Poles were cited as the largest group of the 5,211 foreign national migrants in Lutsk county in 1903. At the time of World War I, 269 Polish families are recorded as living as foreign immigrants in Vladimir-Volyn county. Similar fi gures on the number of such migrants could be sited for almost any county of Volyn province. The majority of them had entered the province relatively recently, a fact refl ected by notes made in government documents: in Kovel’ county “619 are registered as living in communities (gminas) of Wisła region”; “peasants, registered as residents of the Polish Kingdom, do not have passports,” and the like.37

The governor of Volyn explained numerous times in the local press that the ban on Poles obtaining land was limited exclusively to the previous landowning class and did not hold for Catholic peasants.38 In this connection, it is diffi cult not to agree with A. Kappler’s point of view that Russifi cation and Orthodoxy in the region were spread not so much through cultural or religious considerations as through estate hierarchy and considerations of political loyalty.39

Tsarist anti-Polish measures and the simultaneous policy of “strengthening Russian elements in the Southwestern region” did bring certain results in terms of their infl uence on the native popula-36 Pervaia vseobshchaia perepis’ naseleniia Rossiiskoi imperii, 1897 g., VIII (Volynskaia guberniia) (St. Petersburg, 1904), p. XVII.37 Derzhavnyi arkhiv Zhytomyrs’koi oblasti, f. 70, op. 1, spr. 863, ark. 21; spr. 855, ark. 1-8; spr. 861, ark. 12, and others.38 Volyn’, 1900, No. 195.39 A. Kappeler, “Mazepyntsi, malorosy, khokhly: ukraintsi v etnichnii ierarkhii Rosiis’koi imperii,” Kyivs’ka starovyna 5 (2001), p. 13.

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tion. Namely, the political and socio-cultural orientation of the local Ukrainian elite40 and, in part, ordinary Ukrainians changed. One piece of evidence for this change is the fi rst census data collected based on an inhabitant’s mother tongue (1897). In Volyn province, 104,889 persons—equal to 3.5 percent of the region’s total population—listed Russian as their mother tongue.

This more than 30-fold increase in the number of Russian speakers living in the province over the course of 100 years cannot be explained by migration alone. The domestic migration to Volyn from the empire’s Great Russian provinces, such as Kazan, Orlov, Samara, Ufa, and other provinces, did not happen on a signifi cant scale (Russian migrants were largely made up of government offi cials, workers, teachers, and the clergy).41 Given the Polish uprisings, the Russian nobility did not rush to move to such a “restless” region, despite the privileges that the government offered them. Thus, the local, native population made up a signifi cant portion of those answering that Russian was their mother tongue. This consisted mostly of those living in cities and small towns.42 Compared to other ethnic groups, the level of literacy in Volyn was highest among those speaking Russian at 36.89 percent.43

But more than language, a shared Orthodox faith attracted the native inhabitants of Volyn towards Russia, at the same time provid-ing a means for preserving their religious self-identifi cation. Even after the turn of the century, during World War I, Galician Ukrainians who entered Volyn as soldiers of the Austro-Hungarian army confi rmed the lack of a full-fl edged ethnic self-consciousness and accordingly of the consolidation of this consciousness by the use of the endoethnonym “Ukrainian” among the local population of the province. To the question, “Who are you?,” the Austro-Hungarian soldiers got the answers, “We are Christians, Orthodox Christians, people of the Rus’s faith [rus’kaia vera],

40 V. Shandra, Kyivs’ke heneral-hubernatorstvo (1832-1914): Istoriia stvorennia ta diial’nosti, arkhivnyi kompleks i ioho informatyvnyi potentsial (Kiev, 1999), p. 125.41 Pervaia vseobshchaia perepis’, pp. XVII, 40-43.42 A. Kappler described the identifi cation of a portion of those Malorusy, who partially Rus-sifi ed and were able to climb the social ladder as situational, in as much as these changes were caused by the general situation in the empire. The Malorusy were recognized as belonging to the ethnic Russian elite, which strengthened the attraction of assimilation.43 Pervaia vseobshchaia perepis’, p. XIV.

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muzhiks, khlopy [Polish for ‘muzhiks’ in Russian], or simple people” (the order of listing refl ects the relative frequency of each response).44

At the same time, anti-Polish measures activated and politicized the self-identifi cation of the Poles in the empire’s Western provinces. In this regard, the Kiev, Podolia, and Volyn governor-general’s report to Nicholas II made in 1901 read, “Currently, all administrative positions are occupied exclusively by people of Russian heritage…They [Polish nobles] jealously stick to their Polish customs and language in their home and business life, stubbornly support them in social life wherever possible, and, with meticulous care, try to remind others of their Polish nationality even in trifl ing details. This is especially true on a few large estates and at Polish sugar factories, where pany [gentlemen] surrounded by crowds of the szlachta and minor landowners…create little corners of Poland.”45

Although such “corners” of Polish life remained in the region, the Poles had, in fact, lost their infl uence over the local population once and for all. Russifi cation which, above all, should be understood as de-Polonization, replaced the Polonization that had continued throughout the fi rst half of the nineteenth century both in everyday as well as gov-ernmental spheres of life.

CZECK AND FOREIGN COLONIZATION:POLITICAL AND ETHNIC ASPECTS

The period of Volyn’s inclusion in the Russian Empire corre-sponded with a period of intensive foreign colonization. Government support for the processes of immigration was signifi cantly facilitated by the government’s anti-Polish policies as immigration was seen as a key factor in the weakening of the position of the Polish szlachta.

This wave of immigration was set off by the economic transforma-tions of the second half of the nineteenth century. The majority of big

44 O. M. Kalishchuk, “Riven’ natsional’noi svidomosti na Volyni ta Halychyni na pochatku XX st.,” Naukovyi visnyk VDU. Istorychni nauky 10 (2001), p. 18.45 Vsepoddanneishii otchet Kievskogo, Podol’skogo i Volynskogo general-gubernatora (Kiev, 1901), pp. 2-3.

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estate owners and other landowners faced acute economic crisis follow-ing the agrarian reforms of 1861. In conditions of an intense increase in the need for labor, many were interested in selling their land or renting out portions of their property. Lands confi scated from participants in the Polish uprisings were also subject to sale. Government limits on who could obtain land in the Southwestern region and the local peasant popu-lation’s lack of means to purchase property led to low land prices.46

Originally begun as a private initiative, colonization very quickly gained the support of the Russian government, embodied in a number of privileges provided to the migrants.47 The Tsarist government placed special hope in the ability of Czech colonists to weaken the position of Poles and the Catholic Church.

Volyn’s proximity to Austria-Hungary, its position on Russia’s border, and its favorable natural and climatic conditions—practically the same as in Germany, Poland, or Bohemia—are additional factors that contributed to the intensity of foreign migration to the region. The region’s geographic location was an important argument for immigrants to choose Volyn province.

The number of foreign immigrants grew each year. Offi cial analysis of the settlement of foreign colonists in Russia’s western borderlands, in Kiev, Podolia, and Volyn provinces, showed that they already amounted to 93,108 persons by 1882. As owners and renters of farm land, they

46 In Volyn, one desiatina of the best land close to a city or sugar factory, without any need to give initial manure, was valued at 80 rubles, which was 10 times cheaper than in Austro-Hungary. On average, the price of a desiatina of land in Volyn province fl uctuated between 11 and 16 rubles in the 1870s. Food, clothing, and other consumer products were also signifi cantly less expensive. 47 “Pravila dlia naima zemlevladel’tsam inostrannykh rabochikh i vodvoreniia sikh inostrantsev v Rossii,” from December 18, 1861, freed immigrants and their sons who immigrated to the empire with their parents from military service (Svod zakonov Rossiiskoi imperii, dopolnennyi po prodolzheniiam 1906, 1908, 1909 i 1910 gg. i pozdneishimi uzakoneni-iami 1911 i 1912 gg., kniga 3, tom X-XIII (St. Petersburg, 1913), tom XI, pp. 1541-1544; tom XII, pp. 504-509.) Colonists arriving between 1862 and 1865 were freed from paying state taxes and monetary duties, as well as labor levies for a period of ten years. Colonists who arrived later were freed from such obligations for fi ve years from the time of the record-ing of their chosen status and from taxes at the time of their purchase of property in the Western provinces. According to the order of the Committee of Ministers “O vodvorenii chekhov na Volyni,” approved by Tsar Alexander II in June 1870, these regulations also applied to Volyn’s Czechs after they accepted the Russian citizenship.

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controlled 552,707 desiatinas of land. Of this amount, 399,953 desiatinas or 72.4 percent of the land under the control of foreign colonists was located in Volyn province. More than 87,731 colonists or 94.2 percent of all of the foreign colonists settled in the jurisdiction of the Southwestern governor-generalship lived in the Volyn province. The number of foreign settlers in Volyn grew by approximately 128 percent between 1882 and 1890, consisting of 200,924 persons.48

As a result of immigration, large communities of German and Czech colonists formed in Volyn. If 0.3 percent of the province’s inhabit-ants listed their mother tongue as German in 1859, then this fi gure had grown to 4.3 percent by 1889 and to 5.73 percent by 1897, constituting 171,331 persons. The fi rst all-Russia census (1897) also recorded 27,706 whose mother tongue was Czech.49 According to offi cial statistics based on linguistic criteria, 195,197 Germans and 27,301 Czechs lived in the province at the beginning of the twentieth century.50 Kiev and Podolia provinces had signifi cantly fewer foreign colonists than did Volyn.

The peasants and craftsmen who emigrated from Austria, the Wisła region, and eastern Prussia primarily settled in separate German and Czech colonies. A portion of the colonists also settled among the local population, where they lived in separate parts of the village or on separate streets.

Settling in territories long since occupied by a local, Ukrainian population, the colonists necessarily established a variety of contacts with the local population even when living in separate colonies. Arrival in a new and different interethnic environment affected the activities and behaviors of the immigrants in certain ways, while foreign colonization also introduced new characteristics to the culture of the local inhabitants. Enjoying a more effective culture of agricultural labor, employing better agronomic techniques, and taking advantage of newer technological advancements, the Czech and German peasants provided a positive example for the rationalization of private farming and served as the local population’s ideal for related activities.

48 TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 618, spr. 261, ark. 112.49 Pervaia vseobshchaia perepis’, p. IX.50 Pamiatnaia knizhka Volynskoi gubernii na 1914 god (Zhitomir, 1913), p. 71.

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The colonists contributed to the spread of intertillage crops (potato, beet, etc.), the use of modern implements, and natural fertilizers among the local peasantry. The Czechs became pioneers in Volyn in the large-scale cultivation of hops. They brought with them seedlings of the best sorts of hops, which is fi t for industrial production, and painstakingly acclimated their strands to Volyn’s natural and climatic conditions. The growing of hops spread very quickly to every county in the region, being grown by Germans and Poles as well as the local peasants.51 At the end of the nineteenth century and the fi rst decade of the twentieth century, Volyn became the main hops-producing region of Russia, with the amount of hops produced there increasing by three times in 20-25 years. Total production in the province eventually reached 200,000 poods of hops per year, making up the lion’s share of the empire’s total of 265,000 poods.52

The large-scale cultivation of fruit-bearing trees, mostly apple, pear, and cherry trees, also began to spread throughout Volyn.53 Thanks to the efforts of Czech colonists, special tree nurseries were established for the growing of seedlings that also found a strong demand among local peasantry.

Over decades of living in the province, the colonists, especially the Czechs, also gained experience with the religious life of the native population. Czech settlers took an interest in getting acquainted with local traditions, evidently due in large part to their shared Slavic roots. The Czechs respected the culture and traditions of their new neighbors and often visited local Orthodox churches. Reporting to the governor-general in this regard, A. Voronin, a government offi cial with special responsibilities, noted that almost all Czechs “enjoy friendly relations with the local peasants, marry into their families, start joint schools, and some have even already converted to Orthodoxy.” 54

51 A. I. Yaroshevich, Ocherki ekonomicheskoi zhizni Yugo-Zapadnogo kraia (Kiev, 1908), p. 129.52 Obzor Volynskoi gubernii za 1913 god (Zhitomir, 1914), p. 25. 53 As some Germans from the colony “Annet” in Zhitomir county remembered, Count Biberdorf brought graft trees to their colony underwater from Germany already in 1835, from which they spread in time throughout all of Volyn. 54 TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 535, spr. 322, ark. 3.

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The most notable consequence of the adaptation of Czech set-tlers to conditions in the region was the mass conversion of colonists to Orthodoxy and bilingualism. Limits on the economic activities of non-Orthodox foreigners—a policy in keeping with the empire’s na-tionalities policies—was one factor infl uencing Czech settlers’ behavior. Most Czechs converted to Orthodoxy during the 1880s and 1890s. By the time of the fi rst general census in 1897, 66.22 percent of all Czechs in Volyn province, primarily previously Catholics, declared themselves to be Orthodox.55

Maintaining their mother tongue and national traditions, especially in farming, organization of everyday life, and dealings with their fellow countrymen, many Czechs also sought to learn the offi cial language of the empire. Given the predominance of the Russian system of educa-tion and the relative signifi cance that most Czechs placed on education (59.03 percent of them were literate), most of the Czechs living in Volyn completed courses of Russian. Among literate Czech colonists, 35.41 percent wrote and read Russian, and 23.62 percent were also literate in another language.56 Going to schools, visiting renditions of plays by Ukrainian and Russian authors, and reading Russian newspaper (such as Vesti) helped Czechs to learn Russian.57 At the beginning of the twentieth century, the older generation of Czechs were already publicly worrying that the “new generation, having studied at Russian schools, does not even now how to sign their names in Czech.”58 In everyday life, Czech settlers spoke Ukrainian as well as Czech. Cases of mutual assistance, joint celebration of Orthodox holidays, mixed marriages, and the invi-tation of Czech musicians to Ukrainian weddings and holidays were common in villages where Czechs and Ukrainians lived together.

In turn, the musical culture of the Czech colonists spread through-out the region thanks to the activities of numerous Czech amateur or-chestras and choirs. Traveling musicians became a norm in the region, most of them originating in the northern districts. Only fi ve or six men remained in Polesye during the winter. The rest, after the season’s work

55 Pervaia vseobshchaia perepis’, p. XI. 56 Pervaia vseobshchaia perepis’, p. XV.57 TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 697, spr. 265, ark. 3.58 Rusky Cech, 15 May 1907.

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in the fi elds was completed, traveled to the nearest cities or large villages to make money as musicians.59

Cooperation in economic activities as well as in cultural and everyday life resulted from living in Volyn’s interethnic environment and created a fertile ground for the development of Volyn’s Czech population as a special ethno-religious group. As the well-known Czech ethnographer, E. Rychlik, noted, “Tempered by diffi cult condi-tions in their homeland, the Czechs were not passive in their feelings towards their new homeland. They brought a number of changes and new characteristics to their new environment and became one of the constituent elements in the life of Ukrainians that could not be over-looked. Despite the peculiarity of their national culture, the Czechs in Ukraine were infl uenced by their new surroundings. Comparing a Czech from Bohemia with a Ukrainian Czech, we see in the latter a completely different, new person, a completely different ethnographic type. The mutual infl uence that Czechs and Ukrainians had on each other expressed itself fi rst and foremost in agricultural practices and economic relations. Additionally, the careful observer also easily no-tices that this infl uence reaches much further, that it also extends to entire areas of cultural life, all aspects of material and spiritual lifestyle, and that it, fi nally, led to certain changes in peculiarities of a national character.”60

Unlike the Czechs, Volyn’s German settlers had a much more strongly developed national identity. They always presented their own as being more developed than the other’s. Being exclusive and aloof, they always tried to protect and support their fellow countrymen re-gardless of circumstances. The superintendent of the Kiev educational district characterized them in the following manner: “The Germans of Volyn represent a body of the population isolated from the surround-ing Malorus population, huddling together in colonies and constitut-ing a inseparable whole in terms of faith, language, social structures, traditions, sympathies and antipathies. All together this undoubtedly

59 J. Vaculik, Dejiny volynskych Cechu 1 (1868—1914) (Prague, 1997), pp. 59, 177.60 E. A. Rykhlik, “Doslidy nad ches’kymy koloniiamy v Ukraini,” Zapysky etnohrafi chnoho tovarystva 1 (Kiev, 1925), p. 34.

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separates these newcomers into a special nationality with a strong spirit and powerful character.” 61

The lifestyle and economic activities had an obvious defensive char-acter, shielding it from local national, religious, and cultural infl uences. Although the Ukrainian population did not try to assimilate Germans, the government actively sought to realize measures to “Russianize” the colo-nists. The Germans did everything possible to oppose these attempts.62

In a report dating from 1887, the governor of Volyn noted that Ger-man colonists maintained contacts mostly with Jews and had almost no relations with the local peasantry, whom they treated with disdain. He could not site a single example in which a German colonist married a local peasant woman or a German woman married a peasant man.63

Despite the lack of close contacts between the Germans and the local population, it would be wrong to deny the existence of a certain mutual infl uence. Over the course of a few generations, the colonists’ vocabulary came to include a signifi cant number of words borrowed from Ukrainian, Russian, or Polish. The German researchers A. Müller and A. Jahns noted the domination of Polish and Ukrainian words among the loan words in Volynian German as well as German use of words from Russian and Yid-dish that were widely used by Ukrainians.64 These loan words stem from economic life, the natural environment, and everyday life, while religious

61 TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 614, spr. 238, ark. 11.62 Disturbed by the strengthening of the German colonization of the southwestern prov-inces, the Tsarist government adopted policies in the 1880s to actively limit new settlement. One measure was to subordinate all foreign schools on the territory of Kiev, Podolia, and Volyn provinces to the Ministry of Education, which came to directly inspect all national educational institutions. The educational programs at all national schools were reformed to fi t Russian models and the mandatory study of Russian language was introduced in German schools. However, the system of education at Germans schools that was typical for a traditional confessional school in Germany could only be changed very slowly. The number of parents willing to send their children to Russian language schools decreased signifi cantly and the number of teachers who spoke Russian was insuffi cient (TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 693, spr. 292, ark. 7). The Germans often simply did not obey instructions to implement the new system of education (TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 690, spr. 252, ark. 1—9). 63 TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 617, spr. 114, ark. 1. 64 A. Jahns, “Aus dem Wortschatz der Wolhyniendeutschen,” Wolhynische Hefte, 3. Folge, Historiscer Verein Wolhynien (Schwabach/Wisentheid, 1984), p. 156; A. Mueller, “Mut-terlaut…oder der Gebrauch frenider Woerter in Wolhynien,” Wolhynische Hefte, 10. Folge (Schwabach/Wisentheid, 1996), p. 32.

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VALENTYNA NADOLSKA

loan words did not exist at all. Church and school supported the mainte-nance of German traditions, faith, and culture in the region.

A portion of the German population attended Russian schools where they had the opportunity to learn Russian. On average, though, the Germans’ knowledge of Russian remained low. Only 11.17 percent of all German colonists in Volyn province described themselves as literate in Russian in 1897. This fi gure was higher in cities, reaching 62 percent. The Germans had more extensive and active contact with the surround-ing population in urban areas, which created an objective need to know Russian for everyday use. In villages, where this was not as necessary, the fi gure was only 10.9 percent.65

The appearance of a free labor market led to the extended use of local labor in German colonies, which created more fertile ground for the spread of different Christian beliefs, many of which have remained to the present day. There were already 5,981 Baptists in the province by the end of the nineteenth century.66 Stundism also appeared as German settlement spread over the large territory of Volyn province. The government persecuted Stundism’s followers and its attempts to limit the spread of the sect among the local population had negative consequences on German colonization.67

The anti-German direction of Russian government policies at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries led Ger-man colonists to emigrate in search of better economic conditions in Siberia and the Baltics, especially in Courland, as well as in America, Brazil, and Argentina.

JEWS IN VOLYN’S SMALL TOWNS:CULTURAL DETACHMENT OR INTERACTION?

Cultural interaction also left its mark on Volyn’s cities and towns (mestechka). The government decree recognizing the region’s inclusion

65 Pervaia vseobshchaia perepis’, pp. 115, 119.66 Pamiatnaia knizhka Volynskoi gubernii na 1895 god (Zhitomir, 1895), p. 13.67 TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 618, spr. 58, ark. 5-6.

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in the Pale of Settlement68 only served to strengthen the existing situa-tion, in which a signifi cant portion of the population consisted of Jews. In statistical terms, already in the mid-nineteenth century Volyn, along with Vilna and Kaunus/Kovno provinces, superseded other territories in the Pale of Settlement in terms of the number of Jews living on its territory.69 The second largest ethno-religious group after Malorusy, Jews constituted 13.21 percent of the province’s total population, amounting to 548,176 persons by 1913.70 The more than ten-fold increase in the province’s Jewish population was due primarily to natural growth71 and only to a limited degree to internal migration resulting from legislative regulation that limited resettlement of Jews within the Pale of Settlement while maintaining the ban on their settlement outside of the Pale. This led to the artifi cial concentration of the Jewish population in the cities and towns of the empire’s western provinces, particularly in Volyn. Jews accounted for more than half of the province’s urban population (50.77 percent), while their share of the population in towns was even higher, reaching 80-90 percent.72

In towns that played a role as centers of religious, cultural, and national isolation, a traditional lifestyle formed that provided its own peculiar structure to the region’s Jewish communities. This determined the layout and architecture of these settlements. Both on market squares in towns as well as in villages, Jewish involvement in trade, crafts, the renting of estate properties, and cottage industries established active contacts between the Jewish and local population. This socio-economic interaction led to the introduction of a number of Yiddish loan words into spoken Ukrainian, while Yiddish, in turn, borrowed a number of words from Polish and Ukrainian due to the partial bilingualism the area’s Jews. The deliberate actions of the Russian government to spread the use of Russian among the Jews through the establishment of state 68 Svod zakonov Rossiiskoi imperii v piati knigakh, ed. I. D. Mordukhai-Boltovskogo (St. Pe-tersburg, 1914), Kniga 5, tom XIV, p. 38.69 Volynskie gubernskie vedomosti, 1866, No. 48.70 Obzor Volynskoi gubernii za 1913 god (1914), p. 25.71 V. M. Kabuzan, V. I. Naulko, “Evrei na Ukraini, v SRSR i sviti: chisel’nist’ i rozmishchen-nia,” Ukrains’kyi istorychnyi zhurnal 6 (1991), p. 57.72 Evreiskaia entsiklopediia. Svod znanii o evreistve i ego kul’ture v proshlom i nastoiashchem 5 (St. Petersburg, 1912), p. 737.

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VALENTYNA NADOLSKA

schools did not have the desired results. With an overall literacy rate of 32.36 percent, only a little more than half of the literate Jews demon-strated any knowledge of Russian (17.36 percent), while 15.27 percent knew other languages.73

The spheres of Jewish economic activity, which mostly determined the nature of their interaction with the local population and the develop-ment of anti-Semitism that became part of offi cial policy in the Russian Empire, led to the development of negative Jewish stereotypes among many of the inhabitants of Volyn. Legislation that limited their freedom and pogroms set off a wave of emigration among the Jews in the begin-ning of the twentieth century.

CONCLUSION

Summing up, it can be concluded that Volyn continued to be a contact zone among different nations during its development within the Russian Empire. This left its own peculiar mark on the region. The region’s complex, multi-layered ethno-cultural development to a signifi cant degree grew out of migration movements tied to the prov-ince’s frontier location. If in the fi rst half of the nineteenth century such movements were caused primarily by political events, then the further economic transformation of the empire only strengthened immigration, which infl uenced the ethnic structure of the province’s population.

A specifi c social, ethnic, and confessional structure, along with peculiar linguistic differentiations, formed in the province as a result of migration as well as political, administrative, cultural, and religious factors. On the eve of World War I, the population of Volyn, according to mother tongue, was composed of 69.7 percent Malorusy, 14.2 percent Jews, 6.2 percent Poles, 5.1 percent Germans, 3.6 percent Great Russians, and 0.7 percent Czechs. The province’s urban population represented the greatest amount of diversity, with 50.8 percent of the urban popula-tion being Jewish, 19.7 percent Great Russian and another 19.7 percent Malorus, 7.6 percent Polish, and 0.9 percent German.74

73 Pervaia vseobshchaia perepis’, p. XIV.74 Statisticheskii ezhegodnik Rossii 1915 g. (St. Petersburg, 1916), pp. 68-69.

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Throughout the entire period of its rule, the Tsarist government sought in the fi rst place to minimize the Polish infl uence in the region stemming from Volyn’s past as a part of the Rzeczpospolita. The realiza-tion of these policies set off Polish uprisings and the promotion of Polish nationalism that viewed Volyn as integral Polish territory. The govern-ment’s efforts focused mostly on limiting the economic infl uence of Polish landowners who had previously dominated the province, banning the Greek Catholic church as an institution facilitating the spread of pro-Polish attitudes among the local population, supporting the colonization of foreign peasants in the region, and Russifying (i.e., de-Polonizing) the population, above all, in the sphere of education. Undoubtedly, the more than 100 years of Russian rule of Volyn was more than enough time to achieve the goals that the Russian government had set for itself. If it was only possible to partially change the relationship between Polish and Russian landowners,75 then the Russian government achieved signifi -cant results in spreading and strengthening the state’s ideology among the masses of Ukrainians with the help of the Orthodox Church, which remained as a pivot of the population’s spiritual life. At the same time, the native population did not remain the passive object of assimilation into Polish or Russian culture; the living local environment had no less infl uence on the dominant ethnic groups.

The complex interaction between nationalities living together in the contact zone of Volyn had a large infl uence on the main determinants of ethnicity—self-identifi cation, language, and traditions of everyday life. In the period under consideration in this chapter, the absolute ma-jority of Ukrainian and Polish peasants still considered religion as the main element of their identity. The local population—with its close ties to their villages, neighbors, native types of speech, folklore, and local traditions—recognized fi rst and foremost its ties to the Orthodox or Catholic Church that allowed them to a certain degree to be united into confessional groups. Additionally, lengthy exposure to the specifi cities of the contact zone infl uenced the formation of local peculiarities of speech that included non-native elements: ethnic self-identifi cation and 75 Despite the more than four-fold growth in the number of Russian landowners (1,479 persons) by the end of the nineteenth century, they controlled 663,369 desiatinas of land in Volyn while 5,727 landowners of Polish heritage still controlled 1,889,883 desiatinas of land (TsDIAU, f. 442, op. 53, spr. 353, ark. 82).

110

mother tongue were not always or everywhere the same. Many Poles spoke Ukrainian76 and, under the infl uence of the empire’s nationalities policy and school education, a portion of the Malorus population became Russian speakers.

At the beginning of the twentieth century, the region’s multi-ethnic nature created a broad basis for “us” and “them” type confl icts. In the insightful comment of S. V. Sokolovskii, “the spider web of homogene-ity and identities is made from the thread of diversity.”77 This served as an important factor accompanying the formation of a national self-consciousness among the Malorusy that had been characterized by the domination of religious self-identifi cation.

It is also necessary to underline the importance of migration for the development of cultural ties and traditions of interethnic interaction in Volyn that left their marks on the everyday life of all national groups living in the region. Volyn’s example allows different types of intereth-nic ties between the native population and different ethnic groups to be observed, such as cultural contacts fostered by commerce and trade, and economic activities (with Germans and Jews), as well as deeper mutually integrating ties (with Poles and Czechs). Finally, it is also of vital importance to understand that the infl uence between the region’s different ethnic groups was mutual and not one-sided.

76 V. I. Naulko, Etnichnyi sklad naselennia Ukrains’koi RSR (statystyko-kartohrafi chne doslidzhen-nia) (Kiev, 1965), p. 73. 77 S. V. Sokolovskii, Obrazy Drugikh v rossiiskoi nauke, politike, prave (Moscow, 2001), p. 5.

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6FROM œKAZAN’S NEWLY CONVERTEDB

TO œORTHODOX INORODTSYB:THE HISTORICAL STAGES OF THE

AFFIRMATION OF CHRISTIANITY

IN THE MIDDLE VOLGA REGION

LEONID A. TAIMASOV

INTRODUCTION

Due to its long lasting signifi cance for the understanding of many historic, ethno-political, and ethno-cultural issues, the spread of Chris-tianity in multiethnic regions occupies a special place in historic and ethnographic studies. From the establishment of Moscow’s control over the multinational middle Volga region and the subsequent establishment of the Eparchy of Kazan in 1555, the conversion of inovertsy (adherents of a different faith) to Orthodoxy became not only a task for the church missionary, but also an important element of Russia’s ambitious policies on the empire’s eastern borders. Kazan became not only a “Window on the East,” as Robert Geraci has written,1 but also a gate, the opening of which led tsarism into the broad expanses of Asia and started it down the historical path toward the building of a multinational Eurasian em-pire. The peoples of the middle Volga region became the fi rst national minorities of Russia.2

The entire multi-century history of non-Russian nations living within tsarist Russia was accompanied by some attempts at unifying the multi-confessional population on the basis of Christian (i.e., Russian Orthodox) values. The church’s approach to Christianizing the middle

1 Robert P. Geraci, Window on the East: National and Imperial Identities in Late Tsarist Russia (Ithaca, London, 2001).2 Andreas Kappeler, Russlands erste Nationalitäten. Des Zarenreich und die Volker der Mittleren Wolga vom 16 bis 19 Jahrhundert (Koln, Wien, 1982).

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Volga was conducted on an experimental basis in which it could try out different methods of conducting missionary work that were later applied far and wide in spreading Orthodoxy and Russian culture to the country’s eastern border regions and beyond. The need to evaluate the historical experience of the establishment of Orthodoxy in the middle Volga has grown with the 450th anniversary of the Eparchy of Kazan. Study of the complex ethno-religious processes that took place under the infl uence of Christianity are of current interest given the contemporary religious renaissance and the continued coexistence and interaction of Orthodoxy, Islam, and paganism in the middle Volga region.

Researchers have always been interested in the topic of the spread of Christianity in the middle Volga. There are three main periods in the development of Russian historiography on the subject: the pre-revolu-tionary period (up until 1917), in which missionary, church-state, church-historic, and historic-ethnographic studies dominated; the Soviet period (1917 through 1991) that had a clearly dominant atheistic literature that covered historical-ethnographical, socio-philosophical, and ethno-reli-gious works; and contemporary studies (from 1991 to the present) that are characterized by a departure from the atheistic ideology of Soviet times and by a broad spectrum of new theoretical and methodological approaches. One of my previous works provided a thorough analysis of the existing literature on the subject,3 which, therefore, will not be repeated here. The region’s ethno-religious and ethno-political proc-esses have also received signifi cant attention in historiographic works by foreign researchers.4 Based on the analysis of existing literature as 3 L. A. Taimasov, Pravoslavnaia tserkov’ i khristianskoe prosveshchenie narodov Srednego Povolzh’ia vo vtoroi polovine XIX—nachale XX veka (Cheboksary, 2004), pp. 9-30.4 Andreas Kappeler, Russlands erste Nationalitaten; idem, Russland als Vielvoelkerreich. Entstehung—Geschichte—Zerfall (Munchen, 1993; in Russian translation: Rossiia kak mnogonatsional’naia imperiia. Vozniknovenie, istoriia, raspad. Moscow, 1997); Paul W. Werth, At the Margins of Orthodoxy: Mission, Governance, and Confessional Politics in Russia’s Volga-Kama Region, 1827-1905 (Ithaca, 2002); Alexandre Bennigsen, “The Muslims of European Russia and the Caucasus,” Russia and Asia. Essays on the Infl uence of Russia on the Asian Peoples, ed. Wayne S. Vucinich (Stanford, 1972); F. Brain-Bennigsen, “Missionerskie organizatsii v Povolzh’e,” Islamo-khristianskoe pogranich’e: itogi i perspektivy izucheniia (Kazan, 1994), pp. 116-123; S. Lullukka, Vostochno-fi nskie narody Rossii. Analiz etnodemografi cheskikh protsessov (St. Petersburg, 1997); J. Clazik, Die Islammission der Russisch—ortodoxen Kirche (Munchen, 1959); Christian Noack, Musulmanischer Nationalismus im Russischen Reich. Nationsbildung und Nationbewegung bei Tataren und Baschkiren, 1861-1917 (Stuttgart, 2000); Of Region and

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FROM THE œNEWLY CONVERTEDB TO œORTHODOX INORODTSYB

well as the results of archival research, the current article provides theo-retical generalizations about the historic periodization of the spread of Orthodoxy and Russian citizenship.

ON THE UNDERSTANDING OF CHRISTIANIZATION

AND PERIODIZATION OF THE ESTABLISHMENT

OF ORTHODOXY IN THE MIDDLE VOLGA

A number of possible variants exist for the periodization of the Christianization of the region’s various nationalities. In pre-revolution-ary historiography, the accent was placed on missionary work, dividing history into periods based on the activity of signifi cant bishops or the reigns of certain Russian monarchs.5 Soviet historiography approached the study of religious questions from the position of Marxist-Leninist methodology and utilized a formational approach.6 A purely chrono-logical approach also existed during both pre-revolutionary and Soviet historiography. Despite insignifi cant differences in the works of indi-vidual authors, the Christianization of the peoples of the middle Volga is usually divided in current Russian historiography into the following four stages: 1) the second half of the sixteenth century to the beginning of the eighteenth century, 2) the beginning of the eighteenth century to the end of the eighteenth century, 3) the end of the eighteenth century

Empire. Missions,Conversion, and Tolerance in Tsarist Russia, ed. Robert P. Geraci and Michael Khodarkovsky (Ithaca, 2001); Vesna narodov: etnicheskaia istoriia Volgo-Ural’skogo regiona (Sapporo, 2002); Novaia volna v izuchenii etnopoliticheskoi istorii Volgo-Ural’skogo regiona (Sapporo, 2003).5 A. Mozharovskii, Izlozhenie khoda missionerskogo dela po prosveshcheniiu kazanskikh ino-rodtsev s 1551 po 1867 gg. (Moscow, 1880); A. G. Khrustalev, “Ocherk rasprostraneniia khristianstva mezhdu inorodtsami Kazanskogo kraia,” Missionerskii protivomusul’manskii sbornik 5 (Kazan, 1874).6 A. N. Grigor’ev, “Khristianizatsiia nerusskikh narodnostei kak odin iz metodov natsional’no-kolonial’noi politiki tsarizma v Tatarii (s poloviny XVI v. po fevral’ 1917 g.), ” Materialy po istorii Tatarii 1 (Kazan, 1948); V. D. Dimitriev, “Rasprostranenie khristianstva i chuvashskie narodnye massy v period feodalizma (seredina XVI v.—1861),” Trudy Chu-vashskogo nauchno-issuledovatel’skogo instituta 86 (Cheboksary, 1978), pp. 81-119.

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to the middle of the nineteenth century, and 4) the second half of the nineteenth century to the beginning of the twentieth century.

Although the term “Christianization” is widely used in historic and ethnographic literature, it is in need of clarifi cation. The term came into academic use during Soviet times, apparently as part of a fashion for such neologisms as “collectivization” and “industrialization.” Many authors use the term to refer to all stages of the spread and confi rmation of Orthodoxy in non-Russian regions, often using the phrase “policy of Christianization.” When speaking of various government and church measures taken to fi rmly establish Orthodoxy between the middle of the sixteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, it is impossible to fi nd a holistic, dominant system that could be called a single “policy.” For example, there was no government agency dedi-cated to the affairs of the newly converted people. These people were handled by educational and administrative institutions in the capital and the affected localities. More often than not, the legal and admin-istrative documentation dealing with religious questions was no more than government reactions to concrete events. Such documents usually refl ect different measures taken to suppress anti-church and anti-clerical attitudes and actions.

The church was primarily responsible for converting and estab-lishing the Russian Orthodox way of life among inovertsy. State institu-tions were interested in guaranteeing the civic loyalty of inovertsy and were therefore interested in the ethno-confessional unifi cation of the empire’s subjects. They, therefore, provided all types of support to the church and created a legal basis for missionary work. The government’s periodic cooperation with the church has created an image of a holistic church-state policy, which, at least until the offi cial confi rmation of the missionary style educational system of N. I. Il’minskii in 1870, would be hard to identify as such. Furthermore, the term “Christianization” can hardly be used in the broadest sense to describe events between the second half of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, because signifi cant groups among the converted nationalities already considered themselves to be fully Orthodox. If the “policy of Christianization” is taken to refer only to government activities, then the introduction of elements of Christianity through other channels—such as through the cultural interaction of non-Russian people with Orthodox

115


Russians or other Christians—is completely neglected. In this regard, one must ask oneself what can be considered as constituting Christianiza-tion. Is it church and government actions to convert inovertsy and legal support for confessional transformation? Or is Christianization a com-plex process leading to the gradual conversion of the region’s various nationalities over many centuries?

Converted Tatars, Chuvash, Mari, Mordvins, and Udmurts had dif-ferent relations with Orthodoxy during different historical periods and their confessional orientation was not always determined by the same historical factors. For example, while a signifi cant portion of Mordvins were already oriented toward Orthodoxy in the eighteenth or fi rst half of the nineteenth centuries, the Chuvash, Udmurts, and plains Mari remained faithful to their pagan gods for a long time. Meanwhile, many baptized Tatars attempted to return to Islam. This begs the following question: how correct is the use of the term “Christianization” for all of the above-listed nationalities at different points in their historical development? How can one “Christianize” a people that already con-siders themselves Orthodox? If one understands “Christianization” as elimination of pagan remnants, then one can also write about the “Christianization” of the Russians.

There is still another question that needs to be addressed. Do we speak of Christianizing whom or Christianizing what? Specialist litera-ture often speaks of the Christianization of peoples of Russia. In this connection, the use of the term “ethnic Christianization” seems justifi ed. However, right up until the 1730s, conversions of non-Orthodox subjects of the Russian crown were individual affairs and the Kazan region’s “new converts” accounted for only a small portion of the non-Russian population. At the same time, the church and the tsarist government actively pushed for the establishment of Orthodoxy in the Kazan region through the colonization of Russian Orthodox settlers. The vast majority of churches and monasteries during this time were built in the cities and other locations with compact Russian populations. It is therefore very problematic to speak of any “ethnic Christianization” before the beginning of the eighteenth century. I introduced the term “territorial Christianization”7 in a previous work, an idea that caused a series of

7 L. A. Taimasov, “Mezhkonfessional’nye otnosheniia na nachal’nom etape khristianizatsii

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critical responses from specialists who thought that the term Christiani-zation could not be given territorial connotations. The idea, however, is not originally mine, though original formulations had a somewhat different focus. For example, compare “territorial Christianization” with the “baptizing of Rus’,” the “Christianizing of Rus’,” or other, similar formulations. Such terms refer precisely to the territory of Rus’. It is exactly on the territory of the middle Volga region, where paganism and Islam had previously held sway, that the dominance of Orthodoxy was established. For this reason, in regard to the sixteenth and seven-teenth centuries, it is more plausible to speak of the Christianization of the Kazan region and not of its non-Russian ethnic groups. From the second half of the nineteenth century, the term “Christianization” can only be used conditionally in as much as the majority of the converted nationalities, with the exception of newly christened Tatars, already considered themselves Christians. Because the term “Christianization” has become so fi rmly established in historic and ethnographic literature, there is no need to completely reject it, but rather its different meanings at different historical periods should be remembered for the term to be used correctly.

Taking into account the multitude of factors affecting the region’s ethno-religious development, this chapter will argue in favor of the following periodization: (1) the establishment of Orthodoxy through the Russian Orthodox colonization of the Kazan region (1552 to 1731); (2) forced conversion of the middle Volga’s various national groups (1731–1775); (3) the adoption of a Orthodox way of life among the newly Christianized nations (1775–1870); and (4) the Christian enlightenment and confessional choosing of Orthodoxy by the majority of inovertsy (1870–1917). This periodization does not include earlier penetration of Christianity among the region’s national groups as well as events that took place during Soviet and post-Soviet times, which are beyond the scope of this chapter, the rest of which will explain the characteristics of each of the above mentioned stages in greater detail.

narodov Kazanskogo kraia (vtoraia polovina XVI-XVII vv.),” Die Geschichte Russlands in 16. und 17. Jahrhundert aus der Perspektive seiner Regionen. Hg. Von Andreas Kappeler (Berlin, 2004; Forschungen zur osteuropischen Geschichte. Bd. 63), pp. 322-341.

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ESTABLISHMENT OF ORTHODOXY

VIA RUSSIAN ORTHODOX COLONIZATION

OF THE KAZAN REGION (1552 TO 1731)

Many researchers consider the founding of the Kazan Eparchy as the beginning of the church and governmental efforts to Christianize the peoples of the middle Volga. This is completely understandable and seems a natural starting point. However, the ethno-confessional situation in the region began to change right after the Russian capture of Kazan (1552), when Ivan IV, with his own hands, raised a cross on the battlefi eld that was soaked with Russian and Tatar blood. Moscow’s military victory was understood as a Christian victory over Islam and paganism. The suc-cessful conclusion of the campaign against Kazan strengthened the Tsar’s resolve to unify the multi-confessional inhabitants of the conquered territory under the banner of Orthodoxy. Addressing senior clergy in Moscow after returning from the successful campaign, Ivan IV’s speech notably called for the church and state to share the task of Christianiz-ing “Kazan’s inovertsy.”8 The church hierarchy declared their complete solidarity with the Tsar, expressed in Metropolitan Makarii’s response to the Tsar’s speech.9 The spread of Orthodoxy to the middle Volga was viewed as one of the most important aims of offi cial policy, necessary for cementing Moscow’s complete control over the region.10 However, the realization of these intentions during this period met with a number of serious military, political, economic, national, and geographic problems. Anti-Moscow uprisings among the empire’s new subjects during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries forced the government to fi nd a way to ensure a confessional victory over the inovertsy. Ivan IV’s mandate to the fi rst Archbishop of Kazan, Gurii (Rogatin), already spoke about the need to realize missionary activities.11

The ethnic Christianization of the Kazan region is well covered in the historiographic literature while almost nothing is said about its

8 Polnoe sobranie russkikh letopisei, tom 13 (St. Peterburg, 1841), pp. 223-224. 9 Ibid., p. 226.10 A.F. Mozharovskii, Izlozhenie khoda missionerskogo dela po prosveshcheniiu kazanskikh ino-rodtsev s 1552 po 1867 god (Moscow, 1880), pp. 6-9.11 Akty arkheologicheskoi ekspeditsii 1 (St. Petersburg, 1836), p. 259.

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“territorial Christianization.” For this reason, an incorrect opinion has formed that Church policies in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were not effective. In my opinion, the church did not at that point make serious attempts at baptizing non-Russians, because they lacked the material, economic, social, and human resources to carry out large-scale Christianization of all inovertsy, who, for their part, were actively resisting church and state efforts at assimilation. The government paid the greatest attention to liquidating the military-feudal social classes among the na-tive peoples by adopting harsh economic and religious coercions. Many of the local elites converted to Orthodoxy and were incorporated into the Russian nobility, as a result of which the majority became Russianized. The result of such government actions was the social homogenization of non-Russian subjects, who became iasak-payers and, from the time of Peter the Great, became state peasants. Among them representatives of one or another former social group were few and insignifi cant. The church actively helped the state in this process and in this way also suc-cessfully fulfi lled its main task—the creation of a strong church structure. The Eparchy of Kazan became one of the empire’s leading episcopates by the eighteenth century.

Analysis of historical sources and literature provides justifi cation for the suggestion that the government and the church jointly agreed on actions to be taken in furthering colonization. The cities that had already formed on the territory of Kazan region by the middle of the sixteenth century (Cheboksary, Alatyr’, Tetiushi, Tsivil’sk, Kokshaisk, Tsarevokokshaisk, Urzhum, Sanchursk, and others) became not only military, political, and administrative centers, but also outposts for Orthodoxy. Under the protection of army garrisons, churches and monasteries were rapidly built in and around city-fortresses that were, in the fi rst place, built for Russian Orthodox populations. Coloniza-tion by way of the founding of monasteries grew during this time. The government provided assistance in all areas for the strengthening of church-monastery ownership. By analyzing the pistsovie books, basi-cally census and harvest registers, and dozornie books, post-emergency reports, historians have been able to study the growth in monaster-ies’ landownership in the Kazan region. This growth came at a time when the growth in monastery holdings had already begun to slow

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in traditionally Russian lands.12 Alongside church and monastery-led colonization, the amount of land controlled by the nobility and court grew. All forms of agrarian colonization, on the one hand, promoted the strengthening of Russian feudal landownership and, on the other hand, sped the settlement of Russians in the territory of the former Khanate of Kazan. The growth of the Russian ethnic element did not take place simultaneously everywhere in the Kazan region. If the intensive set-tlement of Russians around Sviazhsk and Kazan began already in the second half of the sixteenth century, then their settlement of lands of the Mari and the Chuvash belongs primarily to the seventeenth century, when the construction of new fortresses and defense lines made the Russian population’s settlement relatively safe.13 This in turn led to an increase in the tempo of the spread and establishment of Orthodoxy in the different parts of the region. The Russian population of the Ka-zan region continued to grow at a quick pace in the second half of the seventeenth century. Referring to data generated by the 1678 census, V. M. Kabuzan suggested that “the natives constituted about 50% and Russians another 50% of the population in the 27 uezdy that formerly belonged to the Kazan khanate.”14

The results of Russian colonization had very direct consequences for the new ethno-confessional map of the region. Orthodoxy was terri-torially strengthened through its fi rm establishment in places of compact Russian settlement. The “Russian faith” became a neighbor of Islam and paganism. Contact zones were born where Russians lived together with other national groups or were at least close neighbors. Followers of different confessions began to interact with each other on economic and cultural matters. After the appearance of large groups of Russian 12 G. Peretiatkovich, Povolzh’e v XV-XVI vv. (Moscow, 1877), pp. 248-250; S.N. Kashtanov, Khronologicheskii perechen’ immunitetnykh gramot XVI v. Chast’ vtoraia,” Arhe-ografi cheskii eghegodnik sa 1960 god (Moscow, 1962), p. 167; idem, “Zemel’no-immunitetnaia politika russkogo pravitel’stva v Kazanskom krae v 50-kh godakh XVI v. (Po aktovomu materialu),” Iz istorii Tatarii (Kazan, 1970), Ser. 4, p. 165. 13 Many researchers noted the relatively late settlement of Russians on the territory of the current Republics of Chuvashiia and Marii El: S. Kh. Alishev, op. cit., p. 93; M. N. Tikhomi-rov, Rossiia v XVI stoletii (Moscow, 1962), pp. 491-503; V. D. Dimitriev, Istoriia Chuvashii v XVIII v. (Cheboksary, 1959), p. 34. 14 V. M. Kabuzan, Naselenie Privolzhskogo federal’nogo okruga Rossiiskoi Federatsii v XVI-XX vv. v ego sovremennykh granitsakh (Moscow, 2002), p. 7.

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settlers in the region, a lingering animosity initially remained between them and the Tatars, Chuvash, and other national groups. Eventually, however, Russian and non-Russian peasants were drawn together by a similar world view, common economic interests, and their repressed social status. Their religious affi liations became of secondary importance. The historical sources of the time witness that peasants stood together in opposition to the government regardless of their national or confessional identity in the social movements of the seventeenth century.15 The Chris-tianization of the local population was not very effective in the second half of the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries due to the unstable political situation and a rather weak missionary organization.

The social and ethnic meaning of the term “newly converted” has a direct impact on the explanation of the problems covered in this section. This term fi rst began to appear as early as the 1650s. There is usually not much controversy around the term’s etymology—it was used to identify non-Russian peoples who were baptized. It is a bit more diffi cult to deter-mine the social and ethnic nature of these “newly converted.” Historical sources from the second half of the sixteenth century and seventeenth century use the term to denote a specifi c social group, sometimes sub-stituting it with “service newly converted,” which may bear witness to a certain proximity between the “newly converted” and the “service classes” (nobilities), though the term “newly converted” was used for farmers as well. Analysis of the sources demonstrates that in the second half of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries the term “newly converted” was more often used to refer to social catego-ries than to confessional categories. Many were, possibly, christened as a means to raise their social status and to gain some kind of privileges. This term steadily changed its meaning. The newly converted, accepting Orthodoxy, offi cially lost their ethnic identity; therefore, it is extremely diffi cult to determine what ethnic affi liations might be hidden behind the term, even though the converted themselves often continued to identify themselves with their previous ethnic group, be they originally Tatar, Chuvash, Mari, or other. Many researchers tend to believe that Tatars made up the majority of the sixteenth century’s “newly converted.” In

15 Akty istoricheskie 2 (St. Petersburg, 1841-42), pp. 168-170, 325-327; Akty arkheografi cheskoi ekspeditsii 2 (St. Petersburg, 1836), pp. 204-205.

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actual fact, a signifi cant portion of christened Tatars eventually became known as a separate ethno-confessional group, the “kriashen” (simply the christened) or the “old converted Tatars” as they were later called in order to not be confused with the “newly converted” of the eighteenth century. In the minds of sixteenth-century government and church of-fi cials, the term “newly converted” was a temporary classifi cation, a marker on the road to the full Russifi cation of Christianized non-Rus-sians. In the understanding of that age, confessional affi liation was the main component of ethnic identity. The Russians had the “Russian faith,” the Tatars had the “Tartar” faith, the Chuvash had the “Chuvash” faith. Evidently, state and church offi cials therefore supposed that the baptiz-ing of representatives of non-Russian groups would eventually lead to their Russifi cation.16

The terminology of the “newly converted” underwent signifi cant changes during the reforms of Peter the Great, when the category of the service class was abolished and, later, with the reclassifi cation of iasak-paying peasants into the ranks of the state peasantry. In the years of mass Christianization of non-Russian peoples, the term “newly converted” was usually given a clarifying ethnic determinant—“newly converted” Tatars, “newly converted” Cheremis, for example—which can be explained by the change in status of the “newly converted” and the essential and large differences between individuals of differ-ent ethnicities who had been recently Christianized. Occasionally the term “newly converted pagan” appears in offi cial documents, which in all likelihood more fully expressed the religious condition of non-Russian congregations, not only in their form, but also in their internal content.17 Apparently, the lack of a clearly defi ned ethnic classifi cation for the “newly converted” created various diffi culties for government and church offi cials. More will be said about the “newly converted” nationalities later in the article.

In this manner, Kazan region was territorially, rather than ethnically, Christianized in the second half of the sixteenth and seventeenth cen-turies. The Orthodox Church’s presence in the region was transformed,

16 Taimasov, “Mezhkonfessional’nye otnosheniia…,” pp. 322-341.17 P. N. Luppov, Materialy dlia istorii khristianstva u votiakov v pervoi polovine XIX veka (Viatka, 1911), p. 42.

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with the assistance from the state, into the region’s dominant religious structure with signifi cant economic potential and a rich base of human resources that it could draw upon. The episcopate of Kazan became one of the largest in the Russian Orthodox Church and its eparchy was able to infl uence Russian politics at the national level. Kazan gave birth to a religious relic that gained all-Russian signifi cance, the miracle work-ing icon of the Mother of God of Kazan. The icon became one of the symbols of the future Eurasian ethno-confessional community. At this time, Kazan’s “newly converted” was more a social group, part of the service class, than a confessional group. The “newly converted,” having accepted Orthodoxy and altered their traditional lifestyles, apparently, supplemented various Russian estate groups, while those that continued to live as inovertsy remained faithful to the religions of their forefathers. During this stage, the incorporation of elements of Christianity by the nationalities of the middle Volga was mostly due to ethno-cultural con-tact with the Russian Orthodox population; that is, as a result of “popular (everyday) missionary activities.” Similar examples were evident among certain sections of the Mordvin and northern Udmurt populations. An insignifi cant number of the Mari and Chuvash were Christianized during this period. Special attention was given to the Tatar military and feudal elites and the service class of the region’s other national groups.

THE MASS CONVERSION OF THE PEOPLES

OF THE MIDDLE VOLGA REGION (1731—1775):ETHNIC CHRISTIANIZATION

Peter the Great undertook an attempt to renew missionary activi-ties at the beginning of the eighteenth century, but measures taken to Christianize the Mari (the Cheremis) were local in character and had little effect. Given this, dating a new stage of Christianization from the beginning of the century, as some researchers do, can hardly be justi-fi ed. This chapter will argue that the establishment of special agencies dedicated to the mass Christianization of inovertsy signifi cantly changed the ethno-confessional situation in the region.

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The vast majority of the non-Russian population was Christianized during the period when the Commission and Offi ce for the Affairs of New Converts was active (1731-1764). Already in 1742, the head of the Conversion Offi ce, D. Sechenov, reported to the Synod that “different nations of inovertsy…were enlightened by holy baptism by the village and district, and by the hundreds down to the individual” in 1741.18 The mass baptizing of the non-Russian population of the middle Volga region took place in the 1750s and 1760s. Documents from a second inspection allows the composition of the non-Russian population to be reconstructed, which, according to instructions from 1746, was divided into the following groups: (1) newly converted or christened “non-be-lievers;” (2) non-Christianized “non-believers;” (3) iasak-payers; and (4) those Tatars, Chuvash, and Cheremish levied for shipbuilding.19 In 1847, the existence of 33,482 male individuals and 297,869 “non-believ-ers” (including 112,031 Tatars) were documented in Kazan guberniia.20 The more detailed data of the second inspection counted 228,699 Chris-tened non-believer males, 164,092 non-Christianized (including 69,411 individuals registered to the Admiralty and 180,787 iasak-payers).21 The percent of Christened did not noticeably change after the closing of the Offi ce for the Affairs of New Converts in 1764.

The mass Christianization of inovertsy led to an even greater amount of heterogeneity in what was already a multi-ethnic society. The actions of the missionaries disrupted the traditional lifestyle of the non-Russian nationalities, bringing a certain discomfort to their spiritual and religious cultures. Christianization de facto divided single ethnic groups into sepa-rate confessional groups. Although the majority of the newly christened remained the same pagans or Muslims as they had always been, they became legally Orthodox with all of the consequences involved. Many were christened under pressure from church and state structures, not fully realizing the consequences involved. At the same time, the privi-

18 Mozharovskii, op. cit., p. 67.19 Polnoe sobranie zakonov Rossiiskoi imperii (PSZ), tom 12 (St. Petersburg, 1830), No. 9273.20 V. M. Kabuzan, Narody Rossii v XVIII veke. Chislennost’ i etnicheskii sostav (Moscow, 1990), p. 26. This chapter translates modern guberniia into province, but leaves pre-modern, large guberniia as it is. 21 Ibid., p. 27.

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leges and gifts awarded to new converts, without a doubt, stimulated peasants to seek at least nominal conversion.22

Baptism led to intra- and inter-ethnic confl ict. To a large degree, Christianization targeted pagans. The non-Christianized treated their Christianized compatriots as traitors to their ethnic identity and the faith of their shared forefathers. Defi cits resulting from privileges granted to the newly converted, such as the freeing of new converts from the pole tax for three years, from recruitment into the army, and other duties and taxes, were made up by demanding more from non-converts.23 The more individuals who Christianized, the more diffi cult became the burden placed on the remaining pagans and Muslims. This sometimes led to con-fl ict between confessional groups.24 Relations between the Christianized and the non-Christianized became more peaceful after the cancellation of special privileges and the equalizing of their legal conditions. However, animosity between pagans and the “newly converted” remained all the way up to the beginning of the twentieth century. They steadily began to segregate and sought to settle away from each other, either forming separate villages or settling different ends of shared villages. The non-converted considered the converts to have been spoiled by a “foreign” faith. Every nationality in the region has its own terminology denoting their faithfulness to their group’s ethno-cultural values: for example, “chi mari” (“real Mari”), “chan Chavash” (“real Chuvash”).

The Muslims turned out to be better able to resist Christianizing policies due to their stronger religious convictions, historical memories of past greatness, greater solidarity and organization.25 Only a small portion of the Tatar Muslim population was baptized and converted. Missionary pressures exerted by the government on the non-Russian population led to a destabilization in the ethno-confessional situation and a growth in anti-church protests. The revolt of the Tatars and Bashkirs under the leadership of Batyrsh in 1755 was a vivid example of the staying power of their faiths and the self-suffi ciency of their na-tional cultures. This forced the church and state to soften the methods

22 PSZ, tom 11 (St. Petersburg, 1830), No. 8236.23 N.V. Nikol’skii, Khristianstvo sredi chuvash Srednego Povolzh’ia (Kazan, 1912), p. 105.24 Mozharovskii, op. cit., p. 85.25 F.G. Islaev, Pravoslavnye missionery v Povolzh’e (Kazan, 1999), p. 78.

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of their missionary work not only among Muslims, but also among pagan groups.26

The stubborn resistance of non-Russians to policies of forced Christianization and the growth of social tension led the government to seek new ways to stabilize society. The need to change religious policies became obvious. After reviewing an address of the newly converted of Kazan guberniia to the Senate, the Empress abolished the Offi ce for the Affairs of New Converts in 1746. The baptizing of inovertsy and the confi rmation of the newly converted in Christian beliefs was to be left to the local clergy in the future. Missionaries were sent to provide as-sistance to these converts.27 This decree factually made the rights of the newly converted peasants equal to those of other state peasants of all religions in terms of the collection of taxes and duties. The hope that ethno-religious problems would be solved through the commissions designed to re-categorize society on the basis of the collective legal codex of 1649 was not realized.28

Catherine the Great ended the policy of forcing the confessional unifi cation of multi-ethnic, multi-confessional Russian society. The Em-press understood that further missionary pressure could cause a power-ful social explosion and that changes in faith required time and patience. However, the government’s hopes to stabilize the religious situation by declaring religious tolerance in 1773 proved illusionary—as later events were to demonstrate. The converted, suffering under the weight of church taxes and duties, became increasingly active participants in anti-church and anti-feudal movements. The crude actions of Orthodox missionaries in the second half of the eighteenth century led the region’s non-Russian nationalities to actively protest forced Christianization, which took on its most radical form in the years of Pugachev’s rebel-lion (1773—1775). The legal formulation of confessional affi liation did not change the religious world view of the region’s nationalities. The government relegated the affi rmation of Orthodoxy among the newly Christianized nations to the local clergy. The ill-considered actions of missionaries led to the strengthening of anti-church and anti-govern-

26 Ibid., p. 68-75.27 Ibid., pp. 98-99. 28 PSZ, tom 18 (St. Petersburg, 1830), No. 12949.

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ment attitudes rather than to the affi rmation of Orthodoxy and Russian citizenship.

THE SPREADING OF AN ORTHODOX LIFESTYLE

AMONG THE NEWLY CONVERTED NATIONS

(1775—1870)

A relaxing of missionary pressure from the Orthodox Church and the government at the end of the eighteenth century led to a situation where newly Christianized individuals began to return to Islam and pa-ganism. Because Russian law forbid christened Orthodox from changing faiths, the government was sooner or later bound to take harsh actions against this return movement. The impossibility of changing their be-liefs legally led many newly Christianized subjects to secretly return to their traditional faiths. Christianized Tartars formed an especially well developed movement to return to the faith of their forefathers, and they took the most decisive action in reaching their goals. A mass appeal by Christianized Tatars in Nizhegorod guberniia to the tsar in 1802 request-ing permission to return to the practice of Islam forced the government to make a serious study of the ethno-confessional situation in the Volga re-gion and to step up its missionary efforts. The investigation documented the “apostasy” of Christianized Tatars and showed that the reason for their retreat from Orthodoxy was not only due to the weakening of the Church’s missionary efforts, but also had to do with the ethno-cultural and confessional environment in which these converts lived. When ac-cepting Christian names, they had not received any instruction about their new faith and continued to live as before. Muslim Tatars, with whom they lived as neighbors and with whom they were often related, were constantly trying to return their Christianized fellow Tatars to their original faiths. The number of clergy supporting an expanded network of Christian educational establishments grew,29 but such educational measures were undertaken without any coordinated system, were epi-

29 N. I. Il’minskii, Opyty perelozheniia khristianskikh verouchitel’nykh knig na tatarskii i drugie inorodcheskie iazyki v nachale tekushchego stoletiia (Kazan, 1883), pp. 23-24.

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sodic, and did not bring any noticeable results. This left it to the state to rely on coercive measures using state laws and institution.

Clergy active in areas with new converts were given responsibility for strengthening the hold of Orthodoxy among their congregations, but were not prepared for such active missionary work. The priests often knew neither the language or culture of their parishioners and a signifi cant portion of them at the beginning of the nineteenth century were either illiterate or close to it.30 At the same time, the construction of churches, payments for the conducting of religious rites, and fees to pay for the maintenance of the clergy amounted to signifi cant expenses for the typical peasant’s budget, leading to highly troubled relations between the Christianized peoples and the clergy. Priests were viewed more as government offi cials than as religious leaders.

The Christianized nationalities felt a spiritual discomfort that forced them to constantly reconsider their faith and analyze their confes-sional situation. The newly converted, with little or no understanding of Orthodox services and the tenets of Orthodoxy, found the faith of their forefathers more attractive because traditional ways of living more completely satisfi ed the needs of their religious and everyday lives. They compared “their” faith with the “Russian” faith mostly on a ritual level. Complex Orthodox rituals conducted during services held in Old Church Slavonic or Russian remained incomprehensible to new converts. Non-Russian Orthodox parishes were as a rule more geographically dispersed than Russian parishes and typically consisted of a number of villages that could be located dozens of kilometers from the church supposedly serving them. Given wide-spread illiteracy and the lack of positive motivation, Russian Orthodoxy was considered “foreign” by most of the non-Russian population and was seen as a threat to their ethno-cultural unity. The desire to retain national traditions and iden-tity caused people to defend the faith of their forefathers from external religious expansionism.

Broad-based “apostasy” renegade movements among the newly Christianized peoples of the middle Volga region reached a climax in 1827 when a few thousand supposedly converted Tatars appealed to the

30 L. A. Taimasov, Khristianizatsiia chuvashchkogo naroda v pervoi polovine XIX veka (Chebok-sary, 1992), pp. 35-36.

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emperor to let them return to the “faith of their fathers.”31 The appel-lants stressed the fact that they felt they were being left outside of any organized religion. The Church and the government were not ready for such activism from newly converted parishioners.32 The Synod suggested sending the “apostates” copies of the New Testament translated into Tatar and to send reliable priests capable of conducting missionary work to newly Christianized parishes.33 The Synod’s decree turned out to be impossible to implement: there was no demand for their translation of the New Testament because of problems with the translation and low levels of literacy among the new converts.

Movements away from Christianity were also widespread among the former paganists. The sources contain many examples of the religious life of christened Chuvash, Mari, Mordvins, and Udmurts. Baptism did not cause the majority of Christianized pagans to waver in their funda-mental beliefs. The most vivid examples of traditional pagan opposition to the Orthodox Church are events that took place in 1827 and are known in specialist literature as the “Praying of All the Mari,” which called forth the greatest resonance in Church and government circles.34 One of the investigators of this affair, Archpriest A. Albinskii, who had long served a parish in Mari and spoke the local language, noted in a report to the Kazan Consistory dated March 2, 1828 that pagan zhretsy (priests) had a “strong, secret opposition” to Christian missionaries and clergy.35 Here it should be noted that some of the organizers of the praying were from the baptized Mari. A. Albinskii’s comments that Orthodox priests had no sway over their parishioners, because of the distance of the churches from the villages and because they did not speak the language of their parishioners, were justifi ed.

In the government’s opinion, the christened should be isolated from contact with those that remained pagans or Muslims. For this reason, the newly converted were often resettled in Russian areas. This did not,

31 Mozharovskii, op. cit., pp. 117-118.32 Ibid.33 Ibid., p. 120.34 A. G. Ivanov, “Vsemariiskoe iazycheskoe molenie 1827 goda i deistviia vlastei,” Mariiskii arkheografi cheskii vestnik 8 (1998), p. 50.35 Ibid.

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however, have a positive effect. Large-scale public praying movements were also recorded in those years among other nations: the Chuvash, the Mordvins, and the Udmurts. At this point in history, the tenets of Christianity remained largely incomprehensible to the nominally newly converted population. The main function of any religion is, fi rst and foremost, its psychological effect on a person, who should develop a belief in its supernatural, miraculous possibilities. Baptized non-Russian perceptions of Orthodox dogmatisms could be formed either through close, everyday contact with followers of this faith (popular or everyday missionary work) or through Christian education (offi cial missionary work). History offers examples of when Orthodoxy infi ltrated mass consciousness through everyday communication, steadily taking on the characteristics of the traditional national religion.36 “Popular missionary work” functioned differently in multi-ethnic contact zones. Only after lengthy contact did the neighboring nations begin to have notions of “the other’s” belief. This can be easily noticed in the establishment of Ortho-doxy among certain portions of the Mordvins, the northern Udmurts, and the mountain Mari.37 However, the true conversion of the main masses of the newly baptized—that is, their confessional re-orientation away from traditional faiths toward Orthodoxy—could only be realized through offi cial missionary activities.

All baptized individuals are referred to as Orthodox in offi cial documents. However, the level of acceptance of the Christian faith dif-fered signifi cantly among every concrete ethnos and even each separate ethnic sub-group. Of all of the baptized nationalities from the middle Volga, only a portion of the Mordvins could be truthfully referred to as belonging to Orthodoxy by the middle of the nineteenth century.38 V. M. Kabuzan used statistics to track the assimilation of the Mordvin 36 As is well known, the Russian peasants themselves became acquainted with Christian teachings not through books or schools, but as a result of continuous contact with Orthodox fellow countrymen, which lowered the ethno-cultural barriers between Christianized and non-Christianized proto-Russians and created fertile conditions for religious “syncretism” with the dominance of Orthodoxy.37 See: P. N. Lupov, Khristianstvo u votiakov so vremeni pervykh istoricheskikh izvestii o nikh do XIX veka (Izhevsk, 1899); N. F. Mokshin, Religioznye verovaniia mordovy (Saransk, 1969); N. S. Popov, Pravoslavie v Mariiskom krae (Ioshkar-Ola, 1987). 38 V. A. Iurchenkov, “Mordovskii etnos v imperskom sotsume,” Novaia volna v izuchenii etnopoliticheskoi istorii Volgo-Ural’skogo regiona (Sapporo, 2003), p. 194.

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population in a number of districts in Nizhegorod, Saratov, and Tambov provinces.39 However, one must take into consideration the fact that the territory populated by Mordvins had long since belonged to the political and economic sphere of infl uence of the Riazan and Nizhegorod prince-doms—and later that of Moscovy’s rulers—between the thirteenth and fi fteenth counties. This led to earlier and closer ethno-cultural relations between Mordvins and Russians.40 Thanks to these factors, the Mordvins moved more quickly toward cultural integration and were incorporated into the sphere of Russian social consciousness earlier than the region’s other nationalities.41 Unlike the Mordvins, the majority of the Chuvash, Mari, and Urdmurts lived in compact settlements far removed from Russian settlement and had few direct contacts with Orthodoxy.

On the other hand, territorial and cultural closeness alone could not be determinant factors in their Christianization. Their acceptance and internalization of the main tenets of Christianity were fostered through the Orthodox Church’s missionary and educational work. The fruits of these efforts—still far from ripe—begin to appear in the middle of the nineteenth century in the example of an Orthodox religious move-ment among the mountain Mari.42 Detailing reasons for the increased Orthodox inclinations of the mountain Mari, Paul Werth paid special attention to the geographic conditions of their settlement.43 Without de-nying the importance of geographic factors, I contend that the infl uence of missionaries on the mountain Mari cannot be denied.44 By the middle

39 Kabuzan, Narody Rossii…, pp. 173-175.40 Povolzhskie fi nny. Kratkii ocherk istorii i razvitiia mordovskogo naroda (Moscow, 1991), pp. 20-39.41 Iurchenkov, op. cit., pp. 156-175.42 L.A. Taimasov, “Nerusskie monastyri Kazanskogo kraia: orientiry konfessional’nogo obnovleniia,” Acta Slavica Iaponica 21 (2004), pp. 88-115. 43 Werth, At the Margins of Orthodoxy, pp. 200-223. Like the Mordvins, the mountain Mari were brought into the Russian zone of infl uence earlier than their co-nationals from the plains. From the beginning of Russian colonization, Orthodox populations began to settle in areas neighboring the settlements of the mountain Mari.44 See: I. A. Iznoskov, Materialy dlia istorii khristianskogo prosveshcheniia inorodstev Kazan-skogo kraia 1 (Moscow, 1893), pp. 1-5; P. V. Znamenskii, “Religioznoe sostoianie cheremis Koz’modem’ianskogo uezda,” Pravoslavnoe obozrenie 21 (Kazan, 1866), pp. 61-79; P. Ru-fi mskii, Cheremisskii Mikhailo-Arkhangel’skii muzhskoi obshchezhitel’nyi monastyr’ Kazanskoi gubernii, Kozmodem’ianskogo uezda (istoricheskoe ego opisanie i sovremennoe sostoianie) (Kazan,

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of the nineteenth century, the religious situation among the mountain and plains Mari was completely different. Orthodoxy established itself more dynamically among the fi rst group, while the second group did not experience intense Orthodox missionary efforts and retained the pagan basis of their beliefs.

Thus, the government could not attain great success in the es-tablishment of Orthodoxy among baptized “non-Russians” until the incorporation of N. I. Il’minskii’s educational system into missionary practice. A. Fuks, an ethnographer, provides a fairly accurate descrip-tion of the situation among the Chuvash and Mari in the middle of the nineteenth century: “Of them it can be said that they had tired of their own religion, but were not yet attracted to our religion.” 45 The sources from and literature on this period contain a number of indications of a certain duplicity in the religious conceptions of the newly Christianized that brought together a number of pagan and Christian elements. Some researchers refer to this duplicity in their religious views as a “dual reli-gion.” However, I believe that this term can only be used conditionally, because an individual can only have one true belief. If believers revered both Christian and Muslim holy images, then they associated these reli-gious images with their own ideas of religious and spiritual belief. The fusion of religious rituals from different faiths bears witness not to the newly baptized having two or more religions, but to the deformation of their world view and the formation of a synthetic religiosity, which still retained the traditional basis of their previous beliefs.

The Chuvash, living in areas that neighbored Muslim Tatar areas, caused a special unease among the government authorities. Many mis-sionaries considered the closeness of the Chuvash to the Tatars in lan-guage and culture to be the main reason for the conversion of a number of Chuvash to Islam. Without a doubt, similarities in the fate of the Turkic nations infl uenced the formation of their religious values. However, the majority of the Chuvash population remained strangers to Islam. Only those living in contact zones with Muslims experienced Islamic infl uence. Conversion to Islam ultimately led to Tatarization, because conversion to Islam under the conditions of Russian dominance could hardly take on a

1897), pp. 4-9; Werth, At the Margins of Orthodoxy, pp. 200-223. 45 A. Fuks, Zapiski o chuvashakh i cheremisakh Kazanskoi gubernii (Kazan, 1840), p. 49.

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mass character. Meanwhile, Christianity eventually became internalized among the Chuvash primarily through education.

Church agencies were not at this time ready to undertake large-scale missionary and educational work. The multiethnic congregations, which can be divided into four basic confessional groups based upon their de facto religious orientations, were similarly not ready to fully ac-cept Christian teachings. Russians belonged to the fi rst group, for the majority of whom Orthodoxy was one of the main elements of their na-tional identifi cation. A signifi cant portion of the Mordvins and mountain Mari can be relegated to the second group, those that accepted the basic teachings of Christianity, but still had not made a fi nal break with their traditional beliefs. The third group consisted of the majority of newly Christianized Chuvash, Mari, and Udmurts as well as the previously baptized Tatars who accepted only certain symbolic, ritual aspects of the Orthodox cult, but did not have even an initial understanding of basic Christian dogmatism. And, fi nally, newly christened Tatars made up the fourth group, which in fact remained Muslim and, to a much lesser degree, pagan. A growth in the abandonment of Orthodoxy for certain sects caused great alarm among the representatives of civil and religious power. Orthodox ideologists were forced to take the region’s ethno-cultural patterns into account.46

CHRISTIAN EDUCATION

AND CONFESSIONAL CHOICE OF ORTHODOXY

AMONG THE NEWLY CONVERTED NATIONS

(1870—1917)

Bourgeois modernization and the adoption of N. I. Il’minskii’s missionary educational system as the offi cial program for spreading Orthodoxy among non-Russian nationalities led, on the one hand, to the signifi cant deformation of national cultures and, on the other hand, to an awakening of the national self-consciousness. Together with efforts

46 L. A. Taimasov, “Etnokonfessional’naia situatsiia v Kazanskoi eparkhii nakanune burzhuaznykh reform,” Novaia volna v izuchenii etnopoliticheskoi istorii..., pp. 106-136.

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to retain traditional national traits, the Christianized nationalities also experienced signifi cant changes in their cultures. Orthodox missionar-ies concentrated their main efforts at this stage on Christian education, guessing that the amount of religious feeling among the population de-pended in part on the intellectual level of the Christianized population.47 The large-scale re-education of the non-Russian nationalities resulted in the birth of national movements, as parishioners redefi ned their identities with greater knowledge of the wider world around them. N. I. Il’minskii wrote in an article in Pravoslavnoe obozrenie [Orthodox Review] in 1864 that a thirst for education had awoken among christened Tatars and needed to be utilized to “direct [the Tatar] to our side, demonstrating via experience the superiority of our education and our religiosity.” 48 This required new missionary schools prepared to provide a religious and educational infl uence on christened populations.

N. I. Il’minskii’s pro-educational ideas found fertile ground in the intellects of the Christianized peoples’ best representatives. The fi rst wave of national intelligentsia formed under their infl uence. As the famous Chuvash educator, I. Ia. Iakovlev, later admitted, his missionary and educational activities began after an encounter with N. I. Il’minskii. “I took from him the view that the missionary’s only true and expedient path ran through the national school, the program of which should be permeated with the spirit of the Christian [Orthodox] religion,” Iako-vlev wrote.49 N. I. Il’minskii laconically explained the main feature of his system in a widely known tirade contained in a letter he wrote to K. P. Pobedonostsev. “My ammunition is non-Russian books, church services held in non-Russian languages, and non-Russian clergy lead by a priest.”50

A change in the local population’s confessional orientation away from paganism toward Orthodoxy resulted from missionary measures that combined education in the local language at church, at school, and 47 [N. V. Nikol’skii], Naibolee vazhnye statisticheskie svedeniia ob inorodtsakh Vostochnoi Rossii i Zapadnoi Sibiri, podverzhennykh vliianiiu islama (Kazan, 1913), pp. LIV-LVII.48 “Eshche o shkole dlia pervonachal’nogo obucheniia detei kreshchenykh tatar,” Pravo-slavnoe obozrenie 16 (Kazan, 1865), p. 89. 49 I. Ia. Iakovlev, Moia zhizn’: vospominaniia (Moscow, 1997), pp. 183-185.50 N. I. Il’minskii, Pis’ma k Ober-Prokuroru Sv. Sinoda K. P. Pobedonostsevu (Kazan, 1895), p. 178.

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in the publishing of books with the winning over of most progressive leaders from among the local Christianized populations to the missionary cause. Christianized individuals began to visit the church more often; they celebrated church holidays, and carried out church rituals. Religious movements in support of the founding of monasteries refl ect a confes-sional renewal that originally included the mountain Mari, but later also included the Chuvash. By the beginning of the twentieth century, as many as seven Orthodox monasteries with non-Russian inhabitants existed in Kazan province alone, though the authorities rejected other petitions to open new monastery communities. Pilgrimages to holy sights was another new phenomenon among the recently Christianized non-Russian nations. Many Chuvash believers traveled to distant monasteries to pray. They could be met in Sarov, Kiev, and even in Jerusalem and Mount Aphon in Greece.51 They understood that one did not necessar-ily have to become Russian in order be Orthodox. Many of the national awakeners, raised on the ideas of N. I. Il’minskii, saw possibilities for national development through Christian education. However, education could not be kept within the framework of the Holy Word. Once liter-ate, the population gained access to an entire world of knowledge, from which each had to choose according to his or her own interests.

The use of non-Russian languages presented special problems, because the government believed that education would lead to the awakening of national movements and was afraid of the appearance of separatist attitudes. N. I. Il’minskii and his followers had to work hard to convince religious and governmental offi cials of the need to develop primary education in non-Russian languages. The number of Il’minskii’s critics and the vocal criticism of his system grew in the tense socio-politi-cal situation at the beginning of the twentieth century as did the number of public objections to church and educational use of the native languages of non-Russian peoples. Il’minskii’s students refuted their opponents’ conclusions, contending that Christianity did not foster separatism, but, just the opposite, brought the empire’s Russian and non-Russian peoples closer together. In N. V. Nikol’skii’s opinion, only the solid internaliza-tion of Orthodoxy with the help of native language made possible the further spiritual Russianization of the Chuvash.

51 N. V. Nikol’skii, Rodnoi iazyk kak orudie prosveshcheniia inorodtsev (Kazan, 1904), p. 26.

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“Language, customs, traditions and similar national habits are important to non-Russians as external markers, as the embodiment of their belief and faith. But because the latter will soon pass away as unifi cation in religion and faith with the Russians takes place in the near future, there will no longer be any barriers to external unifi cation in language as well as in everything else.”52

Bourgeois modernization, the monetarization of the economy, and the migration of peasants to Russia’s large industrial centers had a large infl uence in this period on ethno-religious processes. Life itself taught the smaller nations the benefi ts of learning Russian and adapting to Russian culture. “Russianized non-Russians” were able to achieve a higher socio-cultural standing than their co-nationals—and, indeed, higher than that of many Russians. For this reason, Christianized non-Russian’s desire to “Russify” was viewed as a progressive tendency. By 1917, almost all Mordvins and a signifi cant portion of the Chuvash, Udmurts, the Mari, and previously converted Tatars came to consider themselves to be Orthodox.

The epoch of Christian education witnessed the formation of the national intelligentsia and the professional culture of the Volga’s Chris-tianized nations. Certain accusations directed at the missionary educators and the statements of some authors regarding the Russianization of these Christianized nations are, in my opinion, incorrect. Orthodox mission-aries were given the task of Russianizing these peoples, but Christian education did not necessarily lead to Russianization. National leaders quickly understood the new possibilities for developing the cultures of the Christianized peoples and spoke of a spiritual Russianization that meant they would nonetheless maintain their ethnic self-consciousness. The foundations of these nations’ professional cultures were established in the second half of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century and continue to be renewed and develop to this day. Christian education together with economic and cultural transformation brought the non-Russian peoples into Russian structures and strengthened their commitment and participation through Russian Orthodox values.

Despite the success of Christian education during this period, tra-ditional forms of belief remained and cases of the re-conversion to Islam

52 Ibid., p. 36.

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and “Tatarization” of nominally Christianized Tatars, Chuvash, Mari, and Udmurts were also recorded.53 The missionaries argued that these cases constituted a Muslim threat that could lead to the unavoidable Is-lamicization of non-Russian areas, if the Church and government did not take action. Such a problem did exist in contact zones where christened peoples neighbored and lived in daily contact with Muslims. At different historical periods, many pagans and even Christianized persons accepted Islam and became Tatars. However, the infl uence of Islam should not be overly exaggerated. Islam was not allowed to pursue its own offi cial missionary activities. Not only did Christianized persons not experience any type of religious pressure when they lived in areas removed from Muslim populations, but they were completely unacquainted with and did not understand the tenets of Islam. In fortunate cases, they may have heard their priests’ criticism of Islam. For example, only 2,500 Chuvash converted to Islam after the declaration of religious tolerance in 1905 and almost all of these were from communities with mixed Tatar and Muslim populations.54

CONCLUSION

The establishment of Christianity in the Middle Volga took a number of centuries and can be divided into four periods. The fi rst period chronologically includes the years from 1552 to 1731 when an Ortho-dox Russian population came to dominate the region through Russian Orthodox colonization. Under the infl uence of the Tsar, the Eparchy of Kazan became one of the largest and most important bishoprics in the Russian Orthodox Church. Newly converted non-Russians constituted only a very minor portion of the population and predominantly consisted of Tatars and the service class of the region’s other nationalities, who slowly, but surely Russifi ed. During the second stage of Christianization, which stretched from 1731 to 1775, agencies for the affairs of the newly converted, relying on legal and fi nancial aid from the state, baptized the majority of pagans as well as a number of Muslims. Christianization was 53 V. D. Dimitriev, Prosvetitel’ chuvashskogo naroda I. Ia. Iakovlev (Cheboksary, 2002), p. 87.54 [Nikol’skii], Naibolee vazhnye statisticheskie svedeniia…, pp. LIV-LVII.

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accompanied by external, primarily forceful or violent, measures. The interests and opinions of the subject peoples were completely ignored and their representatives did not participate in the Church’s missionary work. Attempts to prepare clergymen from among the non-Russian peoples through schools for the newly christened did not have the desired result. Forced Christianization strengthened social protest movements among the multinational peasantry. In the following period, dating from 1775 to 1870, The Orthodox way of life gradually permeated the lifestyle of the newly christened nationalities. Educational methods were adopted that in the end had little effect because of the serious lack of schools, literature, educators, and the widespread illiteracy among the population. Russian clergymen often sought the assistance of governmental authorities to set-tle the confl icts that continuously arose. However, the religious beliefs of the target populations steadily broke down under Orthodoxy’s infl uence. The newly christened populations began to demonstrate an increased knowledge of Church rituals, even as they, on the whole, continued to stick to the beliefs and rituals of their forefathers.

The fourth and fi nal period lasted from 1870 to 1917 and was the most signifi cant period for the fi rm establishment of Orthodoxy in this multiethnic environment. Under the infl uence of Christian education, the majority of those christened made an active choice in favor of Orthodoxy. Real zealots of the “Russian faith” from among the local population could even be called “Orthodox proselytizers.” Many of them cut their connections with their previous religious communities, left the gods and spirits of their nature cults, and became literate in Russian. Two tenden-cies were obvious among these individuals. One group pushed for the development of their national cultures on the basis of Christianity and Russian Orthodoxy. The second group gave up their national roots and completely Russianized. A further group of the non-Russian Orthodox fl ock would include persons who were educated at missionary schools and who gained an understanding of the basics tenets of Christianity. These were primarily people who lived in villages and settlements close to Orthodox churches as well as populations living in primarily Russian areas. These persons identifi ed themselves as Orthodox and did not take part in pagan rituals, but still retained some elements of their original beliefs. They can be considered “solid Orthodox,” while a signifi cant portion of the christened non-Russians should be considered “waver-

ing Orthodox.” They did not have any solid religious orientation and participated in Church rituals not due to the strength of their belief, but out of fear of falling on the wrong side of the government. At the same time, they held true to traditional beliefs. It is during this last period that a Russian consciousness formed in relation to the level of establishment of Orthodox belief among the nominally Christianized nations.

Over the course of a number of centuries of missionary infl uence, the pagan nationalities of the middle Volga traveled the diffi cult path from being “newly converted” to becoming “Orthodox Russians.” Not all of them followed the “path to the church.” Many remained before their “holy glens,” while others turned from the path and took different directions altogether. But the church doubtlessly became an important spiritual power nonetheless, uniting “Russians” with different back-grounds in a single Orthodox societal space.

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7RUSSIAN NATIONALISM

AND THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY POLICY

OF RUSSIFICATION IN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE’SWESTERN REGION

MIKHAIL DOLBILOV

INTRODUCTION

In 1997, the British historian Geoffrey Hosking offered a heuristic and provocative idea that has shaped recent debates over the nature of Russian nationalism. Hosking argued that in Russia state-building obstructed nation-building. In the imperial period, nation-building was blocked by the archaic imperial order.1 The very idea of national identity, of the nation as a supreme value, was undermined by pre-modern impe-rial allegiances and exclusive loyalty to the autocratic Romanov dynasty. In addition, the transformation of the diversity of imperial subjects into a national entity encountered the huge obstacle of the divisive estate (soslovie) principle of social organization.

Without denying the confl ict between the national and the impe-rial in nineteenth-century Russian history, I will argue in this chapter that it had a more complex dynamic. The imperial offi cials, among the chief proponents of empire-building, were themselves developing into nationally-minded people.2 A number of them were among the most frequent practitioners of nationalistic rhetoric. Since the time of Nicho-las I (r. 1825-55), imperial authorities needed nationalism to modernize the legitimizing frameworks of autocracy. Nationalistic elements were 1 Geoffrey Hosking, Russia: People and Empire, 1552-1917 (Cambridge, Mass., 1997), pp. xxv-xxvi.2 On the nationalism of Nicholaevean bureaucrats in the so-called South-Western region (Right-Bank Ukraine), see: Daniel Beauvois, The Noble, the Serf and the Revizor. The Polish Nobility between Tsarist Imperialism and the Ukrainian Masses (1831-1863), trans. by B. Reis-ing (Chur, New York, 1991).

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absorbed into the symbolism of power—the coronation ceremony, the imagined geography of empire, with accent on territories inhabited by the populations offi cially called “Russian,” and others.3 Not infrequently, the confl ict of nation and empire was a clash of two streams of discourse in the mind of the same person.4

More important still, Geoffrey Hosking’s argument implicitly counterposes nation-building to empire-building as an emerging, at least potentially dynamic force to an irrevocably static, nearly frozen structure (with territorial expansion as the only exception). This is hardly true. Archaic though the Russian empire might seem, empire-building was certainly not stagnant, even as late as the 1860s. And it is precisely the nation-building efforts that, in some respects, came to obstruct the completion of the empire’s edifi ce, or the internal power structure of the empire. In other words, the relationship between empire-building and na-tion-building included both mutual support and mutual weakening.5

My focus is on that version of Russian nationalism that was pro-moted in the 1860s and later by the imperial bureaucrats who served in the empire’s western borderlands, the former lands of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the Rzeczpospolita, annexed by the Rus-sian Empire in the second half of the eighteenth century (the so-called partitions of Rzeczpospolita). These bureaucrats thought of themselves, fi rst and foremost, as defenders of “Russianness” in that highly contested area.6 Geographically, my discussion is confi ned to the so-called North-western region (Severo-Zapadnyi krai), which consisted in 1863-69 of six provinces—Vil’na (Vilnius), Kovno (Kaunas), Grodno, Minsk, Mogilev, Vitebsk—and was administered by the Vil’na Governor General, a kind

3 Richard Wortman, Scenarios of Power. Myth and Ceremony in Russian Monarchy. Vol. 1: From Peter the Great to the Death of Nicholas I (Princeton, 1995), pp. 296-332.4 For insightful observations about such a clash, see: Aleksei Miller, “Ukrainskii vopros” v politike vlastei i russkom obshchestvennom mnenii: Vtoraia polovina XIX v. (St. Petersburg, 2000), pp. 138-152.5 On the complicated relationship between the national state and the empire as ideal types in Russian imperial practices, see the provocative notes in Peter A. Blitstein, “Nation and Empire in Soviet History, 1917-1953,” Ab Imperio 1 (2006), pp. 197-208.6 For more detail, see my “Russifi cation and the Bureaucratic Mind in the Russian Empire’s Northwestern Region in the 1860s,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 5: 2 (2004), pp. 245-271.

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RUSSIFICATION IN THE WESTERN REGION

of the emperor’s viceroy. This is the present-day territory of Belarus and Lithuania.

During the 1860s and later, the Northwestern region was the area of the most intense Polish-Russian rivalry, the bitterest clash of the Rus-sian and Polish nation-building projects.7 Contention with the Polish presence was not simply military struggles, oppression, reprisals, and persecutions of those whom the government considered irreconcilable rebels or incorrigible separatists. Such contention also included a good deal of sophisticated cultural and semiotic legitimization of imperial power, resourceful myth-making and representational strategizing.8

Analysis of geopolitical perceptions of the imperial elite in the era of the partitions of Poland shows the complexity of the task bureaucrats-Russifi ers were facing in the Western provinces in the 1860s. As the American historian John LeDonne has convincingly demonstrated, the partitions of Poland in 1772, 1793 and 1795 were not the best solution to Russia’s “Polish question” from the standpoint of the empire’s “grand strategy” of expansion.9 A number of statesmen were quite sure that preservation of a powerless, but nominally independent Poland would have been more favorable to the Russian interests. First and foremost, the empire’s potential mattered. In the early 1770s, Catherine II’s war minister, Z. G. Chernyshev, warned that the imperial manpower, ad-ministration, and fi nances were suffi cient to incorporate only the eastern fringe of Rzeczpospolita with the rivers Dnepr and Dvina as its western border (only slightly west of today’s western border of the Russian Federation). Diplomatic and political considerations, the vicissitudes of relationships with the Habsburg empire and Prussia pushed Catherine II

7 In contrast, in the “Southwestern Region,” i.e., the Right-Bank Ukraine, the Polish presence was less visible; the contention was not so dramatic. In the Polish Kingdom, the imperial government never pursued the goal of total ethnocultural de-Polonization.8 See, e.g., Theodore Weeks, Nation and State in Late Imperial Russia. Nationalism and Rus-sifi cation on the Western Frontier, 1863-1914 (DeKalb, 1996); Miller, ‘Ukrainskii vopros’; Anna Komzolova, Politika samoderzhaviia v Severo-Zapadnom krae v epokhu Velikikh reform (Moscow, 2005); Henryk Głębocki, Kresy Imperium: Szkice i materiały do dziejów polityki Rosji wobec jej peryferii (XVIII—XXI wiek) (Krakow, 2006); M. Dolbilov and A. Miller, eds. Zapadnye okrainy Rossiiskoi imperii (Moscow, 2006). See also two recent forums in Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 5: 2 (2004) and Ab Imperio 2 (2005).9 John LeDonne, The Grand Strategy of the Russian Empire, 1650-1831 (New York, Oxford, 2004), pp. 103-105.

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to annex far larger territories, all of which were underdeveloped eastern borderlands of the Rzeczpospolita.

For a long while, these new western borderlands of the Russian Empire were associated in imperial offi cials’ minds with Polish culture and language. During the fi rst half of the nineteenth century, despite Nicholas I’s attempts at establishing (especially after the Polish upris-ing of 1830-31) a unifi ed Russian-language administration, court and education in the western provinces, the latter remained predominantly Polish on the mental maps of the ruling elite itself. In essence, a kind of alliance between the imperial state and Polish nobility was preserved. This was a peculiarity of the imperial “lenses” through which offi cials perceived the region. Serfdom (krepostnoe pravo), in particular, rendered the non-Polish and non-Catholic peasantry “invisible” in the eyes of authorities, defi nitely a pre-nationalist worldview. And it was not until the early 1860s that such a state of things radically changed.

THE NATIONALIST MESSAGE

OF THE 1861 PEASANT EMANCIPATION

Further, my analysis challenges the wide-spread opinion that the chief factor behind the Russian nationalist(ic) outburst in the 1860s was the Polish uprising of 1863-64 and that the ensuing Russifying measures were at odds with the reformist undertakings of the early Alexander II. This opinion lends to Russian nationalism of the time the character of an enforced and imitative response to an outer challenge.10 In my view, the emancipation of the serfs in 1861, as well as other components of the Great Reforms, were of primary importance to the rise of nationalist sentiments in the Russian elites.11 The Russian government accomplished the peasant emancipation in a very centralized and synchronized manner,

10 Typical of this trend is a well-known notion of “offi cial nationalism” articulated by Ben-edict Anderson in Imagined Communities: Refl ections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London, New York, 1996), Chapter 6.11 For a more detailed argument, see my “The Emancipation Reform of 1861 in Russia and the Nationalism of Imperial Bureaucracy,” in Construction and Deconstruction of National Histories in Slavic Eurasia, ed. Hayashi Tadayuki (Sapporo, 2003), pp. 205-235.

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by means of issuing a single sweeping corpus of legislation related to more than twenty million peasants all across the empire. It is precisely the empire-wide dimension of the 1861 Emancipation that gave a strong impetus to a nationalistic mode of thinking.

An immense mass of peasants throughout the diverse parts of the Russian empire was liberated even as their links to the land were legally reinforced. Borrowing terms from Benedict Anderson’s Imagined Communities, I would argue that the reform validated an “aboriginal essence” of peasants and their “awakening from sleep.”12 The solemnly proclaimed aim of reform—the creation of peasant landownership—was interpreted as the restoration of the historical, aboriginal link between the tiller of the land and the land itself.

Paradoxically, the reform simultaneously liberated and segregated the peasantry. The peasants’ right to the land came hand in hand with a lot of (supposedly benign) restrictions imposed on their newly ob-tained civil freedom. They received no right to leave a land allotment and no right of free movement; they were obliged to use and till land allotment and so on. The government, so to say, tried to make peasants uniformly and evenly happy irrespective of their own individual will. Soslovnost’, the estate, caste-like character of the peasantry, was by no means abolished by the reform. However, nationally minded offi cials tried to redefi ne the pre-modern social “caste-ness” of the peasantry as a reinforcement of the would-be nation’s foundation. The emancipation was like staging a rediscovery of the masses of the people by a dedicated handful of nationally minded bureaucrats and intellectuals, a kind of encounter of the state and the people.

The rhetoric of the 1861 emancipation was a sort of test of national-istic logic made by bureaucrats within the agrarian sphere, beyond—for the time being beyond—the realm of interethnic collisions. And it was the Polish uprising (in the offi cial terminology, rebellion) that fl ared just two years later, in 1863, and the ensuing Russifying policy that embodied the imagery of the peasantry “awakened from sleep” most visibly. The populist discourse became a political tool the authorities used against the Polish nobles, many of whom initiated, joined, or sympathized with the uprising.

12 Anderson, Imagined Communities, pp. 195-196.

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FIGHTING “POLONISM”

The whole campaign of Russifi cation was intended to reassert the “Russianness” of the Western provinces (as distinct from the Kingdom of Poland, the Polish core-area, that was not incorporated in the Russian nation’s “imagined territory”). “Russianness” was associated with roots, antiquity, authenticity, soil, the mass of the people, and, ultimately, with life and the “truth” (pravda); “Polishness,” or Polonism, with a degenerate and exploitive elite, deceitful splendor, superfi ciality, and, ultimately, falsehood and death. The campaign revolved around the opposition of the internal and the external, that is, of the massive social body of the “Russian” and Orthodox peasantry and the rootless and immoral aristocracy.13

However, this type of discourse threatened to undermine the traditional, legitimistic foundations and mechanics of the Romanov empire. There was a seeming paradox: the militantly anti-elitist rhetoric was maintained by a regime with very weak institutional linkages to its subjects, devoid of techniques of face-to-face encounter with them.14 Even after the peasant emancipation and other Great Reforms the imperial authorities were unable to dispense with pre-modern, elite-based modes of governance. For instance, they had to delegate important administra-tive functions to the local nobility or clergy, instead of the expansion of the professional bureaucracy. The peasant emancipation was just a step in the direction of the face-to-face encounter between the state and the vast majority of the population. A dramatic lack of competent and effi -cient lesser offi cials (as well as the lack of confi dence in their emergence) prevented the government from more interventionist policies in many areas and compelled the higher bureaucracy to reconcile itself with the privileges of traditional elites.

In the western provinces, the nationalist and the statist priorities clashed. That is why the nationality policy in this region after 1863 was

13 Mikhail Dolbilov, “The Stereotype of the Pole in Imperial Policy,” Russian Studies in History, 44: 2 (2005), pp. 45-90.14 I borrow the notion of “face-to-face” encounter between the state and the subject/citizen from: Yanni Kotsonis, “‘Face-to-Face’: The State, the Individual, and the Citizen in Russian Taxation, 1863-1917,” Slavic Review 63: 2 (2004), pp. 221-246.

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a Russifi cation of the mental mapping,15 rather than of the actual eth-nopolitical space.

To justify their anti-elitism and harsh measures against the Polish nobility in the Western provinces, the imperial authorities had to perpetu-ate the extralegal order of administration there. This implied not only the maintenance of martial law, but also cherishing the larger vision of the region being constantly menaced by “Polonism.” The offi cials preferred to think of the Western region as an arena of their own exploits in the struggle against the superfi cial, but omnipresent and elusive “Polonism.” They were interested in exaggerating the Polish threat; “Polonism” be-came a kind of eternal enemy. Ultimately, this tended to reinforce, not dispel, the notion of the Western region as a borderland, a periphery of the empire, not a part of the Russian core-area.

The ways the Russifi ers grounded and reasoned their claims that the region was “Russian from time immemorial” were sometimes sophisti-cated, but always overloaded with symbolism and lacking in pragmatism. Let me introduce just one example. In accordance with the representation of the Polish aristocracy as remnants of the Rzeczpospolita and a social corporation that outlived the republic, the offi cial rhetoric applied the Gothic metaphor of “vampire” to the Polish insurgents. This trope can be found in contemporaneous verse (e.g., by Fedor Tiutchev), journalist writings, and even bureaucratic memoranda. For instance, the historian and journalist Mikhail Pogodin played on the readership’s susceptibil-ity to Gothic pictures: “Our enemies have no names. Their whereabouts are unknown. They do not even have a body. They are shadows that are emitted at night from some hell-like world and disappear at sunrise.”16 The Polish “vampires” were described as sucking Russian blood and exhausting the Russian nation’s vitality. What was crucial about this bizarre myth-making was the direct relation of the “vampire” metaphor to the contest over the territory. Referring to a seminal idea of Katherine Verdery, the Russian-born American philologist Olga Maiorova suggests

15 On the importance of mental mapping for the “nationalization” of the Russian Empire, see: Alexei Miller, “The Empire and the Nation in the Imagination of Russian National-ism,” in Imperial Rule, ed. Alexei Miller and Alfred J. Rieber (Budapest, New York, 2004), pp. 9-26.16 M. P. Pogodin, Pol’skii vopros. Sobranie rassuzhdenii, zapisok i zamechanii. 1831-1867 (Mos-cow, 1867), p. 146.

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that the trope served as a proof of the Russian claim to the region, since the image of the vampire foreigner drinking the blood of another people, to quote Verdery, can be taken as “a creative inversion of the idea that proper burial … must occur in one’s own (national?) soil.”17 The metaphor depicted Poles as uprising insurrectionists, because they could fi nd no rest in the Russian earth; the Russian soil rejected them.

“BENEVOLENT SEGREGATION”

Such a high degree of symbolization negatively affected the prag-matic agenda of Russifi cation and the ways of dealing with diverse eth-nocultural groups. What exactly was thought to be the foundation of the Russian domination in the region? Numerically, the rural Eastern Slav (Belarusian, Ukrainian) population—offi cially called “Russian”—con-stituted a decisive majority. In most cases, “Russianness” was equated in the offi cial categorization with the Orthodox faith, but in the case, for example, of the Belarusian peasants of Catholic faith (a minority among Belarusians) the bureaucrats understandably switched to applying the ethnic, not confessional, criterion of being Russian.18 Thus, not only sym-bolic embellishments, but also statistical devices were much in use by the Russifi ers. Their statistics and taxonomies strove to make considerable ethnolinguistical distinctions barely visible. “Russianness” became a loose sociocultural category, not so much inclusive as elusive, even able to embrace ethnic Lithuanians, on the ground of their social character-istics as peasants rooted in native soil and relatively immune to Polish assimilationist efforts.19

17 Olga Maiorova, “‘A Horrid Dream Did Burden Us’: Connecting Tiutchev’s Imagery with the Political Rhetoric of His Era,” Russian Literature LVII (2005), pp. 113-114. The quotation comes from: Catherine Verdery, The Political Lives of Dead Bodies (New York, 1999), p. 106.18 On the imperial “ethnostatistics” in the region, see: Darius Staliūnas, “Nationality Sta-tistics and Russian Politics in the Mid-Nineteenth Century,” Lithuanian Historical Studies 8 (2003), pp. 95-122. On the Belarusian case, see: Theodore Weeks, “‘Us’ or ‘Them’? Bela-rusians and Offi cial Russia, 1863-1914,” Nationalities Papers 31: 2 (2003), pp. 211-224.19 Mikhail Dolbilov, “Prevratnosti kirillizatsii: Zapret latinitsy i biurokraticheskaia rusi-fi katsiia litovtsev v Vilenskom general-gubernatorstve v 1864-1882,” Ab Imperio 1 (2005),

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However, the ideological statement that Eastern Slav peasants were “Russians” could not annul the perceived fact that this population lacked a clear ethnoconfessional identity. The quantitive predomination of the population offi cially called “Russian” was effectively counterbalanced by the Polish cultural and economic presence. In a sense, the “Russians” were at the same time a majority and a minority.

The “Russianness” of the Eastern Slav peasantry was celebrated by the Russifi ers as a treasure nearly lost, stolen by the Poles. Regaining it was the offi cials’ noble mission. Yet, Russifi ers saw this Russianness as a very fragile treasure. The Russifi cation campaign relied on rhetoric, imagery and symbolism, rather than institutions and social practices, and this proved to be quite consequential for the Russian nationalist mode of thinking. The Russifi ers were afraid, so to speak, of stirring the supposedly Russian and loyal peasants to unpredictable action, making them more receptive to diverse infl uences. Beyond the amendments to the agrarian legislation favorable to the peasants and the consolidation of primary education in Orthodox religion, the Russifi ers did relatively little to integrate the local peasantry into larger social and institutional structures.

What we see here is the notion of benevolent insulation, segrega-tion of the Orthodox rural populace, shielding the masses from the detrimental infl uences of the traditional elites (Polish szlachta, Catholic clergy). The authorities were reluctant to foster modern nation-building institutions such as a mass secular press, a network of secularized pri-mary schools, or upward social mobility. Their misgivings about what historians have regarded as powerful engines of modern assimilation are indicative of their ambivalence. Take, for example, their attitude toward proposals about a university in Vil’na. Although cognizant of the role of universities in the European assimilation processes, they never gave serious attention to the issue, because they were sure that in any circum-stances, even under police surveillance, “Polonism” would creep into the university curricula and teaching. They even rejected the proposal to establish a Medical Academy—even medicine was considered a conduit of Polish propaganda. Nor was zemstvo self-government introduced in the western provinces, for the same reason.20

pp. 255-296.20 Dolbilov and Miller, Zapadnye okrainy, pp. 245-248; Kimitaka Matsuzato, “The Issue of

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A similar segregationist pattern is observed in the offi cials’ dealing with the non-Russian groups whose loyalty to the Russian throne they hoped to reassert. The Jews, who constituted one-sixth of the entire popu-lation of the region and a majority in many cities, are the case in point.

The complexities of the Jewish question on the Russian Empire’s Western periphery21 can be better understood if we take into account two perspectives of Russifying policy after 1863—the Russifi cation of ethnically and confessionally diverse population and that of the territory, the land. In the fi rst perspective, the Jews emerged as aliens, inorodtsy, to an even greater degree than Muslims in the Empire’s eastern regions. The cultural alienation and otherness of orthodox Jews were striking in the eyes of bureaucrats, who customarily described them in terms of “fanaticism” and “superstition.” As early as the 1840s, under Nicholas I, the imperial government established separate state-run schools for the Jews, in which Jewish boys were taught both secular and Judaic subjects by Russifi ed Jewish teachers.22 Of primary importance was the principle of gradual spread of enlightenment within a given ethnic group by Russi-fi ed co-ethnics. By means of these schools the authorities sought to move some Jewish subjects, step by step, closer to the secularized values of Russian culture and incorporate them in the Russian civilizational space (the “selective integration,” coined by Benjamin Nathans), rather than assimilate the Jewish population or convert it to Greek Orthodoxy.

However, the task of Russifying the territory of western provinces, made so crucial for the authorities by the challenge of the 1863 Polish uprising, came to reshape the bureaucratic perception of the region’s ethnic heterogeneity. It implied a heavy accent on mental mapping and symbolic reconquering of the region as an inseparable part of the “Rus-sian land from times immemorial.” Symbols and spectacular signs of the Russian presence were given priority over step-by-step assimilationist efforts. In this perspective, there appeared a tendency to circumvent

Zemstvos in Right Bank Ukraine, 1864-1906. Russian Anti-Polonism under the Challenges of Modernization,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 51: 2 (2003), pp. 218-235.21 Indispensable in the fi eld are the following works: John D. Klier, Imperial Russia’s Jew-ish Question, 1855-1881 (Cambridge, 1995); Benjamin Nathans, Beyond the Pale. The Jewish Encounter with Late Imperial Russia (Berkeley, 2002).22 Michael Stanislawski, Tsar Nicholas I and the Jews. The Transformation of Jewish Society in Russia, 1825-1855 (Philadelphia, 1983).

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gradual acculturation of the non-Russian groups, including Jews, by imposing on them Russian-language education, banning indigenous languages from public sphere (often without soberly assessing the state’s potential for assimilation). As one local offi cial of the Ministry of Educa-tion optimistically wrote in 1869:

“…Lithuanians, Latvians and even Jews are eager to get Russifi ed (obru-set’), all of them understand and nearly all speak Russian. But even if there are those among them who do not speak Russian, then it is they who are obliged to learn the language of Government, not vice versa. All these small peoples (narodtsy) are not some pagans and savages (ne kakie-nibud’ dikari iazychniki), while we are not missionaries among savages. We need not come down to their dialects and notions; rather, we should make them get up to our level (podniat’sia k nam)…”23

The label aliens, inorodtsy, seemed to be out of place in the “ancient Russian land,” and separate educational institutions, such as the Jewish schools, as well as the very principle of instruction of non-Russians by their Russifi ed co-ethnics, became associated with separatism.

After 1863, instead of separate schools, the administration in the Empire’s west began to encourage Jews to send their children to the general educational institutions, such as gymnasia. However, draw-ing Jewish children into gymnasia soon resulted in a new dynamic of bureaucratic Judeophobia. Paradoxically, the seeds of forthcoming segregationist policy were to be found in relative success of the state’s efforts to integrate Jews.24 The enthusiasm the educated Jews showed at the prospect of the enlightenment of their coreligionists quickly aroused suspicion and anxiety among the Russifi ers. The rapid success of Jews in education rendered the Russophone Jew a highly suspicious fi gure

23 Manuscript Division of the Russian National Library at St. Petersburg, f. 52, d. 28, l. 1-2 v.24 For two analyses (from the ethnolinguistical and ethnoconfessional perspectives, respec-tively) of how the segregationist mood was gathering strength in the 1860s’ “Jewish policy” in the North-Western region, see Darius Staliūnas, “In Which Language Should the Jews Pray? Linguistic Russifi cation on Russia’s Northwestern Frontier, 1863-1870,” in Central and East European Jews at the Crossroads of Tradition and Modernity, ed. J. Šiaučiunaitė-Verbickienė and L. Lempertienė (Vilnius: Rodopi, 2006), pp. 33-78; M. Dolbilov, “‘Ochishchenie iudaiz-ma’: Konfessional’naia inzheneriia uchebnogo vedomstva (na primere Severo-Zapadnogo kraia),” Arkhiv evreiskoi istorii 3 (Moscow, 2006), pp. 166-205.

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in the eyes of bureaucrats. No longer was he associated with loyalty and reliance. Instead, his linguistic skills were considered one more reason for mistrust. Such a Jew was regarded as a dangerous stranger, an unwelcome newcomer in a Russian milieu or an agent of the Jewish separate nation-building, whose knowledge of Russian would only give him greater access to the cultural and intellectual resources needed for this undertaking.

Here again the logic of segregationism was at work. First, the na-tionalistic drive helped broaden the contexts within which the imperial offi cials perceived the nationality issues. But this recontextualization backfi red on the practice of assimilation. The fear of indigenous nation-building as an unintended result of Russifi cation proved to be stronger than the eagerness to integrate and assimilate. The palliative was to prolong cultural isolation of these ethnic and ethnoreligious groups.25

HOW DID THE NATIONALISTIC RHETORIC

BECOME AN OBSTACLE TO EMPIRE-BUILDING?

In the cases of the Eastern Slav Orthodox peasantry as well as the Jews, the Russifi ers came to take an obviously defensive stance, in con-trast to their own militant nationalistic rhetoric of integration. No doubt, in terms of institutionilized nation-building, the urge to conserve the

25 Generally, the formation of Russifi ed elites in non-Russian ethnic or ethno-confessional groups was at once the goal and the fear of the Russifi ers in different regions of the em-pire. It was exactly the educational level and activism on the part of such elites’ members that prompted the doubts of the Russifi ers about whether Russifi cation had turned into a formulation of a modern mindset that could also promote indigenous nation-building. Robert Geraci has brilliantly described this phenomenon regarding the Russifi ers’ vision of the Tatars. The case of the Vil’na maskilim (proponents of the Haskalah [Jewish Enlight-enment]), who fell out of favor of the Vil’na authorities by the early 1870s, is remarkably similar to a far later case, that with the jadids whom the imperial bureaucrats, in alliance with the conservative Muslim clergy (a counterpart of the maskilim’s antagonists, mitnagdim, defenders of rabbinical orthodoxy in Judaism), began to persecute in the 1910s. See: Robert Geraci, Window on the East: National and Imperial Identities in Late Tsarist Russia (Ithaca, London, 2001), pp. 150-152, 291-292, et passim. About the phenomenon of Russifi cation rejected by the Russians, see also: Aleksei Miller, Imperiia Romanovykh i natsionalizm: Esse po metodologii istoricheskogo issledovaniia (Moscow, 2006), pp. 65-66.

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imperial status quo thwarted the assimilationist aspirations. However, the rhetoric did matter, and words might have meant and weighed no less than deeds. The nationalistic rhetoric was effective enough to recip-rocally weaken some of the empire-building trends.

One of the latter was the evolution of confessional policies, espe-cially toward the Roman Catholic church. The importance of the issue of confessional belonging even as late as mid-nineteenth century was brought into focus of the studies of Russian empire relatively recently. As a number of scholars point out now, the Russian empire was a “con-fessional state” in the sense that, despite assigning Greek Orthodoxy the status of “ruling faith,” there was an alliance between the state and different creeds, of course, with Orthodoxy at the top of the hierarchy.26 In other words, the state had to rely on the clergy of both Orthodox and non-Orthodox faiths as agents of the state at the grassroots level, unreachable by the professional bureaucracy. The clergy, irrespective of confession, kept metrical records (not accidentally, such a modern institution as civil marriage remained in fact a taboo for the authorities until early twentieth century), participated in the government’s effort to maintain public order and morality, promulgated imperial manifestos and decrees, etc. Essentially, the authorities regarded the individual as a loyal imperial subject insofar as he was a member of a confession recognized by the state.

This imperial system of religious tolerance required that the rec-ognition of a given confession by the state, granting it a certain freedom in ritual terms, be accompanied by an intensifi cation of bureaucratic intervention, control and regulation, including matters of public ritual and manifestations of religiosity. As Robert Crews argues, the state, albeit not trying to convert everyone to the Russian Orthodoxy, sought to create an “orthodoxy in each of the tolerated faiths.”27 The deeper the bureaucratization of a given confession, the more privileged it was, Orthodoxy being the telling example.28 What about the Roman 26 See, e.g.: Robert Crews, “Empire and the Confessional State: Islam and Religious Politics in Nineteenth-Century Russia,” American Historical Review 108: 1 (2003), pp. 50-83; Paul Werth, “Schism Once Removed: Sects, State Authority, and the Meanings of Religious Toleration in Imperial Russia,” Miller and Rieber, Imperial Rule, pp. 85-108. 27 Crews, “Empire and the Confessional State,” 83. 28 This dialectic of control and freedom was not entirely unique to the Russian empire in

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Catholic church in Russia in particular? For all the dogmatic and cultural divergences between Greek Orthodox and Catholic churches and even the close relationship of the Polish national consciousness to Catholicism, the imperial authorities in the fi rst half of the nineteenth century afforded Catholicism a relatively high position in the imperial hierarchy of confessions.29 By the mid-nineteenth century, the dialec-tics of empire-building implied the necessity of further regularizing and disciplining the Catholic church: the Russian empire followed the path of the so-called Josephinism—the Enlightenment-inspired church policy exemplifi ed in the measures of Joseph II Habsburg in the 1770s-80s30 and, to a lesser degree and with less success, of Catherine II in Russia.

However, the emergence of a nationalistic vision impeded this trend. In the context of the Polish-Russian confrontation, Catholicism looked like not a neutral confession, but a “political heresy” (to quote one of the Russifi ers).31 Catholic clerics came to be viewed as leaders of the Polish national movement; the equation of Catholicism with “Polo-nism” became by the mid-1860s quite commonplace in offi cial docu-ments, periodicals, private correspondence. Instead of disciplining and therefore relegitimizing the Catholic religiosity, the offi cials launched what was in fact a campaign of denigration of Catholic faith. It included, among other measures, political persecution of Catholic clergy and mass conversions of the rural Catholic population to Orthodoxy (driven by

nineteenth century Europe. As C. Thomas McIntire has shown, by 1810 Napoleon created in France a “quadrilateral establishment of religion.” The four state-recognized creeds were the Catholic Church of France, the Reformed and Lutheran churches, and Judaism: “All four religions accepted the paradox of membership in the religious establishment as the way to increase their religious liberty. The neglect or exclusion of other religions served to defi ne the system.” See: C. Thomas McIntire, “Changing Religious Establishments and Religious Liberty in France. Part I: 1787-1879,” in Freedom and Religion in Europe and the Americas in the Nineteenth Century, ed. Richard Helmstadter (Stanford, 1997), pp. 254-260, the quotation is from p. 259.29 Leonid Gorizontov, Paradoksy imperskoi politiki: Poliaki v Rossii i russkie v Pol’she (XIX—nachalo XX v.) (Moscow, 1999), pp. 81-82.30 See, e.g., Samuel T. Myovich, “Josephism at Its Boundaries: Nobles, Peasants, Priests and Jews in Galicia, 1772-1790” (Ph.D. dissertation, Indiana University, 1994).31 Mikhail Murav’ev, “Zapiski ob upravlenii Severo-Zapadnym kraem i usmirenii v nem miatezha, 1863-1866,” Russkaia starina 6 (1902), p. 503.

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offers of material incentives and benefi ts).32 The ways such conversions were contrived and carried out are indicative of the Russifi ers’ thinking. Since there was very little hope of getting converts spiritually attached to their new church, offi cials implicitly admitted that in some cases religious indifference or, rather, a lack of religious fervour would be more desirable than a spontaneous, “hot” religiosity. The protagonist of Dostoevsky’s novel Idiot (written in the late 1860s), Prince Myshkin, said that Roman Catholicism was a worse thing than atheism. Dostoevsky was hardly original putting this saying into the mouth of Myshkin; before the publication of Idiot the Russifi ers of the Western region who dealt with Catholics used to fi nd solace in this piece of political “wisdom.” In broader terms, nationally minded initiators of this anti-Catholic campaign (to which the higher authorities in St. Petersburg had to put an end by the late 1860s) unwittingly contributed to the erosion of the “confessional state’s” foundations.

MUTUAL RUSSIAN-POLISH INFLUENCES

The potential of the Russian nationalistic rhetoric of the 1860s is clear from analysis of the mutual infl uences of the Polish and Russian nation-building projects, a sort of exchange and dialogue between them. Obviously, the Polish uprising gave a strong impetus to Russian nationalist thinking. But the latter was not just an enforced, imitative and unimaginative response to the Polish challenge.33 Russian images of 32 Mikhail Dolbilov, “The Russifying Bureaucrats’ Vision of Catholicism: the Case of Northwestern krai after 1863,” in Andrzej Nowak, ed., Russia and Eastern Europe: Applied “imperiology”/ Rosja i Europa Wschodnia: “imperiologia” stosowana (Krakow, 2006), pp. 197-221; Mikhail Dolbilov and Darius Staliunas, “‘Obratnaia uniia’: Proekt prisoedineniia katolikov k pravoslavnoi tserkvi v Rossiiskoi imperii, 1865-1866,” Slavianovedenie 5 (2005), pp. 3-34.33 In her recent study of temporal modes of thinking about Eastern European nationalism(s), Maria Todorova has criticized (polemizing, among others, with Benedict Anderson and Miroslav Hroch) the so-called “allochronic discourse” that depicts nationalisms in Eastern Europe as lagging behind, imitating or unilaterally borrowing from the more “authentic” nationalisms in the west of Europe. Instead of this approach, Todorova suggests “the idea of relative synchronicity within a longue durée development,” designed to analyze the relationship between the Western and Eastern European nationalisms in terms of in-teraction, interinfl uence, and dialogue. See Maria Todorova, “The Trap of Backwardness:

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Polonism, albeit saturated with enmity, affected Polish self-perceptions. Most recently, the Polish historian Andrzej Nowak, taking part in the scholarly discussion on whether the Rzeczpospolita was an empire, made the point about a retrospective “imperialization” of the Polish-Lithua-nian Commonwealth partitioned by Russia, Prussia and Austria in the second half of the eighteenth century. According to Nowak, the Rzec-zpospolita was not an empire even in its best time, but the nineteenth-century Polish nationalist elites, seeking to mobilize compatriots to fi ght for national independence, elaborated an attractive narrative about the Poland of the past, emphasizing the features of territorial grandeur and missionary expansionism.34 From the opposite perspective, Russian nationalists, especially those involved in Russifi cation campaigns in the contested western borderlands, contributed to this myth-making. In order to dramatize their efforts to “awaken” the local “Russian” people from their “fatal sleep,” Russifi ers talked about the liberation from the “Polish yoke.” Such a portrayal of Polonism exaggerated the assimila-tionist powers of the Polish elites and, independently of the Russifi ers’ intentions, maintained the notion of old Poland as a great empire with a long-lasting and far-reaching legacy.

Another example of such “dialogical” infl uence relates to the role of Catholic clergy in the Polish national movement. Actually, a considerable majority of clergy stood loyal to the imperial authorities and preached obedience; those who shared in thinking about national independence, had their own (apolitical and inspired by Catholic theology) vision of how to attain this goal. However, the imperial mythology presented Modernity, Temporality, and the Study of Eastern European Nationalism,” Slavic Review 64: 1 (2005), pp. 140-164. Todorova’s innovation may prove to be useful also for further reconceptualization of Russian nationalism. For instance, in this perspective the post-1863 Russian policy of persecuting Catholicism emerges as part of the contemporaneous pan-European tension between the state and the Catholic church (Kulturkampf in Germany being a telling example), rather than as a passive reaction to the Polish uprising or a product of an allegedly static “Russian Orthodox mentality,” hostile toward Catholics. 34 Andrzej Nowak, “From Empire Builder to Empire Breaker, or There and Back Again: History and Memory of Poland’s Role in Eastern European Politics,” in Nowak, Od imper-ium do imperium. Spojrzenia na historię Europy Wschodniej (Krakow, 2004), pp. 367-375. See also his “Between Imperial Temptation and Anti-imperial Function in Eastern European Politics: Poland from the Eighteenth to Twenty-fi rst Century,” in K. Matsuzato, Emerg-ing Meso-Areas in the Former Socialist Countries: Histories Revived or Improvised? (Sapporo, 2005), pp. 247-284.

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Catholic clergymen as one of the most perilous enemies and oppressed them out of proportion to their actual involvement in the national movement. It is this vision’s inversion that provided the Catholic clergy an honorable place in the narrative of the Polish nation’s martyrdom. Even those Polish nationalists who detested the Church’s apolitical at-titudes refrained from attacking the clergy. Some historians even argue that moral insults and political reprisals against Catholic clergy in the Russian and German empires were the only thing saving Poland from wide-spread de-Christianization in the nineteenth century.35

CONCLUSION

The practice of the Russifi cation campaign in the Western, Polish-infl uenced provinces of the Russian Empire, that is, the crusade against “Polonism,” left a remarkable and lasting imprint on the Russian nation-alist mindset. That campaign was distinguished by a striking contrast between militant populist and assimilationist rhetoric and elitist mistrust of modern institutions and practices of governance. The supposedly loyal “Russian” peasants were regarded as an “authentic” mass of people, the foundation of a would-be nation in need of protection from detrimental infl uences, rather than a partner in a common nation-building enterprise. Lofty images of “Russianness” were not so much an incentive to mobilize the nationally-minded population as a referent framework for the self-identifi cation of narrow groups of bureaucrats and intellectuals. This was a kind of assimilationist striving that was very likely to give way to a fear of counterassimilation. The obsession with “contagion” and “cor-ruption,” reifi ed in ambivalent Russifi cation measures, would survive well into the twentieth century, manifesting itself in the mentality and, alas, activities of later generations of Russian/Soviet nationalists.36

35 See, for example, Brian Porter, “Thy Kingdom Come: Patriotism, Prophecy, and the Catholic Hierarchy in Nineteenth-Century Poland,” The Catholic Historical Review 89: 2 (2003), pp. 213-239, esp. 223.36 Cf. the Soviet policy toward the diaspora nationalities (including the Poles), based on the a priori equation of membership in one of these national groups with political disloyalty: Francine Hirsch, Empire of Nations: Ethnographic Knowledge and the Making of the Soviet Union (Ithaca, London, 2005), esp. pp. 297-302. With regard to the same subject, Yuri Slezkine

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The russifying bureaucrats’ nationalism was relatively good at mental mapping, not at assimilationist and integrationist practices as such. This discrepancy meant that proponents of Russifi cation could not avoid thinking of themselves as a minority in a culturally alien milieu. Paradoxically, the “Russian” city of Vil’na was for them both the moth-erland and chuzhbina, a foreign country. Being an embattled minority became an attribute of the russifying bureaucracy, a sign of their noble mission. Symptomatic are the very words with which they referred to themselves: “handful” (gorst’ russkikh liudei), “minority,” “a little circle” (kruzhok). It would be interesting to trace how this self-portrait affected a broader Russian nationalist consciousness.

observes: “Starting in the mid-1930s … as the fear of contagion grew and the nature of the enemy seemed harder to determine, it became painfully obvious to the profession-ally paranoid that the opposite of inspirational infl uence was hostile penetration…” See his The Jewish Century (Princeton, Oxford, 2004), p. 274. The imperial obsession with the “Polonism” seems to have anticipated such fears.

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11RUSSIAN IMPERIALISM IN THE FAR EAST

AT THE TURN OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY:THE COLLAPSE OF S. IU. WITTE’S PROGRAM

OF ECONOMIC EXPANSION

IGOR V. LUKOIANOV

It is often claimed that Russian Far Eastern policy at the turn of the twentieth century was determined by the minister of fi nance, S. Iu. Witte, and that the main focus of Russia’s policy was economic expansion in China. Witte’s name is directly linked to a new form of colonial policy that supposedly stressed the penetration of capital over the direct an-nexation of new territories. In keeping with ideas of B. A. Romanov, the eminent specialist on the subject, these ideas have taken root in traditional Russian historiography, but, as this paper shall demonstrate, they are only to a certain extent correct.

The fi rst caveat is that Witte’s dominant infl uence on Far Eastern policy lasted only from April 1895 until 1897, specifi cally from a special session on Korean issues held on March 30, 1895, when the fi nance minister insisted that Japan be sent a strongly worded ultimatum, until Nicholas II’s decision on December 4, 1897 to occupy Port Arthur, taken over objections from Witte at the insistence of the minister of foreign affairs, M. N. Murav’ev. Beyond this point, Russian policy toward its eastern neighbors was more often than not determined by combining the divergent opinions of several ministers, who squabbled amongst themselves for infl uence. These ministers included the already mentioned M. N. Murav’ev, foreign minister between 1897 and 1900, as well as A. N. Kuropatkin, minister of war from 1898. A group of pseudo-entre-preneurs, lead by A. M. Bezobrazov, the head of the Guandun region and the future viceroy E. I. Alekseev, whose infl uence grew in 1903 on, should also be added to this list.

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The Minster of Finance always spoke in favor of the peaceful, eco-nomic penetration of China, but he never described in detail his views on what the content of a policy of Russian economic expansion in the Far East should entail. Moreover, his views visibly changed over time.

THE 1890S: WITTE’S LARGE-SCALE PLANS

FOR ECONOMIC EXPANSION AND THE REAL SITUATION

OF RUSSO-CHINESE TRADE

Witte’s fi rst thoughts on the subject date from the beginning of the construction of the Trans-Siberian Railroad in the early 1890s. Witte spoke mostly about how the completion of a railroad running to Vladivostok would encourage the economic development of Siberia and the Russian Far East as well as providing a powerful impetus for the expansion of Russian-Chinese trade. But even at that time, such statements did not seem to be well-founded.

Russian-Chinese trade was not in great condition at the end of the nineteenth century. The import of Russian goods had reached signifi cant proportions in the 1860s, but then steadily declined in the 1870s and practically stopped altogether in the 1880s. The main reasons for this were the relative expensiveness of Russian goods, Russian producers’ inability “to adapt to the needs of the customer, and poor knowledge of the Chinese market and [Russian] manufacturers’ apathetic attitudes to [the Chinese].”1 This remained the state of affairs until the 1890s and fi rst decade of the 1900s. As a result, the value of Russian exports to China decreased by almost 50% between 1850 and 1893, from 7.7 to 4.1 million rubles per annum, while imports from China grew almost 4 times, from 7.5 to 33.3 million rubles per year. In 1891, China accounted for only 0.6% of Russian exports, while Chinese goods constituted 4% of Russian imports.2 Russia occupied seventh place in China’s international trade during these years, being “out-traded” by Britain, whose trade volume was 4 times that of Russia’s. The volume of Chinese trade with Japan 1 K. Skal’kovskii, Russkaia torgovlia v Tikhom okeane (St. Petersburg, 1883), p. 256. 2 G. N. Romanova, Ekonomicheskie otnosheniia Rossii i Kitaia na Dal’nem Vostoke v XIX-nachale XX v. (Moscow, 1987), p. 71.

227

THE COLLAPSE OF S. IU. WITTE’S PROGRAM

and Germany was typically 30-40% greater than its trade with Russia. In the fi rst decade of the twentieth century, Russian exports to China rose to between 5 and 7.5 million rubles per year. Given the overall strong growth in Russia’s exports, which grew from a total of 30 million rubles per year to 45 million rubles per year, the expansion in trade with China hardly represented a great success. Furthermore, this expansion was due mostly to demand from Manchuria’s growing Russian population. Tea was the main item that Russia imported from China. Despite an increase in the purchase of Chinese tea at the beginning of the twentieth century, the future of the Chinese tea trade did not look very optimistic. Already at the end of the 1880s, this most important Chinese export to Russia began to decline slowly, but steadily due to the increasing production and import of tea from India and Ceylon, which was of a higher quality than its Chinese equivalent.3 At one time, cotton fabric had constituted about half of Russia’s exports to China, but the standard size produced was too thin for Chinese customers, making sales diffi cult.4 There was as similar situation with the export of Russian broadcloth. Baku kerosene similarly did not manage to establish a sustainable position in the Chi-nese market due to strong competition from American producers. This meant that the entirety of Chinese imports from Russia was limited to spirits, tobacco, canned food, and textiles. Only Smirnov vodka enjoyed sustainable demand—and even its future was in doubt due to the ap-pearance of cheap local spirits as well as bootleg production of Smirnov by the Japanese and Chinese.5

There was a whole array of reasons why Russian businessmen were largely reluctant to pursue opportunities in the Far East. To begin with, delivering Russian goods to China was very expensive. Shipping cargo from Odessa to Vladivostok on the ships of the “Volunteer Fleet” cost between 35 kopecks and 2 rubles, 40 kopecks per pud (one pud equals

3 N. Andrushchenko, “Po voprosu o chainom gruze dlia Sibirskoi zheleznoi dorogi” (Ros-siiskii gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv / RGIA, f. 560, op. 29, d. 123, ll. 149-154). 4 I. E. Geishtor, Torgovlia Rossii na Dal’nem Vostoke (St. Petersburg, 1903), pp. 4, 14. 5 “Zapiska D. M. Pozdneeva, prilozhennaia k pis’mu S. Iu. Vitte 2 iiulia 1902 g.” (RGIA, f. 22, op. 3, d. 46, l. 4ob.); “Otchet D. M. Pozdneeva o vstreche s russkim kupechestvom Dal’nego Vostoka v Kharbine. 1902 g.” (RGIA, f. 560, op. 29, d. 200, ll. 4-9). Russian trade was in a similar condition in Tianjin, see D. M. Pozdneev to S. Iu. Witte from January 30, 1902 (Ibid., d. 113, ll. 61-72).

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IGOR V. LUKOIANOV

about 16 kg)—and this was for privileged cargos given preferential rates. Similar shipments from Hamburg or from the coast of the United States cost 14 kopecks per pud, while Japanese cargos cost only 8 kopecks per pud to deliver to China.6 It should not be forgotten that the majority of Russian goods also needed to be transported to Odessa in the fi rst place. Shipping goods to China by train was signifi cantly less expensive. The prices established by the Chinese Eastern Railroad (KVZhD, from the Russian Kitaiskaia Vostochnaia zheleznaia doroga) before the line’s comple-tion in December 1899 amounted to 50 kopecks per wagon per versta (1 versta equals 1.0155 kilometers) with a wagon carrying 750 puds. But cargo trains ran irregularly and proper conditions for the loading, unloading, and storage of goods largely did not exist. As a result, only 196 wagons of commercial merchandise, 70% of which was vodka, was shipped during the railroad’s fi rst year of operations (through February 5, 1901).7 New rates were introduced on the KVZhD, effective from July 1, 1903 and were lower than the general, all-Russian rates (8.6 kopecks per pud for 100 verstas to the Far East versus 10 kopecks inside Russia and 14 kopecks from Vladivostok). This rate was not lowered, however, for shipments being sent over greater distance as was the practice elsewhere resulting in higher overall costs for many shipments (800 verstas cost 68 kopecks in Russia, 87 kopecks on the Chinese Eastern Railroad, and 1 ruble, 12 kopecks from Vladivostok).8 This means that KVZhD offi cials encouraged the local turnover of goods and did not support long-distance commercial shipping. The railroad authorities completely refused to take responsibility for on-time delivery of goods or for storing goods. All of this made Russian goods, which were, as a rule, already more expensive than imports from America or Japan, exorbitantly expensive. Railroad shipping rates would have to be lowered by not less than twice and

6 S. D. Merkulov, Vozmozhnye sud’by russkoi torgovli na Dal’nem Vostoke (St. Petersburg, 1903), p. 8. 7 “Spravka” [o perevozke kommercheskikh gruzov iz Port-Artura po zheleznoi doroge], 5 February 1901 (RGIA, f. 1416, op. 1, d. 78, ll. 8-11). 8 “Dokladnaia zapiska chlena birzhevogo obshchestva S. D. Kravtsova o tarifnykh stavkakh KVZhD” [1903 g.] (RGIA, f. 1416, op. 1, d. 238). R. Quested believes that the KVZhD’s tarriffs were on average about 100% greater than average Russian rail shipping tarriffs; however, such a supposition raises serious doubts. R. K. I. Quested, “Matey” Imperialists?: The Tsarist Russians in Manchuria, 1895-1917 ([Hong Kong], 1982), p. 97.

229


overseas shipping rates by three times in order to make Russian exports to China profi table.9 Given such conditions, it was premature to hope for the quick development of a trade that relied on the shipping of goods from European Russia to Asia.

Nonetheless, Witte placed his political bets on the expansion of trade between Russia and China. As it turned out later, he was seeking an external market for Russia’s quickly developing industries, which, in his opinion, would be needed in the near future.10

The Russo-Chinese Bank and the KVZhD became the main instru-ments of Russian economic policy in China. The bank was created at the end of 1895 under the total control of the fi nance minister and was justifi ed on grounds that it was necessary to support interests in build-ing the Trans-Siberian Railroad, for fostering economic ties with China, and for fi ghting British infl uence in the Far East. Despite such broad goals and the combination of economic and political motives, the bank initially concentrated on providing credit to relatively insignifi cant trade transactions (up to 25,000 rubles in value per transaction), primarily for Russian tea importers. Attempts to encourage other areas of trade met serious obstacles . For example, neither Baku’s oil barons nor Russian oil traders were interested in pursuing kerosene exports to China because of the small margins involved (they required at least 15-20% returns).11

The principal agreement on the creation of the KVZhD was reached during Russian-Chinese talks held in Moscow in May 1896 and the company was founded that same year. The Russian government au-thorities, including the Ministry of Finance, concluded the agreement with the eventual Russian annexation of part of or all of Manchuria in

9 Merkulov, Vozmozhnye sud’by…, p. 21. 10 At the beginning of 1900, S. Iu. Witte wrote, “If energetic and decisive measures are not adopted so that our industry will be in the condition in the next decade to cover demand in Russia and the Asian countries that are or should be under our infl uence, then fast-growing foreign industry will be able to break through our customs barriers and install itself in our motherland as well in the previously mentioned Asian countries, and, having established deep roots in the nation’s consumption habits, it could clear the way for more dangerous foreign political infl uence” (“Vsepoddanneishii doklad S. Iu. Vitte ‘O polozhenii nashei promyshlennosti,’ fevral’ 1900,” Istorik-marksist 2/3 (1935), p. 133). 11 D. D. Pokotilov to P. M. Romanov from December 27, 1895 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 9, l. 124 ob.); A. A. Fursenko, “Pervyi neftianoi sindikat v Rossii (1893-1897),” Monopolii i inostrannyi kapital v Rossii (Moscow-Leningrad, 1962), pp. 50-55.

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IGOR V. LUKOIANOV

mind. The railroad was treated not only as a strategic transit route, but also as the means for Russian infl uence to penetrate further into China, particularly by expanding trade. Witte succeeded in getting import tariffs on all goods imported by rail for the needs of the KVZhD reduced by one-third (in comparison to goods imported by sea).12 In practice, this meant that any Russian export received an advantaged position vis-à-vis competition from third countries. After all, how could it be determined if this or that good was imported for the needs of the KVZhD? This was a very important achievement for Witte and was characteristic of his methods in as much as it based Russia’s economic expansion in China on artifi cial advantages arranged by treaty that limited free competition. Such limits and privileges, in any case, caused other problems. Witte provoked other powers, economically more powerful than Russia, into action and also provoked their well-founded protest. The minister of fi nance could not afford to rely on free competition because of the Rus-sian economy’s critical shortage of private capital, which he was striving to replace with state funds.

Already in 1897, Witte altered the content of his economic policies in China. The number of branches of the Russian-Chinese Bank grew signifi cantly, not only in China, but also in the Russian Far East. The bank dramatically expanded its activities from the simple granting of trade guarantees in individual trade transactions to the founding of companies of its own, and purchasing of shares of other companies and concessions to exploit Far Eastern natural resource wealth. For example, a consortium (“Mongolor”) was formed in June 1897 with the bank’s participation for exploiting the riches of Mongolia.13 Also in 1897, the Russian-Chinese Bank bought into the Anglo-Russian Company, initially acquiring half

12 B. A. Romanov, Rossiia v Man’chzhurii (1892-1906). Ocherki po istorii vneshnei politiki samoderzhaviia v epokhu imperializma (Leningrad, 1928), p. 126. 13 The Russian-Chinese Bank’s activities in Mongolia did not go well. There were “large outlays, large losses, and a complete inability to adapt to local conditions.” “Mongolor” temporarily ceased all activities following the Boxer Rebellion in 1900 and a branch of the bank in Urga stopped providing the monopoly with credit. Lacking knowledge of local customs and not having employees who spoke fl uent Mongolian, the company’s employees were not able to deal with the masssive falsifi cation of documents and stamps. By 1908, the branch had losses of 300,000 rubles and its closing was considered (Protokol zaseda-niia Obshchestva vostokovedov 27 maia 1911 g. (Otdel rukopisei Rossiiskoi natsonal’noi biblioteki, f. 590, op. 1, no. 5, ll. 19-20).

231


and, by the beginning of 1902, acquiring 90% of the company’s shares. This joint stock company was founded in order to compete for the rights to mineral deposits in Manchuria.14

Witte intended to use the KVZhD to create a railroad monopoly in Manchuria. The minister of fi nance considered it important to Russia “that railroad lines in South Manchuria either not be built at all or, if it was to be built, then that their construction was given to no one else besides the KVZhD company.”15 In the summer of 1897, he began the decisive attempt to derail the Chinese’s plans to build the line from Pe-king to Manchuria by themselves. China’s aims in the project were not economic—the creation of an alternative to the KVZhD did not make any sense from an economic point of view and even one railroad prob-ably would not reach full capacity—but political in character and were a reaction to the threat of Russian expansion. Peking did not have the money for such an undertaking and therefore had to seek foreign loans from, for example, the Hong Kong-Shanghai Bank that was controlled by British capital. In general, the Chinese leaders always sought to mobi-lize English interests in order to help them withstand Russian efforts to penetrate into South Manchuria.16 This made Witte extremely worried. In as much as it was impossible to forbid the continuation of such a project (Russian attempts to declare that rights guaranteed by the treaty on the KVZhD had been violated met with a categorical denial from Peking),17 Russia was forced to try to fi nd a way to participate in any such project, something that required no small expense.

At the end of 1897, Witte’s monopoly on Russia’s Far Eastern policy was disrupted by the minister of foreign affairs, M. N. Murav’ev. It was on Murav’ev’s insistence that Nicholas II decided at the beginning of

14 L. Grauman to K. M. Iogansonu from August 27, 1903 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 265, ll. 88-89). As a result, the Anglo-Russian Company was purchased from the bank by the Manchurian Mining and Industrial Company for 500,000 rubles. 15 S. Iu. Witte to M. N. Murav’ev from August 20, 1897 (copy) (RGIA, f. 560, op. 29, d. 135, l. 7 ob.). 16 This action disproves one of Witte’s favorite ideas, namely that his policies had allowed friendly relations to be maintained with Peking until Port Arthur. “Friends,” however, are not so afraid of each other. 17 D. D. Pokotilov to S. Iu. Witte from July 26, 28, and 30 and August 5, 1897 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 44, ll. 7-11).

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IGOR V. LUKOIANOV

December to send Russian ships to Port Arthur. This step meant that Russia chose to employ not just economic, but also military means to achieve its goals in the Far East—in the current situation, to gain control of the port. However, the seizure of Port Arthur did not seem to have any infl uence on the course Witte pursued in China. This became evident in British-Russian negotiations on Chinese issues held in 1898 and 1899. When M. N. Murav’ev suggested limiting Russia’s sphere of infl uence on the railroad to the line running to Peking, the deputy fi nance min-ister P. M. Romanov suggested that the line of demarcation should be extended to the south of Peking “approximately to Huan-he,” because of the “successes” of the Russian-Chinese Bank there,—successes that were completely unknown at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.18 Witte did not want to make any promises that would interfere with the bank’s penetration into the British sphere of infl uence in the Yantgze River basin in central China, upon which he had placed great hopes. To this end, the fi nance minister was even ready to allow the British access to the areas that Russia considered its sphere of infl uence in Manchuria (that is, north of the Great Wall of China). Witte calculated that, more than anything, Russia needed to have a free hand in China.19 Murav’ev, learning of the fi nance ministry’s ambitions to expand “our fi nancial and railroad enterprises into the current English sphere of infl uence in the south of China,” stated categorically that “the imperial government cannot sacrifi ce political interests of utmost importance for the profi t of a private railroad company and a credit institution.” He hinted at the need to concentrate the government’s efforts on the consolidation of its position in Manchuria.20 It must be recognized that the foreign minister’s objections were completely justifi ed and that Witte’s inten-tion to economically conquer central China was a totally fantastic and extremely risky undertaking, for which St. Petersburg simply did not have enough resources.

18 P. M. Romanov to D. D. Pokotilov [beginning of September 1898] (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 109, l. 15 ob.); Telegram of P. M. Romanov to D. D. Pokotilov from September 8, 1898 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 29, d. 65, ll. 138-141). 19 S. Iu. Witte to M. N. Murav’ev from November 25, 1898 (Arkhiv vneshnei politiki Ros-siiskoi imperii / AVPRI, f. 143, op. 491, d. 1625, ll. 16-18). 20 Vsepoddanneishaia zapiska M. N. Murav’eva 15 dekabria 1898 g. (AVPRI, f. 143, op. 491, d. 1625, ll. 85-90).

233


WITTE CURTAILS HIS PLAN:TOWARDS MANCHURIA INSTEAD OF ADVANCING

TO THE SOUTH CHINA (1900)

Witte’s economic policy in China changed signifi cantly in 1900. These changes were caused by two circumstances. The fi rst was the be-ginning of a global economic crisis caused by the depressed state of the world’s fi nancial markets. With the depression, Witte lost the possibility to raise large sums through the issuance of foreign debt and was forced to change economic policy. On July 27, 1900, Prince V. P. Meshcherskii published an article entitled “Thoughts of a Well-Informed Personage,” written by someone using the pseudonym “Russian” in the fi fty-sixth is-sue of his journal, Grazhdanin. The article was actually written by Witte.21 The article marked a sea change in his goals in as much as it contained a rejection of any intentions of getting involved in central China. “Our current interests are located exclusively in the framework of a railroad line between Vladivostok and Port Arthur.” Beginning in 1901, the minister of fi nance’s indifference to activities in central or south China is noticeable. If Witte did not give up on his previous plans, then he had certainly decided to put off the further pursuit of these plans indefi nitely. The new circumstances also forced the minister of fi nance to be signifi -cantly more pragmatic and careful in claiming concessions in China. Witte changed his tactics in negotiations with the Hong Kong-Shanghai Bank on taking loans for the construction of a rail line from Peking to Manchuria. Already on October 11, 1900, he secured the agreement of Tsar Nicholas II to acquire all of the Hong Kong-Shanghai Bank’s rail-road concessions in China.22 Only one month later, the fi nance minister unexpectedly declared that he was not interested in the entire line, as he had been before, but only north of Shanghaiguan. In keeping with his new position, there was no reason to buy anything to the south as any such undertakings would be too expensive.23 Witte reverted to his

21 See the handwritten original of the article in RGIA, f. 1622, op. 1, d. 1018, ll. 236-239. 22 Vsepoddanneishii doklad S. Iu Vitte 11 oktiabria 1900 g. s rezoliutsiei Nikalaia II (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 170, l. 36). 23 S. Iu. Witte to P. M. Romanov from November 14, 1900 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 170, ll. 88-89). Witte intended to include a point on the awarding of rights to the line north of

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IGOR V. LUKOIANOV

previous priority of securing the monopoly position of the KVZhD in Manchuria and not allowing the construction of other rail lines there. In April 1902, A. I. Putilov, the fi nance ministry’s chancellery director, refl ected Witte’s point of view, writing that it would be preferable if no line was built north of Shanghaiguan and, if China decided to go ahead with construction, that the Americans receive the concessions only on the condition that Russian participation was guaranteed.24 For this rea-son, Witte did not protest when in 1903 the Chinese turned to the Rus-sian-Chinese Bank to support their plans to build the line themselves, referring the decision to the bank’s management.25 But there remained the previous ambition to receive concessions on the line to run from the KVZhD to Peking, that the minister of fi nance had tried to demand in 1901, including this point in a separate agreement with China.26

This meant that Witte had de facto repudiated his plans to penetrate central China, plans that he had insisted on as late as 1900. Debating with A. N. Kuropatkin on the challenges facing the Russian army in the twentieth century, Witte had responded to a declaration by the minister of war that Russia should limit itself to northern China with a notable phrase about all the wealth of China being in the country’s south and therefore that should also be Russia’s ambition.27

The Boxer Rebellion created a second obstacle to Witte’s China plans. The rebellion not only transformed political conditions inside China, but also meant a serious defeat for Witte in the struggle to infl u-ence Russian policy in the Far East. The minister of fi nance was categori-cally against the introduction of Russian troops into China.

“We did not seize Manchuria. And it would be better if we did not seize any [territory] and if the struggle for markets was given over to com-merce. We have penetrated throughout Manchuria without any territorial seizures and the Ministry of Finance asked only that no territory should

Shanhaiguan in a separate agreement with China (B.A. Romanov, op. cit., p. 281). 24 A. I. Putilov to D. D. Pokotilov from April 30, 1902 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 171, l. 126). 25 A. Iu. Rotshtein to I. A. Byshnegradskii from June 20, 1903 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 171, l. 137); A. I. Putilov to A. Iu. Rotshtein from June 26, 1903 (Ibid., l. 140). 26 B. A. Romanov, op. cit., pp. 287-292.27 Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii (GARF), f. 601, op. 1, d. 445, l. 33; B. A. Ro-manov, op. cit., p. 80.

235


be seized and that commercial and political infl uence would be given the chance to work.”28

Nonetheless, A. N. Kuropatkin insisted on the decision to send troops and the Russian army not only occupied China’s northern prov-inces, but also took part in an international coalition’s march on Peking. The minister of war intrigued against the naming of V. N. Lamsdorf, an intimate of Witte, to the post of minister of foreign affairs in the summer of 1900. Not succeeding in blocking Lamsdorf’s appointment, Kuropatkin simply bypassed the new foreign minister, dismissing E. I. Alekseev, who had answered to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as the commander of Russian troops in China, and naming General N. P. Linevich to the post. Linevich was sent to Peking in a move that caught Lamsdorf off guard. Kuropatkin’s actions indicate that not only did the minister of war have his own views on the role Russia should play in the Far East, but that he was also prepared to act upon these views.

As in the case with the seizure of Port Arthur, S. Iu. Witte not only came quickly to terms with what had happened, but accordingly cor-rected his own views on China policy. According to Nicolas II’s notes on Chinese affairs dating from August 11, 1900, instead of speaking out in favor of economic penetration in China, the Minister of Finance spoke about the diffi cult situation of the Russian economy and the need to concentrate on the consolidating the Russian position in the treaty on the KVZhD, insisting on its partial review as a condition for the removal of Russian troops from Manchuria.29 This became one of the main drivers of Witte’s position on Chinese policy in the second half of 1900 and the beginning of 1901: “We will leave Manchuria only when everyone calms down and all of our demands are met.”30 This meant that negotiated commitments, rather than the economic penetration he had championed between 1895 and 1899, was of utmost importance to the fi nance minister, though he still did not favor force as did the Ministry of War.

28 GARF, f. 601, op. 1, d. 445, l. 52. 29 RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 218, ll. 66-73. The minister of fi nance intended to award the KVZhD concessions on all gold deposits throughout almost all of Manchuia as well as a monopoly on oil and nickel, and coal in areas “served” by the railroad (B. A. Romanov, op. cit., p. 286). 30 S. Iu. Witte to D. D. Pokotilov from October 25, 1900 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 29, d. 11, l. 1).

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For this reason, Witte set his sights on concluding a separate treaty with Peking that would favor Russia.31 After the defeat of the Boxer Rebellion, Peking’s rulers were in a state of confusion and dismay. In November 1900, Li Hung Chang, returning to government after a previous period of disgrace, was even ready “to realize a plan giving [Russia rights to the] exploitation of all the wealth on [the northern] side of the Great Wall; that is, immense concessions with the right to maintain [Russia’s own] security if [Russia] acknowledges the Heav-enly Kingdom’s [i.e. China] sovereignty [over these territories].”32 As the situation calmed, the Chinese central government showed less and less desire to make concessions. Peking’s intractability and the resulting refusal to further pursue a separate treaty led to a signifi cant increase in the reliance on force in Russian policy. Russia increasingly used the continued presence of Russian troops in China to pressure the Chinese. A. N. Kuropatkin even went so far as to send new divisions to Manchuria after the failure to negotiate a separate peace.33 Russia’s demands on China were also gradually changing. Instead of the strengthening of Russia’s economic position in the occupied region, with which nego-tiations started, Russia came to desire de facto change in the status of Manchuria that would give it a special status as a foreign border area with a Russian military government and would put the pacifi cation of the territory fully in Russian hands.34

In addition to the fact that the military now had a colossal infl uence on Chinese policy, there also arose the temptation to bypass China’s central government and settle all problems directly with the local ad-ministrations in the areas occupied by Russian troops. These administra-tions had essentially been left in a state of complete dependence on the Russians. Success here was not based on economic means, but rather on agreements that would secure a special, privileged position for Russian subjects. From the end of 1900, for example, the Chinese governors of Manchurian provinces were forced to turn to the Russian-Chinese Bank 31 B. A. Romanov, op. cit., pp. 263-292. 32 The telegram of E. E. Ukhtomskii from November 21, 1900 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 190, l. 128).33 Krasnyi arkhiv 2 (63) (1932), pp. 28-29.34 “Plan uregulirovaniia polozheniia v Man’chzhurii 24 aprelia 1901 g.” (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 100, l. 32).

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for any loans. Evidently, the fi rst to do so was the governor-general of Shenyang who received a loan of 200,000 lan.35 The governor-general of Jilin followed suit, and asked to receive a one million-lan loan to be paid back over fi ve to six years with the region’s import tariffs serving as collateral.36 The governor-general of Harbin received similar conditions. In return, the Ministry of Finance wanted to receive their support for an array of concessions—awarded either to the Russian-Chinese Bank or for the KVZhD—for the exploitation of gold mines, coal fi elds, woods and the like. The ministry sought to strengthen the Russian-Chinese Bank’s right to be the fi rst to receive the chance at any such concessions.37 Of course, the purchasing of concessions is not normal activity for a bank, especially because the charter of the Russian-Chinese Bank did not foresee the bank undertaking any such activities. These transactions also confl icted with bank policies, here-to-fore followed, that all of its activities should be profi table. This refl ected Witte’s practice of using treasury resources under pseudo-private enterprises to political ends. The minister of fi nance supposed that it would be possible to sell the concessions to foreign and Russian businessmen and corporations.38

This created a paradoxical situation. Government bureaucrats and military offi cials were now more active in seeking concessions than were Russian businessmen. Thus, V. F. Liuba, a representative of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, lead negotiations to gain concessions in the Jilin region.39 He succeeded to the point that on March 2, 1901, the gov-ernor-general of Jilin recognized the Russian-Chinese Bank’s privileged position in the awarding of all concessions. But all of Liuba’s efforts proved fruitless in the end. One year later, the same Liuba had to report the complete failure of would-be Russian gold miners in Jilin province.

35 D. D. Pokotilov to P. M. Romanov from December 8, 1900 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 883, l. 1); A. Iu. Rotshtein to D. D. Pokotilov from December 8, 1900 (Ibid., l. 2). 36 RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 883, l. 4. 37 I. P. Shipov to D. D. Pokotilov from February 6, 1901 (RGIA, f. 560, op. 29, d. 66, ll. 153-154); B. A. Romanov, op. cit., pp. 326-327. 38 B. A. Romanov, op. cit., p. 379. 39 V. F. Liuba to E. I. Alekseev from February 24 and March 3, 1901 (Rossiiskii gosudarstven-nyi arkhiv Voenno-morskogo fl ota, f. 32, op. 1, d. 110, ll. 6-7, 9). V. F. Liuba believed that the Russian-Chinese Bank’s monopoly on concessions in Manchuria led Russian private businessmen to lose money (B. A. Romanov, op. cit., p. 371).

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IGOR V. LUKOIANOV

Astashev (a Russian gold magnate) the Russian Gold Production Soci-ety, and the Upper Amur Company were very cautious and occupied themselves with small projects in realizing the concessions that had been granted them. The Chinese had expected that Russian business-men would help fi ll the local government’s treasuries and provide good wages for the population. “In reality it turned out to be: trivialism and penny pinching on deals worth millions that required similarly large initial outlays, inactivity, and the tendency procrastination that drew out the prospecting phase over as long a period of time as possible.” This resulted in a “defi ant and resentful attitude by the Chinese” and left local governments dissatisfi ed with the Russians.40 In the end effect, the bank was not awarded a large number of concessions (about 15 or so in all) and did not play a signifi cant role in Russia’s China policy. At the same time, the policy of concluding separate agreements with Man-churia’s governors, which not only strengthened Russia’s advantageous economic position, but also enhanced Russian control and put certain limits on the Chinese government in the region, meant the establishment of a de facto Russian protectorate.41

Such actions greatly upset the central government in Peking, which did what it could to oppose these and other measures. In 1902, new mining regulations were adopted that made it more diffi cult for foreigners to be awarded concessions. Simultaneously, in 1901-1902, Peking increased its efforts to settle ethnic Chinese in Manchuria.42 Chinese resettlement also began to affect Russian provinces in the Far East, creating fertile ground for fears of a growing “yellow menace” con-nected with the construction of the KVZhD and Russia’s colonization of Manchuria.43 Taken altogether this meant that not only did Witte’s new tactics fail to bring him any successes, but were creating considerable additional problems.

40 “Donesenie V. F. Liuby v MID 28 marta 1902” (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 776, ll. 78-82). 41 B. A. Romanov, op. cit., p. 295; Quested, op. cit., pp. 69-88. 42 I. A. Dobrolovskii, Kheilutszyianskaia provintsiya Man’chzhurii (Kharbin, 1906); A. P. Boloban, Zemledelie i khlebopromyshlennost’ v Severnoi Man’chzhurii (Kharbin, 1909) and others. 43 S. D. Merkulov, Russkoe delo na Dal’nem Vostoke (St. Petersburg, 1912) and others.

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PORTO-FRANCO IN THE RUSSIAN FAR EAST:PROBLEMS OF ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT OF PRIMOR’E

In such conditions, successful economic expansion would have to be pursued fi rst and foremost through the introduction and the strengthen-ing of Russian goods in Chinese markets. The success of Russian exports to China required that the production of Russian goods take place in geographically adjacent areas, especially in the region around Lake Baikal and in Primorye. The Ministry of Finance, however, took next to no steps to promote the development of the economy of the Russian Far East. Even Vladivostok, the center of the Russian Far East, consisted of little more than the port and the infrastructure serving the port. There were practically no private enterprises in the city. Food processing was completely lacking. The majority of the goods needed in the region were imported, including fi re-resistant clay from England (!) and coking coal from Japan.

Having studied the problem in depth, one economist came to the tragic conclusion that the “industrial capital of the region [was] not able to build large-scale plants.”44 The well-off among the local population preferred to transfer the majority of their savings to European Russia and the Ministry of Finance did not undertake any efforts to meet the credit needs of markets of the Russian Far East.

Regulations freeing goods that were imported through free trade ports of customs duties had existed in the Russian Far East from the middle of the nineteenth century. However, Witte did not use this instru-ment in the best manner possible. Dalny was declared a free trade port on July 30, 1899 in a tsarist decree, while customs duties were introduced in Vladivostok in 1900. The Ministry of Finance hoped in this way to shift the center of Russian trade to Guandun.

One can argue about the effectiveness of such measures, which were generally in keeping with Witte’s policy of industrial protection-ism. It is doubtless that, given the severe defi cit of capital and the lack of developed production (that is, the lack of a competitive environment), the establishment of the free trade port restrained prices, while the cancel-

44 V. E. Gluzdovskii, Primorsko-Amurskaya okraina i Severnaya Man’chzhuriia (Vladivostok, 1917), p. 134.

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IGOR V. LUKOIANOV

lation of free trade provisions caused prices to surge. Almost everything became more expensive overnight despite the fact that customs duties had only been introduced on a few imported goods. Eggs, for example, had become twice as expensive by 1903; the price of bricks rose almost 50 percent; and timber and sand became one third more expensive.45 Moreover, the competitiveness of locally produced goods decreased almost immediately despite the resultant growth in prices. As a result, Vladivostok-based producers of matches, for example, were pushed out of the Japanese market.

This did not give local products, which were expensive in the fi rst place, any chance to penetrate the Chinese market to an appreciable de-gree. They hopelessly lost market share to less expensive and higher qual-ity goods from America and Japan. Witte’s protectionism in the Russian Far East and his plans for economic expansion in China were in essence in confl ict with each other. This inconsistency can be explained by the minister’s intention to shift the region’s economic center to Manchuria, specifi cally to the Liaodun peninsula which Russia rented from China.

Unsurprisingly, the Ministry of Finance’s efforts were directed at the development of Manchuria rather than the development of Russia’s own Far Eastern regions. In the ten years beginning in 1895, Russian investment in China exceeded Russia’s exports to China by fi ve times. Modernly equipped enterprises were established in Manchuria, includ-ing timber mills, construction companies, and agricultural processing plants.46 Already in 1903, this strange policy met with the obvious disap-proval of businessmen from Russia’s Far East, a movement that was even supported by the management of the KVZhD. In their opinion, Russia ought to be exporting products to Manchuria, not building factories.47 This is indeed what happened following the Russo-Japanese War.

45 A. A. Berezovskii, Tamozhennoe oblozhenie i porto-franko v Priamurskom krae (Vladivostok, 1907), pp. 28-29. 46 G. A. Sukhacheva, “Vliianie russkogo kapitala na promyshlennoe razvitie Man’chzhurii (1895-1917 gg.),” Istoricheskie kontakty Rossii i Sovetskogo Soiuza s Kitaem vo vtoroi polovine XIX—pervoi polovine XX v. (Vladivostok, 1986), pp. 93-94. 47 “Dokladnaia zapiska pravleniia KVZhD po povodu khodataistva Vladivostokskogo birzhevogo obshchestva,” n/d. [1903] (RGIA, f. 1416, op. 1, d. 238). The memorandum’s authors were above all afraid of the penetration of cheaper products from Manchuria into the markets of the Russian Far East.

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After 1900, Witte did not do much to further economic expansion even in the border regions of Manchuria. The Russian-Chinese Bank occupied itself with transactions everywhere except in northern China. In Port Arthur, the bank did more to scare off its clients than to develop commercial activities. Having exclusive rights to act in Guandun, the bank refused to provide “the simplest and most essential banking operations, such as the insuring of lottery tickets, and the holding and guarding of securities; moreover, the bank did not pay any interest on current accounts and charged extremely high fees for any money trans-fers they conducted.”48 Bank transfers sent by telegram could take up to four months! The bank similarly took a large commission on the sale of bonds and exchange of currency, and made it diffi cult for clients to get credit even at unfair annual rates as high as eight to nine percent.

The creation of the Manchurian Mining-Industrial Company on July 5, 1902, can only to a limited degree be viewed as the continuation of Witte’s policy of economic expansion in Manchuria. Witte argued for the creation of the new company in order to buy concessions, at which the company hardly succeeded. In one year of activity—the company ceased its activities after Witte’s dismissal from the position of minister of fi nance in August 1903—the company only managed to obtain the rights to six somewhat notable concessions. Three of them involved gold mining, one involved the mining of coal, and the other two consisted of a share of equity in other companies.49 Such a result could hardly be explained by the limited funding that Witte had at his disposal for this project, the founding capital of which constituted only one million rubles. As B. A. Romanov had justly noted, the founding of a company by the minister’s chief rivals was connected the failure to win timber conces-sions on the Chinese bank of Yalu river.50 Both enterprises were founded in the summer of 1902 and both focused mainly on obtaining conces-sions—and both were noted for their lack of success. The Manchurian Mining-Industrial Company was created four months after the adoption of new mining regulations in China. The founding of the company at a moment when the chances of foreign-backed ventures seeking conces-

48 A. Khvostov, “Russkii Kitai,” Vestnik Evropy 11 (1902), pp. 182-183. 49 B. A. Romanov, op. cit., pp. 377-381. 50 Ibid., pp. 383-384.

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IGOR V. LUKOIANOV

sion radically worsened is more than a little strange. The most plausible explanation seems to be that Witte’s policy of economic expansion in China was by 1902 no longer an independent policy, but an instrument used in his struggle for infl uence in Far Eastern affairs, in this case with the group of pseudo-entrepreneurs led by A. M. Bezobrazov.

In the second half of 1902, the Minster of Finance once again revised his economic policies vis-à-vis China, this time considering a complete retreat from any active measures, even in Manchuria. This happened after Witte fi rst traveled to the Far East in the autumn of 1902. There he visited a KVZhD construction site as well as the South Manchurian Railroad (IuMZhD), and spent some time in Port Arthur and Dalny. As a result of his trip, the minister prepared a note to all of his subordinates, the main idea of which was that Russia’s Far Eastern policy should revolve around the KVZhD. Despite the fact that he still hoped for the development of economic ties between Russia and China and still believed in the key transit role of the Trans-Siberian Railroad, the minister placed his main bets on the active colonization of the strip of land belonging to the KVZhD that ran alongside the railroad (which the minister intended to get extended from one-and-a-half to fi ve verstas on either side of the track), and the attraction of foreign capital.51 Witte’s new economic program was conditioned by an array of political steps: the withdrawal of Russian troops from Manchuria, the reaching of an agreement with the Chinese, and reaching an agreement with Japan on the basis of Petersburg “temporarily” not pursuing its interests in Korea. This note again demonstrates that the minister of fi nance’s interest was concentrated exclusively on control of Manchuria and not focused so much on economic methods as on the use force and colonization.

The complete lack of success of all of Witte’s previous policies in China were noted at a meeting with the participation of Tsar Nicholas II held in Yalta on October 27, 1902. The meeting was dedicated to the colonization of the strip of land that accompanied the KVZhD rail line. The notes of this meeting demonstrate yet another change in the min-ister of fi nance’s position. S. Iu. Witte even partially retreated from his Manchurian plans. If his note on his trip to the Far East spoke about the need to develop the KVZhD at all costs, then Witte refuted the need

51 RGIA, f. 1622, op. 1, d. 711.

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to take any action during the meeting, declaring that the processes of Russifi cation should proceed historically and “not [be] hurried or forced from the natural fl ow of events” 52—this despite stating his belief that Manchuria would defi nitely become a part of Russia or be fully depend-ent on Russia. In the framework of this new policy, the minister spoke out against the large-scale resettlement of Russians in the strip of land on either side of the KVZhD, arguing that limiting settlement was in the security interests of the railroad. To strengthen Russia’s position in the Far East, he suggested building the Amur Railroad that would run exclusively through Russian territory. At the same time, Russian colo-nization was presented as practically the best method for strengthening Russian control over the rail line. For this reason, Witte told Nicholas II that he was in favor of beginning limited colonization along the KVZhD and against the removal of Russian troops from Jilin.53 In order to attract Russians to the region, the government should offer settlers unheard of benefi ts: not only should they receive signifi cant travel allowances, but also were not to be subject to communal regulations—they were allowed to establish separate farms—and were granted freedom of worship.54 A bit later, in June 1903, Witte supported the idea of P. M. Lessar, the Russian ambassador in Peking, that the only way to prevent foreign activity in Manchuria contrary to Russian interests was to annex the territory to Russia. The minister of fi nance only regretted that the military occupation of Manchuria could not be continued indefi nitely.55 It turned out that the majority of active political efforts made in the Far East were wasted. Instead of dominating Chinese markets, it was time to discuss plans for returning Russia’s divisions. This was probably also a serious blow to Nicholas II, who had not long before dreamt of

52 “Chernovik zhurnala Osobogo soveshchaniia 27 oktiabria 1902 g.” (RGIA, f. 560, op. 26, d. 326, ll. 163-164); P. N. Simanskii, Sobytiia na Dal’nem Vostoke, predshestvovavshie rus-sko-iaponskoi voine (1891-1903 gg.), Chast’ 3, “Poslednii god pered voinoi” (St. Petersburg, 1910), pp. 25-26. 53 “Dnevnik A. N. Kuropatkina. Zapis’ 2 noiabria 1902 g.” (copy) (Rossiiskii gosudarstven-nyi voenno-istoricheskii arkhiv, f. 165, op. 1, d. 5435, ll. 137-138). 54 “Protokol zasedaniia pravleniia Obshchestva KVZhD 2 iiulia 1903 g.” (RGIA, f. 323, op. 1, d. 1179, ll. 17-26). On list 17, Witte’s mark—“agree.” 55 P. M. Lessar to S. Iu. Witte from June 11, 1903 with the marks of the Minster of Finance (RGIA, f. 560, op. 28, d. 255, l. 199).

244

Russian supremacy over all of Asia. The realization that large sums of money had been spent on political shenanigans in China made the Tsar’s bitter disappointment even worse. The Tsar’s desire to salvage at least something from these efforts was natural, as was his growing distrust of Witte, which ended with Witte’s eventual removal from the post of fi nance minister in August 1903.

As a result, Russia’s Far Eastern policy boiled down to diplomatic pressure backed up by the threat of force just before the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War in 1903 and was managed in large part by A. N. Kuropatkin, E. I. Alekseev, and the group of entrepreneurs led by A. M. Bezobrazov. Broad economic penetration into China completely disappeared from the political agenda. To a large degree this meant that Russia’s attempt to achieve colonial gains through peaceful, economic means, imitating the successes of other powers, ended in complete failure. The reasons for this failure were the insuffi cient consideration of the ideas underlying Russia’s attempts at economic imperialism and its inability to organize the commercial activity needed (along the way, the superior effectiveness of private capital over treasury funds was proven), as well as the disproportionate size of the declared goals (economic hegemony in the majority of China), given the resources available to achieve these goals. It can be said that these policies were doomed to failure from the very beginning.

245

12RUSSIAN POLITARISM AS THE MAIN REASON

FOR THE SELLING OF ALASKA1

ANDREI V. GRINEV

There are a number of specialized studies and articles by Soviet/Russian and American researchers dedicated to the selling of Russia’s American colonies (now Alaska, the forty-ninth state of the United States).2 The topic has also been touched on in a number of major his-torical works, including general research into the history of Alaska, the history of Russian-American relations in the nineteenth century, and the activities of the Russian American Company (RAC), which governed Russia’s American holdings from 1799 to 1867.3

The present article provides an overview of the content of offi cial documents and the arguments of leading experts on the subject as well as my own conclusions about the reasons that led Russia to abandon its American overseas territories in 1867. The following table summarizes all of the main arguments put forth as the main reasons underlying the decision to sell Russian America.

1 This topic is also addressed in my “Why Russia Sold Alaska: The View from Russia,” Alaska History 1-2 (2004), pp. 1-22. See also the discussion between Dr. Ilya Vinkovetsky and me in Acta Slavica Iaponica 23 (2006), pp. 171-218.2 S. B. Okun’, “K istorii prodazhi russkikh kolonii v Amerike,” Istoricheskie zapiski 2 (1938), pp. 209-239; M. I. Belov, “K stoletiiu prodazhi Aliaski,” Izvestiia Vsesoiuznogo Geograf. obsh-chestva 99:4:1 (1967), pp. 132-141; N. N. Bolkhovitinov, “Kak prodali Aliasku,” Mezhdunar-odnaia zhizn’ 7 (1988), pp. 120-131; Idem, “Eshche raz o prodazhe Aliaski,” SShA: ekonomika, politika, ideologiia 10 (1998), pp. 94-102; Frank A. Golder, “The Purchase of Alaska,” American Historical Review 25:3 (1920), pp. 3, 10-25; Ronald J. Jensen, The Alaska Purchase and Russian-American Relations. (Seattle, 1975); James R. Gibson, “The Sale of Russian America to the United States,” Acta Slavica Iaponica 1 (1983), pp. 15-37, and others.3 See S. B. Okun’, Rossiisko-Amerikanskaia kompaniia (Moscow, Leningrad, 1939), pp. 219-258; N. N. Bolkhovitinov, Russko-amerikanskie otnosheniia i prodazha Aliaski. 1834-1867 (Moscow, 1990), pp. 89-341; Benjamin P. Thomas, Russo-American Relations 1815-1867 (New York, 1970 [c1930]), pp. 143-166; Lydia T. Black, Russians in Alaska 1732-1867 (Fairbanks, 2004), pp. 273-287.

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ANDREY V. GRINEV

Table

1 The geographic distance of the colonies and the diffi culties supplying the colony from the metropolitan center.

2 Unsuitable climactic conditions made it impossible to develop agriculture on a large scale in order to supply the population of Russian America.

3 The discovery of gold in Alaska and nearby regions provoked an infl ux of foreign prospectors, weakening Russia’s control over the colonies.

4 Native resistance to Russian colonization.

5 The extreme paucity of the permanent Russian population in Alaska supposedly caused by the continuation of serfdom in the metropolitan center.

6 The poor management of the RAC and specifi cally the company’s efforts to avoid the establishment of a large contingent of permanent Russian settlers in Alaska.

7 The diffi cult economic position of the Russian American Company, which demanded constant state subsidies during the fi nal period of its existence.

8 Acute state budget shortages in the metropolitan center that required that additional fi nancial resources be found.

9 The expansion of American and English economic and trade interests in Russia’s territorial waters and lands in America (whalers, smugglers, and others).

10 The threat of mass settlement by American religious minorities and other would-be settlers in Alaska, and the territory’s potential to breakaway from Russian control as a result of this “creeping” American colonization.

11 Military threats to the Russian colonies from other foreign powers (i.e, the United Kingdom, the USA) and Russia’s weak military position following the Crimean War.

12 The desire to draw nearer to the United States in an attempt to counterbalance the British and in the desire of strengthening tensions between the two countries.

13 The fact that most Russian colonization was redirected to the Far East and Sakhalin at this time as well as coinciding with the beginning of the conquest of Central Asia.

14 The overseas character of Russia’s colonies in America stood in contrast to Russia’s more traditional “continental” colonization of Siberia.

15 The general socio-economic backwardness of Russia, which was not able to compete with the leading capitalist powers in the north Pacifi c.

16 Subjective factors underlying the positions of a number of key fi gures in the Rus-sian government, who had their own reasons for wanting to be rid of Russia’s oversees possessions.

247

RUSSIAN POLITARISM AND THE SELLING OF ALASKA

PROBLEMS OF HISTORIOGRAPHY

This chapter will begin the discussion at the top of the table and work its way down. It seems obvious that geographical factors, such as Alaska’s remoteness and its unsuitable climate, did not play any essential role in its sale to the United States. After all, Alaska’s remoteness did not prevent the Russians from being the fi rst Europeans to reach its coasts and inclement climactic conditions did not stop the settling of the Rus-sian North. For example, Yakutia’s far more inhospitable climate did not stop Russian pioneers from colonizing the territory in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Finally, concerns about Alaska’s remoteness and climate were never mentioned in offi cial documentation as a reason directly connected with the decision to sell.4

Another natural factor, the presence of gold in Alaska, is often invoked by researchers as a major reason why the Tsar’s government decided to give up its overseas territories, supposedly fearing a massive infl ux of foreign prospectors.5 Although this argument often appears in the historical literature on the subject, further research has proven that this fear was not actually taken into consideration during the sale.6 First, precious few gold deposits were discovered in Alaska during its time as a Russian colony and, second, there is no mention in Russian offi cial documents of this as a reason for the colony’s sale.

Similarly, offi cial documents do not mention resistance to Russian colonization by Alaska’s native population as a reason for sale, though this problem was broadly covered in materials produced by the govern-mental Committee for the Organization of Russia’s American Colonies (Komitet ob ustroistve russkikh amerikanskikh kolonii) in 1863.7 The “Indian”

4 See the following published documents: David H. Miller, The Alaska Treaty (Kingston: Ontario, 1981), pp. 59-62; Bolkhovitinov, Russko-amerikanskie otnosheniia, pp. 328-331.5 Okun’, Rossiisko-Amerikanskaia kompaniia, pp. 230-233; Bolkhovitinov, Russko-amerikanskie otnosheniia, p. 201; E. V. Alekseeva, Russkaia Amerika. Amerikanskaia Rossiia? (Ekaterinburg, 1998), p. 137; Anatole G. Mazour, “The Prelude to Russia’s Departure from America,” Morgan B. Sherwood, ed., Alaska and Its History (Seattle, London, 1967), p. 167.6 Andrei V. Grinev, “Zoloto Russkoi Ameriki: nesostoiavshiisya Klondaik,” Amerikanskii ezhegodnik 2001 (Moscow, 2003), pp. 138-162.7 Doklad Komiteta ob ustroistve russkikh amerikanskikh kolonii (St. Petersburg, 1863), Part 1, pp. 156, 176, 242, 245.

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factor has been almost completely ignored in the academic literature on the issue. Native resistance to Russian colonization was mentioned as an indirect reason for Russia’s abandoning of its New World colonies in the works of N. N. Bolkhovitinov, the eminent specialist on the subject. In my opinion, Bolkhovitinov’s statement is in need of further refi nement. Only the militarily-minded Tlingit and Haida (Kaigani) tribes presented any real danger to Russians settling in Alaska’s southeast. Therefore, although the “Indian” factor should be taken into account, it certainly did not play a decisive role in Russia’s decision, especially as the threat from the natives was consciously exaggerated in RAC documents as well as in the publications of its opponents.

The next reason listed for the selling of Alaska is, in keeping with the opinion of some historians, the extremely few Russians—just a few hundred altogether—who settled in Alaska.8 It must be noted that this factor is judged very differently by different researchers. On the one hand, it is sometimes completely ignored. On the other hand, a number of authors consider the “demographic factor” to be very essential and even a decisive reason for the Russian position on Alaska. Moreover, researchers often point to the continuation of serfdom in Russia as the main obstacle preventing the mass peasant colonization of the area.9 However, they forget that even if there had been no serfdom, the peas-ant colonization of Alaska would have been highly unlikely because the lands were for the most part unfi t climactically for agriculture. Further-more, it should not be forgotten that Alaska was sold a few years after the abolition of serfdom and that Russian peasants had therefore been at least theoretically given time to show an inclination to moving to the New World. Moreover, even before it was abolished, peasants living in the Russian North were not subject to serfdom and were nominally free to settle in Alaska. That they did not do so is because of the policy pursued by the tsarist government and because the RAC limited pos-sibilities to settle in Alaska, not wishing to bear the additional costs

8 S. G. Fedorova, Russkoe naselenie Aliaski i Kalifornii. Konets XVIII veka—1867 g. (Moscow, 1971), pp. 136-147.9 Okun’, Rossiisko-Amerikanskaia kompaniia, pp. 162-163; G. A. Agranat, Zarubezhnyi Sever. Ocherki prirody, istorii, naseleniia i ekonomiki raionov (Moscow, 1957), pp. 25, 30; Belov, “K stoletiiu,” p. 239; A. I. Alekseev, Osvoenie russkimi liud’mi Dal’nego Vostoka i Russkoi Ameriki do konsta XIX veka (Moscow, 1982), pp. 128, passim.

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associated with increasing the number of Russian immigrants.10 In the mind of the company’s management, the appearance of a large number of colonists had the potential of negatively affecting the fur industry, the basis of company’s wealth. The RAC’s self-serving motives and ill-advised government policies thus impacted the fate of the colonies in a very negative way.

The company’s weak management, as evident in the company’s ex-cessive bureaucracy and needless administration, lack of enterprise, and inability to understand the necessity to change the company’s activities in accordance with the capitalistic spirit of the times and the realities of post-reform Russia, indirectly contributed to this as well.11 Weak man-agement to some extent (although not to a decisive degree) provoked the escalation of fi nancial crises that plagued the RAC throughout the 1860s. The company’s dire economic situation strengthened the opinion among tsarist offi cials that both the company and the colonies it managed brought precious few benefi ts to the state. The company was reduced to this diffi cult position due to overly slow capital turnover, the shrinking of the traditional Chinese market, and the decrease in governmental assistance from the beginning of the 1860s on, a situation refl ected in life in the colonies.

Another economic factor—the state budget defi cit, which mush-roomed due to expenses incurred during the Crimean War—launched the Russian government on a feverish attempt to secure new loans and cut offi cial expenses. This is sometimes cited in offi cial document as well as in some historical studies on the subject as a reason driving the sale. However, the consensus of most researchers is that the 11.5 million rubles in silver (7.2 million US dollars) raised from the sale of Alaska did not play a decisive role in determining the colony’s fate because this amount was so insignifi cant compared to the overall state budget that it simply vanished into the background of the total budget expenses of the empire.12

10 Fedorova, Russkoe naselenie, pp. 137-145.11 For more on this point, see: Andrei V. Grinev, “The Dynamics of the Administrative Elite of the Russian American Company,” Alaska History 17:1-2 (2002), pp. 1-22.12 R. V. Makarova, “K istorii likvidatsii Rossiisko-Amerikanskoi kompanii,” Problemy istorii i etnografi i Ameriki (Moscow, 1979), p. 270; Bolkhovitinov, Russko-amerikanskie otnosheniia, p. 200; Thomas A. Bailey, America Faces Russia. Russian American Relations from Early Times to Our Day (Ithaca, New York, 1950), p. 101.

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ANDREY V. GRINEV

Concerns about the expansion of the economic and trade interests of foreign smugglers, whalers, and gold prospectors who rushed to the shores and territories of Russia’s American colonies between the 1840s and 1860s serve as a kind of “bridge” between economically based and politically based arguments about why Russia sold Alaska. Trade in weapons, alcohol, and other goods, which were exchanged with the independent native populations in the region for valuable furs, and the uncontrollable hunting of whales and other marine animals disrupted the activities of the RAC and led to a decline in its revenues.13

This factor is supposedly also tied to the “creeping” British and American colonization. In this case, the threat did not come from the short-term stay of foreign nationals on the Russia’s American territories, but from their permanent settlement, which created the threat that these colonies would be wrested away from Russian control by the settlers. In fact, English smugglers and gold prospectors settled in the extreme far south of Russian America in the 1860s. Similarly, agents of the British Hudson Bay Company had already settled in the Yukon valley (also on Russian territory) in 1847, founding their trading post at Fort Yukon.14 “Creeping” foreign colonization was a reality that had to be faced, but it was not so large-scale as to be truly signifi cant. In the 1860s, foreign colonization was more of a potential threat facing the future of Russia’s colonies in North America than a contemporary reality.

The RAC should have, in theory, taken measures to fi ght the illegal penetration of foreigners into Russia’s territories in North America, but it simply could not cope with this task. First, the company did not have the authority and resources to resolve this problem through the use of force. Second, the tsarist government blocked any such action by signing conventions with the United States and the United Kingdom between 1824 and 1825 that promised to seek diplomatic solutions to any confl icts that arose over the settlement of each other’s nationals. Third, the Tsar’s

13 A. A. Narochnitskii, Kolonial’naia politika kapitalisticheskikh derzhav na Dal’nem Vostoke: 1860—1895 (Moscow, 1956), pp. 164-167, 178. See also T. M. Batueva, Ekspansiia SShA na Severe Tikhogo okeana v seredine XIX v. i prodazha Aliaski v 1867 g. (Tomsk, 1976); Howard I. Kushner, Confl ict on the Northwest Coast. American-Russian Rivalry in the Pacifi c Northwest, 1790—1867 (Westport, 1975).14 John S. Galbraith, The Hudson’s Bay Company as an Imperial Factor, 1821—1869 (Berkeley, Los Angeles, 1957), pp. 159-160.

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cabinet did not want to further strain relations with Britain, the world’s dominant naval power, nor did they want to disrupt Russia’s friendly relations with the United States in order to further the interests of the RAC and its weak colonies in Alaska.

In the view of the tsarist government as well as many historians, one of the paramount reasons for Russia’s abandonment of its American colonies was Russia’s military weakness in the Pacifi c Ocean and its in-ability to protect its colonies in case of a military confl ict—a defi ciency made all too clear during the Crimean War. In fact, Russia’s American colonies only managed to escape invasion by a joint British-French naval squadron during the Crimean War thanks to separate neutral-ity agreement signed between the RAC and the British Hudson Bay Company. In any case, the belief that Russia’s American colonies were defenseless was widely circulated in governmental circles, mostly at the instigation of Great Prince Constantine Nikolaevich, head of the Naval Ministry. This opinion was also wholeheartedly shared by the minister of fi nance, M. Ch. Reitern, and the minister of foreign affairs, Prince A. M. Gorchakov.15

Evidence of this opinion, as refl ected in offi cial documents, led the leading specialist on the Russian sale of Alaska, N. N. Bolkhovitinov, to the conclusion that external threats were perhaps even the most sig-nifi cant factor infl uencing the decision to sell Alaska. True, this leading researcher then comes to a contradictory conclusion: “Nevertheless, even this danger does not seem to be decisive. The fact is that external threats to these Russian territories existed over many years. The threat was especially acute from England and the USA during the years of the Crimean War, both of whose positions in the Pacifi c North were being continuously strengthened. At the same time, it was exactly in the 1860s that this threat weakened to some extent.”16

In my opinion, there does not seem actually to have been a constant threat facing Russia’s American colonies. The danger of foreign inter-vention existed only during a few, short periods of time that coincided with military confl icts between Russia and other European powers, 15 Prilozheniia k Dokladu komiteta ob ustroistve russkikh amerikanskikh kolonii (St. Petersburg, 1863), pp. 20-27, 68-70, 329-342; Miller, The Alaska Treaty, p. 60; Bolkhovitinov, Russko-amerikanskie otnosheniia, pp. 185, 193.16 Bolkhovitinov, Russko-amerikanskie otnosheniia, pp. 200, 202, 316.

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such as during the Russian-Swedish War (1788-1790), the time of the Napoleonic wars (1799 -1812), and, of course, the Crimean War (1853-1856). Russia’s main international rival in the middle of the nineteenth century, Great Britain, did not have any intention to start a confrontation over Russia’s American holdings as it was much more concerned about warding off potential American expansionism in Canada.17 A serious foreign policy crisis between Russia and a number of Western powers over the Polish uprising of 1863 was settled by the time of the Alaska sale. Regarding the United States, as N. N. Bolkhovitinov himself justly noticed, the United States had not recovered from the consequences of the Civil War by 1866. Friendly relations between the US and Russia peaked that year as witnessed by the mission of US Secretary of the Navy, Gustavus Vasa Fox, to Russia. There were no offi cial territorial disputes or confl icts between St. Petersburg and Washington, and the United States had already recognized the international borders of Rus-sian America in 1824. Finally, it should be remembered that the United States did not border the Russian colonies, but was divided from them by Canada. Thus, the idea that the Americans posed a military danger to the colonies, an idea that was successfully exploited by Great Prince Constantine and other governmental fi gures, was rather imaginary. Accordingly, the “military factor” that became one of the main formal reasons for the sale of Russia’s American holdings was artifi cially exag-gerated by the Great Prince, who, I believe, was following the interests of his department and his own personal geopolitical views. In reality, the international atmosphere of the mid-1860s favored the relative security of Russia’s overseas colonies, especially as British-American relations deteriorated after the end of American Civil War.

Indeed, St. Petersburg used the sale of Alaska to the United States to try to play on these British-American tensions in order to strengthen its position vis-à-vis Great Britain. The territory of British Canada was thus squeezed between lands belonging to the United States, which had long held hopes for further annexation. The Americans’ expansionist mood was no secret to the Russians who were attentively following the diplomatic confl icts in the mid-1860s between the United States

17 Mazour, “The Prelude,” p. 162; Glynn Barratt, Russian Shadows on the British Northwest Coast of North America, 1810—1890 (Vancouver, 1983), p. 53.

253


and the United Kingdom. This confl ict had grown out of the arming of Confederate cruisers by British citizens during the Civil War, which led to large losses in the North’s trading fl eet. Furthering the rift between the US and Great Britain was undoubtedly one of the main goals of the Tsar’s government, when the decision was made to sell Russia’s New World colonies. This is refl ected in offi cial documents, in particular in a note sent by Prince A. M. Gorchakov to the Tsar in December 1866.18 Moreover, the sale of the colony allowed the Russian Empire to avoid a possible future collision with a strong and quickly growing overseas republic, the leadership of which was to a certain extent guided by the Monroe Doctrine.

According to many historians, another geopolitical factor—the reorientation of Russia’s colonial efforts in the 1850s and 1860s toward Primor’e, Sakhalin, and Central Asia—also infl uenced the decision of the Tsar’s government to sell Alaska.19 In this connection, Russian interest in its North American colonies and the support they received from the imperial center weakened noticeably. Russia’s non-American colonies were relatively closer to the metropolitan center, had more favorable natural conditions, and seemed to Russian imperial offi cials to offer better prospects than far-off Alaska.

Further developing and re-analyzing this geopolitical argument in one of his recently published works, N. N. Bolkhovitinov tried to prove that one of the main reasons for abandoning Alaska while retaining Siberia was the preference for continental colonialism and a disdain for the overseas nature of Russia’s American colonies.20 In Bolkhovitinov’s opinion, the agriculture-based colonization of Siberia turned out to be more viable than the fur-based development of far-off Alaska.21 In this manner, Bolkhovitinov in fact argued that yet another natural, geo-graphic reasoning drove Russia’s decision to sell.

18 Miller, The Alaska Treaty, p. 60; Jensen, The Alaska Purchase, pp. 58-59.19 A. I. Alekseev, Sud’ba Russkoi Ameriki (Magadan, 1975), p. 311; Jensen, The Alaska Purchase, p. 23; Gibson, “The Sale of Russian America,” pp. 17, 30-33.20 See N. N. Bolkhovitinov, “Kontinental’naia kolonizatsiia Sibiri i morskaia kolonizatsiia Aliaski: skhodstvo i razlichie,” Acta Slavica Iaponica 20 (2003), pp. 109-125.21 The Canadian researcher, James R. Gibson came to similar conclusions. See his “Rus-sian Dependence upon the Natives of Russian America,” S. Frederick Starr, ed., Russia’s American Colony (Durham, 1987), pp. 32-40.

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ANDREY V. GRINEV

POLITARISM AS A REAL REASON

FOR THE SALE OF ALASKA

A number of Russian historians believe that Russia’s general so-cio-economic backwardness represents a more global reason for leav-ing Alaska. According to this argument, Russia was simply not able to compete in the north Pacifi c with two of the world’s most developed capitalistic countries of the time, Great Britain and the United States. In this connection, specialists usually refer to the continued dominance of feudal relations in Russia, i.e. serfdom, special nobility rights, the abuse of laws by the bureaucracy, and the conservativeness of tsarist autocracy that retarded the development of more progressive capitalistic relations in the country22 and directly infl uenced the empire’s overseas colonies.

However, in my opinion, Russia was in all of its history never a true feudal state, as was France during the Middle Ages. Russia was rather a politarist state.23 Politarism (from the Greek word politea or state) is a social system that forms where the state claims its supreme right to own and control the basic means of production, including labor power.24

On the surface, politarism seems very much like feudalism. In both cases there exists a supreme private owner of both the land and the peasants working the land, whose rights take precedent over all other economic relations. In both systems, people are dependants toiling under the lordship of others, but at the same time have limited “ownership” of their land (or at least they own their tools or some other assets) and their individual lives. Some differences do, however, exist. In feudal societies, each separate feudal ruler was the de facto autonomous private owner of a large landed property, which formed the basis for his economic and political independence. In the case of politarism, there is only one supreme owner who collectively exploits all producing classes and this ownership 22 Narochnitskii, Kolonial’naia politika, p. 166; Belov, “K stoletiiu,” pp. 293-295; N. N. Bolkho-vitinov, Russko-amerikanskie otnosheniia, p. 316.23 See A. V. Grinev, M. P. Iroshnikov, “Rossiia i politarizm,” Voprosy istorii 7 (1998), pp. 36-46.24 Karl Marx’s grandiose, but not completely correct term, “society with an Asian means of production,” is often used in historiography to denote societies of a politarist type. Modern historiographic texts use such terms as redistributive systems, autocratism, Eastern states, and the like.

255


is exercised by the state apparatus, the bureaucracy. In other words, a de facto private form of ownership dominates in the case of feudalism, while a system of private-state ownership dominates in politarism.25

The concept of politarism makes the reasons for the weakness of the Russian colonization of Alaska and the extremely small number of permanent Russian settlers easily understandable. As has already been stated, researchers usually associate the paucity of Russian settlement to Alaska’s extremely tough climactic conditions and the domination of serfdom in the imperialist center, both of which limited peasant coloni-zation. These are important aspects, but not determinant factors. For a long period of time there were, from a legal point of view, no Russian inhabitants in the colonies,26 as the entire population of the Russian em-pire, including the “free” inhabitants of the towns, were strictly assigned to a corresponding “community.” One could leave their “community” only with the permission of the authorities and only for a limited period of time. The politarist system, in which all or at least the vast majority of the population were state property, logically created a widespread “serf-dom” not limited to the peasantry and townspeople, but also including the nobility and the clergy (this remained the case until the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century).27

The system of total state “enserfment” was most evident on a per-sonal level through the passport system that had become widespread from the rule of Peter the Great. All of the employees of the RAC had to be issued state passports or analogous documents that allowed them to be present in the colony from three to seven years at a time, after which they were required to return to the place of their original “registration” or to their original place of state service. Although this rule was often violated in practice and the company later received permission to prolong the validity of passports, the problem of encouraging permanent Russian settlement in the colonies was never fully solved. Because of the system of passport control, the state had always reserved the right to recruit 25 See Iu. I. Semenov, Ekonomicheskaia etnologiia, Book 1, Part 3 (Moscow, 1993), pp. 581-585.26 Except for small groups of so-called “deportees”—settlers exiled to the colony in 1794—who are not taken into account. Their fate was rather tragic. See A. V. Grinev, Pervye russkie poselentsy na Aliaske,” Klio 2 (2001), pp. 52-65.27 B. N. Mironov, Sotsial’naia istoriia Rossii (St. Petersburg, 2000), vol. 1, pp. 360-384, 413.

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RAC employees into the army or to demand an employee return to his permanent place of registration in order to fulfi ll other obligations to the state. This, of course, hindered the formation of a permanent Russian population in the New World.

This problem was not solved by exiling around 40 Siberian settlers to Alaska in 1794 or by the 1835 granting of governmental permission for former employees of the RAC to settle in the colonies. As a result, the number of Russian colonists permanently living in Alaska was always extremely low, a fact that naturally did not help solidify Russia’s hold over the territory.

At the same time, the lack of a rather large Russian population, and especially the lack of Russian women, kept the true economic potential of the colony from being completely exploited and did not allow for the native American tribes to be completely brought to heel or for the successful countering of smuggling and foreign hunting missions in the territorial waters of Alaska. Such a small Russian population meant that there were not enough local residents to provide for the security and territorial wholeness of the colonies—in other words, there was an entire complex of problems that led to the eventual loss of Russian America.

Politarism provides us with the insight to understand the peculiari-ties of the economic system created in Russia’s American colonies and the problems that this system faced. Because of the RAC’s almost total monopoly and the company’s status as the mediator of supreme state power, a distributive economic system was established rather than a capitalistic, market-based system, because the latter require truly inde-pendent ownership. The lack of internal competition and incentives for RAC’s employees to take an interest in the results of their activities led to a low quality of production, which was in any case primarily restricted to the fur industry. The colonies secretly (and in their early years, openly) relied on the labor of dependent natives who made up the majority of the colonial workforce. A system of direct planning and bureaucracy fl ourished. No matter how paradoxical it may seem, the socio-economic system created in Russia’s American colonies was in many ways repro-duced tens of years later on a much larger scale in the USSR.28

28 For more information, see A. V. Grinev, “Russkaia Amerika i SSSR: udivitel’nye paral-leli,” Klio 1 (1999), pp. 119-127.

257


Given the above mentioned conditions, a politarist economic model was not able to compete with the dynamic development of British and American capitalism, because it was not able to guarantee high pro-ductivity, high quality of labor, or the free of movement of labor. These underlying economic factors led to the RAC’s fi nancial diffi culties of the 1860s, which in turn became an additional argument for a government that wanted to rid itself of the burden of its overseas colonies.

The overall technical and socio-economical backwardness of the politarist Russian Empire did not allow the problem of supplying food and other goods to the inhabitants of the empire’s American holdings ever be satisfactorily solved because of the weakness of Russia’s industry and trade fl eet. This was a direct result of the dominance of agriculture in Russia’s economy as well as the underdevelopment of Russian trade. This, in its turn, was caused by the peculiarities of the mother country’s natural and geographical conditions, communal organization of labor, low labor productivity, and onerous state taxes and obligations, as a result of which the producer was left with a minimal surplus that restricted the volume of the domestic market. Another reason for the underdevelopment of trade in Russia was the domination of state property over the private property and private interests that to a large degree drive the development of the active exchange inherent in capitalism. The development of trade was further suppressed by totality of the principle of state service. As a result, almost all external trade was concentrated in the hands of foreign merchants and was conducting using foreign vessels. Russia’s politarist state concentrated fi rst and foremost on its military fl eet and the lack of reliable connections with the imperial center made the position of Russia’s American colonies extremely vulnerable. In this way, the Russian poli-tarist system fostered what N. N. Bolkhovitinov terms the “continental” (as opposed to “marine”) character of Russian colonialism, whereby this character was determined not only by natural or geographic factors, as Bolkhovitinov suggested, but also socio-economic factors.

The ineffectiveness of the politarist socio-economic model, vividly demonstrated during the Crimean War, forced the tsarist government to introduce reforms “from above” beginning in the 1860s with the aim of broadening the capitalist sector of the economy and eventually trans-forming the entire system to a capitalist one. Pursuing these reforms demanded major state expenditure that in turn led to large budget defi -

258

cits. The government was pushed to a radical decision on the future of its American colonies because the colonies required constant fi nancial support from the government and represented an opportunity to realize a profi t from the selling of the territories.

Politarism allows us to understand the lightness and ease with which the Emperor, the personifi cation of the state’s supreme ownership of land and labor, sold Alaska in violation of 20-year guarantees granted to the RAC in 1866, and in complete contradiction of public opinion and the interests of the colonies’ inhabitants. The Tsar’s brother, Great Prince Constantine, and his colleagues played a large role in the making of this dramatic decision. The fate of the colony would doubtfully have been solved in such a straightforward manner without their powerful lobbying.29 Society’s complete lack of rights vis-à-vis the representatives of supreme state power is a telling characteristic feature of the politarist system.

It can be concluded that the fundamental reason for Russia’s sale of Alaska was Russia’s conservative and relatively backward politarist system, which was steadily giving way to the intensively developing capitalism of the second half of the nineteenth century. It is exactly the dominance of the politarist system in Russia’s imperial center and colonies that gave birth to the complex of problems that eventually led the tsarist government to its fatalistic decision to sell Russia’s American holdings to the United States.

29 A. V. Grinev, “Velikii kniaz’ Konstantin Nikolaevich i prodazha Aliaski (k 175-letinemu iubileiu velokogo kniazia Konstantina Nikolaevicha),” Peterburgskaia istoricheskaia shkola (St. Petersburg, 2004), vol. 3, pp. 157-179.

259

13MARITIME HISTORY AND IMPERIOLOGY:

JAPAN’S œNORTHERN FISHERIESBAND THE PRIAMUR GOVERNOR-GENERALSHIP

EISUKE KAMINAGA

INTRODUCTION

Maritime history is a booming area of interest among Japanese historians, many of whom focus on sea areas in Southeast and Northeast Asia. As for the latter, existing studies limit themselves to economic (above all, commercial) relations between China, Korea, and Japan. Few historians have written the history of Okhotsk or the Japan Sea from a maritime perspective, involving the Russian Empire. This chapter is devoted to developing this approach.

To combine maritime history with imperiology, it is necessary to consider relations between the problems of regional economies and im-perial governance. Imperial peripheries often suffered from a dilemma: the imperial government wanted the peripheries to develop quickly, but could not provide them with the necessary resources for this purpose because of their remoteness. As a result, peripheries, often authorized to make independent, operative decisions, had no alternative but to rely upon neighboring countries to obtain resources. However, this solution often provoked strategic or security concerns for the imperial govern-ment. There are several examples of this dilemma in the Russian Far East at the turn of the twentieth century, that is, problems of Chinese immigrant labor, port-franco, and Japanese entrepreneurs’ control over regional fi sheries. The Priamur Governor-Generalship tackled these dilemmas. The central mass media of the Russian Empire often exag-gerated economic rivalries between the border regions, portraying the rivalries in a primordial manner. Nevertheless, the borderlands of the Russian Far East largely maintained mutually benefi cial, economically

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EISUKE KAMINAGA

cooperative relations with neighboring countries, which innovated constantly and adapted to changing conditions.

The issue of the “Hokuyo” fi sheries (the Japanese fi sheries in the Northern Pacifi c near Russian/Soviet waters) and confl icts around them provides a typical example of this constant innovation and adaptation. Previous studies of this issue stressed the rivalries between the parties involved in both countries: fi shermen, regional authorities, entrepre-neurs, fi shery companies, politicians, and even public opinion. Whilst not denying the relevance of these tensions, it is important to introduce another analytical model addressed to Russo-Japanese relations.

In both Japan and the Soviet Union/Russia, the process of con-solidation of the Priamur fi shery system has hardly been studied. Japanese historians’ indifference to this issue seems to be caused by the small scale of the fi shery production in those waters at that time. Japanese contemporaries remarked on Russia’s constant attempts to exclude Japanese fi sherpersons.1 In Russia, there have been several studies on this issue. A. T. Mandrik, in his “A History of Fishery in the Russian Far East” (1994), which is a general history from the eight-eenth century to the 1920s,2 admits the nationalization of fi shery by the Priamur governor-generalship without question, never regarding it as one of the possible options in fi shery policy. A. I. Alekseev and V. N. Morozov, in their “The Exploitation of the Russian Far East” (1989)3 provide a general history of the region in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. This book includes a valuable comparison of fi sh-ery techniques and fi nancing between Russia and Japan,4 but I do not agree with the authors’ opinion that the Japanese authorities worked

1 Karafuto teichi gyogyo suisan kumiai [The Karafuto Association of Fixed-Net Fishing], ed., Karafuto to gyogyo [Karafuto and Fishing] (Toyohara, 1931); Narita Yosaku, Karafuto oyobi kita enkaishuu [Karafuto and the Northern Part of the Maritime Region] (1905); Roryo suisan kumiai [The Marine Products Association of the Russian Territories], Roryou gyogyo no enkaku to genjo [History and the Current Situation of Fisheries in the Russian Territories] (Tokyo, 1938). 2 A. T. Mandrik, Istoriia rybnoi promyshlennost’ rossiiskogo Dal’nego Vostoka (Vladivostok, 1994).3 A. I. Alekseev and V. N. Morozov, Osvoenie russkogo Dal’nego Vostoka (Moscow, 1989).4 Ibid., p. 102.

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out a coherent policy on Japanese fi shery in the Russian Far East.5 A collection, “A History of the Russian Far East” (1991),6 maintains that several entrepreneurs held a monopoly in the Russian Far East fi shery industry in the late nineteenth century and ignores structural changes in this industry at the time. As a whole, these studies tend to describe the governor-generalship’s fi shery management not as a continuing process of trial and error but as a stable strategy.

Particular diplomatic negotiations were held in order to regu-late the Russo-Japanese fi shery relations at that time. In these talks, diplomats from the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs represented Japanese interests, including those of the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce, and their Russian counterpart was the Priamur governor-general. This system allowed him to make rapid, operative decisions, bypassing St. Petersburg’s bureaucratic formalities and considering urgent local needs. This is why this chapter focuses on the governor-generalship’s strategies.

From its establishment in 1884 to the outbreak of the Russo-Japa-nese War in 1904, the Priamur governor-generalship aimed to restrict foreign (i.e., Japanese) fi shing and, at the same time, promote Russian fi shing, though excluding the fi shing of the indigenous population. At a fi rst glance, restrictions on Japanese fi shery would seem to have benefi ted Russian regional fi shing. In fact, however, Japanese fi sh-ing in the Russian Far East waters during this period showed stable growth. In other words, the more the Russian authorities tightened their control, the more Japanese fi shing developed. There is no paradox here because the Russian authorities implemented these regulations in a limited manner and, in some cases, even bridled Russian fi shing. For example, according to a writer of that time, Japanese poachers increased because of strict limitation of Japanese fi shing. Reports by the governor-generals will help to understand the mutual reliance of Russian and Japanese fi sheries.

5 Ibid., p. 102.6 A. I. Krushanov, ed., Istoriia Dal’nego Vostoka SSSR v epokhu feodalizma i kapitalizma:XII v.—fevral’ 1917 g. (Moscow, 1991).

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EISUKE KAMINAGA

DEBATES AT THE KHABAROVKA CONFERENCES

IN 1885-1886 AND THE CONSEQUENCES

In 1885 and 1886, almost immediately after the introduction of the Priamur governor-generalship, the fi rst governor-general Baron A. N. Korf convened conferences of governors and other local lead-ers (offi cials, scholars and entrepreneurs)7 in Khabarovka (the future Khabarovsk) to work out policies for the rapid exploitation of the region.8 These conferences consisted of sessions, one of which focused on fi shing. Its participants regarded full-scale progress in the region’s fi sheries as possible in the near future. They almost unanimously argued that the export of fi shery products and their domestic consumption, which would make the region prosper, had been hindered by the lack of specialists, labor force, capital investment, and salt for the preserva-tion of fi sh.9 To overcome this situation, they requested the Priamur governor-generalship to investigate rock salt near Nikolaevsk. In their view, sea salt imported from China and Japan was cheaper than rock salt shipped from European Russia, but sea salt was impure and too bitter for pickling.

There were two methods of taxing fi sheries and this was another agendum of the fi shery session: taxation as a rent for inshore fi shing grounds or tax imposition upon the weight of fi shery products. The former was easier to implement, but gave no incentive to develop un-cultivated fi shery grounds. The participants in the session supported the latter, the existing way of taxation, on the grounds that it would help offi cials to grasp the situation of the fi sheries and would not block access to newcomers. Remarkably, these participants took a positive attitude towards foreign newcomers and approved the policy that Russians would be given priority over foreigners only for new fi shery grounds. This limited priority that the Russians enjoyed did not mean the exclusion of foreigners from their fi sheries at all.

7 S’’ezd gubernatorov i drugikh predstavitelei (Khabarovka, 1885), pp. 33-34.8 S’’ezd gubernatorov…; I. Nadarov, Vtoroi s’’ezd gubernatorov i drugikh predstavitelei v gorode Khabarovke (Vladivostok, 1886).9 S’’ezd gubernatorov…, pp. 26-27.

263


The report on the next Conference of 1893 showed that the gov-ernor-generalship tried to realize the proposals made by the 1885-1886 conferences.10 Governor-general Korf’s report to the emperor, covering the years of 1886-189111 and his brochure12 confi rm that the governor-general repeated the view of the conferences in 1885 and 1886. The report gave a brief overview of fi shing in Lake Baikal and of Japanese fi shing in South Sakhalin. In this report Korf remarked that the Priamur fi shery as a whole, even including Japanese fi shing for Japanese con-sumption, was still on a small scale. Concerned about the possibility that lax monitoring would lead to excessive fi shing and resource depletion, he requested a rigorous surveillance system.13 For sustainable growth of fi shing, Korf proposed to build fi shing villages with immigrants from inner Russia, as well as to ship qualifi ed salt from there. He noted that the settlement of fi shing immigrants had actually started in that year (probably after 1891) in response to an advertisement by the Ministry of Internal Affairs.14 The topographical work by Korf also maintained that the main problem was the lack of quality salt and labor.15

Korf’s penchant for a fundamental solution of the problem was caused by the underdevelopment of the region’s fi shery. Market-ori-ented fi sheries (not for home consumption) in Priamur at that time were comprised of salmon fi shing in the entire region, kelp gathering in the Maritime and South Sakhalin, herring fi shing primarily in South Sakhalin, and sea cucumber collecting, but all these were small in scale. For example, according to relatively reliable sources, Japanese fi shing in South Sakhalin was on a scale of 51 fi shery grounds, 72 large fi shing nets, 41 fi shing boats, 1,423 fi sherpersons, and a total production of 500

10 Trudy III Khabarovskogo s’’ezda (Khabarovka, 1893), “Vvedenie.”11 Vsepodanneishii otchet Priamurskogo general-gubernatora s 1886 g. po 1891 g. Ministerstvo vnutrennikh del.12 A. N. Korf, Kratkii ocherk Priamurskogo kraia po offi tsial’nym dannym (St. Petersburg, 1892).13 The damage which excessive fi shing in the Baikal riverine system had caused to its fi shery reserves had already been known among policy-makers.14 Vsepodanneishii otchet … s 1886 g. po 1891 g., p. 33.15 Korf, Kratkii ocherk, pp. 30-31.

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EISUKE KAMINAGA

thousand salmon in 1991. This amount differed little from that in the early 1880s.16

DEBATES AT THE KHABAROVSK CONFERENCE

IN 1893 AND THE CONSEQUENCES

In the early 1890s, in the lower Amur near Nikolaevsk-in-Amur, Japanese fi shing entrepreneurs started salmon fi shing and addition-ally purchased salmon fi shed by Russians or indigenous habitants.17 The Japanese undertook the management of several fi sheries with the military governor’s offi cial permission. This operation extended to the whole Maritime region.18 At the same time, the new fi shery regulations in 1890 set marine preserves at many river mouths.

The governor-general and the military governors attended the Khabarovsk Conference in 1893,19 the agendas of which were broader than those of the 1886 conference. The conference discussed how to regulate salmon fi shery in the lower Amur and other fi sheries in the Maritime region and South Sakhalin. Concerning the former, the par-ticipants argued for the long-term lease of fi shery grounds instead of imposing obligations on fi shery entrepreneurs. The fi shery session of the conference agreed to give absolute priority to Russian entrepre-neurs’ benefi t. Opposing the existing one-year lease system, most of the participants from the business circles requested the long-term (12 years) lease of fi shery grounds, together with sites for salting.20 Moreo-ver, several participants criticized the existing system of obligatory

16 Karafuto minsei sho [The Karafuto Civil Administration], Karafuto nanbu suisan yosatsu chosa hokoku [The Report of the Preliminary Investigation of Fisheries around the South Sakhalin] (Toyohara, 1907), pp.72-73. 17 Vsepodanneishii otchet Priamurskogo general-gubernatora generala ot infanterii Grodekova 1898-1900 gg. (Khabarovsk, 1901), p. 82.18 Obzor Primorskoi oblasti za 1891 god (Prilozhenie ko Vsepodanneishemu otchetu) (Vladivostok, 1892), p. 10.19 Trudy III Khabarovskogo s’’ezda, p. 47.20 Ibid., p. 45.

265


procurement of fi sh by entrepreneurs from the Nivkhs for the sake of the latter’s welfare.21

Kelp gathering and sea cucumber fi shing in Sakhalin and the Mari-time region were aimed at export and therefore occupied an important position in the Priamur fi shing industry. The debates on the kelp gather-ing at the conference focused on the problems of labor supply and tax charge, with the assumption that Russia could compete with Japan in this area if a right set of policies were adopted. Russian fi shery entre-preneurs were obliged to hire some convicts in Sakhalin, the core area of kelp gathering in Priamur at that time. This administrative obligation was extremely unpopular among entrepreneurs. Few of these convicts worked diligently and the procedures for their employment were com-plicated.22 In contrast, the Japanese brought their experienced Japanese fi sherpersons to Sakhalin at relatively low wages. Russian entrepreneurs worried about their uncompetitive position. At that time, the tax charge for the export of one pud (about 16.39 kg) of salted salmon was seven kopeks for foreigners and fi ve kopeks for Russians. The entrepreneurs insisted on an increase of ten kopeks in these charges for foreigners on the grounds that the Japanese were immune from taxation by the Japanese customs.23 Offi cials, but not entrepreneurs, initiated the debates on sea cucumber fi shing. They found it necessary to improve the custom system of fi shery export and to ban the use of diving gear.24 The 1893 conference showed that the local entrepreneurs began to be seriously concerned about their Japanese rivals and requested the governor-generalship to take measures to raise their competitiveness.

Despite the business circles’ protectionist demand, in his report to the emperor covering 1893-95,25 Governor-general S. M. Dukhovskoi proposed to attract Japanese fi shing to North Sakhalin to exploit new

21 Ibid., pp. 46-47.22 “Zapiska Kuptsa Ia.L. Semenova o morskoi kapuste (Prilozhenie XVIII),” Trudy III Khabarovskogo s’’ezda, pp. 123-125.23 Trudy III Khabarovskogo s’’ezda, pp. 45-46. The Japanese certainly enjoyed immunity from taxation on the shipment of sea products from Sakhalin up to 1898.24 Trudy III Khabarovskogo s’’ezda, p. 46.25 Vsepodanneishii otchet Priamurskogo general-gubernatora 1893, 1894, 1895 gg. The preceding reports by governor-generals had only shown statistics of the general tax amount, while this report provided the statistics of fi sh catches in round numbers.

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fi shery grounds and the abundant food supply for Aleksandrovsk’s convicts. This report designed the locations of the new fi shery grounds with sites for salting and benefi cial tax charges.26 Strangely enough, the fact that Dukhovskoi’s proposal was carried out27 has been ignored in Japanese historiography. Thus, the myth that the Russian authorities were always restrictive against Japanese fi shing was created. Moreover, the report by Dukhovskoi shows that the 1893 conference’s request to raise the tax charge for foreigners for exporting salted salmon per pud from seven to ten kopeks had not been realized. In the same report, Dukhovskoi remarked on the need for professional assistance to develop fi shing.28 This request resulted in the establishment of the Priamur Na-tional Property Agency, in charge of forestry and fi shery administration, under the control of the Ministry of Agriculture and National Property.29 Thus, we observe the discrepancies between the protectionist fi shery entrepreneurs and the governor-generalship in search of the general development of the whole Priamur fi shery, even encouraging the active involvement of Japanese fi shers.

THE TURNING POINT IN FISHERY ADMINISTRATION

In the summer of 1898, more than 1,000 Japanese fi sherpersons took an active part in salmon fi shing operations near Nikolaevsk, where very few Japanese fi sherpersons had fi shed previously.30 The increase of Japanese fi sherpersons was a universal phenomenon across the Priamur 26 Vsepodanneishii otchet… 1893, 1894, 1895 gg., p. 96.27 According to Japanese sources, new fi shery grounds under offi cial management were in operation at the projected location, Tymrovo in North Sakhalin, in 1896 and the Japanese fi shery entrepreneurs fi shed and purchased fi sh there. See Noshomu sho suisan kyoku [The Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce, the Department of Fisheries], ed., Roryo saharin to gyogyo chosa hokoku [The Report of Fisheries around the Russian Sakhalin Island] (Tokyo, 1900), pp. 84-85.28 Vsepodanneishii otchet… 1893, 1894, 1895 gg., p. 98.29 Priamurskoe upravlenie gosudarstvennykh imushchestv, Uchrezhdenie upravleniia gos-udarstvennymi imushchestvami v Priamurskom krae (Khabarovsk, 1897), p. 14.30 Noshomu sho suisan kyoku, ed., Suisan boeki yoran zenpen [The Overview of Marine Products Trade] (Tokyo, 1903), p. 627.

267


region. Increasingly more Japanese fi sherpersons rushed to Sakhalin after 1896. While there had been 84 areas, 113 large fi shing nets and 2,158 fi sherpersons in 1895, by 1899 the number of fi shery grounds had increased to 227, and there were 244 nets and 4,346 fi sherpersons.31 Though it is diffi cult to identify the reasons for this rapid development of Japanese fi shing, perhaps this was caused by the improvement in fi shing nets, expanding demand for sea products in Japan, the development of uncultivated grounds, and meteorological conditions.

In his report for 1896-1897,32 Dukhovskoi illustrated the decline in kelp gathering and sea cucumber fi shing because of the Sino-Japanese War and bad weather. At the same time, continues Dukhovskoi, the war did not affect the other areas of fi shery thanks to open ports in Japan. According to him, the Priamur fi shery had made steady progress, as was shown by the increase in tax revenues by 150 percent in three years, 1893-95. Fishery entrepreneurs had emerged not only in the Maritime region but also in Kamchatka. An entrepreneur from Astrakhan attempted to salt fi sh with the latest technology in Sakhalin. In addition, the governor-general presented a plan of the massive shipment of fi shery products by the Volunteer Fleet utilizing ice storage.33

Changing his previous attitude towards foreign fishing, Dukhovskoi began to regard long-term lease of fi shery grounds as a forced evil, saying: “Although I understand some benefi ts of long-term lease,34 I have no other choice under these circumstances where there are not many fi shing populations for its vast fi shery grounds and where there are consequently few competitors among relatively few Russians and East Asian fi sherpersons.”35 Nevertheless, he also worried about the unconditional priority on Russians, considering the possibility to falsify fi shery ground leases by foreigners in the name of Russians. In fact, some Japanese had already begun this practice with the help of their Russian 31 Karafuto minsei sho, Karafuto nanbu…, pp. 72-73. 32 Vsepodanneishii otchet Priamurskogo general-gubernatora general-leitenanta Dukhavskogo 1896-1897 gg. (St. Petersburg, 1898).33 Vsepodanneishii otchet…1896-1897 gg., pp. 48-49.34 As partly explained above, this manner of lease facilitated inshore transportation and promoted the exploitation of uncultivated fi shery grounds. This is why the Sakhalin au-thorities often entrusted Japanese fi shing entrepreneurs with offi cial transportation.35 Vsepodanneishii otchet…1896-1897 gg., pp. 48-49.

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collaborators in Sakhalin. Dukhovskoi concluded his report by express-ing his hope for the emergence of willful competitive entrepreneurs, such as Denby and Semenov, who were the leading fi shing entrepreneurs in the Russian Far East and had been allowed to take a ten-year lease on several fi shery grounds in Sakhalin.36 However, this did not mean that the governor-general began to attempt to exclude foreigners from Far East fi shery. He worried about the Russian entrepreneurs’ technical and commercial weakness.

In November of 1899, the Priamur governor-generalship issued a new temporary regulation for regional sea fi sheries, composed of 59 articles. Prior to this regulation, in July of that year, the governor-gen-eralship had already promulgated a new tentative fi shery regulation applied only to the Lower Amur, which prohibited not only all foreign fi shing activities but also the employment of foreign labor engaged in all fi shing activities. These two regulations in 1899 tremendously infl uenced Japanese fi shery in the Priamur. The main purpose of the November regulation was to give Russians the unconditional priority over for-eigners in the lease of fi shery grounds and the obligatory employment of Russian laborers. The Priamur National Property Agency actually stated that the regulation was designed to protect Russian entrepreneurs against foreign rivals.37

Understandably, this regulation faced a fi erce opposition from the Japanese fi shery entrepreneurs engaged in fi shing in the Priamur, especially in Sakhalin. The Japan Ministry of Foreign Affairs entered into negotiations with the Russian authorities. These negotiations resulted in a temporary compromise before the beginning of the fi shing season of 1900 and the Priamur governor-generalship agreed to postpone the ap-plication of several articles of the regulation in southern Sakhalin until the end of 1902.38 Nevertheless, the Priamur general-governorship enforced the regulation of July 1899 applying to the lower Amur. After this, the Japanese fi shery entrepreneurs in the lower Amur had no alternative but to buy fi sh from Russian and indigenous population.36 Vsepodanneishii otchet…1896-1897 gg., pp. 51.37 O rybnom promysle v Primorskoi oblasti na ostrove Sakhaline (Zapiska Priamurskogo upravleniia gosudarstvennykh imushchestv) (1903), p. 25.38 Kaminaga Eisuke, “Saharin to suisangyo (1875-1904) wo meguru funso [Confl icts over Fisher-ies around Sakhalin (1875-1904)],” Suravu Kenkyu/Slavic Studies 20 (2003), pp. 294-296.

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In November 1901, the Priamur general-governorship issued a new temporary regulation regarding the entire regional fi shery, which aimed to prohibit foreigners from all kinds of fi shery operations in the region except southern Sakhalin for the time being. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan objected to this regulation, leading the Priamur governor-generalship to compromise and postpone its enforcement for a few years.

Why did the Priamur governor-generalship change their fi shery policy within only a few years? G. A. Kramarenko, a Sakhalin fi shery entrepreneur who originated from Astrakhan, wrote in his book of 1898 that it was too diffi cult for the Russian entrepreneurs to compete with foreigners without preferential treatment by the authorities in Sakhalin.39 At the same time, the military governor of the Maritime Region said in his report of 1898 that the over-exploitation by the Japanese along the Tatar Strait and the lower Amur had resulted in the latest thin years, which had driven the people of Nivkh into diffi culties.40 In his report to the Tsar for 1898-1900, Governor-general N. I. Grodekov wrote, “Salmon fi shing for export to Japan was the only substantial industry in Nikolaevsk-in-Amur, relatively populated in this region,”41 but “the Japanese exclusively operated the fi shery and the Russians only bought and processed fi sh till the season of 1898 after the Japanese had fi rst un-dertaken it in 1893.”42 Moreover, “the Japanese entrepreneurs had hardly been funded by the Russians and had brought their labor from Japan.”43 Grodekov appreciated the effect of the regulation for the lower Amur, promulgated in July 1899: “New entrepreneurs have already emerged in Nikolaevsk, where fi shery production has improved in quality and in quantity. In addition, they have smoothly supplied the local population with fi sh now. Things are going so well.”44

39 G. A. Kramarenko, Rybnye promysly na reke Amure i ostrove Sakhaline (Astrakhan, 1898), p. 6.40 Obzor Primorskoi oblasti za 1898 god (Prilozhenie ko Vsepodanneishemu otchetu) (Vladivostok, 1900), p. 12.41 Vsepodanneishii otchet… 1898-1900 gg., p. 81.42 Ibid., p. 82.43 Ibid., pp. 82-83.44 Ibid., p. 83.

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EISUKE KAMINAGA

NEGATIVE EFFECTS IN SAKHALIN AND KAMCHATKA

Despite Grodekov’s view, restrictions on foreign (i.e., Japanese) fi shing turned out to be harmful to the regional Russian fi shing in Sakhalin and Kamchatka. As mentioned earlier, the governor-general announced a moratorium on enforcement of this regulation in Sakha-lin before the fi shing season of 1900 as a response to the request of the Japanese government, but he opposed any further compromise.45 After 1901, responding to the Japanese fi shery entrepreneurs’ request, the Japanese government hastily drafted a tariff barrier against Russian fi shery products and an almost prohibition of employment by Russians of Japanese labor. If these measures were carried out, they would have devastated the Russian fi shery.

The governor-general and the Japanese Government reached a season-long compromise at the beginning of the 1901 season. They agreed to freeze each new action and the governor-general promised one season’s moratorium on the enforcement of this regulation in Sakhalin. Both sides repeated this action before 1902 and 1903. This compromise was inevitable since fi shing in Sakhalin relied much more on Japanese labor and market than fi shing in the lower Amur did. The Sakhalin colonization of those days inevitably relied upon fi shing, while the initial project of agrarian colonization of Sakhalin based on convicts’ labor proved to be impossible due to the meteorological conditions. As the Sakhalin military governor reported in regard to 1899-1901, some convicts and settlers earned their living through fi shing and sale of fi sh to the Japanese. The governor proposed to create more employment by developing fi shing.46

At the turn of the century, fi shing in Kamchatka saw rapid de-velopment for only a few years and this fi shing progress also included Japanese salmon poaching and American cod poaching. The Maritime military governor in charge of Kamchatka made a detailed analysis of these circumstances in his report for 1900 and 1902. He stated:

45 Ibid., pp. 87-90.46 Obzor ostrova Sakhalina za 1899 g. (Prilozhenie k vsepodanneishemu otchetu) (St. Petersburg, n/d), pp. 46-47; Obzor ostrova Sakhalina za 1900 i 1901 god (Prilozhenie k vsepodanneishemu otchetu) (Aleksandrovsk na ostrove Sakhaline, 1902), p. 87.

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“With the number of Japanese engaging in our regional fi shing growing every year, the conditions surrounding the fi shery have represented a substantial change. The current fi shing regulation to all the Priamur is designed to promote Russian subjects’ fi shing. It is nevertheless diffi cult to apply the regulation in Kamchatka in my view, for it is impossible to recruit a mass of Russian fi sherpersons instead of Japanese ones, consid-ering past results. Accordingly, strengthening our surveillance on their fi sheries, we should make an attempt to keep them under control and to collect expected taxes from them, while we should promote the further colonization of Russian subjects.”47

Hereupon, the Maritime military governor rather abandoned the objective of promoting Russian subjects’ fi shing. Rapidly varying condi-tions surrounding regional fi shing did not allow the Russian authorities to apply a uniform regulation over the whole Priamur.

After the late 1880s, both participants of the Khabarovsk Confer-ences and the governor-generals talked about fi sheries in the Priamur as a whole. Nevertheless, as previously mentioned, with the number of Japanese engaging in the Priamur fi shery growing every year from the 1890s, conditions surrounding fi shing had already varied regionally by the turn of the century. As a result, the regulation of November 1899 as a uniform principle was diffi cult to apply to Sakhalin or Kamchatka, although the principle was that Russian subjects should enjoy favored treatment over foreigners.

CONCLUSION

The report of the Priamur National Property Agency issued in 1903 revealed that the basic administrative directions for the Priamur fi shery was the “nationalization” (more properly, it means “Russiani-zation”) of the industry, that is to say, the encouragement of Russian entrepreneurs’ fi sheries and the employment of Russian labor. The report additionally concluded that foreign entrepreneurs had already

47 Obzor Primorskoi oblasti za 1902 god (Prilozhenie ko Vsepodanneishemu otchetu) (Vladivostok, 1905), pp. 5-7.

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EISUKE KAMINAGA

completed their role of accelerating Russian fi shing since the regional Russian fi shing has taken fi rm root, to a certain extent.48

The report of the fourth Khabarovsk Conference held in the same year also stated that their immediate agenda was “nationalization.” There was another argument that the region still needed foreign labor to encourage Russian fi shing. However, pointing out that Russian fi shing in the lower Amur had achieved a successful outcome in “nationaliza-tion” set this opinion aside.49

To be sure, the “nationalization” policy was one of the prearranged administrative plans after the late 1880s, but it was not of high priority over the comprehensive, steady development of fi sheries or tax revenue enhancement until the late 1890s. There was an important turning point in the fi shing policy of the Priamur Governor-Generalship at the turn of the century. As I have previously stated, the military governors of Sakhalin and Maritime were already at that point concerned about the possibility that their new regulation would have a worsening effect on Russian fi shing. In fact, after enforcing the regulation of July 1899 in the lower Amur, there were more and more Japanese poachers in Kamchatka.

Thus, the Russian authorities were never consistent in their “na-tionalization” policy, especially in regard to the exclusion of Japanese entrepreneurs and labor. Moreover, the policy that had gone into effect did not necessarily play its expected role. I neither mean that there was no stable direction in fi shery policies pursued by the Russian authorities, nor that Japan enjoyed unchallenged supremacy in Priamur fi shing. I only suggest that the Russian authorities devised their administrative measures in fi shing through a trial-and-error process, rather than through a set of previously arranged principles.

This chapter combines maritime and imperiological approaches to analyze the fi shing regulations implemented by the Priamur governor-generalship. Viewing imperial frontiers from the seas surrounding them gives a clearer understanding of the mutual interactions and interde-pendence of adjacent imperial frontiers. This leads to recognition of the

48 O rybnom promysle, p. 36.49 Trudy IV Khabarovskogo s”ezda, sozvannogo Priamurskim general-gubernatorom D. I. Subot-ichem 1903 g. (Khabarovsk, 1904), pp. 7-8.

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mega-systems of empires, which Alexei Miller proposes in Chapter 1 of this collection.

The Priamur governor-generalship devised fi shery policies only by trial and error. There were compelling reasons that prevented it from ready-made policies. As explained in this chapter, one fundamental reason for this was the dilemma of imperial borderlands experiencing an urgent need for resource mobilization and fearing dependence on neighboring countries. The Priamur governor-generalship was forced to tackle this dilemma under several disadvantageous conditions, such as the vast uncultivated coastlines, the small Russian population, and the large demand for sea products in Japan. On the eve of the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-05, the governor-generalship abandoned pursuit of the “nationalization” policy, and consoled itself with partial sanctions against Japanese entrepreneurs, coordinating moreover these actions with Japanese ministries. The Priamur governor-generalship’s decision to maintain the status quo did not imply its immobility. In some cases, this attitude was motivated by its preference for cooperation with Japan, in other cases by its risk-evading behavior. In this context as well, the Priamur governor-generalship’s fi shery policy was characterized by eternal trial and error.

Imperiology

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