Entangled Interactions Between Religion and National Consciousness in Central and Eastern Europe 1644693577, 9781644693575

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ENTANGLED INTERACTIONS BETWEEN RELIGIONS AND NATIONAL CONSCIOUSNESS IN CENTRAL AND EASTERN EUROPE Ed i ted by YO KO AO S H I M A

Lithuanian Studies without Borders Series Editor Darius Staliūnas (Lithuanian Institute of History) Editorial Board Zenonas Norkus (Vilnius University) Shaul Stampfer (Hebrew University) Giedrius Subačius (University of Illinois at Chicago)

ENTANGLED INTERACTIONS BETWEEN RELIGIONS AND NATIONAL CONSCIOUSNESS IN CENTRAL AND EASTERN EUROPE Ed i ted by YO KO AO S H I M A

BOSTON 2020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Aoshima, Yoko, editor. Title: Entangled Interactions between Religions and National Consciousness in Central and Eastern Europe / edited by Yoko Aoshima. Description: Boston : Academic Studies Press, 2020. | Series: Lithuanian studies without Borders | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020008620 (print) | LCCN 2020008621 (ebook) | ISBN 9781644693568 (hardback) | ISBN 9781644693575 (adobe pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Nationalism--Europe, Central--History--19th century. | Europe, Central--Politics and government--19th century. | National characteristics, Central European. | Church and state--Europe, Central--History--19th century. Classification: LCC DAW1048 .E68 2020 (print) | LCC DAW1048 (ebook) | DDC 943--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008620 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008621 Copyright © 2020 Academic Studies Press All rights reserved. ISBN 978-1-64469-356-8 (hardback) ISBN 978-1-64469-357-5 (adobe pdf) Book design by Lapiz Digital Services. On the cover: The Martyrdom of Jozafat Kuncewicz in Vitebsk in 1623, Józef Simmler, 1861, collection of National Museum in Warsaw. Published by Academic Studies Press. 1577 Beacon Street Brookline, MA 02446, USA press@academi cstudiespress.com www.academicstudiespress.com

Contents

Acknowledgementsvii Introductionviii Yoko Aoshima (Kobe University, Japan)  niate Martyr Josaphat and His Role as a Confessionalizing, U Integrating, and Nationalizing Influence Chiho Fukushima (Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, Japan)

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 onversion and Culture in Russia’s Western Borderlands, C 1800–5529 Barbara Skinner (Indiana State University, US) Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising Zita Medišauskienė (Lithuanian Institute of History, Lithuania)  rthodox Christianity Emerging as an Ethical Principle O in School Education in the 1860–70s Yoko Aoshima (Kobe University, Japan) The Roman Catholic Clergy and the Notion of Lithuanian National Identity Vilma Žaltauskaitė (Lithuanian Institute of History, Lithuania)  e Nobility in the Lithuanian National Project in the Late Th Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century: The Approach of the Catholic Clergy Olga Mastianica-Stankevič (Lithuanian Institute of History, Lithuania)

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 raising Christ, Serving the Nation: The Ideology of the P Catholic Newspaper Biełarus (1913–15) Aliaksandr Bystryk (Central European University, Hungary) Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries: Creating a “Czech” National Society in Nineteenth-Century Bohemia Taku Shinohara (Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, Japan) “Building” Nationalism: St. Elisabeth Church in Lemberg Dominika Rank (Ukrainian Catholic University, Ukraine)

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Local Governance and Religion in the Kingdom of Poland, 1905–14: Multireligious Relief Actions for Unemployed Workers in Łódź Kenshi Fukumoto (Research Fellow of Japan Society for the Promotion of Science, Japan)

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Max Weber and Eastern Europe: The Religious Background to Modern Nationalism Hajime Konno (Aichi Prefectural University, Japan)

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Acknowledgements

This book could not have been published without the support of numerous parties. Olga Mastianica-Stankevič, a contributor to this volume from the Lithuanian Institute of History, helped organize a panel at the August 2015 9th World Congress of the International Council for Central and East European Studies (ICCEES) in Makuhari, Japan. The following year, we arranged an international symposium entitled, “Entangled Interactions between Religions and National Identities in the Space of the Former PolishLithuanian Commonwealth,” held on 22–23 August 2016 at the Lithuanian Institute of History in Vilnius, Lithuania. I would like to express my appreciation to all the contributors to this collection for their patience and collaboration. The Kitazawa Foundation, the Mitsubishi Foundation, and the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science (in particular, fund numbers 15K02939, 15H01898, and 18H00729) were indispensable in making the panel, international symposium, and other academic works possible. I am grateful to the Japan Council for Russian and East European Studies (JCREES) for financing publication, and would also like to thank the editors of Academic Studies Press for taking on this demanding work. Last but not least, I wish to thank Darius Staliūnas, who was an enormous help in realizing the project. Yoko Aoshima

Introduction

Central and Eastern Europe has occupied a significant position in nationalism studies, mainly given the formation of a considerable number of new nation-states after WWI in place of the former empires there, the result of which did not necessarily lead to a stable international order. This region also produced the most prominent early scholars of nationalism, such as Hans Kohn, Ernest Gellner, and Miroslav Hroch.1 These scholars tended to view nationalism as a typical modern phenomenon and regarded the nation-building of this region as being in some way anomalous or backward under long-term imperial rule. Hans Kohn, for example, emphasized the difference between “nationalism in Western Europe” based on “a rational and universal concept of political liberty and the rights of man” and that of “the East” based on the weakness or total lack of them.2 On the other hand, Miroslav Hroch, in developing his argument of the formation phases of the nation, attempted to understand the case of Central and Eastern Europe not as an anomalous type of nationalism, but rather as a movement toward “the legitimate type” of nation.3 After the 1990s, when the USSR, another real empire, collapsed and new nation-states again proliferated, empire entered the sphere of historical study. Empire as a state form, which governs a broad territory with multiple populations, came to attract the concern of historians, and the mechanism of empire itself became a challenging new research target. The Habsburg Empire and the Romanov Empire, having widely ruled 1 R. J. W. Evans, Austria, Hungary and the Habsburgs: Essays on Central Europe, c.1683– 1867 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 101–2. 2 Hans Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism (London: Routledge, 2005 (originally published in 1944)), 457, 560–61, 574. 3 Miroslav Hroch, Social Preconditions of National Revival in Europe: A Comparative Analysis of the Social Composition of Patriotic Groups among the Smaller European Nations, trans. Ben Fowkes (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000).

Introduction

Central and Eastern Europe, had formerly been regarded as oppressive ancient regimes doomed to be replaced by modern nation-states. But now historians view both empires as interesting historical examples of political entities that ruled diverse societies. An empire had to constantly engage in complicated negotiations with various peoples within its territory, and, as a result, played an important role in the process of its nationalization. Jane Burbank and Mark von Hagen, highlighting “the preeminence of empire as a state form well into the twentieth century,” note that Russia has “a particularly enduring imperial structure.”4 Alexei Miller, examining the history of nationalism in the Russian Empire, emphasizes the “complex fabric of interaction between the imperial authority and local communities,” which influenced “nation-making processes.”5 Pieter Judson also underlines the notion that “concepts of nationhood and ideas of empire depend on each other” and “developed in dialogue with each other,” proudly adding the remark that, now, historians of the Habsburg Monarchy have taught other historians about how to think about the “typologies of empire and nation.”6 As the perspective on empires was considerably neutralized, Central and Eastern Europe became a new front of historical research of nationalism under empire, enriching the understanding of European historical development. This book makes another contribution to elucidating the nature of emerging nations in this region by shedding special light on the religious factor. The main reason to pay attention to religion is, as R. J. W. Evans demonstrates, to trace “the process” of historical transformation from the pre-modern to the modern imperial era. Evans describes the emerging national consciousness in the territory of the Habsburg Monarchy along the historical transition from the Reformation and Counter-Reformation, including the reaction of the Orthodox Churches.7 This anthology, following this approach, widens the geographical range eastward up to the western borderlands of the Russian Empire, and starts with the era of Counter-Reformation in the region. Our main focus is on the dominant 4 June Burbank, Mark Von Hagen, and Anatolyi Remnev, eds., Russian Empire: Space, People, Power, 1700–1930 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 2–3. 5 Alexei Miller, The Romanov Empire and Nationalism (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2006), 1–2. 6 Pieter M. Judson, The Habsburg Empire: A New History (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press), 9–10, 14. 7 Evans, Austria, Hungary, and the Habsburgs, 103–5.

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Christian confessions in the region that interplayed with the rising nationalist sentiment. We do not enter more deeply into the exploration of the essence of these Christian confessions, but instead discuss them as systems of belief that define traditional values, identity, and modes of community organization and interaction. We recognize the critical importance of Christian social and cultural institutions and practices, such as churches, clergy, rites, and ceremonies, in shaping a community’s perceptions and behavior. As Benedict Anderson underlined in his influential book about the shift from the era of universalistic religious communities to particularistic national communities in the process of modernization, we tended to assume that religion is a typical phenomenon of the pre-modern era, while nationalism in place of religion is seen as a crucial indicator of the modern era.8 However, Peter van der Veer and Hartmut Lehmann sharply criticized the typical “Western discourse of modernity,” which assumed that “nationalism belongs to the realm of legitimate modern politics,” inevitably accompanied by rationalization and secularization. On that basis, they opened academic dialogue on “a kind of vibrant symbiosis” between “modernizing religion and emerging nationalism,” through historical analysis of the formation process of nationalism.9 The Contested Nation, published in 2008, focused on religion as one of the competing concepts of collective identity to nation, together with class, ethnicity/race, and gender.10 James C. Kennedy, in this book, prepared a special introductory and methodological paper for analyzing the relationship between religion and nation. According to Kennedy, after the Napoleonic age “traditional religion was ‘disestablished’” and marginalized or even excluded from the narratives of nation, which now constituted the main story.11 After the 1980s, however, “the return of the gods” happened in European national historiographies, influenced by two trends: firstly, forging new narratives that included “a 8 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London: Verso, 1983), in particular, 12–19. 9 Peter van der Veer and Hartmut Lehmann, eds., Nation and Religion: Perspectives on Europe and Asia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), 3, 9. Also see Peter van der Veer, Religious Nationalism: Hindus and Muslims in India (Berkley: University of Chicago Press, 1994). 10 Stefan Berger and Chris Lorenz, eds., The Contested Nation: Ethnicity, Class, Religion and Gender in National Histories (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). 11 James C. Kennedy, “Religion, Nation and European Representations of the Past,” ibid., 118–19.

Introduction

new role for religion as a force of resistance against Soviet domination” in Eastern Europe, and secondly, attempting to understand the multireligious society evoked by the appearance of immigrants as religious pluralization. Historians became increasingly convinced that religion was a constituent element of European nations and started to pay further attention to the use of the religious past “in order to ‘sacralise’ nations” and, in reverse, the multiple historical aspects of the ‘nationalization’ of religion.12 Kennedy, insisting on the necessity of differentiating strictly traditional religion from nation as a distinct entity, analyzed the patterns of the intricate configuration of symbiosis between the two elements. He, in the end, concluded that “confessions did not constitute monoliths from which a nation’s past was constructed, though the parameters of belief clearly delimited what visions of the national past were available.”13 Contemplating emerging national consciousness in the region, we shed light on various religious factors and elements, including the Church, the clergy, the religious community, religious thoughts and inspirations, and so on, not because we intend to insist that nationalism in the eastern area of Europe had archaic or primordial features dating from the pre-modern age in contrast to Western nationalism. Instead, we try to elucidate a contingent historical process of nation formation, scanning the sediment of the multilayered dividing lines that strengthened or weakened the solidarity of national communities in Central and Eastern Europe. This approach will promote better understanding of the symbiosis between modernized religion and emerging nations. For this purpose, we, first of all, need to consider the long-term transformation of religious, political, and social situations in Central and Eastern Europe from the early modern era, especially concerning influences from the Reformation and Counter-Reformation in Western Europe. Some scholars, stressing the importance of the role that Central and Eastern Europe played in the process of religious reform in early modern Europe, lament the lack of sufficient concern by historians about the region. The editors of Diversity and Dissent, while admitting the existence of well-elaborated individual academic works on the religious groups based on “impermeable national, linguistic, and confessional boundaries,” accentuate the necessity

12 Ibid., 119–29. 13 Ibid., 132.

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to intentionally seek “hybridity, crossover, and interaction.14 What these editors particularly emphasize as the characteristic of this region is “multiconfessionalism.”15 The editors of Confessional Identity in East-Central Europe also remark that “an extraordinary multiplicity of religions found support in this region.”16 This phenomenon was related to the “diversity of ethnic and linguistic communities” and “decentralized political structures” of the region.17 This feature contrasts with the situation in Western Europe, where the trend in the direction of territorial sovereignty and a confessional state accompanied by social discipline was reinforced in the same period.18 Under this regional condition, in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, which became one of the most powerful states in this region after the Union of Lublin in 1569, the subsequent Union of Brest in 1595–96 changed the religious situation in its territory. The Union of Brest united the local Orthodox Church with the Catholic Church, creating what came to be called the Uniate Church. This Church Union can be seen as a phenomenon of the Counter-Reformation in the region, strengthening territorial solidarity though confessionalization, but, in fact, this measure provoked tensions in the diverse multiconfessional society.19 Later, at the end of the eighteenth century, when the imperial powers dissolved the political entity of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and swallowed this area, the religious situation of the region was again reorganized. In this book, the first four chapters discuss these shifts of the religious condition of this region. Chiho Fukushima starts with the impact of the Union of Brest, that is, the attempt to Catholicize the region and the emergence of the Uniate Church, and Barbara Skinner subsequently explains the 14 Howard Louthan, Gary B. Cohen, and Franz A. J. Szabo, eds., Diversity and Dissent: Negotiating Religious Differences in Central Europe, 1500–1800 (Berghahn Books, 2011), 4. 15 Ibid., 3. 16 Maria Craciun, Ovidiu Ghitta, and Graeme Murdock, eds., Confessional Identity in East-Central Europe (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), 1. 17 Ibid., 14, 17; Louthan, Cohen, and Szabo, eds., Diversity and Dissent, 4. 18 Heinz Schilling, Religion, Political Culture and the Emergence of Early Modern Society: Essays in German and Dutch History (Leiden: Brill, 1992); John M. Headley, Hans J. Hillerbrand, and Anthony J. Papalas, eds., Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700: Essays in Honor and Memory of Bodo Nischan (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004). 19 Barbara Skinner, The Western Front of the Eastern Church: Uniate and Orthodox Conflict in Eighteenth-century Poland, Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2009). See also the article in the above-mentioned compilation; Mikhail V. Dmitriev, “Conflict and Concord in Early Modern Poland: Catholics and Orthodox at the Union of Brest,” in Diversity and Dissent, eds. Louthan, Cohen, and Szabo, 114–36.

Introduction

fate of the Uniates prior to the reunion of the Uniates by the Russian imperial authority into the Orthodox Church in 1839, that is, the attempt to enforce Orthodoxy in the region. Zita Medišauskienė, exploring the religious rhetoric used in the 1863–64 Uprising, describes overlapping religious and secular motivations: the counter-attack by the dissolved Commonwealth on the expanded Russian Empire, which interconnected with the religious counter-attack by Catholicism on the Orthodox Empire. While suppressing the uprising, as Yoko Aoshima shows, the Russian Empire reacted also by mixing Orthodox and secular imperial aspects, which in turn strengthened the Orthodox identity of the Russian imperial core. These first four papers demonstrate how the religious changes created the historical context of this region in the long term. Here, we should remind ourselves of Brian PorterSzűcs’s assertion that “resistance to imperial rule as a Catholic lined up only imperfectly and sporadically with resistance to imperial rule as a Pole” up to the end of the nineteenth century.20 Indeed, we need to be aware of the discrepancy between religious and nationalistic reactions, and, as PorterSzűcs explores the case of Catholicism and Polish nationalism, we should elucidate the mechanism that connects the two factors in broader historical context. Another reason to focus on the religious factor is to consider the impact of the enhancement of imperial powers, which tended to be linked with a universal religion. As we have mentioned above, the study of empires has rapidly developed in recent times: a broad regional overview of various social relations now underpins views of the imperial situation, where once individual nations were treated separately.21 From this perspective, imperial institutional frameworks and ruling imperial elites are seen to have not only suppressed national movements, but also to form the condition in which nations would generate.22 Researchers are ceasing to assume various 20 Brian Porter-Szűcs, “The Birth of the Polak-Katolik,” Sprawy Narodowościowe (Seria nova) 49 (2017), 1–12 (here, 3); Brian Porter-Szűcs, Faith and Fatherland: Catholicism, Modernity, and Poland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 21 I. Gerasimov, S. Glebov, A. Kaplunovski, M. Mogilner, and A. Semyonov, “Languages of Self-Description of Empire and Nation as a Research Problem and Political Dilemma,” Ab Imperio 1 (2005): 23–32. 22 Other than the works cited above, see also Kimitaka Matsuzato, ed., Imperiology: From Empirical Knowledge to Discussing the Russian Empire (Sapporo: Slavic Research Center, Hokkaido University, 2007); Ilya Gerasimov, Jan Kusber, and Alexander Semyonov, eds., Empire Speaks Out: Languages of Rationalization and Self-Description in the Russian Empire (Leiden: Brill, 2009); Stefan Berger and Alexei Miller, eds., Nationalizing Empires (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2014); Valerie A.

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nations to be self-evident historical actors and are starting to pay attention to the incidental process of forming cultural solidarities among complicated dividing lines, which are based not only on ethnicity and confession, but also on legal estate, economic class, occupation, gender, and so forth, during the interaction within the imperial framework.23 Among such research, work on the Russian Empire, in particular, casts a strong spotlight on religion. Robert Crews and Paul Werth, to name but two historians, have developed a theory of the confessional state, according to which the Russian Empire pursued discipline and control of its population through respective religious institutions as mediating organizations.24 To govern the empire, the government itself drew, redrew, and utilized the religious dividing lines. Imperial studies have illustrated the mechanism of imperial rule based on religious institutions, on the one hand, and the solidarity of religious groups on the other—for example, in 2006 Ab Imperio featured religious groups in the Russian Empire.25 However, we should again remember the fact that the official imperial religion was Russian Orthodoxy and then rethink the meaning of the official religion in its rulings and its impact on national formation, especially in its western borderlands, which was the area influenced by Western nationalism ahead of other regions as well as by strong traditional Catholicism. Mikhail Dolbilov and Darius Staliūnas pioneered the research of confessional matters in the western borderlands, elucidating the dynamic function of the imperial power, which utilized religious issues for the purpose of integrating the western border regions into the empire.26

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Kivelson and Ronald Grigor Suny, Russia’s Empires (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). Gerasimov, Glebov, Kaplunovski, Mogilner, and Semyonov, “Languages of Selfdescription of Empire,” 24. Robert Crews, “Empire and the Confessional State: Islam and Religious Politics in Nineteenth-Century Russia,” The American Historical Review 108, no. 1 (2003), 50–83; idem, For Prophet and Tsar: Islam and Empire in Russia and Central Asia (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006); Paul W. Werth, The Tsar’s Foreign Faiths: Toleration and the Fate of Religious Freedom in Imperial Russia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). The thematic forum of the “History” section in issue 3 was “Cordi Nobis Est Religio, non Natio” (Religion, not nation, is in our heart). I. Gerasimov, S. Glebov, A. Kaplunovski, M. Mogilner and A. Semyonov, “Searching for a Mode of Description of the Community of Solidarity, Social Action and Collective Loyalty,” Ab Imperio 3 (2006): 17–22 (here, 19–20). Mikhail Dolbilov, Russkii krai, chzhaia vera: Etnokonfessional’naia politika imperii v Litve i Belorussii pri Aleksandre II. (Moskva: Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 2010);

Introduction

We push forward with this endeavor to further explore how the populations reacted toward the pressure of the empire. Barbara Skinner demonstrates that the effort by the imperial power to support Orthodoxy in this region in order to remove the Polish/Catholic influence caused confusion to the daily religious life of the region. Zita Medišauskienė shows that protests to this Orthodox/imperial pressure was slightly different among the Catholic populations according to ethno-linguistic lines: Polish nationalists exploited religious rhetoric to legitimate the pursuit for their own state, but for Lithuanian people, protecting their Catholic faith itself was the aim of the 1863–1864 Uprising. Vilma Žaltauskaitė clarifies this divergence of nations among Catholics, focusing on Catholic priests from the Lithuanian-speaking region. In contrast, Aliaksandr Bystryk demonstrates that Catholicism did not contribute to the consolidation of Belarusian nationalism, given the religious divide between the Orthodox and the Catholic among Belarusian-speaking people. Likewise, Bystryk points out that Catholic discourse in the Belarusian language emphasized religious aspects more than nationalism. Meanwhile, Yoko Aoshima argues that the imperial government, perceiving the resistance from Catholics and from Poles to overlap, reacted by bolstering Orthodoxy in the region, especially targeting Belarusian-speaking people, whom the government believed to be Orthodox and, as such, Russians. This experience in the western borderlands, according to Aoshima, fostered the further entrenchment of Orthodox identity in the Russian Empire as a whole. Compared to the Russian Empire, studies of the Habsburg Empire often emphasize civic institutions and the linguistic context, rather than the confessional strategy of the Habsburg Empire. As such, reactions from the various populations in terms of religion are not frequently taken into Mikhail Dolbilov and Darius Staliūnas, Obratnaia uniia: iz istorii otnoshenii mezhdu katolitsizmom i pravoslaviem v Rossiiskoi imperii 1840–1873 (Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos instituto leidykla, 2010). Also see Alexei Miller, The Ukrainian Question: The Russian Empire and Nationalism in the Nineteenth Century, trans. Olga Poato (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2003); Alexei Miller and Alfred J. Rieber, eds., Imperial Rule (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2004); Mikhail Dolbilov and Alexei Miller, eds., Zapadnye okrainy rossiiskoi imperii (Moskva: Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 2006); Darius Staliūnas, Making Russians: Meaning and Practice of Russification in Lithuania and Belarus after 1863 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007); Theodore R. Weeks, Nation and State in Late Imperial Russia: Nationalism and Russification on the Western Frontier, 1863–1914 (Dekalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2008).

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account in commentary on the modern era.27 Therefore, the question of how Catholicism as a symbol of the Habsburg dynasty influenced the nationalization of peoples in later years is still open to further exploration.28 In this book, Taku Shinohara demonstrates how Czech intellectuals, including the Catholic clergy, employed traditional Catholic ceremonies and baroque social codes in order to create a new Czech national culture. Likewise, Dominica Rank explores how the Polish national movement took over the religious and dynastic frame in Galicia. The third reason to focus on religious factors is to promote understanding of the multifaceted nature of nations in the region. Tara Zahra, exploring the social history of the Bohemian lands in the late nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century underlines “indifference to nationalism” with focus on bilingualism of local peoples.29 “Many individuals,” according to the author, “identified more strongly with religious, class, local, regional, professional, or familial communities, or even with the Austrian dynasty, than with a single nation.”30 Agreeing principally with this assertion, we explore how the multilayered identification was related to the newly emerging national consciousness. For example, we look at how religious bias was entrenched in the mind of a seemingly modernized person. Hajime Konno, examining the case of Max Weber, who stressed disenchantment to be a sign of modernization, shows that religious bias was deeply mixed with an individual’s nationalistic mentality. Kenshi 27 Hugh Seton-Watson, Nations and States: An Enquiry into the Origins of Nations and the Politics of Nationalism (London: Methuen, 1977); Miroslav Hroch, “Iazyk kak instrument grazhdanskogo ravenstva,” Ab Imperio 3 (2005): 21–34; Pieter M. Judson, Guardians of the Nation; Activists on the Language Frontiers of Imperial Austria (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006); Tomasz Kamusella, The Politics of Language and Nationalism in Modern Central Europe (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012). Historians of the Russian Empire also looked at their own subject from this perspective and achieved significant results. For instance, see various papers in Ab Imperio 2 (2005). 28 Headley, Hillerbrand, and Papalas, eds., Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700, xxi; Louthan, Cohen, and Szabo, eds., Diversity and Dissent, 6; Cynthia Paces and Nancy M. Wingfield emphasized the close relationship between religious and political symbolism with focus on the Bohemian lands. Cynthia Paces and Nancy M. Wingfield, “The Sacred and the Profane: Religion and Nationalism in the Bohemian Lands, 1880–1920,” in Constructing Nationalities in East Central Europe, eds. Pieter M. Judson and Marsha L. Rozenblit (New York: Berghahn Books, 2009), 107–25. 29 Tara Zahra, Kidnapped Souls: National Indifference and the Battle for Children in the Bohemian Lands, 1900–1948 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008), 4. 30 Ibid.

Introduction

Fukumoto pays attention to a curious case in which multireligious organizations under the aegis of the imperial government dealt more effectively than national organizations with the serious modern urban problems of the industrialized city of Łódź. Among the same religious and historical groups, different national consciousnesses could emerge, as in the case of Lithuania. Lithuania, which constitutes one of the focuses of this book, is a unique historical example. It shared with Poland the same early modern state as well as religion, but nevertheless somehow promoted different national ideas from Poland. As Vilma Žaltauskaitė shows, one of the important promoters of national consciousness, among others, was the Catholic clergy. Olga Mastianica-Stankevič, in her contribution, scrutinizes the process of nationalization in Lithuania, highlighting the attempt by Catholic intellectuals to involve the culturally Polonized Lithuanian nobility in the national movement and to create together with the nobility a new Lithuanian intellectual class.31 We do not include the period after WWI in the scope of our volume. There are ample studies on the function of religion during the communist era in Central and Eastern Europe. Scholars take particular note of religion because, while religion was prohibited or restricted under the communist regimes, it at the same time functioned as the basis of national solidarity.32 Furthermore, this concern has led to studies of the relationship between religious revival and nation-building in the post-Soviet era.33 These types of comparative studies from a socio-political standpoint are usually based on established nation-states. Our book, instead, attends more to the process of creating the context surrounding religion and nation that would be the foundation for the characteristics of later nation-states in the region. In this regard, all of the papers in our volume reveal the critical functions of religion in shaping the modern nationalizing period in Central and Eastern 31 When we say “Lithuania,” needless to say we do not intend to conduct a teleological research of its nation-building process based on the current Lithuanian state. Our aim is to analyze how the various dividing lines intersected, encompassing “Lithuania” and other names in this region. Darius Staliūnas, ed., Spatial Concepts of Lithuania in the Long Nineteenth Century (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2016). 32 Peter F. Sugar, East European Nationalism, Politics and Religion (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999); Pedro Ramet, ed., Religion and Nationalism in soviet and East European Politics (Durham: Duke University Press, 1989). 33 Greg Simons and David Westerlund, eds., Religion, Politics and Nation-Building in PostCommunist Countries (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2015).

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Europe and analyze how religious factors appeared in, and impacted on, various concrete social phenomena, which shaped the national base of this region in later years. We hope that this volume evokes a new vision of the historical transformation of the region that enriches general theories of nationalism. Yoko Aoshima

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role as a Confessionalizing, Integrating, and Nationalizing Influence Chiho Fukushima

St. Josaphat, not really known as much as St. Stanislaus or St. Casimir nowadays, was counted as one of the most popular saints in the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth in the middle of the seventeenth century. This article gives an outline of the origin and development of the cult of St. Josaphat and analyzes how this figure has been accepted in the former Commonwealth, the Ruthenian region in particular, and what roles or functions have been expected from and borne by him in terms of confessionalization and nationalization in various eras and regions.

The Historical Background of the Life and Death of Josaphat After the conclusion of the Union of Brest (1595–96), the Commonwealth faced a tangled religious situation in its eastern territories, namely, former domains of Rus’ principalities—Ruthenian lands. Although the union between the Catholic Church and the local Orthodox Church (the Kyivan metropolitanate) had been achieved, many Orthodox believers rejected joining the Catholic Church, and remained “Disuniate” Orthodox.1 1 The conditions on which the Kyivan Church agreed to accept the Catholic doctrines and the Papal primacy, included the permission for the followers of the Kyivan Church

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As a result, the Orthodox Church in the Commonwealth split into two: Uniate and Orthodox (Disuniate). In addition to these two Eastern churches, the Roman Catholic Church was aggressively encroaching upon Ruthenian lands. Since the annexation of the Halych region by Casimir the Great, and the union between Poland and Lithuania, the Catholic Church had been the important church, even in Ruthenia. Local elites had massively converted from Orthodoxy, which had become a second-class religion in both Poland and Lithuania, to Catholicism. Despite the successes of Protestant movements in the Commonwealth, and the formation of the Catholic Church of the Eastern rite (the Uniate Church, in other words), the Roman Catholic Church’s growth in Ruthenia could not be prevented.2 In seventeenth century Ruthenia, the Orthodox and the Catholic Churches were rivals on the whole, and there was a competition within the Catholic Church likewise: between Roman Catholic and Eastern Catholic (Uniate). Josaphat Kuntsevych (ca. 1580–1623), who is the main subject of this article, was a Uniate hierarch. He was born Orthodox in VolodymyrVolynskyi (currently in Ukraine), accepted Uniatism, was consecrated in Vilnius (Lithuania), and was murdered by Disuniate parishioners in Vitebsk (Belarus) while bishop of Polotsk. Josaphat, as a martyr, was beatified in 1643 and canonized in 1867 by the Catholic Church. Until now, he has been the one and only Ruthenian Uniate Saint.

to adhere to the Eastern rite and traditional local customs (e.g., the marriage of priests, the Julian calendar, and so on). There is a huge bibliography dedicated to the Union of Brest, of which I would list here several English books: Oscar Halecki, From Florence to Brest (1439–1596) (New York: Fordham University Press, 1958); Borys A. Gudziak, Crisis and Reform: The Kyivan Metropolitanate, the Patriarchate of Constantinople, and the Genesis of the Union of Brest (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute Publications, 1998); Four Hundred Years Union of Brest (1596–1996): A Critical Re-evaluation, ed. Bert Groen and Wil van den Bercken (Leuven: Peeters, 1998). 2 According to Liedke, Ruthenian nobility, who had once converted from Orthodoxy to Protestant confessions, eventually converted to Catholicism, and few of them remained Protestant nor returned to Orthodoxy. Hipacy Pociej and Josyf Veliamin Rutskyi (earliest Uniate metropolitans), who joined the Eastern Catholic (Uniate) Church after leaving Calvinism, were exceptions. The majority of ex-Orthodox Protestants became Roman Catholic. Marzena Liedke, Od Prawosławia do katolicyzmu: Ruscy możni i szlachta Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego wobec wyznań reformacyjnych (Białystok: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu w Białymstoku, 2004).

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

Research Approaches to Josaphat Kuntsevych Because Josaphat Kuntsevych left his footprints in more than one country, and his activities were relevant to complicated relations between the Uniate, Roman Catholic, and Orthodox Churches, he and his cult have caught the attention of researchers, who have diverse points of view. Josaphat Kuntsevych is obviously an important historical figure for researchers, such as Antoni Mironowicz or Tomasz Kempa, who aim at studying the circumstances of seventeenth century Ruthenian society.3 Furthermore, Josaphat and his cult have been studied from long-term perspectives as well. Researchers seem to have been interested in St. Josaphat mainly from two points of view: religious-confessional and ethno-national. For example, studies by Andrzej Gil and Maria Takala-Roszczenko seem to support the assumption of the confessionalizing agent of St. Josaphat.4 On the other hand, studies by Kersten Jobst and Stefan Rohdewald focus more on the trans-denominational, transnational, and comprehensive/inclusive Antoni Mironowicz, Diecezja białoruska w XVII i XVIII wieku (Białystok: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu w Białymstoku, 2008); Tomasz Kempa, “Poparcie magnaterii litewskiej i ruskiej dla unii brzeskiej w pierwszych latach po jej wprowadzeniu,” Rocznik Bialskopodlaski 5 (1997): 7–22; Tomasz Kempa, “Nieznany list wojewody witebskiego Jana Zawiszy do arcybiskupa Jozafata Kuncewicza. Przyczynek do wyjaśnienia przyczyn zabójstwa arcybiskupa połockiego,” Białoruskie Zeszyty Historyczne 15 (2001): 210–19; Tomasz Kempa, “Wileńskie bractwo św. Ducha jako centrum obrony prawosławia w Wielkim Księstwie Litewskim w końcu XVI i w pierwszej połowie XVII w.,” Białoruskie Zeszyty Historyczne 21 (2004): 47–69; Tomasz Kempa, “Nieznane listy biskupów unickich do kanclerza Lwa Sapiehy: źródła ukazujące sytuację wyznaniową w Wielkim Księstwie Litewskim w pierwszej połowie XVII wieku,” Białoruskie Zeszyty Historyczne 22 (2004): 183–223; Tomasz Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku w czasie rządow biskupich Jozafata Kuncewicza i po jego męczeńskiej śmierci (do połowy XVII wieku),” in Etniczne, kulturowe i religijne pogranicza Rzeczypospolitej w XVI-XVIII wieku, ed. Krzysztof Mikulski and Agnieszka Zielińska-Nowicka (Toruń: Mado, 2005), 135–54. 4 Gil underlines that St. Josaphat’s cult confirmed the identity of the Uniate Church. Andrzej Gil, “The First Images and the Beginning of the Cult of the Archbishop of Połock Josaphat Kuncewicz in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth till the mid– 17th Century,” in On the Border of the Worlds: Essays about the Orthodox and Uniate Churches in Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages and the Modern Period, ed. Andrzej Gil and Witold Bobryk (Siedlce-Lublin: Instytut Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej, 2010), 147–69. Likewise, Takala-Roszczenko remarks on St. Josaphat’s huge contributions to Catholic integration in the Commonwealth. The martyrdom of Josaphat made the Uniate Church “demarcated” or “detached” from Orthodoxy and differentiated it from the Orthodox Church. Maria Takala-Roszczenko, The ‘Latin’ within the ‘Greek’: The Feast of the Holy Eucharist in the Context of Ruthenian Eastern Rite Liturgical Evolution in the 16th–18th Centuries (Joensuu: University of Eastern Finland, 2013), 90–97. 3

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characteristics of the cult of Josaphat.5 In contrast to both of these, studies by John-Paul Himka and Adam Szczupak observe this cult in the national discourse of western Ukraine (Ukrainization and the reassessment of the saint).6 These researchers’ points of view are largely determined by the period they investigate. Similarly, the significance of Josaphat changes from one period to another. Previous studies of St. Josaphat have indicated the connections between confessions and nations, focusing on a specific period or region. This article, drawing on these studies, aims to analyze the various political motivations behind the shifting interpretations and utilizations of St. Josaphat as a symbolic figure. By examining Josaphat’s personality in his contemporary context and following the changes the idea he was symbolizing has undergone, we can see the mechanism through which early modern confessional identities are combined with modern national identities.

Josaphat Kuntsevych in Vilnius First of all, the life and activities of St. Josaphat must be reviewed. The early stage of Josaphat’s life is not well known. Josaphat, previously known as Ivan, was born as a son of Gavriil in Volodymyr-Volynskyi, in today’s northwestern Ukraine. Researchers speculate that Josaphat belonged to a common or minor noble family.7 His parents were Orthodox Ruthenians. 5 Jobst presents St. Josaphat as a good example of trans-denominational, transethnic, transterritorial, and trans-epochal veneration. Kerstin Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects of the Veneration of Saint Josaphat Kuntsevych,” in Religion, Nation, and Secularization in Ukraine, ed. Frank E. Sysyn and Martin Schulze Wessel (Toronto: CIUS Press, 2015), 1–17. Rohdewald, who explains the role of the cult of Josaphat in the context of the integration of the state, even sees super-religious/ cultural characteristics in the cult of Josaphat. Stefan Rohdewald, “Medium unierter konfessioneller Identität oder polnisch-ruthenischer Einigung? Zur Verehrung Josafat Kuncevycs im 17. Jahrhundert,” in Kommunikation durch symbolische Akte. Religiose Heterogenitat und politische Herrschaft in Polen-Litauen, ed. Yvonne Kleinmann (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2010), 271–90. 6 John-Paul Himka, Religion and Nationality in Western Ukraine: The Greek Catholic Church and the Ruthenian National Movement in Galicia, 1867–1900 (Montreal: McGillQueen’s University Press, 1999); Adam Szczupak, “Kult Św. Jozafata w greckokatolickiej diecezji przemyskiej w okresie rządów biskupa Jozafata Kocyłowskiego (1917–1946),” Rocznik Przemyski 48 (2012): 103–18. 7 His father is supposed to have been a tradesman and a magistrate. Pavlo Krechun, Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych (1580–1623) iak svidok viry v eposi relihiinoi kontroversii (L’viv: Misioner, 2013), 64–65.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

Many researchers estimate that he was born in 1580, although some sources suggest that he was born a little earlier or later.8 Although some hagiographies claim that Josaphat dreamed of Christian unity from childhood, it would an exaggeration to idealize him. If it is true that he was born in 1580, the Church Union of Brest had already been achieved before he reached adulthood. Josaphat was educated in a typical Orthodox environment. He is thought to have belonged to the Orthodox parish of St. Paraskeva’s Church in Volodymyr and educated at an Orthodox school. However, it was probably no earlier than 1604 that he began to devote himself to the serious study required to be a churchman.9 Before going to Vilnius, Josaphat was apprenticed to a merchant. Hagiographies recount that when his master decided that Josaphat should marry his daughter, Josaphat refused the proposal and moved to Vilnius.10 In 1604, he entered the Monastery of the Holy Trinity in Vilnius—an institution that was vied over by the Orthodox and Uniates. In Vilnius, Josaphat had the opportunity to learn Latin, though he never perfected it. His most important experience was meeting people in Vilnius, in particular Josyf Veliamin Rutskyi. Rutskyi, a former Calvinist intellectual and the future Uniate metropolitan of Kyiv, had just returned to Vilnius from Rome, where he studied at the College of St. Athanasius (founded in the sixteenth century for educating Eastern Catholics [Uniates]). In contrast with Josaphat, Rutskyi was educated in quite an international environment. As a convinced Uniate, he provided Josaphat with intellectual stimulation. Furthermore, Rutskyi worked enthusiastically for the Church Union and reformation of the Eastern monastic system. In seventeenth-century Ruthenia, Petro Mohyla carried out reforms in the Orthodox Church, while Rutskyi did so in the Uniate Church. In Vilnius, Josaphat had opportunities to get acquainted with Roman Catholics, specifically Jesuits or graduates of Jesuit Academy. It is reasonable to assume that Josaphat became convinced of Uniatism in Vilnius.

8 Ibid., 65–67; Tadeusz Żychiewicz, Jozafat Kuncewicz (Kalwaria Zebrzydowska: Calvarianum, 1986), 11. 9 In Volodymyr he learnt Old Church Slavonic, Polish and canon law, but had no chance to study theology systematically. Krechun, Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych, 68–69. 10 Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 3.

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After entering the priesthood in 1609, Josaphat built his career in several monasteries in today’s Belarus.11 In 1613, after Rutskyi was nominated as the new metropolitan of Kyiv, Josaphat became the superior of the Monastery of the Holy Trinity in Vilnius, which would later become the administrative center of the Basilian Order founded by Rutskyi in 1617.12 In 1614, Rutskyi became the Uniate metropolitan of Kyiv,13 and he recommended Josaphat for the position of bishop of Polotsk with the intention of establishing Uniatism in the northeastern region of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. In June 1617, King Zygmunt III declared Josaphat the successor of the bishop of Polotsk, and in March 1618, he formally took up his post.14

Josaphat as Bishop of Polotsk Polotsk was located on the northeast edge of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Since it neighbored Muscovy and had briefly been located in the Muscovite state in the sixteenth century, the diocese of Polotsk was completely Disuniate. Herman Zahorskii and Gedeon Brolnitskii, the bishops before Josaphat, had not particularly tried to spread Uniatism in the diocese15 because it was not regarded as a realistic mission. Josaphat, however, began to aggressively spread Uniatism. His intransigence toward local Disuniates, noted by both his contemporaries and recent scholars, resulted in major 11 According to Alphonse Guépin’s hagiography (translated into Polish by Walerian Kalinka in 1885), during the period of war with Muscovy, Josaphat welcomed the Patriarch of Moscow, Ignatius, and his secretary Emmanuel Kantakouzenos, who fled to the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and successfully converted them to Catholicism. Krechun, Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych, 100. He laid the foundation of monasteries of the Basilian Order in Byteń and Żyrowicze, which are located in today’s western Belarus. Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku,” 136; Krechun, Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych, 100–102. 12 P. V. Pidruchnyi, “Pochatky Vasylians’koho chynu i Beresteis’ka uniia,” in Beresteis’ka uniia ta vnutrishne zhyttia Tserkvy v XVII stolitti, ed. Borys Gudziak and Oleh Turii (L’viv: Vydavnytstvo Instytutu Istorii Tserkvy L’vivs’koi Bohoslovs’koi Akademii, 1997): 79–101, 84–88. 13 In 1614, Josaphat accompanied Rutskyi, who visited Kyiv as a new metropolitan (Uniate metropolitans of Kyiv usually resided in Vilnius or Navahrudak). They achieved no visible success to spread the Union, other than the conversion of a few local Orthodox men. Żychiewicz, Jozafat Kuncewicz, 60–63. 14 Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku,” 136; Żychiewicz, Jozafat Kuncewicz, 72. 15 At the end of Brolnitskii’s term of office, many cities in this diocese did not have any Uniate population at all, and several cities had only a few Uniate inhabitants. Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku,” 135–36.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

conflict between him and locals. Josaphat’s commitment to forcing the Orthodox population to join the Union could be understood as a typical Counter-Reformation attitude and radical departure from the spirit of tolerance in the Commonwealth during the previous century.16 Since in the Commonwealth nobles enjoyed exclusive powers on their own lands, Josaphat targeted royal cities in his diocese: Polotsk, Vitebsk, Mogilev, Mstislavl, and others.17 He attempted to get control over all ecclesiastic buildings in royal cities and met with strong resistance from local people. In fact, there were quite a few people who had accepted the Church Union in the diocese of Polotsk, in contrast to the western regions. Josaphat mercilessly confiscated all churches and monasteries from Disuniate Orthodox, and Orthodox worshipers had to attend mass in private houses. While Josaphat’s activities were supported by his Uniate colleagues, King Zygmunt III, and the Catholic dignitaries of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, several of his supporters worried about his stubbornness. Letters by Lew Sapieha (the grand chancellor of Lithuania)18 and Jan Zawisza (the palatine of Vitebsk) contain such concerns.19 Josaphat did not temper his policy toward local Orthodox communities, despite his colleagues’ anxieties and warnings. Their fears were justified when Josaphat was murdered by Vitebsk locals in 1623. Before his murder, Josaphat experienced similar conflicts with Mogilev locals (1618–19). He dismissed local priests who were not obedient and deprived church buildings of Disuniate parishioners by force. The Mogilevians protests were rejected and the king ordered them to obey the 16 Ibid., 137. 17 Kempa, “Nieznany list wojewody witebskiego Jana Zawiszy,” 212. 18 Lew Sapieha, who was acquainted with Josaphat personally, was one of few enthusiastic supporters of the Church Union among Roman Catholic magnates in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, although he did not totally agree with the aggressive attitudes of Josaphat toward Orthodox locals. Kempa, “Poparcie magnaterii litewskiej i ruskiej,” 13–19; Aleksii Khoteev, Perepiska kantslera L’va Sapegi i arkhiepiskopa Iosafata Kuntsevicha (Minsk: Bratstvo v chest’ sviatogo Arkhistratiga Mikhaila, 2015), 43–54. 19 They have been published repeatedly. For example in: Kempa, “Nieznany list wojewody witebskiego Jana Zawiszy,” 210–19; Kempa, “Nieznane listy biskupów unickich,” 190– 223; Żychiewicz, Jozafat Kuncewicz, 156–85; V. A. Teplova and Z. I. Zueva, comps., Uniia v dokumentakh (Minsk: Luchi Sofii, 1997), 329–33. There is a publication specifically dedicated to the correspondence of Josaphat and Lew Sapieha (Khoteev, Perepiska kantslera L’va Sapegi). Sapieha was more critical than Zawisza, but both of them seemed considerably uneasy about the result of Josaphat’s intolerance of Orthodox believers, and even about the possibility of civil war backed by Muscovy.

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bishop.20 Disuniates in the Polotsk diocese did not accept Josaphat, but they had to pretend to be obedient in order to avoid punishment. The situation began to change when a new Orthodox hierarchy was established. After the Union of Brest in 1595–96, all hierarchs became Uniate—except for the bishops of Lviv and Przemyśl, who were not legally authorized. However, the patriarch of Jerusalem, who visited Ruthenia, consecrated new Orthodox hierarchs in 1620.21 Meletii Smotrytskyi, the superior of the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Vilnius22 and also a notable intellectual, was nominated as the Disuniate bishop of Polotsk. This meant that Polotsk’s Disuniate parishioners got an alternative to Uniate Josaphat. They welcomed this Disuniate bishop as a counterbalance to, perhaps opponent of, Josaphat.23 Although Smotrytskyi resided mainly in Vilnius rather than his own diocese, he occasionally sent his monks to his parishioners. The emergence of the Orthodox (Disuniate) bishop of Polotsk, despite being illegal in the Commonwealth,24 was enough to encourage Disuniate parishioners in Polotsk diocese to stand up against Josaphat. They began to take back the churches which had been confiscated by Josaphat; and priests who had been forced to become Uniate by Josaphat returned to Orthodoxy.25 During 1620–21, Josaphat met with strong resistance from Orthodox parishioners in his diocese. They disturbed Uniate feasts, attacked Uniate 20 Several locals, who resisted under arms, were sentenced to death, but were not executed. Kempa, “Nieznany list wojewody witebskiego Jana Zawiszy,” 212; Teplova and Zueva, comps., Uniia v dokumentakh, 188–90, 317–25. 21 In 1621, Zygmunt III ordered the arrest of those Orthodox hierarchs, although the order was never executed. Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku,” 139; David A. Frick, Meletij Smotryc’kyj (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 79; Teplova and Zueva, comps., Uniia v dokumentakh, 190–91. 22 After the Church Union, the Monastery of the Holy Spirit became the headquarters of the Orthodox confraternity in Vilnius and the center of Orthodoxy in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania (ranked with the Kyiv Mohyla Academy in the Kingdom of Poland). It took the place of the Monastery of the Trinity, which once was the primary Orthodox monastery and the residence of the confraternity in Vilnius, then became occupied by the Uniate Church after the union. Kempa, “Wileńskie bractwo św. Ducha jako centrum obrony prawosławia.” 23 Rutskyi summoned Smotrytskyi to his ecclesiastic court, but Smotrytskyi did not appear, therefore, he became excommunicated by Rutskyi. Frick, Meletij Smotryc’kyj, 77. 24 The activities of Greek hierarchs in the Commonwealth, including the restoration of the Orthodox hierarchy of the Kyivan metropolitanate, were labelled as spying of the Ottoman Empire. Kempa, “Nieznany list wojewody witebskiego Jana Zawiszy,” 213. 25 Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku,” 139.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

priests, and occupied churches while Josaphat was absent. Those involved were ordered to pay a huge fine, and Disuniates who went near religious buildings were arrested. In 1622, inhabitants of Vitebsk also defied Josaphat, but he did not change his policy.26 In April 1622, Josaphat punished Disuniates in Vitebsk for having built wooden huts in order to hold Orthodox Masses. This had caused huge resentment.27 On November 12, 1623, in Vitebsk, Josaphat captured the Disuniate priest Ilia Dawidowicz to prevent him performing an Orthodox Mass. Having heard of this, Disuniate locals rushed into the bishop’s palace, attacked him (the fatal wound was made on his head by an axe), and threw his body into the Western Dvina. They also killed Josaphat’s servants and plundered the palace. The body of Josaphat floated in the river for five days.28 It was the first time in the history of the Commonwealth that a hierarch of any church had been killed as a result of religious turmoil.29 On December 9, the king called a special committee to investigate the murder. The committee consisted of the holders of high office in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. They were selected by the king himself.30 The committee worked on the case from December 1623 to January 1624, and gave their very severe judgment on February 22.31 Nineteen rioters, who were arrested, and seventy-four rioters, who had fled the city, were sentenced to death. The representatives of the city also received fines, but none of the noblemen were punished, despite the certainty that Orthodox noblemen had acted against Josaphat.32 The 26 In the 1623 Sejm, delegates from the Volhynian palatinate accused Josaphat of persecution against the Orthodox Church. However, it had no visible influence over Josaphat’s acts. Ibid., 142–43. 27 Ibid., 143. 28 Ibid., 144. 29 Gil, “The First Images and the Beginning of the Cult,” 147. 30 Lew Sapieha (palatine of Vilnius, chancellor of the Grand Duchy), Samuel Sanguszko (palatine of Vitebsk), Jerzy Krzysztof Drucki Sokolinski (castellan of Mstislavl), Aleksander Korwin Gosiewski (referendary and secretary of the Grand Duchy), Aleksander Sapieha (starosta of Orsha), Mikołaj Zawisza (advocate of Vitebsk, surrogate of the palatinate of Vitebsk. Son of Jan Zawisza). Kempa, “Nieznany list wojewody witebskiego Jana Zawiszy,” 211; Żychiewicz, Jozafat Kuncewicz, 105. 31 Teplova and Zueva, comps., Uniia v dokumentakh, 345–59; o. Iosafat Romanyk, comp. and trans., Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych: Dokumenty shchodo beatyfikatsii (1623–1628 rr.) (Zhovkva: Misioner, 2010), 233–53. The judgement was supported by the pope. Teplova and Zueva, comps., Uniia v dokumentakh, 359–60, 361–62. 32 Protestant nobles and a number of Catholic nobles were criticizing Josaphat for violating the religious tolerance of the Commonwealth. Kempa, “Nieznany list

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city of Vitebsk was deprived of Magdeburg Law and the town hall was destroyed;33 all Orthodox institutions were closed, and all bells in the city were banned, except for the one which belonged to the church near the place of the martyrdom.34 Vitebsk remained the most strictly controlled city, politically and religiously, among all Orthodox-dominant cities in the Commonwealth, even after the comparatively tolerant new king came to the throne.35 Magdeburg Law was not reinstated until 1644, when the inhabitants officially pledged their loyalty to the Uniate bishop, Antonii Seliava. Dissidents were denied the privileges of the law.36 However, even after the punishments rebellious activities against Uniate prelates did not immediately cease.37

Beatification Soon after the murder, in December of that year, Nuntio Giovanni Battista Lancelotti wrote to Rome from Warsaw about the tragedy.38 Uniate metropolitan Rutskyi followed with longer and more detailed reports to Rome on Josaphat and his death.39 Around April 1624, Rutskyi started to petition for the canonization of Josaphat as a martyr.40 Already in 1624,

wojewody witebskiego Jana Zawiszy,” 213. A group of Orthodox nobles from the Minsk Palatinate had been protesting against Josaphat. Teplova and Zueva, comps., Uniia v dokumentakh, 313–14. 33 The nineteen under arrest were executed on the same day. The seventy-four, although it was doubtful that all of them had in fact participated in the attack against Josaphat, forfeited their properties. Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku,” 145. Detailed information about the punishments (including names of punished) is available in: Mikhal Paulau, Zaboistva Iasafata Kuntsevicha (Vitsebsk: Vitsebska Ablasnaia Uzbuinaia Drukarnia, 1996), 23–26. 34 An epitaph indicating the event was inscribed on the bell. Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku,” 145; Paulau, Zaboistva Iasafata Kuntsevicha, 26. 35 After 1633, when the new king came to the throne, Orthodox (Disuniate) bishop of Mogilev, Mstislavl, and Orsha (so-called bishop of Belarus) Joseph Bobrykowicz was permitted to visit his own diocese. Mironowicz, Diecezja białoruska, 42. 36 Teplova and Zueva, comps., Uniia v dokumentakh, 234–37. 37 In 1627, Pinsk locals acted against Grigorii, the Uniate bishop of Pinsk and Turov. Ibid., 197. 38 Romanyk, comp. and trans., Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych: Dokumenty shchodo beatyfikatsii, 31–33. 39 Ibid., 34–36, 37–49, 50–51, 52–54. They are addressed to the pope and the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. 40 Gil, “The First Images and the Beginning of the Cult,” 148.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

the first hagiography of Josaphat had appeared.41 In 1628, when Pope Urban VIII ordered Lancelotti to investigate Josaphat in order to make sure whether he was qualified to be canonized, Lancelotti began collecting information concerning Josaphat’s life and people’s opinions about him. Many people from various social strata gathered in Polotsk to give evidence of miracles performed by Josaphat (120 testimonies were collected to certify the power of Josaphat). Half of the eyewitnesses were noble men and women (largely Roman Catholic) and town men and women (Uniate or Roman Catholic). Uniate and Roman Catholic priests and monks were next in numbers (nearly thirty testimonies, about a half of which were made by Basilians and Jesuits).42 Josaphat was venerated above all by Uniate clergy (Metropolitan Rutskyi and Bishops Antonii Seliava, Rafail Korsak, Metody Terlecki, Jakub Susza, etc.), who in this way tried to strengthen their positions in the Ruthenian lands. But it is significant that Roman Catholics, both ordained and secular, seemed as enthusiastic about the canonization of Josaphat as Uniates.43 Among Roman Catholic churchmen, Jesuits and Dominicans (especially the former) were most zealous in petitioning. The support from King Zygmunt III, King Władysław IV, Queen Cecilia Renata Habsburg, and Queen Ludwika Maria Gonzaga, and secular dignitaries of the state, including powerful magnates like Lew Sapieha, Mikołaj Potocki, and Jerzy

41 It was written by Joachim Morochowski and published in Zamość. Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku,” 146. Soon afterwards Lew Krewza published the sermon on Josaphat’s martyrdom in 1625 in Vilnius. Gil, “The First Images and the Beginning of the Cult,” 149. These works were followed by various other religious works, such as: Iosaphat Isakowicz, Iosaphatidos sive de nece Josaphat Kuncewicz [  .  .  . ] libri tres (1628) and Jacob Susza, Cursus vitae, et certamen martyria B. Josaphat Kuncevicii (1665); Stanisław Kosiński, Żywot y Męczeństwo B. Jozafata Biskupa y Męczennika szeroko zebrane przez X. Stanisława Kosińskiego Soc. Jesu (1665) and Korona złota nad głową zranioną B. M. Jozaphata Kuncewicza Arcybiskupa Potockiego (1670); Andrzej Młodzianowski, Icones symbolicae vitae et mortis B. Josaphat (1675). Jolita Liškevičienė, ed., Dangiškieji globėjai, žemiškieji mecenatai [Celestial patrons and terrestrial benefactors] (Vilnius: Vilniaus dailės akademijos leidykla, 2011), 9–11, 85–98, 127–47. 42 The testimonies were given from March 20 to April 1. Bishops (Antonii Seliava, the successor of Josaphat, Jerzy Tyszkiewicz, Roman Caholic bishop of Samogitia and Vilnius, Rafail Korsak, Uniate bishop of Halych) and a canon of Vilnius and two Basilian abbots worked as apostolic commissioners. Romanyk, comp. and trans., Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych: Dokumenty shchodo beatyfikatsii, 89–232. 43 Rohdewald, “Medium unierter konfessioneller Identität,” 276.

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Michałowicz Czartoryski,44 must have greatly influenced the Vatican. The most enthusiastic among the petitioners were the Sapiehas.45 During the investigation process for the canonization, Nuntio Lancelotti also submitted an icon of Josaphat, which was made in Polotsk and sent to Rome.46 Until the middle of the seventeenth century, Josaphat’s images had spread in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania among Catholic believers of both rites.47 Through the investigation from 1628 to the 1630’s,48 the Apostolic See reached the conclusion that Josaphat should be sainted because his body showed no sign of decay. In 1643, he was beatified by the Catholic Church. The document of his beatification included the remark that Josaphat was ready for canonization. However, the pope did not proceed any further. Kerstin Jobst speculates that the pope did not want to make Josaphat a saint immediately, possibly in order not to provoke Orthodox people in the Commonwealth.49 Though not achieving canonization, Josaphat Kuntsevych still reached the status of blessed in the middle of the seventeenth century. Following this, his cult started to spread in the eastern part of the Commonwealth.

St. Josaphat as a Symbol of Catholic Superiority The cult of St. Josaphat consisted of people from various cultural and social strata of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Officially acknowledged by Rome by the beatification, the cult reached its peak in the middle of the seventeenth century, when the Commonwealth faced a wartime crisis. 44 Gil, “The First Images and the Beginning of the Cult,” 164. 45 Ibid., 165. 46 It was on this occasion that the first icons of Josaphat were probably produced, and one of them was sent to Rome, while others were left in local churches. Ibid., 149. In his earliest icons, Josaphat was depicted realistically as an “Eastern” bishop (with a miter and an omophor, but without any allegorical elements), while after the beatification he began to be depicted as a typical Western martyr (with palm tree and axe). Ibid., 151– 55; Jolita Liskeviciene, “Ankstyvieji palaimintojo Juozapato Kuncevičiaus portretiniai atvaizdai,” in Liškevičienė, ed., Dangiškieji globėjai, žemiškieji mecenatai: 113–25. 47 On iconographic studies of Josaphat, see Karol Klauza, “Teologia męczeństwa w wybranych ikonach Św. Jozafata,” Teka Komisji Polsko-Ukraińskich Związków Kulturowych (2007): 91–99; Liskeviciene, “Ankstyvieji palaimintojo Juozapato Kuncevičiaus.” 48 Piotr Krasny, “Relikwiarz św. Jozafata Kuncewicza w katedrze połockiej: Przyczynek do badań nad srebrnymi trumnami relikwiarzowymi w Rzeczypospolitej w XVII wieku,” Studia nad sztuką renesansu i baroku 4 (2000): 121–40, 121. 49 Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 7.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

The center of the cult, already noticeable when the investigation for the beatification began,50 was Polotsk, which became the pilgrimage site.51 The body of Josaphat was rescued from the river, brought to Polotsk Cathedral, and placed in a coffin in 1637. Later, Kazimierz Lew Sapieha, a son of Lew Sapieha, donated a silver sarcophagus for the relics.52 Another important city for the veneration of Josaphat was Vitebsk. These two cities, despite having an Orthodox majority, were made footholds of the Uniate Church to expand to the eastern part of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. The martyrdom of Josaphat was recognized as an important moment for the advancement of Catholicism into the lands of Eastern Christianity. As researchers point out, the cult of St. Josaphat made a huge contribution to the further development of the Uniate Church in the Commonwealth. The murder of Josaphat, which enabled him to be presented as a victim and Orthodox as murderers, drew a distinct line between Uniate and Orthodox Churches. The difference between Uniate and Orthodox was now clearer to people. Furthermore, the murder helped the Uniate Church consolidating its place within the Catholic Church. Soon after the Union of Brest, a significant number of people judged the Union to be a failure because Ruthenians did not accept it. Roman Catholic prelates and nobles became skeptical of further promoting the union among Ruthenians, thinking it more sensible to integrate already existing Uniates into the Roman Catholic Church.53 It was in this context that Josaphat’s cult arose. 50 Gil, “The First Images and the Beginning of the Cult,” 156. 51 Josaphat’s successor, Antonii Seliava, asked Rome for permission to build an altar over the grave. Ibid., 155–56. Josaphat’s relics (if we include low-status relics such as his clothes or belongings) were located throughout the Commonwealth. Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 7. 52 This sarcophagus was constructed in 1650. Krasny speculates that the author was Piotr van der Rennen, a master from Gdańsk. Krasny, “Relikwiarz św. Jozafata Kuncewicza,” 122, 129–30. The sarcophagus of Josaphat was of an entirely Western style based on the Polish or Central European funerary tradition, while Josaphat himself made much of the oriental identity in the Uniate Church. Krasny sees the earliest step toward the Latinization of the Uniate Church in this sarcophagus. Ibid., 131–34. 53 Yurii Gerych, Ohliad bohoslovs’ko-literaturnoi diial’nosti Iosafata Kuntsevycha (Toronto: Dobra Knyzhka, 1960), 21; Kempa, “Poparcie magnaterii litewskiej i ruskiej,” 7–8. Urban VIII issued the decree on February 7, 1624, to prevent Ruthenian Uniates switching to Roman Catholicism, in order to enable the Uniate Church in the Commonwealth take off. However, because Zygmunt III was not

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Josaphat became, first of all, a symbol of the Basilian Order. The order was authorized by the pope in 1631, was the first monastic order in Eastern Christianity, and Josaphat was one of the founding members. Consequently, Josaphat became to symbolize the Uniate Church itself. But the important point is that Josaphat was venerated by Roman Catholics too, especially by Jesuits who were deeply concerned about Uniatism in the Commonwealth. The Basilian Order promoted Josaphat’s cult in order to glorify Catholicism in the eastern peripheries of the Commonwealth, where Orthodoxy was still the main denomination. Former dissidents too played an important role in the formation of the cult. Many of them had already cooperated in the investigation process, which began in 1628.54 These neophytes converted from not only Orthodoxy but also Calvinism or Judaism;55 they even included people who had been hostile toward Josaphat while he was alive and who had been involved in the resistance against him. In their petition letters, such people asserted that they had repented of their past and become Catholic (Western or Eastern), thanks to the glory of God, because of Josaphat’s martyrdom. This made Catholics believe that Josaphat’s power was particularly effective in getting dissidents to convert.56 The actual fact was that more and more Disuniates accepted Uniatism (or converted to Roman Catholicism) because of the bad treatment of Orthodox people that increased after the murder of Josaphat.57 The motivation to convert would have been

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cooperative, the pope had to relax the restriction in the same year. Mironowicz, Diecezja białoruska, 22. They were, of course, a minority. Once Josaphat came to be used for showing the superiority of Catholicism over other confessions in the Commonwealth, he inevitably became disliked by dissidents, especially by Orthodox ones, as the embodiment of Catholic aggression against them. Eyewitness testimonies of miracles caused by Josaphat are included in: Żychiewicz, Jozafat Kuncewicz, 185–92. The testimonies, which were collected in 1628, included three cases by Jews, three cases by Calvinists, and one case by an Anabaptist. Romanyk, comp. and trans., Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych: Dokumenty shchodo beatyfikatsii, 103, 193–95, 202, 225. Calvinists and Jews also participated in transferring Josaphat’s body from Vitebsk to Polotsk. Rohdewald, “Medium unierter konfessioneller Identität,” 279. Josaphat, believed to own special ability to make oppositional people convert, was nicknamed “Dushokhvat” or “Duszłap” (“Soul snatcher” in Jobst’s translation). Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 7). When the circumstances around the Orthodox Church changed in the reign of Władysław IV, some of those who reluctantly accepted Uniatism returned to Orthodoxy. Unlike his father, Władysław was tolerant; and threatened by Cossack power, he legitimized the Orthodox hierarchy. Orthodox inhabitants in the royal cities

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

opportunistic for many,58 but the Catholic Church interpreted any conversions as testimony to the miraculous power of Josaphat. The case of Meletii Smotrytskyi (converted in 1627, entered the Basilian monastery in Dermań),59 the Disuniate counterpart of Josaphat, was also a good advertisement of the martyr’s power to lead schismatics to Catholicism. When Josaphat was murdered, Smotrytskyi was suspected of being behind the murder. As a result, he fled to the Ottoman Empire under the pretext of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.60 After spending several years in the Ottoman Empire, he came back to the Commonwealth and accepted Uniatism. It is not known whether he converted to Catholicism in his heart or out of self-preservation.61 The Uniate bishop of Chełm, Jakub Susza, the author of the first hagiography of Josaphat in Latin, published his second book on Josaphat in 1666. It aimed to praise the sanctity of Josaphat by taking up Smotrytskyi’s case.62 Susza’s predecessor, Metody Terlecki, frequently mentioned Josaphat in his polemic literature.63

St. Josaphat as an Integrating Force in the Commonwealth St. Josaphat was useful not only for the Catholic Church, but also for the Commonwealth in general. The cult, in appearance pro-Catholic and anti-Orthodox, was suitable for promoting integration under the flag of of the diocese of Polotsk regained churches with several exceptions. Polotsk, Josaphat’s bishopric, Vitebsk, the place of his martyrdom, and Navahrudak, where Uniate metropolitans of Kyiv resided, were cities where Orthodox people were officially prohibited to have any church (but they built churches to make them a fait accompli. The nobility assisted and protected Orthodox people in such cases). Kempa, “Unia i prawosławie w Witebsku,” 148. 58 Many neophytes were thought to have remained secretly Orthodox. 59 Żychiewicz, Jozafat Kuncewicz, 112–13. 60 Smotrytskyi stayed in the Ottoman Empire in 1623–25. Frick, Meletij Smotryc’kyj, 89. 61 As a Uniate, he received the title of bishop of Hierapolis only nominally. 62 Jakub Jan Susza, Saulus et Paulus Ruthenae Unionis sanguine beati Josaphat transformatus, sive Meletius Smotriscius archiepiscopus Hierapolitanus (Rome, 1666). Andrzej Kaszlej, comp., Inwentarz rękopisów Biblioteki Kapituły Greckokatolickiej w Przemyślu (Warszawa: Biblioteka Narodowa, 2011), 169–270. With regard to the hagiography by Susza (Rome, 1665), see footnote 41. 63 Terlecki and Susza’s activities to promote the cult of Josaphat contributed a great deal to the establishment of the cult in the Kingdom of Poland. Their activities were taken into consideration in the discussion concerning the canonization of Josaphat, which took place in the 1660s and 1670s. Gil, “The First Images and the Beginning of the Cult,” 161.

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religious patriotism. Because Josaphat was venerated by Catholics of both rites, Western and Eastern, he was ideal to symbolize the integration of the Commonwealth, a composite state, comprised of various historical regions. The cult of Josaphat was adapted to the situation of the Commonwealth in that period. The middle of the seventeenth century was a time of war— for example, the Swedish Deluge and wars with Muscovy and Ukrainian Cossacks. During this period, the unity of the Commonwealth depended upon Catholicism more profoundly than ever. The Commonwealth came to assume the role of “Bulwark” (Antemurale), not only against Islam, as this word originally meant, but also against Protestant and Orthodox enemies. It is not surprising that St. Josaphat, as a victim of conflict with the Orthodox Church, became one of the most popular saints in the Commonwealth during the time. The Marian cult of Częstochowa was the most significant cult in the Commonwealth in the mid-seventeenth century, but the popularity of St. Josaphat was also important in the Counter-Reformation and growth of religious patriotism in the Commonwealth. In the war period, Josaphat became more popular by being linked with Josaphat, king of Judach,64 who appears in the Old Testament—a king who defended his people from enemies. Association with this personality provided St. Josaphat with the reputation of a guardian. People believed that St. Josaphat protected Catholics from invasion by Protestant or Orthodox enemies. When Polotsk survived attacks by the Swedes (1627 and 1655) and the Muscovites (1633 and 1653), locals believed that the city was saved by Josaphat.65 In 1653 and 1655, when the Muscovite, Cossack, and Swedish armies reached Polotsk, people evacuated the relics of Josaphat and St. Casimir from the city in order to preserve them.66 St. Casimir was a fifteenth-century saint of the House of Jagiellon, and the most important patron saint of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. The treatment of St. Josaphat as an equal of St. Casimir demonstrated that the former represented the Lithuania of the Western rite, and the latter represented that of the Eastern rite. The cult of St. Josaphat grew. In 1673, he became a patron saint not only of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania but also the Kingdom of Poland,67 64 Rohdewald, “Medium unierter konfessioneller Identität,” 282. 65 The earliest prophesy of Josaphat’s miraculous protection of Polotsk is found in 1627 in the writings of Stanisław Kosiński, rector of the Jesuit collegium in the city). Ibid., 277. 66 Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 7. 67 Rohdewald, “Medium unierter konfessioneller Identität,” 285.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

even though his cult was not widespread in the Crown lands. Josaphat, at the same time, preserved his local character: during the reign of Michał Korybut Wiśniowiecki, he was mentioned as the patron saint of Ruthenia.68 In short, Josaphat became a patron saint of the Commonwealth together with St. Stanislaus and St. Casimir.69 St. Stanislaus and St. Casimir represented Poland and Lithuania respectively, while Josaphat represented the Ruthenian region, composed of the eastern half of the Kingdom of Poland and a large part of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. In 1668, the relics of Josaphat returned to Polotsk, which was liberated from Muscovy in 1667 under the Treaty of Andrusovo. They had been sheltered in numerous places, including the Basilian church in Supraśl and Vilnius Cathedral. In 1669, the Sejm fixed the holiday of St. Josaphat on 12 November (Gregorian calendar), and in 1677 Josaphat became officially recognized as a patron of the Commonwealth in the constitution.70 This meant that the institutionalization of his cult by the state had been accomplished.71 In the 1660s, a movement for canonizing Josaphat was launched by those in the Commonwealth who believed that Josaphat protected their country. They were supported by high-ranking nobles (most notably from the Grand Duchy of Lithuania), the king, and even by Emperor Leopold.72 Their efforts, however, bore no fruit. When Peter the Great entered Polotsk in 1705 with his army, the relics of Josaphat were transferred to Biała Podlaska, a private city under the protection of the powerful Radziwiłłs.73 Henceforth, Biała Podlaska was 68 Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 6. 69 The resemblance of Josaphat as a priest-saint to St. Stanislaus and St. Casimir (and St. Adalbertus, likewise) is pointed out (Klauza, “Teologia męczeństwa,” 96). Krasny judges the silver sarcophagus of Josaphat as among the four finest sarcophagi made in the Commonwealth during the second half of the seventeenth century—the others being those of St. Adalbertus (Gniezno, 1626), St. Stanislaus (Cracow, 1633), and St. Casimir (Vilnius, 1636) Krasny, “Relikwiarz św. Jozafata Kuncewicza,” 124. 70 Beata Lorens, “Kult Św. Jozafata Kuncewicza w eparchii przemyskiej w XVII i XVIII wieku,” Pocznik Przemyski 44 (2008): 107–19, 108. Mickiewicz mentioned this in his Books of the Polish People and the Polish Pilgrimage (Paris: A. Pinard, 1832). Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 6. 71 Rohdewald, “Medium unierter konfessioneller Identität,” 286. 72 Marian Ogiński from Grodno, who was an Orthodox at the time, was one of the petitioners of the canonization. This shows that occasionally Josaphat was even a trans-religious subject of veneration, that he was regarded as a protector of the Commonwealth. Ibid., 283–84. 73 Karol Stanisław Radziwiłł, the grand chancellor of Lithuania, was known for being a supporter of the veneration of Josaphat. Tojana Raciunaite, “Globojant šventą

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added to the pilgrimage sites of the Blessed Josaphat.74 Andrzej Gil points out that the invasion by Muscovy significantly obstructed the development of the cult of Josaphat in the Grand Duchy (he writes that the first phase of the Josaphat cult ended in the middle of the seventeenth century),75 but it is also possible to argue that the transferal of the relics contributed to the distribution of the cult. Nevertheless, the cult of Josaphat did not spread into the territory of the Kingdom of Poland on a large scale. Before the Partitions of the Commonwealth, the cult of Josaphat was quite popular in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania,76 while rather patchy in the Kingdom of Poland.77 Josaphat found large-scale popularity among Ukrainian Uniates, but much later. Although the dioceses of Lviv and Przemyśl did not accept the Church Union immediately, Przemyśl78 became Uniate officially in 1692 and Lviv in 1700. The diocese of Lutsk, which had been given to the Orthodox Church in 1635, became Uniate in 1702. The earliest example of the cult in Galician lands was observed when the Cossacks were approaching there

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kankinio kūną: Juozapato Kuncevičiaus kultas loca sancta aspektu” in Liškevičienė, ed., Dangiškieji globėjai, žemiškieji mecenatai: 127–47, 147. Karol Radziwiłł did not return the relics, even after Polotsk was liberated. In 1767, when the city of Polotsk requested them back, only a part of the body was returned and the rest of it stayed in Biała. Josaphat’s silver sarcophagus was given to the Basilian monastery in Żyrowice, where it was preserved until 1777. Krasny, “Relikwiarz św. Jozafata Kuncewicza,” 123. Through the mediation of the Vatican in 1743, Radziwiłłs founded a Basilian monastery in Biała, where the body of Josaphat found a place to rest. Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 9. The cult was suppressed under the occupation of Muscovy. Gil, “The First Images and the Beginning of the Cult,” 166–67. In the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, where the cult of Josaphat was quite popular, his miraculous icons were found not only in Uniate churches, but also in monasteries and the properties of Roman Catholic magnates. In the Kingdom of Poland, Chełm, Przemyśl, Sokal, Lublin, and Cracow were the places where veneration of the blessed Josaphat could be observed. Although Josaphat did not have any personal connection with Galician regions, including Przemyśl, he began to be accepted there in the second half of the sixteenth century. Josaphat’s omophorion, as a relic, was given to Jan Małachowski, the Uniate bishop of Przemyśl, before it was transferred to Andrzej Maksymilian Fredro, the palatine of Podole. The diocese of Przemyśl was divided between Orthodox and Uniate bishoprics at the time, and the former occupied the Cathedral. The Uniates in the diocese used Josaphat’s omophorion to strengthen their position against the Orthodox. Fredro, a Roman Catholic, worked to turn his domains’ Orthodox churches into Uniate ones. Albin Soka, “Relikwie świętego Jozafata Kuncewicza w kościele FranciszkanówReformatów w Przemyślu,” Polska-Ukraina 100 lat sąsiedztwa 2 (1994): 109–18; Lorens, “Kult Św. Jozafata Kuncewicza.”

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

during the Khmelnytsky Uprising.79 In attempting to spread Uniatism in those three dioceses, they tried to popularize the cult of Josaphat among locals.80 There were, moreover, plans to move Josaphat’s holiday from November to September, when the climate was better for celebration or pilgrimage, so that Josaphat became more popular among the peasantry.81 However, as Beata Lorens concludes, even after Galician dioceses fell totally under Uniate control, and even after they went to Austria following the Partitions of the Commonwealth, Josaphat never had the popularity he enjoyed in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. His cult would not take proper root in Galicia until the twentieth century.

One of the “Controversial” Saints Although Josaphat made a great contribution to the integration of the Commonwealth, his anti-Orthodox character excluded Orthodox people and marginalized them. The seventeenth century was a time when the Commonwealth was renewing its Catholic identity, and it was not just Josaphat who became a victim of religious conflict. In 1997, the Academy of Theology in Cracow hosted a conference on “controversial” saints. Marek Blaza gives three such examples of saints from the same time as Josaphat: St. Germogen, the Orthodox patriarch of Moscow, who encouraged Muscovite people to defend themselves from the invasion of Poles; St. Andrzej Bobola, a Jesuit murdered in Podlasie by Ukrainian Cossacks; and St. Athanasius of Brest, an Orthodox who was executed as a rebel for having repeatedly criticized the Church Union. All these saints are considered products of the religious-political events in seventeenth-century Eastern Europe.82 Germogen, who was a victim of Polish 79 Josaphat was seen as the defendant of Przemyśl. Lorens, “Kult Św. Jozafata Kuncewicza,” 108. 80 In the early 1690s, Bishop Inokentii Vynnytskyi, who turned from Orthodox to Uniate, obligated parishioners to celebrate the day of Josaphat under penalty of censure (including excommunication). This shows that at the time the veneration of Josaphat had not been accepted by the parishioners of the diocese. Lorens, “Kult Św. Jozafata Kuncewicza,” 111, 115–18; Szczupak, “Kult Św. Jozafata,” 103. 81 The idea of moving the holiday of Josaphat was discussed at the Synod of Zamość (1720) too. Ibid., 114–15. 82 While Josaphat is placed among the “controversial” or “divisive” saints who threatened to increase antagonism between the confessions, he is also seen as someone in whom the attachment to Eastern tradition and the longing for the unity of Christianity coexisted. Josaphat’s interest in the Eastern ecclesiastic tradition, which connected Ruthenia and

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aggression during the Smuta [Time of Troubles], was canonized in 1913, the 300th anniversary of the Romanov dynasty.83 A seventeenth-century saint representing religious patriotism, Germogen is effectively the Russian counterpart of Josaphat and Andrzej Bobola. Andrzej Bobola has many things in common with Josaphat: they were both murdered by Orthodox and anti-Orthodox symbols in the Commonwealth; they spent considerable time in Vilnius, where they became acquainted with important political and intellectual figures of the time;84 and their relics (bodies) were once located in Polotsk.85 However, it seems that among contemporary saints the most comparable to Josaphat is Athanasius of Brest: Josaphat and Athanasius are Ruthenians whose pilgrimage sites are concentrated in today’s Belarus and Podlasian region in Poland;86 and they were both beatified/canonized relatively soon after they died, while Germogen and Andrzej Bobola were canonized in the twentieth century. It is a curious fact that young Athanasius, before becoming a monk of the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Vilnius, worked from 1620 to 1627 as the teacher of children of Lew Sapieha, a friend of Josaphat.87 As Josaphat became the symbol-saint of the Church Union, Athanasius became the symbol of resistance against it.88 The martyrdom of Athanasius (1648) is supposed to have contributed to the reinforcement of Orthodox identity among Disuniate Ruthenians.89 He seems to be the perfect mir-

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Muscovy, is important too. Bohdan Pańczak, “Jozafat Kuncewicz: święty bliżej nieznany,” http://seminarija.pl/2-uncategorised/22-jozafat-kuncewicz-swiety-blizej-nieznany. Germogen was captured by Poles who were planning to extend the Church Union into Muscovy. He starved to death in prison. Marek Blaza, “Święty Andrzej Bobola: Łączy czy dzieli?,” Studia Bobolanum 1 (2008): 15–38, 19–20. Felicjan Paluszkiewicz, SJ, “Środowisko wileńskie św. Andrzeja Boboli,” Przegląd Powszechny 5 (2002): 176–85. The relics of Andrzej Bobola were located in Polotsk from 1808 to 1922. Blaza, “Święty Andrzej Bobola,” 20; Henryka Kramarz, “Poleski męczennik: czy patron trudnego pojednania?,” Annales Academicae Paedagogicae Cracoviensis. Studia Historica 7 (2008): 197–201, 198. St. Athanasius’s pilgrimage and cult locations are found in Brest, Grodno and Leśna Podlaska, Biała Podlaska, Włodawa and Jabłeczna. Adam Bobryk, “Wpływ Atanazego Brzeskiego na postawy prawosławnych wobec ruchu unijnego,” Szkice Podlaskie 11 (2003): 5–14, 10, 12–13. Blaza, “Święty Andrzej Bobola,” 21; Bobryk, “Wpływ Atanazego Brzeskiego,” 7. Bobryk, “Wpływ Atanazego Brzeskiego,” 5–14. Ibid., 10, 13–14. In 1996, on the occasion of the 400th anniversary of the Church Union, Autocephalous Orthodox Church in Poland celebrated this saint. Ibid., 11–12.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

ror image of Josaphat. The notable difference between them, however, is that Athanasius has never been as nationalizing a figure in the territory of modern Belarus as Josaphat has been in Ukraine. Athanasius is venerated in local (western Belarus) or universal Orthodox discourse rather than in Belarusian national discourse.90 Meletii Smotrytskyi, the Disuniate bishop of Polotsk, could be seen as another counterpart of Josaphat, although he is neither a martyr nor saint. As Yurii Gerych observes, Josaphat wrote exclusively in Ruthenian, while Smotrytskyi wrote in Polish.91

After the Partitions of the Commonwealth: Canonization After the Partitions of the Commonwealth, Ruthenian Uniate dioceses were divided between two empires. Five dioceses became Russian, while three became Austrian. After the Congress of Vienna, the annexation of the Congress Kingdom of Poland meant that the diocese of Chełm was absorbed by Russia. Russia and Austria then took highly contrasting policies towards the Uniate Church. In Russia’s western provinces, the Uniate Church was repressed and was “reunited” with the Russian Orthodox Church in 1839. The diocese of Chełm was dissolved and incorporated into the Orthodox Church in 1875.92 These actions were closely related to the nationalist movements of the Poles: the November Uprising (1830–31) and the January Uprising (1863–64), and their suppression. The reunion of the Uniate Church with the Orthodox Church was a part of the de-Polonization policy of the Russian Empire. 90 Ibid., 14. 91 Josaphat had never received systematic higher education like Pociej or Rutskyi. Gerych considers that his inability to access Latin literature made Josaphat maintain his oriental character. Gerych, Ohliad bohoslovs’ko-literaturnoi diial’nosti, 19–20. As Josaphat did not leave any outstanding literary works, much research on Josaphat has been dedicated to iconographical studies of his images or relics. The two works (“Katekhyzm” and “Pravyla i konstytutsii dlia svoikh sviashchennykiv”) that are believed to be his have been translated into modern Ukrainian and published in: Krechun, Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych, 217–40; Romanyk, comp., Sviatyi Iosafat Kuntsevych: Dokumenty shchodo beatyfikatsii, 273–314; and Gerych, Ohliad bohoslovs’ko-literaturnoi diial’nosti, 20. 92 Theodore R. Weeks, “The ‘End’ of the Uniate Church in Russia: The Vozsoedinenie of 1875,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas. Neue Folge 44, no. 1 (1996): 28–40; Paul W. Werth, The Tsar’s Foreign Faiths: Toleration and the Fate of Religious Freedom in Imperial Russia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 77–79, 156–58.

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In the Russian Empire, the cult of St. Josaphat, which had assumed an anti-Orthodox and anti-Russian character, was the object of oppression. As Uniate churches turned Orthodox, there was a danger that Josaphat would be forgotten, even in Polotsk. Instead of Josaphat, the Orthodox St. Efrosinia became the patron saint of the city. The movement of her relics from Kyiv to Polotsk was an attempt to wipe out the cult of the former Uniate bishop of Polotsk.93 On the other hand, in Austrian Galicia, the Uniate Church, termed Greek Catholic since 1774, was treated as the equal of the Roman Catholic Church. (It is worth noting that the dominance of Roman Catholics over Uniates had never been threatened.) The bishopric of Lviv was raised to the metropolitanate of Halych-Lviv in 1808, while the Uniate metropolitanate of Kyiv was abolished on Russian territory.94 The Greek Catholic Church of Galicia produced intellectuals (they simultaneously functioned as a sub-elite under, and a counter-elite against, Poles) who helped influence in the generation of nationalist feeling in western Ukraine.95 For this reason, it can be said that Uniate Church ultimately became the national church of Galician Ukrainians, although at least until World War I people’s religious identities did not always correspond to ethnic identity. The second phase of the cult of Josaphat reached its peak in the second half of the nineteenth century, when he was finally canonized during the reign of Pope Pius IX. The pope was eager to canonize new saints. Further, he was sympathetic to the Poles and their recently failed January Uprising against Russia.96 In 1865, three Catholic leaders in Lviv—the Roman Catholic archbishop, the Greek Catholic metropolitan and the Armenian Catholic bishop—submitted a petition for the canonization of Josaphat to the pope. The procedure made rapid progress and Josaphat was canonized on June 29, 1867. In Lviv, the three Catholic Churches of different rites celebrated the canonization together with Nuntio Mariano

93 Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 14. 94 The third diocese (diocese of Stanislaviv) was founded in 1885. Himka, Religion and Nationality, 7. 95 Ibid., 6–7. 96 Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 15. Unlike his predecessor Gregory XVI, who was critical of the November Uprising of 1830–31, Pius IX was quite compassionate towards Poles.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

Falcinelli Antoniacci in July.97 The main force of petitioners were Galician Poles and Poles in exile, including magnate families.98 In other words, inside and outside Galicia the campaign for the canonization was supported by Poles rather than Ukrainians. In spite of efforts to import the popularity of Josaphat from the former lands of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, Josaphat was never truly accepted by Galician Ukrainians even in the nineteenth century. Poles did not really succeed in involving the Ukrainian masses in this campaign. Many Ukrainians did not recognize Josaphat as their “own,” for they considered him too attached to Poles. Rusophiles, especially, insisted that Josaphat was an enemy of the Eastern Church and stressed his intolerance and overly strident attitudes toward Orthodox “comrades.”99 Opinions of this kind were widely shared among Galician Ukrainians. As Galician Ukrainians became aware of their cultural and historical connections with Ukrainians in the Russian Empire, they began to assimilate with Cossack traditions, which had been closely related to the Orthodox Church. On the other hand, Josaphat was an iconic figure for Poles,100 both in Russia and in Austria. The January Uprising, aimed at reviving the Commonwealth, professed the idea of a Commonwealth of three rather than two nations: Poland, Lithuania, and Ruthenia.101 The Ruthenian nation, more precisely, Ukrainians (because the Belarusian lands had once constituted the former Grand Duchy of Lithuania, people there were considered to be included in the Lithuanian nation), as a third component of the Commonwealth, could be best represented by St. Josaphat, the Catholic 97 Ibid., 15. In the same year, on July 29, the Apostolic See celebrated the canonization of numerous new saints, including Josaphat, on the occasion of the 1800th anniversary of the martyrdom of apostles Peter and Paul. Opis uroczystości kanonizacyjnej błogosławionego Józafata Kuncewicza, biskupa Połockiego (Lwów: J. Nowakowski, 1867). 98 Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 14–15. 99 Ukraine’s Rusophile press reported negatively on Polish activities for the canonization, and Galician Ukrainians paid no special attention to the canonization rituals performed in Lviv. Himka, Religion and Nationality, 29–30; Jobst, “Transnational and TransDenominational Aspects,” 11–13. 100 Himka, Religion and Nationality, 31. 101 The idea of a Commonwealth of three nations originated in the Hadiach Agreement (1658), a treaty between the Commonwealth and Cossack elites. Janusz Kczmarczyk, Rzeczpospolita Trojga Narodów: Mit czy Rzeczywistość (Kraków: Księgarnia Akademicka, 2007).

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saint rooted in Eastern ecclesiastic tradition.102 In addition, Josaphat’s anti-Russian persona suited for the uprising. However, as mentioned above, the canonization of Josaphat was not fully welcomed by Ukrainians. This shows that Josaphat did not function as a reconciliatory mediator between Poles and Ukrainians during the time of national awakening. However, as Stepan Shakh remarks, Josaphat started becoming popular among the Ukrainian Uniate after his canonization at the end of the century.103 Despite the fact that Josaphat had been considered by Ukrainians as almost Polonized for a long time, the situation changed gradually toward the end of the nineteenth century. When a considerable number of Galician Ukrainians came to be involved in Rusophilism in the second half of the nineteenth century, the Uniate hierarchy faced the necessity of competing not only with Roman Catholicism but also with Orthodoxy. They recognized that their situation was quite similar to that of the Uniate hierarchy of the seventeenth century. At the end of the nineteenth century, the Uniate hierarchy, with Andrii Sheptytskyi, the charismatic metropolitan, became interested in the early Uniate activists who established the foundation of the Uniate Church in the Commonwealth as “Apostles of the Union.” Metropolitan Andrii Sheptytskyi and his colleagues studied the activities of two of the earliest Uniate metropolitans, Pociej and Rutskyi, as well as Josaphat, collecting archival sources and publishing parts of them.104 This interest in Josaphat was taken over by the Ukrainian nationalists in Galicia in the early twentieth century during the interwar period.

The Twentieth Century: The Nationalization of Josaphat How has the cult of Josaphat been Ukrainianized in recent history? During World War I, under the suppression of their Russian occupants, some Galician priests and parishioners converted from Greek Catholic

102 Josaphat could be the personification of union, not only the Church Union but also the union of nations, since he had been supposed to be the patron saint of Ruthenia as a component of the Commonwealth. 103 The Galician Synod of 1891 became the next important step in the popularization of Josaphat among Ukrainians. Stepan Shakh, Sv. Iosafat – dorohoukaz: u 100-richchia kanonizatsii (Miunkhen: Khrystyians’kyi Holos, 1968), 32. 104 Lidiia Tymish, “Doslidzhennia zhyttia ta diial’nosti ierarkhiv hreko-katolyts’koi tserkvi I. Potiia, I. Ruts’koho ta I. Kuntsevycha L’vivs’kymy vchenymy (kinets’ XIX- 30-ti rr. XX st.),” Eminak 1, no. 1 (2016): 121–26.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

to Orthodox. Others, however, remained Greek Catholic and developed strong anti-Russian sentiments.105 It was in interwar Poland where Josaphat eventually established popularity among Galician Ukrainians. Following the 300th anniversary of Pociej’s death in 1913, the anniversaries of Josaphat (martyrdom, 1923; beatification, 1943) and the 300th anniversary of Rutskyi’s death (1937) were celebrated.106 The most enthusiastic person in promoting Josaphat was Josaphat Kotsylovskyi, bishop of Przemyśl (1917–46).107 In interwar Poland, the situation regarding the Galician Uniate Church did not differ from the situation in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the seventeenth century: there was a three-sided competition between Uniates, Orthodox, and the increasingly powerful Roman Catholic Church. In former Eastern Galicia, Orthodox was a minority church but deeply rooted, especially among Rusophile Lemkos.108 Kotsylovskyi stressed the anti-Orthodox aspect of Josaphat in order to bring his parishioners to Catholic belief and identity.109 And because the Uniate Church was pressured to Latinize in interwar Poland, St. Josaphat—the one and only saint of the Ruthenian Uniate Church— was given Ukrainian characteristics.110 The 300th anniversaries of his martyrdom (1923) and beatification (1943) were solemnly celebrated,111 and as his popularity grew because of the celebrations his Volhynian origins could be emphasized in order to draw out his national significance.112 There was an urgent need for a national saint so that Ukrainian Catholics could compete with both the Roman Catholic and Orthodox Churches.113 105 Szczupak, “Kult Św. Jozafata,” 116. 106 Tymish, “Doslidzhennia zhyttia ta diial’nosti,” 122. 107 Long after his tragic death in a Soviet camp, Josaphat Kotsylovskyi became recognized as a martyr and was beatified by John Paul II in 2001. 108 Orthodox campaigns in this region were backed by Orthodox parishes in the US (where Lemko immigrants were well represented) and the Russian Orthodox Church. Szczupak, “Kult Św. Jozafata,” 103–4, 110. 109 Kotsylovskyi found Josaphat highly suitable for reminding Ukrainians who were living in interwar Poland of their ethnic and religious identity—and he made the martyr a moral model for them. As a Basilian, he also respected Rutskyi. 110 Nevertheless, a section of the Ukrainian population still saw the cult of Josaphat as an attempt at Latinization, and Rusophiles resisted the Ukrainianized image of Josaphat too. Szczupak, “Kult Św. Jozafata,” 111. 111 Ibid., 107–9, 113–14. 112 Ibid., 109–10. 113 Not only Josaphat, but Rutskyi also attracted the attention of Ukrainian Greek Catholics in this period. On the occasion of his anniversary in 1937, Metropolitan Andryi Sheptytskyi

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As a consequence, the cult of St. Josaphat is observed on various levels today. He is venerated by all Catholics,114 but at the same time he preserves a local and national character as a symbolic saint of Uniate Ukrainians.115 He is widely venerated among former Galicians, not only Ukrainians but also Poles, especially among diaspora parishes in America116 formed by immigrants who left Galicia before Polish and Ukrainian nationalism came into crucial conflict. As a Ruthenian who was born in today’s Ukraine and was active in contemporary Belarus, Josaphat is recognized as an important figure not only in Ukrainian but also in Belarusian historiographies. In fact, in Ukraine he plays a significant role in the national context of Galician Ukrainians, whereas in Belarus, he does not. In Belarus, as well as in Ukraine, the Uniate Church is recognized as an important part of their national histories. However, since the Uniate Church disappeared after its absorption by the Russian Orthodox Church under the auspices of the Russian Empire and was never restored on a large scale, Uniate tradition has not been adhered to by most Belarusians. As Orthodox Christians, Belarusians have tended to view the martyrdom of Josaphat as the elimination of an oppressor. Having barely resisted Polish domination during the early modern period (unlike Ukrainian Cossacks or Haidamaks), for Belarusians the uprising of the Vitebsk people against Josaphat117—the representative of Catholic-Uniate aggression—was a prominent event.

launched the Institute of the Unity of the Church named after Rutskyi, in anticipation of canonizing him in future. Tymish, “Doslidzhennia zhyttia ta diial’nosti,” 124. 114 The most venerable relics of Josaphat were preserved in Biała Podlaska for a long time. During WWI, the Austrian army transferred them to Vienna in 1917. The relics were again moved to Rome before the Soviet occupation in 1949. Now they are located in St. Peter’s Basilica, behind the altar of St. Basilius. See the concise history of the relics of Josaphat in: Żychiewicz, Jozafat Kuncewicz, 116–17; Jobst, “Transnational and TransDenominational Aspects,” 15–17. 115 The Basilian Order bears the name of Basilius the Great. In 1931, on the occasion of the 300th anniversary of its official recognition by the Apostolic See, the order took the name of Josaphat too (Ordo Basilianus Sancti Josaphat). 116 Jobst, “Transnational and Trans-Denominational Aspects,” 17. 117 Vladimir Karatkevich’s play The Bells of Vitebsk (first performed in 1974, published in 1977) contains a fine example of the image of Josaphat’s death among Belarusians. Paulau, Zaboistva Iasafata Kuntsevicha, 22.

Uniate Martyr Josaphat and His Role

Although it seems that Josaphat is more obscure in today’s Belarus and Lithuania, once the center of St. Josaphat’s cult, recent publications dedicated to him in these countries reflect academic interest in him.118

Conclusion St. Josaphat was a product of the fierce conflicts between Uniate and Orthodox in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Varied aspects of his cult reflect the complexity of the Commonwealth, especially the position of the Ruthenian region. Josaphat was the symbolic saint of the Ruthenian Uniate Church, glorified by the Catholic Church, and at the same time venerated at all Commonwealth levels (although rather less in the Kingdom of Poland). He represented a local church that was part of the Universal Church and he represented a region that was part of the Commonwealth. Whether Josaphat’s cult functioned as a confessionalizing influence, is a difficult issue, for Uniatism cannot be completely independent from Catholicism, even though it has remained a particular organization and preserved its uniqueness within the Catholic Church. Therefore, we should not understand the role, which Josaphat played in consolidating the position of the Uniate Church, as confession-building. However, we can certainly confirm that the cult of Josaphat was largely utilized to confessionalize the Commonwealth: first, by urging former Orthodox Ruthenian inhabitants of the Commonwealth to accept the Church Union; and secondly, by becoming one of the patron saints of the Catholic monarchy, that is, the Commonwealth, in the period of war against its non-Catholic enemies. The nationalizing influence of St. Josaphat is observed only after World War I. It was relatively recently that Josaphat was given a Ukrainian, rather than Ruthenian, persona, and this was realized at the request of the nationally conscious Uniate clergy in Galicia. To sum up, in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, St. Josaphat was the perfect candidate to symbolize the composite character of the Commonwealth. For Ruthenian Uniates, the saint was an embodiment of the sense of belonging to the Catholic Church and the Commonwealth—so to speak, the one Catholic Church of both rites and the one Commonwealth 118 Paulau, Zaboistva Iasafata Kuntsevicha; Khoteev, Perepiska kantslera L’va Sapegi; Liškevičienė, ed., Dangiškieji globėjai, žemiškieji mecenatai; Andriejus Mlodzianovskis, Palaimintojo kankinio Juozapato, Polocko arkivyskupo, gyvenimo ir mirties (Vilnius: Vilniaus dailės akademijos leidykla, 2015).

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of both nations. After the Partitions, Poles continued using Josaphat to bring them closer to Ruthenians, but in interwar Poland St. Josaphat was considerably de-Polonized and established popularity among Ukrainian Uniates as their national saint. In this way, St. Josaphat has provided various groups in a number of periods and regions with inspiration and bonds. Contradistinctively, he provided Galician Ukrainians with a national imagination, too, whereas he never played such a role in Belarus. This contrast enables us to understand that the historical circumstances under which the nations formed, were a decisive factor in whether a religious symbol would become a national symbol.

Conversion and Culture in Russia’s Western Borderlands, 1800–55* Barbara Skinner

The year 1839 witnessed a dramatic shift in the religious landscape of Eastern Europe: the transfer of 1.5 million souls from Greek Catholicism to Eastern Orthodoxy. The largest mass conversion in the history of the Russian Empire, the episode encompassed 2500 parishes, ninety-nine monasteries, and dozens of schools, yielding profound long-term implications for the cultural orientation and political loyalties of the Eastern Slavs situated between Russia and Poland. The architects of this policy sought to undo over two hundred years of Polish cultural dominance in this region and to eradicate Polish/Catholic influence among the Belarusians and Ukrainians in the eight provinces annexed by Russian during the partitions of Poland. Long treated as either a triumph of Orthodoxy or as a persecution of Catholicism, the striking events of 1839 comprised more than a balance sheet for confessional dominance. For Uniate priests and parishioners, 1839 involved a decades-long experience of disorientation and trauma as they responded to demands to change their religious education, rites, and practices beginning in 1828; imperfect results by 1839 led to subsequent pressures to conform more closely to Orthodox practices for generations. *

This article is the result of research funded by the American Council of Learned Societies (ACLS) and the National Council for East European and Eurasian Research in 2012. A portion of it stems from the working paper I submitted to the NCEEER website in 2013: “Russian Orthodoxy Triumphant? Mass Conversion and Cultural Identity in Belarus, 1825–1855,” http://www.ucis.pitt.edu/nceeer/2013_827-11g-Skinner.pdf.

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The forced suppression of Catholic-influenced religious education and liturgical practices wrenched this population away from a more familiar Polish-influenced religious culture and forced upon them a Russian religious identity and rite. Belarusian and Ukrainian identity reflects a long history of tensions from competing Eastern/Russian/Orthodox and Western/Polish/Catholic political, cultural, religious, and social influences that continues to be felt today. The historical roots of the opposing alignments within Belarusian and Ukrainian society are complex, but a crucial part of the story derives from divided religious allegiances since 1596 between Eastern Orthodoxy and a Western-leaning Greek Catholic church. The latter, called the Uniate church from its union with Rome (in 1596), combined Eastern Orthodox rite with Roman Catholic doctrine. As the church matured, it embraced a dynamic blend of Eastern liturgical tradition with Catholic theology and religious intellectual foundations based on Western teachings, of Slavonic services with Polish-language non-liturgical texts and prayers, of the celebration of saints and holidays from both the Eastern Orthodox and the Polish Roman Catholic tradition. Inside the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth, this hybrid religious culture had been slowly shaped over the centuries since the church’s foundation, with its strongest manifestations in the Belarusian and western Ukrainian provinces. By the late eighteenth century, the overwhelming majority of the Eastern Slavs in the Commonwealth were Uniate. The partitions of Poland in 1772–95 brought some three million of these Greek Catholics under Russian rule, and Russian suspicions of pro-Polish and anti-Russian sentiments among these new subjects induced efforts to convert them by force to Orthodoxy and thereby to strengthen their loyalty and cultural ties to Russia. Empress Catherine II oversaw mass conversions of Greek Catholics to Orthodoxy in 1794–96 in central Ukraine, where the Uniates had a more limited hold.1 The 1839 conversions, carried out during the reign of the conservative Nicholas I, brought the more entrenched Uniate populations of some 1.2 million Belarusians and 300,000 western Ukrainians (in Volhynia) into the Orthodox church, thereby bringing the vast majority of Eastern Slavs in the western Russian Empire into the 1 For details on the eighteenth-century history, see Barbara Skinner, The Western Front of the Eastern Church: Uniate and Orthodox Conflict in Eighteenth-Century Poland, Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2009).

Conversion and Culture in Russia’s Western Borderlands, 1800–55

Orthodox fold.2 This involved a far more intensive effort than that of the previous century and led to the formal eradication in 1839 of all Uniate institutions—including dioceses, parishes, monasteries, and schools—in the eight provinces acquired by Russia during the Polish partitions. Official Russian rhetoric condemned the Uniate Church as a product of forced Polonization and Latinization of the “Russian” peoples (Ruthenians), a “persecution” that stole from them their “true” Orthodox and Russian cultural heritage.3 The conversion of the Uniates inside the Russian Empire—especially under Emperor Nicholas I following the November Uprising—constituted an open attack against the Polish influences within these lands of the former Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and reflected imperial anxieties about the ultimate loyalties of the Belarusian and Ukrainian peoples. More than just religious conversion, this policy aimed to erase or at least diminish the cultural distinctions between the Russians and the Belarusian and Ukrainian peoples in the western borderlands of the Empire and to create an Orthodox population that by virtue of their religious culture would be more loyal subjects of the tsar. This was a calculated and powerful mode of Russification.4 But it was a highly fraught effort and one that yielded questionable results. Documents from the local church and state archives of these 2 A sizable portion of Belarusians and Ukrainians remained Roman Catholic, despite the government’s best efforts to cull Roman Catholic rosters of anyone from Orthodox or Uniate descent. The remaining Greek Catholic diocese in the Russian Empire, the Kholm diocese, which had joined the empire after the Napoleonic Wars, lasted until its forced conversion in 1875. On that effort, see Theodore R. Weeks, “The ‘End’ of the Uniate Church in Russia: The Vozsoedinenie of 1875,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 44, no. 1 (1996): 28–39. 3 See, for example, the justification for Catherine II’s campaign to abolish the Uniate Church in her decree of April 22, 1794 (Polnoe sobranie zakonov Rossiiskoi Imperii [PSZ], series I, vol. 23, no. 17, 199, “Ob ustranenii vsiakikh prepiatstvii k obrashcheniiu Uniatov k Pravoslavnoi Grecheskoi Tserkvi”). 4 The significance of the loss of the Uniate Church to this region can be seen within the importance of this church to the development of Ukrainian nationalist sentiment in the region where it survived, in the western Ukrainian region of Galicia, which went to Austria during the Polish partitions. There, the Uniate Church, called the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church, continued to develop over the nineteenth century and to nurture a distinctive Ukrainian religious identity during the rise of nationalistic sentiment. Despite Stalin’s brutal repression of the church after the Soviet Union claimed Galicia during World War II, Ukrainian Greek Catholics re-emerged several million strong with the new religious freedoms in the Soviet Union of the late 1980s. This church today continues to support a Ukrainian identity that embraces Western concepts and rejects closer ties to Russia.

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western provinces underscore the complexity of the process and the inherent difficulties of imposing wholesale changes in confession and religious culture. Former Uniates often did not immediately accept and adopt the Russian Orthodox practices foisted upon them. Instead, both short-term acts of resistance and long-term residual Uniate practices continued to plague the post-1839 Orthodox dioceses in these regions. In the process, both imperial officials and local clergymen adapted to the demands of each other with a variety of local results, thereby investing the religious identity of “Russian Orthodox” to multiple meanings. While resistance is an important aspect of this history, it is first critical to recognize the key forms of cultural change that provoked resistance. At the most basic level, the three major shifts in the 1820–30s involved imposing strict regulations on multiconfessional interactions, eliminating Uniate religious education, and changing the material and liturgical culture of the parishes. Regardless of the degree of success in each of these spheres, and even when the efforts largely failed, the mere initiation of such far-reaching reforms caused immediate disruption and profound damage to the former dominant religious culture.

Multiconfessional Interactions The western provinces of the Russian Empire alone of all the borderlands of Russia’s vast imperial space had a multiconfessional population with a long history of competing strains of Christianity—Protestant and Roman Catholic, as well as Orthodox and Uniate. This region consisted of the eight gubernii (provinces) of Vitebsk, Mogilev, Minsk, Grodno, Vilna, Kyiv, Volhynia, and Podolia acquired by the Russian Empire from the partitions of Poland-Lithuania, joined in 1807 by the Belostok district that Russia gained during the Napoleonic wars. By the time of the partitions, only pockets of Protestant (mostly Calvinist) and Orthodox communities remained, while the majority of the Christian inhabitants were either Roman Catholic or Uniate.5

5 Aside from its majority Christian population, the western provinces also contained the vast majority of Russia’s Jewish population (though comprising a minority in the region), who were dealt with separately in terms of legislation and rights. On their situation, see John Doyle Klier, Russia Gathers Her Jews: the Origins of the “Jewish Question” in Russia, 1772–1825 (Dekalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1986).

Conversion and Culture in Russia’s Western Borderlands, 1800–55

Before coming under Russian rule, the Orthodox, Uniate, and Roman Catholic faith communities living in proximity to each other cultivated a degree of intercultural exchange and mutual adaptation of religious practices. Valentyna Los’ has recognized this interconfessional openness— which she calls “polyconfessionalism”—as a hallmark of Ruthenian faith. She notes in her study on Right Bank Ukraine that the people there had a religious tolerance and openness to dialogue that opposed any “paradigm of division.” Three aspects in particular reflected this openness: the multiconfessional veneration of a miracle-working saints (Orthodox, Uniate, and Roman Catholic), including joint participation in some celebrations and services; the propensity for the local population to turn to priests of the other confessions for rites in times of emergencies (baptisms, marriage, funerals, and confession); and the incidence of mixed marriage and consequent changes in the confession of family members based on these marriages.6 This quality was particularly notable in the Uniate Church, which borrowed openly from Orthodox and Baroque Roman Catholic traditions, particularly regarding the veneration of saints and icons. Such confessional intermixing and overlapping of practices was anathema in the Russian Empire, where the governing authorities carefully monitored the non-Orthodox Christian communities and outlawed any religious contact with Orthodox believers. My own research has confirmed this situation of confessional openness in the Belarusian and Ukrainian lands even when imperial officials attempted to impose confessional divisions in this territory in the 1820s and 1830s, as well as after the 1839 conversion of Uniates. Archival sources reflect a rather fluid confessional situation in the western provinces in which conversions in all directions occurred on a regular basis. Documents from the Orthodox consistories and Russian governor-generals in the decades prior to 1839 offered frequent complaints about Uniate conversions to Roman Catholicism despite multiple imperial decrees prohibiting this, and investigations of cases of apostasy when those on Orthodox rosters (usually former Uniates pressured to convert in 1794– 96) converted to either the Uniate or Roman Catholic confession. The documents attest that intermarriages between all three faiths were common 6 Valentyna Los’, Uniat’ska tserkva na pravoberezhnii Ukraini na prykintsi XVIII-pershii polovini XIX st.: Organizatsiina struktura ta kul’turno relihiinyi aspekt (Kyiv: National Library of Ukraine Press, 2013), chapter 4; quote 159.

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and required the conversion of one of the parties.7 Uniate peasants who worked in the households of Polish landowners or attended Catholic schools sometimes converted to Roman Catholicism.8 Additionally, prior to 1839, Uniate individuals voluntarily converted to Orthodoxy for a variety of personal reasons, including real religious conviction as the result of Orthodox missions into the western provinces.9 The advocates of Uniate conversion had set their sights on a moving target, and this became a constant element of frustration for them. An even more obvious trend in the aftermath of the Polish partitions was closer ties between Uniates and Roman Catholics, as well as a concomitant estrangement between Uniates and Orthodox. By that time, Uniate churches more closely resembled Roman Catholic churches in architectural design (with no iconostasis and an altar placed against the sanctuary wall) and in sacramental utensils (such as altar bells and the cyborium or monstrance to store the consecrated Host); aside from Uniate Slavonic liturgical books, Uniate priests also often used Polish-language Gospels and sermons, and the people knew some prayers in Polish. Uniate clergymen often attended Catholic public (secular) secondary schools and were required to write their parish records in Polish.10 Uniates and Roman Catholics regularly joined together on holidays dedicated to miraculous icons or saints. Moreover, a majority of the members of the Uniate monastic order, the Basilian Order, came from Latin-rite families, often becoming instructors of Uniate schools and members of the Uniate hierarchy, which was

7 Decrees preventing conversion from the Uniate to the Roman Catholic faith were issued in 1806, 1807, and 1810: PSZ I, vol. 29, no. 22226 (July 26, 1806); PSZ I, vol. 29, no. 22659 (October 25, 1807); and PSZ I, vol. 31, no. 24320 (August 8, 1810). Representative documents on apostasy and intermarriage in the late 1820s and 1830s are in the National Historical Archive of Belarus (NIAB) in Minsk, f. 136, op. 1, dd. 7853, 8215, 10709, 10777, 10844, 10847, 10895, 10896, 10914, 10973, 10982, 11067, 11120, 11171, 12809, 12848, 12853 12891, 12892, 12903, 13012; f. 1297, op. 1, d. 7795; f. 3245, op. 1, d. 439. 8 For example, NIAB Minsk, f. 136, op. 1, d. 7942 (1828). 9 Orthodox bishop of Polotsk, Smaragd, championed the process of individual conversions in the region, whereas the Uniates working toward mass conversion saw these individual conversions as detrimental to the larger mass effort. G. I. Shavel’skii, Poslednee vossoedinenie s pravoslanoiu tserkoviiu uniatov Belorusskoi eparkhii (1833– 1839gg.) (St. Petersburg, 1910) 94–154, 178–92, 236–42. 10 Visitations to parishes in the Novogrodek region in western Belarus reveal the predominance of these characteristics already in 1798. Arkheograficheskii sbornik dokumentov otnosiashchikhsia k istorii severo-zapadnoi Rusi, 14 vols. (Vilna, Pechatiia Gubernskago Pravleniia, 1902), 13:154–235, 14:56–125.

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traditionally drawn from the celibate Basilians.11 Local Uniate and Roman Catholic elites both saw this movement of educated Roman Catholics into the Basilian Order as essential to the well-being of the Uniate Church.12 Additionally, Roman Catholic and Uniate priests could provide rites to the each other’s flock in times of need, while Russian legislation firmly prohibited Roman Catholics and Uniates to perform rites for Orthodox parishioners.13 Uniate priests who had refused to convert to Orthodoxy in 1794–96 and had lost their parishes received shelter from Roman Catholic monasteries and landowners, as well as positions in Roman Catholic chapels. They continued to provide services to Uniates in converted parishes who were not comfortable with the Orthodox practices.14 To a great degree, tsarist administrative policy of combining the Uniates and Roman Catholics together within the Roman Catholic College (since 1798) reinforced this close relationship and facilitated the frequent conversions between the two rites. In light of this administrative jurisdiction, Uniate bishops commonly used the term “Roman-Uniate (Rzymsko-Unicki) Church.” in the early nineteenth century.15 On the other hand, this arrangement led some prominent Uniate prelates from the white clergy to organize in opposition to the Roman Catholic influences in their church, forming a conservative movement that aimed to eliminate Roman Catholic practices from the Uniate rite.16 From this movement emerged Iosif Semashko, the main architect of the 1839 vozsoedinie (reunification) of the Uniates to Orthodoxy.

11 S. M. Klimov, Basiliane (Mogilev: UO “MGU im. A. A. Kuleshova,” 2011), 54–55, 76, 115, 133, and 1832 reports on Basilian monasteries in the Russian State Historical Archive (RGIA), f. 824, op. 2, d. 213. 12 Attested to in comments from Uniate Metropolitan Kochanowicz and the marshal of the Minsk nobility in RGIA f. 797, op. 6, d. 22319, ll. 24–24ob and 38. 13 Svod Zakonov Rossiiskoi Imperii poveleniem gosudaria imperatora Nikolaia Pavlovicha, 1833, chast’ IV, chapter 4, section II, articles 79, 83. 14 The Ministry of Internal Affairs’ department regulating foreign faiths issued a prohibition for Uniates to serve in Roman Catholic churches in 1833 (RGIA, f. 821, op. 11, d. 8, ll. 108–108ob). For enforcement of this decree in Ukraine, see Ukrianian State Historical Archive (TsDIA) f. 442, op. 1, d. 1741. 15 For example, Archbishop of Polotsk Jan Krassowski, when signing his name in Polish, signed “Arcy-Biskup Połocki Rzymsko-Unitskich Cerkwi”. RGIA f. 823, op. 3, d. 1364, l. 60 (Febuary 27, 1821). 16 For a detailed history on the early nineteenth-century hostilities between the more Latin-influenced monastic Uniate clergy (the Basilian Order) and the conservative white Uniate clergy, see P. O. Bobrovskii, Russkaia Greko-uniatskaia tserkov’ v tsarstvovanie Imperatora Aleksandra I (St. Petersburg: Tipografiia V.S. Balasheva, 1890).

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Generally, however, to the Uniates in the western provinces of the Russian Empire, the Eastern-rite Orthodox church seemed much more foreign, with its iconostases separating the congregation from the altar, its more elaborate liturgical ritual, and its use of Russian—not well understood by Belarusians and Ukrainians—rather than Polish in any instructional communication. During and after the partitions, a new political loyalty toward the Russian state had emerged among the Orthodox believers in these provinces, and this created another layer of distinction between Uniate and Orthodox communities.17 Whereas Orthodox communities had been discriminated against under Polish rule, now it was the Uniates who felt “persecuted” under the new Russian regime. In fact, this vulnerable position gave the Uniates one more shared characteristic with Roman Catholics, who remained under suspicion of disloyalty, particularly following the 1830–31 Polish uprising, and who suffered an enormous loss of monasteries and churches under the Russian regime over the nineteenth century. Thus, given this early nineteenth-century situation in Russia’s western provinces, converting the Uniates here to Orthodoxy involved undermining the dominant characteristics of Belarusian and Ukrainian religious life. First, the constant interconfessional interactions in this region had to be suppressed and replaced by a firm line of separation between confessions. A series of decrees prohibited interconfessional rites and laid strict rules for intermarriage. Even after 1839, the Russian Ministry of Internal Affairs continued to monitor former Uniates to ensure that they were not taking rites with Roman Catholics.18 Secondly, the culture and practices of the Uniate Church had to be detached from its shared sphere with Roman Catholicism and remade into a church that shared liturgical characteristics with the Orthodox Church. This second goal constituted the core of the overall plan of “reunification” (vozsoedinenie) of the Uniates to Orthodoxy drawn up

17 The emergence of the Orthodox loyalties to Russia inside the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth is discussed in Skinner, Western Front. 18 In 1842, the Russian Ministry of Internal Affairs demanded that the Roman Catholic Consistory of Vilnius compile a list of any former Uniates (now officially Orthodox) who took rites in Roman Catholic churches. University of Vilnius Manuscript Division, Fond 57–B54, no. 56: “Po Vysochaishemu poveleniiu o poriadke razbora del o byvshikh uniatakh, uklonivshikhsia v prezhnee vremia v Rimsko-Katolicheskii obriad,” 1843– 44. Other instructions for this razbor are also in LVIA, f. 378 b/s, 1842, d. 1385.

Conversion and Culture in Russia’s Western Borderlands, 1800–55

by Iosif Semashko in 1827.19 Critically, then, the broad grey zone between Roman Catholicism and Orthodoxy occupied by the Uniate Church would be eradicated, leaving only a firm line of separation between the Polish/ Latin/Western Roman Catholic Church and the Russian/Byzantine/Eastern Orthodox Church. This delineation between confessions and the abolition of Roman Catholic contact and influences within the Uniate Church would comprise a supremely difficult shift for Ruthenians.

Religious Education: From Catholic to Orthodox Models Uniate prelate Iosif Semashko argued that the Uniate Church first had to be rid of all manifestations of “Polish” influence—of all institutions, material culture, and practices drawn from the Roman Catholic Church—before it could merge into the Russian Orthodox Church; a Uniate Church without any cultural ties to the Roman Catholic Church would be a church that could easily be “returned” to Orthodoxy. Thus, he advocated “first to prepare the Uniates through external transformations, and only then to approach religious vozsoedinenie.”20 Semashko wrote that at least part of his motivation for this process was his own patriotism toward Russia and his concern about the anti-Russian sentiment stoked by the Poles and Roman Catholics and spread to the Uniate communities in the western provinces. He employed the same rhetoric utilized by Russian officials to condemn the Polish and Catholic elements in the region: “These two ‘firing pins,’ Polish patriotism and deceitful Catholicism . . . continually act toward distancing the hearts of the residents of the Polish gubernii [western provinces] from their current fatherland [Russia].”21 Semashko presented the eradication of Polish influences in the Uniate Church—and the eventual merging of this church with the Russian Orthodox Church—as beneficial to the fatherland by eliminating “dangerous” disloyal elements, thus from the start gracing his policy with a greater political goal. 19 As a twenty-nine-year-old assessor and prelate in the Roman Catholic College, Iosif Semashko outlined his vision for vozsoedinenie in November 1827 in a memorandum later entitled “On the Situation of the Uniate Church in Russia and the Means to Return it to the Bosom of the Orthodox Church.” The memorandum is published in Zapiski Iosifa Mitropolita Litovskago, 3 vols. (St. Petersburg, Tipografiia Imperatorskoi Akademii Nauk, 1883), 1:387–98. 20 Zapiski Iosifa, 1:90. 21 Ibid., 1:36–37.

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Emperor Nicholas I personally approved of Semashko’s plan, and a steady stream of decrees immediately followed that reorganized the Uniate administration, further weakened the Basilian Order, and reshaped Uniate clerical education in the Orthodox mode.22 First, in 1828, an imperial ukaz separated the Uniate administration from the Roman Catholic Spiritual College, which had managed the Uniate Church from 1798, and instituted a separate, self-governing Greek-Uniate Spiritual College. The same decree reduced the number of Uniate dioceses from four to two—both headquartered in Belarusian provinces: the Belorussian (Belorusskaia) diocese, based in Polotsk, and the Lithuanian (Litovskaia) diocese, based in Zhirovitsy, each with its own secondary schools and seminary, and each absorbing parishes from the dissolved Brest and Lutsk dioceses.23 Semashko argued that this streamlining would make it easier to ensure that “reliable people” ran the dioceses and clerical education. Additionally, the Basilian Order came under increasing pressure to adhere to previous decrees prohibiting Roman Catholics from entering their ranks, and in 1830 the Uniate College required them to observe the pure Eastern rite in all their services.24 Already at this time, in one of the earlier efforts to separate the Uniates from “dangerous” Polish/Roman Catholic influences (a constant rhetorical justification for changes imposed on the Uniates), Semashko steered the new Greek-Uniate Spiritual College toward reforming religious education. Until this time, Uniate schools and seminaries resembled Polish Roman Catholic schools with Polish and Latin languages of instruction, as well as a similar curriculum; their model had always been the Jesuit curriculum. 22 Bobrovskii, Russkaia Greko-uniatskaia tserkov’ v tsarstvovanie Imperatora Aleksandra I, 363, cites F. F. Vigel’s memoires that Nicholas I by late summer 1827 had told Dmitrii Nikolaevich Bludov of his desire to “reunify” the Uniates to the Orthodox Church. But until 1834, the end goal of Semashko’s reforms to the Uniate church was kept secret from the Orthodox Church establishment. 23 PSZ, series II, vol. 3, no. 1977 (April 22, 1828). This Uniate College still remained under the supervision of the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ Department of Spiritual Affairs of Foreign Confessions, as did all non-Orthodox confessions. From this moment, official church and state documents consistently refer to the Uniate Church as the “GreekUniate [Greko-Uniatskaia] Church,” a term introduced under Catherine II, bringing its title closer to the “Greek-Russian [Greko-Rossiiskaia] Orthodox Church,” as the Russian Orthodox had taken to calling themselves. The days of the “Roman-Uniates” was over. 24 Zapiski Iosifa, 1:60 and 1:580–82. The most important previous imperial decree prohibiting Roman Catholics from joining the Basilian rite was issued on October 9, 1827 and served as inspiration for Iosif Semashko’s 1827 memo on vozsoedinenie (PSZ, series II, vol. 2, no. 1449).

Conversion and Culture in Russia’s Western Borderlands, 1800–55

By 1829, the Uniate College introduced new charters for Uniate ecclesiastical secondary schools and seminaries, with administrative and curricular norms that mirrored those imposed on Orthodox schools under the Commission of Spiritual Education (adopted in 1814). This also meant adopting the same textbooks used in Orthodox schools, which involved shifting the language of instruction to Russian. The advocates of Uniate vozsoedinenie saw the Russian language as a key to closer unification with and loyalties to the Russian Empire in these western provinces: “GreekUniate clerical youth should be brought up in complete certainty that the Russian language is for them their native tongue.”25 In seminaries, this meant that biblical interpretation courses switched from using the Latin Vulgate for analysis to using the Slavonic Bible. Church history courses now had to use the Istoriia Tserkovnaia by Innokentii (Smirnov),26 which, it was noted, would have the extra effect of helping the students “to further perfect their Russian language.” The small catechism in the lower levels of school and the extended catechism taught in the upper classes would also be the Kratkii and Prostrannyi Katikhizis published in 1828 by the Holy Synod (written by Filaret Drozdov).27 The Commission of Spiritual Education pledged to provide the Uniate College with 1000 textbooks to help carry out the new curriculum.28 The Uniate clergy also lost access to higher education in the western provinces, as the College prohibited Uniate students from attending the Main Seminary in Vilna University (ironically, this was the place where Semashko and other leaders in the efforts to convert the Uniate Church completed their education).29 Henceforth, any Uniate seminarian recommended for further study beyond seminary only had the option of studying in the Orthodox St. Petersburg Theological Academy.30 For his successful work on these

25 RGIA, f. 796, op. 205, d. 172, l. 9 (within a report from the Uniate College on its educational institutions in 1834). “Greko-Unitskoe dukhovnoe iunoshestvo dolzhno byt’ vospityvaemo v soverrshennoi uvernnosti, chto Russkii iazyk est’ dlia onago otechestvennyi.” 26 Innokentii (Smirnov), Nachertanie tserkovnoi istorii, ot Bibleiskikh vremen do XVIII veka, v pol’zu dukhivnago Iunoshestvo, 2 vols. (Holy Synod: St. Petersburg, 1817). 27 RGIA, f. 796, op. 205, d. 172, ll. 1–1ob; ibid., d. 179, l. 18. 28 Zapiski Iosifa, 1:61. 29 Ibid., 62. RGIA, f. 797, op. 6, d. 22666 (26 May 1828). 30 Documents attest that Uniate clergymen were sent there. For example, RGIA, f. 797, op. 6, d. 22748, l. 9 (March 1830).

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policies, in 1829, Semashko won promotion and consecration to the position of bishop in the Uniate Church. Certainly, enforcing the new curriculum was difficult for some time. Finding the necessary instructors with sufficient abilities in the Russian language was a particular challenge. At first, in 1829, the Uniate College asked the Minister of Internal Affairs and Holy Synod Ober-Procurator for assistance in finding several ethnic Russian seminary graduates to teach in the two Uniate seminaries. The two Russians sent to Polotsk and Zhirovitsy, however, were drunkards who did not fulfill their teaching responsibilities (deemed “absolutely incompetent to continue their teaching duties”) and were sent back to Russia.31 Arrangements were made in 1830 to send prospective Uniate instructors to St. Petersburg and Moscow Universities to study the necessary subjects in Russian for two to three years, and thereby to perfect their Russian language. This was a more successful process.32 Continual shortages of textbooks also plagued the schools for decades to come. Regardless of the difficulties, however, Uniate religious education lost its independence; the new policies gave the Uniates nowhere to turn except to the new Orthodox curriculum in their own schools. This line of reforms meant that the most critical avenue for providing Western intellectual foundations to the Uniate Church was closed. Church historian Marian Radwan stipulates that with the new curricular restrictions, the seminaries performed a “dysfunctional role” for the Uniate Church, an ideological role, serving as “transmission belts” for Russifying the western provinces.33 This was an early death knell for the future of the Uniate Church. After the November Uprising, Semashko’s focus turned to the educational influence of the Uniate monastic arm, the Basilian Order, which ran fourteen elite public schools in the western provinces. The Basilians had traditionally been the main promoter of a more Westernized education for Uniates. On suspicion—and a few proven cases—of Basilian support for the Polish rebels, Russian authorities closed forty-four Basilian monasteries and all but two Basilian secular schools between 1831 and 1836. The 31 RGIA, f. 797, op. 6, d. 22701, ll.1ob–2, 10, 32–32ob. 32 RGIA, f. 797, op. 6, d. 22777, l. 1ob. Two clergymen finished their studies in Moscow in 1833 and were sent back to Polotsk to teach in the Uniate seminary there. By 1831, four others had been selected for this course of study in Moscow (ll. 23–28ob, 30ob–31). 33 Marian Radwan, Carat wobec Kościoła greckokatolickiego w zaborze royjskim, 1796– 1839 (Lublin, 2004), 156.

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Basilians also lost their rights to run printing presses, which had served as the main producers of Uniate books.34 In December 1835, the process of merging Uniate religious education with Orthodox norms was complete, as the administration of the Uniate schools and seminaries passed from the Uniate College to the Commission for Ecclesiastical Schools (Kommissiia dukhovnykh uchilishch) under the administration of the Holy Synod.35 The Uniate Church no longer possessed an independent ability to shape the values and intellectual foundations of the Belarusian and Ukrainian subjects in the western Russian Empire.

Material and Liturgical Culture of Parish Churches From 1834 to 1837, efforts focused on transforming all Uniate parish churches to comply with the Eastern-rite norms of the Orthodox Church. This involved a series of episcopal and Uniate College mandates to strip the physical churches of all the furniture, utensils, vestments, and service books that distinguished Uniate churches from Orthodox churches and then to outfit the churches with the appropriate Orthodox items. Semashko—now Lithuanian eparchial Bishop Iosif—justified these changes to the Uniate clergymen as a needed purification of the Eastern rite of the Uniate Church, an effort that Uniate Metropolitan Heraklius Lisovskii had attempted in 1806–9. Nowhere did any of the 1830s correspondence dealing with the parishes on these issues mention a future conversion to Orthodoxy; all at this point was carried out ostensibly in the name of cleansing the Uniate Church of Polish/Catholic influences to return the material and liturgical culture of the church to its original form, as negotiated in 1596. Given that most Uniate Churches—particularly those in the Belarusian provinces—no longer resembled Eastern-rite churches in their fundamental structure, the task was monumental. In the Lithuanian diocese, only eighty of 800 parishes had iconostases,36 and almost all churches in both dioceses had altars built against the back wall, making it impossible to

34 Zapiski Iosifa, 1:395–96; Radwan, 130–31, 138–40. To try to thin the monastic ranks, the Russian state allowed those Basilians who wished to return to the Roman Catholic faith to do so (only about fifty did so by the deadline of 1834). See Zapiski Iosifa, 1:61. 35 RGIA, f. 796, op. 205, d. 179, l. 42 (Nicholas I signed the ukaz on December 19, 1835). 36 Zapiski Iosifa, 1:88.

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proceed around the altar, as required in traditional Eastern-rite liturgies.37 Building an iconostasis and placing the altar correctly constituted the most fundamental transformation in order to create a church that could accommodate Orthodox services. Additionally, in the churches that had them, organs were to be dismantled (as the “pure” Eastern rite did not allow instrumental music), side altars destroyed (as the Eastern rite did not permit the use of multiple altars), benches removed (the Eastern-rite did not permit sitting during the liturgy), and any pulpits and confessionals removed. Of utensils, most importantly the cyborium or monstrance (an elevated tabernacle holding the Host and placed upon the altar) had to be discarded, and an Orthodox-style tabernacle supplied instead. Altar bells could no longer be used during the liturgy, and Uniate vestments that tended toward Latin-rite standards also needed replacing. Uniate liturgical books had to be discarded and replaced with those published by the Holy Synod press in Moscow. Once the Greek-Uniate College approved these measures in 1834, instructions proceeded from the bishops (Metropolitan Bulhak and his vicar Vasilii Luzhinskii in the Belorussian diocese and Bishop Iosif Semashko in the Lithuanian diocese) to all of the Uniate district deans, and from the deans to the parish priests, as well as to the monastic clergy. None of these measures was easily or quickly carried out (many instructions did not get to the deans until 1835 or 1836, especially in the Belorussian diocese), and a number of parish priests resisted or in some cases refused to comply. Resistance from Roman Catholic landowners also created additional tensions in some districts. Given these difficulties, Minister of Internal Affairs Dmitrii Bludov ordered governors-general and governors to help impose the measures and created a Secret Committee on Greek-Uniate Affairs, comprised of Uniate and Orthodox hierarchs, as well as civil officials, to oversee and coordinate the efforts to transform the Uniate churches. Of all the necessary measures involved, destruction and removal of the organs and Latin-rite altars, pulpits, and utensils presented fewer problems (although many churches responded very slowly to these demands). Building iconostases and re-equipping the churches with Orthodox utensils and liturgical books proved to be the biggest challenges.38 37 Shavel’skii, Poslednee vossoedinenie s pravoslanoiu tserkoviiu uniatov Belorusskoi eparkhii (1833–1839 gg.), 222. 38 The most useful archival collections on these issues are the files of: the Lithuanian diocese (Uniate and then Orthodox) in the Lithuanian State Historical Archive

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For iconostases and liturgical utensils, the most significant obstacle was economic: most Uniate parishes were impoverished, with barely enough resources to provide for their clergy and basic maintenance of the church, let alone to build a new physical structure inside the church and to buy new liturgical vessels. Aware of this, the Ministry of Internal Affairs allocated 5000 rubles per diocese per year to assist the parishes in this process (up to 28,000 rubles);39 however, these funds were not regularly or effectively distributed and remained insignificant to the task. The Minister of Finance authorized 300 rubles per parish for equipping the Uniate churches on state domains in the Minsk province; again, documentation points to chronic delays in distributing these funds, which the Minsk governor was still trying to secure through 1843.40 On private estates, the landowners were supposed to supply material assistance, but volumes of documents testify to their adamant refusal to help. Perceiving Uniate churches as fellow Catholic communities under papal rule, the Roman Catholic landowners saw the transformation of Uniate churches as the unwelcome incursion of Orthodoxy into their Catholic space, and only pressure from civil officials or local police motivated them to assist. Often, the priests and parishioners themselves, regardless of their dire material situation, had to rely on their own meager resources to build the iconostasis. Threats from civil officials that the priests would lose their parish, and therefore their livelihood, motivated them to complete the task. Upon doing so, landowners often harassed the priests and disturbed the services in the refashioned churches.41

(LVIA), f. 605; the governor-general of the western Belarusian provinces in LVIA, f. 378; the governor-general of the eastern Belarusian provinces in NIAB Minsk, f. 1297; the Minsk Orthodox consistory in NIAB Minsk, f. 136; the governor of the Grodno province in the National Historical Archive of Belarus in Grodno (NIAB Grodno), f. 1; the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ Department of Foreign Confessions, the Uniate College, and the Holy Synod in RGIA, f. 821; f. 834; f. 796, op. 205; and f. 797, op. 6, 7, and 87. Overviews of the process are in Zapiski Iosifa, 1:79–101 and Shavelskii, Poslednee vossoedinenie s pravoslanoiu tserkoviiu uniatov Belorusskoi eparkhii (1833– 1839 gg.), 193–223. 39 RGIA, f. 796, op. 205, l. 3ob (1834). 40 RGIA, f. 384, op. 1, d. 199, l. 2; this file has over 200 listy documenting funding for particular parishes, with a final request on l. 267 from 24 May 1843. 41 On specific cases in the Lithuanian dicoese: LVIA, f. 605, op. 1, d. 2482, 2486, 2487, 2488, and 2491. Parishes in the Belorussian diocese encountered the most difficulties with landowners, and the process dragged on to 1839 and beyond; see Shavel’skii, Poslednee vossoedinenie s pravoslanoiu tserkoviiu uniatov Belorusskoi eparkhii (1833–1839 gg.), 210– 22 and NIAB Minsk f. 3245, op. 2, d. 445 and f. 136, op. 1, d. 10517 and 10799.

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The example of Grodno province is enlightening. Here, Semashko claims, the local governor (Mikhail Murav’ev) provided more assistance than other governors to ensure that iconostases were built.42 The 1838 governor’s report on the progress of the thirty-two Uniate churches in the Grodno and Lida districts claimed that almost all of these churches had an iconostasis, although four were not complete or inadequately finished (only one had a previously built iconostasis). Generally, each priest himself funded the construction, although several landowners provided funding for seven of the churches. Two churches were on state domains and received treasury funding. The simultaneous description in the report of the other structural deficiencies of the churches, however, pointed to the dismal material condition of the churches and, given this, the rather absurd investment of resources in an iconostasis. For example, the Masalianskaia parish church in the Grodno district needed “repairs and whitewashing of the stone walls, white-washing of the entire church, a new roof, windows, and repairs to the bell tower and fence,” although the iconostasis was “decently built.” The Tsetserovskaia parish of the same district needed either a new church or capital repairs to the old one, but the existing church now had a “well built” iconostasis. Only two churches had no iconostasis because of the need to build a new church altogether, but most often the churches seemed to be literally falling apart around a newly built iconostasis. Constructing this structure was prioritized at the expense of everything else.43 The documentation on the Vileiskii deanery in the Minsk provinces confirms that the churches here were in states of physical degradation as bad or worse than in the Grodno district, but these reports reveal a bit more about the iconostasis construction itself. Even among the “most important” parishes, at least four of the churches did not construct iconostases of solid wood, but only of wooden frames hung with canvas. Four months after the deadline had passed, eight of the thirteen constructed iconostases in these churches still had no images on them.44 This seemed to be a common problem, as twelve of the seventeen churches in the Lida district of Grodno province still lacked icons after the iconostases were in place.45 A simple barrier with no images on it would not have recreated the ambience of an Eastern Orthodox church with its mystical symbolism of a 42 43 44 45

Zapiski Iosifa, 1:97. NIAB Grodno, f. 1, op. 19, d. 1752, ll. 1–8ob. LVIA, f. 605, op. 1, d. 2482, ll. 5–6. NIAB Grodno, f. 1, op. 19, d. 1752, ll. 5ob–8ob.

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meeting place between heaven and earth with icons serving as a window to heaven. In fact, one historian notes that the simple barriers constructed in haste by landowners actually succeeded in making the churches less attractive, in a way ridiculing the Eastern rite. In some cases, peasants refused to attend services in these churches.46 Some churches that did have icons had such poor quality images or images in such poor condition that they nevertheless needed to procure new icons. For example, the Ukhval’skii parish in the Borisovskii district of Minsk province, had “unskillfully painted icons that distorted the aesthetic of the church.” This church qualified for funding from the Ministry of Finance, given the number of parishioners on state domains; after some delay, the iconostasis was finally completed four years later in April 1839.47 While iconostases could be built of local materials (although too often, decent icons were hard to come by), the Orthodox tabernacles and other liturgical utensils needed to come from Russia; the cost of these items could rarely be covered by selling the Uniate tabernacles, which were often made of tin and without great value. Therefore, even where iconostases were built, the churches still lacked the necessary utensils. Clergy from the Lida district (Grodno province) reported in 1838 that fourteen of seventeen parishes still had no tabernacle and lacked other necessary utensils as well.48 In the Belorussian diocese, the deans rushed to comply with the orders to remove the cyboria and monstrances before new Orthodox tabernacles could be obtained, but then priests were left with no vessel in which to store the consecrated host. In this situation, the bishop had to allow priests to continue to use the old cyboria. In some cases when priests refused to give up their cyborium, local police were sent to take away the offending vessel.49 The material changes inside the church accompanied liturgical reforms to cleanse the Uniate rite of its Latinisms and to bring back the “pure” Eastern rite, centering on replacing Uniate liturgical books with those from the Moscow Holy Synod press. The problems for this particular transformation were multifaceted. First, supply and distribution of the 46 Shavel’skii, Poslednee vossoedinenie s pravoslanoiu tserkoviiu uniatov Belorusskoi eparkhii (1833–1839 gg.), 218. 47 NIAB Minsk, f. 136, op. 1, d. 10517, l. 14 (report from Borisovskoe dukhovnoe pravlenie, 6 March 1835). This church needed a new roof and cupola, as well as utensils and liturgical books. 48 NIAB Minsk, f. 136, op. 1, d. 10517. 49 Shavel’skii, Poslednee vossoedinenie s pravoslanoiu tserkoviiu uniatov Belorusskoi eparkhii (1833–1839 gg.), 224–25.

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necessary books was uneven. Even though the press donated 1500 copies of the main service book, the Sluzhebnik, the churches also needed copies of the Evangelia and the Apostol (the Gospels and Epistles) in order to conduct the liturgy. Uniate service books contained the necessary New Testament excerpts for the liturgy, obviating the need to have copies of the texts themselves and resulting in very few churches owning copies of the Gospels and Epistles. While the churches for the most part received the new Sluzhebnik, provision of the New Testament texts was wrought with problems. Reports from Belorussian diocese in 1837 revealed that in at least three districts, only twenty-five percent of the churches had these additional texts.50 Other essential texts, as well, such as Trebniki, Triody, and prayer books remained in deficit. Documents attest to continued insufficiencies in service books long after 1839.51 Secondly, the Uniate churches fundamentally lacked the trained staff to conduct the sung Eastern-rite liturgy according to the Orthodox service books. The seminaries began teaching the Moscow Sluzhebnik by the 1830s, and seminarians had to demonstrate solid knowledge of it in order to be ordained. However, the Uniate College required all priests, new and old, to learn the new liturgy; priests identified by their deans as having insufficient knowledge of the Moscow Sluzhebnik (which also provided detailed instructions on the rites) were summoned to the diocesan cathedral for training and had to pass an exam, or they would lose their position. The cathedral in the Lithuanian diocesan capital, Zhirovitsy, trained more than 200 priests from 1834 to 1836—some escorted there by police—for periods from several days to six weeks, depending on their abilities. Official reports show that most priests did learn the rite, but a few recalcitrants indeed lost their parishes.52 Even more detrimental, however, was the lack of trained cantors (diachki) to sing the responses during the liturgy. Since the Uniate church allowed spoken masses, the need for cantors had decreased, and over the centuries their numbers and their role in the services had dwindled. One historian called the extreme shortage of trained cantors “the greatest 50 RGIA, f. 796, op. 205, d. 170, ll. 18–19; Zapiski Iosifa, vol. 1, 112; Shavelskii, Poslednee vossoedinenie s pravoslanoiu tserkoviiu uniatov Belorusskoi eparkhii (1833–1839 gg.), 195–97. 51 Notably, the Mogilev diocese in 1853 still complained of a severe shortage of service books and consequential problems with conducting the Orthodox service. RGIA, f. 796, op. 135, d. 324, ll. 7, 16. 52 LVIA f. 605, op. 1, d. 2008, ll. 1–97.

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hindrance in restoring the Greek-Eastern rite to the Uniate churches.”53 It would take decades to train cantors properly in schools created for that purpose in the 1830s and to staff the former Uniate churches with suitable cantors. In the meantime, a few former organists with singing abilities— after the organs in Uniate churches were destroyed—were pressed into service as cantors, but most churches had no trained cantors and therefore could not properly perform the Eastern rite in its Orthodox form.54 Thirdly, and most profoundly, while all the other transformations in the churches were material, the liturgical changes involved dogma. Two fundamental doctrines of the Uniate church, the supremacy of the pope and the Trinitarian theology that the Holy Spirit proceeded from the Father and the Son, had been intertwined in the words and the prayers of the Uniate liturgical books. The Orthodox books from Moscow, of course, did not mention the pope (instead incorporating prayers for the Holy Synod and the Russian imperial family), and, in accordance with Orthodox theology, presented the Holy Spirit as proceeding from the Father alone (contradicting Uniate—and Roman Catholic—theology). Thus, adopting the new liturgical books involved abandoning core beliefs of the Uniate faith. This reform, then, became a focal point for clerical resistance in the final years before 1839. This issue provoked outspoken resistance from priests in the eastern Belarusian provinces whose actions threatened to undermine the vozsoedinenie itself. In 1838, clerical leaders there gathered 111 signatures of Belarusian priests on a petition to the tsar to be freed from the vozsoedinenie process and to be able to publish their own service books and teach the doctrine according to their Uniate faith. Russian officials immediately arrested the leaders of this petition effort and put them on trial for actions agitating the Belarusian clergy against the imperial government; eventually two were sent to Russian monasteries and three others were defrocked.55 In the end, threats and pressures on Uniate priests by both religious and civil officials, as well as more training sessions in the cathedrals and the expulsion of particularly troublesome clergy, yielded results that could be construed by officials as successful. By this point, no Uniates were deluded 53 Shavelskii, Poslednee vossoedinenie s pravoslanoiu tserkoviiu uniatov Belorusskoi eparkhii (1833–1839 gg.), 227. 54 On organists, NIAB Grodno, f. 1, op. 19, d. 1005, ll. 11ob–12; LVIA 605, op. 1, d. 2485, ll. 37–37ob, 64. On the creation of a school for cantors in Polotsk in 1837, RGIA, f. 797, op. 7, d. 22381. 55 Shavel’skii, Poslednee vossoedinenie s pravoslanoiu tserkoviiu uniatov Belorusskoi eparkhii (1833–1839 gg.), 284–88; RGIA, f. 797, op. 7, d. 23446.

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that the official goal of all the transformations was not overall conversion to Orthodoxy, and those most firmly opposed risked much to resist the final outcome. * As Semashko had argued, once church structures and rites were for the most part compatible with Orthodoxy, the actual act of reunion of the Uniates with Orthodoxy, vozsoedinenie, could take place. The Uniate College transferred its administrative control of the church to the Holy Synod in 1837 for better coordination of the final steps of vozsoedinenie. At its essence, these final steps were mere formality: the Uniate bishops secured from the majority of the parish and monastic priests signed statements that they were ready to join the Orthodox Church. Given the choice of doing so or losing their livelihood, the priests usually offered stiff pro-forma statements that lacked convincing signs of religious conviction.56 With these in hand, twenty-four Uniate episcopal and administrative clergymen gathered in Polotsk to sign on Febuary 12, 1839 a document of reunion that placed all Uniate churches under Holy Synod control and in communion with the Russian Orthodox Church. Governor-generals took precautions to ensure the presence of police and military against any possible unrest in the most troublesome districts, but no violence occurred as the union was announced.57 From May and throughout the summer of 1839 Orthodox and former Uniate bishops and clergymen celebrated together in liturgies and processions throughout the region to commemorate the completion of the vozsoedinenie. The Holy Synod amended its statistics on the number of Orthodox churches, cathedrals, monasteries, religious schools, clergy, and parishes to include all that had belonged to the Greek Catholic Church in the eight western provinces.58

56 RGIA, f. 823, op. 2, dd. 348–72 and 834, op. 4, dd. 654, 658, 674. As with the church transformations, these statements were collected much more quickly and with less opposition in Semashko’s Lithuanian diocese than in the Belorussian diocese. 57 Most notably, Governor-General Petr D’iakov of Vitebsk, Mogilev, and Smolensk summoned a regiment of Cossacks to be on hand in the most problematic districts under his control. NIAB, op. 1297, op. 1, d. 1116, ll. 27, 43–44, 59, 71. The original document of reunion is in RGIA f. 796, op. 205, d. 186. 58 See Izvlechenie iz otcheta ober-prokurora sviateishago sinoda za 1840g. (St. Petersburg: Sinodal’naia Tipografiia, 1841).

Conversion and Culture in Russia’s Western Borderlands, 1800–55

As the sources indicate, the official word did not reflect the reality on the ground. The Belarusian and Ukrainian communities would struggle to adapt to the changes imposed upon them for generations to come. The negotiations and accommodations in material culture and liturgy by former Uniate clergymen and their flock demonstrated admirable agency in saving what they could of their traditions within the new Orthodox paradigm—even if only for priests to continue shaving their beards and wearing their non-Orthodox clerical jackets, as well as uttering the occasional prayer or sermon in Polish. The struggle then became one of convincing life-long Orthodox faithful to accept former Uniates (particular clergymen) as fully Orthodox and deserving the same respect as ethnic Russian Orthodox. Bishops would report deviations from the Orthodox norm in all the western provinces through the end of the nineteenth century. And yet, the shortcomings in the material and liturgical transformations notwithstanding, the imposed isolation of the former Uniate parishes and parishioners from Roman Catholic contact and, most crucially, the closing of Uniate religious educational institutions had ensured the suffocation of a separate Greek Catholic identity in Russia’s western provinces. The former Polish-influenced models of education, language, and aesthetics had come under siege, and Russian-influenced Orthodoxy more and more heavily overlay the former Uniate institutions with far-reaching consequences for the development of identity within Russia’s western provinces.

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Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising Zita Medišauskienė

The leaders of the 1863–64 Uprising, also known as the January Uprising, sought the active involvement of all social classes, and tried to mobilize the masses to a far greater extent than any earlier attempts to break free from Russian rule. To that end, the possibilities provided by the printed word were widely explored. A distinctive feature of the uprising was the abundance of publications released by the central insurgent leadership and local organizations, and their diversity in terms of aim, audience, and language. The press not only wished to report the decisions taken by the leaders of the uprising and the military or diplomatic situation; its primary goal was to persuade readers to understand the necessity of the uprising, commit themselves to action, and see the task through to a successful conclusion. The press was divided up according to audience: both the Catholic clergy and ordinary urban and rural residents had their own publications. The latter had to be addressed in their own language; therefore, in addition to a variety of material in Polish, there were also Lithuanian and Belarusian publications, albeit not very numerous. Small posters, pamphlets, proclamations, appeals, notifications, and advertisements were used for agitation too. Multilingual papers and journals, as well as material from small presses, published as the uprising developed, constitute the object of this research. Only work published by and targeted at the Catholic clergy, in which religious rhetoric was dictated by the politics of audience and writer, is excluded from this study as being unduly specific.

Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising

The aim of rhetoric is to use the power of the word to persuade and influence.1 This is key feature of uprising-related texts. The self-expression of authors was irrelevant, as these texts’ sole purpose was to persuade readers and shape their opinions, political beliefs, behavior, and feelings. The authors of articles and proclamations not only had to present ideas clearly, but also to take into account the needs, expectations, values, and shifting moods of their readership. Out of all the possible rhetoric-related research problems, this paper limits itself to an analysis of the value-based content of uprising texts with a focus on religious, religion-related and religion-based values, ideas, and images. It aims to reveal how the producers of uprising publications tried to disseminate values and ideas, to make them part of public consciousness. I also discus some peculiarities of the mindset of readers, which had to be taken into account in shaping public opinion. Although there is long record of research on the uprising press, the specific features of its rhetoric, especially its religious rhetoric, have not yet received much attention.2 Irena Buckley, in her study of the rhetorical tradition in nineteenth-century Lithuanian literature, examines the proclamations of the uprising, stating that they “not only appeal to the national but also to the Catholic consciousness of the society.”3 As a consequence, according to the author, “God and the Homeland stand next to each other” in the proclamations.4 This is confirmed by the research by Ieva Šenavičienė on the Lithuanian language in the uprising’s agitation messages. Šenavičienė admits that in Lithuanian agitation messages “the Polish fight for freedom was mostly linked to their fight for religion” and that such proclamations underlined Russian lawlessness in respect to Catholics and the Catholic Church.5 Stefan Kieniewicz observes the effectiveness of both national 1 Irena Buckley, Retorikos tradicija XIX amžiaus lietuvių literatūroje (Vilnius: Versus aureus, 2006), 19. 2 A more in-depth presentation of the historiography of the uprising press is available in the book Prasa tajna z lat 1861–1864, vol. 1 (Wrocław-Warsaw-Kraków: Zakład narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1966), v–vi; the press of the Lithuanian uprising is discussed in Dawid Fajnhauz, “Prasa konspiracyjna powstania styczniowego na Litwie i Białorusi 1861–1864 r.,” Rocznik Białostocki 4 (1963): 43–102. 3 Buckley, Retorikos tradicija, 144–45. 4 Ibid., 145. 5 Ieva Šenavičienė, “Lietuvių kalba 1863 m. sukilimo agitacijoje,” Lituanistica 67, no. 3 (2006): 14, 18.

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and religious slogans that called people to join the uprising in Lithuania.6 Meanwhile, Dawid Fajnhauz, the author of arguably the most comprehensive study on the press of the uprising in Lithuania, makes only a passing reference to religious ideas in agitational publications—ideas he considers merely a tactical way to defend the language and the nationality.7 Certain historical circumstances and theoretical preconditions facilitate the search for religious motives in the rhetoric of the uprising. There is no doubt that society in Lithuania and the Kingdom of Poland in the mid-nineteenth century was subsumed beneath a Christian outlook; a number of phenomena of social and even political life were interpreted on the basis of the Christian tradition. That said, the ideology of nationalism dominated the nineteenth century and has been dubbed by some researchers as the religion of modern times in that it replaced traditional confessions. While researchers have traced the history of nationalism in the Kingdom of Poland back to Romantic nationalism, they call the nationalism of the mid-nineteenth century, including that of the period of the uprising, “action nationalism.” In other words, scholars regard this later nationalism as concomitant with revolutionary and patriotic activity—that is, political consciousness. They argue that the concept of the nation as an ethnolinguistic community originated only after the 1863–64 Uprising and in the context of liberal positivism.8 Thus, the uprising took place at a time when the masses were still likely to be dominated by religious consciousness and religious identity. Nationalist ideas were merely an object of theoretical considerations by a small circle of the intellectual elite. In fact, the uprising itself can be considered an attempt to make the theories of “action nationalism” a reality. During the uprising, its leaders were forced to address the masses and exhort them to revolt. Consequently, the 1863–64 Uprising in the Kingdom of Poland can possibly be considered a “field of collision” between religion—which was embedded in people’s outlook—and nationalism. There are no grounds to speak about nationalism in the former territory of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania at that time. Nevertheless, it should be noted that Lithuanian cultural figures developed a new concept of the Lithuanian nation. Even before the uprising, they 6 Stefan Kieniewicz, Powstanie styczniowe (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo naukowe, 1983), 492. 7 Fajnhauz, “Prasa konspiracyjna,” 70. 8 Brian Porter, When Nationalism Began to Hate: Imagining Modern Politics in NineteenthCentury Poland (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000).

Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising

defined the nation according to the criterion of culture, described its main cultural features, and tried to establish its territorial boundaries. In view of the context of the problems pertaining to nationalism, then, specifically the relationship between nationalism and religion, this paper attempts to discuss the types of religious rhetoric used in the texts of the uprising in terms of the following: target audiences; values; religious themes; images and symbols; arguments; and motives. The main source of the study is: periodicals at the time of the uprising in the Polish, Lithuanian, and Belarusian; proclamations issued by the uprising’s leadership or the leaders of individual insurgent squads; and Lithuanian and Belarusian literary texts of an agitational style that supplemented the rather scarce periodicals in the above languages.9 Quantitatively, the use of religious rhetoric in the uprising press, primarily the periodicals, was very uneven. There were publications which contained no such rhetoric, except for the occasional use of blasphemous names for God. We could hardly find any common features among this group of publications.10 Moderate publications stand next to radical ones, which means that social orientation or social radicalism was not a criterion that determined the presence or absence of religious rhetoric. In this research I will examine three groups of publications, which to a greater or lesser extent used religious rhetoric. The first group is comprised of publications in which religious rhetoric was rather sporadic; religious language appeared occasionally and only in small fragments of text. 9 The sources were published in the following: Vaclovas Biržiška, “Nežinomas lietuviškas atsišaukimas iš 1863 sausio 22 d.,” in Praeities pabiros (Brooklyn: Karys, 1960), 158– 162; Agaton Giller, Historya powstania narodu polskiego w 1861–1863 r., vol. 1 (Paryż: Księgarnia Luxemburgska, 1867); Augustinas Janulaitis, “Spausdintieji ir nespausdintieji 1863–64 m. sukilimo raštai,” Karo archyvas 1 (1925): 209–231; Leonas Mulevičius, Elena Griškūnaitė, and Antanas Tyla, eds., Lietuvos TSR istorijos šaltiniai, vol. 2 (1861– 1917) (Vilnius: Valstybinė politinės ir mokslinės literatūros leidykla, 1965), 47–50; Prasa tajna z lat 1861–1864, vols. 1–3 (Wrocław-Warsaw-Kraków: Zakład narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1966–1970); Ieva Šenavičienė, “Lietuvių kalba 1863 m. sukilimo agitacijoje,” Lituanistica 67, no. 3 (2006): 13–23; Vosstanie v Litve i Belorussii 1863–1864 gg. (Moscow: Nauka, 1965), 3, 20, 26, 29–30; Revoliutsionnyi pod‘em v Litve i Belorussii v 1861–1862 gg. (Moscow: Nauka, 1964), 97–111, 125–33, 140–45, 310. 10 Publications: Prawda (The Truth) published by the Reds in Kielce, Wiadomości Polityczne (Political News) on international diplomacy published in Warsaw, Partyzant (The Partisan) of moderate ideology published by the townspeople and educated youth in Galicia (Lviv-Przemyśl) and possibly Szczerbiec (The Sword) published by the young supporters of Ludwik Mierosławski in Warsaw, and Galicja (Galicia) published in Cracow.

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This group includes information publications, which disseminated details of insurgent military action and the uprising’s progress, irrespective of addressee—the masses or the upper social classes. Other publications that more frequently resorted to religious rhetoric belong to the ideologies of moderate Whites and both the moderate and radical Reds.11 Such degrees of rhetoric were also present in materials produced by the uprising’s official or semi-official bodies.12 Publications in this first group, which differ by the intensity of their employment of religious rhetoric and their political-social ideology, were primarily addressed to more educated groups (largely from the upper social classes): the urban intelligentsia, the nobility, and the bourgeoisie. Yet another important content-related feature of these publications was their formulation of the uprising’s aim and relationship with religion. The goal of the uprising according to this group of publications, as well as to most of the proclamations of the central and local authorities of the leadership, was the restoration of a free Poland (the country as it was before the First Partition). The political freedom of the homeland was considered a prerequisite for the civil, political, and religious freedom of the people; and independence from the Russian Empire was the necessary precondition for the free and unrestricted development of Poland, which also meant a happy life for its citizens. In these texts, the homeland was declared as the supreme value: one must not hesitate to sacrifice both material goods and even life for its sake. In the general uprising press that falls into this group, 11 Głos Bratni (Brother’s Voice, March 23–April 23, 1862; three numbers) published in Lublin, Pobudka (Reveille, November 1, 1861–March 6, 1862; five numbers), Chorągiew Swobody (The Freedom Flag, January 1–May 8, 1863; three numbers) published in Vilnius, and Głos z Litwy (The Voice from Lithuania, 1 February–April 1, 1864; five numbers) published in Königsberg. 12 Publications: Ruch (The Movement, Warsaw, July 5, 1862–July 14, 1863; 17 numbers— about 2000 copies); published by the Reds, Strażnica (The Watchtower, Warsaw, July 1, 1861–May 22, 1863; forty-five numbers), which had been under their influence for a long period of time; and Nowiny Polityczne Polskie (Polish Political News, Warsaw, March 26–May 31, 1863; seven numbers) with a tendency towards the Whites. Official and semi-official bodies: Prawda (The Truth, April 19–27 July, 1863; twelve numbers), Polska (Poland, June 7– September 11, 1863; eleven numbers), Niepodległość (Independence, July 14, 1863– March 17, 1864; twelve numbers—1500–10000 copies), Dziennik Narodowy (National Daily, May 10–August 30, 1863; nine numbers, all published in Warsaw), Walka (The Struggle, Zhytomyr, July–November, 1863; five numbers), Praca (Work, Kamianets, November 12–December 13, 1863; ten numbers) published in Galicia; Sternik (Helmsman, Warsaw, October 1, 1861–February 1, 1862; four numbers).

Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising

religious faith appeared very seldom next to the Homeland, in a few cases only. On rare occasions, the struggle was said to serve the homeland and the faith;13 on others, the struggle was for the faith and freedom.14 In this way, the press supported the largely secular and political goal of restoring the nation’s former political identity. Nevertheless, the belief in the right to an independent political existence, including the right to rise up in revolt, was already based on religious arguments and Catholic tradition. In fact, the press emanating from every ideological position continuously underlined the “man-made law and divine law” governing the life of people and nations; however, it is divine law, it proclaimed, which determines the original grounds for the existence of nations. Nations themselves are the creation of God, which means that the Polish nation was also created by God, who gave it the same freedom as other nations.15 However, God took freedom away from Poland for the sins of earlier generations and condemned it to long decades under Russian and “German” oppression. The nation suffered terribly during the years of oppression, but it nevertheless maintained its faith and was redeemed from its sins; and now, by the will of God, the nation has risen up in revolt, to win back freedom for its homeland and to live the life of a free nation under God.16 This historiosophical idea was expressed concisely in this group’s publications. The authors did not consider the uprising to be the outcome of man’s will or his efforts alone. Rather, it was the work of God: when the time was right, He called on the Polish nation to rise up. Therefore, those joining the insurgent forces, they asserted, were fulfilling God’s will. All such statements were usually accompanied by themes from the Bible, the history of the Israelites, or from early Christianity. Poland’s suffering under Russian oppression was often compared to the crucifixion, or the wandering of the Israelites in the desert; the uprising and the insurgent struggle were likened to the persecution of the early Christians, their suffering, and their devotion to their faith.17 Of course, these publications claimed that the final outcome of the uprising was in God’s hands, which was itself a good reason for optimism

13 14 15 16 17

“Wiadomości z pola bitwy, 1863 02 18,” in Prasa tajna, 1:437. “Chorągiew swobody, 1863 06 08,” in ibid., 1:405. “Strażnica, 1862 02 20,” in ibid., 1:38. “Pobudka, 1861 11 01,” in ibid., 1:142, 1:146. “Pobudka, 1861 11 01,” in ibid., 1:140; “Strażnica, 1862 01 25,” in ibid., 1:34.

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that God’s plan will eventually prevail.18 Man—that is, the insurgents—were described as God’s associates.19 Their main weapon was not guns, scythes or bayonets, and not military assistance from abroad, but genuine faith and trust in God and His compassion for Poland.20 It was suggested that death in battle was an image of Christ’s sacrifice for the sake of mankind: ideas of freedom and happiness would grow from such a death, and the dead would live eternally in the memories of their descendants. Just as through His death Jesus Christ redeemed mankind, the dead insurgents would redeem Poland.21 While the authors of the uprising press perceived the uprising as God’s plan, they also called for the use of more active spiritual weapons— namely, steadfast faith and prayer. The press underlined the fact that the outbreak of the revolt developed out of religious forms of struggle, such as prayer and ritual demonstrations.22 However, because religious forms of struggle had failed to influence the Russian government and convince it to make some concessions to Poland, the press encouraged the application of extreme measures: armed struggle. By blaming Russia for the need to use violence, the uprising press thus dispatched the moral conundrum involved in choosing a strategy that would lead to killing. Further, the certainty that they were participating in God’s plan, following His will, naturally gave the insurgents psychological strength, both when preparing to take up arms and when inevitably afflicted by losses. The press, then, construed the uprising and the insurgents as divinely sanctioned. The uprising was painted as a struggle between God/Good and Evil/Satan. The forces of Hell were represented by Russia and the Russian emperor. “Satanic”, “hellish,” and “heathen” were common epithets used to describe the Russian emperor, the Russian government, and Russia’s military action against the insurgents and the peaceful residents of Poland. According to religious booklets intended for the masses, both Satan and heathens were the main enemies of Catholicism. For the sake of comparison, it can be said that the press, which excluded religious rhetoric, or used it very rarely, presented the fight between the insurgents and Russia as a 18 “Głos bratni, 1862 03 21,” in ibid., 1:175. 19 “Sternik, 1861 10 01,” in ibid., 1:126; “Strażnica, 1862 01 25,” in ibid., 1:34. 20 “Głos bratni, 1862 03 21,” in ibid., 1:178; “Sternik, 1862 02 01,” in ibid., 1:136; “Ruch, 1862 12 27,” in ibid., 1:364. 21 “Sternik, 1861 12 01,” in ibid., 1:129; “Ruch, 1862 09 17,” in ibid., 1:347. 22 “Pobudka, 1861 11 01,” in ibid., 1:140.

Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising

fight between Christian civilization and Asian Mongol-Tatar “barbarism.” Christian civilization stood for the freedom of nations and people, while the Mongol-Tatar’s represented despotism and tyranny. Of course, in addition to all of the arguments outlined above, the press declared that armed struggle against the Russian government was necessary in order to defend against specific government actions that, among other things, were targeted at the Catholic faith and the Catholic Church: the abolition of the Uniate Church, forced conversions to Orthodoxy, and the coercive actions by Russian troops in Catholic churches and against Catholic priests were mentioned.23 The press’s reports of such Russian tactics deepened belief in the satanic and base nature of Russian rule. Despite the fact that the press falling into this group put forward an absolutely secular political aim of the uprising (i.e. the restoration of the independent state), both the legitimacy of the aim and the uprising itself were based on religious arguments. Religious rhetoric was used extensively to give meaning to participation in the uprising, instill optimism in the insurgents, and bolster their psychological and emotional resolve. Periodicals and small publications in Polish and Lithuanian, intended for the common people in rural and urban areas, can be distinguished as a separate group, because they formulated the aim of uprising in a different way—employing rich religious rhetoric and for their more religious audience.24 Before discussing this group of publications—that is, the press of the uprising intended for the general public—we should first pay attention to the following feature: the first issue of nearly every publication intended for ordinary people (with the exception of proclamations) started with the greeting “Praise be to Jesus Christ.” In the context 23 “Pobudka, 1861 11 01,” in ibid., 1:140; “Strażnica, 1861 10 15,” in ibid., 1:22; “Strażnica, 1861 11 03,” in ibid., 1:23; “Strażnica, 1862 03 15,” in ibid., 1:41. 24 Męczennicy (The Martyrs, 1–24 May 1862; two numbers), Gazeta Narodowa dla Ludu Polskiego (National Gazette for Polish People, 1 January, 1863; one number), Kosynier (The Scythe-Bearer, 21 August–26 September, 1862; five numbers), Partyzant (The Partisan, Warsaw, 21 January, 1863; one number), Przyjdź Królestwo Twoje! (Thy Kingdom Come, Cracow, 17 October 1863–February 1864; four numbers), Gromata Wylniaus senelio (Letter from an old man in Vilnius), Pasaka senelio. Surasze wargdienis isz Lietuwos (An old man’s story. Written by a poor man from Lithuania), Žinia apej lenku wajna su maskolejs (News on the Polish war with the moskals), as well as a number of proclamations in Lithuanian (Wiraj Kiemionis! [Village Men!], Mieli Brolej, kurie sermegas dewite . . . ! [Dear Brothers with overcoats!]).

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of Lithuanian literature intended for ordinary people, in the mid-nineteenth century such a greeting was perceived as a password, meaning that the person uttering it belonged to the same—Catholic—community; that he/she was an insider who could be trusted, invited into the home, and accompanied to church. By contrast, a heretic or heathen was not allowed to step across the threshold, to be under the same roof, or go into such a target reader’s church. This highlights the importance of religious community. The press dealing with the uprising in Lithuanian and Polish that was directed towards the general public, therefore, introduced another component as an aim of the uprising—the defense of one’s faith, as well as the freedom of the homeland. This was especially highlighted in the press covering the uprising in Lithuanian. Nearly all proclamations written in Lithuanian urged readers to fight for “our faith and homeland”; less commonly, they invited readers to fight for the faith and freedom. For instance, a proclamation by the uprising’s leadership pitched at landless Lithuanian villagers said that “everyone who can must rise up in arms for our faith and our homeland, and defeat our enemies the Moskals [Russians] and Germans.”25 Another proclamation declared, “God, help us protect our faith and defeat that of the Moskals.”26 In his Gromata Wylniaus Senelio, Mikalojus Akelaitis tells how the 1794 Uprising fought for “our faith and our dear homeland!”27 It is interesting that similar texts, the Lithuanian Pasaka senelio. Surasze wargdienis isz Lietuwos and the Belarusian Hutorka staraho Dzieda na Biełarusi, included a different description of the Kościuszko Uprising of 1794. The Lithuanian text underlined the struggle for the faith and the freedom of the homeland, in which its residents would be free.28 The Belarusian text only spoke about the joint struggle with the Poles against the Moskals for the freedom which the Poles promised to give (the emancipation of the serfs).29 25 The proclamation by the uprising’s leadership of 22 January 1863 “Nuog Tikras Lenku Aukszcziausiu Wiresnibes Wisas Karalistes Musu,” in Lietuvos TSR istorijos šaltiniai, 48. 26 The proclamation by the uprising’s leadership of 10 February 1864 “Mieli Brolej, kurie sermegas dewite, kajmuose giwenate ir sawo rankomis dirwa arête, Jumis szita gromata paraszyta, – pakłausykite!,” in Janulaitis, “Spausdintieji ir nespausdintieji 1863–64 m. sukilimo raštai,” 220. 27 Ibid., 213. 28 Ibid., 214. 29 Ibid., 216.

Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising

Lithuanian texts on the uprising referred to the Russians as the main enemies of the faith, seeking to convert Catholics to Orthodoxy. A proclamation with a crossed cross said, “Dear Samogitian Brothers, this crossed cross is a sign of our faith, our holy Church and our brothers persecuted by the Moskals.”30 Another similar proclamation also underlined the threat to the faith posed by the Russians. The subject of the threat to religious faith was often widely elaborated on. For instance, the proclamation Wiraj Kiemionis! by Bronisław Radziszewski (pseudonym Ignacy Czyński), the commissioner plenipotentiary of the National Government to the Voivodeship of Augustów, and another proclamation Mieli Brolej, kurie sermegas dewite . . . , possibly from the leadership of the Lithuanian uprising, enumerated the following actions of the Moskals against the Catholic Church: they hang innocent priests and deport them to Siberia to eliminate those who baptize children and bury the dead; they send their own priests to replace murdered or deported priests, and forcibly convert children to Orthodoxy; the Cossacks trample the Holy Sacrament; Orthodox priests settle everywhere, and it is even required to speak in Russian only. In short, “A Moskal, like Satan, lies in ambush for our souls”31 (i.e. the Russians are posing a threat to the faith of Catholics) and, according to one of the gazettes of the uprising, there was nothing more terrifying to the people than losing their Catholic faith. According to the press of the uprising, service in the Russian army was repellent mostly because it posed a threat to people’s faith.32 It should be noted that brief proclamations in which a single argument was required to persuade the public invoked the threat to the faith and the Catholic Church. Even longer texts that enumerated acts of wrongdoing inflicted by Russian rule (oppression, conscription, taxes, magasin— grain banks) gave a good deal of attention to the deportation of priests and the desecration of churches. The events of 8 April 1861 in Warsaw, when Cossack troops attacked a funeral ceremony, chopped a cross to pieces, beat the priest to death, and desecrated the church, are recounted. However, no hints at the abolition of the Uniate Church, which was reported in the Polish and Belarusian press, can be found in Lithuanian texts.

30 Ibid., 213. 31 Ibid., 219–20; Buckley, Retorikos tradicija, 145. 32 “Pasaka senelio. Surasze Wargdienelis isz Lietuwos,” in Janulaitis, “Spausdintieji ir nespausdintieji 1863–64 m. sukilimo raštai,” 215.

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The Lithuanian uprising press asserted that “the Polish brothers,” who defended their faith and homeland in the Kościuszko Uprising, the 1830–31 Uprising, and the Warsaw demonstrations, were defenders of the Catholic Church. Anyone who perished for the sake of their faith and their homeland was considered a martyr. Everyone must pray for their souls, publications proclaimed; we can win freedom and “take back our homeland” with Poles only, because only with Poles can we live the good and happy life we enjoyed in the old times. People knew no hardship then; they could leave their lord freely; taxes were low. The Moskals brought serfdom and high taxes, the press asserted. Presumably, the homeland referred to in Lithuanian texts like tėvynė, tėviškė (similar to the Polish Ojczyzna) was usually understood in the sense of the whole territory of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth. Most Lithuanian texts under analysis were “local”; they were created by local authors (most of them were written or translated by Mikalojus Akelaitis) or the local leadership of the uprising, although some of them could have had a common Polish prototype, or could have been inspired by Polish texts. Even Lithuanian translations of the proclamations issued by the supreme leadership of the uprising were considerably different from their Polish originals (even in content).33 Nevertheless, only the proclamation entitled Gromata Lenku Rando, lejsta int musu žmonis (Letter from the Polish Government to our people) departed substantially from typical “local” Lithuanian texts. Considering its subjects, Gromata was very similar to the press intended for Polish people in that it first and foremost emphasized the Homeland. Gromata invited people of all social classes to defend the land (in Lithuanian, musu žemia). Only our dear land (musu miela žemiale) will bring justice to everyone, the proclamation states; only it can establish everything that is good and useful. The land was given to us by God, who wanted us to live there, and life was indeed blessed for many centuries. However, God also gave us wicked neighbors, who seized our land and partitioned it. Kościuszko tried to liberate it, but he was defeated. From that time on, God subjected the people to trials: seventy years of oppression by the Moskals. Like other publications of the uprising for Polish people, this one too considered the uprising to be God’s plan. It was started by the people, but called for by God; its leaders were protected by God Himself. 33 See “Vaclovas Biržiška, Nežinomas lietuviškas atsišaukimas iš 1863 sausio 22 d.,” in Biržiška, Praeities pabiros, 159–61.

Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising

The authors of the proclamation asserted that God will lead the “brave Polish men” to victory.34 Therefore, there were some Lithuanian texts supporting the uprising which referred to the homeland, the freedom of which Lithuanians were invited to fight for arm in arm with Poles. Furthermore, as well as a defending religion, Lithuanians were urged to repel the wicked attacks by Russian. However, the threat to the faith and the defense of the faith and the Catholic Church were the main motivating force in Lithuanian texts. When the homeland was mentioned in them, it was understood more often as the area of the former Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. This invitation to defend both one’s faith and one’s homeland can be considered a step towards the politicization of the masses. Nevertheless, the moment of defense of one’s faith was stronger and more prevalent in Lithuanian texts. The press intended for the Polish masses had some similar characteristics to the Lithuanian press, discussed above, though it was more refined in literary terms, and traversed a broader range of topics and themes. Much space was devoted to a historical narrative which tried to demonstrate that since time immemorial peasants fought against the enemies of Poland alongside the Polish kings. Religious themes were less common compared to the Lithuanian press; however, they exceeded Lithuanian and Belarusian publications in their power of persuasion. The Polish press intended for the masses, in contrast to the Lithuanian press, prioritized the struggle for the freedom of the homeland, “the holy Homeland,” “the Motherland,” “holy Poland.” This struggle was presented as the realization of God’s call, as a task which God looked on with favor, the duty of every Catholic, and which made one fit for the Kingdom of God in the afterlife. He who loved his homeland as much as his faith and his Church would be saved after death.35 Hence, peasants were encouraged to place equal significance on the homeland and their faith; the homeland was emphasized more than in the Lithuanian press. The homeland and God, the homeland and faith, were inseparable: “Those who are Poles, who love God more than anything, who love their family and their Homeland, must devote all their time to prayer, the salvation of the Homeland, and work.”36 The struggle for the freedom 34 “Gromata Lenku Rando lejsta int musu žmonis,” in Janulaitis, “Spausdintieji ir nespausdintieji 1863–64 m. sukilimo raštai,” 220–22. 35 “Partyzant, 21 01 1863,” in Prasa tajna, 1:425–26. 36 “Przyjdź Królestwo Twoje!, styczeń 1864, no. [3],” in ibid., 3:161.

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of the Homeland was likened to one of the commandments: “Honor thy father and thy mother.” The homeland and the native land were a gift from God, and everyone would have to account to God for its destiny. The idea that God would make the Homeland— freed from the no-good Moskal— his home was introduced. In other words, the homeland was announced as the Kingdom of God on Earth .37 The publications in this group, like Lithuanian texts, also raised the specter of the threat to the faith, in order to encourage the peasants to join the uprising. They referred to events in Warsaw and highlighted the fact that the Moskals did not allow people to honor their God. The Moskals, they claimed, chopped crosses into pieces, tore crucifix pendants from girls’ necks, hanged priests, and desecrated churches. Such stories were also often observed in the Lithuanian press, albeit more eloquently. Most publications began with information about Russian troops committing evil acts in Catholic churches. In its attempt to be persuasive, the press often described various miracles by God as punishment on the Russians for their desecration of the faith. This tactic is absent in the Lithuanian and Belarusian press.38 The Polish press recalled the fate of the Uniate Church, and alarmed readers by talking about the Russian policy of conversion to Orthodoxy—such as the construction of Orthodox churches, the increasing number of Orthodox priests brought in from Russia, the closure of Catholic churches, discrimination against Catholic priests, and so on. Occasionally, the press was especially expressive: it spoke directly to the reader: if you do not take part in the uprising, and allow the Russians to continue their rule, then remember, if that happens they will send bearded priests and convert you to the Russian faith, as was done in Lithuania, where eight million Catholics were converted to the faith of Moscow. Those who refused to join the schismatic churches had their hands chopped off and teeth knocked out, were whipped by nagaikas in the cruelest way possible, and brutally tortured.39

The press argued that it was the aim of Russia to convert Catholics to Orthodoxy, and “to ruin their souls”, which would make it easier to keep

37 “Kosynier, 12 09 1862,” in ibid., 1:387. 38 “Gazeta narodowa dla Ludu Polskiego, 01 01 1863,” in ibid., 1:410; “Kosynier, 26 08 1862,” in ibid., 3:383. 39 “Przyjdź Królestwo Twoje!, 17 10 1863,” in ibid., 3:151.

Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising

them oppressed.40 In addition, those who had perished for the sake of the freedom of their homeland were considered martyrs, and compared to the early Christians or even the crucified Christ. Like the publications for the upper classes, the Polish press directed at the masses put special emphasis on the idea of national unity. In contrast to the former, which give greatest attention more to civic matters, however, the latter focused on cultural affinity. It wrote that faith, language, and land, which had been given by God for the nation to live on, united people of all social classes in a single community. The peasant and his landlord prayed in the same village church and to the same God, and were buried next to each other in the same cemetery. They were all Poles. Therefore, they should fight hand in hand for their homeland. Religious rhetoric was particularly important for overcoming divisions between the social classes and for ensuring national unity. It was often stressed that social conflict caused God’s anger and that He sent His punishment to Poland in the form of oppression by the Moskals, the fiercest opponents of the faith.41 Thus, both sides, peasants and landlords, had to overcome their disagreements and distrust for the sake of a common goal. The press covering the uprising, then, targeting the general public in the Polish language made efforts to promote and consolidate the concept of the nation as an ethnolinguistic or cultural community. Belarusian publications intended for the general public fell into separate groups according to the way they formulated their aims and religious rhetoric.42 Their content and comparatively moderate religious rhetoric separated them from the publications of the uprising in Polish and Lithuanian. The press of the uprising in Belarusian did not contain much religious rhetoric, but it was highly persuasive, with social issues being the main focus. The social injustice imposed by the Russian government on Belarusian peasants was especially highlighted: high taxes, conscription, the prohibition on moving to another landlord (this freedom was a reality during the period of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth), the unlawful and unfair actions of civil servants, and the Emancipation of 1861, which 40 Ibid., 149. 41 “Przyjdź Królestwo Twoje!, 17 10 1863,” in ibid., 3:151; “[Grudzień] 1863, no. [2],” in ibid., 3:154. 42 Mużyckaja prauda (Peasant’s truth, July 1862– June 1863; seven numbers), Hutorka staraho Dzieda na Biełarusi (Old man’s Story in Belarus), Hutorka dwóch susiedou (Conversation of two neighbors, 1861(?)–1862), and other publications.

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failed to meet the expectations of the peasants. The abolition of the Uniate Church and the “true” Uniate faith was reported alongside the illicit actions of the imperial Russian regime. The repression of the Catholic Church was occasionally mentioned too. Religious argument, the necessity of defending one’s faith, was resorted to when speaking about the struggle against the Moskals, and when trying to prove that the invaders had to be repelled. The Belarusian poems Hutorka staraho Dzieda na Bielarusi (Old man’s story in Belarus) and Hutorka dwóch susieduo (Conversation between two neighbors) recounted wrongdoings inflicted on the Catholic Church. The Warsaw events are described first (a chopped-up cross, a torn image of the Virgin Mary) and the conversion of “the Polish People, Catholics” to the Orthodox faith. In addition to freedom, lower taxes, the abolition of conscription and the reduction of the army, one of the aims of the uprising is said to be the restoration of the Uniate Church.43 However, the gazette Mužyckaja prauda (Peasant’s truth), published in Belarusian, omitted the wrongdoings inflicted on the Catholic Church altogether; it mentioned the abolition of the union in the sixth issue, and that after detailing various other acts of wrongdoing committed by the imperial government. However, this was done in an especially persuasive way. The faith of the ancestors, the Uniate faith, the gazette asserted, is the true religion, while the Orthodoxy imposed by the tsar is false. A follower “will die like a dog and suffer in Hell after death.” God will punish those who abandon the true faith, “send them to Hell for eternal suffering, devils will tear the soul into pieces, and tar will boil in your guts. You will then learn about your fate; but once in Hell, it will be too late; you will not win over the righteous God, and your suffering will be everlasting.”44 In this issue, then, Belarusian peasants were invited to fight for freedom, which also meant the freedom to profess their religion. The proclamation Pismo ad Jaśka Haspadara z pad Wilni (Letter of Farmer John from Vilnius) written by Kastuś Kalinoŭski reminded its readers of the abolition of the Union and the conversion to Orthodoxy by affirming that true freedom can only be attained, and the religion of the

43 “Hutorka dwóch susiedou, no. 1, 3–4,” in Prasa tajna, 1:158–166; ibid.; “Hutorka dwóch susiedou, no. 2,” in ibid., 3:301–3; “Hutorka staraho Dzieda na Biełarusi,” in Janulaitis, “Spausdintieji ir nespausdintieji 1863–64 m. sukilimo raštai,” 216–19. 44 “Muzhitskaia pravda, no. 6, 1863 g., janvar’,” in Revoliutsionnyi pod’em v Litve i Belorussii, 132.

Religion in the Rhetoric of the 1863–64 Uprising

ancestors (the Uniate faith) only restored, through armed struggle.45 The abolition of the Uniate Church and forced conversion to the Orthodox Church, are called forms of spiritual oppression in the final piece by Kastuś Kalinoŭski, who goes on to urge people to fight “for their God, their right, their honor, and their homeland” and “for the right of man and the people/ nation, the faith, and the native land.”46 However, there was not a single publication in Belarusian in which faith acquired a status equivalent to that in Polish or Lithuanian publications, in which faith and the homeland appeared as the two main values. There is a gesture towards the importance of the homeland and its defense Do ludu białoruskiego (To the people of Belarus), attributed to Kalinoŭski. However, all the other publications (in particular, official proclamations from the leadership of the uprising) only called for support for the Poles, who were also fighting for the freedom of Belarusian peasants. In these publications Belarusian peasants were considered only subordinates of the “Polish government.” Meanwhile, Pismo ad Jaśka Haspadara z pad Wilni da muźykou ziemli Polskoj (Letter of Farmer John from Vilnius to the peasants of the Polish lands), a proclamation which is believed to have been edited by Kalinoŭski (although there are some who disagree), referred to Belarusian peasants as Poles who had inhabited Polish lands and eaten Polish bread since time immemorial.47 Simultaneously, freedom was the ultimate value promoted in Belarusian texts. It was understood as personal freedom and freedom of conscience; but, more importantly, it was also understood as social freedom and the right to own land. In general, social issues predominated in the Belarusian uprising press. This situation could have been partly due to the fact that Kalinoŭski was the author or editor of most of the publications. In summary, one can conclude that, with a few exceptions, all the publications of the uprising to some extent made use of religious rhetoric; and that religious rhetoric was especially rich and unequivocal in publications directed at the general public. The publications in Polish aimed at the upper classes promoted the secular political aim of the uprising: the restoration 45 “Pismo ad Jaśka Haspadara z pad Wilni da muźykou ziemli Polskoj,” in Giller, Historya powstania narodu polskiego, 326–27. 46 “Do ludu białoruskiego. Pismo z pod szubienicy Konstantego Kalinowskiego,” in ibid., 333, 335. 47 “Pismo ad Jaśka Haspadara z pad Wilni da muźykou ziemli Polskoj,” in ibid., 327.

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of an independent state. However, the legitimacy of this ambition and the manner of the struggle, as well as the prospects of success, were based on religious arguments which were strengthened by the abundant use of religious symbols, images, and themes. In Lithuanian and Polish publications targeting the masses, the defense of faith and homeland stand out as the main reasons proposed for supporting the uprising. The rhetoric of the uprising often recalled that of religious wars and the fight for the faith— those occasions when ordinary people were inspired to make sacrifices for their religion. Scholars have observed that, in conflict situations, religious groups facing a threat to their faith not only unite into an even more homogeneous community, but also establish new relationships between the elite and the masses. Only in the face of conflicts over faith and authority does religion take on a more secular identity, which can be used as a means to either support a government or challenge it.48 In this case, the authority of the Orthodox Russian government was challenged. And because the uprising was presented as having divine approval, the plea for the restoration of the independent state was presented as in keeping with the law. In addition, the uprising press in Polish highlighted the need national unity. The press that addressed the upper social classes underlined the need for solidarity between all Polish people, of all social classes and confessions, giving slightly greater focus to civic matters; whereas the press pitched at the general public focused on ethnolinguistics and culture, emphasizing that there was a fundamental affinity between people who shared a faith, language, and territory. Hence, in the course of the uprising, religious rhetoric was employed in particular by the Polish press (and also in Lithuanian publications) in order to strengthen religious unity, validate actions, and to report the atrocities of the Russian forces. Thus the masses were mobilized to the greatest degree possible. The abundance of religious rhetoric in the press directed at the masses is confirmation of the masses’ religious identity. It also supports of the idea that, at the outset of its development, nationalism can resort to religious faith and to whip up the general population, expand its influence, and form and consolidate a sense of national identity. The range of Lithuanian texts and their content was narrower in comparison to those in Polish and resulted in less variety in its use of religious 48 Anthony W. Marx, Faith in Nation: Exclusionary Origins of Nationalism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 38.

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symbols, even though there were commonalities. We should bear in mind possible borrowings from Polish texts and their influence on Lithuanian ones. Yet it is too early to speak about Lithuanian nationalism at the time, so there is little reason to search for links between Lithuanian nationalism and religion. Nevertheless, it is likely that the religious rhetoric of the uprising, which placed a special emphasis on the defense of religious faith, could have contributed to the rallying of Lithuanian peasants and formation of their social consciousness.49 Although the authors of articles that implored people to defend the freedom of the homeland often understood it as the territory of the former Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the possibility should not be ignored that the reader of such texts could have associated “homeland” something very different—namely, Lithuania as an ethnic territory whose image existed in Lithuanian literature in the mid-nineteenth century.50 Except for a single instance, the defense of the homeland, or a specific area, and the pursuit of its freedom, were not the goals per se of the uprising in Belarusian publications. (The authors of uprising publications spoke of giving assistance to the Poles in their struggle, and they usually perceived Belarusians as subordinate to the “Polish government”). Neither is the defense of religious faith (Uniate) or freedom of conscience the ultimate aim. They put social goals first—freedom, justice and land—which often took a rather radical form of expression.

49 The Catholic faith as an important factor determining the spread of the uprising to certain areas is revealed in the fact that over ninety-five percent of the repressed insurgents in Lithuania and Belarus were Catholic (V. M. Zaicev, Sotsial‘no-soslovnyi sostav uchastnikov vosstaniia 1863 g. (Opyt statisticheskogo analiza) [Moscow: Nauka, 1973], 114), whereas the uprising was most active in the areas inhabited by Catholics. 50 See Zita Medišauskienė, “Images of Lithuania in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century,” in Spatial Concepts of Lithuania in the Long Nineteenth Century, ed. Darius Staliūnas (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2016), 96–188 (especially 157–74).

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Orthodox Christianity Emerging as an Ethical Principle in School Education in the 1860–70s* Yoko Aoshima

The aim of this paper is to investigate the process of strengthening Orthodox Christianity as an ethical principle for ordinary people in the Russian Empire after the Emancipation Edict. The concrete research target is the politics of training village teachers in the 1860s to 1870s. After the emancipation, though the government recognized the necessity of cultivating peasants, it did not actively promote the establishment of elementary schools, and left the matter to the peasant community itself. However, the training of village teachers was an exception. The government tried to take the initiative to nurture village teachers, not only because village teachers were counted on for the development of people’s schools, but also because they could be leaders in the new villages after the emancipation. Therefore, through an analysis of this matter, it will be possible to gain an understanding about the ideal future vision of the government regarding how to control subjects after the emancipation. Recent studies have mainly considered the social history of teachers and schools, but research on the teacher training system, with * This paper is based on the following article in Japanese; Yoko Aoshima, “Forging Peasants into Imperial Subjects: Village-Teacher Training Policies in the Russian Empire,” Journal of Historical Studies, no. 962 (2017): 37–53.

Orthodox Christianity Emerging as an Ethical Principle

consideration of the imperial ruling system, has progressed mostly in the border areas. For example, R. R. Iskhakova (Volga-Ural regions), D. Staliūnas, and M. A. Guliuk (Lithuanian and Belarusian regions) consider the teacher training system in the respective areas.1 Staliūnas has elucidated the process of the foundation of people’s schools in the Lithuanian region (mainly in Kovna), mentioning its teacher training system as well. Guliuk has published a series of works on the educational policies of the Vilna Educational District, including the Molodechno Teachers’ Seminary, which will be examined later in this paper. These works focus their attention mainly on the investigation of regional situations, but the interrelationship between these regions and the core areas of the empire still remains a matter of research. As for imperial ideology in the field of education in the core area of the empire, E. L. Staferova recently analyzed education and religion in the 1860s to 1870s from the perspective of Dmitri Tolstoy’s deistic view as Minister of Education.2 However, she has not fully elucidated the concrete process of realization of his views in the field of educational policies. My point is that Orthodox Christianity appeared as an ethical principle in the field of education under the influence of the experiment in the northwestern provinces. Tolstoy introduced a teacher training system based on the experience of the Vilna Educational District, and, at the same time, he brought moral-religious discipline, which was formulated in the specific political atmosphere in the northwestern provinces after the 1863–64 Uprising, into the internal provinces as an educational ideology for peasants. After the emancipation, the government tried to 1 For example, R. R. Iskhakova, Kazanskaia uchitel’skaia seminariia i ee rol’ v podgotovke uchitelei dlia natsional’nykh shkol (Kazan’: Novoe znanie, 2001); R. R. Iskhakova, Formirovanie regional’noi kontseptsii podgotovki uchitelei dlia nachal’nykh narodnykh uchilishch (po materialam Kazanskogo Zemstva) (Kazan’: Novoe znanie, 2002); Darius Staliūnas, Making Russians: Meaning and Practice of Russification in Lithuania and Belarus after 1863 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007), 249–77; M. A. Guliuk, “Molodechnenskaia uchitel’skaia seminariia v period stanovleniia (1864–70),” Vesnik Belaruskaga dziarzhaunaga universiteta, no. 3 (2004): 3–7; M. A. Guliuk, “Rol’ uchitel’skikh seminarii Vilenskogo uchebnogo okruga v pravitel’stvennoi politike po podgotovke pedagogicheskikh kadrov (70-e gg. XIX v.),” in Rossiiskie i slavianskie issledovaniia, series 1, ed. O. A. Ianovskii (Minsk: BGU, 2004): 122–27; M. A. Guliuk, “Politika rossiiskogo pravitel’stva po podgotovke pedagogicheskikh kadrov dlia Vilenskogo uchebnogo okruga (vtoraia polovina XIX–nachalo XX v.)” (PhD diss., Belorusskii gosudarstvennyi universitet, 2006). 2 E. L. Staferova, “Obrazovanie i religiia v 1860–1870 godakh: Vzgliad iz ministerstva narodnogo prosveshcheniia,” Rossiiskaia Istoriia, no. 6 (2010): 70–84.

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separate peasants from modernizing cities (and the cultures that dominated them) and forge them into loyal subjects of the Throne and the Church though moral-religious discipline. The process of forging this system was inspired by the experience of the northwestern provinces.

The New Educational Policy for the Emancipated Peasants After the emancipation, the government started to recognize the necessity of educating peasants. However, at this first stage, their concern consisted mainly of intellectual training, that is, diffusion of literacy, and did not acknowledge the need for indoctrination of peasants as new imperial subjects. According to Staferova, the government started to see indifference to religion as a problem, but the educational policy of the government still had a strong tendency towards rationalism in the 1860s.3 Therefore, the government thought that education (literacy) for peasants would concern only peasants themselves; thus, it just left the matter to the peasant community to solve. The government, however, tried to take the initiative to train village teachers, because “all the posts merged into the person of a teacher,”4 and they might have a huge influence in villages. The 1862 bill on the whole system of general education suggested that teachers’ institutes (later, teachers’ seminaries), specializing in training village teachers mainly from among peasants, should be established. The schools were supposed to be small and isolated from various “secular allurements” in the city. The school environment was designed to be “similar to their modest life in villages,” in order to prevent students in advance from having any kind of hope of changing their native-born condition.”5 After the people’s school law was promulgated on July 14, 1864, the Ministry of Education under the liberal minister Aleksandr Golovnin elaborated the teachers’ seminary system. A memo by F. M. Levandovsky,6 which was left in the documents of the Learned Committee of the Ministry 3 Ibid. 4 “Ob’iasnitel’naia zapiska k proektu ustava obshcheobrazovatel’nykh uchebnykh zavedenii ministerstva narodnogo prosveshcheniia,” in Zamechaniia na proekt ustava obshcheobrazovatel’nykh uchebnykh zavedenii i na proekt obshchego plana ustroistva narodnykh uchilishch, vol. 1 (SPb., 1862), 122. 5 Ibid., 124–25. 6 An educational professional in the Kazan Educational District. After returning from a visit to Germany, he became influential in the matter of training narod teachers in Kazan. Iskhakova, Formirovanie regional’noi kontseptsii. 19–20.

Orthodox Christianity Emerging as an Ethical Principle

of Education on September 1 and 5, 1864, underlined the savageness of “our narod (people).” “Our narod is uneducated, and filled with prejudices; the forms of its social life and its customs are situated still under rough conditions; in a word, all traces of prolonged serfdom are seen in it.” Village schools, therefore, should be “completely compatible with the external condition and the internal life of our common narod.” For this reason, “village teachers should not be overeducated in order not to offer the narod more than is needed in their current situation.” If teachers were too educated, “it would be extremely difficult for them to descend to the level of the narod’s understanding, to get used to their surroundings, and to adjust themselves to the still very low needs of schools.” For these reasons, teachers should be educated in small villages, or at least in district towns, away from city life. In addition, teachers should work “in the villages where they are born or neighboring villages,” and by no means should they move over the border of their provinces.7 The committee came into line with this idea, and agreed to limit the educational contents of the teacher training schools.8 As just described, the policies of the era reflected the strong obsession to contain peasants socially in the peasant estate and spatially in their villages. The bill on teachers’ seminaries was submitted in March 1865, but it was not approved, by reason of a budget shortfall. The teacher training plan ended up setting up a special course to train teachers in two district schools of each educational district, as a “temporary measure.”9 The government hesitated to allocate state budget to peasant matters, especially at a time when the state finances were in crisis. However, before the 1865 bill was written, “the first Orthodox-Russian teachers’ seminary” was established in June 1864, in “not innermost Russia, but in the western periphery” of the empire.10 The condition of this school and the philosophy behind it were totally different from similar establishments in the core area of the empire.

7 8 9 10

The Russian State Historical Archive (RGIA), f. 733, op. 170, d.138, l. 56–62. “Obia’snitel’naia zapiska k proektu ustava,” 124. RGIA, f. 733, op. 170, d. 469, l. 104–6. A. Zabelin, “Opyt uchitel’skoi seminarii v severo-zapadnoi Rossii, i ego ukazaniia,” Zhurnal Ministerstva narodnogo prosveshcheniia (ZhMNP), part CXXXIII (SPb., 1867), 399.

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The New Educational Policy for the Northwestern Provinces after the January Uprising In the northwestern provinces, ahead of the submission of the 1865 bill on teachers’ seminaries in the internal provinces, a teachers’ seminary was established in Molodechno, located in the territory of current Belarus, on June 25, 1864. This school was called the first “OrthodoxRussian teachers’ seminary,” different from those that had already existed in Derpt or Finland. The Molodechno Seminary was built not only for educational reasons, but also for obvious political reasons, in a reflection of the unusual atmosphere around the January Uprising (1863–64). The motivation for founding this school was explicitly stated in the accompanying note to the 1864 Molodechno law: the seminary should serve as a “seedbed of Russian teachers, who would have a beneficial influence on the masses of Orthodox village inhabitants,” and as “one of the tools to counter the influence of Polish nationality [pol’skaia natsional’nost’]” The note made much account of “the principle of the pure Russian nationality [narodnost’],” which would be “the most solid stronghold of the government,” developing pupils’ sympathy for all things Russian and integrating them into the Fatherland. For those reasons, teachers should be “genuine Russians and Orthodox,” and pupils should also be Orthodox. In addition, pupils at the seminary were obviously expected to be peasant children, since the note explained that “it would be most desirable” to attract pupils from the peasant estate into teaching, because they knew very well the “peasant lifestyle.”11 After the 1863–64 Uprising, the government decided to promote people’s schools in this area, instead of supporting secondary education, which was dominated by “local elements adversarial to the state,” that is, the Polish nobility. The authority of the Vilna Educational District believed that the local peasants were “ancient Russian Orthodox narod [Belorussian—the author] and Lithuanian narod, both of which the government deemed reliable.” The local educational authority planned to forge loyal imperial subjects from the peasants, by enforcing the usage of the Russian language, including Old Church Slavonic, and Orthodox

11 S predstavleniem proektov polozheniia i shtata Molodechnenskoi uchiel’skoi seminarii (SPb., 1864): 10, 14; Polnoe sobranie zakonov Rossiiskoi Imperii [PSZ], series II, no. 41007 (June 25, 1864), “Polozhenie Molodechnianskoi Uchitel’ckoi Seminarii.”

Orthodox Christianity Emerging as an Ethical Principle

Christianity in education.12 According to the first director of the Molodechno Teachers’ Seminary, I. A. Zabelin, the task of the seminary was to nurture “true adherents of Orthodoxy, which here serves not only as a religious banner, but also as a political banner, and true adherents of the Russian narodnost’”; therefore, it was crucial to support Orthodox clergymen in the field of education. The northwestern provinces, however, had a serious deficiency of Orthodox clergymen because they were needed in many fields in the region, for example, in the local administration after the purge of the Polish elites. Therefore, Orthodox clergymen themselves asked for the educational district to dispatch teachers for people’s schools. In this situation emerged the idea to establish an institution that could be the “seedbed” for raising “Russian people from local peasants,” and the 1864 law of the Molodechno Seminary was prepared to educate “people’s teachers” in the northwestern provinces “from among the narod.”13 Pupils of the school were supposed to be local Orthodox peasants, and they should be educated in the village, far from cities that were replete with Polish/Catholic traditions. Pupils at the seminary, future village teachers in the area, were to be strictly supervised in the school. There was no dormitory until 1879, and all the pupils lived in local peasants’ houses under the permission of the teachers, in groups according to their native place and economic condition. One of the seniors who was well behaved became the leader of the group and was responsible for it, and duty pupils among them checked the order and cleanliness of their rooms. Teachers had to visit their rooms frequently, and leave remarks in the notes that the leader kept. They were supposed to create an artel’ (cooperative association) to get food or daily goods, and report their spending every month to the director of the seminary.14 This kind of management of pupils was a means to “improve” “Belorussian peasants” as well as a way to supervise pupils. Zabelin insisted that “Belorussian peasants” were “languid, awkward, intimidated, and cowardly,” “owing to the heavy oppression of several centuries” under the rule 12 I. Kornilov, Obshchie zamechaniia k otchetu o sostoianii Vilenskogo uchebnogo okruga za 1864 god (Vilna, 1865), 2; Obshchie zamechaniia k otchetu o sostoianii narodnykh uchilishch Vilenskogo uchebnogo okruga za 1864 god (Vilna, 1865), 19, 35–36, 48–57. 13 Zabelin, “Opyt uchitel’skoi seminarii,” 401–5, 409. 14 A. F. Iarushevich, Molodechno i ego uchebnoe zavedeniia. K piatidesiatiletiiu Molodechnenskoi uchitel’skoi seminarii 1864–1914 (Vilna, 1914), 35; Iz otcheta po upravleniiu molodechnenskoi uchitel’skoi seminariei i nachal’nym pri nei uchilishchem za 1873 god (Vilna, 1874), 12–13.

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of the Polish nobility. Moreover, according to him, in this region, “where a village community does not exist,” unlike “inside Russia (vnutri Rossii),” instead “the household use of land” exists, and for that reason, “peasants were terribly divided among themselves in terms of economic interests,” “the rudest and wildest egoism of peasants” can be found. Therefore, it would be “a big step forward” to introduce artel’ to the narod though people’s teachers. The completely controlled life in the teachers’ seminary, including artel’, should contribute to “the total rebirth” of a future village teacher, in order lift up the narod from “the vices and delusions in which he was born.” “He should graduate from the seminary as a new person, a missionary, a proponent of a new and better understanding and life.”15 The Molodechno Seminary was planned and brought into orbit not so much by the central government as by local officials, such as the curators Alexandr Shrinskii-Shkhmatov and Ivan Kornilov of the Vilna Educational District, and the governors-general Mikhail Murav’ev and Konstantin Kaufman. Their zeal for the seminary was evoked to counter the uprising, which was not tightly related to the motivation of the central government to establish seminaries in inner Russia after the emancipation.16 This consciousness of political crisis enabled the plan for the seminary to attain support from the central government, which was reluctant to allocate the budget to seminaries in the inner area. So, to what extent were their intentions realized? In the opening year, forty-nine pupils entered the seminary, while the enrolment limit for one year was forty. According to A. F. Iarushevich, who wrote the history of the Molodechno Teachers’ Seminary, the majority were peasants from Grodno province.17 According to Guliuk, the school enjoyed popularity in the neighborhood, and the number of applicants was always twice or three times the enrolment limit. In 1869, ninety alumni of the seminary were working as people’s school teachers in the Vilna Educational District, which comprised 9.1% of all the teachers in the region.18 The report of the seminary for 1873 indicated that all seventy-eight of its pupils were Orthodox Christians. In terms of estate, two were from the clergy, eleven were from the town’s

15 Zabelin, “Opyt uchitel’skoi seminarii,” 421–22. 16 Ibid., 401; Iarushevich, Molodechno i ego uchebnoe zavedeniia, 15, 18; Guliuk, “Molodechnenskaia uchitel’skaia seminariia,” 3–7. 17 Iarushevich, Molodechno i ego uchebnoe zavedeniia, 16. 18 Guliuk, “Molodechnenskaia uchitel’skaia seminariia,” 3–7.

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estates, and sixty-five were from the peasantry.19 Judging from the data, the Molodechno Seminary appeared to function as expected. The Molodechno Seminary was established to realize the political aim of training narod teachers from local “Belorussian peasants” in order to eliminate Polish/Catholic influence from the region. Orthodox Christianity was regarded as a political symbol of loyalty to the Throne. Orthodox priests and churches, however, were not great enough in number in the region, so a new secular educational institution was to be introduced to distribute secular missionaries who would regenerate “Belorussian peasants” into loyal imperial subjects. The manner of producing village teachers from among peasants themselves was transplanted, for the same purpose, to the internal provinces under Minister Tolstoy in the 1870s.

The Application of the Educational System in the Northwestern Provinces in the Core Empire Let us return our attention once again to the time when the discussion of the 1865 bill for the general teachers’ seminary system was taking place in the central ministry under Golovnin. At the end of 1864, the Learned Committee referred to the Molodechno law as an “already-approved law.” This influenced the decision to make changes to the 1865 bill—such as going from a boarding style to a commuting one, altering the number of students, the organization of teachers’ councils, and so on.20 Moreover, the 1865 bill used the same text as in the Molodechno law: “it would be most desirable to attract people from the peasant estate to teaching activity in village schools, because they are the ones who have firsthand knowledge of the peasant lifestyle.”21 Thus, the Molodechno law already had some impact on law throughout the empire. However, at this stage, the members of the Learned Committee thought the Molodechno Seminary was a specific school in a specific region. In December 1864, the suggestion was made to also build a “Russian teachers’ seminary”—for example, in the Derpt Educational District, to avoid 19 Iz otcheta po upravleniiu molodechnenskoi uchitel’skoi seminariei, 2. 20 Materialy po voprosu o prigotovlenii uchitelei nachal’nykh narodnykh uchilishch (SPb., 1865): 53, 55–56. 21 S predstavleniem proektov polozheniia i shtata Molodechnenskoi uchitel’skoi seminarii, 14; “S proektom polozheniia ob uchitel’skikh seminariiakh,” in Gosudarstvennyi sovet, Departament zakonov, Materialy, vol. 35 (SPb., 1866), 12.

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“Germanizing” (onemechit’) Finns and Latvians and to pave the road to “Russianizing” (obrusit’) them. But the committee refused to discuss this idea at the time because the committee was now considering imperial law and not simply dealing with matters in regions that had “exceptional political conditions,” such as the northwestern provinces.22 In fact, the 1865 bill did not reprint the words about the religious requirement for teachers and students from the Molodechno law. In the 1865 bill, the teacher requirements were only educational ones, and there was no language concerning the religion of students.23 The committee just utilized the Molodechno law as long as it supported the idea of educating peasants in villages (that is, not cities), and ignored the question of religion. In 1865, the ministry still recognized the Molodechno Seminary as a special school in a special region which was not directly connected with other parts of the empire. However, Tolstoy had a different educational view from Golovnin. In April 1866, when Tolstoy started his career as the minister of education (while retaining his status of Ober-Procurator of the Holy Synod), he emphasized in his first report addressed to the tsar the necessity of elementary education. He wrote that “the focal point of your enlightened reign should be placed on education of the narod. They, Your Majesty, were emancipated by you, and called on to receive the profits of the new system. They need the knowledge to draw the maximum benefits from the new system.” Here, Tolstoy insisted that what was needed was not only intellectual education—that is, literacy—but also the development of “moral-religious feeling among the narod.”24 The first thing Tolstoy proposed was to get the cooperation of Orthodox priests. However, after a short time, he reversed this idea and returned to Golovnin’s idea of establishing teachers’ seminaries. In 1869, he said that there were only two “properly organized teachers’ seminaries”: one was Molodechno and the other was Derpt, which was established in 1828 for city elementary schools. By 1870, two more state-funded teachers’ seminaries—in Kyiv and Riga—had been built. In the internal provinces, teachers’ seminaries were opened in Riazan’, Chernigov, and Novgorod, all of which were funded by the local zemstvos, while state-funded seminaries 22 Materialy po voprosu o prigotovlenii uchitelei, 3, 12, 46–47. 23 PSZ, series II, no. 41007, articles 2, 11, 16, 17; Proekt polozheniia ob uchitel’skikh seminariiakh (SPb., 1865), articles 13, 19, 25. 24 “Izvlechenie iz vsepoddanneishego otcheta ministra narodnogo prosveshcheniia za 1866 goda,” ZhMNP, part CXXXVII (1866), 41, 54.

Orthodox Christianity Emerging as an Ethical Principle

were most common on the periphery of the empire.25 Up until 1870, the empire prioritized financial support to the outlying teachers’ seminaries for political reasons—to counter the threat from Polish-Catholic and GermanProtestant traditions. Tolstoy also described these regions as being “under specific conditions,” but he gradually decided upon a new educational goal for the surrounding area, mentioning the need to “not only to enlighten a multi-ethnic population, but also to fuse them with the mass narod of the imperial Russian population by through the mix [slitie] of language and understanding.”26 He started to think about the cultural unification of imperial subjects, not only cultural competition with regional ruling powers. To achieve this aim, Tolstoy paid especial attention to the success of elementary education in the northwestern provinces. In 1869, he reported that schools in the northwestern provinces were the most successful. The number of schools rapidly increased to 1,851 (pupils numbered 63,453, among which 46,707 were Orthodox). The reasons for this success were that, according to Tolstoy, (1) schools were materially guaranteed, (2) they were well controlled, and (3) teachers had educational skill. Regarding (1), in 1869 the budget for the northwestern provinces was 207,812 rubles, while for the internal provinces it was only 202,000 (in the case of the southwestern provinces, it was 263,980). A larger budget was allocated to the western provinces than to the internal provinces, for the abovementioned political reasons. Regarding (2), in the northwestern provinces, there were no zemstvos; therefore, instead, six districts for people’s schools were introduced, and thirty officials were sent to each district to work as directors and supervisors. This direct ministry control system would be introduced into the internal provinces as the “most appropriate control” method in 1871. Regarding (3), Tolstoy called the Molodechno Seminary “a correctly organized teachers’ seminary,” and praised the school for producing ninety teachers since its establishment, all of whom “gain the trust of the local society.” Tolstoy concluded that “the best way of training narod school teachers” was “undoubtedly” the teachers’ seminaries. He thus considered introducing this approach for the general system, but without the considerable ethno-religious component of the system in the northwestern provinces. He said that “the significant development of narod’ education” in the 25 “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1869,” ZhMNP, part CLIV (1871), 50–51; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1870,” ZhMNP, part CLX (1872): 56–57. 26 “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1868,” ZhMNP, part CXLVII (1870): 41.

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northwestern provinces was driven by “the political necessity to equip the mass population with the means to resist the pressure of Polish influence.” However, at the same time, he believed that the greater lesson learned from achievements in the northwestern provinces was “the importance of constant and correct control over the educational sector by specialists” He valued the system applied in the northwestern provinces highly, not because of its “political necessity,” but because of the professionalism which developed out of it.27 Finally, in 1870, Tolstoy proposed applying teachers’ seminaries to the internal provinces. He acted carefully: instead of formulating a new general law, he first revised the Molodechno law (the two-year program was changed into a three-year program), and then applied it to the five educational districts of the internal provinces. On February 1871, Tolstoy suggested that, instead of the existing special course attached to district schools, teachers’ seminaries should be established in the internal provinces, which “notably suffer from a deficiency of teachers.” In his proposal, he designated the places for the schools to be built and applied the revised Molodechno law to the planned seminaries.28 During this process, government discussion never explicitly mentioned ethno-religious factors. This was clear in the case of the Molodechno teachers’ seminary. Other than budget problems, the only thing that the State Economic Department noted was the location of the seminaries. It raised an objection toward the place of the seminary in the Khar’kov Educational District, which was originally designated to be in the provincial capital Khar’kov. According to the department, “the big city lacks the conditions required for this kind of modest institution to successfully operate.” “It is essential that the school should not be alienated from the environment where pupils will work in the future,” in order to train “fully trusted teachers for village schools.”29 The government continued to raise concerns about the environment of seminaries, leaving the cultural discipline of peasants out of its considerations. The department, directing Tolstoy to change the 27 “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1869,” 34–35, 43–46, 50; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1871,” ZhMNP, part CLXVI (1873): 13–14. 28 “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1870,” 55–57; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1871,” 5; PSZ, series II, no. 48147 (March 17, 1870) “Polozhenie o Molodechnianskoi Uchitel’skoi Seminarii.” 29 PSZ, series II, no. 48147; RGIA, f.733, op.170, d.469, l.104–108, 156–157; PSZ, series II, no. 49656 (May 24, 1871), “Ob uchrezhdenii novykh Uchitel’skikh Seminarii v S.-Peterburgskom, Moskovskom, Kazanskom, Khar’kovskom i Odesskom uchebnykh okrugakh.”

Orthodox Christianity Emerging as an Ethical Principle

seminary’s location in the Khar’kov Educational District, approved the suggestion in May 1871. Tolstoy, in turn, submitted petitions in rapid succession to build more seminaries in the same manner and by 1875 the government had approved sixteen additional schools.30 Tolstoy took further measures to turn peasants into professional teachers by introducing a stipend for graduates from model schools, setting up a preparatory course for the teachers’ seminaries, and so on. His efforts bore fruit. In 1878, there were sixty-two teaching seminaries, where 3,803 boys and 620 girls studied. Among them, children of the nobility and officials composed 11%, the clergy 20%, the town’s estates 18%, and the peasants 51%.31 Tolstoy, however, unlike other high-ranking officials, began thinking about more than just promoting literacy among peasants, that is, cultivating royal imperial subjects by cultural means. In 1870 he appealed to the tsar, bringing to his attention the significance of “the enlightenment of the narod, based on the principle of true religion and Russian nationality.”32 In the same year, when he modified the Molodechno law, he erased the phrase “genuine Russian” from the requirement for seminary teachers, but he left the requirement of “Orthodox Christianity” both for teachers and students, which did not exist in the 1865 bill.33 The composition of the seminary pupils shows the result of Tolstoy’s policy. According to the abovementioned data on sixty-two teacher seminaries in 1878, 84% of the pupils were Orthodox Christians, 11% were Catholic, 3% were Lutheran, and 2% were Muslims. Non-Orthodox pupils studied only in the Warsaw Educational District (the percentage of Orthodox Christians was 17%), Derpt (40%), Orenburg (52%), Odessa (89%), and Kazan’ (98%), all of which were educational districts in border areas of the empire. Teachers’ seminaries in the internal provinces and the western provinces were occupied only by Orthodox Christians, and in the Odessa and Kazan’ Educational Districts Orthodox Christians were the majority predominant.34 Tolstoy was inspired 30 RGIA, f.733, op.170, d.590, l.11–13; PSZ, series II, no. 50279 (December 7, 1871), “Ob uchrezhdenii piati novykh Uchitel’skikh Seminarii” PSZ, series II, no. 50769 (November 11, 1873); PSZ, series II, no. 54354 (February 4, 1875), “Ob uchrezhdenii shesti novykh Uchitel’skikh Seminarii.” 31 “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1872,” ZhMNP, part CLXXIV (1874): 21; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1876,” ZhMNP, part CXCIX (1878): 10; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1877,” ZhMNP, part CCV (1879): 131–32. 32 “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1870,” 50. 33 PSZ, series II, no. 48147, article 1, 8, 11. 34 “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1877,”131–32.

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by the case of the Molodechno Teachers’ Seminary, not only in terms of the technical aspects of nurturing teachers from among the peasants, but also because of its moral-religious discipline. Indeed, according to the numbers, he was on the road to success. Furthermore, this teacher training system spread out into the eastern provinces. Just after becoming minister in 1866, Tolstoy visited the “eastern peripheries,” where he discovered the necessity of merging “a huge mass of the inorodtsy” (non-Slavic imperial subjects, who had the special legal status) into the “Russian population,” and requested research on the educational situation in India and Algeria in 1868. In 1870, he insisted that “the inorodcheskii Orthodox inhabitants” should be protected from “Islamic propaganda” through education based on Christianity and the Russian language. At the same time, Tolstoy became aware of the significance of “the gradual spread of knowledge of the Russian language” among inorodtsy Muslims in the east and south of European Russia. In either case, he paid more attention to the political aspect of protecting the inorodtsy from “the influence of Islam” than to simple educational matters. And, in 1877, he declared that “nowhere” was the need for teachers’ seminaries “as imperative as in our eastern peripheries.” What Tolstoy cared about most was “the necessity of state unity.” To achieve this goal, he utilized the Molodechno system as a model with which to merge various peoples in the peripheral areas by focusing on Orthodox Christianity and the Russian language. At the same time, he set out to nurture the basic popular cultures at the core of the empire by fostering the Molodechno system in the internal provinces as well. By doing so, he attempted to unite all imperial subjects.35

The Application of the Educational Contents in the Northwestern Provinces into the Core Empire What were the contents of the basic popular cultures that Tolstoy tried to grow? He borrowed not only the form of the Molodechno Teachers’ Seminary, but also the contents of its educational system. As minister of education, in July 1875 Tolstoy issued an instruction to the teachers’ 35 “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1866,” 52; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1868,” 44; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1869,” 58–59; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1870,” 57–58; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1872,” 16; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1876,” 4, 6–7, 14; “Izvlechenie iz otcheta za 1877,” 128.

Orthodox Christianity Emerging as an Ethical Principle

seminaries. This instruction was believed to refer to earlier orders given to the Vilna Educational District that were composed at the Teachers’ Council of the Molodechno Seminary.36 Let us compare these texts. Both instructions were divided into a part concerning internal organization and a part regarding subject content. In the former, the obligations of teachers were stated. What was emphasized as the general aim of the seminaries was religious-moral education. In the instruction for the Vilna Educational District (VED), all teachers were required to be a model of “Christian belief,” as well as of “love for the Holy Church, devotion to the Throne and the Fatherland, labor, tidy habits, order, courtesy,” and so on (VED Article 50). Instruction for all the seminaries under the Ministry of Education (ME) summarized the “essential task” of teachers to be the development of “pupils’ religious-moral quality” and “true faith, devotion to the Throne and the Fatherland, respect for educational matters, and all intellectual and moral power.” The general instruction, however, gave more detailed directions for this task: the director should provide advice for pupils, including on private matters, understand a pupil’s character or ability, and maintain contact with graduates (ME Articles 4, 6, 32). Both instructions indicated that teachers should decide who would be in charge of each pupil, to let pupils organize an artel’ (if there was no dormitory in the school), and to take control of pupils’ daily life through their leader (VED Articles 38, 39, 45/ME Articles 33, 34). Further, in the general instruction the desirable lifestyle was described in detail: one bed for one person; well-organized books and notes; a ban on going to taverns and attending parties; a recommendation to form of reading circles; a recommendation to go on excursions; and so on. In addition, teachers of religion were required not only to make pupils go to Orthodox churches, but also to instill correct behavior during church services and explain the meanings of holy days (ME Articles 15, 41, 43). The Molodechno Teachers’ Seminary was instructed to regenerate the “Belorussian peasants,” but it was now also used to discipline the Russian narod in general. 36 Instruktsiia dlia upravleniia uchitel’skimi seminariiami Vilenskogo uchebnogo okruga (Vil’na, 1873); “Instruktsiia dlia uchitel’skikh seminarii ministerstva narodnogo prosveshcheniia (July 4, 1875),” ZhMNP, part CLXXXII (1875): 65–104. This instruction was originally issued as a temporary one for three years, but continued to function until the end of tsarist Russia. V. V. Litvinov, Voronezhskaia uchitel’skaia seminariia (1875–1910 gg.) (Voronezh, 1911), 9; Iarushevich, Molodechno i ego uchebnoe zavedeniia, 20.

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Let us move to the part regarding subject content. In religious education classes, in order to teach “the truth of faith,” the sacred history of the Old and New Testament, an outline of Orthodox Church services with explanation of prayers, an extensive catechism, general and Russian Church history, and so on, should be taught. In the Vilna instruction, the difference between the Orthodox Church and the “Latin Church,” and the Church history of the northwestern provinces was to be taught, while the general instruction rephrased the idea that Church history was to be taught in relation to the “region where the seminary is located.” Both instructions included Church Slavonic as a subject in order that pupils read texts of sacred and liturgical books (VED Articles 59–60/ME Articles 64, 66, 68). History was expected to play an important role in accomplishing the task of the indoctrination and integration of imperial subjects. In the Vilna instruction, history (as a subject) was to be aimed at “clarifying the national (narodnyi) and political self-awareness of pupils as sons of the Great Russian state and as successors of various events in the political life of the Russian state for a thousand years.” “The history of western Russia,” as well as Church history, was the focus here. Teachers were required to bear in mind “impressing on pupils’ minds and hearts a love for the Fatherland and devotion to the Throne, by talking heartily about the historical destiny of our Fatherland and the significance of the present reign.” In the general instruction, the task of the subject history was explicitly described as provoking “love for the Fatherland and devotion to the Throne.” In history classes, teachers were to be careful about their selection of the facts they were to teach, and exclude anything incompatible with patriotic and moral goals. Further, teachers were to stimulate their pupils not only intellectually but also emotionally with lively talks that would win hearts. This emotional patriotic education in history was to be supplemented by geography and music, including both church songs and popular songs (VED Articles 65–66, 68/ME Articles 90–93, 95–96, 107). The experience of the northwestern provinces provided not only the framework for establishing a teacher training system at the core of the empire, but also ideas of what to teach in the schools. Tolstoy’s ministry, inspired by the experiment in the northwestern provinces to nurture politically loyal subjects from among the local peasants, set the policy

Orthodox Christianity Emerging as an Ethical Principle

on educating peasants in general, even reinforcing its political-religious dimension and control over future village teachers. * The teacher training system, which was introduced in the western provinces in order to inculcate the moral-religious values into local peasants required for countering the Poles, spread out to the whole empire as an instrument to forge the various kinds of narod into loyal imperial subjects. Tolstoy’s design was on the way to success, considering the rapid increase in the percentage of peasants in the teachers’ seminaries. But the seminaries did not produce enough teachers and there was always a huge demand for more. In addition, teachers’ lives were hard in villages until the end of the empire. The state and society had serious difficulty in fully supporting elementary schools, and, for this reason, compulsory elementary education was in reality impossible during the nineteenth century. When the government introduced universal conscription, Tolstoy insisted that teachers should have their military service shortened. This was supposed to attract people to become village teachers. The government was sometimes forced to sacrifice quality of teachers and schools for quantity. In the end, the environment to prepare for enough teachers and schools was not ready and, as a consequence, the general indoctrination of all subjects was far from complete. However, it is still important to be aware that in the 1870s the educational policy to train village teachers from the local peasantry, and to instill Orthodox Christianity in both teacher and pupil, was established with the intention of making the peasantry love both the Church and the Throne—in other words, to transform them into loyal imperial subjects. In this process, the experiment of the northwestern provinces had a considerable influence.

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The Roman Catholic Clergy and the Notion of Lithuanian National Identity Vilma Žaltauskaitė

The Polish-Lithuanian state (or the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth) did not exist on the political map of nineteenth century Europe.1 Following the third partition of the Catholic state (1795), the Russian Empire annexed the larger part of it. However, the memory of statehood endured and occasionally burst out in spectacular ways (such as the Uprisings of 1830–31 and 1863–64). The suppression of the 1863–64 Uprising might be considered as the symbolic onset of the process that separated the notion of modern (ethnolinguistic) Lithuania from that of Polish-Lithuanian statehood (thus also the concept of historical Lithuania). At the end of the nineteenth century, the Lithuanian national movement was already asserting the idea of modern Lithuania in the form of political programs. Although among these programs there was no specific attempt to emphasize particular confessions (even those of Christian Democrats), Catholicism was always implicit in the Lithuanian national movement, and its attitudes were expressed in the illegal press.2 This Catholic tendency (which also included laymen) strived to sustain the status of Catholicism in the Russian Empire (where the national religion belonged to the Orthodox Church). Besides, it was looking for a 1 An exception is the Duchy of Warsaw that existed in the period from 1807 to 1815— that is, the part of the former state that in 1815 was attached to Russia. 2 The printing of Lithuanian publications in the Latin alphabet was banned in the Russian Empire throughout 1864/1865–1904.

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place for the Catholic Church in the ethnolinguistically defined modern Lithuania that was starting to be designed. When we talk about “Lithuanian nationalism,” we define the nation as a territory, culture, and an idea of citizenship that is built upon a belief in the equality of every individual.3 In contrast, in the premodern period, “nation” essentially meant the upper social stratum/estate. At the end of the nineteenth-century, then, “Lithuanian nation” signified continuity with the former Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, that is, a united PolishLithuanian state. At the end of the nineteenth century, the broader Catholic Church lost its unifying function for specifically Lithuanian Roman Catholic clergy. Catholic clerics gradually separated into various groups which advocated the modern or premodern concept of the Lithuanian or Polish nation. Among Lithuanian Roman Catholic clergymen, there were those who declared for Lithuanian nationalism and participated in the Lithuanian national movement, those who remained loyal to the historical concept of Lithuania, and even those who identified with the Polish nationalism.4 This paper especially focuses on those Roman Catholic clergymen who supported Lithuanian nationalism and participated in the Lithuanian national movement. This type of identification at that time was referred to as Litvomania. This term was used to describe the positive attitude of a portion of the Catholic clergy towards Lithuanian ethnolinguistic/ethnocultural nationalism and their active involvement in the Lithuanian national movement. This article discusses the genesis of Litvomania among the Roman Catholic clergy and the role it played in the development of the Lithuanian national movement. The study targets the period in the Lithuanian national movement that can be referred to as Phase B, according to the chronological stages defined by Miroslav Hroch. A new type of activists emerged in that phase. They regarded national or ethnic individuality as valuable, and set themselves the goal of winning over as many members of the non-dominant group as possible to their ideal of national autonomy. . . . This phase was successful 3 Anthony D. Smith, “Nationalism. A Trend Report and Bibliography,” Current Sociology 3, no. 21 (1973): 18. 4 For more information, see Vilma Žaltauskaitė, “O idei litewskości w poglądach księdza Juozasa Tumasa-Vaižgantasa do roku 1904,” Lituano-Slavica Posnaniensia. Studia Historica 8 (2001): 143–54; Vilma Žaltauskaitė, “Catholicism and Nationalism in the Views of the Younger Generation of Lithuanian Clergy in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries,” Lithuanian Historical Studies 5 (2000): 113–30.

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when a mass support was aroused which regarded their national identity as having special value.5 The geography and chronology of the research covers the dioceses of Samogitia (Telšiai)6 and Vilnius, which were organized within the administrative boundaries of the so-called Northwest Region in the last decades of the nineteenth century and the early twentieth century. In this region, there were about 1,000 Roman Catholic priests, who were involved in pastoral care. In addition, 100 to 180 students were studying at Roman Catholic seminaries in Vilnius and Kaunas. This analysis also concerns the diocese of Seinai (in Polish, Sejny), which was a part of the Kingdom of Poland, but also trained priests for Lithuanian-speaking parishes in the Kingdom of Poland. The time spent at a training institution is undoubtedly significant for the shaping of a priest. However, what determines the subsequent position of a priest is not only his years in the seminary, but also the inner spiritual development of his personality during and after his education, and the social and cultural context of his pastoral care after becoming a priest. Thus, it is important to perceive the identity formation as a continuing process, rather than static.

The Beginnings of Litvomania among the Roman Catholic Clergy “Mania is an ancient Italian deity of the underworld . . . (in Greek it means madness, insanity). It usually refers to contemplating one object. Therefore, the word gave rise to such expressions as Anglomania, Gallomania, and so forth. In science, mania is not only insanity, but also a clamorous sudden activity . . . unsound thinking.”7 This definition was written in 1864. In 1913, Słownik wyrazów obcych (Dictionary of foreign words) provided a very Gerhard Brunn, Miroslav Hroch, Andreas Kappeler, “Introduction,” in The Formation of National Elites: Comparative Studies on Governments and Non–dominant Ethnic Groups in Europe, 1850–1940, vol. 6, ed. Andreas Kappeler, Fikret Adanir, and Alan O’Day (New York: New York University Press: 1992), 7. 6 It should be noted that the dual name of the diocese (and the seminary) was in use since 1840s. It was recorded in the concordat of 1847. By the instructions of the secular authorities, both the diocesan center and the seminary were moved to Kaunas from Varniai (the former centre of the diocese) in 1865 (1866), although the names were not changed. The corpus juris of the Russian Empire of 1896 (vol. 11, part 1) did not use the name “Samogitian,” although diocesan documents contained both historical and official names. The name “Samogitian diocese” is more frequently used in the historiography. 7 “Mania,” Encyklopedia Powszechna vol. 17 (Warszawa: nakład, druk i własność S. Olgelbranda, 1864), 931. 5

The Roman Catholic Clergy and the Notion of Lithuanian National Identity

specific definition of Litvomania: “Litwomanja (ob.  Manja) przesądzone umilowanie wszystkiego, co litewskie” (a preconceived liking of/love for/ devotion to everything that is Lithuanian).8 This notion caught on between the 1880s to 1905 (and onwards),9 and it gradually took on the meaning of a conflict between two modern societies, Lithuanian and Polish. The notion of Litvomania which originated in the 1880s denoted sickness, an unnatural condition, while it was used by Lithuanians (mostly by secular people) to refer to national aspirations. The polemics between Aušra (Dawn) (1883–86)10 and Dziennik Poznański (Daily newspaper of Poznań) could be considered as “the godparents of Litvomania” (and gave it the name).11 The discussions of Litvomania in these periodicals were reiterated in subsequent years.12 We can observe the debate of “mania” also in the other media in the late 1880s, primarily in the secular press (both Polish13 and Lithuanian).14 Let us pick one example. An editorial member of staff of a newspaper, published in Polish at the center of the Russian Empire, described “Litvomani” [Litvomaniacs], when he criticized an article from Lithuania. The article reviewed the book Litwini i Polacy (Lithuanians and Poles)15 by Jonas Šliūpas. The review claimed that the writer of the article was using the word “Litvomaniacs” only to refer to socialist-type “chauvinistic Lithuanians.” However, according to the review, Litvomaniacs were young people of “very low intellectual 8 “Litvomania,” Słownik wyrazów obcych (Warszawa: wydawnictwo M. Arkta, 1913), 500. 9 Krzysztof Buchowski, Litwomani i polonizatorzy. Mity, wzajemne postrzeganie i stereotypy w stosunkach polsko-litewskich w pierwszej połowie XX wieku (Białystok: Wydawnictwo universytetu w Białymstoku, 2006), 78. 10 An illegal Lithuanian newspaper published in Prussia from 1883–86. 11 Michał Römer, Litwa. Studyum o odrodzeniu narodu Litewskiwgo (Lwów: Polskie Towarzystwo Nakładowe, 1908), 99–102; Jerzy Ochmański, Litewski ruch narodowo – kulturalny w XIX wieku (Białystok: BTN; Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1965), 178–90. 12 Buchowski, Litwomani i polonizatorzy, 76. 13 Kraj, no. 43 (1888); Jan Witort, “Litwomani, z powodu pracy p. Szlupasa ‘Polacy i Litwini.’ New-York 1888,” Przegląd Literacki, dodatek do “Kraju,” no. 32 (1889), 1–4; Przegląd Literacki, dodatek do “Kraju,” no. 33, 3–5; ibid., no. 34, 12–15; ibid., no. 35, 9–11; ibid., no. 36, 8–10; “Kilka słów z powodu ‘Litwomanów,’” Przegląd Literacki, dodatek do “Kraju,” no. 32 (1890), 8–10. In fact, the title contains an inaccurate date of publication of the book—V.Ž. 14 Gaidys [J. Gaidamavičius], “Audiatur et altera pars,” Varpas, no. 11 (1889), 164–65; “Audiatur et altera pars”, Varpas no. 8 (1890), 119–20. 15 Arūnas Vyšniauskas, Ryšard Gaidis, and Luboš Švec, “Lietuviai ir lenkai” (1887). Jono Šliūpo pozicija ir valstybingumo vizijos XIX a. pabaigoje (Vilnius: Vilniaus universiteto leidykla, 2016).

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ability and political education who were ridiculous national chauvinists” and pseudo-intellectuals who supported (and were under the spell of) an idea of “questionable origin and value.” The piece insisted that the majority of young people hated intellectuals—that is, the Catholic clergy,16 and indeed Catholicism itself.17 Such hatred for everything Polish, he continued, could lead to fatal consequences: “as they depart from the influence of Polish civilization, they will have to either become wild or succumb to foreign sources, since there is no Lithuanian culture to replace the Polish one.”18 While is not difficult to infer what “foreign sources” meant in the context of the conflict between “Russians and Poles,” the possibility of independent Lithuanian activity was not even envisaged. In later polemics, the Lithuanian side defended the broad context of its own activities, claiming that the Poles themselves did not accept changing attitudes towards national ideals, and were unwilling to recognize the Lithuanians as an independent nation.19 Thus, the Lithuanian side consciously described themselves as “Litvomaniacs,” thereby reflecting this new and changed attitude towards the nation. Lithuanian researcher Paulius Subačius suggests that the process of polarization (between Lithuanians and Poles) could be witnessed up to the mid-1870s.20 But the designation of Litvoman (Litvomaniac) was not born from declaring one’s own pro-Lithuanian position, but from the response of others to such a declaration. Only at the end of the nineteenth century did those who identified as Litvomaniacs start to utilize this word intentionally and add positive meanings to it. The renowned Latvian scholar of the day, Eduards Volters, in his accounts of travelling in Lithuania and Samogitia in 1884–87, was already using the terms Litvomania and Litvomaniacs to describe the positions of a group of Lithuanian Catholic priests. He wrote that “Litvomans in cassocks” was something new.21 Volters’ remark, however, is applies more to the active clergy, 16 Witort, “Litwomani, z powodu,” 1. 17 Ibid. 18 Przegląd Literacki, dodatek do “Kraju,” no. 36, 10. 19 “Kilka słów,”10. 20 Paulius Subačius, Lietuvių tapatybės kalvė. Tautinio išsivadavimo kultūra (Vilnius: Aidai, 1999), 78. 21 Preliminary report of Eduards Volters on travels across Lithuania and Samogitia in 1884, 1885, 1886, and 1887 [reprinted from the news of the Imperial Russian Society of Geographers, vol. 24], Lietuvos valstybės istorijos archyvas (Lithuanian State Historical Archives [LVIA]), f. 378, Bendras skyrius (General Division [BS]), 1889 m., b. 4, l. 261.

The Roman Catholic Clergy and the Notion of Lithuanian National Identity

rather than the way those priests viewed themselves. In an issue of Šviesa (Light) (an illegal Lithuanian newspaper) in 1887, Jonas Mačiulis (Maironis), who was at that time a student at the Samogitian (Telšiai) Seminary, also mentioned Litvomania as an observer rather than a participant.22 He applied the label to secular “infidels” from the newspaper Lietuviškas Balsas (Lithuanian voice)23 and differentiated them from “true Lithuanians.” Only in the last decade of the nineteenth century did illegal publications by Roman Catholic priests begin to use the word to define their own positions and moral principles. We can search for the first trace of the examples that the term was used to describe the moral principle of Catholic priests in the views and activities of ordinands who were still students at Roman Catholic seminaries—primarily among those who came to the seminary from gymnasiums, or even universities, rather than from lowly educational backgrounds (those who had completed the first four years at the gymnasium or who had acquired the title “apothecary’s apprentice”).24 Even though the students from institutions of higher education did not have a deep understanding of the pastoral duties of a priest, they already perceived differences between their views those of people who remained at university. Moreover, they already had some experience of organized pro-Lithuanian activity at gymnasiums or universities. Such individuals included the priests Aleksandras Dambrauskas (Adomas Jakštas), Juozas Tumas (Vaižgantas), and the abovementioned Mačiulis, as well as ordinands from the Samogitian (Telšiai) Seminary.

22 S. Z. [Jonas Mačiulis], “Žodis prie Lietuviu mylinczius savo tėvynę,” Šviesa, 1887, no. 1, 3–7. 23 This Lithuanian newspaper was launched in the United States in 1885. Its founder was the abovementioned Jonas Šliūpas, the former editor of Aušra. See Vyšniauskas, Gaidis, and Švec, “Lietuviai ir lenkai,” 8–9. 24 From late 1883, the seminaries started admitting individuals who could provide the so-called certificate of an apothecary’s apprentice. See the letter of the minister of internal affairs to the Vilnius governor-general, December 21, 1883, LVIA, f. 378, BS, 1877 m., b. 379, part 1, l. 235. The certificate of an apothecary’s apprentice could be obtained at Russian gymnasiums and progymnasiums, as well as from examination committees which operated at Education Counties. An individual needed to pass an examination equivalent to three years in gymnasium. After 23 January 1876, the study time was extended to four years. See the letter from Nikolai Sergyevski, the Overseer of the Vilnius education district, to Nikolai Grevenits who was in charge of the chancery of the Vilnius governor-general, November 8, 1883, LVIA, f. 378, BS, 1877, b. 379, part  1, l. 225–29. The certificate did not entitle a student to proceed to year  five at gymnasium. Therefore, it prevented them from seeking a university degree.

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The diocesan seminary was an institution where the identity of the Roman Catholic clergy was formed. Students’ sociocultural attitudes towards Lithuanian nationalism were also shaped and manifested at the seminary. But it should be pointed out that education at the seminary did not aim at formulating Lithuanian national identity during the training of priests. Since student activities at the Samogitian (Telšiai) Roman Catholic Seminary between 1870 and 1883 showed the wide sociocultural activities, and there were little trace of declarations and representations of the modern Lithuanian identity among them. Nevertheless, the number of students participating in Lithuanian activities grew. First of all, students expressed an interest in the Lithuanian language and its literature. This shows that ethnolinguistic nationalism was developing at the seminary and, later, among the clergy Some individuals’ (both students and professors) activities, interests, and attitudes regarding Lithuanian nationalism influenced the wider confessional and even secular community. Fr. Antanas Baranauskas, a professor at the seminary, is illustrates this development. Though Baranauskas’ linguistic interests were highly specific and academic, his attention to the Lithuanian language motivated his students, and his sincere discussions with his students inspired them both socially and culturally.25 The situation of the Seinai (Sejny) Seminary in the Kingdom of Poland was different in this respect, because quite a large section of the student body consisted of former pupils of the Marijampolė Gymnasium,26 where the Lithuanian language was taught as a separate subject. Some teachers at the school consciously promoted awareness of Lithuanian identity,27 most importantly by teaching Lithuanian. This was not the case at gymnasiums in the Northwest Region where the Lithuanian language was not taught as a separate subject at seminaries until the early twentieth century. Fr. Martynas Sederavičius, nevertheless, set up a press in the mid-1870s, which published 25 For more information, see Jurgita Venckienė, “Antano Baranausko bendrinės rašomosios kalbos idėjos ir jų (ne)realizacija spaudiniuose (XIX amžiaus pabaiga – XX amžiaus pradžia),” in Kalbos istorijos ir dialektologijos problemos, vol 4, eds. Violeta Meiliūnaitė and Vilija Ragaišienė (Vilnius: Lietuvių kalbos institutas, 2015), 87–129; Vilma Žaltauskaitė, “Litvomanų kartos gimimas: sociokultūrinės laikysenos formavimo(si) erdvė Žemaičių (Telšių) seminarijoje Kaune,” in Meiliūnaitė and Ragaišienė, eds., Kalbos istorijos ir dialektologijos problemos, 43–86. 26 Juozapas Stakauskas, “Lietuviškoji sąmonė Seinų seminarijoje,” Tiesos kelias 9 (1939): 645–46. 27 Justinas Staugaitis, Mano atsiminimai (Vilnius: Katalikų akademija, 1995), 90.

The Roman Catholic Clergy and the Notion of Lithuanian National Identity

and distributed publications containing Lithuanian religious content, and supplied printed material to ordinands at the Seinai Seminary.28 This activity spilled out into other dioceses, and was supported by Mečislovas Leonardas Paliulionis, the bishop of the diocese of Samogitia (Telšiai). Pro-Lithuanian activities by ordinands at the Seinai Seminary began with the opening a small library of Lithuanian books during the years when Antanas Staniukynas was a student there (1884–89). Together with Tomas Žilinskas, Staniukynas founded a secret society of ordinands that aimed to distribute illegal publications and improve Lithuanian language skills so that “it would be possible to preach a sermon decently without barbarisms.”29 As long as they maintained the standard of their of pastoral care, they did not receive a negative reaction from the heads of the Seinai Seminary. However, they also worked with secular publishers of illegal material—for instance, those who published Varpas (Bell) (a monthly newspaper published during the ban on the Lithuanian press). However, in 1891 Jonas Sutkaitis and Antanas Milukas’s activities got them expelled from the seminary.30 After that, the latter worked in the editorial office of Varpas for a while and then left for the United States. From the US, he sent articles to the paper Žemaičių ir Lietuvos Apžvalga (Review of Samogitia and Lithuania) (1889–96), and later to Tėvynės Sargas (The guardian of the Fatherland) (1896–1904).31 He had perhaps the best understanding of the ideas of social Catholicism in Western Europe and the US, and actively presented them in these newspapers. Some of the well-known contributors to the Catholic press were also graduates from the Seinai Seminary: Pranciškus Petras Būčys, Antanas Civinskas, and Andrius Dubinskas. It should be also noted that it was not the former ordinands of the Seinai Seminary who initiated organizing the publication of illegal periodicals in the late 1880s. They simply cooperated with the newspapers Žemaičių ir Lietuvos Apžvalga and Tėvynės Sargas, which had been established by former ordinands of the Samogitian (Telšiai) Seminary. Let us return to the Samogitian (Telšiai) Seminary of the early 1880s. In 1881, Dambrauskas entered the seminary in Kaunas without completing even a year at St. Petersburg University. He had participated in the activities 28 Vytautas Merkys, Knygnešių laikai, 1864–1904 (Vilnius: Valstybinis leidybos centras, 1994), 216, 246–50. 29 Stakauskas, “Lietuviškoji sąmonė Seinų seminarijoje,” 648. 30 Vladas Mingėla, Kun. Antanas Milukas. Jo gyvenimas ir darbai (Detroitas: Kun. Antano Miluko monografijai leisti komitetas, 1962), 61. 31 Illegal clerical newspapers.

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of the Lithuanian student movement there, but he ultimately stopped because of his religious principles.32 He was one of the most consistent and influential designers of the principles of the Lithuanian Catholic movement, both at the seminary and in the illegal Catholic press—for instance, in the papers Žemaičių ir Lietuvos Apžvalga, Tėvynės Sargas and Žinyčia (The news) (1899–1904). He was the editor of the manuscript newspaper Lietuva (Lithuania), published at the seminary in 1883.33 Thus, a group of like-minded people already existed at that time. (Although Dambrauskas “could not recall”34 the names of his associates when asked later, it is likely that they were alumni at the seminary—namely Stanislovas Stakelė and Juozas Lideikis.) Baranauskas, an “inspector” and professor at the seminary, instructed them to discontinue their “ill-timed” work, despite promoting Lithuanian at the seminary.35 This order was met without objection. However, the result was that Lithuanian studies became a personal matter all the students and Lietuva published again in 1884.36 Dambrauskas continued acting as a coordinator of “extracurricular” activities.37 The ego-documents of Dambrauskas from the years when he was a student at the St. Petersburg Imperial Roman Catholic Spiritual Academy (1884–88) give us an insight into his motives and principles (and those of his colleagues), as well as the general views of the pro-Lithuanian movement and the involvement of the clergy. Dambrauskas was dedicated: he wished “to improve the position of our country and to revive our nation” (pagerinti padėjimą musu szales ir atgaivinti musu tautą),38 especially through the 32 Aleksandras  Dambrauskas explained his decision to leave St. Petersburg University as due to the institution’s incompatibility with his religious beliefs. See his “Moje Curriculum Vitae,” Vilniaus universiteto bibliotekos Rankraščių skyrius (Manuscript division of the Vilnius University Library [VUB RS]), f. 1, E. 306, l.17. 33 Ibid. l. 19; Vaclovas Biržiška, Iš mūsų laikraščių praeities (Kaunas: “Varpo” bendrovės spaustuvė, 1933), 22. 34 Juozapas Stakauskas, “Lietuviškos minties pasireiškimas Žemaičių seminarijoje,” Tiesos kelias 11 (1938): 735. 35 Dambrauskas, “Moje Curriculum Vitae,” 1.19. 36 Stakauskas, “Lietuviškos minties pasireiškimas Žemaičių seminarijoje,” 735. 37 For more information see Vilma Žaltauskaitė, “Lietuvos krikščioniškosios demokratijos genezė. XIX a. pab.-XX a. pr. Sociopolitinis aspektas” (PhD diss., Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2000)—Lietuvos istorijos instituto Rankraštynas [Manuscript Department of the Lithuanian Institute of History], f. 6–74, l. 82. 38 Letter from Dambrauskas to Jonas [Spudulis],  December 6,  1882, VUB RS, f. 1, E. 370, first  letter. [Pages in the file are not numbered—V.Ž.] National identity-related activities are discussed in the second letter [undated] as well, and in the third letter— February  11, 1883. The latter gives a rather skeptical view of the work of secular

The Roman Catholic Clergy and the Notion of Lithuanian National Identity

lawful and education-oriented attempt with “the permission of the authorities to publish books” (daleidimo spaudinti knįgas).39 He was also interested in creating a harmonious relationship with secular nationalist colleagues. He thought about how realistic it was to hope to “walk not only side by side, but also hand in hand with them.”40 Moreover, he avoided any extreme components of the national movement: according to Dambrauskas, the biggest “half-wits” (awinausiai) were those who thought that they could awaken the nation “through the eradication of the faith, through making bad blood between ordinary people and nobles.”41 The principles proposed by Dambrauskas at that time aimed at the organic integration of competing elements of Lithuanianness and uniting social estates. The moral principles of Dambrauskas were consistent with Thomist philosophy42 too: God was perceived as the primary cause of everything, and science was considered a tool for moral improvement and, as such, did not conflict faith.43 Mačiulis,44 another prominent figure (mentioned above), entered the Samogitian (Telšiai) Seminary in 1884 after studying at Kyiv University. In the same year, he led a project to translate writings of the Christian Fathers into Polish, although he was acutely aware that there was a greater lack of theological literature in Lithuanian than in Polish.45 By 1887, he was contributing to the illegal newspaper Šviesa, edited by his close friend Fr. Antanas Vytartas (who had graduated from the seminary in 1886).46

39 40 41 42 43

44 45 46

students and his colleagues, suggesting that they are all talk and no action. See ibid., second and third letters. Ibid., first letter. The significance of education is emphasized in his letter to his father, December 1, 1883. See Leonardas Dambrauskas, “Seniausi Dambrausko-Jakšto laiškai,” Draugija 5 (1939): 312–13. Letter from Dambrauskas to Jonas [Spudulis], December 6, 1882, VUB RS, f. 1, E. 370, first letter. Ibid., first letter. Czesław Strzeszewski, Katolicka nauka społeczna (Lublin: Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski, 1996), 191–94. He is discussing the subject with his colleague from Šiauliai Gymnasium, namely Povilas Gaselkus. See letters (rough copies) to P.  Gaselkus,  February 12,  1882–April 1, 1883, VUB RS, f. 1, E. 113, first and second letters. [Pages are not numbered—V.Ž.] Letters: May 5, 1881; February 1, 1882; June 11, 1882; and two letters from P. Gaselkus to Dambrauskas, undated, Lietuvos nacionalinės Martyno Mažvydo bibliotekos Rankraščių skyrius [LNMMB RS], f. 130–1769, l. 3–12. Vanda Zaborskaitė, Maironis (Vilnius: Mintis, 1987), 40. Letter from Vytartas to Dambrauskas, December 12, 1884, LNMMB RS, f. 130–1770. [Pages are not numbered—V.Ž.] Juozas Tumas, Lietuvių literatūros paskaitos. Draudžiamasis laikas.“Šviesos“ grupė (Kaunas: “Minties” b-vė, “Raidės” spaustuvė, 1924), 10–11.

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In the 1880s, another kind of clerical activity became more conspicuous. Clerics not only contributed to illegal Lithuanian periodicals, but also took up staff positions. In 1887, Vytartas, who was well-known for translating and writing religious works,47 became the editor of the new illegal newspaper Šviesa. In 1887 and 1888, the Catholic tendency of this publication was obvious.48 The clergy thus expanded its social activities. Tumas, Vytartas’s future colleague at Šviesa, entered the Samogitian (Telšiai) Seminary in 1888, bringing his experience of a clandestine “self-education group” at Dinaburg (Daugavpils) Progymnasium. Although he was encouraged by Povilas Matulionis, a secular Lithuanian nationalist, to “serve Lithuanians,”49 Matulionis advised against the priesthood for pursuing such an aim. Nevertheless, Tumas decided to enter the seminary. Further, Tumas was associated with the founding in 1888 of a secret organization of students at the Samogitian Seminary in Kaunas50—although, judging from the names of its members (most of them from senior classes), such an organization was not new at the seminary but taken over from previous years. For example, in 1888 and 1889, the members of the organization, such as Jonas Karbauskas, Kazimieras Pakalniškis, Pranas Urbonavičius, and Adomas Žeimavičius, were fourth-year students. According to Povilas  Dogelis, when he joined the secret organization of ordinands that was active in the Samogitian Seminary in 1894, people said that it was founded during the time Jonas Vizbaras and Aleksandras Dambrauskas.51

47 48 49 50

Ibid., 31–32, 34. Rimantas Vėbra, Lietuvių tautinis atgimimas XIX amžiuje (Kaunas: Šviesa, 1992), 119. Aleksandras Merkelis, Juozas Tumas Vaižgantas (Vilnius: Vaga, 1989), 19–20. Stakauskas indicates that Tumas was the founder of the Society of Lovers of Lithuania established in 1888. See Juozapas Stakauskas, “Lietuviškos minties pasireiškimas Žemaičių seminarijoje,” 754. Stakauskas’s opinion is supported by Rimantas Vėbra and Pranas Čepėnas. See Rimantas Vėbra, Lietuvos katalikų dvasininkija ir visuomeninis judėjimas (Vilnius: Mintis, 1968), 178; Pranas Čepėnas, Naujųjų laikų, Lietuvos istorija, vol. 1 (Vilnius: Lituanus, 1992), 77. Also see Merkys, Knygnešių laikai, 285. Edvardas Vidmantas also refers to Stakauskas, although he does not mention Tumas as the founder of the society. See Edvardas Vidmantas, “Religinis tautinis sąjūdis Žemaitijoje XIX a. pabaigoje”, in Lietuvių atgimimo istorijos studijos 7: Atgimimas ir Katalikų Bažnyčia, ed. Egidijus Motieka (Vilnius: Katalikų pasaulis, 1994), 114. Merkelis, the biographer of Tumas, does not mention the latter as the founder of the society. See Merkelis, Juozas Tumas, 32. Even Tumas himself does name himself as such. See letter from Tumas to Sofija [Čiurlionienė], March 11, 1911, VUB RS, f. 1, F. 58, l. 151–60; Tumas, Lietuvių draudžiamojo laiko, 9. 51 Povilas Dogelis, Mano gyvenimo prisiminimais (Kaunas: [s. n.], 1936), 48.

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There is no doubt that the Society of St. Casimir was founded at the Samogitian (Telšiai) Seminary in late 1889. Tumas was one of its founders.52 The society operated continuously and encouraged ordinands to consciously maintain a pro-Lithuanian stance. For instance, in 1890 first-year students decided to speak among themselves only in Lithuanian,53 although, as mentioned earlier, the Lithuanian language was not taught as a separate subject at seminaries in the Northwest Region until the early twentieth century. On his graduation from the seminary in 1893, greetings in Lithuanian wishing Tumas to work for the benefit of his motherland with God’s help,54 were signed by at least fifty-three ordinands in second to fourth years (the total number of students was ninety-five). Lithuanian activities organized by ordinands at Vilnius Roman Catholic Seminary began later.55 When Būčys, a graduate of the Seinai Seminary, and Andrius Dubinskas, a student at the Imperial Roman Catholic Spiritual Academy in St.  Petersburg, visited the Vilnius Seminary in 1893, they attempted to engage other ordinands in their activities (their efforts were be unsuccessful).56 Some priests in the diocese of Vilnius, such as Silvestras Gimžauskas, Aleksandras Burba, and Jonas Burba, also expressed a favorable disposition towards the Lithuanian national movement in the early 1880s. Because of the energetic activity among ordinands at the Vilnius Seminary, A. Burba was forbidden to visit by its Karolis Majevskis, its rector.57 In the east part of Lithuania (that is, the Vilnius province and diocese), clergymen began collecting from peasants requests to reinstate the Lithuanian alphabet.58 They also contributed to Aušra, and later to Šviesa. In the early twentieth century, some priests in the Vilnius diocese—namely,

52 Letter from Tumas to Sofija [Čiurlionienė], March 11, 1911, VUB RS, f. 1, F. 58, l. 159. 53 Letter from Adolfas Sabaliauskas to Tumas, March 18, 1895, VUB RS, f. 1, F. 54. [Pages are not numbered—V.Ž.] 54 Official letter, September 26, 1893, VUB RS, f. 1, F. 545, l. 70. 55 Juozapas Stakauskas, “Lietuvių sąjūdis Vilniaus seminarijoje,” Mūsų praeitis 2 (1992): 103–106. 56 Pranciškus Petras Bučys, “Prieš senajam ‘Tėvynės Sargui’ užgemant,” Tėvynės Sargas 1 (1947): 4. 57 Jonas Šliūpas, Rinktiniai raštai (Vilnius: Vaga, 1977), 162. 58 Antanas Kulakauskas, “Penki 1882–1883 m. Rytų Lietuvos valstiečių kolektyviniai prašymai dėl lietuvių spaudos lotyniškuoju raidynu leidimo,” in Lietuvių Atgimimo istorijos studijos 4: Liaudis virsta tauta, ed. Egidijus Aleksandravičius et al. (Vilnius: Baltoji varnelė, 1993), 481.

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Kazys Maštikas, Antanas Nenevskis, and Placidas Šarkauskis—still retained a relationship with the illegal press.59 The activities of Fr. Gimžauskas in the Vilnius diocese (in Valkininkai) in the mid-1880s should also be mentioned, as he formed a small organization for the distribution of the illegal press.60 His reputation gave him authority in the eyes of the abovementioned ordinands of the Seinai Seminary when he visited Vilnius in 1893.61 Paulius Subačius, a historian of Lithuanian nationalism, argues that there was a balance between Catholicism and nationalism in the activities of Gimžauskas, and examines his active position in the Church, his (religious) asceticism, and his writing and dissemination of exclusively secular patriotic books.62 However, nationalistic activity among students at the seminaries in the 1880s was not the rule. Rather, it was determined by an individual’s moral principles. Such activity were not inspired by heads of the seminaries. The students did not identify their activities with secular Litvomania, although both were very similar (publishing a newspaper, and writing and compiling literature in Lithuanian, albeit of a theological nature). Litvomania became a familiar idea for both former seminarians and priests outside the walls of the seminary because their colleagues publicly declared personal principles and defended them in the illegal press. In this sense, while seminaries prepared the terrain for the nationalism that became an important part of clergy identity, they did not necessarily promote national identity when training priests.63

59 Antanas Tyla, “Draudžiamosios literatūros platinimas XX a. pr. Švenčionių apylinkėse,” in Kraštotyra, ed. Bronius Vaitkevičius (Vilnius: LTSR paminklų apsaugos ir kraštotyros draugija, 1969), 67–68, 72. For more on Nenevskis and Šarkauskas, see the 1902 political report of the gendarmerie (military police) of Vilnius gubernia—January 20, 1903, LVIA, f. 419, ap. 1, b. 470, p. 3. We are grateful to Prof. Antanas Tyla who permitted to use the archival materials collected by him—V.Ž. 60 The persons associated with Gimžauskas are mentioned five times. See Vytautas Merkys, Draudžiamosios lietuviškos spaudos kelias 1864–1904 (Vilnius: Mokslo ir enciklopedijų leidykla, 1994), numbers 92, 1593, 1858, 1960, 2236. 61 Bučys, “Prieš senajam,” 4–5. 62 Subačius, Lietuvių tapatybės kalvė, 170. 63 For more information, see Vilma Zhaltauskaite, “Imperskaia vlast’ i rimskokatolicheskie dukhovnye seminarii posle 1863 g.,” Ab Imperio 4 (2012): 157–80.

The Nobility in the Lithuanian National Project in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century: The Approach of the Catholic Clergy Olga Mastianica-Stankevič

In 1915, the Democrat leader of the krajowcy (from Polish kraj—region)1 Mykolas Römeris (Michał Pius Römer, 1880–1945), discussing the development of the Lithuanian national movement, noted quite accurately that, compared to other Lithuanian political parties and factions, the confessional intelligentsia (and Catholic clergy) was the greatest proponent of involving the nobility in the formation of the modern Lithuanian nation. Römeris raised the hypothesis that the Christian Democrats were probably the only Lithuanian political faction to consistently defend the idea of involving the nobility in the modern Lithuanian nation. According to Römeris, the Christian Democrats sought to maintain leadership over the Lithuanian national movement, and were against any expressions of social radicalism. As 1 The krajowcy were an ideological political current whose followers understood Lithuania as an integral land based on historical, territorial, economic, and cultural similarities.

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such, the main ally of the Christian Democrats could be the nobility.2 After the January Uprising the Catholic clergy became the driving force behind the Lithuanian national movement. After the Revolution of 1905 a spectrum of Lithuanian political forces has emerged: Christian Democrats and National Democrats formed the right-minded Lithuanian political force which advocated a moderate Christian Catholic worldview. Social democrats and democrats appealed to rational, positivistic, and liberal viewpoints and formed the political left. In the Lithuanian political discourse mainly the Christian Democrats, a part of whom were Catholic priests, have raised the issue of the participation of nobility in the formation of modern Lithuanian nation. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, much like certain other leaders of Central and East European national groups, Lithuanian intelligentsia deliberated on whether the nobility should be involved in the process of forming the modern nation. This was not an easy task, as often most of the nobility considered their mother tongue to be a language other than what the “peasant” national ideologues desired (German in Bohemia, Latvia and Estonia, and Polish in Ukraine, Belarus, and Lithuania). Thus, when trying to resolve the question of the nobility’s involvement in the modern nation, and for other reasons,3 the ideologues of national movements had to modify their definitions of nationality: the criterion of ethnic origins was “recalled,” and economic and social conflicts between the nobility and the peasantry were not specially incited in the public discourse. In other words, these disagreements were “transformed” into adversity between two national, though not two different social, groups. Like their Czech, Ukrainian, Finnish, Slovak, and Croat counterparts, the Lithuanian national movement’s ideologues also deliberated on the question of the nobility’s inclusion in the process of the formation of the modern Lithuanian nation. The involvement of the nobility in the process was already relevant in the first (cultural) stage of the formation of the modern nation. Some of Lithuania’s secular and confessional intelligentsia “searched for” ideological arguments in the pages of Aušra (Auszra, Dawn, 1883–86), the first modern illegal Lithuanian nationalist periodical, that would allow the Polish-speaking nobility to be considered a composite part of the Lithuanian nation. The problem of how to “nationalize” the 2 See Michał Römer, “Litwa wobec wojny (poufny memoriał Michała Römera z sierpnia 1915),” Zeszyty historyczne, no. 17 (1970): 101. 3 For example, because national movement ideologists needed to give a basis for their claims to “national territories.”

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nobility was also important in the Lithuanian national movement when it progressed to the stage of its political development. In 1908–14, Mečislovas Apolonijus Davainis-Silvestraitis (also Davainis-Silvestravičius, DovoinaSilvestravičius, Dovoina-Sylvestravičius, Dovoina-Sylvestravičė [pol. Mieczysław Apoloniusz Dowojna-Sylwestrowicz, 1849–1919]), a writer of noble origins, published a Polish-language newspaper in Vilnius called Litwa (Lithuania), which sought to include the nobility in the modern Lithuanian nation.4 However, between the late eighteenth and early twentieth centuries, Lithuanian political parties and factions had different ideas of how the nobility could be involved in the modern Lithuanian nation. The aim of this article is to explain the approach that ofthe Lithuanian confessional intelligentsia towards the nobility’s place in the modern Lithuanian nation; how and why this approach changed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; and why it was so important for the confessional intelligentsia to include the nobility in the modern Lithuanian nation. Thus, this paper deals with rhetorical strategies of national activists and not with the results of that kind of agitation. The article delves into research into Lithuanian nationalism, and begins with an analysis of the ideological provisions of Lithuanian nationalism in the years when Aušra was still being published; when, having harnessed a means of public communication for the first time, the ideological foundations of modern Lithuanian nationalism were being formed, and the need to consider the nobility a part of the modern Lithuanian nation was raised. I also discuss separately how the confessional intelligentsia resolved the question of the nobility’s participation in the creation of the modern Lithuanian nation at the start of the political stage of the development of the national movement. In the last section, I explain why the confessional intelligentsia supported the publication of the newspaper Litwa, and why and what meaning systems were created by the newspaper’s contributors, a majority of whom were members of the Catholic clergy. The examination of the nobility’s place in the Lithuanian national project in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries rests not just on historiography, historical material the periodical press, but also on published and manuscript texts prepared by the confessional intelligentsia, many of which are introduced into the scholarly discourse here for the first time. 4 Similar initiatives could be seen in other territories. For example, in 1909 in Lviv, Wacław Lipiński (1882–1931), a writer of noble origins, published the first issue of the periodical Przegląd Krajowy (Country Review), which sought to acquaint the Polishspeaking nobility with the modern Ukrainian nationalism program.

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The Approach Towards the Nobility in the Cultural Stage of the Lithuanian National Movement Researchers representing various scholarly paradigms agree that the publication of the illegal Lithuanian periodical Aušra (Auszra) between 1883 and 1886 marked a turning-point in Lithuanian (and Lithuania’s) history. Aušra symbolized the initial (cultural) stage of the national movement, and demonstrated the programmatic provisions of modern Lithuanian nationalism. The editors and contributors who worked on Aušra, who included a number of members of the confessional intelligentsia, declared clearly that the most important feature of nationalism was the “national language.” As with most other Central and East European nationalisms, the language first of all demonstrated belonging to a specific nation. In the understanding of Aušra, the decline in the numbers of people who spoke Lithuanian was compared to the decline of the nation, and at the same time of Lithuania, which could lead to the nation’s extinction. As has been noted on numerous occasions in Lithuanian historiography,5 numerous contributors to Aušra believed that the nobility should not only support the national movement, but also be an integral part of the modern Lithuanian nation. As a result, ideological arguments started being formulated within the circle of Aušra that would allow the Polishspeaking nobility to be considered part of the modern Lithuanian nation. Contributors to Aušra, who included a number of members of the Catholic clergy, had to resolve a rather complicated problem. The modern Lithuanian identity was defined according to a linguistic concept of the nation, whereas the nobility spoke Polish. Thus, in order to include the nobility in the modern nation, the ideologues of modern Lithuanian nationalism had to find new arguments that were not based on a linguistic basis. The first argument to be put forward was that of ethnic origins, which aimed to prove that all the members of a nation, regardless of which social 5 Piotr Łossowski, “Gazeta ‘Aušra’ i początek narodowego ruchu litewskiego (1883– 1886),” in Studia z dziejów ZSSR i Europy Środkowej, no. 1 (1965) (Wrocław, Warszawa, Kraków: Zakład narodowy imienia Ossolińskich. Wydawnictwo Polskiej Akademii Nauk, 1965): 81–129; Edvardas Vidmantas, “‘Aušros’ vaidmuo lietuvių nacionalinio išsivadavimo judėjime,” LTSR Mokslų Akademijos darbai, A serija, no. 3 (1984): 93–94; Leonas Mulevičius, “‘Aušros’ socialinė-ekonominė programa,” in “Aušra” ir lietuvių tautinis judėjimas XIX a. pabaigoje ed. Jonas Kubilius (Vilnius: Mokslas, 1988), 126–27; Darius Staliūnas, “Lietuvos idėja Aušroje,” Archivum Lithuanicum, no. 15 (2013): 276, 285.

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group they were from, were related along family or blood lines. In other words, a person’s belonging to a nation also should determine his origins, which in turn should encourage loyalty not just to parents and ancestors, but also to a certain set of national ideals. According to Davainis-Silvestraitis: “Nobles and farmers here in Samogitia do not differ from one another, but show who they truly are: Samogitians who display the Samogitian element.”6 That is why in Aušra, nobles, and cultural and scientific figures of noble origin, such as Adam Mickiewicz, Joachim Lelewel, and Teodor Narbut, were strictly called “Polonised Lithuanians,”7 who, despite writing in Polish, nevertheless “felt and thought in Lithuanian.”8 Many collaborating authors who wrote articles for Aušra also offered arguments to convince readers that the Polonization of the nobility was merely “superficial,” encouraging them to understand that its Polonization was not irreversible, and that the nobility’s “return”9 to the Lithuanian nation was indeed possible. They explained that the nobility was coerced into “adopting the Polish language,”10 but still considered itself part of the Lithuanian nation. Stanislovas Raila, a lawyer of noble origins, explained that the Lithuanian nobility gave priority to expanding the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and protecting the state’s territories, so it could not reasonably have overseen the creation of Lithuanian writing, and was forced to adopt Polish culture and scientific achievements.11 Most of those writing for Aušra sought to “remind” the Lithuanian-speaking readership that the Radziwiłł (Radvila) family in Kėdainiai sponsored schools in which Lithuanian was the language of instruction, and that Juozapas Arnulfas Giedraitis, a bishop of noble origins, had translated the Holy Writ into Lithuanian.12 It is important to note that in order to involve the nobility in the creation of the modern Lithuanian nation, the editors of Aušra and many of its 6 Vēversis (Mečislovas Davainis-Silvestraitis), “Ar pritinka musu bajorams buti lenkais?,” Auszra, no. 8–10 (1883): 232. 7 J. Sz. (Jonas Šliūpas), “Bicziůlistē,” Auszra, no. 1–3 (1884): 70. 8 Ibid., 70. 9 Lithuanian national movement activists were guided by this concept in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It was based on nationalist logic: the nobles had “forgotten” their national spirit, and had to be “returned” to the real nation. In this article, the phrase referring to the nobility’s “return” to the Lithuanian nation is used in the way it was used by the Lithuanian intellectual and political elite in the period discussed, but not as an analytical-academic category. 10 (I.e., Slavic) S. R. (Stanislovas Raila), “Į darbą, kas lietuvis!,” Auszra, no. 6 (1883): 156. 11 Ibid., 156. 12 Ibid.

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contributing authors avoided fueling social or economic conflict between the nobility and the peasants in the pages of the newspaper. In addition, such conflicts were not even presented in the newspaper as conflicts between two social groups representing different national groups. Jonas Šliūpas, one of Aušra’s editors, even went to special lengths to highlight the fact that it was not worth “mentioning the suffering of times past,”13 but on the contrary, he urged the nobility and the peasants to improve the country’s economy together, and to “forget” former social and economic grievances. Indeed, Aušra had already started to pose the question: what did the nobility have to do in order to become involved in the modern Lithuanian nation? However, when discussing the need for the nobility to support the national movement financially, the editorial board only described the nobility as “true leaders of the clan who loved their homeland Lithuania and its language.”14 Clearly, this kind of declaration prompted the idea that the nobility should also use Lithuanian. But details were not given as to whether they should start using it for everyday communication, or whether it was enough just to learn it, without having to abandon the use of Polish in their family. It could be that, in order to lure the nobility in the modern Lithuanian nation, the editors of Aušra purposely did not go into further detail on how the use of Lithuanian was understood. Nevertheless, many of the newspaper’s contributors thought it necessary to stress the fact that the nobility had an excellent knowledge of the language, but was simply “ashamed to speak Lithuanian and demeaned anyone who did.”15 However, the editors never formulated an open requirement for the nobility to use Lithuanian at home, unlike most members of the confessional intelligentsia did later on.

Attitudes towards the Nobility in the Catholic Clergy’s Periodical Press (at the Turn of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries) The idea formulated by the newspaper Aušra that the nobility should be included in the composition of the modern Lithuanian nation was 13 J. S. Kůksztis (Jonas Šliūpas), “Isz Lietuvos. Lietuvoje,” Auszra, no. 5–6 (1884): 182. 14 Redakcija “Auszros,” “Apie insteigimą ‘Lietuviszkôs mokslû bendrystēs (draugystēs)’,” Auszra, no. 4 (1883): 92. 15 Raila claimed definitively that “our language is known to those whom we are speaking about here” (musu kalba juk paźįstama tiems, apie kurius czia kalbame), Raila, “Į darbą, kas lietuvis!,” 155.

The Nobility in the Lithuanian National Project

maintained even when a distinct ideological-political and organizational polarization began within the Lithuanian intelligentsia. In 1890, the Catholic clergy started to publish a separate illegal periodical called Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga (The Samogitian and Lithuanian Review, until 1896). In 1896 they started to publish Tėvynės sargas (The Guardian of the Fatherland, until 1904), in 1900 Žinyčia (The News, until 1902), and Dirva, Dirva-Žinynas (The Ground News, 1903). These publications not only expressed the idea and the hope that the nobility could become a constituent part of the modern Lithuanian nation, they also searched for more effective ways to achieve this aim. The concept of the modern Lithuanian nation that was explained in introductory articles in Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga (1890–96) included both the nobility and the peasantry. It was stated quite definitively that: “Our nation consists of nobles, people of higher origins, and ordinary people, of lower origins.” Both these groups had their roles: the first were “important to the nation due to their education” and their example, while the second “perform various temporary tasks that are necessary to save the soul,” giving meaning to the nation’s existence. A mandatory condition guaranteeing the fully fledged existence of the modern Lithuanian nation was “love, unity and peace” between both groups.16 The concept of national unity proclaimed in Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga was closer to the idea of national unity promoted in another illegal Lithuanian newspaper, called Varpas (The Bell, 1889–1905). It focused on the ideological-political tasks of the secular, liberal intelligentsia, and matters of organizational consolidation, in the name of the nation’s unity. This faction elevated nationalism as the highest value, and spoke against attempts at dividing the nation into estates, ignoring social conflicts. In the confessional intelligentsia’s publication Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga, the existence of estates was acknowledged, though they were not opposed to each other, their functions in society were expanded, and the resolution of social issues was also postponed.17 As in Aušra, the confessional intelligentsia’s periodical press sought to smooth over as much as possible the social tensions between the nobility and the peasants. The newspapers Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga and Tėvynės sargas “reminded” readers on numerous occasions that the local 16 Žaltauskaitė, Lietuvos krikščioniškosios demokratijos genezė, 110–11. 17 Ibid., 112.

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nobility had tried to abolish serfdom sooner than was done by the tsarist government.18 In addition, these publications explained that it was precisely the Imperial Russian government that was purposely playing off the nobility and the peasantry against each other, even though both estates “lived in peace” after the abolition of serfdom. In other words, the press of this ideological stratum explained that no social tension remained between the nobility and the peasantry, and that it was not possible in the future either.19 Such statements were made that “nobles, landlords and peasants were all children of the same mother country, Lithuania, and are true brothers,” and that it was very important that these social groups “live in unity and love, and be guided by the same rights and laws.”20 On the other hand, the confessional intelligentsia were among the first to reject the judgement of an individual based on social origins. In the modernizing society, education and common human values had to be the ones by which a person could be judged. These were the words of the Catholic clergyman Kazimieras Pakalniškis (1866–1933), the editor of Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga, who recommended not judging a person according to social origins, and using other criteria to assess an individual. “Today, the assessment of a person rests . . . not on the titles or privileges of the szlachta, but on their wisdom, mind and education.”21 The argument that an individual should be judged according to their education, mental abilities, and common human values, not on their social origins, was also used in the quest to view the nobility as a constituent part of the modern Lithuanian nation. Pakalniškis was convinced that, after becoming involved in the modern Lithuanian nation, the nobility could also contribute to the formation of an intelligentsia as a separate social class.22 According to him, under the existing conditions, there were very few peasants with a higher education 18 See Vincas Pietaris, “Padejimas musų tautos XIX amžiuje,” Tėvynės sargas, no. 11–12 (1903): 2. The same kind of idea was expressed in the secular Lithuanian intelligentsia’s periodical Varpas. For example, see Greitakojis (?), “Skaitymas lietuviškoj draugysteje 19 dieną vasario 1892 m.,” Varpas, no. 4–5 (1892): 50; “Balsai lietuviszku draugyscziu,” Varpas, no. 1 (1889): 45; (?) “Credo,” Varpas, no. 6 (1901): 61. 19 Žaltauskaitė, Lietuvos krikščioniškosios demokratijos genezė, 111. 20 Gilis (?), “Isz Lietuvos,” Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga, no. 8 (1893): 63. 21 Kazimieras Pakalniškis, “Musų bajorai,” Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga, no. 16 (1893): 123. Also see K. Strelankis (?), “Musų ‘bajorai’ arba ‘šlėktos,’” Tėvynės sargas, no. 3 (1898): 6–7. 22 J. Szermunelis (Kazimieras Pakalniškis), “Szis-tas apie musų bajoriją, kunigiją ir ‘mužikiją’,” Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga, no. 6 (1892): 43.

The Nobility in the Lithuanian National Project

who could create and strengthen the Lithuanian intelligentsia. In addition, he claimed that the nobility’s involvement in the intelligentsia would refute the claims made by certain members of Polish society that the Lithuanian national movement was simply a class war between the peasants and the nobility, and not an independent national movement with its own aims and goals.23 The editor of Żemajczių ir Lietuwos apżvałga was also convinced that once it joined the Lithuanian intelligentsia, the nobility could play a leading role in the national movement.24 Pakalniškis believed that the nobility and the clergy were the two social groups that could serve as the best “leaders in matters of education and nationhood.”25 This could first of be all how Pakalniškis responded to the intensifying discussions at the time on whether the confessional or the liberal intelligentsia could lead the national movement. It is why he found it so important to persuade readers that the clergy, like the nobility, was indeed capable of taking a leading role. Those ideas also encouraged the discussion of projects to create a national family. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, these projects were a constituent part of the modern Lithuanian national agenda. They were based first of all on the ideals of the national revival, the most fundamental ideal being sacrificing everything for one’s love of the nation. This raised the hope not just of nurturing the Lithuanian spirit within the family, but of creating the right foundations for the society of the future. In other words, the first patriotic families had to foster future generations of patriots. This ideal was often considered a fundamental concern, for it was thought that the very survival of the nation was at the heart of the matter. According to the Lithuanian historian Dalia Marcinkevičienė, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, two types of national family projects were discussed among Lithuanian intelligentsia.26 The “radical” model saw women’s Lithuanian-ness as the most important virtue of a wife, and accordingly a “pure” ethnic Lithuanian family was possible only among peasants; and in contrast, the second model foresaw a Lithuanian family with a “noble” “wife.” The authors of the “radical” project identified “noble 23 Ibid., 43. 24 Ibid. 25 J. Szermunelis (Kazimieras Pakalniškis), “Szis-tas apie musų bajoriją, kunigiją ir ‘mužikiją’,” 43.The same idea was expressed in another illegal periodical published by the Catholic clergy Tėvynės Sargas: (?) “Duok Dieve,” Tėvynės sargas, no. 1 (1897): 7. 26 Dalia Marcinkevičienė, Vedusiųjų visuomenė: santuoka ir skyrybos Lietuvoje XIX amžiuje–XX amžiaus pradžioje (Vilnius: Vaga, 1999), 104.

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ladies” with de-nationalized “half-Polish women,” and they thought that the idea to make a couple from such a woman with a Lithuanian intellectual was tantamount to betraying one’s national ideals and the degradation of the society of the future. Some authors of the “radical” project did search for possibilities to bring “the uneducated peasant girl” closer to the ideal patriotic “wife,” recommending either “raising” a “wife” by educating her, or by marrying educated Latvian or Prussia’s Lithuanian ladies, who were believed to have close ethnic origin.27 On the other hand, supporters of the “noble” model disapproved of any member of the intelligentsia stooping to marry a peasant, and associated “a noble lady” with the image of “a patriot’s wife.” In their view, the idea of marrying “a peasant girl was risky and did not ensure favorable conditions for conscious national activity.”28 In order to promote the need to forge marriages between the nobility and the peasantry, the authors of the “noble” family project often turned to fiction. Works by Lithuanian writers from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (such as Pakalniškis, Jonas Mačiulis [Maironis], Gabrielius LandsbergisŽemkalnis and Liudvika Didžiulienė-Žmona) portrayed relations between a teacher-intellectual of peasant origins and a noble-lady pupil (or doctor and patient), representing potential Lithuanian-ness, which ended in successful marriage. It is important to note that these cultural character types (a male teacher or doctor, and a female pupil or patient) exhibited a shade of hierarchy and domination: people of noble origins were, originally Lithuanian but culturally Polish, considered dangerous and morally corrupt. However, the peasant environment was capable of “converting” people from this social group back to Lithuanian-ism. The kind of social utopia is best reflected in the Maironis’ poems Tarp skausmų į garbę (Between Pain, Towards Honor, 1895) and Jaunoji Lietuva (Young Lithuania, 1907), in the story by Pakalniškis Mokytoja (The Teacher, 1904), and in the drama by the clergyman Juozas Šnapštis-Margalis Mūsų bajorai (Our Nobles, 1904). Indeed, as historians of literature note, these works were not known for giving a particularly clear portrait of any psychological heroes or a consistent plot line.

27 “Keli žodžiai prie senojo klausimo,” Varpas, no. 2 (1893): 17–18; “Kritiška peržvalga straipsnių ‘Draugija pavojuje’ ir ‘Keli žodžiai prie senojo klausimo’,” Varpas, no. 4 (1893): 49–51. 28 G. Žemkalnis (Gabrielius Landsbergis-Žemkalnis), “Dar keli žodžiai prie senojo klausimo,” Varpas, no. 5 (1893): 67–68.

The Nobility in the Lithuanian National Project

For example, in Maironis’ poem Tarp skausmų į garbę, the marriage of a peasant girl and a young nobleman embodies triumphantly, almost naturally, the energy of the unavoidably democratic sing Lithuanian national movement.29 A young peasant girl develops a national consciousness, in Maironis’ case Anusia Vilaitučia, and in Pakalniškis’ work Ona Perkūnaitė, and manages to “Lithuanian-ize” a nobleman. In Maironis’ work, the younger generation of peasants and nobles organize a national-themed evening with songs in honor of Grand Duke Vytautas.30 In the story Mokytoja, Pakalniškis unambiguously demands that nobles “who considered themselves Lithuanians actually behave like Lithuanians: they should speak Lithuanian among themselves, think in Lithuanian, and love Lithuanian literature, science and history.”31 Pakalniškis’ idea that the nobility had to not only learn Lithuanian but also to use it at home in order to become part of the modern Lithuanian nation was developed by the writer Aleksandras Dambrauskas (Adomas Jakštas), one of the most famous members of the confessional intelligentsia, who appealed to the younger generation of the nobility with his Głos Litwinów do młodej generacyi magnatów, obywateli i szlachty na Litwie’ (A Lithuanian Voice for the Young Generation of Lithuania’s magnates, citizens, and gentry, 1902).32 Dambrauskas-Jakštas’ proclamation to the younger generation of the nobility Głos Litwinów was one of the first modern Lithuanian nationalist texts, specially created to address one question, the nobility’s participation in the creation of the modern nation. On the other hand, in 1902 Dambrauskas-Jakštas was one of the first members of the Lithuanian intelligentsia who considered it necessary to communicate with the nobility in Polish (in 1908, Davainis-Silvestraitis followed his example, and started to publish his Polish-language newspaper Litwa, aimed at the nobility in Vilnius). What is interesting is that Dambrauskas-Jakštas’ proclamation provoked a reaction from one of the group it appealed to. This allows for an additional diagnosis of some of the nobility’s opinions on the Lithuanian national movement, but also received criticism from other Lithuanian 29 Brigita Speičytė, Anapus ribos. Maironis ir istorinė Lietuva (Vilnius: Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas, 2012), 163. 30 Speičytė, Anapus ribos, 163. 31 Kazimieras Pakalniškis, Mokytoja, Apysaka, parasze Dede Atanazas, Atspaudas iš Dirvos-Žinyno (Shenadoach: Lietuvių katalikų spaudos bendrijos spaustuveje, 1904), 33. 32 Aleksandras Dambrauskas (A. Jakštas), Głos Litwinów do młodej generacyi magnatów, obywateli i szlachty na Litwie (Moscow: n.p., 1902).

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political parties and political factions. The proclamation serves as an excellent example of how, at the beginning of the twentieth century, opinions increasingly differed in the national discourse on the necessity for the nobility to participate in the creation of the modern Lithuanian nation. Dambrauskas-Jakštas (1860–1933) was one of the most consistent and influential figures involved in the formation of Catholic provisions. The epistolic legacy of his years at the seminary and St Petersburg’s Imperial Roman Catholic Theological Academy shows that he exhibited a natural consonance between nationalism, faith, and the different estates.33 It could be that most of the confessional intelligentsia supported the opinions in his proclamation. They thought the publication should also be translated into Lithuanian, and published in the periodical press.34 Dambrauskas-Jakštas’ work Głos Litwinów starts with a discussion of political issues; or, more precisely, he explained that modern Lithuanian nationalism refused to build statehood on the foundations of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth. He stressed that this state entity was made up of two independent units, or more precisely, it was “Lithuania’s union with Poland.” According to his way of thinking, if in the past there were two separate units, then in the future it would also be possible to have two separate state compounds. Thus, he considered any union-based relations merely a “historical fact,” which “did not carry the same meaning in our view.”35 The fact that he began his publication with a presentation of the political agenda of modern Lithuanian nationalism also signifies that the formulation of political requirements was what made the question of the nobility’s participation in the modern Lithuanian nation so important and worthy of discussion. In other words, he believed that the Polish national movement could use the nobility’s alleged “Polish-ness” as an argument for seeing Poland and Lithuania as one state and territorial unit. That is why he thought it necessary to stress and highlight in his publication that Lithuania’s statehood could be seen only within “ethnographic boundaries.” “Present-day Lithuania is where the Lithuanian

33 Žaltauskaitė, Lietuvos krikščioniškosios demokratijos genezė, 88–89. 34 This translation was published in the Christian Democrat newspaper Dirva-Žinynas as Aleksandras Dambrauskas (A. Jakštas), “Lietuvių balsas į jaunąją kartą Lietuvos didžponių, dvarponių ir bajorų” (Lithuanians’ Voice to the Young Generation of Lithuania’s Greater Lords, Landlords and Nobles), Dirva-Žinynas, no. 6 (1903): 3–21. 35 Dambrauskas, Głos Litwinów, 8.

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language can be heard from the mouths of Lithuania’s people,” wrote Dambrauskas-Jakštas.36 On the other hand, Dambrauskas-Jakštas thought it important to give examples by which the nobility could be considered a part of the Lithuanian nation, and should be included in the formation of the modern nation. In fact, he did not even “think up” any new arguments other than those already given when Aušra was being published. Much like Aušra’s contributors, he stressed that the nobility’s belonging to the Lithuanian nation was a demonstration of their ethnic origins: “you are, after all, joined to us by blood ties, and that is something one cannot argue against.”37 As a result, he made a clear condition: a nobleman of ethnic Lithuanian origin could not be gente-lithuanus, natione-polonus, that is, he could not support both the Lithuanian and the Polish national movements. In another brochure Vienybė ar separatizmas? (Unity or Separatism?),38 in which he replied to criticism, he considered as nobility of Polish origins only nobles who thought of themselves as Polish, spoke Polish, had Polish surnames, and most importantly, had arrived from Polish ethnographic areas. In the brochure, Dambrauskas-Jakštas also encouraged the hope that this section of the nobility would be able to “rediscover the Lithuanian spirit” and “return” to the Lithuanian nation. In this case too, he quoted the examples of the Czech and Hungarian nobility as ones to follow.39 He was obviously one of the members of the confessional intelligentsia who believed that the nobility should be included in the modern Lithuanian nation, and then the national movement would be equal to other national movements in which the nobility already played an active part. It could be that, at least in his view, the nobility’s involvement in the formation of the Lithuanian nation was also an argument to show the national movement’s 36 Ibid. 37 Ibid. 38 Aleksandras Dambrauskas-Jakštas, Vienybė ar separatizmas? Atsakymas kritikams “Lietuvių balso” (Shenandoach: Lietuviu kataliku spaudos bendrijos spaustuveje, 1904), 12–13. 39 Dambrauskas, Vienybė ar separatizmas?, 16. As Miknys noted, the Czech national movement, its national ideology and organizational structures, were an important factor for the Lithuanian liberals (followers and readers of Varpas) for basing education in their national consciousness, the provisions of the national-cultural program, and for searching for practical possibilities to realize these provisions. See Rimantas Miknys, “Čekų tautinis judėjimas ir Lietuvos liberalai XIX a. pab. – XX a. pradž. (‘Varpas’),” in Lietuvių ir čekų santykiai amžių bėgyje. Pranešimai iš interdisciplinarinio mokslinio kolokviumo. Vilnius, 1995 spalio 25–26 d. (Praha: Univerzita Karlova, 1998), 59–63.

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equal placing in terms of other national movements. That is why he stressed so strongly the need for the nobility to “return” to the Lithuanian nation, and then participate in the creation and strengthening of the intelligentsia. Like Pakalniškis, he was convinced that the participation of the nobility was necessary, in order to strengthen the intelligentsia, as it could “bring into our fold new souls, a higher level of cerebral culture, greater examination, and elegance for a cordial life.”40 Dambrauskas-Jakštas was one of the first to define quite categorically under what conditions the nobility should be included in the modern Lithuanian nation. According to him, “the Lithuanian nobility is Lithuanian in the real Lithuanian sense, not because it has lived in Lithuania for so long, but because it openly counts itself as part of the Lithuanian nation, takes the Lithuanian language as its own, and uses it for everyday communication at home.”41 So if we follow his conviction, in seeking to participate in the creation of the modern nation, the nobility not only had to speak Lithuanian in public, but also make it the language used by their family and in everyday life. He believed it did not have any other choice. We should note that this rather categorical provision, that the nobility had to use Lithuanian in the home environment like other social groups, was criticized by other young political parties and factions, and also by some of the confessional intelligentsia. For example, members of the Lithuanian Democratic Party (LDP)42 understood quite well that it was almost impossible to expect the nobility to cross over quite quickly to using Lithuanian, that it would be a comparatively complex psychological step for them to take. Some members of the LDP thought that the nobility’s inclusion in the modern Lithuanian nation had to begin by applying different conditions. In his review of Dambrauskas-Jakštas’ Głos Litwinów do młodej generacyi magnatów, obywateli i szlachty na Litwie, Jonas Vileišis, a member of the LDP, declared clearly that not just “the Lithuanian language” but also “the country’s political and material matters” should be the basis on which the nobility should be included in the fold of the modern Lithuanian nation.43 Some members of the LDP also recommended that the nobility work 40 Dambrauskas, Głos Litwinów, 8. 41 Ibid. 42 For more on the activities of the Lithuanian Democrat Party, see Rimantas Miknys, Lietuvos demokratų partija 1902–1915 metais (Vilnius: A. Varno personalinė įmonė, 1995). 43 P-tis (Jonas Vileišis), “Svetimi laikraščiai,” Varpas, no. 8 (1903): 192.

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together with the peasants to improve the country’s economy: to construct roads together, to share the tax burden, to organize agricultural shows together, and establish agricultural schools.44 However, the LDP placed most attention on judging the nobility’s political activity. Demands were made that the nobility should not spread “Polish-ness in Lithuania, and should not consider it a province of Poland.”45 Some members of the LDP even formulated provisions like: “If we saw a noble from Lithuania working hard for the benefit of our land and nation, despite speaking Polish, we would be very pleased with him.’46 So, at least for some members of the LDP, the requirement to learn Lithuanian (and to make it their home/ everyday language in the future) was not the main condition for the nobility’s inclusion in the modern nation. It was expected first of all to support the national movement’s political agenda, and to take part in cultural and economic cooperation with Lithuanian social figures. We should note that after 1905, the Christian Democrats were also no longer united in their opinions, or more precisely, they changed their provisions. The clearest example was one of the most active members of the confessional intelligentsia, the writer Maironis (Jonas Mačiulis, 1862–1932). His poem “Jaunoji Lietuva” (Young Lithuania, [1907]) already demonstrated his changed approach to the nobility and its role in the modern nation.47 In the poem, he explored the motif of a marriage between a noble and a young peasant girl. However, it was incorporated into a rather different body: the depiction of Lithuania’s landowners was replete with critical and satirical implications.48 In his earlier poem “Nuo Birutės kalno” (From Birutė Hill), the nobility were identified as “guests” from Kraków, they became a “visitor” in their own land.49 His didactic-satirical poem of 1909 called “Raseinių Magdė” (Magdė from Raseiniai) generally exhibits a 44 “Lietuviai, neapsileiskime,” Lietuvos ūkininkas, no. 5 (1905): 111. 45 Žilvitis (Juozas Rimša?), “Lietuvių tautai atgįjant,” Varpas, no. 2 (1904): 18. 46 Tiligentas (?), “Lietuvos bajorai, lenkai ir lietuviai,” Lietuvos ūkininkas no. 3 (1906): 46. 47 Vanda Zaborskaitė, Maironis (Vilnius: Vaga, 1987), 226; Speičytė, Anapus ribos, 158. 48 Speičytė, Anapus ribos, 171. 49 Ibid., 172. According to Jan Jurkiewicz, Maironis was especially saddened that the nobility had rejected the Lithuanian language, and thus called this social group “visitors from Kraków.” Interestingly, Maironis was critical of both the landed and the lower gentry. However, according to Jurkiewicz, Maironis considered the primary condition for the nobility’s inclusion in the modern Lithuanian nation the “transformation” of Lithuanian into their everyday language. But he did not make any strict demands of the nobility on this matter. For more, see Jan Jurkiewicz, “‘Znad Biruty’ – poemat Maironisa o stosunkach polsko-litewskich,” in Problemy narodowościowe

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completely different relationship with the aristocracy’s cultural heritage in terms of values. In the poem, he expresses a new approach: he no longer hopes to “return” the nobility to the Lithuanian national movement.50 Having evaluated the landowners’ position during elections to State Dumas (parliaments),51 Dambrauskas-Jakštas also acknowledged that trying to “return” the nobility to the Lithuanian nation was more difficult than he earlier thought. Yet at the same time, unlike Maironis, he stressed that “saying that bringing them closer is no longer possible would be false; it is possible, but much more difficult now than it was before.”52 In the early twentieth century, other Christian Democrats fostered the hope that Polish-speaking nobility will join the modern Lithuanian nation. Pakalniškis and Kazimieras Prapuolenis were mentioned on numerous occasions, even though generally the program of the Union of Lithuanian Christian Democrats (LCDU) of 190753 clearly declared that this political faction intended to stage an ideological or actual battle against the section of the nobility that promoted the spread of a Polish political and cultural agenda among other social groups.

The Expression of the Catholic Clergy’s Opinions in the Periodical Litwa The fact that the confessional intelligentsia, which after 1905 gradually formed into a separate political faction, was one of the ideological strata of modern Lithuanian nationalism that supported most actively not just the idea and promoted the need to involve the nobility in the national Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej w XIX i XX wieku. Księga pamiątkowa dla Professora Przemysława Hausera, ed. Antoniego Czubińskiego (Poznań: Wydawnictwo naukowe UAM, 1996), 91–101. 50 Zaborskaitė, Maironis, 320. 51 According to the election procedures to the State Duma, electoral districts coincided with the governorates, while voters were divided into four curia: landed gentry, city inhabitants, peasants, and workers. Representatives elected from the landed gentry usually entered into joint-factions with Polish political parties. See Roman Jurkowski, Sukcesy i porażki. Ziemiaństwo polskie Ziem Zabranych w wyborach do Dumy Państwowej i Rady Państwa 1906–1913 (Olsztyn: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warmińsko-Mazurskiego w Olsztynie, 2009); Aldona Gaigalaitė, Lietuvos atstovai Rusijos valstybės dūmoje 1906–1917 metais (Vilnius: VPU leidykla, 2006), 305–9. 52 (Aleksandras Dambrauskas-Jakštas), Adomo Jakšto, Trįs pašnekesiai ant Nemuno kranto (Kaunas: spaustuvė M. Sokolovskio ir A. Estrino, 1906), 43. 53 For more on the preparation and content of the Lithuanian Christian Democratic Union’s agenda, see Regina Laukaitytė, “Pirmoji Lietuvos krikščionių demokratų partijos programa,” Lituanistica, no. 2 (1993): 14–27.

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movement, but also encouraged this social group to consider themselves a part of the modern Lithuanian nation, is very well illustrated in the Catholic clergy’s participation in the publication of the newspaper Litwa. As has already been mentioned, Litwa was a Polish-language newspaper published in Vilnius in 1908–14, and one of its main aims was to see the “return” of the nobility to the Lithuanian nation. Its editor was Davainis-Silvestraitis who contributed actively to the confessional intelligentsia’s periodical press, and wrote a memorial in 1906 Apie lenkų kalbą Lietuvos bažnyčiose/De lingua Polonica in ecclesiis Lithuaniae: lietuvių raštas, paduotas Jo Šventenybei Pijui X. Popiežiui ir visiems S.R. katalikų bažnyčios kardinolams (On the Polish Language in Lithuania’s Churches / De lingua Polonica in ecclesiis Lithuaniae: A Note from Lithuanians to His Holiness Pope Pius X and all the Cardinals of the Catholic Church). He was also a member of the Committee for the Return of Lithuanian to Roman Catholic Churches in Lithuania.54 In addition, he maintained ties with Dambrauskas-Jakštas and Pakalniškis, who, as has been mentioned, were the most active proponents of involving the nobility in the creation of the modern Lithuanian nation. Dambrauskas-Jakštas’ 1902 publication Głos Litwinów might also have inspired some of the ideas published in Litwa. It was already quite common practice in the national discourse to publish periodical publications not only in the “national” but also in some other languages. For example, the Social Democrats published newspapers both in Lithuanian and Polish, and after 1907 even in Yiddish. However, their position can be explained not just by the party’s orientation towards the urban working class (along with the rural poor), among whom the number of Lithuanian speakers was quite small, but also by the party’s composition: some members of the party leaned towards internationalist ideas, and later even became communists.55 However, these cases do not mean that modern Lithuanian nationalism had any doubt over the choice of a national language. Conversely, as mentioned above, Lithuanian was considered the most important criterion for the national spirit. This is why any writings written by Lithuanians aimed at “their” community had to be in Lithuanian, 54 The aim of the Committee for the Return of Lithuanian to Roman Catholic Churches in Lithuania (Sąjungos grąžinimui teisių lietuviškai kalbai Rymo-katalikiškose bažnyčiose Lietuvoje) was to introduce the use of Lithuanian in additional Catholic Masses held in churches. 55 See Darius Staliūnas, “Rusų kalba kaip lietuvių ir žydų komunikacijos priemonė: laikraštis Naš kraj (1914),” in Abipusis pažinimas: lietuvių ir žydų kultūriniai saitai, Jurgita Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė (Vilnius: Vilniaus universiteto leidykla, 2010), 171.

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and not in Polish or Russian. In the Lithuanian national discourse, Polish or Russian was used in essentially two cases. Firstly, when the writing was oriented towards a section of society which they also sought to keep as part of the modern Lithuanian nation. On the other hand, an attempt was made to present the provisions of the Lithuanian national movement to members of other national movements, in order to organize appropriate discussions. The idea to publish a newspaper in Polish aimed at the nobility in order to present the programmatic provisions of modern Lithuanian nationalism was conceived after the Seimas (parliament) of Vilnius on 4–5 December 1905. Some members of the nobility who sought to establish closer ties with various Lithuanian political parties and factions also participated in the Great Seimas of Vilnius, where the political, cultural, and also to an extent the economic agenda of modern Lithuanian nationalism was presented. However, the idea of a newspaper for the nobility was realized only in 1908, and the main contributors and distributors were the confessional intelligentsia.56 In many respect, Litwa was a reflection of the ideological provisions of the Christian Democrats and the Social Democrats, who were forming a separate political faction. This periodical publication reprinted the programmatic articles of some of the most famous members of the intelligentsia, such as Dambrauskas-Jakštas, Pakalniškis, Prapuolenis, and Juozas Tumas-Vaižgantas,57 which focused on the question of “returning” the nobility to the modern Lithuanian nation. Litwa sought to solve the problem of the nobility’s inclusion in the modern Lithuanian nation in a somewhat broader context. Over time, the question of how to “re-Lithuanianize” the “Polonised and Russified” (sulenkėjusių ir sugudėjusių) Lithuanians in Vilnius and the Vilnius governorate 56 For example, in 1909, out of 476 subscribers to Litwa, as many as 315 were priests. Most of the Catholic clergy who subscribed to Litwa carried out pastoral work in the Kaunas and Suvalkai governorates. In 1911–13, out of the total number of subscribers to Litwa, sixty-eight percent were priests. 57 As Žaltauskaitė noticed, Juozas Tumas-Vaižgantas (1869–1933), one of the most famous members of the Lithuanian Catholic intelligentsia, believed that only the lower gentry or the younger generation of the nobility could become involved in the formation of the modern Lithuanian nation, as these subgroups had been influenced by modernization processes, did not judge an individual just on their social origins, and could understand and accept the programmatic provisions of the Lithuanian national movement. See Vilma Žaltauskaitė, “Apie lietuvybės idėją kunigo Juozo Tumo-Vaižganto pažiūrose. Iki 1904 metų,” in Lietuvių atgimimo istorijos studijos. T.8: Asmuo: tarp tautos ir valstybės, Egidijus Motieka (Vilnius: Mokslo ir enciklopedijų leidykla, 1996), 253–54.

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was discussed extensively in its articles. In other words, the newspaper first of all looked at how to incorporate areas that did not have many Lithuanian speakers into the “national territory.” The argument of ethnic origins was exploited to include both the nobility and the “Polonised and Russified” Lithuanians in the Lithuanian nation.58 However, the fact that the nobility’s “nationalization” was being discussed together with problems of “national territory” suggests that the nobility’s inclusion in the modern Lithuanian nation was more relevant to the national discourse when the national movement’s formulated political agenda. The Lithuanian intelligentsia, who promoted the concept of the modern nation-state within Lithuania’s ethnographic boundaries, found it important to ensure that the Polishspeaking nobility was loyal to the Lithuanian national movement’s political agenda. The Catholic clergy, primarily Dambrauskas-Jakštas, Pakalniškis, and Prapuolenis, used the newspaper Litwa as a platform to encourage the nobility not to follow the historic tradition of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.59 The newspaper’s team did not think of any new arguments or more effective ways to involve the nobility more successfully in the modern Lithuanian nation. The confessional intelligentsia, who contributed actively to Litwa, used arguments that had been popular in the national discourse in the 1880s and 1890s regarding the nobility’s ethnic origins,60 interpreting the nobility’s “Polonization” as part of Polish national policy,61 seeking to “smooth over” the “memory” of social and economic conflicts between the nobility and peasantry, and to actualize marriages between the peasantry and the nobility that would lead to a more successful “Lithuanian-ization” of the nobility and the formation and strengthening of the intelligentsia 58 See Olga Mastianica, Bajorija lietuvių tautiniame projekte (XIX a. pabaiga-XX a. pradžia) (Vilnius: Lietuvos istorijos institutas, 2016), 121–32. 59 (Aleksandras Dambrauskas-Jakštas), “Program litewski,” Litwa, no. 7 (1911): 108; (Aleksandras Dambrauskas-Jakštas), “Litewskie zasady narodowe,” Litwa, no. 9 (1911): 137. 60 For example, Dziadulek Antanazy (Kazimieras Pakalniškis), “Nieco o krwi i pochodzeniu ‘szlachcica’ i ‘chlopa’,” Lud, no. 5 (1912): 36. In 1912–13, DavainisSilvestraitis published a newspaper in Vilnius called Lud (Liaudis, The People), where he devoted a great deal of attention to the use of Lithuanian during additional Catholic Masses. This newspaper generally described the Catholic clergy’s attempts to use Lithuanian during additional Mass held in Vilnius and in the Vilnius governorate. 61 N. Downar (Mečislovas Davainis-Silvestraitis), “Czy sprawę polską mozna oprzec na szlachcie?,” Litwa, no. 9–10 (1913): 89; M. D. S. (Mečislovas Davainis-Silvestraitis), “Zgoda jest porządana, ale czy mozebna?,” Litwa, no. 5 (1913): 50.

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as a separate social class.62 In the case of Litwa, the focus was more on the distinct representation of the idea (the inclusion of the nobility in the modern Lithuanian nation) than the idea’s implementation. However, the very fact of Litwa’s existence, which was also encouraged by the confessional intelligentsia’s position, illustrates very well that the Lithuanian national movement, like the nationalisms of most other ethnic groups in Central and Eastern Europe in the late Nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, sought and deemed it necessary to involve the nobility in the formation of the modern nation.

Conclusions The aim of the Lithuanian national movement to involve the nobility in the formation of the modern Lithuanian nation was already apparent in the years when Aušra (1883–86) was being published. Ideological arguments were presented based on which the Polish-speaking nobility was to be considered a constituent part of the Lithuanian nation. The secular and confessional intelligentsia understood perfectly well that the language criterion would not be effective, as most of the nobility considered Polish to be their native language. That is why the argument of ethnic origins was put forward in the national discourse, based on which the nobility was held to be an inseparable part of the Lithuanian nation. During the years of Aušra, some of the intelligentsia tried to find an answer to the question of how to involve the nobility more successfully in the formation of the modern Lithuanian nation. The right-wing stratum of modern Lithuanian nationalism, firstly the confessional intelligentsia which later formed into a separate political faction (the Christian Democrats), saw the nobility’s “nationalization” as an important objective for the national movement. The confessional intelligentsia sought to prove that the nobility was indeed an ethno-genetic part of the nation, gradually involving itself in the formation of the modern nation, and supported the idea of Lithuanian statehood as a separate phenomenon from Polish statehood. In addition, it was particularly this ideological stream of modern Lithuanian nationalism that searched most extensively for more effective ways for the “more successful” involvement of 62 N. Downar (Mečislovas Davainis-Silvestraitis), “Litwini są narodem arystokratycznym,” Litwa, no. 27–28 (1913): 202–3; N. Downar (Mečislovas Davainis-Silvestraitis), “Zanikanie antagonizmu stanowego,” Litwa, no. 45–47 (1913): 315.

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the nobility in the modern Lithuanian nation to take place. It was no accident that the editorial board of the newspaper Litwa, of which one of the main aims was to “return” the nobility to the Lithuanian nation, enjoyed strong support from the Catholic clergy, who were the newspaper’s main contributors and distributors. In the national discourse in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the confessional intelligentsia promoted the idea of national unity, in order to encompass different social classes. Members of the Catholic clergy were among the first to suggest rejecting the assessment of an individual based on social origins, and instead to judge them according to their level of education, mental abilities, and ordinary human values. On the other hand, the confessional intelligentsia widely promoted the need for the nobility to become involved in the creation of the Lithuanian intelligentsia. According to this group, the nobility’s inclusion in the formation of the Lithuanian intelligentsia would also put the Lithuanian national movement on equal term with other national movements forming across Central and Eastern Europe, where the participation of the nobility was indicative of the national movement’s political maturity. In addition, the nobility’s more active involvement in the Lithuanian national movement would mean that they could deny the prevailing argument in the Polish national discourse that the conflict between the Lithuanian and the Polish national movements was just social clash between the peasantry and the nobility, but actually a confrontation between two national groups. Like most other modern Lithuanian nationalists, the Christian Democrats, with the Catholic clergy making up a clear majority, demanded first of all that the nobility abandon the historic tradition of the PolishLithuanian statehood, and instead be loyal to the political agenda promoted by the Lithuanian national movement. However, unlike other Lithuanian political parties and factions, the Christian Democrats intended to begin the nobility’s “nationalization” with the requirement that they begin using Lithuanian as their everyday language and at home. As a result, the they greatly promoted marriages between the nobility and the Lithuanianspeaking peasantry. In the opinion of members of this ideological stratum, such marriages would lead to the more successful “re-Lithuanianization” of the nobility (the use of Lithuanian in private), and the formation of the Lithuanian intelligentsia as a separate social class.

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Praising Christ, Serving the Nation: The Ideology of the Catholic Newspaper Biełarus (1913–15) Aliaksandr Bystryk

From its inception, the Belarusian national movement was strongly influenced by socialist ideas. This can be partly explained by the specific cultural and sociopolitical circumstances present in the “Belarusian” provinces of the Russian Empire at the turn of the twentieth century. Firstly, the Belarusian-speaking population was predominantly composed of smallholding peasantry. Secondly, many of the first Belarusian national activists started their political careers in socialist-leaning student circles. Thus, a conservative version of Belarusian nationalism was adopted by a relatively small number of activists. Nevertheless, by 1913, a group of Belarusian Catholic priests managed to organize the publication of Biełarus—“the newspaper for Belarusian Catholics.” At the time, this edition was one of the only two existing Belarusian-language weeklies. Unfortunately, many scholars of prerevolutionary Belarusian nationalism have largely disregarded the conservative and Catholic iterations of the “Belarusian Revival,” including the phenomenon of Biełarus. For obvious reasons, in Soviet Belarusian studies, such “reactionary” historical figures and groups were considered an undesirable research subject. However, even in the present day, the topic of Belarusian national conservatives remains an under-researched problem. The limited bibliography of

The Ideology of the Catholic Newspaper Biełarus (1913–15)

Biełarus includes an encyclopaedia article by Uladzimir Konan,1 a chapter in Aliaksandr Nadsan’s book on Magdalena Radziwiłł and the revival of the Uniate Church in Belarus,2 as well as an article by the author of this paper.3 The English-language historiography of Belarusian nationalism has similarly paid little attention to the conservative groups within it. For instance, Anders Per Rudling in his recent monograph on the subject does not mention the alternative versions of pre-WWI Belarusian nationalism and states that “Belarusian nationalism was leftist in orientation and concerned as much with issues of class as with nation.”4 Contrary to this assessment, I propose that Belarusian Catholic activism was not a marginal phenomenon in the country’s national movement. The emergence of a Belarusian Catholic newspaper provoked a reaction among major political groups in the region. Besides Naša Niva, which was naturally interested in the new Belarusian newspapers, a number of Russian, Polish, and Lithuanian periodicals commented on the first issue of Biełarus.5 Moreover, conservative West-Russianists cautiously welcomed the creation of the newspaper, hoping it would help to depolonize the Catholic Church in Belarus and inadvertently contribute to the “convergence” of Catholic Belarusians with Russians.6 The significance of Biełarus as one the centers of the Belarusian national movement is made evident by the participation of several classics of the new Belarusian literature, such as Aliaksandr Pryšynski (Ales Harun), Anton Liavitski (Jadvihin Š.), Kanstantyn Stapovich (Kazimier Svajak) in its creation.7 Thus, one of the goals of this paper is to show the heterogeneity of the Belarusian national movement prior to WWI and shed light on the different visions of its development that were formulated at the time and the

1 Uladzimir Konan, Entsyklapedyia Historyi Belarusi (Minsk: Belaruskaia entsyklapedyia imia Petrusia Brouki, 1993), s.v. “Belarus.” 2 Aliaksandr Nadsan, Kniahinia Radzivil i sprava adradzhennia Unii u Belarusi (Minsk: Belaruski Histarychny Ahliad, 2006). 3 Aliaksandr Bystryk, “Hazeta ‘Biełarus’ (1913–1915) i iaie mestsa u belaruskim hramadztve pachatku XX stahoddzia,” Palitychnaia Sfera 24 (2016): 121–38. 4 Per A. Rudling, The Rise and Fall of Belarusian Nationalism, 1906–1931 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015), 65. 5 Aliaksandr Bystryk, “Hazeta ‘Biełarus’ (1913–1915) i iaie mestsa u belaruskim hramadztve pachatku XX stahoddzia,” Palitychnaia Sfera 24 (2016): 131–34. 6 “Kuda idti,” Severo-Zapadnaia Zhizn, no. 153 (1914), 2–3. 7 Aliaksandr Nadsan, Kniahinia Radzivil i sprava adradzhennia Unii u Belarusi (Minsk: BHA, 2006), 21–22.

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tensions between them. I also want to delve into the ideological incongruities of Catholicism-oriented national ideology. Belarusian Catholic activism was born within student circles of Catholic seminaries in the Russian Empire and other European countries.8 Being more moderate in their social demands, Catholic Belarusian activists argued for the introduction of the Belarusian language in the Church and the further spread of national identity (connected with Christian values) among Belarusians.9 These activists gained support from several local nobles who welcomed the “Belarusian Revival” but did not accept the socialist orientation of some of its leaders. Initially, many Belarusian Catholic activists directly participated in the publication of the main Belarusian newspaper of the prerevolutionary era, Naša Niva, which agitated for a “national awakening,” as well as the economic and social emancipation of the Belarusian peasantry. Naša Niva’s editors claimed that the newspaper was published for all Belarusian people, regardless of religious affiliation. However, according to Adam Stankevič, a prominent figure in the Belarusian Christian-Democratic Party in interwar Poland, the creation of a separate Catholic Belarusian newspaper had been on the agenda of Belarusian Catholic priests for a long time. This project was implemented only after Naša Niva chose the Cyrillic script as its only script for publication in 1912 (previously, it had been published in both the Cyrillic and Latin scripts). The new edition—Biełarus—which would be published in the Latin script only, was initially founded and funded by priests Francišak Budźka and Alaksandr Astramovič, but was later also supported by several representatives of the Krajowcy movement, including Princess Magdalena Radziwiłł.10 The edition united a wide range of Belarusian religious activists and the elite of the Belarusian Christian movement, many of whom had high-level positions in the Catholic Church and graduate degrees from Catholic seminaries and universities. However, the reaction of the Naša Niva’s editors to Biełarus was not wholly positive. The creators of Biełarus, according to the author of a 8

Anofranka, N. and Hardziienka, A., “Ahliad mounai palityki ryma-katalitskaha kastsiola na Belarusi u 20 st.,” Terra Historica, no. 1 (2000). 9 Adam Stankevich, “Bielaruski Khrystsiianski Rukh (histarychny narys)” in Z Boham da Bielarusi, ed. Ales Pashkevich and Andrei Vashkevich (Vilna: Instytut belarusistyki, 2008), 480–83. 10 Aliaksandr Nadsan, Kniahinia Radzivil i sprava adradzhennia Unii u Belarusi (Minsk: BHA, 2006), 17–20.

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front-page article in Naša Niva in 1913, contributed towards the division of the Belarusian people: The task of Naša Niva always was and will be to show Belarusians that they are one tribe . . . that they can fight only when they walk together in harmony, despite the fact that one is praying in a Catholic church and another in an Orthodox one. . . . Now there is a newspaper just for Catholics. Will it choose, will it be able to go down the road of brotherly unity of all Belarusians . . . ? If the new edition understands this, if it does not lose Belarusian national ideals on the road to its purely Catholic goal, then it will leave its mark in the Belarusian movement. Let’s wait and see.11

In order to understand whether the tensions between Catholic and national goals pointed out by Naša Niva were real or not, one needs to look closer at the texts published in the pages of Biełarus. At first glance, the social and national programs of Biełarus and Naša Niva seem rather alike: both centered around the economic and social emancipation of the Belarusian peasants through (self-)education, modern agricultural practices, and new communal institutions. Further, both papers wished for the linguistic emancipation of the Belarusian vernacular through the spread of Belarusian-language publications and the introduction of the Belarusian language in schools, churches, and other institutions. The two papers also insisted on the peaceful character of the “Belarusian Revival” and rejected national “chauvinism.” On the other hand, Biełarus was evidently a more specialized publication, as large sections of the newspaper were devoted to mostly Catholic themes: Church news and calendar, stories of faith, hagiographies, sermons, and parables. Still, in many of these texts, Christian and national ideas converged in peculiar ways. The most important line of argument in which the Catholic and national converged concerned the justification of the very existence of Biełarus. After all, the need for a Belarusian-language newspaper for Catholics and even the idea of the separateness of the Belarusian language and people were far from evident to most of its potential readers. The editors and reporters at Biełarus faced a serious challenge in trying to change deeply ingrained beliefs and practices of Belarusian-speaking Catholics who traditionally used the Polish language in church and considered Roman Catholicism to be the “Polish faith.” Moreover, many Catholic Belarusian speakers in the early twentieth 11 “Novaja Hazieta,” Naša Niva, no. 3 (1913): 1.

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century started to identify as Poles in the national sense in part due to the increasing influence of the Polish National Democrat’s ideology.12 In order to halt such developments, Biełarus’s writers argued that all nationalities, including Belarusians, were part of the natural order: “Nationality (narodnaść) is a sacred thing, given to us by God and nobody has the right to harm it. . . . We need to accept that the natural character of people comes from the will of God.”13 In the Herderian tradition, the editors of the newspaper believed that the native language was the main marker of nationality. Therefore, they agitated for the support and development of the Belarusian language in a similar vein. For example, the following stanza from a poem of Andrei Ziaziula was used as an epigraph in one article: “The God who once / set the peoples apart, / wanted folk forever / to speak their native tongue.”14 The Belarusian language was not just an accidental result of God’s actions but a gift from God: “Millions of Belarusians grew up with this language; it lives and will live because the language is God’s gift, God’s law and right. Like every man, a Belarusian should hold onto his language and not be ashamed.”15 When talking about nationality issues, writers at Biełarus also appealed to the Catholic Church’s traditions of treating the national question: “The Catholic Church doesn’t see nationality, it teaches everyone, following the words of Christ: ‘Go and teach all the peoples.’” However, they went on to add implicit support for national languages: “The disciples remembered this order and spread the Gospel to all people in their own language, as God intended.”16 With the assumption that nationality is something natural and Godgiven, actions towards national assimilation were regarded as sinful and contrary to God’s will: “One who tries to erase this deed of God, this sign of the Creator’s hand, becomes an opponent of God’s will. This unjust oppression is very often the reason for hate, and hate creates war and bloodshed, and brings disaster to the land.”17 According to Biełarus’s articles, it was these unjust actions that provoked the Great War. Likewise, on several occasions the paper warned Belarusians against the forceful assimilation or 12 Aliaksandr Smalianchuk, Pamizh kraiovastsiu i natsyianalnai ideiai: polski rukh na belaruskikh i litouskikh zemliakh 1864-liuty 1917 h. (Saint Petersburg: Nevskii Prostor, 2004). 13 “Narodnaść i wojny,” Biełarus, no. 50 (1914). 14 “Hutarka ab naszaj prostaj mowie,” Biełarus, no. 8 (1915). 15 Stanislau Boncza, “***,” Biełarus, no. 4 (1913). 16 “Holas Sprawiedliwaśći,” Biełarus, no. 13 (1914). 17 “Narodnaść i wojny,” Biełarus, no. 50 (1914).

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conversion of non-Belarusians and argued that it was immoral, sinful, and harmful to the “Belarusian Revival” itself. There were more practical arguments for the wider use of Belarusian in society, particularly in education—but religion remained prominent: God only requires from you living on Earth to love God above all else and to love your neighbor as yourself. But how can you love God if you do not know him well? We can know God better only when we are taught about him and when we pray to him in our native language. When every word of the prayer is clear to us. . . . That is why our Revival is pleasant to God.18

Biełarus’s journalists also argued that when a Belarusian Catholic prayed or learned about God in Polish without fully understanding Polish words and sentences, God could not be as pleased as when prayers were said with full comprehension—that is, in Belarusian: “Belarusians don’t understand Polish well, and in their prayers they maim the language horribly. . . . Is this prayer pleasant to God or helpful for a man?” Thus, the language was not considered a virtue in itself. Rather, it was thought of as a tool for the Catholic Church to evangelize among Belarusians more successfully, as well as for Belarusian parishioners to praise the Lord in a more meaningful way. The fact that Biełarus’s editors published a series of religious books in the Belarusian language19 also shows that, for them, the emancipation of the Belarusian vernacular was directly connected to the evangelization efforts of the Catholic Church at the time. * In order to strengthen their argument for the “Belarusian Revival,” the Biełarus writers very often used analogies to biblical events in their pieces. One interesting approach to breaking the stereotype of Belarusian being an unworthy peasant language was to borrow stories from the life of Jesus. For instance, Biełarus once pointed out that Christ spoke not “lordly” (panskaya) Latin or sacred Hebrew, but the “simple” (prostaya) tongue of the common folk—Aramaic.20

18 “Nie zwazajmo!” Biełarus, no. 29 (1913). 19 Aliaksandr Nadsan, Kniahinia Radzivil i sprava adradzhennia Unii u Belarusi (Minsk: BHA, 2006), 22. 20 “Hutarka ab naszaj prostaj mowie,” Biełarus, no. 8 (1915).

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A vivid biblical comparison was used in an article published in the Easter edition of the newspaper. Celebrating Resurrection Sunday, the article wishes readers a “Happy Easter” and then compares the Resurrection with the “revival” of the Belarusian nation. According to the author, Belarusians have been lying in a coffin for a long time and are only now beginning to rise and become stronger: “We are being reborn, and we are doing it under the sign of the Holy Cross, through which God Christ redeemed humankind from the power of hell.”21 Another powerful analogy connecting the history of the Catholic Church with the Belarusian national revival was suggested in an article about the city of Rome. The first part of the article describes the spiritual value of Rome to every Catholic: the Holy See, the important Christian landmarks, and particularly the sites of Early Christian martyrdom. The author then draws parallels between Rome and Belarus: Brother, maybe you will not walk in Rome, on the soil washed with the blood of martyrs, but remember that your native land, Holy Belarus, is a sacred place for you: the land that feeds you and which is washed by the sweat and quiet tears of your ancestors, whose ashes are resting in this soil.22

Here, the sanctity of Belarus is implied through its being equated to Rome. Further, the early Christian martyrs are compared with the ancestors of present-day Belarusians—suffering, enserfed peasants. Both the martyrs and the Belarusian peasantry will be rewarded for their suffering according to the author. It should be mentioned that the narrative of victimhood, suffering, and redemption is prominent in the newspaper. In fact, the religious and national narratives converge here. While Catholic Belarusians were persecuted for their faith by the Russian imperial government, they also suffered national discrimination as the mostly Polish-speaking nobility and Russian imperial officials did not recognize them as a separate nation or give them rights. This rather powerful image of victimhood was at times turned into a positive one: it was argued that since Catholic Belarusians suffered so much and still preserved their faith and nationality, they must have a lot of moral strength.

21 “Wialikaje Swiata,” Biełarus, no. 14–15 (1914). 22 “Bratom z daliokaha kraju,” Biełarus, no. 38 (1913).

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Finally, Biełarus looked for analogies between the sacrifice of Christ and the activity of the national movement: Let us look closer at our Revival under the slogan “revive everything in Christ.” By learning about the life of our Savior, we find the example of great love towards one’s people. Our Heavenly Savior suffered on the Cross for the redemption of humankind. So, every one of us should try his hardest to make our people, and hence the whole of humankind, better and happier.23

In a way, this idea tries to solve the opposition between the universalism of the Catholic Church and the particularism of Belarusian national activism: improving the Belarusian nation, which is a part of humankind, improves the whole of humanity—as Christ intended. The spiritual dimension of the national revival is further exemplified in several parable-like texts from Biełarus. In two of these texts, national slogans are pronounced by supernatural beings. In the first story of faith, Maciej, an educated Belarusian peasant, starts to disparage his native Belarusian language after serving in the army and becoming an army medic. He starts using Russian in his letters home and in everyday speech. When he returns home for the Christmas holiday leave, Maciej even criticizes his father for speaking Belarusian. Unlike Russian or Polish, Belarusian is the language of simple, uneducated peasants. His father rebukes him, claiming that Belarusian is just as worthy as other languages. Maciej starts to reevaluate his views, and later, when praying in the local church, he has a vision of the Baby Jesus telling him the following: “‘Love God above all else, and love all your native things and work to improve the fate of your brothers, and that is how you will fulfill your duty.’”24 After this experience, Maciej changes his ways, starts to distribute Belarusian books and newspapers, talks in Belarusian, and helps his fellow villagers. In another parable, an angelic old man comes and sits by an old neglected cross at the entrance to the village. His unusual appearance draws the attention of the villagers and, as more of them gather, he tells them: “My children—love God, your neighbor, and your native land and don’t forget that you are all Belarusians.”25 He then leaves and miraculously disappears, leaving the villagers alone. One of the village children then tells his mother that he now knows that he is Belarusian. 23 “Jakoje maje być nasze adradżennie,” Biełarus, no. 27 (1914). 24 “Na nowy hod,” Biełarus, no. 1 (1914). 25 “Starec,” Biełarus, no. 19 (1914).

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Both these texts show how traditional Christian stories of faith, which include visions, miracles, appearances of angels among men, and deep spiritual transformations, were employed to further national agitation. The authors of such texts used familiar biblical tales to communicate the idea that the revival was sanctified and hat national consciousness was a virtue for Catholics. Having considered where national and religious thinking met, it is worth discussing the central question: what was the revival in the minds of Biełarus’s editors, journalists, and readers? Despite the strong presence of national themes, the religious mission of the paper was still primary. This is clear from the formula used recurrently throughout the publication period of the newspaper: “Love God, your neighbor like yourself, your native land, and your native language.” Generally speaking, this stance was in accord with the Catholic Church’s understanding of nation and nationality at the time. The Church acknowledged that the division of mankind into nations and ethnic groups was natural and stemmed from God’s will. As a consequence, love towards one’s native land was a natural and virtuous thing. However, this was acceptable only as long as this feeling was subordinated to a feeling of Christian love towards all people and did not turn into chauvinism.26 In fact, Biełarus gave priority to following the official doctrine of the Holy See and applied it in many ways to Belarusian conditions. At the same time, however, the national component of its ideology was not just a way to further the Catholic mission of the newspaper. It was a subordinate, yet essential, part of the ideology of Biełarus. The revival was envisaged as a profound and complete (albeit gradual and peaceful) transformation of the Belarusian peasantry. The transformation was not imagined as simply religious, or national, or social, but as a combination of the three. Moreover, Biełarus claimed that other versions of the “Belarusian Revival,” which did not use the foundation of faith, were like building on sand.27 For the writers of newspaper, Catholic religious ethics should serve as the basis for nation-building. Still, there were problematic parts of Biełarus’s ideology that showed contradictions between its Catholic foundations and it national mission. 26 Grosby, Steven. ”National Identity, Nationalism, and the Catholic Church.” Oxford Handbooks Online. (2016), accessed July 4, 2016, doi: 10.1093/oxfordhb/ 9780199935420.013.61. 27 “Jakoje maje być nasze adradżennie” Biełarus, 1914, no. 27.

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For example, the paper omitted discussion of the Catholic-Orthodox split among Belarusians. This topic preoccupied many national activists at the time and was regularly discussed in the pages of Naša Niva. Yet, one can rarely find mention of the Orthodox part of the Belarusian nation in Biełarus. Moreover, the newspaper often criticized certain actions of the Orthodox clergy or covered conflicts between Catholicism and Orthodoxy from a pro-Catholic position. Almost every issue of the paper contained information on successful conversions from Orthodoxy to Catholicism. The newspaper’s position on the matter did nothing to overcome the confessional divide among Belarusian-speakers. Another detail, which was arguably detrimental to the Belarusian national movement, was the anti-Semitic rhetoric used by the newspaper from time to time. Such rhetoric was particularly evident during the coverage of the so-called Beilis Affair. In Biełarus, the news reports favored the prosecution. The Jews were criticized as owners of liquor stores and taverns, as well as profiteering traders—that is, people who were believed to undermine the moral and economic well-being of the Belarusian peasantry. Remarks linking the Jews with socialists, atheists, and Freemasons—all of whom were regarded as evil-doers by Biełarus’s writers—were quite common. Although such rhetoric was widespread in other Catholic newspapers at the time, Biełarus differed sharply from the approach of Naša Niva, which argued for active cooperation with local Jewish parties. It can be argued that the ideology of Biełarus emerged as a reaction of Belarusian Catholic circles to the socio-political and cultural changes that they observed in Europe in general and the Russian Empire and the Belarusian provinces in particular: urbanization, the growing role of the market, the disintegration of traditional village communities and traditions, and the spread of radical social ideas. For many Catholic priests, these modernizing processes were viewed negatively and seen as a threat to their Christian mission. In the pages of the newspaper, writers such as Budźka, Astramovič, and others suggested their own vision of modernization: improving the lives of peasants through cooperative institutions, new methods of agriculture, and overcoming social ills such as alcoholism, as well as spreading literacy and education based on Christian and national foundations. That is why the creators of the newspaper agitated against the emigration of peasants to the cities or America, against the adoption of factory-made

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clothes and “city” songs and dances, and against radical land reforms. The groups that were seen as the drivers of urban-based modernization, such as Jews, socialists, and nationalist politicians, were also perceived negatively in this discourse. In this context, the nation-building efforts of Biełarus can be understood as an instrument with which to prevent the perceived negative impacts of urban modernization on the Belarusian-Catholic peasantry. The Catholic intelligentsia believed that “moral revival” could be achieved only by “enlightened,” nationally conscious, and religiously devoted rural communities. Thus, Belarusian Catholic activists acknowledged the need to advocate for their own version of the present and future of Belarusian lands against other views—for example, those of socialists and the (left-leaning) and cross-confessional Naša Niva, Orthodox WestRussianists, imperial officials, Polish National Democrats, socialists, and many others. Biełarus created powerful imagery of a religiously sanctioned national revival and set out its own vision of how it should unfold. Without a doubt, a number of educated Belarusian Catholics and Belarusians in general were convinced by the paper. It was especially popular in Vilna province, where most of its readers resided.28 Still, the Catholic mission of the newspaper often interfered with its other goals and could lead to conflict with other groups within the Belarusian national movement. This proves that the Belarusian national movement prior to WWI was not as homogenous as previously thought. Still, the national-conservative version of modernization suggested by Biełarus lost its viability as the events of WWI and the Russian Revolution unfolded. Clerical-conservative nationalism of Biełarus did not survive this period, as many of its activists modified their views according to the new political, religious, and cultural situation. Belarusian Christian Democracy (BCD; originally the Christian Democratic Union), founded in 1917 had a number of former Biełarus journalists among its members. However, it adopted a much more progressive program on social and economic issues. At the same time, BCD continued Biełarus’s tradition of evolutionary and nonviolent political activism. BCD similarly believed that the “Belarusian Revival” required a strong Christian 28 Aliaksandr Bystryk, “Hazeta ‘Biełarus’ (1913–1915) i iaie mestsa u belaruskim hramadztve pachatku XX stahoddzia,” Palitychnaia Sfera, no. 24 (2016): 128.

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moral foundation. The Belarusian Christian Democrats became one of the dominant Belarusian political forces in the Second Polish Republic and competed with the socialist- and communist-oriented Belarusian political groups. In this context, the emergence of Biełarus signified the beginning of the political divisions within the Belarusian national movement, which grew particularly dramatically in interwar Poland.

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Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries: Creating a “Czech” National Society in NineteenthCentury Bohemia Taku Shinohara

Civil Society and National Culture Czech national festivals became an especially important form of political expression after the 1848 Revolution. This chapter analyzes these events in Bohemia from 1848 to the 1870s, with a special focus on the 1860s. During this period, the basic outline of national forms of expression gradually emerged, which helped cultivate and differentiate political ideas and social groups. This essay explores the role festivals played in the creation and adaptation of national culture by both urban and rural populations and the function of this national culture in shaping common social interactions in Bohemia. It pays close attention to strategies of cultural syncretism (retooling existing cultural forms such as church ceremonies, the rituals of the nobility, and so on) and the ways various social groups were redefined in the national society by means of new forms of cultural expression. In so doing, this analysis shows how new modes of expression enabled broader segments of society to imagine emerging civil society as a national society

Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries

with concrete cultural boundaries; that is, it demonstrates that national festivals provided a means by which literal forms of Czech national culture was “socialized” through new forms of public communication. In the second half of the nineteenth century, several competing civil societies emerged in the Habsburg Monarchy, each with their own form of national culture. According to nineteenth-century liberals in East-Central Europe, the nation had a civilizing function: it was the vehicle of modernization. Even though some linguistic, ethnic (folkloristic), and often religious distinctiveness was an essential part of nationalist discourse, these elements might not suffice to build a nation. Moreover, folkloric uniqueness in itself might even contradict the model of nationhood advanced by a particular group. During the National Renaissance (Národní obrození), Czech “patriots” (vlastenci) sought to demonstrate the allegedly egalitarian and democratic character of Czech society through popular culture and exploited the idyllized image of Czech peasant life for this purpose. However, their efforts reveal their desire to create semiotic forms for the cultural representation of the Czech nation rather than cultivate an interest in popular culture as such.1 The liberal concept of nationhood presupposed a hierarchy of cultures: the key criterion for the hierarchy was to what extent the language of each culture could enable social communication in the public sphere. According to German liberals at the 1848 Frankfurt National Assembly, a Czech or Slovene nation simply could not exist because of the “lack” of great traditions of literature in these Slavic languages. For liberals, Czech or Slovene speakers were an integral part of the German nation, and their languages simply confirmed the rich diversity of German national culture. Even if these languages were spoken in private life, they could not serve as a medium for communication in the public sphere. Thus, if Czech “patriots” endeavored to elaborate a modern and standardized Czech language to promote an independent Czech literature in the 1830s and 1840s, the other challenge was how to transform literary norms into social and political practice during the second phase of national development.2 1 See Jirí Rak, Bývali Čechové. České historické mýty a stereotypy (Jinočany: H&H, 1994), especially chapter 5, “Ty naše chaloupky české.” Archiv města Plzně, Idyla a idyličnost v kultuře 19. století (Ústí nad Labem: Albis international, 1999). 2 This periodization draws on the thesis of Miroslav Hroch about the three phases of development of nation-building. However, he concentrates his analysis on phase B, and his explanation on the transition from phase B to C (from cultural movement to massive political movement) is not as persuasive because he implicitly describes this transition

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For Czech liberals, the adaptation of literary representation into social practice coincided with the project of constructing a civil society. Civic ethics were expressed in national terms. Through the strong confrontation with German national society, which provided idioms of national expression and criteria for comparison, Czech national society was created with its own forms of verbal and artistic expression and norms of everyday social relations and behavior.3 The “civilized” character of national society was contrasted with the feudal order of the past (“two hundred years of national slumber”). There supposedly existed a “not-yet-civilized” populace ready to be awakened to Czech or Slavic consciousness (the representation of Slovaks played a specific role in this context). This nationalizing society was not simply produced by nationalistic movements and ideologies, but was created as an arena for a large part of the population—which had previously been excluded—to participate in political, social, and cultural events through the creation of norms of discourse and social behavior that developed alongside the newly standardized national language. But the problem was always how to create national forms of expression in the public sphere, and how to make them understandable and useful to more people to whom new norms of civilizing society or participation in the public sphere were totally unfamiliar or unknown. To analyze cultural modes of expression in Bohemia, it is vital to understand their respective forms independently from the ideals or ideological components they are supposed to contain. Baroque religious practices in the Catholic Church, which survived well beyond the mid-nineteenth as a linear process of acceptance of “patriotic” ideology by a wider spectrum of the population. Hroch does not present certain contradictions between the cultural and political programs of the national movement and their acceptance in popular culture. From this point of view, his thesis supposes evolutionary continuity from “Czech speaking ethnicity” to the formation of national society. See Miroslav Hroch, Die Vorkämpfer der nationalen Bewegung bei den kleinen Völkern Europas. Acta Universitatis Carolinae. Philosophica et Historica; Monographia 24 (Praha: Univerzita Karlova, 1968); idem., Social Preconditions of National Renaissance in Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); idem., V národním zájmu: požadavky a cíle evropských národních hnutí devatenáctého století ve srovnávací perspektivě (Praha: Nakladatelství Lidové noviny, 1999); idem., Na prahu národní existence: touha a skutečnost (Praha: Mladá fronta, 1999). 3 For the creation of his “national” style, Bedřich Smetana was more influenced by the Wagnerian school than folk tradition in Bohemia. He was not actually interested in popular culture. Jaroslav Střítecký, “Tradice a obrození. Bedřich Smetana,” in Povědomí tradice v novodobé české kultuře (Doba Bedřicha Smetany), ed. Milena Freimanová (Praha: Národní galerie, 1988).

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century, were not necessarily an expression of religious piety, but could be applied to other cultural and even political practices. While preserving its original appearance, a shift in meaning and context takes place through the addition of new signs and symbols. To understand the place of national festivals in the creation of Czech civil society and national culture, this analysis uses a variety of sources, including contemporary Czech and German newspapers and periodicals; police and gendarme reports; correspondence between the county and district-office (Kreisamts, Bezirksamt/krajský, okresní úřad), Bohemian Governorate (Statthalterei/Místodržitelství) and the imperial Ministry of Internal Affairs; the correspondence of autonomous institutions (Gemeinde/obec, Bezirksvertretung/okresní zastupitelství, Landesausschuss/ zemský výbor); the correspondence of associations like the Sokol, Hlahol; organizational committees of national festivals, etc.; and the correspondence of guilds. Together, these materials help us reconstruct the preparation and organizational phase, and the events themselves, and allow us to compare the various discourses on the same events in order to trace the function of semiotics.

The Representation of Nation: An Era of Festival Mania in Bohemia Through national festivals, we can analyze the sociocultural function of local self-governmental bodies and cultural syncretism to better understand how national modes of expression, which first appeared in communication among national elites (mostly literary figures, scholars, and other educated people), became central to the social and cultural practices of the broader strata of society. Local self-governmental bodies and voluntary associations were the main organs responsible for the construction of national society in Bohemia. By organizing and participating in national festivities, the local population could redefine its own place in Czech national society. The local population did not remain passive in this process, and they were not merely the targets of “patriots’” propaganda. They had their own cultural strategies to transform local society. Thus, they were proactive in making use of national discourse in local contexts. National festivals had already been organized in the German lands since the pre-March era, but participation in such events was largely limited to the educated middle class and students. Starting with the “Schiller festival” in 1859, German national festivals as mass phenomena that drew

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the participation of local societies also gradually began among Habsburg German societies. The Czech national festivals analyzed here developed parallel to, and sometimes in confrontation with, those of the Germans in Central Europe. From the beginning of the pseudo-constitutional era, and especially after 1862 to about the turn of the century, Bohemia experienced an era of festival mania: What festivities abound all over our motherland! Festivals follow one after another. People are never short of reasons to celebrate. If anyone should want to participate in all of these patriotic excursions, meetings and festivals, then he would have to travel almost constantly, and this is literally true about the main initiators and organizers. . . . If we were to enumerate all the festivals that have taken place or are proposed in this year, we would bore our readers. The devotion of these tireless organizers is so huge that it is already decided when and in which town who will celebrate whom in the next year. . . . But despite such a desire for festivals, most of the participants often do not know very well about the person they celebrate.4

Such critical accounts of national festivals did not appear just in newspapers—like Pražské noviny (Prague newspaper), cited above—that distanced themselves from the Czech national movement. Matěj Brouček, a famous figure in the novels of Svatopluk Čech, a distinguished Czech national author, also commented later on the enthusiasm for festivals: “There are so many great people in Bohemia that we must dedicate almost all our time to sincere applause, various commemorations, banquets and other such valuable occasions.”5 The peak of the festival mania culminated in 1868, just after the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was concluded and liberal constitutional laws were introduced for Cisleithania in December 1867. The Viennese liberal newspaper Die Presse wrote about the national festivities in Bohemia: National journalism indulges itself in sweet cheers and devotes all its energy with its characteristic toughness to spreading the seeds of enthusiasm among the people. The poor people, who have been ready to follow their leaders until now, shall never have a rest. After a great festival day, they will read 4 “Radovánky v Čechách,” Pražské noviny, October 2, 1862. 5 Svatopluk Čech, Nový lepochální výlet pana Broučka tentokráto do XV. století ((Praha: Státní nakladatelství, 1960), 8. This book was first published in Prague in 1888.

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exaggeratedly exciting descriptions of it the following day in newspapers, which suggests what the nation should do and really does for the next festival. . . . On May 22nd, the opening ceremony of the new bridge; on the 30th, the anniversary of the National Museum; at the beginning of June, the festival celebrating Palacký’s birthday; at the end of June, a Czech gymnastics festival, and so on, endlessly. When you think that corporations, guilds, students, workers, in short, all the participants in festivals are required to take part in the preparations long before these “national holidays,” you should admit that it is more harmful than profitable.6

This was written on the eve of the Festival of the Cornerstone of the Czech (Bohemian) National Theater, which was undoubtedly the greatest festival in the “era of festival mania.” This festival is noteworthy not because of the extraordinary importance assigned to it in Czech national history. Rather, it represented the synthesis of organizational methods and cultural strategies articulated in Czech national politics from the pre-March period, especially starting in the 1860s, and it served as a model for similar movements in the era that followed. Further, this festival was not a mere political manifestation, nor was it the expression of “cultural nationalism.” The concept of the Czech National Theater originated in the 1840s, but it was only in the 1860s, when the Young Czechs took up the concept of a “great National Theater,” that the National Theater movement’s goal became realistic.7 A “great National Theater” as “a cathedral of all arts” was supposed to represent the full membership of the Czech nation among European nations. If one considers that even after its opening in 1883, the National Theater suffered from a serious shortage of domestic repertoires in Czech 6 “Prag, 12. Mai. Unsere Festwoche,” Die Presse, May 14, 1868. 7 The movement for the National Theater became one of the most significant “legends” in Czech national history. Traditionally the slogan “Národ sobě” (the nation for itself) demonstrated the “unity of the whole Czech nation” in the National Theater project. Even in 1933, when Jan Bartoš pointed out deep discord between F. L. Rieger and “the younger generation of national politics and arts,” and highly estimated the role of the Young Czechs in making the theater a reality, it evoked scandalous polemics. See Jan Bartoš, Národní divadlo a jeho budovatelé. Dějiny Národního divadla I (Praha: Sbor pro zřízení druhého Národního divadla, 1933). For a book review of this volume by Karel Stloukal, see Český časopis historický 40, no. 2 (1934): 406–12. Bartoš reacted to Stloukal in a brochure: Jan Bartoš, Legenda o budování Národního divadla a její obhájce (Praha: Otto Girgal, 1935). Although Bartoš’s thesis about the Young Czechs is exaggerated, it is true that the organizational background supported by local dignitaries through self-governmental activities enabled them to take the initiative in the National Theater movement.

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and a lack of audience interest, it is obvious that it was more a symbol of national culture than a working theater. While the Young Czechs strove to realize the concept in the Committee for the Construction of the National Theater (Sbor pro zřízení Národního divadla), an important precondition for their activities—which included collecting donations for the construction of the National Theater up to the Festival of the Cornerstone—was the existence of a social network of local dignitaries that enabled the mass mobilization of corporations and communal and district self-governing bodies. Starting in 1862, Czech national activists began to organize national festivals even though similar activities, such as national balls, forums (beseda), and excursions, which had previously existed on a much smaller scale among a narrow circle of “patriots.” In the early phase of development, several specific types of national festivals can be identified: 1. Festivities of associations: many voluntary associations organized festivals in the 1860s. These events would play a decisive role in the formation of a national society in Bohemia in the decades that followed. Choral societies, such as Hlahol (Echo), Lukeš, and so forth, and the gymnastic association Sokol (Falcon) were of particular importance. Contemporaries regarded the choral festivals in 1862 and 1864 as “festivals of the entire nation.” 2. The ordination of banners of associations or corporations (former guilds). 3. Festivals dedicated to patriotic writers (Kajetán Tyl, Václav Hanka, Vojtěch Nejedlý, Karel Havlíček, Jan Amos Komenský, etc.) 4. Excursions to historic memorials such as Říp, Bílá Hora, Karlštejn, and similar sites that had already been pilgrimage destinations in the Baroque period, and whose religious meanings were gradually lost. Added to this were trips to new destinations, like the recently discovered (often allegedly) battlefields of the Hussite war. Excursions were often combined with other types of festivals or banquets. 5. Festivals that had initially had a religious or dynastical character, but were transformed into national activities for a specific social or political milieu. The October Diploma Festival is a good example of a festival with this type of orientation.

Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries

6. Festivals celebrating the laying of the cornerstones of buildings to which “national” significance was assigned. This typology is certainly not comprehensive, and several elements might be present in a single festival. Festival committees, which were responsible for preparations, consisted of local dignitaries in most cases. They were usually also members of communal (Gemeindevertretung/obecní zastupitelstvo) or district committees (Bezirksvertretung/okresní zastupitelstvo), the very same organs that were de facto responsible for the organization of the national festivals. Although national associations also played a very significant role, self-governmental bodies were the main initiators and organizers of festivals in the 1860s and their memberships often overlapped. When in 1865 the Committee for the Construction of the National Theater called for donations, it charged the chairmen of communal self-governments with collection activities in rural areas.8 When communal self-governmental bodies showed little interest in these directives, district representatives took the initiative.9 The leaders of these bodies, particularly those operating at the district level, had well-developed connections with the center of national politics—deputies of the Bohemian Diet, especially of the Young Czech wing.

Cultural Forms Appropriated: The Creation of New Semiotics As far as representations of national culture were concerned, organizers appropriated elements of Church and folkloric rituals and the customs of feudal society that had developed in the earlier centuries and continued well into the late nineteenth century in a form of popular Baroque culture. Excursions to historical places were a direct imitation of Baroque pilgrimages, and their destinations were often even the same; however, the old symbols adopted by organizers were used to communicate new, national meanings in the altered context. A national festival on the hill of Říp was 8 “Na zdar důstojného divadla národního! Rodáci!” Národní listy, July 25, 1865. 9 A list of district corporations and communes that contributed to the collection was regularly published in Národní listy on its front page. See articles: “Náš venkov a velké národní divadlo,” Národní listy, October 12, 1865; “Okresní zastupitelstva a národní divadlo,” Národní listy, November 5, 1865; and so on. It is remarkable that a collection for the National Theater took place right at the time of the electoral campaign for the district committee. These articles emphasized the significance of civil autonomy for the further development of national culture. Local politics were then discussed in Czech liberal newspapers in the context of national welfare.

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held annually starting in 1862, and a mass “meeting” took place there in May 1868, on the occasion of the ceremonial departure of the cornerstone of the National Theater to Prague. It was one of the most significant political demonstrations of the period, as more than 20,000 participants gathered there from the surrounding localities. When local dignitaries, often in concert with a mayor of a local city or president of the district council, ceremonially received guests from Prague, they appropriated the rituals of dynastic traditions, as if they were welcoming secular or clerical notables. This cultural appropriation is quite remarkable given that the attitudes of Czech national liberals were often highly antagonistic to the Catholic Church and the nobility. Despite the verbal and symbolic messages from the organizers and the guests, many participants interpreted the events in their traditional sense. This “national pilgrimage” to Říp was a kind of transformation of the Festival of St. George originating in the Baroque period. Indeed, even in the 1860s, it was more a religious than national festival for many participants. We can observe different interpretations among the participants that were engendered through the several modes of expression adopted by the event. During the initial phase of national festival development, Catholic clerics played an important role, and Church rituals were essential components of these festivities. Religious rituals were applied to national festivals by Catholic clerics themselves. Thus, they advanced a national culture through existing modes of expression. What follows is a description of one such event, a national festival dedicated to the Czech playwright Josef Kajetán Tyl held in Kutná Hora on April 21, 1862. Even though national and Slavic semiotics were applied, the fundamental form of the festival was configured according to Catholic ceremony and popular Baroque rituals. František Palacký was accompanied on the way from Kolín to Kutná Hora by “a group of brave peasants on beautiful horses, dressed in čamara, with Slavic caps, and wide red and white ribbons draped over their shoulders.”10 The peasants’ cavalry was created in the 1860s in connection with the development of national festivities, and it became known as the banderium (peasant cavalry) after the Festival of the Cornerstone of the National Theater in 1868. The peasants’ cavalry represented the peasant class as an independent and equal member of Czech national society, and it substitutionally performed the symbolic functions of military cavalry and municipal shooting 10 Čamara is an allegedly Slavic costume inspired by the dress of the Polish nobility in the eighteenth century, which demonstrated their Sarmatian origin.

Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries

corps (střelecký sbor; Schützenverein) in feudal society. As the Národní listy further notes: Many burghers of Kutná Hora were waiting for us, among them the deputy of the land diet Dr. Šícha from Nové Dvory. Here we saw a horde of cavaliers and some vehicles, and at first, we thought they were some squadron of hussars; however, we were surprised as the cavalry was closing in on us; they were bold peasants from around Starý Kolín, guiding Dr. Rieger to Kutná Hora.11

At the town gate of St. Ursula, which was “splendidly decorated in evergreen and banners with national colors and the inscription ‘Welcome, Hail to the Fatherland,’ the municipal council led by Dr. Štětka welcomed Palacký and Rieger, and some girls dressed in national colors offered them bread and salt as a symbol of friendship according to old Slavic custom.” Nevertheless, this reception at the town gate was, as commented on in German newspapers in Bohemia, modeled after the ritualized reception of secular and clerical notables in feudal society. Palacký, Rieger, and other representatives of national politics were received as the “aristocrats” of Czech national society. As if desiring to create this new aristocracy, many cities whose councils were dominated by Czech national liberals bestowed the title of “honored citizen” on the representatives of national politics in the 1860s. A report by the district office (Bezirksamt or okresní úřad) of Kutná Hora compared the reception of Palacký and Rieger in Kutná Hora with the recent reception of notables, which clearly demonstrates that contemporaries were aware of the imitational nature of this style of ritualized reception in national festivals: Normally, honored guests are welcomed outside the town. For example, it was already in Nové Dvory that the mayor and municipal councilors waited for His Majesty, the governor, Count Forgách, and it was on the border to the Čáslav district where they waited for the bishop of Hradec Králové.12 11 “Kutnohorská slavnost odhalení Tylova pomníku,” Národní listy, April 23, 1862. This article also further describes the event. A peasant’s cavalry such as this was not actually composed of peasants: it usually contained burghers and intellectuals. See Antal Stašek, “Hrst úvah, chumáč vzpomínek,” in Založení národního divadla 1868: vydáno na pamět padesátého výročí, ed. Jaroslav Benda (Praha: Slavnostní výbor pro jubileum Nár. divadla, 1918), 72. 12 District office of Kutná Hora to the governor of Bohemia, May 6, 1862, Národní archiv PM1860-70, 3/11/6.

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By contrast, the report asserted, Palacký and Rieger were welcomed only at the city gate. In making this observation, the district office intended to emphasize the half-hearted attitude of the municipal council to the national festival, and thereby downplay the event. By applying symbols such as “national costume” or “old Slavic customs” to the practices of feudal society, the context of the actions as a whole produced new cultural meanings of national culture. However, as the report by the district office indicated, “Palacký and Rieger did not know what to do with this ‘bread and salt.’”13 The German liberal newspaper Tagesbote aus Böhmen criticized Palacký’s behavior because “he seemed like the nobility of the past,” and it described the “old Slavic way of welcome” as a “Sarmatian custom.”14 Such were the contradictions of the negotiated meanings of these events. Applied modes of expression could produce very different interpretations of these events according to the perspective of the active and passive participants and observers. The core of the festival was the mass in the church and the unveiling of a memorial plaque at Tyl’s birth house. The canon, Václav Štulc, and many other clerics read mass in the bishop’s cathedral of Saint Jacob, and were accompanied by music performed by local choral associations. Then, all participants marched to Tyl’s house: the city shooting corps; the guilds with their flags; students; municipal councils; guests of the festival; and others. At the unveiling ceremony, choral associations sang “Kde domov můj,” and Štulc made a speech. The bishopric ordinary of Kutná Hora had to submit an explanation to the governor of Bohemia excusing the participation of clerics in the national festival, which was generally regarded as a political statement. This explanation reveals how the Church provided the external form for the national festival, and at the same time, how the national festival appropriated church ceremony and rituals. The bishopric ordinary of Kutná Hora wrote: Not only had Catholic priests not taken part in the preparation of the festival; they had also done everything possible to ensure that this enterprise, prepared by secular persons, would not have any resemblance to church rituals. So there had been no announcement in churches before the festival,

13 Ibid. 14 “Ueber die Festlichkeit in Kuttenberg,” Tagesbote aus Böhmen, May 1, 1862.

Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries

no priests read or wanted to read Mass, and during the festival, no bells sounded.15

Nevertheless high mass was held only because “choral associations wanted High Mass read in honor of Tyl, and although the canon, Štulc, intended only to say Low Mass, he ended up reading High Mass.”16 Fourteen clerics from Kutná Hora, invited by the festival committee, attended the high mass. The bishopric ordinary tried to explain that the high mass was not planned in advance as a part of the festival, and was read in the course of the event only by accident: The intention to read High Mass did not have anything in common with the festival, and if there was any relation, then it was only implicitly indicated by the prayer to our Father for the eternal peace of the departed soul to which the festival was dedicated, held at the end of the Mass. If there were no Church codes prohibiting Mass with songs in the week following Easter, a requiem would have been held instead of High Mass.17

Despite the defensive tone of the letter downplaying the significance of clerics’ participation in the national festival, it is clear that they actively shaped the event. Indeed, the main initiator of the festival on the Church side was Štulc who, in addition to his role as canon, was also an important national activist who often contributed Czech journals like Květy and Světozor, and edited Pozor for a short time (1861–62). Clergy members intentionally orchestrated the deviation of Church ritual from its religious context to its form and framework in the context of the national festival. This translation of Church ritual made possible the participation of broad segments of the population in the national festival. Clerics not only mediated the culture and ideology of the National Renaissance as local intellectuals, but also actively and enthusiastically contributed to the creation of national cultural forms through the appropriation of already well-known religious rituals. However, it is not clear how participants interpreted the events, and the festival may very well have been perceived more as a religious ceremony than a national festival.

15 Bishopric ordinary in Kutná Hora to the governor of Bohemia, May 22, 1862, NA PM1860-70 3/11/6. 16 Ibid. 17 Ibid.

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The most exemplary case of this syncretism was the Festival of the Cornerstone for the National Theater. It was held on May 16, 1868, which was traditionally known as the Day of Saint John of Nepomuk, whose cult spread well beyond Bohemia during the Baroque period and survived well into the nineteenth century. St. John of Nepomuk was venerated as the patron saint of Bohemia and was a symbol of patriotism in the Kingdom of Bohemia (Landespatriotismus). Every year on May 16, more than 20,000 pilgrims from all over the Kingdom of Bohemia used to visit St. Nepomuk’s statue on Prague’s stone bridge and his tomb in the cathedral; it was the largest pilgrimage in the Austrian half of the monarchy at that time. The Festival of the Cornerstone appropriated the scenery and dramaturgy of the Nepomuk festival to express the historical continuity of the Czech nation. Already in 1862, when the first choral festival was held in Prague on May 16, a newspaper article in Národní listy defined it as a national festival similar to those of the “ancient Greeks.”18 It was the first attempt to transform this religious pilgrimage into a national festival, which was later completed with the total denial of the legend of Saint Nepomuk together with its Baroque religiosity in the new conceptualization of a secular national history.19 The main motif expressed in the national festivals was the emergent norm of civil society. This motif was represented in contrast to the older, “uncivilized” character of folkloric tradition. Thus, folk fairs of journeymen and other lower-class elements in Prague, such as Fidlovačka or Slamník, never became an organic component of national festivals even though the words “national festival” (národní slavnost) were sometimes used to refer to such fairs.20 During the Festival of the Cornerstone, the folk fair traditionally held during the John Nepomuk pilgrimage, was simply pushed outside the framework of the national event. 18 See Národní listy, May 16, 1862:

It is not easy to find other occasions when our people could gather from all the corners of our motherland in such a great number. By tradition, this day is chosen and blessed. It is up to us whether we can use this occasion for the benefit of our nation. . . . Our people are accustomed to coming to Prague together en masse because we adore Prague. ‘Whoever can come on this day, come!’ It is not without reason that our people look at golden Prague as their spiritual mother. 19 See Jakub Arbes, Lež a pravda o “svatém” Janu Nepomuckém (Prague: Knihkupectví Dra. Grégra a Ferd. Dattla, 1870). On the development of Nepomucký legend, see Vít Vlnas, Jan Nepomucký: Česká legenda, 2nd ed. (Prague: Paseka, 2013). 20 Fidlovačka and Slamník are folk fairs annually held in suburbs of Prague. Fidlovačka is well known from Josef Kajetán Tyl’s play with the same title.

Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries

The national conceptualization of the festival could perhaps remain peripheral to the meaning rendered by traditional ritual forms for many visitors and even active participants. Moreover, there was extensive space for various interpretations of the festivals. For some it was a national festival, but for others it remained part of a traditional pilgrimage as demonstrated by the many medals and other souvenirs produced commemorating Jan Nepomuk, or by the folk fair held on the margin, on the Letná plain. Thus, there were often substantial contradictions between the ideas expressed in the festival. However, it remains a fact that festivals created the new modes of representation.

Social Relations Redefined: Civil Ethics and National Idioms Through national festivities, various social groups redefined their position in Czech national society. Under Habsburg rule, guilds were formally abolished in 1859 by the new Trade Law. Nevertheless, former guilds continued to exist as craftsmen’s corporations, which controlled production and served as mutual help societies for members; some corporations even held symbolic authority in urban society. These corporations were gradually converted into voluntary craftsmen’s associations, which liberals actively promoted. As a result of this transformation, these associations had to urgently defend their traditional meanings by redefining their social and cultural function and position. The case of the Festival of the Cornerstone of the National Theater demonstrates that Czech national society offered a new framework for the social and cultural reinterpretation of guilds. Through their preparations for national festivals, especially for the Cornerstone Festival, these associations consciously adapted their symbolic guild traditions in the emerging semiotic system of national society, as we can see in the example of the Prague Butcher’s Guild. The passage below provides a description of this guild’s plan for the Cornerstone Festival: At the head of the procession is a herald riding on a horse in a thirteenthcentury costume with the emblem of the butcher’s guild and old coat of arms of Prague on his chest. Twenty-seven tough men selected from young butchers will follow him, all dressed the same in old Czech costume: a white jacket and apron and old, green Czech cap with the Bohemian lion, carrying splendid butchers’ axes. After this platoon will come a knight in the typical armor of the

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thirteenth century, carrying the banner the butchers of Prague won from the Swedes during the siege of Prague. . . . After the knight will come four squires in costume from the time of King John of Luxemburg; on a velveteen cushion, one of them will carry the antique parchment book containing the freedom and rights of the butchers’ guild that were provided by ancient Bohemian kings, and the other a key to the city given to the butchers of Prague by John of Luxemburg because they secured him free entrance into Prague by defending the city gate. As Jewish butchers are responsible for the upkeep of this very heavy key, a Jewish butcher will carry it.21

Legend and alleged privileges from the time of John of Luxemburg and the patriotism demonstrated during the Thirty Years’ War suggest that the tradition of the Prague butchers’ guilds was closely bound to the history of the Bohemian kingdom. This kind of historicism shifted to an emergent national culture by arranging itself around “Slavic” and “old Czech” motifs. According to the ideology and literature of the Czech National Renaissance, as the official speech at the Festival of the Cornerstone by Karel Sladkovský shows, the Thirty Years’ War represented a national catastrophe as it allegedly brought about the decline of the Czech language and culture. In this ideological context, the popular Baroque traditions referencing the plunder and devastation inflicted by the Swedish occupation and the heroic defense of Prague by the Butchers’ Guild could have contradicted the interpretation of Czech history in the national literature. However, the insertion of well-known forms of representation and symbols into Czech emergent nationalizing culture was far more important than the discordant interpretations of Czech history on display. It is necessary here to point out that the Prague Butchers’ Guild participated in the festival together with Jewish butchers, which would not have been possible earlier. Together with the other case of a banderium from Kolín, which consisted of two platoons, one Catholic and one Protestant, demonstrates that the festival could mobilize a broad segment of the population regardless of confessional differences. Thus, the Catholic Festival of John of Nepomuk was appropriated by the Cornerstone Festival for the national context. The Millers’ Corporation of Prague restored their guild banner dating “from the year 1564” for the festival, which the millers had last presented on the occasion of the coronation festival of the Bohemian King Ferdinand 21 Národní listy, April 20, 1868.

Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries

V in 1836.22 The restored banner was consecrated on May 10th, shortly before the start of the festival. The wife and two daughters of senior members of the millers’ corporation were the godmothers of the banner, and the pole of the banner was decorated with blue, red, and white ribbons onto which the names of the godmothers were sewn. The emblem of the millers’ association with the coat of arms of the four integrated Prague cities stood at the center of the banner and “under it, two lions hold a millstone, and one can find the description Insigne coetus molitorum Pragensium. Anno 1564, Renovatum 1868.”23 The banner was consecrated in Saint Peter’s Church while a choral association sang the “Te Deum.” More than 4,000 people marched from the church to the mill in the Prague Old Town, and banner bearers wore black čamara and old Slavic caps made of grey lambskin.24 The millers also participated in the Festival of the Cornerstone in this costume, and their float featured “models of a regular mill and a modern mill called ‘amerikán,’” from which they would distribute wheat and rye flour to the audience.25 In the case of the millers’ guild, the events surrounding the consecration of the banner already had the character of a national festival. The symbolic mixture of guild tradition and Church rite blended with Slavic and national elements, and the structure of the festival was typical of many other national festivals at the time. Here, “amerikán” represented the modernization process of the milling industry. A similar case was Typografická beseda (the Typographers’ Association): for the procession, the typographers built a float on which they showcased the latest printing press and distributed printed poems.26 These kinds of processions proudly demonstrated that the origins of these corporations were closely tied to Bohemian/Czech history and, at the same time, emphasized the role of corporations as bearers of modern, progressive industrial life for the nation. If national society was to be envisaged as the manifestation of the historical evolution from feudal society to civil society, then former guilds had to transform themselves into associations 22 Národní listy, April 28, 1868. 23 “Svěcení praporu mlynářského,” Národní listy, May 11, 1868. 24 Ibid. 25 Národní listy, April 28 and May 5, 1868. 26 Of course, the poems were printed in advance, not on the float. A report of the Police Directorate in Prague to the Bohemian governor’s office, May 14, 1868, NA, PM 1860– 1870, 8/6/2/87.

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for modern industrial progress in this civilizational process. In so doing, they confirmed their participation in national society. However, this representation of industrial progress in public festivals was not a completely new invention: in the coronation festival of Ferdinand V, the procession of each of the sixteen counties (Kreis/kraj) represented its characteristic industry on a float, from which they distributed wool, cotton, and other products to the audience. The procession of guilds can be characterized as an extreme form of syncretism intended to mobilize broader segments of the populace through the application of well-known practices and a familiar semiotic system. Adding new symbols like “Slavic” or “old Czech” shifted practices stemming from the guild tradition into the framework of an emerging national culture. However, the interpretation of such practices was left to the various participants and audiences of these festivals. This possibility of multilayered interpretations produced the dynamics of national culture and enabled the social redefinition of various groups in Czech national society. While craft associations could refer to the abundant signs representing their historical traditions and privileges dating back to the old regime, the peasantry did not have similar symbols at their disposal which would allow them to represent themselves as an independent component of the Czech nation. Although in the literature of the National Renaissance, the romantic image of the peasantry was one of the most important motifs, the incorporation of the peasantry into the public sphere of national society was always problematic because the peasantry was still largely influenced by the vestiges of feudal social relations. In 1836, the imperial government ordered sixteen county offices (Kreisämter) in the Kingdom of Bohemia to send a young married couple in folk costume to act as a “peasant delegation” in the procession celebrating the coronation of Ferdinand V held in Prague.27 Floats depicting the traditional customs and the typical industry of each region were also sent for the parade. The whole procession was intended to be a panorama of the regionally diverse and prosperous peasantry, loyal subjects of the Kingdom of Bohemia. This intention reflected the Habsburgs’ physiocratic policy dating back to the reign of Maria Theresia. 27 See Hannah Laudová, Lidové slavnosti—jejich formy a funkce v jednotlivých obdobích národního obrození,“ Etnografie národního obrození 4 (Prague: Ústav pro etnografii a folkloristiku ČSAV, 1978).

Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries

The parade during the Festival of the Cornerstone in 1868 directly referenced this dynastic tradition. The carefully prepared course of the procession was the same as the 1836 coronation. However, the peasantry needed to be represented in a different way than as loyal subjects of the king. The Committee for the Construction of the National Theater sent a circular to district councils to set up banderiums for the festival. The district councils in turn called upon communal councils (Gemeindeausschuss/obecní výbor) to respond to the appeal and organized district banderiums. While voluntary associations such as Hlahol or Sokol were also organized in each district, banderiums were led by the self-governmental body itself. Banderiums also expressed the locally based patriotism of the peasants in a framework of institutionalized autonomous bodies (Landgemeinde/Stadtgemeinde, and Bezirk/okres, newly established in 1864), which was a completely novel idea. This local patriotism was defined in terms of national society. A banderium was to represent the notion that peasants were no longer serfs or subjects (Untertaenen/poddaní); rather, the peasantry was an independent social class composed of free and independent citizens who were full members of the Czech nation. According to the contemporary norms of civil society, banderiums were composed only of male members of the peasantry as “independent citizens,” unlike the peasants’ floats in 1836. What the banderium represented was eloquently described in a speech by the chairman of the district corporation Unhošt at the ordination of the banner of the newly established Unhošt district banderium on June 23, 1868, just after the Cornerstone Festival: Today is a great festive day for the peasantry of our district. After a long period full of cruel and unhappy experiences, but also full of heartfelt hopes and desires, after centuries of long-continued deep sleep, the peasant class has, at last, awoken. The peasant class in Bohemia has nourished the nation but was nurtured in subjection and serfdom for centuries, and it was the class that scarcely recognized and understood their own importance and dignity as citizens and farmers and was the least regarded and respected. The word peasant itself was very often pronounced with a jeer. A simple countryman was considered the last among the population of this kingdom. But now the time for emancipation has come. In freeing themselves from servitude, such a rural figure is now elevated to a citizen, an equal among all others. The entire Czech nation was stirred into participating in the National Festival of the

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Cornerstone of the great Czech Theater. Czech peasants grouped by district contributed the most to the grandeur and glory of that day. Citizens! . . . The peasants of this district could march in unity and concord under the holy motto of progress, and they will gather around this banner and start on the way to civil enlightenment and morality to the prosperity and salvation of our nation.28

Despite this enthusiasm for peasant participation, when district councils began organizing banderiums to send to the Festival of the Cornerstone, they had no idea how it should look in terms of costume, behavior, vocal expression, etc. The Arts Society (Umělecká beseda) proposed a “national costume” designed by artists including Josef Mánes, and this type of costume was soon produced for commercial purposes.29 Motifs from Slavism and the Hussite Middle Ages were more dominant than those stemming from Bohemian folklore. During the period of festival mania, a number of banderiums and local associations were established, most of which celebrated the “ordination of the banner.” More important than the establishment of the banderiums themselves was the creation of a new form of social expression applicable to local everyday life. According to gendarmerie reports written in April 1869, a banderium of the Karlín district held a funeral procession in honor of “a peasant son, Ludiwig Hrnška,” but “no national signs, no national costume, no demonstration, nor anything like that were observed.”30 The district office of Karlín reported two similar cases in April and May of 1869. Preparations for, and participation in, national festivals provided an occasion for the invention and spread of new cultural forms, including modes of behavior, vocal expression, and costumes that expressed new social

28 “Svěcení praporu unhoštského banderia. Řeč pana rytíře Andrzejevského,” Národní listy, June 23, 1868. 29 The commercialization of national objects and icons is worth discussing. At the Festival of the Cornerstone of the National Theater, pictures of national memorials, brochures with patriotic poems, portraits of “patriots,” medals, and so forth were sold. Tradesmen asked the Committee for the Construction of the National Theater to give them a monopoly on the sale of souvenirs at the festival (commemoration medals, lithographs of the future National Theater, its plan, etc.). Some of them even proposed that they would donate half the profits they made from this monopoly to the committee. It must have been pretty good business! 30 District Chief Kolín to the governor of Bohemia, May 14, 1868. Národní archiv PM1860-70, 8/6/2/87.

Defining the Public Sphere through Cultural Boundaries

relations at the local level. At the same time, these banderiums became part of the process of the nationalization of popular culture.

Conclusion The creation of cultural forms in national festivals heavily depended upon popular Baroque culture and rituals of the Church and aristocratic society, even if “patriots” (vlastenci) ideologically rejected popular Baroque culture because the Baroque period was ideologically too often associated with the forced re-Catholicization, and decline of Bohemian statehood and Czech culture, which was described by such metaphors as “sleep” (spánek), “death” (smrt), “darkness” (temno), “winter” (zima), etc. To ensure that a national form of culture, which was fundamentally new and foreign to most people at the time, could be accepted by various strata of society, it was necessary to refer to familiar forms of cultural practice. In other words, historical syncretism was an essential part of the process of creating a national form of culture in nineteenth-century Bohemia. This type of syncretism created a significant contradiction between the appropriated expression of poplar Baroque culture, and the signs and symbols of national culture. Thus, even if national journalism—which was an indispensable component of these events—offered an integrated framework of interpretation that highlighted the central points of reference, national festivals became an arena of negotiation and conflict among participants over the meanings of festivals, be they religious, aristocratic, or folkloric, but not necessarily “national.”

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“Building” Nationalism: St. Elisabeth’s Church in Lemberg Dominika Rank

The construction of the Church of St. Elisabeth in Lemberg was planned in 1894 and completed between 1898 and 1911. During its relatively short construction period, St. Elizabeth’s went from being a memorial to the recently slain Empress Elisabeth of the Habsburg dynasty to a celebration of the Polish nation. By the time it finally opened for worship—and judging from the evidence of all celebrations, media responses, and official and unofficial discourse—the church represented the changes that had rapidly occurred in Galician society: modernization, the destruction of pro-Habsburg affiliations, and the rise of radical nationalism. The province of Galicia and Lodomeria was created by the Austrian monarchy in 1772 as a new administrative territorial unit of the empire immediately after the first partition of the Rzeczpospolita by the Russian and Austrian Empires (as well as by the Kingdom of Prussia). Galicia had a heterogeneous ethnic composition, both in the west with its predominance of Poles and in the east with its Ruthenian (Ukrainian) population. In addition to Poles and Ukrainians, a considerable number of Jews also lived in the territory.1 The city of Lviv/Lemberg/Lwów became the capital of 1 For detailed information about the religious-ethical composition of Galicia, see “Die Ergebnisse der Volkzählung vom 31 December 1890,” Heft 1, “Die summarischen Ergebnisse der Volkszählung,” Österreichische Statistik 32 (1892), 124, 171, and Volodymyr Okhrymovych, “Z polia natsional’noi statystyky Halychyny,” Studii z polia suspil’nykh nauk i statystyky 1 (1909), 67.

“Building” Nationalism: St. Elisabeth’s Church in Lemberg

the new province.2 Lviv, although situated in the eastern part of Galicia, had a large Polish community, numbering 82,597 (51.66%) of the total population of 159,887 in the early twentieth century. The number of Ukrainians was 29,325 (18.34%). During the next population census, in 1910, Poles numbered 105,469 (51.17%) and Ukrainians 39,314 (19.07%) of the total population of 206,133 people.3 Jews were the third largest group. As the census was not based on national or ethnic, but on linguistic and religious, grounds, its criteria do not allow us to reproduce a detailed picture of the ethnic composition of the population. Stepan Makarchuk has noted that in Lviv, unlike anywhere else in Eastern Galicia, there was a big difference between census indicators for religious and linguistic affiliation. Hence, religious and linguistic affiliation did not always coincide in Lviv: among Roman Catholics there were Ukrainian speakers, and among Greek Catholics there were Polish speakers. As for Yiddish and Hebrew, these languages ​​did not appear at all as an option in the census, which led to an artificial increase in the Polish population at the expense of Jews, who had no option other than to categorize themselves as Polish speakers.4 At the beginning of the twentieth century the number of German-speaking Jews accounted for a relatively small percentage of the population, with Jews from Brody the only exception. Even more negligible was the number of Ukrainian-speaking Jews, who because of the census’s format had to identify themselves as Ukrainian. Until the second half of the nineteenth century, the population of Galicia was mainly engaged in agriculture, not counting the more urban Jewish population. The establishment of Galician autonomy in 1867 created conditions for strengthening the dominance of Poles in education, economic activity, and in the bodies of self-government, as well as in Galicia’s state institutions. In fact, the province became the only political territory led by Poles in the Austrian Empire.5 The main social class of the population, which concentrated within itself the fullness of power, was the Polish 2 In this article the modern name Lviv is usually used. The city, however, is known to Polish speakers as Lwów and German speakers as Lemberg. Lemberg was officially used in the time of the Habsburg Empire. Lviv is the Ukrainian name for the city, as it nowadays belongs to Ukraine. 3 Tadeusz Pilat, ed., Podręcznik statystyki Galicji, vol. 9, part 1 (Lwów: Krajowe biuro statystyczne, 1913), 11–12. 4 Stepan Makarchuk, “Zminy v etnosocialnij strukturi naselennia Lvova v pershij polovyni XX stolittia,” Visnyk Lvivskogo universytetu 1 (2007): 450. 5 Antony Polonsky, The Jews in Poland and Russia, vol. 2, 1881 to 1914 (Oxford: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2010), 113.

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nobility. It retained its influence over the majority of the traditional rural population until the outbreak of the First World War. From the second half of the nineteenth to the beginning of the twentieth century, however, the influence of the Polish nobility gradually declined due to modernization in the empire and the concomitant growth of Ukrainian nationalism in the eastern part of the province. Furthermore, the new ideologies of populism, socialism, and Polish and Jewish nationalism began to spread. Since the end of the nineteenth century, Galicia, and especially Lviv, had become an arena of national conflict among three groups—Poles, Ukrainians, and Jews. Conflict between Poles and Ukrainians concerned not only politics, but also economic, cultural, educational, and even religious issues. Yet interethnic tensions in the region were triggered not only by the development of emerging national ideologies, but also by the Austrian government itself. Polish nationalism played an active role in Galicia even before the creation of Galician autonomy, while Ukrainian nationalism took shape later. However, Austrian political liberalism, balancing both groups, enabled each community, albeit within certain limits, to shape its own cultural life. This had an impact on the political life of Galicia and, as a result, by the end of the nineteenth century, Austrian liberalism had lost much of its influence and popularity among both Poles and Ukrainians. In the 1860s–70s, liberal pro-Austrian policy was popular among all ethnicities and religions. Maciej Janowski calls this period “liberalism’s sacred time.”6 One of the manifestations of social, political, and cultural sentiment was the high degree of loyalty to the Habsburg dynasty, and to Emperor Franz Joseph and Empress Elisabeth in particular. The latter’s murder on September 10, 1898, deeply affected Galicians and even entered folklore: Our lady, the empress of imperial lineage, Went to bathe in the waters of Karlsbad, And this unbaptized heathen, born in Paris, Thrust a poisoned file into our empress. _____________________ He [the emperor] entered the poisoned spindle, blood was flowing, Not two minutes passed, she gave up her ghost completely. 6 Maciej Janowski, Inteligencja wobec wyzwań nowoczesności: dylematy ideowe polskiej demokracji liberalnej w Galicji w latach 1889–1914 (Warszawa: Instytut Historii PAN, 1996), 13.

“Building” Nationalism: St. Elisabeth’s Church in Lemberg

He thrust the poisoned spindle between the white breasts And the lady, the empress will not breathe anymore. The very lord, the emperor is weeping for her, Holy Rus’ is weeping, and on the sky a fiery broom appeared. Were that this Switzerland became submerged The empress would have bathed in our parts.7

Songs lamenting the death of Elizabeth, as well as legends that she roams unrecognized among the people, are preserved to the present day. Nevertheless, at the end of the nineteenth century, liberalism, which proclaimed individual freedom and the equality of ethnic groups and religions, could no longer serve an increasingly ethnically divided society. Especially evident was competition between the Ukrainian and Polish communities. In this paper, I focus on visual manifestations of this competition, and especially on church architecture. One of the most conspicuous churches is St. George’s Cathedral (Sobor Svyatoho Yura), the seat of the Galician Greek Catholic metropolitan, which has dominated the city landscape since 1772, looming as a colossus on St. George Hill (Svyatoyurska Hora). Everyone entering the city from the train station, which started operating in 1861, first of all sees the baroque ensemble of the cathedral complex. There was no lack of Roman Catholic churches in Lviv in early twentieth century Lviv. According to Mikhail Grinchishin’s estimation, there were twelve Greek Catholic churches while there were nearly thirty Roman Catholic churches,8 and both denominations and parishes had a similar number of worshipers. In 1894, Bishop Józef Bilczewski called a meeting of the Church Elisabeth Committee to build a Roman Catholic cathedral on Solarna Street, his wish motivated by the insufficient number of parish churches in the area, despite St. Anne’s near the train station. Catholic officials believed that one church was not be enough to meet the religious needs of local worshipers. The residents of Solarna Square at the end of the nineteenth century were mostly railway station workers, who were overwhelmingly Roman Catholics. In the late nineteenth century, the Catholic clergy also became more sensitive to the emergence of new ideologies, including 7 Bohdan Medwidsky, “A Ukrainian Assassination Ballad in Canada,” Canadian Journal for Traditional Music, no. 6 (1978), 36–37. 8 Franciszek Barański, Przewodnik po Lwowie (Lwów: Nakład księgarni H. Altenberga, 1902).

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nationalism and socialism. Bishop Bilczewski serves as one of the examples of active engagement in the social and political struggle in Galicia by a clergyman. He actively supported Stronnictwo Katolicko-Narodowe—the Catholic National Party)—which was founded in 1898 in Kraków and had branches in Tarnów and Lviv.9 The Catholic National Party, and accordingly Bilczewski, held views that were very close to socialism: the desire for social justice, the equality of all classes, and the protection of worker and peasant interests. It is true that Bilczewski and the entire Catholic National Party distinguished themselves from the socialists in their view that Christianity and its morality was a vital component of society. For Bilczewski, however, social and political engagement was almost more important than pastoral ministry, and the main target group was workers and peasants.10 Therefore, the choice of location for the future cathedral was less an ecclesiastical than a political matter for Bilczewski. The cathedral built in this compact Polish workers’ area going to be a tribute not only to the spiritual but also social work. The Lviv press actively discussed the plan for the new cathedral, paying more attention to its national-political than its religious function. The press was particularly interested in the architectural competition for the design of the future cathedral and in its construction, which must also be understood in the context of the local newspapers’ low level of interest in religious issues. In general, newspapers had become a means of political propaganda. The development of mass political parties not only fomented more intense and emotional electoral campaigns, but changed the role of newspapers from an informative and educational function into an ideological one.11 The city’s papers heatedly discussed the goal of the future cathedral. As the Polish Gazeta Lwowska (Lviv gazette) reported, the new cathedral would establish a “Catholic Lviv.”12 The Ukrainian community also supported this social and economic role for the cathedral. At the same time, it objected that the cathedral would overshadow St. George’s Cathedral and change the visual focus of the city from Greek Catholic to Roman Catholic. The choice 9 Harald Binder, Galizien in Wien. Parteien, Wahlen, Fraktionen und Abgeordnete im Übergang zur Masenpolitik (Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2005), 95. 10 Brian Porter-Szűcs, Faith and Fatherland: Catholicism, Modernity, and Poland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 126. 11 Binder, Galizien in Wien, 310. 12 “Kościół św. Elżbiety” Gazeta Polska, no. 45, 20, July, 1989.

“Building” Nationalism: St. Elisabeth’s Church in Lemberg

of site for the construction of the new cathedral, then, contributed to aggravating relations between the two ethnic groups. As nationalism in both camps developed, the confrontation became even more acute. On December 20, 1898, Archbishop Seweryn Morawski consecrated the place where the cathedral would be erected and a cross commemorating Elizabeth placed there.13 Simultaneously, a fundraising campaign for the cathedral’s construction was announced—and three years later there was a competition for the architectural design of the cathedral, which was held by the Lviv Polytechnic Society. The total budget for construction was 700,000 crowns. The architectural commission was headed by Józef Pius Dziekoński, Adolf Kuhn, and Zygmunt Gorgolewski. Two years after the beginning of the competition, the jury reviewed and evaluated nineteen submissions and Teodor Talowski’s mock-up won. Talowski was at that time a professor at the Lviv Polytechnic Institute. It is interesting to note that his project was oriented towards the design of St. Stephen’s Cathedral (Stephansdom) in Vienna. To Lviv’s inhabitants, this similarity was so obvious that, according to the Polish writer, playwright, and journalist Jerzy Janicki, the locals called St. Elizabeth’s “Stephanskirche.”14 Sadly, Talowski died a year before the consecration of the cathedral in 1910. In 1898, soon after the assassination of the empress, the Church Elisabeth Committee decided that the future cathedral would be dedicated to the murdered empress and her patron saint Elizabeth of Hungary. Thus, it was hoped that the cathedral would receive her name and patron saint. As a token of goodwill, the Austrian authorities, by order of Franz Joseph, received a plot of land at the future construction site of the cathedral and Bilczewski purchased some additional land. On September 7, 1904, Archbishop Józef Bilczewski signed an agreement with Karol RichtmanRudniewski, the architect and builder, and Bronisław Bauer was appointed as (Richtman-Rudniewski’s) deputy. The main supervisor of construction was Teodor Talowski himself with Jan Naworyta responsible for technical issues. On September 25, 1904, the archbishop consecrated the ground and placed the foundation stone. 13 Wacław Kruszka, A History of the Poles in America to 1908: Part IV, Poles in the Central and Western States, ed. James S. Pula and trans. Krystyna Jankowski (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2001), 35. 14 Jerzy Janicki, Nie ma jak Lwów. Krótki przewodnik po Lwowie (Warszawa: Oficyna Literacka Noir sur Blanc, 1990), 12.

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A sculpture of St. Elizabeth made by Tadeusz Błotnicki was mounted on the side tower in 1908, having been made a few years earlier. Piter Krasny, in his study of sacred architecture, writes that after Elizabeth’s death many church statues of female saints made by Austrian sculptors bore the likeness of the empress in order to please the emperor and demonstrate loyalty to the dynasty.15 Therefore, in many ways, St. Elizabeth Church is associated with the Austrian monarchy—architecturally (similarity to St. Stephen’s Cathedral), symbolically (a tribute to the murdered empress), and theologically (the church’s patron being the Elizabeth von Habsburg). These characteristics of the cathedral were gradually changing due to mass politics: Parliament now represented the political interests of large (imagined) political groups;16 regular elections accelerated political life in Galicia; power changed hands from one election to the next; competing ideologies produced new ideas and opportunities. Due to the expansion of electoral rights, candidates had to appeal to the interests and needs of larger constituencies. Political agitation, discussion, and debate, verbal and/or physical conflicts, became part of political life in Galicia. Electoral rights changed three times, each time expanding the number of active voters. In 1861–73, deputies were elected by the Sejms themselves, but from 1873 direct elections were introduced. The “representation of interests” principle became the basis of electoral legislation: men with property were given the right to vote, while those without it were denied representation. In 1907, every Austrian man received the right to vote—that is, all men over twenty-four who had lived in their communities for at least a year and who had no criminal convictions. This time electoral mandates were divided unevenly among the Ukrainian and Polish populations, and the Poles gained more seats in the Sejm than the Ukrainians.17 This major extension of the franchise became an important factor in the growth of mass politics, including agitation, of Ukrainian, Polish, and Jewish political organizations.18 15 Piotr Krasny, “Kościół parafialny św. Elżbiety,” in Kościoły i klasztory rzymskokatolickie dawnego województwa ruskiego, cz. I, t. 12, Kościoły i klasztory Lwowa z wieków XIX i XX, ed. Andrzej Betlej et al. (Kraków: Międzynarodowe Centrum Kultury, 2004), 167–93. 16 Binder, Galizien in Wien, 27. 17 Olena Arkusha, “Ukraińskie przedstawicielstwo w sejmie galicyjskim” in Ukraińskie tradycje parlamentarne XIX–XXI wieku, ed. Jarosław Moklak (Kraków: Historia Iagellonica, 2006), 50. 18 Vyacheslav Dmytrovych Yaremchuk, “Vyborchi systemy ta ukrainski politychni partii Avstro-Uhorschyny i Rosii (druga polovyna XIX–pochatok XX st.),” in Naukowi zapysky (Kyiv: Instytut politychnych doslidzen im. I.F. Kurasa, 2010), 360–410.

“Building” Nationalism: St. Elisabeth’s Church in Lemberg

Most of the Galician parties that were founded in the late nineteenth century had a common political program for both Ukrainians and Poles. But by the beginning of the twentieth century, there were separate Ukrainian and Polish sections within each party. The Galicyjska Partia Robotnicza (Galician Labor Party), formed in 1890 in Lviv, is an excellent example of this. In 1892, during the party’s first congress (of forty-eight delegates), the party changed its name to Socjalno-Demokratyczna Partia w Galicji (the Social Democratic Party of Galicia), thereby emphasizing both its territorial rather than ethnic or national character and its openness to all nations residing in the region. However, eight years later, at its fifth congress, the party agreed to divide into Ukrainian and Polish parts. The Polish section, in fact, took a new name—Polska Partia SocyalnoDemokratyczna (the Polish Social Democratic Party of Galicia).19 Another Galician party, Polskie Stronnictwo Ludowe (the Polish People’s Party), which was founded in 1895 in Rzeszów, is a similar example. Initially, the party proclaimed equal rights for the peasants, equal participation and representation in the bodies of political power, and improvements in education. Like the Polish Social Democratic Party of Galicia, the Polish People’s Party did not position itself as an exclusively Polish organization at first. But in 1903 it changed its name to the Polish People’s Party and ultimately became the Polish National Party, which, among other things, pushed for Poland’s independence based on a strong rural sector.20 The Cathedral of St. Elizabeth followed a similar path to the Galician parties mentioned above. At the end of the nineteenth century, the church was conceived as an expression of the loyalty of Roman Catholic Lviv citizens to the Austrian monarchy, as well as the heart of Archbishop Józef Bilczewski’s social and spiritual work. Throughout the decade of its construction, the Church of St. Elizabeth, instead of being a religious and social symbol, became a symbol of the national revival of Poland in Galicia. It took six years to build the church and on October 22, 1911, the dedication of the church took place. The Ukrainian press largely ignored the event because the Ukrainian community perceived the project as an attempt to visually Polonize the city. On the other hand, the Polish press covered all the events associated with the church’s inauguration in great 19 Walentyna Najdus-Smolar, Polska partia socjalno-demokratyczna Galicji i Śląska 1890– 1919 (Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1983), 46. 20 Ibid., 48.

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detail. For example, the newspaper Tygodnik Ilustrowany (Illustrated weekly) contained an illustrated article that included the following passage: “Celebrations on the occasion of the opening of the cathedral were especially magnificent, taking into account not only the religious but also the national importance of the church. This church in Lviv and in this part of the city should become a new stronghold of the Polish spirit and thought.”21 Dozens of pages were devoted to describing the ceremonial decoration of the church.22 The whole interior was draped in the red and white and of the Polish flag; wreaths, flowers, columns, bells, and walls were adorned with red-and-white ribbons. Similar ribbons were distributed among the congregation. There were no symbols of the Austrian monarchy in the cathedral. Over the course of ten years, Archbishop Bilczewski changed his attitude. While he continued to conduct active pastoral and social work among workers and peasants, and advocated for their equality, he occupied an increasingly pro-Polish position. As political and social tensions grew between the Polish and Ukrainian populations, Bilczewski saw his task as restoring Polish independence with Galicia as an integral part of the country. In 1910, he bought three bells for the church, cast in Kalush bu Ludwik and Michał Felczyński. On October 22, 1911, the bells were brought to Lviv and named “Jakub Strzemię”23 (“Jacob’s stirrup”—587 kg) “Święty Józef ” (“Holy Joseph”—890 kg), and the largest “Matka Boska Królowa Korony Polskiej” (“Mother Mary, Queen of the Polish Crown”—1835 kg). A newspaper article called the main church bell the “Bell of St. Mary, Queen of Poland.” The Lute, the name of the Polish choir began the consecration with a song to bless the bell: This is the bell of the Polish Queen! She will send us Fresh mercy of the Lord In the midst of the sanctuary God, the Lord of our fate, With mercy before Mary’s tears To the centenary of bondage 21 “Nowy kościół we Lwowie,” Tygodnik Ilustrowany, no. 43 (1911): 876. 22 “Najwspanialsza świątynia we Lwowie,” Nowości Illustrowane, no. 43 (1911). 23 Jacub Strzemię—Polish archbishop of Halicz from 1392 until 1409, he received beatification in 1791 from Pope Pius VI. Karzimierz Bukowski, Słownik polskich świętych: ilustrowany, podręczny, popularno-naukowy (Kraków: Impuls, 1995), 103.

“Building” Nationalism: St. Elisabeth’s Church in Lemberg

Will finally put an end!24

The cult of the Virgin Mary in the Polish Catholic Church is a long-standing tradition. As early as 1656, in Lviv Cathedral (Katedra), King Jan Kazimierz of Poland called Mary his patroness and the guardian of all Polish people. Even in 1764, before the partitions of Poland, the Polish Sejm called her “Matkę Bożą Częstochowską” (Queen of Poland) in its resolutions.25 Archbishop Bilczewski was one of the most devoted and active promoters of the cult of St. Mary. Uniquely to Poland, the image of Mary moved from the sacred sphere to the political; in her image, the Polish clergy united sacred functions and political symbolism, presenting her as a symbolic queen of the nation. On March 18, 1909, Pope Pius X issued a decree in which he confirmed the cult of Mary and established a liturgical celebration called the “Feast of Our Lady, Queen of Poland” for the Lviv and Przemyśl archdioceses. The Austrian authorities reacted badly to this and tried to restrict the designation’s use in print. All the while, Poles were increasingly using this image in the national narrative. During the opening of St. Elizabeth Church, the bell was dedicated to St. Mary, Queen of Poland and used as the focal element of the celebrations. After the choral performance, and before the city authorities and a large gathering, Bilczewski began his speech with the following words: “If all people loved their country with a true love of Jesus Christ, we would not now have to mourn her loss and doubt her revival.”26 This referred to the partitions of Poland and “her loss” of independence; “her revival” meant the country’s liberation. The elements of the consecration discussed above departed the church’s former signification of loyalty and allegiance to the Austrian 24 To Polskiej dzwon Królowej!”

Więc Ona zjedna nam U Boga łaski nowe W śród tych kościoła bram Bóg, władca naszej doli, Na skutek Maryi łez Stuletniej tej niewoli Położy wkrótce kres!

(Gazeta Lwowska, no. 242, October 24, 1911). 25 Bolesław Pylak and Czesław Krakowiak, Niepokalana: kult Matki Bożej na ziemiach polskich w XIX wieku (Lublin: Wydawnictw KUL, 1988), 78. 26 Gazeta Lwowska, no. 242, October 10, 1911.

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dynasty. Numerous materials in the church already no longer referred to the empress. Archbishop Bilczewski might also have kept silent about Empress Elizabeth. However, he addressed the issue head on: Our sanctuary is associated with the name of St. Elizabeth, the daughter of King Andrew II, and then the wife of King Louis of Thuringia. Today, charity concerns every level of society, and St. Elizabeth is a saint with multiple social roles. Christian justice and infinite self-dedication to the most unprotected population groups were the goal of her life for which she was named the “miracle of God’s love for one’s neighbor,” “mother of mercy for the sick, widows and orphans.”27

However, in his words there was no reminder new churches were traditionally dedicated to the memory of the murdered Elizabeth. Also absent was mention of her in relation to the choice of patron saint for the church. Building the cathedral did not take very long—Lviv had modernized abruptly in the early twentieth century. It took only six years to almost completely change the ideological meaning of this major part of the cityscape. The development of Polish nationalism started long before construction of the cathedral, and the first decades of the twentieth century marked the speedy emergence and evolution of numerous ideologies and the widespread politicization of ethnic groups. The story of St. Elisabeth’s demonstrates that church architecture could also be used for the formation of a national narrative. The image of St. Mary as the Polish queen, replacing in the church’s symbolism one royal person (the Austrian empress) with another (the Queen of Heaven) illustrates the general trend of declining loyalty to the Habsburg dynasty in favor of Polish nationalism. Moreover, the reinforcement of the cathedral’s Polishness and the silence of the Ukrainian community to its opening also reveals the separation of Lviv’s Poles and Ukrainians. The cathedral might have been accepted by Ukrainians if it had served as a symbol of commitment to resolving, as before, the city’s social problems.

27 Gazeta Lwowska, no. 242, October 24 (1911): 7.

Local Governance and Religion in the Kingdom of Poland, 1905–14: Multireligious Relief Actions for Unemployed Workers in Łódź* Kenshi Fukumoto

In general, historians treat the 1905–7 Revolution in the Kingdom of Poland as the moment when the country’s modern political culture emerged. The pauperism of the working class had become serious and various social reactions to this situation coalesced during the revolution. Politically radical activists succeeded in organizing various mass movements, and labor unions and the State Duma election, which were introduced during the revolutionary era, provided workers with the opportunity to participate in politics.1 Large-scale violence between political groups occurred at this time. Recently, scholars have emphasized the rise of nationalism and its consequences in terms of the revolution. Indeed, as the nationalism of the

*

I want to express my thanks to Marta Sikorska-Kowalska, Kamil Śmiechowski, Sylwana Bolszyńska, and Wiktor Marzec for their insightful comments while I was writing this article. 1 Anna Żarnowska, Workers, Women, and Social Change in Poland: 1870–1939 (Burlington: Ashgate, 2004).

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National Democracy Party gained mass influence, it became powerfully opposed by both socialism and Jewish nationalism.2 Previous studies have focused on ethnic conflicts, often overlooking attempts in the period to preserve a multireligious society. Through research on Komitet Obywatelski (the Citizens’ Committee, hereafter the “CC”) in Łódź, this paper will argue that ethnic nationalism did not necessarily achieve dominance in urban society before the outbreak of the First World War, and that this multireligious committee played an important role in local governance of the Russian Empire. The case of Łódź is taken as an example of a modern industrialized city in the Kingdom of Poland under the rule of the Russian Empire. As discussed in more detail below, reforms after 1864 enabled the textile industry to develop rapidly in the city, but also resulted in serious social problems. To solve these new problems, the CC was founded as a relief organization for poverty-stricken workers, providing social relief “bez różnicy wyznania i narodowości” (regardless of religion and ethnicity). Composed of local multi-religious intellectuals, including Catholic priests, Protestant pastors, Jewish rabbis, and medical doctors, the CC effectively supported the imperial government in Łódź by preserving social order in the city. Departing from previous research—which usually emphasizes cleavage among ethnic groups, as well as between society and the imperial government in the Kingdom of Poland—this study of the activity

2 Robert E. Blobaum, Rewolucja: Russian Poland 1904–1907 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995); Brian Porter, When Nationalism Began to Hate: Imagining Modern Politics in Nineteenth-Century Poland (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000); Grzegorz Krzywiec, “The Polish Intelligentsia in the Face of the ‘Jewish Question’ (1905–1914),” Acta Poloniae Historica, no. 100 (2009): 133–69; Scott Ury, Barricades and Banners: The Revolution of 1905 and the Transformation of Warsaw Jewry (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2012); Wiktor Marzec, Rebelia i reakcja: Rewolucja 1905 roku i plebejskie doświadczenie polityczne (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, 2016). I have already discussed the revolution from a different perspective. See also, Kenshi Fukumoto, “Exploring Attempts for Solidarity between Political Parties: The Revolution of 1905 in Russian Poland,” Seiyoshigaku [Studies in Western history] 257 (2015): 1–20 [Japanese]; Kenshi Fukumoto, “Reconstruction of a Narrative on Factory Workers in Łódź, 1864–1914: Drinking Alcohol, Struggle for Survival, and Praying,” in Robotnicy Łodzi drugiej połowy XIX wieku: Nowe kierunki badawcze, ed. Kamil Śmiechowski, Marta Sikorska-Kowalska, and Kenshi Fukumoto (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, 2016), 87–110.

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of the CC will reconsider a local history of the empire from the perspective of multireligious cooperation.3 It is useful to understand the position of the CC in the context of political relationships at the time. In Łódź, the CC was composed of influential, local individuals and tried to be a “third group” that preserved public order in the face of conflict between nationalists and socialists, Poles and Jews. This stance of the CC was closely aligned to that of the Progressive Democrats, which can be characterized as the party of Polish liberals. Sympathetic with poor workers, the CC and Progressive Democracy were relatively tolerant of socialism. Equally, the CC was often at odds with the anti-Semitism of Polish nationalism. With Roman Catholicism at its core, Polish nationalists wished to transform the Kingdom of Poland into a Polish-Catholic dominated region.4 Apart from the Third State Duma election, the CC developed its own activities during elections between 1905 and 1914. By this time, the Polish nationalists were tipped to win. This paper will focus on the role of the CC during this period, especially in relation to intensifying Polish nationalism, by examining the newspaper Rozwój (Development) that was published in Łódź from 1897 to 1931.5

The Multireligious “Polish Manchester”: 1820–1914 First, I will provide an overview of the social and religious situation in Łódź. At the time of the second partition of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, Łódź became part of Prussia, and in 1807 changed its territorial affiliation 3 For a recent study of imperial history, see Katya Vladimirov, The World of Provincial Bureaucracy in Late 19th and Early 20th Century Russian Poland (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 2004); Grzegorz Smyk, Administracja publiczna Królestwa Polskiego w latach 1864–1915 (Lublin: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Marii Curie-Skłodowskiej, 2011); Malte Rolf, Rządy imperialne w kraju Nadwiślańskim: Królestwo Polskie i cesarstwo rosyjskie (1864–1915), trans. Wojciech Włoskowicz (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 2016). 4 On modern anti-Semitism in Poland, see Robert E. Blobaum, ed., Antisemitism and its Opponents in Modern Poland (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2005); Theodore Weeks, From Assimilation to Antisemitism: The “Jewish Question” in Poland, 1850–1914 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press. 2006); Brian Porter-Szűcs, Faith and Fatherland: Catholicism, Modernity, and Poland (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011). 5 Jan Chańko, Gazeta “Rozwój” (1897–1915): Studium źródłoznawcze (Łódź: Uniwersytet Łódzki, 1982).

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to the Russian Empire.6 Only 767 people lived in Łódź in 1820, but after that the population drastically increased, totaling more than 300,000 in 1900 and close to half a million in 1914.7 In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Łódź was dubbed the “Polish Manchester,” an obvious comparison to the British textile city.8 Table 1. Religious composition of the population of Łódź after 1864

Kazimierz Badziak, Karol Chylak, and Małgorzata Łapa, Łódź wielowyznaniowa. Dzieje wspólnot religijnych do 1914 roku (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, 2014), 42–43; Wiesław Puś, “Zmiany liczebności i struktury narodowościowej ludności Łodzi do roku 1939,” in Wpływ wielonarodowego dziedzictwa kulturowego Łodzi na współczesne oblicze miasta, ed. Marek Koter et al. (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, 2005), 20, 28.

Until the November Uprising in 1830–31, cities in the Kingdom of Poland were relatively autonomous, which enabled the Łódź local government to decide by itself to attract German craftsmen in order to develop its textile industry. From the 1840s to the 1860s, the textile industry in Łodź enjoyed the perfect conditions in which to develop despite the fact that the 6 Wiesław Puś, Żydzi w Łodzi w latach zaborów 1793–1914 (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, 2003), 10–11. 7 Wiesław Puś, “The Development of the City of Łódź (1820–1939),” Polin 6 (1991): 3–19. 8 See Henryk Vimard, Łódź – Manszester polski, compiled by Krzysztof P. Woźniak (Łódź: Biblioteka “Tygla Kultury”, 2001). Originally published in Revue pour les Françias, May 25, 1910, as an introduction to Łódź for French people.

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kingdom was steadily losing its autonomy. The railway to Siberia opened a huge market to the textile industry, which attracted emancipated peasants and Jewish emigrants as its primary labor force.9 After the emancipation of the peasantry, a growing number were unable to earn a living in their villages and searched for work in Łódź.10 Jews—known as “Litvak”— migrated from the northwestern provinces to the kingdom where, although pogroms were becoming increasingly common, their legal situation was better. Indeed, one of the largest Jewish communities in Eastern Europe was formed in Łódź, and a synagogue for “Litvak” was built in 1899.11 This resulted in demographic growth, which significantly changed the religious composition in Łódź, as shown in table 1. Because the Łódź textile industry originally relied on German craftsmen, in 1865 Protestants comprised 41.5% of the entire population of Łódź. However, this percentage steadily decreased, while the percentages of Roman Catholics and Jews increased. In 1914, Roman Catholics constituted 52.5% of the population, Jewish people 34.0%, Protestants 13.5%, and Orthodox and other religious groups 2.1%. In Łódź, just like other neighboring regions at the time, the composition of religious groups was nearly, although not completely, equal to that of ethnolinguistic groups. For instance, Roman Catholics were Poles, Protestants were German, the Jewish faith was followed by Jews, and the Russians were Orthodox. In addition, there were parallel occupational structures: Poles and Jews unskilled laborers, Germans were usually foremen and entrepreneurs, and Russians in the city were administrators or policemen. Łódź, then, consisted of a mix of “foreigners” and religion was a significant element of the everyday life. For both Polish and Jewish migrant workers, churches and synagogues were the center of their communities after settling in Łódź. The Catholic Reformation movement, spearheaded by Mariavitism, organized a vast number of Polish workers in the early twentieth century, and Orthodox Rabbi Eliyahu Maizel retained his authority in 9 Wiesław Puś, “Zmiany liczebności i struktury narodowościowej ludności Łodzi do roku 1939,” in Wpływ wielonarodowego dziedzictwa kulturowego Łodzi na współczesne oblicze miasta, ed. Marek Koter et al. (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, 2005), 9–39. 10 Anna Żarnowska, Klasa robotnicza Królestwa Polskiego 1870–1914 (Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1974), 144–50. 11 Kazimierz Badziak and Jacek Walicki, Żydowskie organizacje społeczne w Łodzi (do 1939 r.) (Łódź: Ibidem, 2002), 69–94; Yedida S. Kanfer, “Łódź: Industry, Religion, and Nationalism in Russian Poland, 1880–1914,” PhD diss. (Yale University, 2011).

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the Jewish community until his death in 1912. Moreover, even though progressive intellectuals criticized religious traditionalism, their newspapers continued to report religious festivals to appeal to their readers.12 When the rapid growth of the city and its industry caused serious social and sanitary problems, relief was provided by the Christian and Jewish communities—Łódzkie Chrześcijańskie Towarzystwo Dobroczynności (the Łódź Christian Charity Society established in 1885, hereafter “LCCS”) and Łódzkie Żydowskie Towarzystwo Dobroczynności (the Łódź Jewish Charity Society established in 1899, hereafter “LJCS”).13 It is noteworthy that the directors of LCCS were always German Protestants between 1895 and 1920: Juliusz Kunitzer (entrepreneur, 1895–1905), Karol Jonscher (doctor, 1905–7), and Rudolf Gustaw Gundlach (pastor, 1907–20). This reflected the social position of Germans in Łódź, due to their historical significance for the city’s textile industry. In 1905, the CC was organized by the LCCS and LJCS. Thus, although Łódź was located in the midst of the Polish Kingdom and the majority of the population was Polish, the CC helped the city to retain its multireligious character.

Polish Mass Nationalism and the Citizens’ Committee In September 1905, a textile industrialist, Juliusz Kunitzer, was gunned down by socialist workers in a tram. The Russo-Japanese War (1904–5) had closed the Siberian market to the Łódź textile industry, which seriously affected the living conditions of textile workers. Their suffering was compounded by the fact that conditions had already deteriorated in 1900–1903 because of an economic depression.14 Against this background, worker discontent flourished, incentivizing each political group to win workers to its cause. The socialists organized strikes, and the National Democracy Party 12 Badziak and Walicki, Żydowskie organizacje społeczne w Łodzi (do 1939 r.), 69–94; Kanfer, Łódź; Kamil Śmiechowski, Łódzka wizja postępu. Oblicze społeczno-ideowe “Gońca Łódzkiego,” “Kuriera Łódzkiego,” “Nowego Kuriera Łódzkiego” w latach 1898– 1914 (Łódź: Księży Młyn, 2014), 310; Fukumoto, “Reconstruction of a Narrative on Factory Workers in Łódź, 1864–1914,” in Robotnicy Łodzi drugiej połowy XIX wieku, 99–104. 13 Badziak and Walicki, Żydowskie organizacje społeczne w Łodzi (do 1939 r.), 69–94; Joanna Sosnowska, Działalność socjalna i opiekuńczo-wychowawcza Łódzkiego Chrześcijańskiego Towarzystwa Dobroczynności (1885–1940) (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, 2011). 14 Blobaum, Rewolucja, 51–53.

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established the National Workers’ Union15 to compete. This political activity is extensively covered in the literature, but this article explores another reaction to the poverty of workers: the creation and actions of the CC. Newspapers in the early twentieth century reported that poverty was the source of demoralization, which increased crime and violence. Kunitzer’s death was interpreted as a sign that the demoralization of workers had progressed to such a serious extent that it was no longer endurable.16 The tsarist government had clearly lost control of the city, and in this context, Karol Jonscher, who succeeded Kunitzer as the director of LCCS, organized the CC. At the end of November 1905, the temporary governor in Piotrkow province, Nikolay P. Shatilov, agreed to the establishment of the CC to support the poor, which included members of both the LCCS and LJCS.17 The provincial government believed that the CC’s function was to reestablish imperial order, because the committee opposed both class and ethnic conflict. At the committee’s first gathering, on December 6, seventeen Christians and seventeen Jews were elected as members of the founding committee, among them two Catholic clergymen, two pastors, and one rabbi.18 It was decided that the method for supporting poor workers was to solicit contributions for them, and a Polish notary, Konstanty Mogilnicki, was elected as the director of the CC. He published a list of contributors in Rozwój (Development), to express the gratitude of the committee. The main contributors were firms and banks in Łódź, factories in St. Petersburg, landowners, and parishes of the Roman Catholic Church. The forms of contributions included potatoes, apples, clothes, and money. The reports written by Mogilnicki were important for the understanding of the values underlying the committee because they emphasized the ideas of “miłość bliźniego” (love for one’s neighbor) and “miłość dla ludzi bez różnicy wyznania i narodowości” (love for one’s fellows regardless of religion and ethnicity).19 To elicit more contributions, Mogilnicki wrote stories about 15 See Teresa Monasterska, Narodowy Związek  Robotniczy 1905–1920 (Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1973). 16 Śmiechowski, Łódzka wizja postępu, 69–70. 17 “Kronika. W sprawie utworzenia komitetu pomocy,” Rozwój, no. 263, November 27, 1905. 18 “Z dobroczynności,” Rozwój, no. 269, December 4, 1905; “Komitet dobroczynny,” Rozwój, no. 272, December 7, 1905. 19 “Skrzynka do listów,” Rozwój, no. 282, December 20, 1905; “Odezwa Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 65. March 21, 1906.

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women who had lost their minds because of poverty and children who had only one pair of clothes to survive the winter. In these stories, he draw out parallels to tales in the Bible.20 However, the attitude of residents in Łódź towards the CC was uncooperative and, in some cases, hostile. The committee tried to collect contributions and organized a fundraising campaigns in each district of the city, but some of the rich responded with threatening words. The committee paid 2,194.55 rubles in support of workers in the district, while only 10.50 rubles were gathered there. Moreover, even worse for the committee, poor workers preferred to be assisted, not by the multireligious organization, but by religiously separated individual organizations such as the LCCS and LJCS. Therefore, the CC suffered serious financial difficulties.21 The lofty ideal of “love for one’s fellows regardless of religion and ethnicity” was so weak that the CC did not have any effect on changing the situation of the poor. In fact, it seems that the slogan “love for one another” was drowned out by nationalist propaganda during the First State Duma election. The city of Łódź had the right to send one deputy to the State Duma, and the Polish nationalist movement was well organized to win this seat. From the beginning of the electoral campaign, its rhetoric was aggressive, with the newspaper Rozwój declaring that “only a Pole must be elected as the deputy. There is a conflict between the nationalist element and antinationalist element. Any person who stands with the antinationalist group in this decisive moment is an enemy.”22 “The enemy” and the “antinationalist element” meant the socialists and Jews. As already noted, the socialists called for workers to boycott the election, as they denied its legitimacy because of the limited and unequal voting system. The National Democracy Party and its National Workers’ Union, however, rallied workers to vote. Roman Catholicism was part of the discourse of the National Democrats; thus, the socialists were presented as “heretics,” the “antichrist,” or “atheists against the Church.”23 In turn, the socialists 20 “Nadesłane,” Rozwój, no. 23, January 30, 1906. 21 “Kronika. Komitet obywatelski,” Rozwój, no. 12, January 16, 1906; “Komitet obywatelski,” no. 28, February 6, 1906; “Kronika. Komitet obywatelski,” no. 40, February 20, 1906; ibid., no. 52, March 6, 1906; “Odezwa Komitetu obywatelskiego,” no. 65, March 21, 1906; “Kronika. Komitet obywatelski,” no. 78, April 5, 1906; ibid., no. 87, April 17, 1906. 22 “Wybory,” Rozwój, no. 10, January 13, 1906. 23 Paweł Samuś, Wasza karta wyborcza jest silniejsza niż karabin, niż armata: Z dziejów kultury politycznej na ziemiach polskich pod zaborami (Lódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, 2013), 322–24.

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criticized National Democracy as a party of “noblemen, clergyman, and reactionaries.”24 In addition, society in Łódź became divided into Christians and Jews because of the National Democrats’ criticism of “Jewish separatism.”25 At the same time, even though influential rabbis attempted to persuade all Jews in the Kingdom of Poland that having as many Jewish deputies as possible was the only way to guarantee Jewish interests in the Russian Empire,26 the Jewish opinion in Łódź was not homogeneous. Jews were divided regarding cooperation with the Progressive Democracy Party, which could have coordinated the vision of autonomy for Jewish people in the kingdom.27 The main reason that so many Jews refused to collaborate with Progressive Democracy was the double standard among the leaders of the CC. Indeed, Konstanty Mogilnicki and Karol Jonscher were members of the electoral commission of National Democracy. Jonscher was the director of this commission, and Mogilnicki once treated a donation campaign from Warsaw as a sign of national solidarity during the electoral campaign.28 This clearly pro-Polish attitude was viewed as a betrayal by his Jewish colleagues, and the pro-Polish attitude of the Polish intelligentsia made Jews in Łódź skeptical of all Polish political groups. As a result, Łódź’s Jews could not oppose National Democracy with any force—and the party won the First State Duma election.29

The Rallying of Multireligious Relief During the “Lockout in Łódz´” Though the CC attempted to relieve conflicts between socialist and nationalist workers and between Poles and Jews in Łódź, its endeavors seemed to have ended in vain. However, the CC was soon reorganized in January 1907 to support workers’ families who lost their livelihood because of the “Lockout in Łódź,” the most serious labor-management conflict in the history of the Kingdom of Poland. The conflict began at the end of November 1906 in the factory of the Jewish industrialist family Poznański 24 Śmiechowski, Łódzka wizja postępu, 236. 25 “Odezwa grupy polaków pozapartyjnych. W przeddzień wyborów!,” Rozwój, no. 91, 21 April, 1906; “Wybory,” Rozwój, no. 92, April 23, 1906. 26 Ibid., no. 90, April 20, 1906. 27 “Odezwa Związku P.-D.,” Rozwój, no. 88, April 18, 1906. 28 “Skrzynka do listów,” Rozwój, no. 75. April 2, 1906. 29 “Wybory w Łodzi,” Rozwój, no. 95, April 26, 1906; “Wybór posłów,” Rozwój, no. 95, April 26, 1906; “Po wyborach,” no. 95, April 26, 1906; “Wybory,” Rozwój, no. 100, May 3, 1906. Large numbers of workers boycotted the vote, thus showing the influence of socialism among them. Samuś, Wasza karta wyborcza, 326.

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when textile workers expelled from the premises an English foreman for his brutal behavior. Management decided to fire ninety-eight workers and close the factory until December 6. The Workers reacted to this decision by declaring that they would not return to the workplace until the ninety-eight dismissed workers could return to the factory. In response, Poznański proposed to the other Łódź textile factory owners that they lock down their premises to restore order among workers.30 As a result, from December 29, 1906 to April 13, 1907, more than 80,000 workers’ families were left without a livelihood.31 At first, factory inspectors protested the illegality of this collective lockout, but Maurycy Poznański engaged in successful lobbying. Consequently, Minister of Commerce and Industry D. A. Filosofow commanded government officials not to intervene in the “Lockout in Łódź.”32 Thus, relief for the families of workers could only be organized by social groups. As a result, at the end of January 1907 the Medical Society of Łódź proposed reorganizing the CC.33 The aim of the CC was to support workers in order to keep the peace tin the wake of the industrialist’s and Russian government’s lockout. The Polish doctors Stanisław Skalski and Jan Pieniążek, the Jewish doctor Mieczysław Kaufman, the Polish priests Franciszek Szamot and Jan Albrecht, and the German Pastor Rudolf G. Gundlach became the leaders of the CC.34 Under the “love for one’s neighbor” banner, the organization supported working-class families without regard for their religion or ethnicity, and called for contributions from the whole country.35 At Easter, the committee peti30 Aleksy Rżewski, “Lokaut Łodzki (1906–1907),” Niepodległość 5 (1931/32): 49–53. See also, Richard Lewis, “Labor-Management Conflict in Russian Poland: The Łódź Lockout of 1906–1907,” East European Quarterly 7, no. 4 (1973). 31 The number of employees locked out was as follows: The firm of Scheibler—7240; Poznański—6840; Heintzel and Kunitzer—3343; L. Grohman—1560; Steinert—1344; Biederman—1000; H. Grohman—600. See Władysław L. Karwacki, Związki zawodowe i stowarzyszenia pracodawców w Łodzi (do roku 1914) (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Łódzkie, 1972), 210. 32 Stanisław Kalabiński, ed., Carat i klasy posiadające w walce z rewolucją 1905–1907 w Królestwie Polskim: Materiały archiwalne (Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1956), no. 455, no. 456, no. 466; “Wyjazd u M. Poznańskiego,” Rozwój, no. 6, January 8, 1907. 33 “Komitet obywatelski,” Rozwój, no. 17, January 21, 1907; “Kronika. Komitet obywatelski,” Rozwój, no. 20, January 25, 1907; ibid., no. 21, January 26, 1907. 34 “Kronika. Komitet pomocy,” Rozwój, no. 22, January 28, 1907. 35 “Sprawozdanie byłego łódzkiego Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 25, January 31, 1907; “Komitet niesienia pomocy,” Rozwój, no. 29, February 6, 1907.

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tioned for more donations for the locked out workers and their families, citing the New Testament: “Be merciful, just as your father in heaven is merciful” (Luke 6:36).36 This citation may suggest that the new CC was Christian in orientation, but as many Jews cooperated with the committee as before, and the philanthropic organization retained its multi-religious character. This time, the activity of the CC extended beyond the supply of provisions.37 On the initiative of the Medical Society, nearly 1,000 children were sent to cities such as Warsaw, Częstochowa, and Pabianice to escape their misery in Łódź.38 Initially, this proposal to evacuate children was rejected at a meeting of the CC, but the committee changed its decision due to the deteriorating situation of workers’ families.39 The committee selected the sanitary cities mentioned above, and the children were kept under medical supervision. For workers’ children staying in Łódź day nurseries were set up. Entrepreneur Karol Eisert and Jewish theater manager A. Baum, from the LCCS and LJCS respectively, offered venues for nurseries. Almost 1,880 children aged between four and fourteen became recipients of this charitable service—and they received three meals a day and medical attention.40 The CC restricted its activities to only charitable causes and made no attempt to join the political process to resolve the “Lockout in Łódź.” Negotiations between labor and management were at a standstill because the workers were both socialists and nationalists, and the political groups disagreed about how to resolve the lockout. By the end of March 1907, there were still no plans to open the factories. The socialists thought that the workers should hold out until the industrialists reinstated the ninety-eight, while the nationalists insisted on accepting the dismissal in order to end what they saw as a meaningless conflict. Obviously, consensus 36 “Prośba Wielkanoca,” Rozwój, no. 67, March 22, 1907. 37 The Committee provided money depending on the size of each family. Families without children received 1 or 1.5 rubles; with less than eight children—2 rubles; with more than eight children—2.5 rubles. See Julia Wasiak, “Z problemów opieki społecznej w okresie wielkiego lokautu w Łodzi,” Rocznik Łódzki 23 (1975): 159–167. 38 “Sprawozdanie z działalności Komitetu obywatelskiego niesienia pomocy rodzinom robotników pozbawionych pracy (II),” Rozwój, no. 253, December 10, 1907. 39 “Od Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 34, February 12, 1907; “Kronika. Komitet obywatelski,” Rozwój, no. 40, February 19, 1907. 40 “Kronika. Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 36, February 14, 1907; “Komitet obywatelski,” Rozwój, no. 44, February 23, 1907; “Sprawozdanie z działalności Komitetu obywatelskiego niesienia pomocy rodzinom robotników pozbawionych pracy (II),” Rozwój, no. 253, December 10, 1907.

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among the workers was needed, but fighting between the socialists and nationalists—the so called “bratobójctwo” (fratricide)—made agreement difficult. In fact, the fratricide resulted in 189 deaths and 138 injuries in 1906.41 This political antagonism was reflected in campaigning during the Second State Duma election. The National Democracy Party changed its election tactics. One such new tactic was to represent the party as a delegation of the three main ethnic groups in Łódź— namely the Poles, Germans, and Jews. This naturally caused internal splits within each ethnic group.42 Some Jewish intellectuals, such as Dr. Maurycy Likiernik, supported the Polish nationalists because they were in favor of granting full civil rights to Jews (except the right to Yiddish education).43 In Polish nationalist discourse, if Jews insisted on their right to education in Yiddish, they were deemed Jewish separatists and considered hostile to Polish society. However, some Polish nationalists insisted that the Progressive Democrats, by compromising with the Jewish agenda, were in effect responsible for pogroms which were said to be combating Zionism.44 When the Progressive Democrats failed to produce persuasive counterarguments, many Jews transferred their support to the socialists, and, in reaction, the chauvinistic tone of Polish nationalist discourse increased.45 The victory of National Democracy in the election on February 18, 1907, indicated that Jews were politically divided.46

41 Władysław L. Karwacki, Łódź w latach rewolucji 1905–1907 (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Łódzkie, 1975), 156–58. On January 18, 1907 an even more tragic incident took place involving a Catholic priest, and ended in eight deaths and over forth injured. “Krwawe zajście w Zarzewie,” Rozwój, no. 16, January 19, 1907. See also Źródła do dziejów rewolucji 1905–1907 w okręgu łódzkim, vol. 2, ed. Natalia Gąsiorowska-Grabowska and Paweł Korzec (Warszawa: Książka i Wiedza, 1964), no. 533, no. 568, no. 569. 42 “Wybory,” Rozwój, no. 17, January 21, 1907. 43 “Mowa programowa Aleksandra Babickiego, kandydata do Dumy państowowej,” Rozwój, no. 33, February 11, 1907; “Głosy o Łodzi. Przemówienie Aleksandra Babickiego posła z miasta Łodzi, na zebraniu P. P. P. w dniu 2 b. m.,” Rozwój, no. 57, March 11, 1907. 44 “Przed wyborami,” Rozwój, no. 28, February 5, 1907. 45 “Wybory,” Rozwój, no. 36, February 14, 1907. See also, Ury, Barricades and Banners, chapters 5 and 6; Wiktor Marzec, “What Bears Witness of the Failed Revolution?: The Rise of Political Antisemitism during the 1905–1907 Revolution in the Kingdom of Poland,” East European Politics and Societies, 30, no. 1 (2016): 189–213. 46 “Wybory,” Rozwój, no. 40, February 19, 1907; “Z ostatniej chwili. Wybory posła w Łodzi,” Rozwój, no. 48, February 28, 1906.

Local Governance and Religion in the Kingdom of Poland, 1905–14

At the same time, the split between Poles and Jews, nationalists and socialists, further deepened during the lockout. On March 5, 1907, the Poznański factory workers voted on whether to continue to fight or accept the dismissal of the ninety-six (two of original ninety-eight had died by this time). One thousand four hundred and seventeen out of 1,762 voted for the latter.47 However, the socialists insisted that the vote was not valid, arguing that the nationalists had engaged in voter fraud such as double voting, interfering with others’ right to vote, and inviting nationalist workers employed in another factory to vote.48 The socialists demanded a re-vote under an impartial procedure to determine the winner.49 As it became apparent that neither the nationalists nor socialists could take the initiative to resolve the lockout, they asked the CC to organize a workers’ meeting, since the CC had supported workers while remaining politically neutral.50 Opinions concerning this proposal were divided within the CC, and it was decided that the committee would not arrange the meeting, but would instead find people to organize it. During the discussions in the CC, which were attended by both nationalist and socialist representatives, Pastor Gundlach stated: We should remember that we are all Poles. If we continue to fight with each other, we will bring ruin to the worker, and we will bring ruin to our industry and to the whole country.51

The “Poles” described by Pastor Gundlach were, apparently, different from those referred to by National Democracy. Gundlach defined “Poles” as a composite that included various political denominations and religions— and support for this integrative discourse increased. On March 26, 1907, the motion to permit the dismissal of the ninety-six workers won 2,401 of 4,276 votes in the meeting organized by the Progressive Democrats, which was ideologically closest to the committee. This time, the socialists agreed to abide by the result because the Progressive Democrats could be recognized as “neutral” like the CC in the context of 47 “Wiec robotników Towarzystwa akcyjnego I. K. Poznańskiego,” Rozwój, no. 52, March 5, 1907; “Drugi wiec robotników Towarzystwa akcyjnego I. K. Poznańskiego,” Rozwój, no. 53, March 6, 1907. 48 “Wyjaśnienie w sprawie wiecu robotników fabryk I. K. Poznańskiego obytego dnia 5– go marca 1907 roku,” Rozwój, no. 64, March 19, 1907. 49 Źródła do dziejów rewolucji, t. 2, nos. 571–73, no. 576. 50 “Komitet obywatelski,” Rozwój, no. 63, March 18, 1907. 51 Ibid., no. 64, March 19, 1907.

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the socialist and nationalist conflict.52 The managers of the Poznański factory also accepted the vote, and the factories reopened on April 13, ending the “Lockout in Łódź.”53 The CC’s idea of “love for one’s neighbor” challenged Polish nationalist discourse, and the organization played a significant role in resolving the “Lockout in Łódź.” In the aftermath, declarations against fratricide were mad by factory workers throughout the city54—and on April 24, 1907, the Jewish Doctor Kaufman, a member of the CC, organized a conference. A delegation of almost 500 workers sent from factories in Łódź discussed methods to prevent political and religious conflicts among workers in the future.55

Anti-Semitism and the Reemergence of the Citizens’ Committee The above analysis of the “Lockout in Łódź” shows that the CC played an important role in restoring social order in the city during the 1905–7 Revolution in the Kingdom of Poland’s worst period of political conflict. In addition, the CC united the multireligious population against Polish nationalism, which in turn provoked aggressive anti-Semitism during the Fourth State Duma election. Due to the economic depression of 1911 to 1913, the condition of workers became miserable—and table 2 shows the alarming increase in the number of people committing suicide.

52 “Wiece robotników Poznańskiego,” Rozwój, no. 69, March 25, 1907; “Wiece robotników fabryk Poznańskiego,” Rozwój, no. 71, March 27, 1907. See also Źródła do dziejów rewolucji, t. 2, no. 581, no. 583, no. 586, no. 592. 53 “Kronika. Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 106, May 16, 1907; ibid., no. 112, May 24, 1907; ibid., no. 122, June 6, 1907. 54 The movement was described in the following reports: “Uchwała robotników fabryki akcyjnego Towarzystwa S. Rosenblatta,” Rozwój, no. 82, April 11, 1907; “Kronika. Uchwała robotników,” Rozwój, no. 84, April 13, 1907; “Uchwały robotnicze,” Rozwój, no. 86, April 16, 1907; “Skrzynka do listów,” Rozwój, no. 88, April 18, 1907; “Uchwały robotników,” Rozwój, no. 89, April 19, 1907; ibid., no. 90, April 20, 1907; “Kronika. Uchwały,” no. 91, April 22, 1907. 55 K. K., “Konfarencya delegatów robotników,” Rozwój, no. 94, April 25, 1907.

Local Governance and Religion in the Kingdom of Poland, 1905–14

Table 2. Number of suicides in Lodz (1899–1920) 300 241 247

250 196

200

166 142

150 88

100 38 32 40

50

49 54

36

54

130

96 73

91

103 103 68 72

2

18 99 19 00 19 01 19 02 19 03 19 04 19 05 19 06 19 07 19 08 19 09 19 10 19 11 19 12 19 13 19 14 19 15 19 16 19 17 19 18 19 19 19 20

0

Księga pamiątkowa 25-lecia pracy Pogotowia Ratunkowego w Łódzi (Łódź, 1927), 26. In 1899, the number included only those for December of that year.

According to Rozwój, 141 of 241 suicides in 1912 were committed by those from the working class. The main reason was distress caused by living conditions. In terms of religion, 148 (of 241) of those who committed suicide were Roman Catholics, forty-two were Jewish, twenty-seven Protestant, eight Orthodox, and sixteen of unknown faith.56 A factory inspector reported that only 2,470 of tens of thousands of workers worked six days a week, and that the salary of almost all workers declined in November and December 1912. Pastor Rudolf G. Gundlach, the director of LCCS, therefore proposed reorganizing the CC to support workers without regard for religion or ethnicity, because “poverty does not know ethnic and religious differences.”57 In January 1913, the industrialist Jakob Hertz—the director of LJCS and a member of the Jewish intelligentsia—declared his willingness to cooperate with the CC “in the name of Jewish citizens.”58 The reorganized CC, like the former one, was also a multireligious relief organization. Nevertheless, anti-Semitism was stirred up outside the CC during the Fourth State Duma election campaign throughout the Kingdom of Poland. 56 “Samobójctwa w Łodzi,” Rozwój, no. 158, July 12, 1913. 57 “W sprawie akcyi ratunkowej,” Rozwój, no. 293, December 19, 1912. 58 “Odezwa od Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 12, January 16, 1913; “Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 12, January 16, 1913; ibid., no. 16, January 21, 1913.

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From the onset of the electoral campaign, the Polish nationalist camp in Łódź complained that they would not win the election because an amendment to the voting law gave voting rights to 3,677 Poles, 274 Russians, 3,040 Germans, and 9,964 Jews.59 Thus, during the election campaign, Polish nationalist discourse was characterized by dark, apocalyptic rhetoric. An editorial article in Rozwój called upon Poles to show nationalist solidarity by going to the polls together, rousing its readers by claiming that the Polish camp was going to lose.60 Describing the clergyman Henryk Przeżdziecki, the candidate for the Polish cause, Rozwój declared: Przeżdziecki is a Pole, so he is pursuing freedom and full rights for his nation. He wishes other ethnic groups living in our land to have full rights, as long as every institution in Poland maintains its Polish character. . . . Przeżdziecki, who has a tender compassion towards the Polish nation will never allow the Jews, who are foreign to our thinking and culture, to capture the administration.61

The Progressive Democrats—the Polish liberals—denounced the appointment of a priest as a candidate. Consequently, Rozwój declared with hostility that the Progressive Democrats were preventing Poles “from gathering together under one flag.”62 Moreover, Rozwój censured the Łódź electoral commission of Germans when it proclaimed that their “ancestors created the huge industrial region [surrounding Łódź—K. F.],” declaring that “we are proud of Polish Manchester, because it is Polish. . . . Polish labor contributed quite a lot to erecting the foundations of Polish Manchester.”63 Rozwój’s discourse was so strictly disciplined that it would not tolerate any matter that damaged the Polish nationalist election position. This discourse prompted a boycott against Jewish businesses which backfired. In Warsaw, a Polish socialist worker, Eugeniusz Jagiełło, won with the

59 “Jak się złożyło z wyborami w Łodzi,” Rozwój, no. 198, August 30, 1912. 60 “Kronika tygodniowa,” Rozwój, no. 235, October 12, 1912. 61 “Ksiądz Henryk Przeżdziecki, jako kandydat na posła z Łodzi,” Rozwój, no. 235, October 12, 1912. 62 “W sprawie bezpartynej kandydatury ks. Przeżdzieckiego na posła do dumy państowowej,” Rozwój, no. 236, October 14, 1912. The Progressive Democrats employed a different definition of Polishness than the National Democrats, which viewed Roman Catholicism as an essential part of national identity. See Śmiechowski, Łódzka wizja postępu, 318–19. 63 “Co mówią, co przemilczają,” Rozwój, no. 236, October 14, 1912.

Local Governance and Religion in the Kingdom of Poland, 1905–14

support of a “Jewish nationalist party composed of Litwaks.”64 Further, a Jewish doctor in Łódź, Mejer Bomasz, was elected to the State Duma.65 According to Stanisław Łapiński,66 Rozwój’s editor, there was a positive side to the nationalists’ electoral defeat, as it exposed “[the] Jewish menace.” The slogan of the boycott campaign was “Swój do swego” (Stick to your own kind).67 Drawing a parallel with the Czech campaign against the Germans during the time of the Habsburg Empire, Łapiński insisted that Poles should organize a Polish commercial institution and various associations in order to engage in an economic and cultural struggle. He called the nationalists’ election campaign’s Jewish boycott a “defense of the fatherland.”68 Even leaders of the Progressive Democrats like Aleksander Świętochowski, who had explored the idea of union between the Poles and Jews, wrote that Jews were “super-social democrats” who abused the Polish nation without shame and “super-radicals” who brought anarchy to every organization.69 This is a remarkable example of “Progressive anti-Semitism,” and the boycott movement spread to various cities beyond Warsaw and Łódź—Częstochowa, Kalisz, Płock, and others.70 However, while it was expected that Rozwój would develop its anti-Semitic stance, it disappeared from the newspaper until a large number of Jewish emigrants flowed into Łódź from the northwestern provinces.71 A group of Polish and Jewish intelligentsia tried to heal the countrywide 64 “Warszawa będzie miała posła żyda,” Rozwój, no. 239, October 17, 1912; “Wybory w Warszawie,” Rozwój, no. 257, November 8, 1912. 65 “Wybory,” Rozwój, no. 238, October 16, 1912; ibid., no. 239, October 17, 1912; ibid., no. 240, October 18, 1912; “Wybory posła w Łodzi,” Rozwój, no. 256, November 7, 1912. Bomasz was a Progressive Democrat. See, Samuś, Wasza karta wyborcza, 342. 66 During 1908–14 Łapiński was responsible for overseeing the contents of the “Development” to ensure that it passed the censor. See, Chańko, Gazeta “Rozwój,” 51. 67 Stanisław Łapiński, “Swoi do swoich (I),” Rozwój, no. 289, December 14, 1912. For a translation, see Robert E. Blobaum, “The Politics of Anti-semitism in Fin-de-Siecle Warsaw,” The Journal of Modern History 73, no. 2 (2001): 298. 68 Stanisław Łapiński, “Swoi do swoich (II-V),” Rozwój, no. 289, December 14, 1912; Rozwój, no. 292, December 24, 1912; Rozwój, no. 9, January 13, 1913; Rozwój, no. 19, January 24, 1913. 69 “Świętochowski o żydach,” Rozwój, no. 46, February 25, 1913. 70 S. R., “Kwestya żydowska w naszej prasie,” Rozwój, no. 280, December 4, 1912; ibid., Rozwój, no. 8, January 11, 1913. See also, Theodore Weeks, “Polish ‘Progressive Antisemitism’, 1905–1914,” East European Jewish Affairs 25, no. 2 (1995): 49–68; Krzywiec, “The Polish Intelligentsia in the Face of the ‘Jewish Question’ (1905–1914).” 71 “Kronika tygodniowa,” Rozwój, no. 192, August 23, 1913; Stanisław Łapiński, “Fabrykanci bez fabryk,” Rozwój, no. 197, August 28, 1913.

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ethnic division. “Regretting the division between Polish and Jewish society, caused by the results of the election,” this group declared that Poles could “peaceably and as friends live and work with Jews who oppose Jewish nationalism, take an interest in Polish matters, and feel at home in the Polish language.”72 It is significant that this declaration was made when even Progressive Democracy was becoming an anti-Semitic party. In fact, some members of the CC, such as the Jewish doctor Seweryn Sterling,73 supported the declaration. The CC consequently attempted to reconcile the conflicts among ethno-religious groups in Łódź. The CC worked with the LJCS, which had connections with the Yiddish-speaking Jewish craftsmen living in Bałuty (the northern part of the city).74 Such cooperation with the LJCS enabled the CC to grasp the workers’ situation. The local authorities saw the CC as a servant of imperial rule. Thus, the governor in Piotrków province, Michał Jaczewski, asked Pastor Gundlach to address the exact number of unemployed workers and promised financial support for the committee.75 From then on, the CC officially provided public relief in the city. As with its former iterations, in 1913 the CC solicited contributions from the whole of the kingdom. In the final week of January, the committee gave money to the families of 942 workers, and from the end of February over 3,000 families deprived of their livelihood received financial support every week until May.76 Considering that the average worker had many children, this charitable effort likely helped approximately 10,000 people. However, the most significant activity of the CC was the organization of public works. At first, the committee requested that the Kingdom of Poland give the unemployed agricultural jobs,77 but this project failed because craftsmen and workers refused to do agricultural work.78 Therefore, using 72 “Vivat Łódź!,” Rozwój, no. 36, February 13, 1913. 73 Jan Fijałek, “Seweryn Sterling – współtwórca ruchu lekarsko-społecznego w Łodzi na przełomie XIX i XX wieku,” in Dzieje Żydów w Łodzi 1820–1944, ed. Wiesław Puś and Stanisłw Liszewski (Łódź: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Łódzkiego, 1991), 204–12. 74 “Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 24, January 30, 1913. 75 Gundlach answered that there were 25,000 workers working less than four days. “Kronika. Gubernator w sprawie robotników,” Rozwój, no. 34, February 11, 1913. 76 “Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 24, January 30, 1913; ibid., no. 31, February 7, 1913; ibid., no. 48, February 27, 1913; ibid., no. 54, March 6, 1913; ibid., no. 60, March 13, 1913; “Kronika. Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” no. 71, March 27, 1913; ibid., no. 77, April 4, 1913; ibid., no. 88, April 17, 1913. 77 “Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” no. 31, February 7, 1913. 78 Ibid., no. 60, March 13, 1913.

Local Governance and Religion in the Kingdom of Poland, 1905–14

100,000 rubles from by the governor of Piotrków, the committee embarked on several construction projects in Łódź.79 This fund was taken from the city government’s finances, and work began at the end of April 1913 and was completed in spring 1914 even though Łódź’s president Władysław Pieńkowski was hesitant to hand over the promised funds.80 According to Rozwój, almost 1,000 workers, including seventy-five Jews, engaged in paving and lengthening the streets of Łódź, and received 1.15 rubles a day. The official holiday was Sunday, but Jews were permitted to rest on Saturdays.81 The CC’s project to provide public jobs for unemployed workers clearly represented an ideological departure from earlier versions of the committee. “Love for one’s neighbor” was no longer mentioned. This slogan may have sounded like jałmużna (charity), something from the CC tried to distance itself in 1913.82 The intelligentsia involved with the CC argued that the poor themselves must demonstrate the will to rise above poverty. Charity and philanthropy were not enough because they did not resolve the causes of poverty. “Social work” was a way to prevent dependency.83 The CC saw the provision of public jobs as enabling the unemployed to earn their bread themselves and reduce the threat of poverty.84 It is important here to point out that the CC developed multireligious relief activities for out-ofwork Łódź workers up to the eve of the First World War, and that its activity were more able to withstand Polish nationalism than before.

Concluding Remarks The 1905–7 Revolution was a key moment in the emergence of the Kingdom of Poland’s modern political culture. National Democracy succeeded in 79 Ibid., no. 36, February 13, 1913. 80 Ibid., no. 91, April 24, 1913; “Likwidacya Komitetu obywatelskiego,” no. 288, December 16, 1913. 81 “Kronika. Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” no. 99, April 30, 1913; “Na robotach publicznych,” Rozwój, no. 106, May 10, 1913; “Kronika. Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 106, May 10, 1913. 82 “Z Komitetu obywatelskiego,” no. 60, January 9, 1913; “O tanią kuchnię,” Rozwój, no. 43, 21 February, 1913; Rudolf G. Gundlach, “Sprawodanie Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 291, December 19, 1913. 83 Śmiechowski, Łódzka wizja postępu, 181–83. See also, Natan Meir, “From Communal Charity to National Welfare: Jewish Orphanages in Eastern Europe before and after World War I,” East European Jewish Affairs 39, no. 1 (2009): 24. 84 Rudolf G. Gundlach, “Sprawodanie Komitetu obywatelskiego,” Rozwój, no. 291, December 19, 1913.

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organizing a mass movement and represented the “Jewish socialist” as the enemy of the “Polish Catholic.” The major political and ethnic conflicts that resulted in cities led local intellectuals to help reconstruct public order. In Łódź, the CC provided relief for unemployed workers regardless of religion and ethnicity. After the revolution, the CC consistently tried to preserve its multireligious character, while Polish nationalism increasingly represented cities as separated from each ethnic community. Initially, during the First State Duma election campaign, the CC was partially supportive of Polish nationalism. Soon, however, the committee indirectly contributed towards resolving the social problems caused by the “Lockout in Łódź.” It provided relief for unemployed workers when antagonism between the nationalists and socialists escalated and anti-Semitic propaganda intensified. This meant that, by dealing with social problems that the city government could not solve, the CC unintentionally collaborated with the tsarist government. During the economic depression 1911 to 1913, in tandem with the LJCS and LCCS, the CC gave the local government information about the situation of poor workers which the government did not have; in turn, the government made funds available to the CC. By the outbreak of WWI, the CC was expected to take over the functions of the evacuated imperial administration when the Germans seized the city. At first, the CC in Łódź hesitated to cooperate with German officers because it thought that Russian imperial rule would soon be restored. It changed its attitude, however, as the war went on.85 By focusing not only on ethnic conflicts, but also attempts to preserve public order, we can better understand local governance in the Kingdom of Poland. It is clear that the multireligious CC played an important role in the Łódź and that Polish nationalism became more important after the 1905– 1907 Revolution. It is true that religion served as a dividing line among ethno-religious groups, especially between “Polish Catholics” and “Jewish socialists,” but the CC offered multireligious relief in order to preserve public order and, as such, aided the Russian empire’s local governance.

85 Aneta Stawyszyńska, Łódź w latach I Wojny Światowej (Oświęcim: Napoleon V, 2016), 24.

Max Weber and Eastern Europe: The Religious Background to Modern Nationalism* Hajime Konno

Western-Eastern “Civilizational Gradation” and Religious Problem The political history of Eastern Europe is influenced by the so-called Western-Eastern “civilizational gradation.” In the last one thousand years of European history, the spread of Western civilization has been related to power. In both tangible and intangible fields, new waves of human life were thought to come mainly from the West (first from the Mediterranean, later from the Atlantic coast) to the East. These waves have changed the life of many European people irreversibly. Western Christianity (Catholicism, later also Protestantism), the idea of human rights, democracy, secularism, clothing, hair, literature and music styles are examples of these waves. However, these waves have not always been received without confusion. Western waves influence the lifestyles of each region, but how these waves are received varies from region to region, because the background of regions is so varied. In fact, Europe has never been homogeneous. Therefore, the * This article is based on my published dissertation—Hajime Konno, Max Weber und die polnische Frage (1892–1920). Eine Betrachtung zum liberalen Nationalismus im wilhelminischen Deutschland (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2004).

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method or grade of the reception of Western waves has been used as a criterion of classification among countries, groups, and people. The sense of mission of more “western” actors and the sense of inferiority of less “western” types is one of reasons for the many conflicts in Europe. This WesternEastern “civilizational gradation” is often recognized in relation to religion. The sense of hierarchy between Protestantism, Catholicism, Orthodox and non-Christian religions has been a source of trouble since the Reformation and the Enlightenment, and also a background to national conflicts. This article describes the vision of Max Weber (1864–1920), a famous social scientist in modern Germany, on Eastern Europe and analyzes the relations between religion and nationalism. Weber proposed that civilizations, for example economic activities, of people are based on their religious backgrounds. More important is that Weber, as a nationalist in the German Empire, discusses Polish and Russian questions often and enthusiastically. In this article, we will consider Weber’s connection to Eastern Europe and its religious background.

Max Weber’s Connection to Eastern Europe: First Steps German-Polish conflicts in the German Empire were a product of WesternEastern “civilization gradation.” It would be premature to think that these conflicts began with the partition of Poland in the eighteenth century—that is, with the invasion of Prussia, Austria and Russia. Of course, that was one of the instances of the conflicts. However, the conflicts between Germans and Poles, who lived together in Eastern Europe, had been a phenomenon since the Middle Ages. Therefore, their radicalization in the age of nationalism would have been inevitable. A sense of Western-Eastern hierarchy was not a unique phenomenon between Germans and Poles. Similar phenomena can be seen between the French and Germans, between the Germans and Russians, between the Poles and Ukrainians, between the Poles and Russians and so forth. It was not a product of so-called “German particularity.” Max Weber was raised in a western, protestant family. He had little connection to Eastern Europe, where Catholics and the Orthodox Church were dominant. His family and relatives lived in Charlottenburg, Heidelberg, Hanau, Erfurt, Bielefeld and in the United States of America. He visited Eastern Europe in 1880 for the first time. Weber, at that time 16 years old, travelled in Silesia (Prussia) alone and thus recognized the differences in the Catholic world.

Max Weber and Eastern Europe

At six o’clock in the morning, after I had slept less than a few hours, a guy came to me with your letter, for which I had already asked the night before. He also brought a cup of coffee, even though I had not asked for it. I was angry with him and kicked him out of my room because he shamefully and promptly asked me for payment. He complained outside the room, but I fell asleep again. I heard later that all the staff in the hotel were Catholics and that they always leave the hotel in order to take part in their morning mass. After I woke up at eight o’clock and drank the cooled coffee, I decided to escape from this Catholicism.1

The next time Weber was confronted with Eastern Europe was in his military days. In his service as a one-year volunteer in Strasbourg, AlsaceLoraine, in 1883, he described the unsanitary condition of his polish comrade in his camp ironically: Now, where I was in charge of a corporal for one and half weeks and had the honor of taking responsibility, when some Polish piglet of the corporal appears for service in the morning without shaving, washing and smelly.2

In 1888, Max Weber undertook his military service in Poznań, Prussia, because his regiment, the Second Low Silesian Infantry Regiment No. 47 in the Royal Prussian Army, changed its camp from Strasbourg to Poznań. In his letters, he described the unsanitary conditions, poor quality drinks, desolate landscapes, and strange ways in Polish regions many times. In particular, he emphasized in a critical tone the servile attitude of Catholics and their adoration of relics. It is extremely unpleasant that almost all areas of the city are, not briefly but always, very smelly. As Braesig says, “it stinks everywhere.” The longer we stay here, the more unpleasant it becomes. A permanent dust, who knows from whence it comes, makes me an angrier person. We can eat well, when meals are clean. But, to the contrary, I almost always feel sick when I drink, even though the Hungarian wine is exceptionally expensive.3

1 Letter from Max Weber to Max Weber Sr., Schneekoppe/Riesengebirge, 21 July 1880, in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. II/1, ed. Rita Aldenhoff-Hübinger (Tuebingen: Mohr, 2017), 219–20. 2 Letter from Max Weber to Helene Weber, Strasbourg, 2 May 1884, in ibid., 411. 3 Letter from Max Weber to Helene Weber, Poznań, 25 July 1888, in Max WeberGesamtausgabe, vol. II/2, ed. Rita Aldenhoff-Hübinger (Tuebingen: Mohr, 2017), 163–64.

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Maneuvers are carried out in a terrible area. Therefore, I will see a piece of cultural history being made at this time.4 . . . on Sunday, we can see a large group of peasants coming out of the cathedral [in Gniezno]. They made a pilgrimage to the tomb of St. Adalbert on foot or with the horse and cart. Many come with the craziest thatched roof-like hair style and wear their relatives hand-me-downs, i.e. not many individually-made frock coats to be seen. Some wear sheepskin. Some look like the Tartars. Female costumes are, we can say, colorful, but not beautiful and decent.5

These citations show that the discomfort of young Max Weber was partly linked to his incredulity of the Catholic world. The Catholic Church seemed to him to be an enemy of his fatherland Germany and generally the free world. Such stance is a product of the “Kulturkampf,” an anti-Catholic campaign in the German Empire. Catholics were attacked because they were not an obedient minority in the new German state and because they seemed to the liberals to be a reactionary religious group. Julius Jolly (1823–91), Weber’s uncle and a statesman in the Grand Duchy of Baden, was a leader in this campaign.6 In his many writings, Weber expressed his anti-Catholic sentiment. In his composition “The general process of German history” (1877), the young Weber praised the Roman Emperors in the Middle Ages till the Staufen as German leaders, and criticized the anti-Emperor campaigns of the Popes.7 In his composition “A consideration of the character, development and history of people among the Indogerman nations” (1879), he referred to “Athanasianism” or “Catholicism” as “basically polytheistic,” compared with “Arianism” as “monotheistic, therefore Semitic.” He concluded that Catholicism is based on the nature of Catholic lands, and that Catholicism cannot gain any influence in North Europe because of its polytheistic

4 Letter from Max Weber to Alfred Weber, Poznań, 2 August 1888, in ibid., 167. 5 Letter from Max Weber to Helene Weber, Poznań, 15 August 1888, in ibid., 169. 6 Letter from Max Weber to Robert Michels, Heidelberg, 16 August 1908, in Max WeberGesamtausgabe, vol. II/5, ed. M. Rainer Lepsius and Wolfgang J. Mommsen (Tuebingen: Mohr, 1990), 637; Julius Jolly, “Der Kirchenstreit in Preussen,” Preussische Jahrbuecher, no. 50 (1882): 107–64. 7 Max Weber, “Der Hergang der deutschen Geschicht[e] im Allgemeinen namentlich in Rucksich[t] auf die Stellung von Kaiser und Pabst,” in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. II/1, 603–19.

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character.8 In his letter in January 1886, Weber was surprised at the news that Bismarck had been given a “Christ-Order” as the first Protestant by Pope Leo XIII. Weber asked himself if this act could succeed, and if so, what it would mean, and if Catholic priests would use this action in their favor.9 In 1887, he regretted that Bismarck ended the “Kulturkampf ” not as a morally legitimized act, but as normal business. Weber feared that the “Kulturkampf ” would be viewed as an oppression of religious minorities.10 In his military years, another important event occurred. Weber went to Gniezno and planned to visit Bismarck’s project of German colonization against Polish peasants. At this occasion, he met with August Ernst von Ernsthausen in Gniezno. This general governor of West Prussia criticized the banishment of Polish agricultural workers, which is the totally opposite stance to that of Weber.11 Parallel to military service, Weber studied agricultural history in the laboratory of August Meitzen. Meitzen’s major was the comparative study of “cultural” development between German and Slavic peasants since the mediaeval age based on the agricultural form. Several years later, Weber and Meitzen met each other at the Society of German Eastern Marches (Deutscher Ostmarkenverein), an anti-Polish organization in the German Empire.12

Analysis of Polish Agricultural Workers and Its Anti-Catholic Backgrounds From 1892 to the end of the nineteenth century, Max Weber concentrated on the study of the problem of Polish agricultural workers in the German East. He eagerly requested that they be excluded and that the German element be reinforced in this region in order to maintain the civilizational quality of life there. He was confident that the German population would be the main support for Western high civilization in the German East. This confidence was, as described above, a product of his former experiences in Silesia, Poznań and Gniezno. 8 Max Weber, “Betrachtungen Über Völker-Charakter, Völker-Entwicklung und VölkerGeschichte bei den Indogermanischen Nationen,” in ibid., 635. 9 Letter from Max Weber to Helene Weber, Göttingen, 12 January 1886, in ibid., 577. 10 Letter from Max Weber to Hermann Baumgarten, Charlottenburg, 25 April 1887, in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. II/2, 72. 11 Letter from Max Weber to Helene Weber, Poznań, 15 August 1888, in ibid., 170. 12 “Mitgliederliste des Gesamtausschusses des Vereins zur Förderung des Deutschtums in den Ostmarken vom 1897,” Die Ostmarck, 1897.

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Weber began to advocate for the exclusion of Polish workers from the German East in 1892 during his participation in the analysis of the questionnaire on agricultural workers, which had been issued by the Society of Social Politics (Verein für Socialpolitik). This questionnaire aimed to analyze the conditions of agricultural workers in the whole of Germany, but not especially from a national standpoint. Weber nationalized this questionnaire. He analyzed the German East part in this questionnaire and claimed that Prussian Junker, traditional elites in the German Empire, employed Polish workers in their plantations, and, as a result, Junkers had “Polonized” the German East. Weber used the problem of Polish workers as a moral battle for German establishments in the German East. The young Weber joined the Pan-German league, the Society of German Eastern Marches, and the National-Social Society in order to advocate for the exclusion of Polish workers and to smite the Prussian Junker, who hired them. From 1897/98, he was inactive because of his depression and he distanced himself from his research and education. Accordingly, he ceased to comment also on the Polish question. However, this pause did not mean a change of stance on the Polish question. In 1904, Weber again raised the Polish question in his work on the Prussian Fideikommiss Problem and discussed it in his lecture in the World Exposition in St. Louis, the United States of America. As far as Germany is concerned, in the east a certain approach to English conditions has begun in consequence of the tendencies of development, while the German southwest shows similarity with France in the social formation of the country. But, in general, the intensive English stock-breeding is not possible in the German east on account of the climate. Therefore capital absorbs only the soil which is most favorable for agriculture. But while the inferior districts in England remain uncultivated as pastures for sheep, in the German east they are settled by small farmers. This process has a peculiar feature, inasmuch as two nations, Germans and Slavonians, struggle with each other economically. The Polish peasants[,] who have fewer wants than the Germans, seem to gain the upper hand. While thus under the pressure of conjuncture the frugal Slavonian small farmer gains territory from the German, the advance of culture toward the east, during the Middle Ages, founded upon the superiority of the older and higher culture, has changed completely to the contrary under the dominion of the capitalistic principle of the “cheaper hand”. Whether also

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the United States will have to wrestle with similar problems in the future, nobody can foretell. The diminution of the agricultural operations in the wheat-producing states results, at present, from the growing intensity of the operation and from division of labor. But also the number of negro farms is growing and the migration from the country into the cities. If, thereby, the expansive power of the Anglo-Saxon-German settlement of the rural districts and, besides, the number of children of the old, inborn population are on the wane, and if, at the same time, the enormous immigration of uncivilized elements from eastern Europe grows, also here a rural population might soon arise which could not be assimilated by the historically transmitted culture of this country; this population would change forever the standard of the United States and would gradually form a community of a quite different type from the great creation of the Anglo-Saxon spirit13

Max Weber had discussed the same thesis in 1892 in Berlin. At this time, however, he described the migration of agricultural workers not in a specific German, but in a universal context. He insisted that the same wave of people as in the German East could also be seen in the new continent. The American equivalent for Polish workers was, according to him, “Negro” and “uncivilized elements from eastern Europe.” The American equivalent for the Germans in the German East was “the Anglo-SaxonGerman settlement.” Here, he treated the German population in the United States as the civilized, old inhabitants the same as the Anglo-Saxon population, although it was universally known that there were conflicts between both sides in the United States. His famous article “The Protestant Ethic and the ‘Spirit’ of Capitalism” (1904/5) shows that he viewed social and national matters through the prism of religious background, even in modern society. A glance at the occupational statistics of any country of mixied religious composition brings to light with remarkable frequency a situation which has several times provoked discussion in the Catholic press and literature, and in Catholic congresses in Germany, namely, the fact that business leaders and owners of capital, as well as the higher grades of skilled labour, and even more the higher technically and commercially trained personnel of modern enterprises, are overwhelmingly Protestant. This is true not only in cases 13 Max Weber, The Relations of the Rural Community to Other Branches of Social Science, in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. I/8, ed. Wolfgang Schluchter (Tuebingen: Mohr, 1998), 241–42.

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where the difference in religion coincides with one of nationality, and thus of cultural development, as in Eastern Germany between Germans and Poles. The same thing is shown in the figures of religious affiliation almost wherever capitalism, at the time of its great expansion, has had a free hand to alter the social distribution of the population in accordance with its needs, and to determine its occupational structure.14

The phrase “this is true not only in cases where the difference in religion coincides with one of nationality, and thus of cultural development, as in Eastern Germany between Germans and Poles” shows that Max Weber applied the results of his research on Polish workers in the German East later to his sociology of religion. In other words, he thought in this article that the Germans in the German East were Protestants, and therefore civilizationally high, and that the Poles were Catholics, and therefore civilizationally low. At this time, he took a more serious view of the religious factor for the “civilizational gradation” than in 1892. However, at the same time, he thought that this ethno-religious character could be changed by special actions and positively influenced by the environment of the more western civilized area. The same Polish girl who at home was not to be shaken loose from her traditional laziness by any chance of earning money, however tempting, seems to change her entire nature and become capable of unlimited accomplishment when she is a migratory worker in a foreign country. The same is true of migratory Italian labourers.15 The present-day average Silesian mows, when he exerts himself to the full, little more than two-thirds as much land as the better paid and nourished Pomeranian or Mecklenburger, and the Pole, the further East he comes from, accomplished progressively less than the German.16

We cannot overlook the fact that Weber reiterated anti-Catholic behaviors during these years also in other contexts. He travelled to Ireland in 1895 and declared himself to be against the autonomy of the Irish 14 Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Talcott Parsons, with a new introduction by Anthony Giddens, 2nd ed. (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1976), 35 (Max Weber, Die protestantische Ethik und der “Geist” des Kapitalismus, in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. I/9, ed. Wolfgang Schluchter [Tuebingen: Mohr, 2014], 123–25). 15 Weber, The Protestant Ethic, 191 (Weber, Die protestantische Ethik, 136–37). 16 Weber, The Protestant Ethic, 61 (Weber, Die protestantische Ethik, 158–59).

Max Weber and Eastern Europe

people. Weber feared terribly that Irish autonomy meant the ascendance of Catholic priests.17 In the summer of 1902, there was an indication in the Grand Duchy of Baden that Catholic monastic male orders, which had mostly been prohibited since the “Kulturkampf,” could be permitted again. Weber took part in the movement of professors and citizens against this permission and tried to submit a remonstrance to the Grand Duke. The arguments were that no new Catholic order was necessary for the saving of the souls in Baden, that the Catholic orders could enlarge their wealth, and that the organization of a new Catholic order disturbed the religious peace in Baden.18 In 1904, Weber signed the declaration against the confessionalization of Prussian schools, because this policy reinforced, according to him, the rift between the territories, and between confessions.19 In 1906, 1907 and 1908, Weber expressed his hatred toward the Center-Party (Zentrum), the Party of Catholics, as an allied party of the German Emperor and conservative parties. He feared that the rise of the Center-Party had caused the dominance of Catholic priests in the politics of the German Empire and the German states.20

Analysis of Russian Revolution of 1905 In 1905/6, Max Weber began to recognize the Polish/Catholic question in the context of international politics in Eastern Europe. Weber’s abrupt interest in Russian politics resulted from his sympathy for the fighters of Russian liberalism (or civil democracy) in 1904/05. He analyzed the domestic politics of the Russian Empire and considered “the intense influx of ideas of the West” [die mächtige Einwanderung der Ideen des Westens], also in the Russian Empire, as inevitable.21

17 Marianne Weber, Max Weber. Ein Lebensbild (Tuebingen: Mohr, 1926), 228. 18 Max Weber, “Erklärung gegen die Zulassung von Männerorden in Baden” (Editorischer Bericht und Text), in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. I/8, 405–413. 19 Max Weber, “Einspruchserklärung gegen die preußische Schulvorlage” (Editorischer Bericht und Text), in ibid., 437–45. 20 Letter from Max Weber to Friedrich Naumann, Heidelberg, 14 December 1906, in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. II/5, 201–5; letter from Max Weber to Lujo Brentano, Heidelberg, 6 February 1907, in ibid., 254; letter from Max Weber to Friedrich Naumann, Heidelberg, 5 June 1908, in ibid., 588. 21 Max Weber, “Zur Lage der bürgerlichen Demokratie in Rußland,” in Max WeberGesamtausgabe, vol. I/10, ed. Wolfgang J. Mommsen (Tuebingen: Mohr, 1989), 272–73.

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Weber saw the Tsarism, rural communities and Orthodox Church as obstructions to “the ideas of the West” in Russia. It was a natural process that Weber, who had analyzed the modernization by ascetic Protestantism, should take an interest in the religious situation in Russia. Weber cited a phrase by Pavel Miliukov (1859–1943), a leader of Russian liberals. “The history made Frenchmen enemies of the church, Englishmen friends of the church and intellectual Russians neither enemies nor friends, but those with no interest in the church.” Weber thought that there was no “cultural orthodox” movement, because of structural problems of this church. In this context, he treated the Catholic Church in Russia as a freedom fighter. He said that the Catholic Church could play the role of freedom fighter against the state, because it had the Papacy outside the state, although the Orthodox Church had been inseparably connected to the state in its caesaropapistic structure since the Byzantine Age. Furthermore, Weber did discuss Russian Episcopalism in his work, but as a hopeless movement.22 Weber, a critic of the “church” and a backer of “sects” in his Protestant work, observed Russian Orthodox “sects” in his work on Russian politics carefully. What he expected, was the rise of a sect named “Stunda.” The name “Stunda” came from the German word “Stunde” (hour). This “Stunda” was an aggregate of rationalistic sects that were influenced by German Colonists in the Russian Empire and were well known among German liberal Protestants. Weber pointed out that liberal intellectuals in Little Russia (Ukraine) and South Russia expected the expansion of this sect. On the contrary, he showed an indifferent attitude to the “Old Believers.” This sect was also called the “Splitters.” They split themselves apart from the Russian Orthodox Church, because they rejected the Reform of the Patriarch Nikon of Moscow under the reign of Tsar Alexy and preserved their old rituals. These Old Believers had been emancipated in the Russian Revolution of 1905 and expanded in commercial and industrial circles. But Weber considered this sect not as the equivalent of western ascetic Protestant sects, but as touch traditionalists. He indicated the fact that the Old Believers strengthened after the emancipation their Russian Orthodox identity and a feeling of antagonism against Poles and Lithuanians, and that they were

22 Weber, “Zur Lage der bürgerlichen Demokratie in Rußland,” 153–64; Max Weber, “Rußlands Übergang zum Scheinkonstitutionalismus,” in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. I/10, 325–27, 343–55.

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not aware of politics. Weber therefore denied that the Old Believers had become supporters of Russian democracy.23 Max Weber described the clashes between Russian domestic religions, that is, Orthodoxy and other surrounding religious groups, and western foreign religions (Catholicism and Protestantism). He expected of course the rise not only of the “Stunda,” a quasi-western Orthodox sect, but also of Protestantism itself. What is more interesting is that Weber also expected, as described above, the rise of Catholicism in the Russian Empire. In German domestic politics, Weber treated it as an old-fashioned group; however, in Russian politics, as a western, repressed religious minority. According to Weber, the Russian government intervened in the ordinations of Catholic bishops and supported the ascetic Catholic sect “Mariavita” in order to oppose the Catholic Church. Weber mentioned Baron Eduard von der Ropp, Bishop of Vilnius (1851–1939), and paid attention to the Russian “Center-Party,” in which he took the role of a leader, bearing in mind the comparison with the German situation.24 The analysis of Russian politics gave Weber an opportunity to recognize the Polish question as an international problem in Eastern Europe, but not for the first time. Previously, in 1887 Weber had written: The scene is very strange regarding how the Catholic Church is acting in their relation to the [Prussian] state in our region. In Posen province [Poznań], some of the most vocal complainers of the newspapers of the Center-Party were ordered to hold their tongues. More than a dozen complaints on the positions of priests were managed according to the opinions of the state. Some priests received rebukes or were prohibited from publishing etc. by their chief of the Church. German priests have been ordained and so forth. These steps go directly against all traditions of local clergy. We barely understand why they are possible. One way of understanding it is expressed repeatedly: Bismarck succeeded in letting the Curia realize that the interests of the state and the Catholic Church existed in this region together, i.e. against Russia, and that we could not let Catholic Poles in Russia fight against Russia without the extension of the Germanization in our country. Therefore, the attitude of Rome to Prussian Poles changed indeed. In any

23 Weber, “Zur Lage der bürgerlichen Demokratie in Rußland,” 164; Weber, “Rußlands Übergang zum Scheinkonstitutionalismus,” 679. 24 Ibid., 340–43.

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case, this entente cordial [between the Catholic Church and the Prussian state] is astonishing.25

In this letter, Weber quoted the understanding that Germans (or Prussians) and Poles stood together facing Russia. It is, however, not clear, to what extent Weber himself believed this idea to be true at this time. In his analysis on Russian politics in 1905/6, Weber pointed out that the democratic and federalistic reform model of Mykhailo Drahomanov, a Ukrainian, declined and the idea of Polish autonomy as an anti-German strategy of Petr Struve, a Russian liberal, increased. As a German nationalist, Weber stood guard against the Russian threat. He began to consider if it was possible to permit the cultural autonomy of Prussian Poles like that of Russian Poles. He criticized, therefore, that the imperial law on organizations in 1908 included the enforcement of the German language also for Prussian Poles. Max Weber’s analysis on Russian politics, however, did not entirely change his image of the Poles in Prussia. In 1908, although he criticized, as described above, the imperial law on organizations, he desired the intensification of the expropriation law against the Prussian Poles. According to him, the Prussian Poles continued to be a threat to the German nation state also after the Russian Revolution of 1905, rather than a comrade in the German nation for fighting against Russia.

Analysis of World War I and After: The Primacy of Foreign Politics Max Weber interpreted World War I essentially as a German war against Russia. He stressed persistently how civilizationally low Russia was. For Weber, the Russian Army was a troop of “barbarians” and “illiterates.” Other than “civilized armies,” their soldiers, “two million prisoners,” had, according to Weber, no will to serve their fatherland.26 Moreover, Weber used the concept of “people’s imperialism” (Volksimperialismus) in order to describe the desire of Russian peasants for new lands as a background to

25 Letter from Max Weber to Hermann Baumgarten, Charlottenburg, 29 June 1887, in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. II/2, 93. 26 Max Weber, “Bismarcks Außenpolitik und die Gegenwart,” in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. I/15, ed. Gangolf Hübinger and Wolfgang J Mommsen (Tuebingen: Mohr, 1984), 88; Max Weber, “Deutschland unter den europäischen Weltmächten,” in ibid., 181; Max Weber, “Parlament und Regierung im neugeordneten Deutschland,” in ibid., 452.

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Russian imperialism.27 The cruelty of Russian soldiers, a classical term for a westernized German, is of course among Weber’s favorite phrases. “The bestial brutalities, by which undisciplined bands of Russians invade occasionally the regions, where partly the same race resides, are reminiscent of mediaeval Mongolian times.”28 After the outbreak of World War I, Weber began to advocate for Germany’s alliance with the Poles in Prussia, Austria and Russia more enthusiastically than before the war. At the same time, he attacked the Prussian Ministry of Internal Affairs and the “right” parties in the Reichstag because of their stubborn suspicion of the Polish population in Prussia. His actions corresponded with those of Paul von Hindenburg and Erich Ludendorff, who declared the building of a constitutional monarchy of Poland in 1916. But after the Brest-Litovsk treaty in 1918, the Russian threat ceased to exist at that moment. The new Polish state was a new threat to the German East. Weber changed his attitude suddenly and appeared as an enemy of Polish irredentism. In 1919, after the war, he repeated the same opinion as twenty-five years before, that is the refusal of the influx of polish workers, in order to protect Upper Silesia. The religious problem played no role in his articles on German policy after 1914 World War I, which was for him a civilizational war between nation states, but no longer a religious war. Although Max Weber himself was “religiös unmusikalisch,” that is agnostic, he had been very interested in the influences of religions on society. The results of this idea were his sociology of religion. Also as a German, he had viewed neighboring peoples with their religious backgrounds. We can see, however, this tendency mainly only until World War I.

27 Weber, “Deutschland unter den europäischen Weltmächten,” 173. 28 Max Weber, “Die siebente deutsche Kriegsanleihe,” in Max Weber-Gesamtausgabe, vol. I/15, 318.

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Index anti-Semitism, 163, 174–80 Austrian Empire/Austrian monarchy/ Austria. See Habsburg Empire Baden, 184, 189 Basilian Order/Basilian (people, culture, etc.), 6, 11, 14–15, 17, 18n74, 25n109, 26n115, 34–35, 38, 40–41 Belarus, 2, 6, 20–21, 23, 26–28, 67n49, 72, 98 Belarusian/Belorussian (people, culture, etc.), xv, 21, 23, 26, 29–31, 33, 36, 41, 47, 49–50, 53, 58–59, 61–65, 67, 72–73, 75, 81, 118–29 Berlin, 187 Biała Podlaska, 17, 18n74, 20n86, 26n114 Bohemia, xvi, 98, 130–49 Calvinism/Calvinist, 2n2, 5, 14, 32 Catholic Church, Greek. See Uniate Church Catholic Church, Roman, xii, 1–3, 12–13, 15, 22, 25, 27, 30, 33–41, 47, 49, 51, 57, 59–62, 64, 85, 113, 119–26, 132, 138, 153–54, 159, 167, 184, 187, 189–92 Catholic clergy, xv–xvii, 11, 13, 22, 34–35, 50, 57, 59, 62, 84–96, 97–117, 118, 120, 127, 138, 140, 153–54, 159, 162, 167, 169–70, 172n41, 176, 185, 189, 191 Catholicism, xiii–xvi, 2, 6n11, 13–16, 19, 24–25, 27, 29–30, 32–34, 35–37, 47, 51, 55–57, 59, 67n49, 84–85, 88, 91–92, 94, 96, 118–29, 154, 163, 168, 176n62, 181–84, 189, 191 Catholicization, xii, xv, 2, 13, 16, 25–26, 29–30, 35, 38, 41, 75, 77, 149, 154, 163 anti-Catholic sentiment, 184–89 Catholics, Roman, xv, 5, 7, 9n32, 11–12, 14, 16, 18n76, 18n78, 22, 25–26, 30, 31n2, 32, 34–38, 42–43, 51, 58–59, 61–62, 64, 67n49, 79, 118–29, 144, 151, 153, 157, 165, 175, 180, 182–84, 188–89, 191 Chełm/Kholm, 15, 18n77, 21 confessionalization, xii, 1, 189

conversion, 2, 6n11, 6n13, 14–15, 24, 29–49, 57, 59, 62, 64–65, 123 Cossacks, 14n57, 16, 19, 23, 26, 48n57, 59 Counter-Reformation, ix, xi–xii, 7, 16 Czech (people, culture, etc.), xvi, 98, 109, 130–49, 177 Częstochowa, 16, 171, 177 Derpt (Tartu), 72, 75–76, 79 Dinaburg (Daugavpils), 94 diocese/archdiocese Brest, 38 Chełm/Kholm, 21, 31n2 Lutsk, 18–19, 38 Lviv, 18–19 Mogilev, 10n35, 46n51 Polotsk, 6–8, 15n57 Przemyśl, 18–19, 159 Samogitia (Telšiai), 86, 91 Seinai (Sejny), 86 Stanislaviv, 22n94 Vilnius, 86, 95–96 Belorussian diocese (Polotsk), 38, 41–43, 45–46, 48n56 Lithuanian diocese (Zhirovitsy), 38, 41–43, 42n38, 48n56 Uniate dioceses, 21, 38, 42n38 Disuniate, 1–2, 6–9, 10n35, 14–15, 21 educational districts, 68–83 Derpt, 75, 79 Kazan’, 70n6, 79 Khar’kov, 78–79 Odessa, 79 Orenburg, 79 Vilna, 69, 72, 74, 81–82, 89n24 Warsaw, 79 emancipation, 58, 63, 68–71, 74, 76, 120–21, 123, 147, 165, 190 England/English (people), 170, 186, 190 Estonia, 98

Index

Finland/Finn, 72, 76 France/French (people), 164n8, 182, 186, 190 Galicia/Galician (people, culture, etc.), xvi, 18n78, 19, 22–28, 31n4, 150–58 German (people, culture, etc.), 55, 58, 76–77, 98, 131–34, 139–40, 151, 164–66, 170, 172, 176–77, 180, 182, 184–93 German Empire, 182, 184–86, 189 Germanization/Germanizing, 76, 191 Germany, 70n6, 182, 184, 186–89, 193 Gniezno, 184–85 Grodno (Hrodna), 17n72, 20n86, 32, 44–45, 74 Habsburg Empire/Habsburg Monarchy/ Habsburg Dynasty/Austrian monarchy, viii, ix, xv–xvii, 19, 21–23, 26n114, 31n4, 134, 142, 150–52, 155–60, 182, 193 Halych, 2, 11n42, 22 iconostasis, 34, 42–45 inorodtsy, 80 Ireland, 188 Islam/Muslim, 16, 79–80 January Uprising (1863–64), 21–23, 50–67, 69, 72, 98 Jesuit (people, culture, etc.), 5, 11, 14, 16n65, 19, 38 Jews/Jewish (culture and so on), 14n55, 32n5, 127–28, 144, 150–52, 156, 162–63, 165–80. See also rabbis Judaism, 14 Kaunas/Kovna, 69, 86, 91, 94, 114n56 Kazan’, 70n6, 79 Kėdainiai, 101 Khar’kov (Kharkiv), 78 Kościuszko Uprising (1794), 60 Kraków/Cracow, 18n77, 19, 53n10, 111, 154 Kulturkampf, 184–85, 189 Kyiv (Kiev), 1, 5–6, 8n22, 15n57, 22, 32, 76, 93 Latinization, 13n52, 25, 31 Latvia/Latvians, 76, 88, 98, 106 liberalism/liberal (people, culture, etc.), 52, 70, 98, 103, 105, 109n39, 131–32, 134, 137n9, 138–40, 143, 152–53, 163, 176, 184, 189–90, 192

Lithuania, Grand Duchy of, 6–9, 12–13, 16–19, 23, 25, 27, 52, 57n24, 62, 67n49, 101 Lithuania/Lithuanian (people, culture, etc.), xv, xvii, 2, 16–17, 23, 27, 50–53, 57–67, 69, 72, 79, 84–17 Lithuanianization, 107, 114–15, 117 Łódź, xvii, 161–80 Lviv/Lemberg/Lwów, 8, 18, 22, 24n99, 99n4, 150–55, 157–60 Mariavitism, 165 Minsk, 10n32, 32, 35n12, 43–45 Mogilev (Mahilioŭ), 7, 10n35, 32, 46n51, 48n57 Moscow, 6n11, 19, 40, 42, 45, 46, 47, 62, 107, 190 multiconfessionalism/polyconfessionalism, xi–xii, 33–37, 127–28, 144, 189 Muscovy/Muscovites, 6, 7n19, 16–19, 20n82–83 national movement, xiii, 98, 109–10, 114, 117 Belarusian, 118–29 Czech, xvi, 109n39, 130–49 Lithuanian, xvii, 84–17 Polish, xvi–xvii, 55, 108–9, 115, 117, 150–60 nationalism, passim Belarusian, xv, 21, 118–29 Czech, 130–49 German, 192 Jewish, 152, 162, 177–78 Lithuanian, xvii, 67, 84–117 Polish, xiii, xv, 26, 52, 85, 152, 154–55, 160, 161–63, 166–69, 171–74, 176–77, 179–80 Russian, 68–83 Ukrainian, 24, 26, 31n4, 152, 155 nationalization, ix, xi, xvi–xvii, 1, 24–27, 115–17, 149 November Uprising (1830–31), 21, 22n96, 31, 40, 164 Old Believers, 190–91 Orthodox Church, ix, xii–xiii, xv, 1–27, 30, 33, 36–38, 41–42, 44–49, 62, 65–66, 81–83, 84, 121, 182, 190 Orthodox Christianity/Orthodoxy, xiii–xv, 2, 3n4, 5, 8–10, 14–15, 20–21, 24, 29–38, 40–42, 49, 57, 59, 62, 64, 68–83, 127, 182, 190–91

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Index

Orthodox clergy, 8, 10n35, 14, 19, 24–25, 34n9, 42, 59, 62, 73–76, 127 Orthodox believers, 1–2, 4, 6n13, 7, 9, 10n32, 12–16, 17n72, 19–20, 23–27, 31–34, 35–36, 62, 72–74, 77, 79–80, 127–28, 165, 175, 190–91 Ottoman Empire, 8n24, 15 Partitions of the Commonwealth (1772, 1793, 1795), see Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth Piotrków, 167, 178–79 Poland/Kingdom of Poland, xvii, 2, 8n22, 15n63, 16–18, 20, 21, 23, 27, 29, 52, 54–56, 61, 63, 86, 90, 108, 111, 157–59, 161–80, 193 interwar Poland, 25, 28, 120, 129 Poles/Polish (culture and so on), xiii, xv, 5n9, 13n52, 19–24, 26, 28, 29–31, 34, 35n15, 36–38, 40–41, 49, 50–67, 72–75, 77–78, 83, 85–88, 93, 97–102, 105–9, 111–17, 119, 121–25, 128, 138n10, 150–80, 182–93 Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth/ Rzeczpospolita, xii–xiii, 1–2, 3n4, 7–10, 12–27, 30–32, 36, 60–61, 63, 67, 84–85, 108, 115, 150, 163 Partitions of the Commonwealth (1772, 1793, and 1795), 18–19, 21, 28, 29–32, 34, 36, 54, 60, 84, 150, 159, 163, 182 Polonization, xvii, 24, 31, 101, 115, 157, 186 de-Polonization, 22, 28, 119 Polotsk (Polatsk), 2, 6–8, 11–18, 20–22, 34n9, 35n15, 38, 40n32, 47n54, 48 pope(s), 9n31, 10n39, 11–12, 14, 22, 47, 113, 158n23, 159, 184–85 Poznań, 87, 112, 183, 185, 191 Prague, 134, 138, 142–46 Protestantism/Protestant, 2, 9n32, 16, 32, 77, 144, 162, 165–66, 175, 181–82, 185, 187–88, 190–91 Prussia/Prussian (people, culture, etc.), 87n10, 106, 150, 163, 182–83, 185–86, 189, 191–93 Przemyśl, 8, 18, 19n79, 25, 159 rabbis, 162, 166–67, 169 Reformation, ix, xi, 165, 182 Riga, 76 Rome, 5, 10, 12, 13n51, 26n114, 30, 124, 191 Rusophiles, 23–25

Russia/Russian Empire/Romanov Dynasty, viii–ix, xiii, xiv–xv, xvin27, 20–26, 29–49, 63–64, 66, 68, 71, 74, 77, 80, 82, 84, 86n6, 87, 89n24, 104, 118–20, 124, 127, 150, 162, 164, 169, 170, 180, 182, 189–93 Russia’s provinces eastern provinces, 80 eight western provinces (Vitebsk, Mogilev, Minsk, Grodno, Vilnius/Vilna, Kyiv, Volhynia, and Podolia), 21, 29–49, 69–83 Grodno, 44–45, 74 Minsk, 43–45 Vilnius/Vilna, 95, 128 Belarusian provinces, 38, 41, 43n38, 47, 118, 127 northwestern provinces, 69–78, 80–83, 86, 90, 95, 165, 177 inner provinces, 69, 72, 75–80 southwestern provinces, 77 Russian Revolution of 1905, 98, 161, 174, 179–80, 189–92 Russians/Moskals/Russian (culture and so on), xv, 30–31, 36–37, 39–40, 47, 5861– 71–73, 75, 77, 79–82, 88, 89n24, 114, 119, 125, 165, 176, 182, 190, 192, 193 Russification/Russianizing, 31, 40, 76, 114–15 Ruthenia/Ruthenian (people, culture, etc.), 1–5, 8, 11, 13, 17, 20–21, 23, 24n102, 25–28, 31, 33, 37, 150 Rzeczpospolita. See Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth Samogitia, 11n42, 59, 86, 88–91, 93–95, 101, 103 Seinai/Sejny, 86, 90–91, 95–96 Sejm (parliament of the Commonwealth/ Poland), 9n26, 17, 156, 159 serfdom, 58, 60, 71, 104, 124, 147. See also emancipation Siberia, 59, 165–66 Silesia/Silesian (people, culture, etc.), 182–83, 185, 188, 193 Slavic/Slavonic (people, culture, etc.), 29–30, 131–32, 138–40, 144–46, 148, 182, 185 Slavonic, Old Church (cultures), 5n9, 30, 34, 39, 72, 82 Slovak, 98 socialism, 87, 118, 120, 127–29, 152, 154, 162–63, 166–69, 171–74, 176, 180

Index

Soviet Union/USSR, viii, xi, xvii, 25n107, 26n114, 31n4, 118 St. Petersburg, 39–40, 91–92, 95, 108, 167 State Duma, 112, 161, 163, 168–69, 172, 174–75, 177, 180 Sweden/Swedes, 16, 144 Telšiai, 86, 89–91, 93–95 USSR, see Soviet Union Ukraine, 2, 4, 21–28, 30, 33, 35n14, 98, 151n2, 190 Ukrainian (people, culture, etc.), 18, 21–31, 33, 36, 41, 49, 98, 150–58, 160, 182, 192 Ukrainization, 4, 24, 25n110 Uniate Church/Greek Catholic Church, xii, 1–3, 5, 8, 13–14, 18–19, 21–22, 24–27, 29–49, 57, 59, 62, 64–65, 67, 119, 153–54 Uniate clergy, 2, 5–8, 10–11, 15, 18n78, 19n80, 22, 24, 27, 29, 33–35, 38–49 Uniates/Greek Catholics, xiii, 5, 6n15, 11, 13, 18, 24, 26–49, 151 Uniatism/Greek Catholicism, 2, 5–6, 14–15, 19, 27, 29–49, 64–65, 67, 154

Union of Brest/Church Union, xii, 1, 2n1, 5, 6n13, 7–8, 13, 18–20, 21n89, 24, 27, 30 United States of America, 89n23, 91, 182, 186–87 Valkininkai, 96 Vatican/Apostolic See/Holy See, 12, 18n74, 23n97, 26n115, 124, 126 Vienna, 21, 26n114, 155 Vilnius/Vilna, 2, 4–6, 8, 9n30, 11n41–42, 17, 20, 32, 36n18, 39, 54n11, 57n24, 64–65, 69, 72, 74, 81–82, 86, 89n24, 95–96, 99, 107, 113–14, 115n60, 128, 191 Vitebsk, 2, 7, 9–10, 13, 14n55, 15n57, 26, 32, 48n57 Volhynia, 9n26, 25, 30, 32 Warsaw, 10, 53n10, 54n57, 59–60, 62, 64, 79, 84n1, 169, 171, 176–77 Warsaw, Duchy of, 84n1 World War I, 22, 24, 27, 152, 162, 179, 192–93 World War II, 31n4 Zhirovitsy, 38, 40, 46

197