The Icon and the Axe
Page 19
War of the Spanish Succession in 1713, and of the Great Northern War in 1721, Europe was relatively secure. The Turks had been contained, and peace attained under monarchs uniformly dedicated to maintaining a monopoly of power at home and a balance of power abroad.
It is a final irony that the Swedes, who initially encouraged the Russians to enter "the universal war," were defeated by the same Russians in the last great battle of the war, at Poltava, in 1709. This effort of Charles XII to defeat a vastly superior Russian force in the distant Ukraine and to conspire with the even more remote Cossacks and Turks seems strangely in keeping with the heroic unreality of the age. The strategic vistas of the "universal war" in Eastern Europe were animated throughout by a kind of baroque splendor and thirst for the infinite: from Possevino's vision of a renewed Catholicism moving through Russia to India and linking up with a Jesuit-controlled China to the fantastic Russo-Saxon project late in the century for an alliance between Moscow and Abyssinia to join with Persia for a crusade against the Turks and then, presumably, with Protestant Europe to vanquish Rome.5
As in so much baroque art, the vista was based on illusion: on a nervous desire to see things that cannot be. The realities of the universal war in Eastern Europe were, if anything, even more harsh and terrible than in the Civil War in England or the Thirty Years' War in Germany. Historians of these eastern regions have never been able to settle on neutral descriptive labels for the periods of particular horror and devastation which successively visited their various peoples. Russians still speak in anguish and confusion of a "Time of Troubles"; Poles and Ukrainians of a "Deluge"; Eastern European Jews of "The Deep Mire"; and Swedes and Finns of "the great hate."6
Military blows from without were accompanied by political and economic contractions within as the tsars extended centralized bureaucratic power throughout their domain and imposed crushing burdens on the peasantry. After seeming to be at the height of their authority, the loose representative assemblies of Eastern Europe (the Russian zemsky sobor, the Swedish riksdag, the Polish sejm, the Jewish Council of the Four Lands, and the Prussian Stdnde)-all suddenly collapsed or lost effective power in the late seventeenth century. New quasi-military forms of discipline were imposed on the agrarian society of Eastern Europe, as "economic dualism" split early modern Europe into an increasingly entrepreneurial and dynamic West and an enserfed and static East.'
Nowhere were the convulsions more harrowing than in seventeenth-century Russia. Massive shifts in population and changes in the texture of society took place with bewildering speed.8 Thousands of foreigners flooded
into Russia; Russians themselves pushed on to the Pacific; cities staged flash rebellions; the peasantry exploded in violence; Cossack and mercenary soldiers drifted away from battle into disorganized raids and massacres. It seems not excessive to estimate that twice during the seventeenth century -in the early years of the Time of Troubles and of the First Northern War respectively--a third of the population of Great Russia perished from the interrelated ravages of war, plague, and famine.9 By the 1660's, an English doctor resident at the tsar's court wrote that the ratio of women to men was 10:1 in the region around Moscow; and Russian sources spoke of cannibalism at the front and wolves at the rear-4,000 of them allegedly invading Smolensk in the bitter winter of 1660.10
Unable to understand, let alone deal with, the changes taking place about them, Russians resorted to violence and clung desperately to forms and distinctions that had already lost their meaning. Russia's first printed law code, the Ulozhenie of 1649, was elaborately and rigidly hierarchical and gave legal sanction to violence by explicitly denying the peasantry any escape from their serfdom and by prescribing corporal-even capital- punishment for a wide variety of minor offenses. The knout alone is mentioned 141 times.11 The seventeenth century was a period when old answers were inadequate, but new ones had not yet been found to take their place. The inevitable waning of old Muscovy could well be described under the first three chapter headings of Johann Huizenga's classic Waning of the Middle Ages: "The Violent Tenor of Life," "Pessimism and the Ideal of the Sublime Life," and "The Hierarchical Conception of Society."
Nor did the West gain much in understanding despite the increasing numbers of its soldiers, doctors, and technicians in Moscow-and of Russian emissaries abroad. The latter insulted everyone by repeatedly demanding complete and exact recitation of the Tsar's lengthy title, while omnipresent and odoriferous bodyguards cut the leather out of palace chairs for shoes and left excremental deposits on walls and floors. Western visitors outdid one another with tales of Russian filth, servility, and disorder; and there were enough genuinely comic scenes to enshrine fatefully among Western observers an anecdotal rather than an analytic approach to Russia. A Dutch doctor who brought a flute and skeleton with him to Moscow was nearly lynched by a passing mob for attempting to conjure up the dead;12 and an English doctor was executed during the First Northern War when a mealtime request for Cream of Tartar was thought to indicate sympathy for the Crimean Tatars.13 Most Western writers continued to identify Russians with Tatars rather than other Slavs throughout the seventeenth century. Even in Slavic Prague, a book published in 1622 grouped Russia with Peru and Arabia in a list of particularly bizarre and exotic civilizations;14 and
the year before in relatively nearby and well-informed Uppsala a thesis was defended on the subject "Are the Russians Christians?"15
The irony, of course, is that Russia in the seventeenth century was far more intensely Christian than most of the increasingly secular West. Indeed, whatever the ultimate causes of the crisis that overtook Muscovy in this turbulent century, its outer form was religious. The raskol, or schism, which fatally divided and weakened Russian Orthodoxy under Tsar Alexis, had repercussions in every area of this organic religious civilization. The administrative consolidation and building of a new Western capital by Alexis' son, Peter the Great, did not bridge the ideological cleavages that the schism had opened in Russia, but only made them deeper and more complex. Religious dissent continued to haunt modern Russia.
i. The Split Within
Ihe decisive moment of the century-what Russians call the perelom (divide in the stairs, breaking point of a fever)-was the formal, ecclesiastical pronouncement of the schism in 1667. It represented a kind of coup d'eglise, which in religious Muscovy was as far-reaching in its implications as the Bolshevik coup d'etat exactly 250 years later in secularized St. Petersburg. The decisions of the Moscow Church Council of 1667, like those of the St. Petersburg Soviet in 1917, were a point of no return in Russian history. Even more than in 1917, the significance of 1667 was not fully appreciated at the time and was challenged from many different directions by various defenders of the old order. But change had taken place at the center of power, and the divided opposition was unable to prevent the arrival of a new age and new ideas.
The raskol (like the Revolution) came as the culmination and climax of nearly a century of bitter ideological controversy which involved politics and aesthetics as well as personal metaphysical beliefs. Seventeenth-century Muscovy was in many ways torn by a single, continuing struggle of "medieval and modern," "Muscovite and Western," forces. Such terms, however, apply better to the self-conscious and intellectualized conflicts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The issue in seventeenth-century Russia might be better described with two conflicting terms that recur in the chronicles and polemic literature of the time: khitrosf and blagochestie, These terms-like the controversies in which they were used-are difficult to translate into the Western idiom. Khitrosf is the Slavic word for cleverness and skill. Though derived from the Greek technikos, it acquired overtones of sophistication and even cunning in Muscovy. For the most part, this term was used to describe proficiency in those activities that lay outside religious ritual. "Cleverness from beyond the seas" (zamorskaia khitrost') came to be applied to the many unfamiliar new skills and techniques which foreigners brought with them in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries.1 When Boris Godunov became Russia's first elected Tsar in 1598, he had to quiet popular misgivings about the procedure by publicly proclaiming that he had been chosen "in faith and truth without any kind of guile" {bezo vsiakie khitrosti).2 The revolt of the Old Believers was based on the belief that the Russian Church, like those in the West, was now seeking to know God only through "external guile" (yneshneiu khitrostiiu).s Subsequent Russian traditions of peasant revolt and populist reform were deeply infused with the primitive and anarchistic belief that even the use and exchange of money was a "deceitful mechanism" (khitraia mekhanika).4 The post-Stalinist generation of rebellious writers was also to cry out against the "deceitful (khitry) scalpel" of bureaucratic censors and "retouchers."5
In his famous troika passage Gogol insists that Russia be "not guileful" (ne khitry) but like a "straightforward muzhik from Yaroslavl." Precisely such types organized in Yaroslavl in 1612 the "council of all the land," which mobilized Russian resources for the final expulsion of the Poles from Moscow, and served as the model for the council which installed Michael Romanov as tsar in 1613. The primitive frontier forces that had descended on Moscow from the cities of the Volga brought with them a deep distrust of all "cleverness from beyond the seas." Brutal directness was characteristic of the military men who liberated Moscow and stayed on for the councils which acted as a kind of collective regent for the young tsar. Like Gogol's "straightforward muzhiks of Yaroslavl" who moved "not through the turn of a screw" but "with the clean stroke of axe and chisel," the provincial ruffians decapitated Polish prisoners in Red Square with scythes, and pulled out the ribs of suspected traitors with hot irons. The seal of Yaroslavl-a bear carrying an axe-seemed for awhile to have become a symbol of the new regime.
Along with their violence, these provincials brought the raw strength which transformed Muscovy into a great modern state. They also brought from their harsh environment a new religious intensity and a special reverence for the quality known as blagochestie. Usually translated as "piety," this term has a fuller, and thus more accurate, sound to the modem ear when translated as "ardent loyalty." Blago was the Church Slavonic word for "good," carrying with it the meaning of both "blessing" and "welfare"; chestie was the word for "honor," "respect," "directness," and "celebration." All of these many-shaded meanings entered into the ardent devotion of the average Muscovite. Blagochestie meant both faith and faithfulness, and the adjectival form was inseparably attached to the word "tsar" in Muscovy. Ivan's main accusation against Kurbsky was that, for the sake of "self-love and temporal glory," Kurbsky had "trampled down blagochestie"
and "cast blagochestie out of his soul."6 The chroniclers saw in the sufferings of the seventeenth century the vengeful hand of God calling his people to repentance. Like Old Testament prophets, Muscovite revivalists repeatedly called not just for belief in a dogma or membership in a church but for a life of renewed dedication. This was a society ruled by custom rather than calculation. As social and economic changes made life more complex, Muscovites increasingly sought refuge in the simple call for devotion to that which had been. If men did not cling to old forms, they tended to become uncritical imitators of foreign ways. There was no real middle ground between the calculating worldliness of khitrost' and the complete traditionalism of blagochestie.
Khitrost' was clearly the wave of the future; and its development, the legitimate preoccupation of military and political historians. Western measurement slowly imposed itself on the dreamlike imprecision of the Eastern Slavs. A gigantic, English-built clock was placed over the "gate of the Savior" {Spasskaia vorota) of the rebuilt Moscow Kremlin in 1625; and shortly thereafter weathervanes began to appear atop the crosses of Muscovite churches. Reasonably accurate military maps and plans were first drawn up in Muscovy in the course of preparing for the 1632-4 war with Poland; and the first large-scale native production of armaments began at about the same time within the rebuilt armory of the Kremlin and the new, Dutch-built foundry at Tula.7 Clearly, Russia was to be dependent for national greatness on "The Skill [Khitrost'] of Armed Men"-to cite the title of its first military manual of 1647. The reign of Peter the Great represents the culmination of the slow transformation of Russia through Northern European technology into a disciplined, secular state.
For the historian of culture, however, the real drama of the seventeenth century follows from the determination of many Russians to remain- through all the changes and challenges of the age-blagochestivye: ardently loyal to a sacred past. The heroism and the violence of their effort drove schism deep into Russian society and helped prevent Russia from harmoniously adjusting to modernization. The childhood of Russian culture had been too stern and the first contacts with the West too disturbing to permit the peaceful acceptance of the sophisticated adult world of Western liurope.
To seventeenth-century Russia the humiliation of the Time of Troubles demonstrated not the backwardness of its institutions but the jealousy of its God. The overt and massive Westernization of Boris Godunov and Dmitry was discarded and the belief in God's special concern for Russia intensified. While Western techniques continued to pour into Russia throughout the seventeenth century, Western ideas and beliefs were bitterly
resisted. Ordinary Russians saw Muscovy as the suffering servant of God and looked to the monasteries for the righteous remnant.
The historical writings of the early seventeenth century were filled with introspective lamentations and revivalist exhortations, which shattered the dignity of the chronicling tradition without pointing the way toward serious social analysis. Abraham Palitsyn of the Monastery of St. Sergius bemoaned the "senseless silence of all the world"8 in the face of Russian humiliation; Ivan Timofeev of Novgorod decried the tendency to "tear ourselves away from our bonds of love toward one another . . . some looking to the East, others to the West":9 and the semi-official "new chronicler" of the Romanovs bequeathed to Pushkin and Musorgsky their moralistic view that the troubles of Russia were divine retribution for Boris' alleged murder of the infant Dmitry.10
The deliverance of Russia was uniformly seen as an act of God. The subsequent growth in Russian wealth provided new resources for discharging the debt Russians felt to God, but at the same time new temptations to turn away altogether. Ivan Khvorostinin, courtier of two tsars, became a convert to Socinianism, ceased to keep fasts or revere icons, and wrote elegant syllabic verse well before anyone else in Muscovy. Andrew Palitsyn, cousin of the monastic chronicler and governor of a newly colonized Siberian province, introduced smoking, studied sorcery, and preached the irrelevance of the clergy within his realm.11 Far more common, however, was the widespread reassertion of traditional faith which predominated in the early seventeenth century and caught the imagination of later Russian poets and historians. Even the tolerant, pre-Revolutionary historian who saw in Khvorostinin "the first swallow of a cultural springtime" felt obliged to add that, in general, "there was nothing principled or ideological (ideiny)" in the impulse to look West.12 The defenders of the old beliefs were nothing if not "principled and ideological," with their implausible but psychologically compelling loyalty to "true Tsars" and "old rituals." Paradoxical as it may seem, the determination of later radical intellectuals to take "principled and ideological" positions may originate in this early dedication of conservative anti-intellectuals to a very different set of principles.
The most dramatic event of the seventeenth century was not any direct confrontation of East and West, nor indeed the action of any tsar, reformer, or writer-though there were remarkable examples of each. The central event was rather the dramatic confrontation of two "straightforward muzhiks" from the upper Volga region: Patriarch Nikon and Archpriest Avvakum. These two rough-hewn priests were the key antagonists in the schism within the Russian Church. Each viewed himself as unalterably opposed to khitrost': to all forms of corruption, guile, and foreign innova-
tion. Each began his rise to fame through membership in a circle known as the "lovers of God" (Bogoliubtsy) and the "zealo
ts of the old devotion" (revniteli drevnego blagochestiia). They fell from grace simultaneously in 1667, returning as prisoners to the frozen northlands whence they had come. Their disappearance was the decisive moment in the waning of Old Muscovy and marked the beginning of the slow and progressive banishment of the "old devotion" and the "love of God" from the new civilization of Imperial Russia.
To understand the rise and fall of these two powerful personalities one must consider first the general resurgence of religious concern in early-seventeenth-century Russia. Hand in hand with the political success of the new dynasty and the "formation of a national market" went the unifying power of a religious revival. At the center of it stood the monastic community, which-unlike merchants, boyars, and even tsars-had actually gained stature during the Time of Troubles. Almost alone of the major fortresses near Moscow, the Monastery of St. Sergius never fell to foreign hands. From behind its walls, moreover, came ringing appeals to rise up against the foreign invaders. The monastic community as a whole withheld from both Wladyslaw of Poland and Charles Philip of Sweden the aura of sanctification that would have been needed to sustain their claims to the Russian throne. All the surviving Russian contenders for power had fled to monasteries by the late years of the interregnum; and they were joined by increasing numbers of military deserters and dispossessed people seeking alms and shelter around these great national shrines.13 The two best and most famous short stories to appear in the primitive, moralistic literature of the seventeenth century (the tales of Savva Grudtsyn and Gore-/Aochastie) both end with the spiritual purgation of the hero and his entry into a monastery.14 A popular woodcut of the period shows a monk being crucified in monastic garb by figures representing the various evils of the day.15