Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia 0875804624, 9780875804620

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Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia

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Modern Occultism in

Late Imperial Russia

J u l i a

M a n n h e r z

NIU Press DeKalb, IL

© 2012 by Northern Illinois University Press Published by the Northern Illinois University Press, DeKalb, Illinois 60115 Manufactured in the United States using acid-free paper. All Rights Reserved Design by Shaun Allshouse

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mannherz, Julia. Modern occultism in late imperial Russia / Julia Mannherz. pages ; cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-87580-462-0 (clothbound) — ISBN (invalid) 978-1-60909-064-7 (e-book) 1. Occultism—Russia—History—19th century. 2. Occultism—Russia—History—20th century. 3. Spiritualism—Russia—History—19th century. 4. Spiritualism— Russia—History—20th century. I. Title. BF1434.R8M36 2012 130.947’09034--dc23 2012010094

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

vii

3

1—The Laboratory in the Salon Spiritualism Comes to Russia 21 2—Occult Science and the Russian Public 48 3—The Occult Metropolis Putting the Hidden to Practical Use 79 4—Servants, Priests, and Haunted Houses 111 5—Popular Occultism and the Orthodox Church 140 6—The Occult at Court Mariia Puare and the Fate of Occultism during the Great War 163 Conclusion 189

Notes

195

Selected Bibliography Index

269

249

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Acknowledgments

Many people and institutions have helped me write this book. Financial support was provided by the Cambridge European Trust, the Deutscher Akademischer Austauschdienst, the Studienstiftung des Deutschen Volkes, the University of Göttingen, and in Oxford by the History Faculty, Oriel College, and the Fell Fund. I am grateful to all of them. I also wish to thank the staffs of the libraries and archives where I conducted my research: the university libraries of Cambridge, Göttingen, Münster, and Oxford, the Rossiiskaia natsional’naia biblioteka, the Rossiiskaia gosudarstvennaia biblioteka, the Biblioteka akademii nauk, the Gosudarstvennaia publichnaia istoricheskaia biblioteka, the Sanktpeterburgskaia gosudarstvennaia teatral’naia biblioteka, the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, the British Library, the library of the School of Slavonic and East European Studies (University College London), the Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv, the Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii, the Natsional’nyi arkhiv respubliki Tatarstana, the Muzei tsirkovogo iskusstva, the Tsentral’nyi gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv Sankt-Peterburga, the Tsentral’nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Moskvy, the Muzei Bakhrushina, and the Institut russkoi literatury. I am most grateful to friends and colleagues without whose help I would never have written this book. Hubertus Jahn and Susan Morrissey helped me formulate the project at the very beginning, and Hubertus saw it through the stages of a doctoral thesis. Natascha Astrina was always happy to help with the difficult features of the Russian language, and without her, Tatjana Balzer, and Elizaveta Liphardt, research trips to Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Kazan would not have worked out so well. Aleksandr and Ol’ga Astriny always had an open door for me in Moscow, Zoia Balandina was my host in St. Petersburg, and together with Kiril Bitner and Elizaveta Liphardt, Zoia tracked down texts about hypnosis, while Guzel’ Ibneeva, Lialia Khasanshina, and Elena Vishlenkova helped me find primary texts in Kazan. Tetyana Bogdan, Nikolai Bogomolov, Sandra Dahlke, Vera Dubina, James von Geldern, Boris Kolonitskii, Polly McMichael, and Karen Petrone have also helped me with sources or suggestions.

x

Acknowledgments

Irina Khmel’nitskaia has done more for me than could ever be expected of a friend, providing me with a place to stay in Moscow, helping with archives, libraries, red tape, and together with Dmitrii Provodin, enabling me to conduct “on-site research.” In Göttingen, Manfred Hildermeier was always ready to help, and in Oxford my colleagues at the History Faculty and Oriel College have made me feel most welcome and have supported me in every possible way. Numerous friends and colleagues have commented on drafts of chapters or the whole manuscript at various stages of its development, and I would like to thank Clare Ashdowne, Dominik Collet, Bruno Currie, Simon Dixon, Murray Frame, Ian Forrest, Michael Hagemeister, Jana Howlett, Hubertus Jahn, Emese Lafferton, Carlos Martins, David Moon, Alex Oberländer, Will Pooley, Bernice Rosenthal, Steve Smith, Nick Stargardt, and Christine Worobec for their invaluable suggestions. At Northern Illinois University Press, Amy Farranto and Susan Bean have been extremely helpful editors in every possible way, and I am also grateful to Marlyn Miller for her thorough copy editing. Tilman Bauer has supported me in every possible way throughout the many years I have been working on the occult in Russia; for his love and companionship I am more than thankful. This book is dedicated to him.

Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia

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Introduction

I

n the early 1890s, the symbolist poet Valerii Iakovlevich Briusov discovered his enthusiasm for the occult, and by the early months of 1893, he was regularly attending spiritualist séances. Several times a week, he joined a circle of acquaintances who gathered in darkened rooms to experience uncanny, supernatural occurrences.1 These assemblies were so important to Briusov that he noted them in his diary, recorded them in a black notebook with the inscription “Spiritualist Séances,” and mentioned them in letters.2 Judging by these accounts, séances not only provided Briusov with playful entertainment and a chance to engage in mischievousness and in amorous adventures, but they also engendered philosophical and artistic contemplation about reality and were a source of creative inspiration. So deep was Briusov’s emotional, artistic, and intellectual investment in spiritualism that, bedridden in 1895, he longingly begged his friend Aleksandr Lang (Miropol’skii) to visit and to entertain him: “bring the planchette with you; we’ll write and hold a séance.”3 Eventually, Briusov’s séance experiences provided the basis for a novella and influenced his poetry and his self-perception as an artist. Briusov, of course, was an outstanding poet, but his enthusiasm for spiritualism was far from exceptional. Ideas about mystical and supernatural powers played a prominent role in the cultural imagination of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Russian society. While Briusov was walking the night streets of Moscow to join his fellow séance participants, many of his contemporaries were engaged in similar activities. No statistics are available that could shed light on the absolute numbers of those who, alongside Briusov, were drawn to occult rituals during the last decades of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth.4 Those who recorded occult activities in

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their letters, diaries, notebooks, or memoirs were predominantly highly educated men, but a significant corpus of sources indicates that many more contemporaries shared these interests. The widespread fascination with the occult was mirrored in, among others, the sphere of publishing. Between 1881 and the end of the empire, over 30 periodicals devoted to the invisible world appeared in Russia, but the occult was also a prominent topic in mainstream publishing.5 Cheap pamphlets extolled occult techniques and standard newspapers frequently reported supernatural occurrences. In February 1893, at the time when Briusov was attending séances in Moscow, the popular St. Petersburg daily Peterburgskaia gazeta (St. Petersburg Gazette) ran a series of articles on spiritualists in the northern capital entitled “Peterburgskie spirity.”6 Over the course of two weeks, the broadsheet informed its readers about some of the capital’s most famous occultists, about ghostly apparitions, reincarnation, spirit guidance in fiction writing, hypnosis, spirit photography, the importance of religion for all these phenomena, and the close relation between occult phenomena and the sciences. The series began with an interview of Viktor Ivanovich Pribytkov, and it is indicative of the allure of spiritualism that Pribytkov, “the ‘official’ St. Petersburg spiritualist, editor and publisher of the [spiritualist] journal Rebus,” needed little introduction. He and his journal were well known to the newspaper’s readers.7 By the beginning of the new century, Briusov was moving confidently in the circles Peterburgskaia gazeta described. He made the acquaintance of Pribytkov in 1900, contributed articles to Rebus, and presented the journal’s editor with “a small book of my poetry that has just come out.” Briusov hoped that Pribytkov might find “in the last section, where I speak openly about my cherished beliefs [...], poems [whose themes] are not entirely unfamiliar to you.”8 Before entrusting his letters to Pribytkov to the post, Briusov carefully composed draft versions, which underlines the importance he attributed to this correspondence.9 Three years later, and more than a decade after he first took an interest in séances, Briusov had gained such high regard among Russia’s leading spiritualists that he offered the gravesite obituary of Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, the man who had done more than anyone else to propagate spiritualism in Russia.10 Briusov’s interest in the occult and his friendship with authors, editors, and protagonists of publications dealing with the supernatural illustrates several themes that are at the center of this study. The significance of the occult in the private lives of contemporaries and its role in mass culture are the subjects of this book. The history of late imperial occult thought and practice are traced

Introduction 5

from their origins in private salons to the public debates of the 1870s and the subsequent proliferation of the occult within turn-of-the-century mass culture. Briusov himself knew of these different approaches to the supernatural world firsthand. His acquaintance with Pribytkov and Aksakov brought him into contact with representatives of an older generation of Russian spiritualists, who prominently propagated their beliefs in the growing sphere of publishing in the 1870s and 1880s, and who confidently insisted that the occult was scientifically explicable. Briusov himself, however, moved away from this rational approach and cherished the irrational sensations that occult rituals offered. He experimented with various techniques aside from spiritualist séances, and his increasing versatility was representative of a diversification of occult practices around the turn of the century.

Popular Occultism in the Russian Empire In late imperial Russia, occultism was made up of a cluster of theories, beliefs, and practices that included spiritualist séances; quasi-scientific theories concerning mathematics, x-rays, and light waves; hypnosis; meditation exercises; theosophical discussion groups; telepathy; clairvoyance; dietary regimes; prayers; gymnastic programs; and investigations into supernatural occurrences such as haunted houses. In most contemporary texts, the occult was used as a word with positive connotations whose meaning combined rational understanding with the discovery of higher emotional truth. As one encyclopedia described it, the occult was part of “the double striving of the human soul to believe and to apprehend.”11 Although highly diverse and disparate, these practices formed a unity not only because contemporaries labeled them as “occult” but also because they shared a number of prime concerns. One of these was the common objective of all occultists to interact with and to study a hidden and greater dimension of reality.12 In the second half of the nineteenth century, this desire to experience and explain a concealed aspect of the world that many considered to be painfully unexplored was prominently engendered by the fashionable practice of spiritualism. During séances, that is, gatherings of men and women in darkened rooms that aimed to establish contact with the spirits of the departed, spiritualists received enigmatic messages delivered through knocks or in awkward handwriting; they observed sparks of light; they saw how invisible forces moved furniture, played instruments, or left imprints of immaterial

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hands and feet on soft surfaces. All of these phenomena raised challenging questions about the ability of current knowledge to comprehend invisible forces and about the relationship of the here and now to another world. As shown in the first chapter of this book, spiritualism became a prominent practice in post-reform Russia that developed out of noble salon culture and combined entertainment with science. It allowed contemporaries to explore their relationship to death at a time when religious convictions concerning immortality were being challenged by scientific notions, and it moreover enabled participants to appreciate their own intense sense of being alive. Spiritualist gatherings also provided practitioners with the opportunity to fashion themselves as independently minded investigators of unexplored aspects of nature, or as unconventional artists. In the second chapter, two areas of knowledge are examined that, according to occultists, shed light on the workings of a hidden reality: mathematics and physiological ideas regarding hypnosis. The analysis of a ferocious public debate that erupted in 1878 over the claim that non-Euclidean geometry and higher dimensional mathematics explained the workings of séance phenomena begins the chapter. The chapter ends with a description of how this intellectually relatively exclusive debate metamorphosed into a mass discussion about occult science, which in the 1880s and 1890s centered around the practice of hypnosis. Historians and sociologists have frequently argued that occultism emerged as a reaction to the rise of science and materialism, and that occultism and rationality represent binary opposites.13 In fact, occultists’ relationship with science was complex and highly ambivalent. Occultists operated with scientific notions and hoped that their theories would be welcomed by representatives of established academe. Thus, numerous occult texts stressed the rational qualities of occultism by describing the study of the hidden realm as an innovative scientific discipline in its own right. Journals such as Vestnik okku’ltnykh nauk (Herald of Occult Sciences) and Mag: Zhurnal okkul’tnykh nauk (The Magician: Journal for Occult Sciences) equated the occult with the exact sciences in their titles. Other pamphlets advanced “professors of secret sciences” or referred to doctoral theses in the area, while Pribytkov asserted in Rebus that occultism was devoted to “the teaching of nature’s mysteries.”14 Occultists were not entirely unsuccessful in their endeavors to claim scientificity for their convictions. Spiritualists could point toward a number of esteemed scientists who ardently defended the veracity of séance phenomena. These included, among others, the chemist and fellow of the Royal Society Sir

Introduction 7

William Crookes, the German astrophysicist Karl Friedrich Zöllner, the chemist Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov, and the zoologist Nikolai Petrovich Vagner. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, physiologists became increasingly interested in hypnosis, a technique in which occultists claimed expertise. That established scientists would conduct research into such a “mysterious” topic was hailed by occultists as a sign that their concerns were finally entering the academic mainstream. While a lot of energy was spent in the attempt to situate the occult within the realm of science, occultists could also be extremely critical of scientific notions, which they argued failed to address the most significant areas of human existence: the ultimate meaning of life and death. Despite their criticism, however, occultists felt painfully offended by the majority of scientists who rejected their conclusions. Because of occultists’ claims to explain nature fully, the fervent support by some scientists, and the hostile reaction it received from a majority of outspoken scholars, occult science became a hotly debated topic in the culturally influential thick journals, and it generated significant interest within popular culture. Consequently, debates about occult science in the public sphere turned into broader discussions about the veracity of scientific truth and its relationship to the relativity and ambiguity of modern life. Occultism, then, combined the disparate: belief about life after death, and science, entertainment and individual self-fashioning, as well as highly intellectual debates and popular culture. Indeed, one of the defining features of occult theory and practice was its versatility and eclecticism.15 Occultists were trying to understand séance phenomena with the help of geometry, and they attempted to grasp the workings of hypnosis by evoking electricity or neurology, but they simultaneously borrowed from renaissance alchemy, Jewish Kabbalah, Buddhist mysticism, Christian theology, and Kantian philosophy. This borrowing of diverse ideas, which frequently contradicted each other, resulted in notions that on the one hand attempted to unify all human knowledge, but that on the other hand often lacked intellectual rigor and coherence. The nature of occult forces was a case in point. From the spiritualist perspective, these resided mostly outside of those who observed them, that is, occult phenomena were thought to be caused by the spirits of the dead. Yet champions of spiritualism also suggested that séance phenomena might be caused by powers that resided deep inside the psyche of the living who attended séances.16 Toward the turn of the century, the border between external and internal forces became increasingly blurred and notions about these powers ever more vague. Sometimes, contemporaries

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Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia

experienced the lack of precision in occult thinking as problematic. In 1892, Rebus published an article entitled “The Meaning of Terms Used in Spiritualism,” which was intended to introduce greater semantic rigor.17 The project, however, was ill-fated from the start, for the text was based on a German document that did not take Russian usage into consideration. Theoretical inconsistency and ideological overlap could be found across the spectrum of occult theory and practice and made a clear distinction between schools of occult thought almost impossible. How-to manuals, for example, combined instructions about spiritualist séances with fortune-telling, hypnosis with clairvoyance, meditation with the interpretation of dreams, or folklore with the fourth dimension, or they discussed the obstructive quality of corsets before turning to Indian fakirs.18 The eclecticism of occultism is discussed in chapter three, as is the move of occult forces from the outside into the human psyche, a development that facilitated a widening of the occult sphere to include ever more varied forms of practices and beliefs. Popular occultism was eclectic and defied rigorous systematization. While this may be seen as an intellectual weakness, it was also one of its greatest strengths, in that it assured that occultism could be experienced as all embracing. After all, the object of occult study was that which, although real, was “impenetrable to the normal human senses,” including the rational mind.19 Occult thought, then, could not conform to standards of cold academic reasoning were it to do justice to its object of investigation. Around the turn of the century, most occultists abandoned attempts to approach the occult with scientific theories and instead relished supernatural experiences precisely because they defied reason but stressed emotion. Occultists described how supernatural experience led them from the mechanics of everyday life “into the realm of the heart and of sentiment.”20 This journey conferred upon them highly personal visions of sublime wisdom, majestic love, and supreme power. As one disciple put it: “these sensations allow us to feel revelatory meaning.”21 Rather than agreeing upon a set of abstract ideas and practices, diverse forms of occult penetration of higher wisdom shared an emotional, and sometimes also a bodily, experience of awe and insight. Two techniques that stressed such experience are the focus of chapter three: gaining hypnotic power over others, and the so-called occult-mental prayer. The first allowed practitioners to gain influence over themselves and others, while the second brought about a sense of belonging within a larger community of like-minded brethren. Both exercises offered an entryway into hidden reality and a technique that enabled practitioners to employ the mighty powers that lingered in this realm.

Introduction 9

One further trait that was shared by diverse occult ideas and practices was “a common ideology of seekership,”22 that is, a painstaking search for a deeper truth that would bestow meaning on all aspects of everyday experience and transcend quotidian triviality by integrating all forms of knowledge. One of the consequences of occult seekership was the ever-widening scope of occult concerns, which in early twentieth-century Russia were advertised very openly.23 Cheap pamphlets and journals taught readers “how to summon a ghost,” “how to develop clairvoyance,” and how to obtain “spiritual prowess.”24 At first sight, mass publications dealing with the occult appear to be a contradiction in terms. The occult, which translates from the Latin as that which is deliberately hidden, cannot, it would appear, be trumpeted by cheap instruction manuals. Yet the modern popular occultism that this study deals with was highly visible. The vibrant print culture of the late tsarist empire meant that the occult conception of the universe, allegedly revealed only to the initiate, was proclaimed in journals and in the pages of cheap pamphlets, and advertised in newspaper listings. The occult truth that these organs revealed was not openly self-evident; it had to be searched for and found, but it was neither concealed nor beyond reach. It was veiled, but accessible for each individual who looked for it, and cheap instruction manuals promised to teach readers how to go about this quest. The occult insights that these publications revealed, then, were not mysteries in the sense of being inaccessible but, in the words of Jacques Derrida, “in the sense that a secret provides a valuable insight.”25 Seekership could be individual and directed toward emotional insight; it could also manifest itself around attempts to study and to explain mysterious phenomena. In late imperial Russia, haunted houses provided opportunities for such analysis; and their boisterous character brought together convinced occultists and contemporaries who did not necessarily share beliefs in supernatural interference. These unquiet homes, which were visited by curious onlookers and inspected by the police, the clergy, and journalists, are the subject of chapter four. Reports about them featured prominently in newspapers, pamphlets, and journals, thereby confronting ordinary readers with phenomena that seemed to pertain to a different reality. The logic and narrative of accounts about haunted houses resembled dreams, and their meaning defied straightforward interpretation. By combining different notions and possible explanations, none of which, however, was presented as preeminent, debates about haunted houses continued the occult tradition of uniting the disparate in the public sphere. They also significantly expressed an attitude that accepted and even relished ambiguity, merging Orthodoxy with medicine, folklore with

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Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia

social thought, and bringing together the rural village in which these events took place with the urban mass culture that reported them. Discussions about haunted houses illustrate the location of occultism in the cultural landscape of late imperial Russia. Occult ideas and practices were focused around specialized journals or instruction manuals devoted to the topic. But the occult was also prominent in the mainstream press, where it was debated by the country’s most prominent cultural, scientific, and artistic figures. In mainstream publishing, however, supernatural occurrences remained a contentious topic. Some newspaper articles implied that spiritualist explanations were plausible, but frequently writers remained ambiguous or expressed ridicule and skeptical or even scathing assessments. The occult was thus never quite accepted and retained an illicit flavor.26 The focus of chapter five turns toward those who observed the occult from the outside by analyzing the reactions of Russian Orthodox theologians. It shows that theologians, like occultists, were challenged by the ascent of science as the most authoritative form to explain nature and man. Orthodox authors, like their occultist compatriots, wrestled with individualism, immortality, and the meaning of miracles. But despite these shared concerns, Orthodox thinkers were restrained by Christian teaching, and their responses to these questions stayed within the boundaries of theological tradition. Orthodox writers in turn criticized occultists for abandoning basic Christian tenets. For example, occultism allegedly did not lead believers to strive toward personal salvation and moreover lacked the redeeming figure of Christ. Occultists were indeed not much concerned with a deity or a personal relationship with God. Instead, as discussed above, they freely incorporated various religious and philosophical traditions. Notwithstanding the affinities to both science and belief, the occult was rejected by the official church as heretical and lambasted by prominent scientists as irrational. The occult, then, was also defined by its position in society. In late imperial Russia it may have been at the cultural center, but it also lay on the religious, scientific, and social peripheries. Theologians and occultists differed not only in their ideas, restrained in the case of the first and rather imaginative in the case of the latter, but in their ties to social institutions. While Orthodox writers were associated with and bound by the traditions of the Church, the intellectual freedom of occultists was not obstructed by any institutional organization. In contrast to established churches, occultists did not create set organizations, a ministry, or even a community of fellow occultists that was clearly defined. As a consequence, occult identities were hard to grasp. Establishing who was a spiritualist, a hypnotist,

Introduction 11

or even an occultist was tricky. When it came to the occult community, the driving stimulus of seekership acted as a centrifugal force. In their search for an individual experience of hidden meaning, men and women in the late tsarist empire shopped around; very few of them were faithfully wedded to only one of the numerous teachings and practices available but moved from one to the next. Pribytkov and Aksakov, for example, remained vocal advocates of spiritualism over several decades, but they also dabbled in hypnosis. Briusov’s interest in spiritualism likewise continued over many decades, but the poet also tried yoga and followed meditation exercises.27 Others later reminisced about interests that combined spiritualism with yoga, telepathy, and the training of hypnotic powers.28 Moreover, while engaging in such heterodox practices, occultists also commonly asserted their Russian Orthodox identities.29 And while Pribytkov, Aksakov, and Butlerov stayed faithful to occult convictions broadly defined over decades, other contemporaries moved in and out of occult practice. Despite its failure to congeal into a clearly defined intellectual, religious, or social movement, occultism in late imperial Russia formed an entity, for it conformed to what sociologist Colin Campbell has described a “cultic milieu,” that is, a loose amalgamation of practitioners who are united by diverse, transient, and loosely structured practices, and by the subscription to periodicals and shared reading, all of which revolve around fluctuating belief systems. Such a cultic milieu has undefined boundaries, only a rudimentary organization, and no sacraments. It is accessible, tolerant of various strands of thought within the broader sphere of the occult (and beyond), and it makes few demands on its members.30 Despite these characteristics, the cultic milieu is a single entity, not only because individual practitioners take part in its various manifestations and thus hold it together, but also because a common consciousness of deviance, a need to justify their views, and a sense of mutual sympathy and support unite followers.31 Its loose links set popular occultism, which is the object of this study, apart from other movements that are exclusive, emphasize hierarchies, and conduct their meetings in secrecy. Whereas societies such as Freemasons, Martinists, the Golden Dawn, sectarian groups and, to a lesser degree, theosophical groupings were tightly structured, clearly circumscribed, expounded fixed belief systems, and possessed stable institutions, the popular occult lacked this organizing principle. The teachings and writings of such exclusive occult groups may become part of the sphere of popular occultism when they transcend the restrictions of their institutional boundaries through publications or open lec-

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tures, but their secret meetings and well-guarded hierarchies keep them from full engagement in popular culture. The public visibility of spiritualism in turn explains why it plays such a prominent role in this study: its central practice, the séance, was straightforward enough to be conducted by everyone who wanted to give it a try, and the ideas that stood behind it were easily comprehensible intellectually and accessible practically through the popular press. Spiritualism moreover lacked a central organizing institution; instead it was anarchic, with practitioners meeting at privately arranged gatherings. They identified with each other through shared interests and readings and common convictions. Popular occultism more generally, then, was an unorganized “frame of mind” with seekership at its center.32

Occultism in the Modern World In the eyes of many commentators the success of occultism in post-reform Russia was shocking because belief in a different, hidden reality that was inaccessible to the rational mind was at odds with Enlightenment ideals about modern man, his independence from supernatural forces, and the powerful knowledge he used with increasing success to subjugate nature. The modern rational persona of the nineteenth century, as embodied by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev’s fictional character Evgenii Bazarov, believed in neither supernatural powers nor in the value of emotion.33 Bazarov and real-life men like him confirmed Max Weber’s influential assessment that modernity was a world free of mysterious powers, a world that was thoroughly “disenchanted.”34 What made occultism a sensitive topic and assured its notoriety, then, was its flourishing in a period when, in the minds of many, it should not have been around. Indeed, some sociologists define occultism as a nineteenth-century phenomenon that was in various ways closely implicated with secularization, either as a reaction against it,35 or as the revival of an older esoteric tradition in a period of spiritual disenchantment.36 Whereas these approaches stress the difference between occultism and the modern—a difference that in the latter understanding is based on dependence—in this work, their similarity is emphasized. Until relatively recently, most historians have followed Weber’s assessment and equated modernity with rationalism and a rejection of mysterious powers.37 In the last two decades, however, historians of religion have shown that faith and individual experiences of the supernatural remained highly important throughout the nineteenth century; indeed they have argued for a religious re-

Introduction 13

vival in the period.38 Scholars of heterodox beliefs in turn have equally noted the relevance of such convictions in the modern age and the way in which they engaged with and were motivated by contemporary concerns.39 Such observations necessitate a reassessment of the modern. Whereas traditional definitions of modernity have painted a static picture of industrialized economies, administrative rationalization, political participation, cognitive realism, and belief in progress, recent studies have emphasized cultural modernism, focusing on self-reflexivity, the fleeting, the contingent, the irrational, and the contradictory, which pervaded both popular and high culture as modernity’s defining features.40 Like some nineteenth-century poets, these scholars have defined the experience of the modern as tied up with an acute sense that seemingly stable certainties—social structures, economic customs, religious traditions, moral values, political establishments—were changing or even disintegrating, that life had become transient and unpredictable. The experience of flux was rife in late imperial Russia: students of the period have painted the picture of a society in which developments of change, disintegration, and realignment were all pervasive. They have pointed to political reform, industrialization, and urbanization, and to the upheavals that followed in their wake: mass migration; unstable social and cultural boundaries between classes, ethnicities, and genders; the broadening of the public sphere; the emergence of a mass culture that amplified competing ideologies of autocracy versus revolution, enthusiasm for technological progress versus religious faith, fears about science gone bad, and nostalgia for a preindustrial past; traditional patriarchy versus feminism; Russian chauvinism versus tolerance and calls for national autonomy.41 As these examples show, the experience of modernity was not only one of flux but also characterized by the sensation that opposites coexist and contemporaries have to encounter the “simultaneity of the un-simultaneous.”42 The modern experience thus describes the sensation of encountering the end of the old and the promise of new empowering times, while the lingering and nostalgic endurance of the past within this modernity also warns of a future that could be threatening.43 Nothing epitomized the ambiguity of the present—the simultaneity of transience, disappearance, and tenacity, and the coexistence of opposites—and the elusive promise of an unrealized future better than the occult and visions of ethereal spirits. In occultism, the past, present, and future collapsed. Occult thinking combined intellectual traditions harking back to pre-Enlightenment thought with state-of-the-art scientific theories and promised future insights that would revolutionize human understanding of the world and of the human

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self.44 Jacques Derrida has read spirit appearances themselves as moments of heightened temporal ambivalence, since the presence of a person who is no more but whose eternal self points toward the future fuses the chronologically disparate.45 Moreover, supernatural phenomena are—as is modern life—transient and ever changing, and their development defies prediction and control. Spirits appear and disappear, or sometimes even fail to appear despite great efforts of the living to summon them. Yet while the living have an image of the character of ghosts in their minds, these beings are ultimately ungraspable, they lack corporality. That makes the supernatural a particularly suitable illustration of the modern, which, in the words of the decadent French poet Charles Baudelaire, was defined by “the ephemeral, the fugitive, the contingent, the half of art whose other half is the eternal and the immutable.”46 In this book, then, the occult is analyzed as a way of thinking, feeling, and describing the world that was enmeshed with and representative of the experience of European modernity.

Occultism and Historiography The importance of occultism in the lives of individuals and in late nineteenth-century Russian publishing notwithstanding, the fascination with the supernatural evident among contemporaries has either been ignored or actively written out of history. Briusov provides a particularly striking example in this regard.47 In his diary, as in his letters to his friend Lang, thoughts about art, philosophy, and literature were inextricably entangled with spiritualist experiences and sexual adventures. Indeed, the first entry set the tone by describing a séance meeting.48 Throughout the first notebook, Briusov described in great detail his spiritualist activities and his infatuation with Elena Maslova, during both social functions and spiritualist gatherings, and he made clear that decadence, spiritualism, and passion were the important components of his artistic program. One diary entry reads: “[I must] Find a lodestar in the mist. And I see them: decadence and spiritualism. Yes! Whatever one may say, whether they are false, or ridiculous, they are moving ahead, developing and the future will be theirs. [...] And if Elena Andreevna will be my aide, we’ll conquer the world.”49 The published Soviet versions of his diaries erased spiritualism from this plan of action. “Decadence and spiritualism” became simply “decadence,” and Briusov’s affair with Elena was turned into a fleeting flirtation at his nameday party.50 It was not only later Soviet portrayals of the poet’s life that re-

Introduction 15

moved spiritualism; the English edition of his diaries was even more severe in cutting any reference to the invisible world.51 Biographies of other well-known and respected contemporaries who shared Briusov’s spiritualist views were treated in a similar manner. For example, General Aleksei Brusilov, a Russian First World War hero and a prominent commander in the Red Army after the revolution, believed in the reality of communications with the beyond. Although this belief is reflected in the original 1929 version of his memoirs, it disappeared from later Soviet editions and had earlier been removed from the English and French translations.52 When the spiritualist convictions of esteemed cultural or historical figures were not denied outright, they nevertheless remained awkward for later writers. In the case of the chemist Butlerov, for example, biographies and encyclopedia entries laconically mentioned his interest in spiritualism but insisted incorrectly that “luckily, Butlerov drew a strict dividing line between his adherence to mediumism and his academic, pedagogical, and social activities.”53 This embarrassment on the part of scholars for their subjects’ beliefs remains widespread to this day. When the topic could no longer be avoided, the biographers of the actress and singer Mariia Puare asserted in a recent study that their heroine never really believed in occult manifestations, regarded them as sinful, and only engaged in them in order to please her husband—a man who incidentally turns out to be a villain shortly thereafter.54 The tendency to ignore occult convictions has not been restricted to studies of Russian culture. Biographers, historians, and literary critics have also downplayed the role of the occult in the lives and intellectual developments of influential figures within British, French, and German culture.55 While the occult interests of historical figures, whose achievements contributed to the order and values of the present, proved difficult to acknowledge, the otherworldly infatuation of those whose projects failed or were condemned by prosperity have been more easily recognized. In the Russian case, disappointed monarchists and liberals blamed the political blunders of the hapless Nicholas II on his penchant for the occult. Bolsheviks pointed out the mystical interests of unworldly aristocrats and decadent bourgeois.56 Simultaneously, critics of the revolution explained its tumultuous events as the product of mystical infatuation and Masonic conspiracies, or they found the causes of the Stalinist terror in esoteric fatalism.57 The description of the occult as a pastime of the bad guys has been an international phenomenon, just like its marginalization in relation to history’s heroes. In the case of France and Germany, for example, occult mind-sets have readily been associated with the enemies of

16

Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia

the republic or diagnosed as significant influences in the formation of national socialist ideas.58 This approach to the occult might have to do with the fierce condemnation that it has received since the Enlightenment for epistemological reasons. In many texts since then, occult thinking has been ridiculed. Friedrich Engels penned an acerbic critique in the 1880s, and in the twentieth century Theodor Adorno wrote that “the penchant for the occult is a symptom of the degeneration of consciousness.”59 The occultist, according to this argument, is someone who has willfully rejected the insights of reason and turned his back on the advance of knowledge. This intellectual tradition has been influential among historians, many of whom have ridiculed occultists.60 Occultism, then, has largely been reserved for inept rulers, idle capitalists, sinister machinators, or simply the deluded. In recent years, this equation of the occult with negative qualities has been challenged as cultural historians and literary critics have begun to analyze its prominence and its creative impulse in turn-of-the-century culture.61 A number of specialists of Russian culture have focused on the artistic inspiration that the occult offered poets, writers, painters, theater directors, and philosophers.62 Because this literature has focused on well-known cultural figures, it has described occultism as the exclusive interest of an artistic minority that stood apart from the rest of society. Another strand in historical research has focused on the peasantry, on its belief in nature spirits, the role of magic in rural healing practices, and on traditional divination.63 Taken together, these studies have implied that the interest in a supernatural world that differed from official Orthodoxy was an interest that was determined by class, as being restricted either to the social and intellectual elite or, in its folkloric version, to uneducated villagers (narod). In its analysis of the role of the occult at a meeting point between elite and mass culture, this book is a departure from previous research. Through an investigation of the occult and its role in mainstream culture, where it combined rural experience and urban notions with capitalist market mechanisms, this book moves beyond previous research, which has insisted on a deep “rift between charlatanism, cheap vogues, ‘bazaar occultism’ and serious occultism” on the one hand, and folkloric magic on the other.64 The view that serious occultism was a pastime of the educated elites was first voiced in the nineteenth century by its detractors.65 While I do not wish to deny the occult interests of exposed cultural figures or members of the aristocracy, the aim of the present study is to focus on the wider cultural context in which their activities operated. Therefore an analysis of the appeal of the supernatural among

Introduction 17

contemporaries who were not members of educated and eloquent circles is presented. The views of those who did not reach for pen and paper to record their encounters with the supernatural world are, however, difficult to establish and can often only be gauged implicitly. In order to access this tangled sphere of the occult, which reached into both high and popular culture, both published and archival sources are used. The former consist of instruction manuals as well as newspaper reports, journal articles, and fictional literature dealing with supernatural phenomena. This material, which was aimed at a mass market, also includes advertisements, films, photographs, and illustrations that show the supernatural in action. The literary qualities of these texts are often unimpressive or worse, yet their market success underlines their cultural significance. The contradictory messages of instruction manuals, newspaper accounts, and séance reports were, I argue, infinitely more influential than the more exclusive circles that have thus far been studied. Insights gained from these documents are dovetailed with unpublished sources that illustrate individual and more intimate motives. The second category of documents includes police and church reports as well as private letters, diaries, and unpublished séance protocols. Because occult activities were part of participants’ private lives and contemporaries arranged such gatherings informally with their acquaintances, providing a comprehensive analysis of who engaged in occult activities and where they did so is impossible. Where they survived, notes about séance arrangements are dispersed around numerous archival holdings, but the occult is not indexed in archival finding aids. At the same time, the plans that contemporaries shared orally of course left no traces in the archives whatsoever. Enough material exists, however, to combine an analysis of mass-produced texts with personal material, which allows us to probe the popular appeal of occultism and the relationship between the more general allure of the supernatural and its subjective meanings at an individual level. The prominence of spirit apparitions in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century raises questions about their elusive identity. Historians, sociologists, and literary critics—echoing the debate of occultists about the exterior versus interior existence of such beings—have claimed that during the Reformation, the “real” phantoms of medieval culture ceased to haunt Europeans physically and instead became internalized. The gradual relocation of these ephemeral beings into the mind, so the argument goes, was accelerated during the Enlightenment and was complete by the late eighteenth century. By the early nineteenth century, then, ghosts had allegedly turned into figments of the

18

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imagination or had become metaphors in literature; in either case, they ceased to have a reality outside of the mind.66 The idea that supernatural phenomena only occurred within the minds of those who experienced them was closely linked to the emergence of psychology as an academic discipline, that is, to attempts at disentangling and defining the rational and irrational workings of the mind.67 In the views of early psychoanalysts, many of whom were deeply interested in the occult, supernatural experiences were outward manifestations of innermost desires.68 C. G. Jung, for example, who studied séance occurrences for his doctoral thesis, argued that spirit manifestations during spiritualist gatherings were independently acting subconscious personalities of one participant being projected onto everyday reality. These experiences, Jung insisted, had significance that went beyond the individual mind because communal attempts to get into contact with the supernatural world created occasions in which “we have a spontaneous attempt of the unconscious to become conscious in a collective form.”69 On the other side of the explanatory spectrum, some folklorists and historians have claimed that interactions with ghosts, demons, or vampires are descriptions of natural phenomena that have been filtered through cultural assumptions, which in turn added supernatural powers to the narrative. Among scholars who subscribe to this view, those who have proposed the most naturalist explanations have argued that interactions with invisible creatures are either caused by hallucinations brought about by illness or accidental intoxication, or that ghost stories are explanations advanced by sober minds for natural phenomena whose precise physical workings these witnesses do not understand and can thus not describe accurately.70 A more complex argument proposed by David Hufford suggests that a specific kind of nighttime vision is “empirically grounded” in the somatic experience of sleep paralysis, but whose later description is melded with cultural explanations. For Hufford, this experience is common to sleepers all over the globe, it is not a sign of illness, and the description of it is not based on a misunderstanding of physiological processes.71 While I personally have never seen or otherwise experienced the presence of a spirit, my aim here is to take those who claimed they did seriously. I am not interested in what actually happened when men and women interacted with the invisible world: in late imperial Russia, contemporaries failed to agree on whether what was going on during séances, meditation exercises, or in haunted houses was caused by spirits of the departed, by barely understood laws of nature, by the nervous system, or by fraud, and it would be both presumptuous and dishonest for a historian writing a century later to claim that she could

Introduction 19

settle the question. What is more, I do not think that it would be interesting if I were to establish the unshakeable physical, psychological, or supernatural causes of these phenomena. Thus, I am not interested in the events as such, but in the people who experienced them. The focus of this analysis, therefore, is how contemporaries approached such sensations and how they explained what was going on. As I analyze their examination of occult phenomena, I propose historical interpretations of my own. In doing so, I do at times draw on the ideas of psychoanalysts and psychologists. In particular, I have found Freud’s ideas about the construction of multilayered and ambiguous meaning through occult experiences inspiring.72

Private Occultism and the Autocratic State The imperial criminal code defined religious dissent as a political act, and historians have largely followed the tsarist government in this assessment by investigating heterodox forms of belief and practice from a perspective that pitted secular or religious authority against ordinary people.73 Analyses of unorthodox forms of religiosity have focused on distinct sectarian groups or intelligentsia circles whose organization as exclusive communities and whose self-perception furthered the impression of a conflictual relationship with the state.74 Together with other historical research, this literature has underlined social conflict and fragmentation, and has affirmed the preeminence of the political.75 More recently, civil society has received significant scholarly attention.76 Historians have discovered spheres of autonomous private initiative, but they have again analyzed these activities in relation to the autocratic government, interpreting them as either adversarial or collaborative. While in this work it is assumed that an independent public sphere existed, it is focused on the ways in which contemporaries animated and experienced “private Russia.” The essentially political reading of individual enterprise, both religious and otherwise, has influenced the ways in which historians have approached spiritual search within Russia’s past. Relatively few studies have been devoted to the private and non-adversarial meaning of belief.77 This study is built upon the small amount of work that has been done on this topic, but also on research that has analyzed the quotidian sphere of consumption and its symbolic meaning.78 The occult is uniquely suited to offer an entryway into the private, nonpolitical concerns of contemporaries, which for the majority, we must assume, far outweighed their interest in governance. Magical texts rarely mention

20

Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia

politics, and the authorities on their part only rarely took an interest in mystical gatherings. For the historian, this is a mixed blessing: on the one hand, these circumstances significantly restrict the quantity of sources available for a study of the occult, since only a small number of records on mainstream occultism can be found in police files. On the other hand, however, this situation forces us to think about a concern that was very close to the hearts of numerous contemporaries in ways that move beyond the traditional focus on internal conflict and the adversarial relationship between society and state. The traditional focus in the historiography is ultimately influenced by a teleological approach to late imperial Russian history that views the period in the light of the revolution. While no historian can be oblivious to the events of 1917, this study, by shifting the focus back to the tsarist period itself, nonetheless is an attempt to restore subjective and cultural complexity to a society that, despite its fascination with clairvoyance, did not live purely in relation to a future date. In that lost, late imperial present, multifarious developments were initiated and almost anything was possible. The largely positive attitude toward the occult and its apolitical character changed with the experience of the First World War. The focus of the last chapter is a description of how the supernatural first became patriotic, before everything occult came to be seen as an expression of elite irresponsibility and decadence. In the summer of 1914, spirits retreated from the public sphere to give way to patriotic saints of the Orthodox church. One and a half years into the conflict and after painful Russian losses, however, these nationalist expressions lost their appeal. In a scandalous court case from 1916, Count Aleksei Orlov-Davydov, one of the wealthiest aristocrats of the empire, a member of the Duma and close friend of prominent politicians, claimed that he had been duped by his second wife, the actress Mariia Puare, and her dabbling in occultism. His case illustrates how, on the eve of the revolution, occult activities had become associated with the rich and famous, the aristocracy, and tsarist politicians, and with shameful decadence and elite corruption. This new wartime assessment has had a long and influential legacy, as the twentieth-century editors who felt the need to eradicate the occult from the diaries and lives of Valerii Briusov and others illustrate.

1 The Laboratory in the Salon Spiritualism Comes to Russia

T

he origins of the widespread late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century fascination with the transcendental in the Russian empire go back about half a century to the 1850s, when spiritualism made its first appearance in Russia.1 Initially, spiritualists constituted a small and exclusive group of highly educated and socially privileged people. By the end of the century, their constituency had widened significantly, and this development changed the character of spiritualist practice and thought. The history of spiritualism in Russia from its inception to the early stages of its popular success, and the importance of scientific thought and aristocratic forms of sociability to its development, lies at the center of this chapter. Spiritualism came to Russia from the United States via Western Europe.2 The beginnings of modern spiritualism can be dated quite precisely to March 31, 1848, when two teenage girls, Kate and Margaret Fox, heard knocks in their house in Hydesville, in upstate New York, which they claimed came from the other world. They soon established communications with the alleged spirit, and newspapers quickly spread the news about their success to other parts of the United States.3 Numerous contemporaries emulated their example and began to communicate with the dead, and the ritual of the spiritualist séance emerged. These were gatherings at which participants assembled in darkened rooms and, aided by the nervous sensitivity of a medium, awaited supernatural occurrences. Even the periodic discovery of deception did not halt the spread of these activities.4 American spiritualism soon spread to Europe, and Britain eventually became home to one influential strain of spiritualism in the Old

22

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World. British mediums developed famous reputations, the island’s spiritualists were famed for their scientific study of séance phenomena, and many continental Europeans, including Russians, were proud to be accepted into the membership of celebrated British associations devoted to the topic.5 A second, more mystical strand of spiritualism developed in France under the leadership of Allan Kardec, whose ideas elaborated theories about reincarnation in addition to spirit communication.6 Both the British and the French style of spiritualism found supporters in Russia. In Russia, spiritualism became a topic of salon conversations in the 1850s. The lawyer Anatolii Fedorovich Koni recalled in his memoirs how, along with the game of lotto, “the gullible pursuit of prophetic tables” became “a popular pastime” at this time. “Many passionately took up these things, putting a miniature purpose-built table with a little hole for a pencil on a sheet of paper and placing on it the hands of those through whom the spirits liked to communicate in writing ‘the secrets of eternity and the grave.’”7 Later, Russian adepts precisely dated the emergence of spiritualism in Russia to the winter season of 1852. “Tables, hats, and saucers turned everywhere and talks about rappings at night began to make their rounds.”8 Russian spiritualism received a boost in 1858, when Daniel Dunglas Home (pronounced “Hume”) visited the empire.9 Home was arguably the most famous medium of all time. He was born in Scotland but grew up in New England, where he discovered his mediumistic abilities. He never had another profession apart from his spiritualist career, and he was the only medium never to have been exposed as a fraud. In 1858, Home travelled to Rome where he met his future wife, the seventeen-year-old Aleksandra Kroll, a goddaughter of the tsar. In the same year, on the occasion of his marriage to Aleksandra, Home visited his wife’s homeland for the first time, and the couple stayed in Russia for almost a year. Home held numerous séances, which were attended by exquisite and select members of the high aristocracy, including Alexander II himself. Yet, despite the extended time Home spent in Russia, his visit did not have major consequences for the spread of spiritualism in the tsarist empire. His audience, it seems, was too exclusive to turn séances into truly popular pursuits. Spiritualists later bemoaned that séances “were not treated with the necessary seriousness” in the 1850s and “served almost exclusively as fashionable and marvelous salon entertainment.”10 Indeed, the infatuation with spiritualism in the 1850s did not leave a lasting trace and produced few manuscripts or published documents. Spirit messages from beyond the grave were as ephemeral as their alleged authors; the fashion appeared briefly and at intervals, before

The Laboratory in the Salon

23

Figure 1: Depiction of a planchette, a device used during séances to record messages from the beyond. Khrapovitskii, A. Magneticheskoe pis’mo. Moscow, 1907.

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Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia

disappearing almost immediately.11 Articles in Russian ecclesiastical journals published in the 1860s support this assessment by describing spiritualist séances purely as Western idiosyncrasies.12 According to V. Snegirev, writing in 1871, only a few Russian aristocrats had thus far become acquainted with spiritualism on their “travels through Western Europe and, for want of anything better to do, had brought all sorts of marvels home.”13 Snegirev might well have been hinting at Home’s visits and his friendship with Russian aristocrats, since the medium was invited to visit the empire again in 1865, when he gave further sittings for the emperor. Snegirev concluded his musings with the expectation that “without any doubt, [spiritualism] will, in one way or another, sooner or later, spread to the masses.”14 Within a few years, his prediction was to become true. In February 1871, Home accepted a further invitation to come to Russia. In St. Petersburg, his séances were attended by a number of Russian scholars, among them Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov and the chemist Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov. Home was also introduced to Butlerov’s sister-in-law, Iuliia Glumelina, and almost immediately became engaged to her (Aleksandra had died of consumption in 1862). This union strengthened the link between the famous medium, the empire’s intelligentsia, and Russian society more generally. Eventually, Home’s reputation in Russia grew so legendary that it became impossible to regard him as anything other than “the Russian medium Home,” or “russkii medium Ium.”15 Home, and the spiritualist phenomena he elicited, found enthusiastic supporters in Aksakov and Butlerov. Aksakov was to become Russia’s most active, vigorous, and famous spiritualist.16 Aleksandr Nikolaevich was a member of the prominent Aksakov family, a nephew of the writer Sergei Timofeevich Aksakov, and a cousin of the Slavophiles Ivan and Konstantin. He had been educated at the imperial lycée, where at a young age he had developed an interest in philosophy and religion and had studied, among others, Swedenborg’s writings.17 In 1852, Aksakov took part in Andrei Mel’nikov-Pecherskii’s expedition to Old Believer communities in Nizhnii Novgorod guberniya before joining the state service in 1868. Aksakov later wrote that he had been interested in questions relating to spiritualism since 1855, but his first personal experience of séances did not occur before 1870.18 After this experience, he immediately became convinced of the authenticity of spiritualist phenomena and spent the remainder of his life and funds publicizing spiritualist tenets. In response to Home’s 1871 visit to St. Petersburg, Aksakov published a brochure, Spiritualizm i nauka (Spiritual-

The Laboratory in the Salon 25

ism and Science), in which he discussed the medium’s feats.19 The title is significant, for Aksakov saw himself as the champion of a new science that would investigate the world beyond the grave and eventually revolutionize scientific and religious knowledge.20 Unlike his friend Butlerov, however, Aksakov had not had any formal scientific education or training. For two years, the young Aksakov had attended lectures in anatomy, physiology, chemistry, and physics as a private student at Moscow University, but he failed to obtain a university degree in any of those subjects (indeed, in any subject at all), a fact upon which his pompous autobiographical sketches of the 1890s remain uncharacteristically quiet.21 Nevertheless, Aksakov described his informal Moscow education as vital, for it provided him with the necessary knowledge so as “not to be impressed by scientists” when they disagreed with his spiritualist convictions.22 Aksakov’s activities to promote spiritualism mimicked academic conventions. During séances, Aleksandr Nikolaevich wrote detailed minutes, which he archived and could retrieve years later.23 He also occasionally employed exact instruments, such as thermometers and barometers, to register the influence of the weather on séance phenomena.24 In the 1890s, and possibly also earlier, Aksakov copied the practice of university professors and hired a graduate student as his research assistant.25 His academic aspirations were mirrored, moreover, in his publishing enterprises. In 1874, Aksakov founded and privately financed the Leipzig journal Psychische Studien; like academic periodicals, it was published in regular installments and offered reports of recent supernatural occurrences, accounts of séance experiments, and theoretical discussions about the topic. Aksakov also immediately brought out a German translation of his Spiritualizm i nauka. Like the journal, his magnum opus, Animismus und Spiritismus, was also initially published in Leipzig before appearing in Russian, French, and Italian.26 Aksakov himself claimed that the aim of these German publications was to “bring spiritualism to the attention of [Germany’s] scholars” and thereby to contribute to its rational investigation and eventual acceptance by the scientific community.27 The choice of location and language is significant. By concentrating his efforts on the nation with the most eminent scientific reputation in tsarist Russia and by publishing in the lingua franca of nineteenth-century learning, Aksakov underscored his academic aspirations. Moreover, the internationalism of his activities, including his publications, his correspondence with like-minded western European contemporaries, and his travels abroad, replicated the cosmopolitanism of the scholarly community.28 Aksakov did not neglect Russia and vigorously propagated spiritualism there too, mercilessly sending his writings to prominent acquaintances,

26

Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia

including public cultural figures such as the historian, lawyer, and sociologist Konstantin Dmitrievich Kavelin, the writer Nikolai Semenovich Leskov, the philosopher Vladimir Sergeevich Solov’ev, and the artist Mikhail Osipovich Mikeshin.29 In return for these presents, Aksakov expected public support for spiritualism. Among the recipients of Spiritizm i nauka was the historian and journalist Mikhail Petrovich Pogodin. In the late 1820s, Pogodin had been the editor of Moskovskii vestnik (The Moscow Herald), and in this position he had provided the Wisdom-Lovers, a group of Russian idealists for whom “nature was a living, spiritual whole,” with a forum for their ideas.30 Pogodin remained interested in metaphysics and spirituality and in February 1872 attended two séances with Home at which Aksakov was also present.31 Pogodin’s interests left Aksakov expecting a favorable reception for his work, but Pogodin offered no response to the gift, and Aksakov, fearing that his book might be lying in a forgotten corner somewhere, felt compelled to write to him. In his letter, Aksakov expressed the hope that his apprehension about the text’s location was “mistaken, but if I’m not, then I feel obliged to remind you at least once about this reading, particularly now in the summer, when, I assume, you have more leisure time to occupy yourself with subjects evidently unfamiliar (postoronnyi) to you.”32 Whether Pogodin was impressed by this forceful demand remains unclear. A year later, however, the historian published disrespectful remarks about the two Home séances in his spiritual autobiography, stating that spiritualist séances were merely “childish pranks.”33 This description deeply disappointed Aksakov. Nevertheless, when in 1874 Aksakov heard about plans to print a second edition of Pogodin’s book, he dispatched a lengthy note and some further publications to Pogodin, anticipating revisions of the relevant sections.34 In his pushy attempts to convert acquaintances to the spiritualist cause, Aksakov presented himself as a scientist and spiritualism as an intellectual discipline that analyzed a discrete set of natural phenomena. “A man of science”—an epithet that he awarded himself—“sees in these phenomena something that points toward something new within nature and that demands further investigation.”35 All contemporaries who refused to accept this assessment, he implied, strayed from the path of objective knowledge. “Spiritualism,” Aksakov went on, “does not regard these phenomena as supernatural, but strives to establish those conditions under which they occur, those laws that govern them and that define these phenomena as natural. [Spiritualism] thus enlarges the field of psychology and brings the wondrous and the mysterious within the field of exact and positive knowledge.”36

The Laboratory in the Salon 27

Aksakov’s self-fashioning as a scientist received its greatest boost through the heartfelt support for spiritualism offered by two eminent professors, the chemist Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov and the zoologist Nikolai Petrovich Vagner. Butlerov is regarded as one of the founders of Russian chemistry.37 He was also known for his activism in promoting women’s education and as an authoritative figure in Russian apiculture. The son of a nobleman from Kazan province, Butlerov graduated from the local university and held a teaching position at Kazan until 1868, when he moved to St. Petersburg. By that time, he had won for himself a serious scientific reputation. In 1861, Butlerov had published his concept of chemical structure, predicting and demonstrating the existence of isomers; in 1866, he synthesized isobutane, and two years later he discovered that unsaturated organic compounds contain multiple bonds. When Butlerov first encountered spiritualism, he was highly skeptical.38 It was only after his move to St. Petersburg and his growing friendship with Aksakov, his wife’s relative, that his skepticism was turned (with Home’s help) into enthusiastic support. Butlerov was so enthralled by Home’s séances that he and Aksakov tried to set up the first scientific commission in Russia to investigate spiritualist phenomena.39 Although the plan came to nothing, Butlerov’s support promulgated spiritualism to a wider audience. An article published by Nikolai Petrovich Vagner in 1875 saw Butlerov’s name become irrevocably linked to spiritualism. Butlerov and Vagner had known each other since their days at the University of Kazan. Like Butlerov, Vagner engaged in a range of scientific, social, and artistic activities.40 Between 1876 and 1878 Vagner edited the journal Svet (Light) and helped lift the poet Semen Iakovlevich Nadson to prominence. Vagner was also known for his own literary works, most notably his Skazki Kota Murlyki (Tales of Cat-Purr). Besides this, like Butlerov, Vagner was a renowned scientist. In 1861, he discovered pedogenesis in some insects, a work that was met with great skepticism after its publication in 1862, but for which he was ultimately awarded the prestigious Demidov Medal of the Academy of Sciences. Like Butlerov, he also moved to the capital in the 1870s, where he accepted a chair at the university. In 1881, he founded a zoological research station at the Solovetskii monastery, an institution that has since moved to the Kola Peninsula, but that still exists today as an institute of the Russian Academy of Science. The news that Butlerov had been carried away by mediumism came as a great surprise to Vagner in 1871. Butlerov persuaded Vagner to attend some séances with Home, and although Vagner was impressed by the knocks to the

28

Modern Occultism in Late Imperial Russia

table and its movement, he remained unconvinced by such phenomena until 1874, when Camille Brédif, a French porcelain trader with mediumistic powers, visited St. Petersburg.41 Aksakov, Butlerov, and Vagner were among those present at his séances, and this time, the checks that were carried out and the sensational phenomena that occurred (including the materialization of a hand, an accordion hovering and playing in the air, and other inexplicable events) convinced the zoologist.42 Vagner did not keep his new conviction to himself, but publicized his conversion in a lengthy letter to the editors of Vestnik Evropy (The Messenger of Europe) in the April 1875 issue.43 Aksakov immediately hailed this entry of spiritualism into the realm of mainstream publishing as a great success in Psychische Studien.44 Indeed, this article became fateful for Russian spiritualism. Vagner had mentioned Butlerov as another scientist convinced by the reality of mediumistic phenomena in his Vestnik Evropy article and thus drew the chemist into the debate. After vitriolic attacks, Butlerov also felt compelled to publish an article on the subject in another thick journal and to defend his spiritualist convictions.45 Butlerov and Vagner, like Aksakov, described séance phenomena in scientific language and emphasized their social standing as eminent scholars. All three men, moreover, constantly referred to the academic titles of other spiritualists, such as the mathematician Mikhail Vasil’evich Ostrogradskii (who had died in 1861), the German astrophysicist Karl Friedrich Zöllner, or the British chemist, fellow of the Royal Society, and outspoken spiritualist William Crookes.46 By contrast, the academic titles of anti-spiritualists were occasionally conveniently ignored.47 Vagner also recalled his famous zoological discovery of pedogenesis and reminded his audience that in the early 1860s very few people had found his spectacular research results convincing. By recalling this incident, Vagner implied that his new and highly debated convictions about spiritualism would likewise one day be proven correct.48 It was precisely this claim to scientificity that angered opponents of spiritualism and contributed to the vitriol of what was to follow. The most tangible consequence of the spiritualists’ claim to scientificity was what came to be known as “the Mendeleev Commission.”49 The chemist Dmitrii Ivanovich Mendeleev, a colleague of both Butlerov and Vagner at St. Petersburg University, was deeply worried by spiritualist claims to scientificity, buttressed as they were by Butlerov’s and Vagner’s open endorsement. At Mendeleev’s initiative, a commission was set up to investigate spiritualist phenomena under the auspices of the Physical Society. Aksakov, Butlerov, and Vagner agreed to

The Laboratory in the Salon 29

assist the commission as expert witnesses. Aksakov promised to find mediums for the commission to investigate and immediately published announcements in the international spiritualist press, offering potential mediumistic candidates the chance to prove their abilities in St. Petersburg (expenses paid). Spiritualists in New York were working on a short list of applicants, and Aksakov sailed to Britain to investigate European contenders.50 The Mendeleev Commission turned into a traumatic experience for spiritualists and anti-spiritualists alike. By the spring of 1876, the two camps fell out spectacularly. Both groups entered the common investigation with the sincere expectation that their respective convictions would be confirmed by the Physical Society. Spiritualists hoped for an officially sanctioned pronouncement that an independent force was at work during séances, while Mendeleev and his committee members expected the fraudulent character of spiritualism to become apparent. As a consequence, the two groups failed to engage seriously with the views of the other side. Spiritualists brushed away concerns about the fraudulent activities of the Petty brothers, the mediums Aksakov had initially brought to Russia, choosing instead to call their mediumistic activities “weak.” Mendeleev, on the other hand, gave a public lecture decrying the fraudulent nature of spiritualism on December 15, 1875, long before the commission was supposed to reach a conclusion; he also repeatedly violated the terms of the commission’s proceedings. Further disputes arose over who had the right to take notes and what was to be mentioned in the minutes, which instruments were to be used to investigate levitating tables, and who was supposed to search Mary Marshall, the second medium Aksakov invited to St. Petersburg.51 Another major dispute concerned the schedule the commission was to follow after the delay in procuring mediums meant it was unable to meet as agreed for 40 séances by May 1876. At the beginning of March 1876, these numerous conflicts brought the collaborative project to a breaking point, and Aksakov, Butlerov, and Vagner withdrew their cooperation.52 What followed was a public relations campaign that became extremely hostile and painful for both sides. The spiritualists and their opponents alike tried to communicate their interpretation of the events to the public. Mendeleev had considerable talent for public relations, and he informed his audience about the fraudulent character of spiritualism in lectures (the proceeds of which were sententiously given to charity), newspaper publications, and in his book Materialy dlia suzhdeniia spiritizma (Materials for a Judgment of Spiritualism).53 Aksakov, Butlerov, and Vagner also published their version of the events in the Russian periodical

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press and in Psychische Studien.54 In 1883, Aksakov brought out a book about the commission entitled Razoblachenie (Exposure).55 In these spiritualist publications, Mendeleev was portrayed as a manipulative tyrant, cantankerous, disruptive, and most importantly, prejudiced against spiritualism from the start. Later, Aksakov even claimed that Mendeleev was suffering from hallucinations that made him hear and see only what he wanted to perceive.56 Spiritualists also frequently reminded their readers of an open letter signed by some 130 respected Petersburgers and published in Sanktpeterburgskie vedomosti (The Saint Petersburg News)—and, of course, reprinted in Psychische Studien—that described the commission’s demise after eight séances as disgraceful, and demanded that its work be resumed.57 For spiritualists, the history of the Mendeleev Commission became the vital component in a selfpropagated and endlessly repeated story of harassment and hostility. The most significant legacy of the events of 1875 and 1876, however, was that they forced spiritualism out into the public domain. As the vehement anti-spiritualist Bykov put it in 1914, “serious advertising for this movement was made in 1874 [sic] by the fervent opponent of spiritualism, Professor D. I. Mendeleev.”58 Mendeleev’s endeavor to halt what he perceived to be a new form of superstition, particularly worrying because of its claim to scientificity, failed pitifully as the fame and appeal of spiritualism grew and widened. Séances, spirit communications, and materializations became common topics in daily conversations and were treated in literary works, such as Tolstoi’s Anna Karenina (1875–1877), in which a medium is modeled on Home, in his Plody prosveshcheniia (The Fruits of Enlightenment) (1890), in Dostoevskii’s Dnevnik pisatelia (Writer’s Diary) (1873–1881), in Brat’ia Karamazovy (Brothers Karamazov) (1879), and in Turgenev’s novella Klara Milich (1883).59 These texts, along with a further debate about spiritualism in 1878–1879, ensured that the topic was not easily forgotten.60 In 1881, Russian spiritualists further underlined their prominence in the public realm by finally founding their own Russian-language journal Rebus. The journal’s editor was Viktor Ivanovich Pribytkov, but Aksakov’s influence behind it was considerable, and the journal’s offices were located in the latter’s house on 6 Nevskii Prospekt. Relatively little is known about Pribytkov, who had been educated at the Naval Academy and had served as an officer in Russia’s navy prior to taking up editorial responsibilities for Rebus.61 He became interested in mediumism in 1874, shortly after his wedding, when his wife Elizaveta Dmitrievna revealed her mediumistic abilities.62 Pribytkov was probably related to Varvara

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Figure 2: Rebus in 1884 suggesting light-hearted entertainment.

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Ivanovna Pribytkova (possibly his sister), a writer and a spiritualist.63 Numerous family séances convinced Pribytkov of the reality of spirit activities, and it became his goal to propagate his convictions. Pribytkov’s editorial work contributed substantially to the spread of spiritualism in Russia and earned him the respect of fellow spiritualists. According to Ilya Vinitsky, Aksakov had requested the right to print the first Russian spiritualist journal in 1876 but was refused permission.64 Five years later, Pribytkov submitted a similar petition. Aware that previous “endeavors to found a spiritualist journal in Russia had not met with success,” Pribytkov’s request to the censors “touched only slightly upon spiritualism.” As he later reminisced, “I restricted myself to the most humble program: rebuses, charades, riddles, novels, tales, stories, and light literary style.65 The strategy succeeded and Pribytkov was allowed to bring out a “weekly literary publication under the title of Rebus.”66 The first issue of Rebus was published in October 1881, and its layout suggested a family games journal. In numerous subsequent requests to the censors, Pribytkov slowly carved out more space for the topic that really interested him, and early in 1883 he was granted permission to publish “surveys of new discoveries and of research of the natural world.”67 Obviously, science was not to be understood here in Mendeleev’s sense. Gradually, the picture riddles vanished, no prizes were awarded for their solution, the layout became more serious and mysterious, and the subtitle “man is the closest but most difficult of all rebuses” was added. Rebus published accounts of supernatural occurrences, philosophical essays, reports about scientific discoveries that its editors regarded relevant to spiritualism, and light literature. Most essays were written by spiritualists, but many reports were copied from newspapers or other journals. In many cases, foreign publications were translated and reprinted. Unfortunately, no circulation numbers have survived. Rebus was a relatively expensive publication. An annual subscription cost two rubles in 1881; a single issue could be bought at 10 kopecks. By 1890 this had risen to four rubles per annum and 15 kopecks per issue. The price suggests that most of its subscribers belonged to the more affluent strata of society. Nevertheless, Rebus became well known all over the empire and was the prime propagator of spiritualism after 1881. It ultimately proved to be the longestlived and most well-known occult journal of the tsarist period.68 The early character of Rebus as a popular entertainment magazine has been described by Maria Carlson as a camouflage, a ruse intended to fool the censors.69 Yet the character Pribytkov chose for the journal in his dealings with

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Figure 3: Rebus in 1908, with a more mystical layout.

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the censors was meaningful. The title Rebus was an extremely apt choice for a spiritualist journal. Freud would later describe rebus puzzles as analogous to dreams, for both combined images that normally should not go together.70 In the case of the cover of Rebus in 1884, one single quarter note, a proportionally far-too-big letter “Б” (“B”) followed by an apostrophe, and a comparably tiny male face that was cut off above the tip of the nose and above the chin seemed to form a senseless combination (see fig. 2). There was no natural space in which these diverse items coexisted; a single note did not suffice to make music, one letter did not carry much meaning, and a face without eyes was equally incomplete. Spiritualists, however, implied that this symbolic combination of seemingly disparate images allowed for deep insights: after all, deciphering the riddle of spiritualism required resolving juxtapositions and discovering deeper layers of meaning beneath them. This interpretative work also linked the enigma of spiritualism to the puzzle of dreams, which in traditional Orthodoxy were the occasions of visions that revealed meaningful truths.71 Rebus the journal and rebus the riddle were thus symbolic for spiritualism in that they combined that which was diverging and whose successful interpretation offered deeper insights. The journal was at once marginal, because of its costly price, and mainstream, because of its fame. Rebus was also ambiguous regarding how it explained spiritualism. On the one hand, articles published on its pages were obsessed with facts, frequently bearing titles like “Dva fakta” (“Two Facts”), “Interesnyi fakt” (“An Interesting Fact”), “Strannyi fakt” (“A Strange Fact”), “Zamechatel’nyi fakt” (“A Remarkable Fact”), “Fakt poslednykh dnei” (“A Recent Fact”), or “Mediumicheskii fakt” (“A Mediumistic Fact”). The text beneath such headings would claim that this “fact” provided the “proof” that spirits existed and that there was more to the world than was known to (most) scientists. On the other hand, however, the journal also stressed the inexplicability of many a zagadochnyi (enigmatic) spiritualist event, and a substantial number of articles refused to come up with rational explanations. These texts bore titles such as “Povtorenie neob”iasnimykh iavlenii” (“A repetition of the inexplicable events”) or simply “Neob”iasnimoe i neob”iasnennoe” (“The inexplicable and the unexplained”). Rebus was thus positivist and mystical at the same time. Rebus, moreover, juxtaposed painstaking attempts to rationalize séance phenomena with lighthearted playfulness and entertainment. Thus, alongside “factual” accounts and reviews of spiritualist books published in Russia or abroad, Rebus published charades and picture puzzles (with a mystical air),

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and serialized thrilling stories in which adventurous heroes overcome challenges in search of spiritual insight. By placing such texts next to each other, the editors of Rebus merged all these different topics into a spiritual unity with interconnected meaning. When Rebus reported on visions or communications with deceased relatives, the journal also transgressed the boundaries that separated the private aspect of such intimate experiences from the public sphere of publishing. Most significantly, Rebus removed the opposition between life and death by arguing that spiritualist phenomena were caused by spirits of the deceased and by describing how the departed assumed an active role in the everyday experience of the living. These oppositions that were joined within Rebus could also be found within spiritualism itself. After 1875, its notoriety turned private séance phenomena into well-known public events in Russian society, while Aksakov’s claims to scientificity were rejected by most contemporaries and ensured that the social acceptance of spiritualist ideas remained marginal. Furthermore, neither Aksakov nor his fellow spiritualists could ever resolve the tension between their urge to be positivists and their insistence that man’s nature was endowed with a mysterious component. The spiritualist journal thus combined serious investigation with animated entertainment, vibrant liveliness with musings about death. The unification of study with leisure, life, and death, as well as the private origin of the public debates that so forcefully emerged in the 1870s, was most pronounced in the spiritualist ritual of holding a séance.

The Salon Séances grew out of salon culture.72 The history of the Russian salon goes back to 1718, when an imperial ukase issued by Peter I created the so-called assemblei, or assemblies: regular meetings to be held in private homes at which members of both sexes ate, drank, smoked, played games, and engaged in pleasant conversation. The order fell on receptive soil, and the salon soon became a constituent feature of noble life.73 It was a venue for concerts, masked balls, banquets, and literary readings. In the first half of the nineteenth century, salons played an important cultural role, particularly because they allowed writers to gain audiences, patrons, and consequently fame.74 In post-reform Russia, salons became less aristocratic, but their basic principles remained intact. The gathering of a select and exclusive group of people took place in a private setting. New members had

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to be introduced by existing ones. Meetings were regular events; usually a salon opened its doors on a given day of the week. Those assembled engaged in conversation, discussing, for example, a specific literary, philosophical, or social theme. Other common activities included public readings, games, or theatrical performances. These activities marked the salon as an egalitarian and democratic gathering. “Salons knew no strict distinction between creators and audience. Potentially everyone was an artist.”75 A similar and uniquely Russian institution, albeit on a smaller scale, was the kruzhok, or informal circle. Kruzhki also met in private homes and were devoted to scientific learning or literature. Russian salon culture was, moreover, intertwined with the emergence of Masonic meetings.76 Freemasonry was part of the emergence of a Russian public in the eighteenth century, and as such, it was influenced by and contributed to the rising number of salons, circles, and societies. Like salons, Masonic gatherings met in private homes, and like post-reform salons, lodges were socially and nationally diverse places where—ideally—the hierarchies of everyday life were absent, even if these circles were (almost) always exclusively male. Masonic conventions usually met in the evenings. The brothers would dine, sing songs, and listen to edifying speeches. Masons pledged to “work the rough stone,” to cultivate the self and to live a life of virtue. This, it was hoped, would lead to the construction of a new and more ethical society. As part of this quest, lodges usually had a charitable fund into which members would contribute.77 The principles of the salon and the Masonic lodge were mirrored in spiritualist gatherings. Participants at spiritualist séances, like those attending a salon or a Masonic ritual, constituted an intimate group of people. When the poet Valerii Briusov wanted to join one Moscow spiritualist circle in 1900, he needed Pribytkov’s recommendation before the doors of Aleksandra Ivanovna Bobrina’s parlor on Smolenskii boulevard opened for him.78 Once such a connection had been established, meetings became regular functions for new attendees. Pribytkov himself had fixed weekly appointments in St. Petersburg that lasted until 11 p.m.79 Aksakov held séances in his drawing room on Tuesdays at 8 p.m.80 Spiritualist gatherings also resembled the mixed society of a dinner party in their character, with participants frequently coming with their spouses, who also took part in the rituals that followed.81 Like salons and Masonic gatherings, spiritualists usually convened in the evening. The timing underlined the leisurely quality of the meeting, but it was also determined by the darkness that spiritualist phenomena required.

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The language employed to describe the mind-set of someone fascinated by spiritualism also underscored the playful character of séances and associated practices. “Uvlekat’sia spiritizmom”—“to be enthralled” or “to be carried away by spiritualism”—was the expression commonly used to describe someone who had taken a liking to spiritualist rituals.82 The entertainment value of spiritualist séances was also emphasized by the titles of cheap instruction manuals. The first part of the lengthy title of a publication by AlkhazarTovii Moldavanin (the pseudonym of Aleksandr Mikhailovich Zemskii) is programmatic: Extraordinarily Interesting and Exceptionally Intriguing Domestic Magic Booklet for Familial Spiritualist Séances in the Evenings.83 The “tools” needed for a successful séance were ordinary household items that underlined the association with leisurely pursuits. Most prominent among them was the table around which participants assembled and held hands, usually “an ordinary, unfolded card table (lombernyi stol)” on which a couple of candles were burning.84 Dining tables were only used when no lombernyi stol was available. Other frequent ingredients were bells, paper (or slates) and pencils, accordions and pianos, which were placed on the table or stood nearby. The card table and the marvels in which all these objects were involved mirrored games and performances at salons. In a revealing slip of the pen, Briusov referred to an evening’s “show” in his spiritualist diary, before crossing out the word spektakl’ and replacing it with “séance.”85 Like salon activities, a séance was egalitarian in character. This egalitarian character was most pronounced when no medium was present. In these instances, all sitters assembled around a table, and everyone was participant and audience at the same time. Often a group of friends would assemble in the dark and wait to see what happened, as in the case of Briusov’s séances. It was believed that the mediumistic abilities of all participants would add up to sufficient mediumistic energy to produce spiritualist phenomena. As far as occurrences during spiritualist gatherings were concerned, the séance with Home that Aksakov and Pogodin had attended together in 1872 was quite typical, and both men agreed on what they had observed. Early on, the table “trembled strongly and began to tilt toward all four sides”; later it “rose into the air, with all four legs at once and in a completely horizontal manner, [hovering] about two or three vershki [3.5–5.25 inches] above the floor.”86 After that occurrence, Pogodin “mentally made a wish for six knocks, and six knocks were made” inside the table. Subsequently, Home held the accordion on one of its ends and slowly let the keyboard end down toward the floor. “The accordion played and continued to play in front of [Pogodin’s] eyes.” Butlerov,

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who was also present, looked below the table at the playing accordion and discerned “the clear contours of dark fingers on the keyboard.” A few moments later, Pogodin felt that someone “fingered” his knee. The enigmatic presence also drew back the sleeve of his right arm and “touched [his] arm with a naked finger.” Pogodin took the bell into his hand, and it was taken from him by invisible fingers. “It hovered in the air for a number of seconds and then sank into the cushion of an armchair,” which had initially stood about five feet away but had since moved independently toward the sitters.87 Hundreds of printed séance reports in Rebus described similar events. Other frequent phenomena included appearances of light. In early February 1897, spiritualist phenomena even continued after the members of one weekly circle had ended their séance and proceeded to have a meal. Among other dinnertime marvels, they admired light underneath the dining table: “Stooped down, we clearly discerned a radiant bluish sphere the size of a walnut.”88 Written messages obtained by sitters on paper or slates during séances were other common phenomena. Sometimes, the paper or slates and pencils were sealed in boxes, and the writing was thus quite literally uncovered after the end of the sitting. Briusov described in his séance notebook the written messages his circle received. They included, “You are not a spiritualist,” “ELENA,” “This is / 1234 / God,” “C 1234 / esti / te / X,” “don’t look for the spiritualist, look for the spirit,” “she’s deceiving you,” and in English “out of my way/Tats out of my way” followed by a triangle.89 In his manuscript, Briusov marked these messages out by writing them in a scrawling hand. Spiritualist manifestations culminated in so-called spirit materializations, a term that described the rare occasions on which the whole radiant white figure of a spirit could be discerned, but more common were partial materializations of hands or arms. For Aksakov, every single séance phenomenon had scientific relevance. The séance he had attended with Pogodin, Butlerov, and Home showcased, in Aksakov’s words: “(1) movements of inanimate objects [...]; (2) changes in the weight of objects without obvious reasons [for example, the levitating table]; (3) knocks and raps ‘responding’ to thoughts, seemingly produced by nothing; (4) the melodic playing of an instrument [...] whose keyboard is not being touched; (5) [...] the temporary formation of active body [parts] from the beyond [potustoronnyi], i.e., fingers and a hand.”90 These observations, Aksakov argued, raised questions about the physical forces that were active in such settings and therefore needed to be investigated rationally. The majority of historians studying spiritualism have noted that it was precisely the combination of science with the spiritual that attracted contempo-

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Figure 4: A photograph of a materialized hand taken by N. P. Vagner in Petersburg and published by A. N. Aksakov in Animismus und Spiritismus. Leipzig, 1890.

raries. The rational world view of Aksakov and others, these researchers argue, was in line with nineteenth-century optimism in regards to technological and rational progress. The application of this world view to the supernatural was the logical conclusion of the enthusiasm for science.91 A second major reason advanced by historians for the popularity of séances is the consolation such

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gatherings allegedly offered bereaved contemporaries.92 Turn-of-the-century séance participants often confirmed this view. “Until last year, I did not believe in any ‘ghosts’ or prophetic dreams,” wrote V. Anzimirov in the story of his spiritual awakening. “But then, on 9 January 1904, my oldest son and dearest person in the world, Aleksandr, died of scarlet fever and meningitis.” In his grief, only spiritualism could comfort the bereaved father because it taught the continued existence of his son beyond death and offered Anzimirov the possibility of communicating with his child through spiritualist rituals.93 Not all contemporaries, however, agreed that they had witnessed something of significance during séances. Unlike Aksakov or Anzimirov, Pogodin was thoroughly disappointed by what he had seen. “In vain Aksakov is not pleased about my expression ‘childish pranks’,” he wrote, “[but] what else should one call these events but ‘childish pranks’?”94 The criticism that spiritualism revealed nothing was voiced by others too. Indeed, the banality of spiritualist phenomena and the meaninglessness or clichéd character of messages obtained during séances disillusioned some contemporaries, who initially hoped to discover relevant insights through spiritualist manifestations. When the philosopher Vladimir Solov’ev first attended séances in the early 1870s, he was convinced of their “significance, even necessity, for the formulation of authentic metaphysics.”95 By the mid-1880s, however, Solov’ev turned away from spiritualism, disillusioned by “the human limitations and inadequacies” that he perceived in spiritualist practices. It was precisely this banality from which, in Solov’ev’s view, “we seek refuge in religion.”96 Pogodin would probably have concurred with Solov’ev’s assessment and with that of the German physiologist Wilhelm Wundt, who ironically noted that “the spirits had given the living a rather grim foreknowledge of what they could expect in the afterlife: a loss of their earthly ability to spell and an eternal rest constantly interrupted by earthly mediums summoning them for séances.”97 Why did numerous contemporaries engage in spiritualist practices for decades? What did these rituals offer them? I will argue that one of the appeals of spiritualist séances and the platitudinous character of their manifestations—of spirit messages such as “This is / 1234 / God,” or of dark fingers that rang a bell—was a celebration of life, or rather, to be more precise, a celebration of the life of the séance participant himself. Spiritualists described the beyond as an extension of earthly life, in which spirits continued to pursue their worldly activities. Husbands supported their families financially and reminded their wives of insurance policies, Pushkin carried on writing poetry, and the assassins of Tsar Alexander II continued to disseminate revolutionary propaganda

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from the beyond and justified their terrorist acts.98 “Death changes the situation of man only by a bit,” Privy Councillor Sergei Petrovich Frolov read in one of his occult manuscripts.99 And in the margin of another manuscript, which claimed that death inaugurated a completely new existence, Frolov exclaimed indignantly, “This is impossible.”100 Spiritualists’ preoccupation with immortality expressed longing for an earthly life that extended indefinitely and a refusal to acknowledge the presence of death.101 It was entirely consistent with this that the act of dying itself did not receive any spiritualist attention. In an essay about death, Freud argued that modern man was essentially unable to believe in his own death. “Or, what is the same: in his unconscious, every one of us is convinced of his own immortality.”102 To maintain belief in his own eternal life, Freud goes on, man banishes death from life. This results in an attitude toward the dead which is “close to admiration for someone, who has accomplished something very difficult.”103 But the avoidance of death in everyday experience leads to an impoverished existence, because the highest stake, life itself, cannot be placed in the “plays of life” (Lebensspiele). According to the psychoanalyst, man makes up for this lack of risk through literature and art. “This is where we find the surplus of life that we need. We die by identifying with a hero, yet we survive him and are prepared to die, equally unscathed, a second time with another hero.”104 However, according to Freud, man is unable to ignore death when it takes away one of those he loved. Yet, his attitude toward the departed is highly ambiguous: on the one hand, man mourns them; on the other, he experiences the deaths of those who were close to him with some sense of satisfaction at having outlived them.105 Freud’s assessment of modern attitudes toward death were, it seems, borne out by spiritualism. On the surface, spiritualists were explicitly mourning the loss of parents, children, and siblings. On another level, however, séances celebrated the lives of the spiritualists themselves. This explains why banal messages obtained during séances and trivial phenomena such as a moving table meant so much to them. It explains why, for example, Aksakov painstakingly wrote serious letters to acquaintances like Pogodin discussing incidents that seemed trite and even ridiculous in the eyes of his addressee. Like the death of a hero on stage, séance phenomena heightened spiritualists’ own sense of being alive: spirit messages celebrated the mental abilities of the living, which prevailed over spirit insights such as “This is / 1234 / God.” Furthermore, the bodily abilities of the living were evidently superior to the departed’s rattling of tables, and visions of painstaking attempts by spirits to materialize a finger or a dismembered hand celebrated the wholeness of the living body. A spiritualist

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séance, then, expressed the ambiguity of its participants toward death: on the one hand, séances confirmed immortality as participants mourned loved ones and expressed admiration for those who had gone “into the better world” (otshedshii v luchshii mir); on the other hand, séances articulated the triumph of the living over the dead. It is quite possible that the success of scientific explanations in post-reform Russia and the emergence of Marxist or atheist world views heightened anxieties about immortality.106 It is tempting to speculate that one of the reasons why spiritualism was so much more successful in the 1870s than it had been in Nicholas I’s reign was that immortality had become less secure by the later date. This, at least, would explain why believers such as Dostoevskii and Solov’ev as well as convinced atheists eventually turned away from spiritualist ideas. For these people, spiritualism did not have to assuage doubts: they were either convinced about their Christian immortality or their atheist deaths. By the turn of the century, séances no longer seemed to promise scientific insight but instead had become avenues for a new way of self-fashioning. Spiritualist gatherings allowed Briusov, who very consciously created his public persona, to fashion himself as a decadent.107 Like the symbolist movement in literature, spiritualism provided Briusov with opportunities to reject social norms, to rebel against the empirical world, and to express ideas about decay and cultural pessimism. Séances were well suited to this endeavor because participants commonly contravened standards of social stratification as well as sexual conventions. Spiritualists increasingly reveled in the irrational and the nervous, thus abandoning Aksakov’s scientific approach. A gathering of sitters around a séance table was a “ritualized violation of cultural norms.”108 Members of different backgrounds assembled in one room, and the most famous mediums were frequently from the lower strata of society or from ethnic minorities. Alex Owen has argued with regard to mediumship in Victorian England that “spiritualist culture held possibilities for attention, opportunity, and status denied elsewhere.”109 The spiritualist séance turned authority and social influence upside down, placing mediums in charge of proceedings. Mediums demanded the room to be lit according to their wishes, asked for things to be brought in, and commanded the sitters to sing, pray, or be silent. Meanwhile, spirits disheveled the hairdos of well-to-do Petersburgers and also frequently hit them. The séances of Jan Guzik, a tanner from the empire’s Polish Kingdom, were highly popular despite being especially feared for their carnivalesque character: sometimes chairs were dragged out from beneath their occupants, punches were severe, and in 1913 one of the attendants

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was seriously injured.110 None of this would, of course, have been possible outside of the séance setting. Guzik was not the only humble subject of the tsar to become a renowned medium. His more famous predecessor, the Ukrainian medium S. F. Sambor, had been a lowly clerk at a telegraph bureau in Volhynia before becoming the hope and pride of spiritualists. Likewise, Liuba Morozova from Vladikavkaz, who “created a certain stir in the Russian press in the spring of 1904,” was the child of a local worker.111 Upper-class spiritualists had an ambiguous attitude toward the spiritualist success of ordinary people. While they hailed spiritualism’s progressiveness, they also frequently felt threatened by the behavior of lower-class mediums. Despite his enthusiasm, the spiritualist Mikhail Petrovo-Solovovo complained that Sambor was “devoid of intelligence and culture,” and a vitriolic discussion among séance-goers in Rebus revolved around the “legitimacy” of blows suffered by some high-ranking sitters at Guzik’s séances.112 Critics of such boisterous séances were more appreciative of the mediumistic activities of gentle women, such as Elizaveta Dmitrievna Pribytkova or Madame Andropova, the wives of Pribytkov and a St. Petersburg banker, respectively. In contrast to Guzik and Sambor, their social standing did not allow them to pursue mediumism publicly. But their private activities nonetheless undermined social norms, for with them the “weaker” sex was in command of the séance.113 Séances offered excitement through thrilling phenomena, and the enticing prospect of holding hands in the dark was a welcome diversion for people constrained by prudish social norms. Indeed, séances quite explicitly toyed with the titillation that could be generated by their sexual connotations.114 One of the spirits Sambor frequently summoned at séances in St. Petersburg was the twelve-year-old girl Olia. Not only did the spirit-girl “control” and “enter” Sambor, she also aroused the senses of the other participants. Some sitters at these séances recalled the excitement of holding the spirit-girl’s “little hands,” while Colonel Z. remembered “how ‘Olia’ sat on his lap and [how] he could even feel her legs.”115 In at least one instance, a séance was so laden with sexual sensations that the sitters were unable to handle the sensitivity of the experience and found relief only in hysterical cries and faintings. The “interesting incident” occurred at one of Sambor’s séances in St. Petersburg, when Mr. D., sitting next to the medium, felt a sensation developing: “I felt increasingly strange, awkward, somehow not at ease and started rather to fear Sambor,” he recounted later. “[T]his was especially so, when [Sambor] shook his hand together with mine and I therefore tried to hold his hand tighter. He

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pressed his knee forcefully against mine and I could feel his leg at which point I started to quiver nervously and began to scream.” When asked by fellow-sitters what the matter was, D. begged them to ignore him. After a while the sitters took a short break; when they resumed, D. no longer sat next to the medium but took a seat opposite him. (Sambor also felt ill at ease next to D.) Before 15 minutes had passed, however, D. again felt “strange.” This time he began to moan, again asking “the others not to pay any attention.” At this point, a white luminescent mass emanated from the shoulders of another sitter, Mr. M. This white entity took on the form of a huge arm and approached Ms. L., who feared that it “would grab [her].” She stood up, though was careful to maintain the chain of hands since D. “in between his moans begged us not to undo it.” The white matter turned into something that resembled a human figure, crawled across the floor and vanished into the armchair in which Mr. M. was still sitting. At this point, M. hysterically exclaimed “this is disgusting!”; meanwhile, Sambor fell into convulsions; the fourth sitter, Ms. P., fainted, and the séance dissolved. M. later recalled the silky feeling of the white substance and the rustling noises it made.116 The sensual aspects of séances were thus both threatening and yet appealing. After all, Mr. D., despite his moans, begged others not to end the sitting. The séances that Briusov recorded in his notebook were explicitly sexual. According to these entries, Briusov’s friend, the poet Aleksandr Lang (Miropol’skii), who participated at most of these gatherings, announced on March 20, 1893, that he felt “lips pressed against his face.”117 Ten days later, at another gathering, Lang was pulled toward the sofa and laid down. Lang described the events that followed on a sheet of paper that Briusov later added to his notebook. “I began to feel strange touches of another hand, soft, similar to a woman’s,” Lang wrote. “The hand was warm. The caresses went from top to bottom and were reminiscent of a hypnotist’s movements. Then I was kissed on the forehead, the lips and cheeks. Hot breath poured over my face.” When Lang asked, “Who are you?” the mysterious presence replied, “Elena, your Elena.”118 As Nikolai Bogomolov has shown, Briusov himself was even more explicit in his diary about the sexual nature of these séance adventures. There he noted: “Yesterday attended a séance. Was insolently impertinent with E[lena] Andr[eevna]. This was good. Touched her legs, almost to the cunt [pizda]. To grab her breasts is already a laughing matter.” At one of the subsequent meetings of the group, Briusov’s hand made its way entirely up Elena’s leg and the poet “even had an erection.”119

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Séances thus created opportunities for amorous adventures. Elena Andreevna Maslova, the young woman to whom Briusov referred, was engaged to Mikhail Evdokimovich Baburin at the time, but within the context of a séance, the betrothal apparently did not prevent her from exchanging erotic caresses with Briusov, Lang, and maybe with her fiancé, who also took part. The spirit messages obtained in the course of the series of séances revolved around amorous topics and included news such as “I love—Elena” and “Believe. Love doesn’t think evil.”120 Séances, then, provided the darkness that made sexual transgressions possible; they offered thrill and excitement because they allowed for impropriety in the presence of fiancés or more principled family members that would otherwise have been out of the question. But spiritualist assemblies also provided a sense of safety and an emergency exit. Briusov’s séance of March 31, 1893, for instance, was cut short. Not prepared to go down the erotic route, “as soon as V. A. P. felt the caresses of a hand, she demanded the séance to be terminated.”121 Séances thus offered an ideal setting for sexual adventures. They could be ended at any time and the alleged presence of supernatural powers meant that none of the participants was responsible for what happened. Briusov’s own role in the erotic play was more ambitious. The content of his séance notebook, as opposed to his diary, suggests that it was written with an audience and the possibility of publication in mind.122 Briusov later reworked the spiritualist events in a story, and Bogomolov convincingly argues that spiritualism became part of a larger “amoralism” by which Briusov defined himself as decadent.123 Briusov was not the only poet for whom the occult provided an opportunity for self-fashioning. Georgii Ivanov recounts in his memoirs how the symbolist Aleksei Dmitrievich Skaldin cultivated an air of mysteriousness in order to impress the younger author.124 Spiritualist gatherings and occult rituals offered Briusov, Lang, Skaldin, and others an opportunity to fashion themselves as modernists, that is, they provided a venue in which participants contravened accepted forms of decency and morality and in which spiritualist forces undermined social authorities in a carnivalesque manner. It would, however, be too simplistic to regard séances merely as evening gatherings at which a few cynical participants fooled the gullible majority. While deliberate sexual experimentation was one reason for Briusov’s evening appointments, another was the appeal that difficult states of mind exerted upon him and other contemporaries. Spiritualists were fascinated by the trance states of mediums during séances and by the nervous ailments from which they usually suffered, and they tried to grasp the relationship

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between this predisposition and the ability to make contact with another reality.125 Their fascination with such states of mind was part of a larger interest among contemporaries—spiritualist, decadent artists as much as medical doctors—in nervousness, an illness they considered to be linked to modern life.126 Briusov aimed to escape the rationalism of his time through spiritualism. In a highly emotional letter written to Lang at nighttime in the summer of 1890, Briusov confessed that, after a spell of Epicureanism, he had rediscovered his belief in “phantasy, dreams, and [a vision of] the world through dreams.”127 The fascination with abnormal states of mind also led to experimentation with drugs (alcohol, opium, morphine) during spiritualist gatherings.128 The appeal of séances was manifold. They offered entertainment in the 1850s and throughout the decades that followed. In the 1870s, they were also thought to promise scientific insight, but by the end of the century, Aksakov’s attempts to situate spiritualism squarely in the realm of science had become outdated. Instead, contemporaries now evoked spiritualist practices in order to encounter alternative experiences and irrational states of mind.129

Conclusion At the turn of the century, séances raised questions about abnormal states of mind, but throughout the previous decades they had mirrored ideas about the unconscious that were still in the process of being formulated. According to Freud, “what we call the unconscious, the deepest layers of our soul, which is made up of drives, does not know anything negative, no negation; opposites coincide in it.”130 These words also apply to nineteenth-century spiritualism. Its early advocates aimed to establish spiritualism as an intellectual discipline that bridged the gulf between positivist, materialist ways of reasoning and metaphysics. The empirical evidence upon which Aksakov based these expectations was obtained during séances, which provided lighthearted entertainment and escape from reality as much as they produced “facts” for scientifically inclined spiritualists to study. Séances were also socially ambiguous. Spiritualists appealed to traditional markers of authority, for example, using academic titles, but at the same time, séances undermined established social hierarchies and customary morality. Guzik’s violent sittings could be read as a form of social, even political commentary—a rebellion by the Polish worker medium against his social superiors whose hairdo he (or the spirits) disheveled.131 But séances could also be seen as the place where Russia’s “missing middle” coalesced

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around the disputed marvels of levitating tables.132 Spiritualism provided opportunities for self-fashioning, be it as the scientific investigator, the independent medium, or the decadent inhabitant of a modern city. Furthermore, spiritualism was at once both a highly private and a very public endeavor; on the one hand, séances provided a space in which personal feelings of mourning and loss, erotic attraction and life-affirming optimism were expressed and experienced. On the other hand, the scandals that developed around spiritualism turned spirit apparitions into public events and transcended the private sphere of the salon. As a result, spiritualism was simultaneously located on the margins of academic respectability and at the center of modern culture, turning séances themselves into utopian projects in which the contradictions were resolved. Séances were venues that literally transcended clear-cut messages, which were ambiguous and at which a modernity was enacted that was characterized by ambiguity and the simultaneity of the un-simultaneous.

2 Occult Science and the Russian Public

“Petersburg is the fourth dimension that is not indicated on maps. [...] It is not customary to mention that our capital city belongs to the land of spirits when reference books are compiled. Karl Baedeker keeps mum about it.” —Andrei Belyi, Petersburg (1913)

S

piritualism offered contemporaries individual experiences of another reality at private séance gatherings. But, as mentioned in the previous chapter, séance phenomena also transcended the personal realm and became a cause for public debate. Vagner’s claims to spiritualist scientificity gave rise to the public scandal that developed in the wake of the so-called Mendeleev Commission in 1875 and 1876. Spiritualism’s propensity for public debate was by no means exhausted after this episode. A less well-known debate about mathematics and séance phenomena erupted in the winter of 1878–1879, which shows that the public polemics about spiritualism were concerned with competing definitions of “rational” and “scientific” on the one hand, and with larger social issues on the other. While all those who debated the significance of mathematics for spiritualism agreed that their arguments ought to operate upon scientific principles, this was not the case with regard to hypnosis. Unlike mathematics, hypnosis was a highly ambiguous technique with both scientific and magical qualities. And whereas debates concerning spiritualism and mathematics were conducted by contemporaries who had received higher or at least secondary education, hypnosis appealed to a much wider audience.

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Through hypnosis, then, occult science reached a wider public, and in the sphere of mass culture, occult notions were characterized by contradictory claims and theoretical messiness. Far from undermining its appeal, this lack of intellectual clarity contributed to the success of supernatural ideas and redefined occult science.

Spiritualism and Nineteenth-Century Geometry In the winter of 1878, the Russian chemist and member of the Imperial Academy of Sciences Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov published an article in the influential journal Russkii vestnik (The Russian Herald) entitled “Chetvertoe izmerenie prostranstva i mediumizm” (“The Fourth Spatial Dimension and Mediumism”), in which he claimed that spiritualist phenomena observed during séances could be explained scientifically with reference to recent mathematical research. In particular, Butlerov argued that the geometry of a knotted rope could reveal the existence of “beings of a higher order.”1 Butlerov’s claims evoked the most passionate replies. The debate that ensued was conducted by prominent scientists such as Butlerov himself, the mineralogist Aksel’ Vil’gel’movich Gadolin, and the geologist Nikolai Alekseevich Golovkinskii, who published their texts in Russkii vestnik and in Vestnik Evropy.2 Educators, publicists, and writers also took up their pens in reaction to Butlerov’s piece. Evgenii L’vovich Markov voiced his concerns about Butlerov’s claims in the liberal newspaper Golos (The Voice), while Fedor Dostoevskii treated the subject in a newspaper article for Novoe vremia (The New Times) and in his novel The Brothers Karamazov.3 The debate was caused by a series of séances that had been conducted by the astrophysicist Karl Friedrich Zöllner with the American medium Henry Slade in Leipzig in 1877. During these sittings, standard séance phenomena occurred: knocks were heard and a knife flew through the air. Important for the discussion that evolved, however, were two phenomena: firstly prints of two feet appeared on the inside of a sealed slate that had been coated with soot, and secondly knots emerged in a cord, the ends of which had been knotted together and then sealed with wax (fig. 5).4 In his article about mathematics and spiritualism, Butlerov explained the sudden “appearance of matter” in the séance room, such as feet that left prints, by means of an analogy that compared the occurrence in the three-dimensional world to that in a two-dimensional one:

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Figure 5: The knotted rope of the séance with Slade that caused the controversy about the role of higher-dimensional geometry for spiritualism. Friedrich Zöllner, Wissenschaftliche Abhandlungen. Leipzig, 1878. Courtesy of Niedersächsische Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Göttingen.

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Imagine a point on a flat space, which is surrounded by a closed line, for example a circle. If we move this point only within the supposed flat plane, that is in two dimensions, we will never be able to move it outside the circle without breaking the latter’s wholeness. For a two-dimensional being living on this plane, the solution to the problem would be impossible and to move the point outside the circle would amount to a miracle. But if we make use of the third dimension [...] we can solve this problem very easily: we can lift the point out of the flat plane [...] carry it over the circle [...] and then put it back down into the same flat plane.5

A being in two-dimensional space could neither understand what had happened nor provide an explanation for the phenomenon. Arguing by analogy, Butlerov proceeded to assert that the same phenomenon was possible in a three-dimensional space: something enclosed in a sphere could “miraculously” leave it by venturing into the fourth dimension and returning back to the three-dimensional world beyond the spatial constraint of the object. Thus Butlerov concluded that the “impenetrability of matter in the third dimension can be transgressed.”6 Matter and “beings of a higher order” could appear and disappear suddenly by “using” the fourth dimension; they were restrained neither by walls nor by closed doors, but could freely pass through such threedimensional barriers. Butlerov explained not only the sudden appearance of objects or of footprints during seances by appealing to a fourth spiritual dimension, but also the workings of the aforementioned “knot experiments.” He argued by means of an analogy that compared three-dimensional knots to loops “in only two dimensions.”7 In fourth-dimensional space these knots could easily be tied. Intelligent beings at home in the fourth dimension, Butlerov proposed, were summoned by the medium Slade during séances to tie these seemingly impossible knots. It is worth noting that Butlerov avoided the term “spirit” throughout his article and used “beings of a higher order” instead. Despite the cautious wording, his readers knew immediately what the well-known supporter of spiritualism had in mind. Butlerov’s ideas were not original. Indeed, his article in Russkii vestnik was disguised as an albeit lengthy review of Wissenschaftliche Abhandlungen (Scientific Treatises), a three-volume opus of almost two thousand pages written by Zöllner.8 Butlerov’s essay began with philosophical reflections about space for which he—and Zöllner before him—eclectically borrowed from Kant. Butlerov and Zöllner ascribed to Kant the notion of “absolute space,” of which

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the space we perceive is but a small subsection.9 Butlerov found confirmation for his notion of “absolute space” in recent mathematical developments, in particular in non-Euclidean and in higher dimensional geometry. For over two thousand years, Euclidean geometry, based on a number of axioms that are still taught at secondary school today, had been the prevailing description of space.10 However, Euclid’s fifth axiom, the parallel postulate, which stated that through a given point external to a given line only one parallel could be drawn (see fig. 6), had long defied mathematical proof. In the early nineteenth century, a critical spirit and a willingness to be suspicious of all unproven assumptions spread among European mathematicians. In 1826, fifty years prior to Butlerov’s publication on mathematics and spiritualism, Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachevskii, a mathematician at the provincial university of Kazan, presented a paper in which he proposed a new kind of geometry. By 1830, Lobachevskii was joined by János Bolyai in Hungary and Carl Friedrich Gauss in Germany in having independently and almost simultaneously developed geometries in which the parallel postulate was no longer valid.11 These geometries differed from traditional Euclidean geometry in a number of ways. In Lobachevskii’s case, an infinite number of parallels could be drawn through a point external to a given line. Moreover, the sum of the internal angles of all triangles was less than 180 degrees. In another form of non-Euclidean geometry, this sum could exceed 180 degrees. Furthermore, lines defined as parallels did not always have the same distance from each other in these new geometries. As is obvious from these characteristics, these non-Euclidean geometries were geometries of curved spaces. Neither Lobachevskii nor Bolyai received recognition for their revolutionary work.12 Lobachevskii had to endure both derision and complete indifference from mathematicians at the Academy of Science in St. Petersburg, who declined to publish his papers under their auspices. Bolyai gave up mathematics for a military career and Gauss, generally considered the greatest mathematician of the nineteenth century, did not publish his theory out of fear of the hostile response this new geometry would inevitably evoke. Genuine recognition of Lobachevskii’s ideas only came a decade after his death, in the 1860s, with the posthumous publications of Gauss’s correspondence in which the topic of non-Euclidean geometry featured prominently. As non-Euclidean curved manifolds questioned conventional certainties about space, other developments in mathematics did the same. From midcentury, a fourth spatial dimension was making its debut in mathematics as a purely abstract concept.13 By the 1870s, higher dimensions were accepted

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.P

Figure 6: According to Euclid’s fifth axiom only one parallel could be drawn through a given point external to a given line.

L notions “among the young and progressive generation” of mathematicians.14 Unlike non-Euclidean geometry, higher-dimensional space did not have one or several obvious “inventors.” Instead, mathematical ideas regarding higherdimensional space were advanced gradually by various thinkers, among whom Joseph-Louis Lagrange, Julius Plücker, Bernhard Riemann, and the Prussian schoolteacher Hermann Grassmann played particularly important roles.15 Higher-dimensional geometry was not linked to but independent of nonEuclidean geometry. Indeed, Grassmann’s higher-dimensional space was explicitly Euclidean. However, the two new geometries could be combined. In 1854, Riemann had done just that in his widely acclaimed inaugural lecture at Göttingen, in which he proposed a new geometry built on the notions of geodesic lines and the curvature of manifolds in arbitrary dimensions.16 This lecture, published in 1867, and its popularization by the physiologist Hermann von Helmholtz, remained important all over Europe for the reception of nonEuclidean and higher-dimensional geometries by society at large. Like many of his contemporaries, Butlerov was not aware of the ontological difference between non-Euclidean and higher-dimensional geometry. Although Butlerov stressed the historical importance of Lobachevskii’s discoveries and the fact that he himself had known the great mathematician, the important arguments in his article were based on higher-dimensional and not on non-Euclidean geometry. Those who replied to Butlerov’s piece also confused non-Euclidean and higher-dimensional geometry. There are several reasons for this mistake. At the most basic level, non-Euclidean geometry and the fourth dimension were probably associated in non-scientific publications because both are hard to visualize. A second reason was Riemann’s lecture, in which the mathematician had proposed a non-Euclidean geometry that was applicable to space of any dimension, thus linking Lobachevskii’s discovery to

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ideas about higher dimensions. Moreover, non-Euclidean geometry and higher-dimensional geometry were mixed because many contemporaries insisted on embedding curved spaces into Euclidean spaces, which requires an extra dimension. “Every curved surface must inevitably be regarded as three-dimensional,” an anonymous Russian critic of non-Euclidean geometry insisted.17 Thus, the widespread misconception arose that Lobachevskii’s geometry was fundamentally connected to higher-dimensional spaces.18 According to Butlerov, mathematicians had shown that there could be a geometry, and consequently a space, different from the one perceived in everyday experience. This different and inaccessible space, he insisted, explained spiritualist phenomena.

The Fourth Dimension, Spiritualism, and the Russian Public Butlerov’s conclusions in Russkii vestnik shocked his non-spiritualist readers, and those who wrote replies were angered at the chemist’s repeated urge to express his occult convictions in the country’s most respected and widely read journals. The debate that followed dealt with the relationship between supernatural forces and mathematics in particular, and science in general, but it also provided space for commentary on the social developments of post-reform Russia. Butlerov’s detractors criticized the chemist’s attempts to reconcile séances and science because this allegedly threatened society. While most accepted the insights of recent mathematical research, some of Butlerov’s critics also denounced non-Euclidean and higher-dimensional geometry as avenues into mental, moral, and social disintegration. Butlerov had chosen the momentous domain of science to advance his spiritualist convictions. In post-reform Russia, as elsewhere in Europe, the exact sciences had become the most authoritative explanatory model. In the tsarist empire, liberal reformers, moreover, equated a scientific world view with social and political progress.19 So great was the sense of duty to arrive at scientific explanations of all phenomena—including spiritualist ones—that Ol’ga Semenovna Shakovskaia, a skeptic of spiritualism, was anxious about the possibility that future generations “will deride us [for our inability to find] simple and clear” explanations for these mysteries.20 Butlerov’s article, then, promised to avoid that embarrassment while also furthering the spiritualist cause. The chemist clearly used the authority of science to bestow plausibility on spiritualism. He repeatedly stressed Zöllner’s and his own academic credentials as well as those of other fellow spiritualists. Moreover, Butlerov

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significantly avoided the term “spirit” in his article but, as mentioned above, referred to “beings of a higher order” instead. Butlerov thus acknowledged the epistemological superiority of science but aimed to incorporate spiritualism into its way of reasoning. In the eyes of the mineralogist Gadolin, a successful military officer and conservative member of the tsar’s entourage, Butlerov was mistaken to join science and spiritualism. In his reply, Gadolin therefore set out to inform readers why séances were unscientific and Butlerov’s attempts to approach them with scientific reasoning consequently misguided. Gadolin rejected Butlerov’s claim to scientificity, noting that spiritualist séances, unlike scientific experiments, could neither be repeated, nor could spiritualists predict when certain phenomena would occur.21 Indeed, Gadolin argued that there was no positive definition of “spiritualist phenomena.” The only common characteristic they shared was that they could not be squared with the current state of knowledge.22 By exposing spiritualism’s alleged scientificity as fraudulent, Gadolin hoped to weaken its pernicious influence on the Russian public. The most disconcerting aspect of Butlerov’s claims was the suggestion that everyday experience of space was flawed. The chemist’s critics attempted to reinforce the opposing viewpoint that stressed both science’s and nature’s reliability and regularity. Their success hinged upon the relationship between geometry and physical space. Before ideas about non-Euclidean and higherdimensional spaces had been developed, geometry had seemed to be the most successful academic discipline because it proposed a convincing theory that was verifiable in practice.23 This perception was challenged dramatically by non-Euclidean and higher-dimensional geometry. As mathematicians developed a formal language, algebraic implications gained importance and relegated descriptive analysis into the background. As long as mathematical claims were rigorously argued and not contradicted by accepted statements, they were mathematically true. However, this development raised questions about cognition and about the relation of mathematics to the reality experienced by men. Mathematicians, physicists, and others debated for decades about how the new geometries related to reality, and this question was vital in the debate about spiritualism and mathematics. Lobachevskii had called his geometry “imagined” (voobrazhaemaia geometriia), analogous to imaginary numbers, but was convinced that it corresponded to reality in some way.24 The question of the relation between mathematical space and the physical realm was not settled by the time spiritualists and their opponents confused non-Euclidean and higher-dimensional geometry. Among mathematicians, however, the prop-

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osition of a direct link between mathematical and physical space was much resented. In an article entitled “Über die sogenannte Nicht-Euklische Geometrie” (“On the So-Called Non-Euclidean Geometry”), the mathematician Felix Klein felt compelled to include a one-page disclaimer, making it quite clear that “the following investigations are [...] of a purely mathematical character. They do not touch upon questions about the advantages these results could have for an understanding of space or for the explanation of nature.”25 Butlerov’s critics in the Russian press agreed with Klein’s assessment. “Fourth-dimensional space merely [describes] the area of mathematical analysis in which [mathematicians] are dealing with four variables,” Gadolin declared in Vestnik Evropy.26 It would therefore be foolish to relate this mathematical method to physical space. Golovkinskii seconded, adding that a fourth dimension was physically inconceivable. If it existed, then, by analogy, a two-dimensional world should be possible too. And if the fourthdimensional realm was inhabited by “intelligent beings” who observed three-dimensional humans, then by analogy man should have discovered a two-dimensional world with simpler two-dimensional inhabitants. Since this was not the case, Golovkinskii saw no evidence for Butlerov’s claim that “beings of the fourth order” moved objects or tied knots during spiritualist séances.27 Instead, the geologist insisted that the world made sense only if it was perceived as three-dimensional. “Even the most primitive organisms are and will always remain without fail three-dimensional, as every inorganic object, every material particle is, from the origin of the world and similarly without fail, three-dimensional.”28 With nature’s three-dimensional character firmly established, anti-spiritualists set out to refute séance phenomena in the press. Iosif (Osip) Nikolaevich Livchak, a teacher of mechanics from Vilna, visited Petersburg in March 1878 and informed his acquaintance Dostoevskii that he had solved the knot riddle. Dostoevskii, who took great interest in spiritualism and followed the debate on the fourth dimension attentively, wrote in the newspaper Novoe vremia that Mr. Livchak has solved Zöllner’s and Slade’s riddle regarding “the fourth dimension,” which in the last two months has, as we all know, caused such a stir in the press and in general discussions. I myself saw the documentation: a rope with three knots that was sealed to a sheet of paper on which twelve signatures of the witnesses testified that Mr. Livchak had successfully demonstrated the cunning task.29

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Dostoevskii’s announcement created a tremendous interest in Livchak. Mendeleev invited the mechanic to his home, and in the presence of Mendeleev, Dostoevskii, and the spiritualists Aksakov, Butlerov, and Vagner, Livchak presented his “extremely simple technique to tie knots in an endless rope” which, however, he chose not to disclose.30 Despairing about Livchak’s demonstration, Butlerov turned to “a highly learned mathematician who personally told me that Livchak’s discovery cannot be refuted conclusively since geometria situs was thus far only barely understood.”31 A few months later, Aksakov and Butlerov learned to their great relief that Livchak could not tie knots in sealed ropes any more than anyone else, but that he had invented a handy instrument that allowed him to open and reseal the rope very quickly and without this being noticed by his audience. They rushed into print to inform readers of Russkii vestnik about this turn of events.32 According to spiritualists, then, the mathematical study of space remained directly linked to physical reality and could be grasped experimentally. Zöllner even claimed to have verified Riemann’s “visionary” but so far only theoretical ideas.33 While mathematicians were moving away from a descriptive conceptualization of geometry in favor of a formal language of analytic analysis in which mathematical objects were valid as long as they did not interfere with other mathematical definitions, spiritualists (as well as some of their fiercest critics) clung to a view that mathematical study required empirically verifiable facts about space. The debate about spiritualism and mathematics was not only about the relation of mathematics to space or about whether scientific explanations should be open to supernatural notions. Most anti-spiritualists, who called for an intuitively navigable and Euclidean physical space, linked this demand to an assessment of post-reform society, which—like non-Euclidean and higherdimensional realms—seemed less and less predictable. In the eyes of the liberal Markov, Butlerov propagated dangerous obscurantism and thereby threatened the achievements of the Great Reforms. In the 1860s liberal publicist and educator Markov had campaigned vehemently against the influence of the Orthodox Church in primary and secondary schooling.34 This attitude informed his reaction to Butlerov’s text. Markov likened spiritualists to court magicians and alluded to the well-known enthusiasm for mystical practices at the imperial palace.35 He described Butlerov as “firing the weapons of the bastion of spiritualism” at an unsuspecting Russian readership. Society, however, was obliged to safeguard progress and to

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fight off all attempts “to graft the ulcer of superstition onto science” or to replace “the reason of society” (razum obshchestva) with the “daydreams of a diseased mind.”36 Markov, who held a science doctorate, called for everything that smacked of mysticism to be kept away from science. He feared that Butlerov was trying to “give the most phantasmagorical and empty mysticism an air of scientificity, to instill science with mysticism, and to disseminate science into mysticism. [If successful, this] will be the ruin of human enlightenment.”37 For Markov then, spiritualism threatened to undermine social progress, which he, like so many liberals at the time, linked to a rational world view and scientific education that excluded supernatural agents. Conservative scientists, social commentators, and high-ranking church officials, on the other hand, feared that Butlerov was threatening social stability by undermining scientific, social, and religious certainties. They strongly condemned Butlerov’s suggestion that scientific methods could explain the transcendent and the claim that space was not a solid category but relative, potentially changing, and thus unreliable. Conservatives agreed with liberals that spiritualist claims were particularly threatening to Russian society because they were being advanced publicly. Gadolin and the anonymous author of Novye reformatory “o chetyrekh izmereniiakh” v Religii i Nauke (New Reformers “about Four Dimensions” in Religion and Science) criticized public debates about thorny issues, such as spiritualism, because these challenged Russian readers.38 In contrast to an allegedly educated and intellectually independent German public, they argued, Russian readers were not in a position to handle an unsupervised press; they were unable to decide which statements in newspapers or journals were trustworthy and which were ludicrous assertions.39 “We thought that, apart from philosophers, who will judge the opus as they see fit, only very few people will ever read Zöllner’s book,” Gadolin wrote. “But then the article by Mr. Butlerov appeared, which addressed a wide readership and recommended Zöllner’s ideas as authoritative pronouncements. It has since become impossible [for us] not to protect the public [from such claims].”40 The anonymous author of Novye reformatory was by far the most vehement critic of modern mathematics and spiritualism in Russia. According to him, spiritualism threatened social stability, while non-Euclidean and higherdimensional geometry undermined the mental health of those who came into contact with it. Only ill minds, he claimed, were able to conceive counterintuitive geometries; there was no logic either in higher-dimensional or in non-Euclidean geometry.41 Spiritualism as well as the new geometries were fabrica-

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tions of diseased minds. This critic stressed that the seer Emanuel Swedenborg and the spiritualist and socialist Robert Owen, both of whom were admired by Russian spiritualists, had ended their lives in states of mental delusion. The same fate, he reminded readers, had awaited the father of non-Euclidean geometry, Lobachevskii, while Zöllner was showing indisputable signs of losing his senses as well.42 All of this was no coincidence: “Our mind is so closely intertwined with our physical selves that we cannot act against common sense and experience without impunity.”43 In a further image, the anonymous critic described the exact scientific interpretation of the world as a beautiful, symmetrical vista through a kaleidoscope, which he contrasted to the impressions of a confused mind: “In decrepit or trembling hands, or in the hands of a person with feverish passions, mad vanity, envy, superstitious passions [or] unrestrained imaginations, [this physical instrument] quakes and various pieces in the kaleidoscope rearrange constantly into newer and newer forms.”44 Nature and the world, the author of these lines suggested, were complex and beautiful, with a design that sound minds were able to appreciate. The symmetry, however, was lost in the intellects of weak-minded and morally degenerate spiritualists or non-Euclidean geometers. They proposed ideas that were without order, steadiness, or beauty. The anonymous author thus charged spiritualists and mathematicians with creating perceptions of instability and change, the quintessential experience of the modern.45 The author of Novye reformatory, moreover, linked dangers of potentially unreliable space to social mobility. These apprehensions about spiritualism and a society in flux came to the fore in a discussion about dzhentl’menstvo (gentlemanliness).46 “In order to convince scientists like Zöllner that they should investigate this business seriously,” the critic wrote, “the ordinary tricks of magicians needed to be invested with the impudence and the prestige of dzhentl’menstvo, like the prestige enjoyed by dentists, coiffeurs, servants of predatory hotels, and shop assistants in every European city.”47 Spiritualist mediums, this implied, were fraudsters from the disrespected social classes who demanded respect for themselves and threatened truly honorable members of educated society. Indeed, as discussed in the previous chapter, famous mediums frequently came from the disrespected classes or from ethnic minorities. The use of the English word dzhentl’menstvo and reference to European cities suggested that in the eyes of this critic, this form of behavior was foreign to Russia and a Western import. Spiritualism and higher-dimensional geometry, the author suggested, were forces undermining the empire’s social organization, and came very literally from beyond its borders.

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Spiritualism also threatened religious truths. Although spiritualists insisted fervently that they reinvigorated the belief in Christian teachings by providing proof for eternal life, neither secular nor religious critics appreciated their attempts to reconcile the natural with the supernatural. To some, spiritualism was akin to sectarian circles that were tearing Russian society apart along confessional lines. Others deplored the fact that spiritualists tried to explain the supernatural with materialist concepts, thereby reducing religion to a form of rational knowledge. Markov bemoaned that “nowadays, a colorful jumble of individual faiths, dreams of troubled souls [and] various peculiar exercises of exhausted, disappointed, or ill minds [abounds.]”48 To retain a balance between science and religion, Markov called for a separation of the two spheres. “The only conclusion that can be drawn from Zöllner’s [discussion of the fourth dimension] is that man has to accept his mental limitations and the fact that his knowledge is human and not absolute or that of God.”49 This view was not far removed from that of Orthodox theologians who described scientific truths as limited and not insightful enough to be able to say anything meaningful about religious beliefs.50 Dostoevskii, himself a devout believer, argued along similar lines in an installment of The Brothers Karamazov, which was ironically flanked by Butlerov’s two-part reply to his critics in Russkii vestnik. In this section, Ivan Karamazov explains: If God exists and if He really did create the world, then, as we all know, He created it according to Euclidean geometry and the human mind with the conception of only three spatial dimensions. Yet there have been and still are geometers and philosophers, and even some of the most distinguished, who doubt whether the whole universe, or to speak more widely, the whole of being, was only created in Euclid’s geometry; they even dare to dream that two parallel lines, which according to Euclid can never meet on earth, may meet somewhere in infinity. I, my dear, have come to the conclusion that, since I can’t understand even that, I can’t expect to understand God. I acknowledge humbly that I have no faculty for settling such questions, I have a Euclidean earthly mind, and how could I solve problems that are not of this world? And I advise you never to think about it either, my dear Alesha, especially about God, whether He exists or not. All such questions are utterly inappropriate for a mind created with an idea of only three dimensions.51

At a time when the Church and its conservative supporters feared that their flock was turning away from Orthodoxy either to join the mushrooming reli-

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gious sects or to swell the numbers of atheists, the challenges of spiritualism seemed particularly threatening because spiritualism came to symbolize both these trends.52 Conservative critics, like the author of Novye reformatory, nostalgically conjured up notions of a Russian past in which traditional values and certainties about nature and God had been accepted and shared by all the tsar’s subjects. This golden age was painfully at odds with the present, when spiritualist ideas were consumed enthusiastically by the reading public, who demonstrated a willful rejection of wiser counsel. For its critics, spiritualism was symbolic of a general disorientation and subversion of values, of dissolving sureties regarding belief, morality, and ethics. Spiritualists agreed with their critics’ diagnosis of Russian society. They too felt that negative developments in the tsarist empire were caused by an underlying spiritual disorientation. In contrast to their critics, however, they were convinced that séance rituals could help overcome this disorientation. Butlerov insisted that communications with the departed answered the most pressing questions of human life, such as “does another world exist? Is the soul immortal or is it only the product of matter, which disintegrates together with the body after death?”53 The answers to these questions had direct implications for the well-being of the country. Societies not based on common certainties, Butlerov argued, were doomed because their members lost “conviction in eternity and in the supernatural purpose of [life].” Without these truths, people became “materialistic egoists,” incapable of “self-sacrifice for the sake of civilization. [...] Without a guiding idea, neither individual nor nation can exist.”54 Spiritualists, anti-spiritualists, liberals, and conservatives, then, concurred in their assessment that Russian society was threatened by disorientation. Yet they could not agree whether enlightened rationalism in the guise of scientific materialism, traditional Orthodox Christianity, or séances were part of the problem or the solution for these social woes. At stake in the debate, then, was an assessment of post-reform obshchestvennost’, that is of public debate and pluralism.55 The vitriol between spiritualists and their detractors could not have taken place without the emergence of a public sphere in the wake of the Great Reforms, but their disagreement also showed that the adversaries were still coming to terms with the consequences of that development. Both sides ardently sought to offer certainties that could be, indeed ought to be, commonly subscribed to; and both sides decried the disintegration of consensus. Mathematics and spiritualism thus became the backdrop for an assessment of the emergence of pluralist scientific, religious, and social views.56

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In their debate, both sides implicitly and explicitly stressed the importance of public discussion and called upon their readers for support. Were it not for the influence of Vestnik Evropy, Russkii vestnik, Novoe vremia, and other periodicals in post-reform Russia, Dostoevskii, Golovkinskii, Markov, and Gadolin would not have felt compelled to write against what they perceived to be Butlerov’s assault on rationalism or traditional convictions. Similarly, had Butlerov not been concerned with the public effect of his reply, he would not have pestered the editor of Vestnik Evropy for a chance to reply to Gadolin in the journal that had originally printed A. V. G.’s polemic.57 And like Markov, Butlerov stated his liberal mission very clearly, claiming that “the service to society that a freethinking scholar can provide rests upon the freedom that is guaranteed for the reading public.” For with a free press “there will always be some independent individuals [...] who will throw off the yoke of [intellectual] immaturity.”58 Yet despite their support for a free press and thus for post-reform changes, both sides vehemently insisted on the exclusive truth of their respective opinions and warned of the calamitous consequences that would inevitably be brought about by pluralism.

The Fate of the Fourth Dimension in Russian Culture In the end, spiritualists and their opponents failed to resolve their debate over whether mathematics could explain séance phenomena. In the reply to his critics, Butlerov backtracked from the bolder claims he had advanced in his initial article, but he did not recant.59 After the winter of 1878–1879, as the vitriol subsided, public interest in spirits and the fourth dimension and in the relationship of geometry and physics died down, but the subject did not disappear. Speculation about the relation of geometrical developments to physical space and spiritual phenomena fell on fruitful cultural ground. Philosophers such as the neo-Kantian Aleksandr Vvedenskii discussed the relation of Lobachevskii’s non-Euclidean geometry and physical space, while Pavel Florenskii and Petr Demianovich Uspenskii developed philosophies that related the fourth dimension to the mystical realm.60 The fourth dimension also became and remained a topic in urban mass culture. Tolstoi satirized Zöllner on the stage in his popular play Plody prosveshcheniia (The Fruits of Enlightenment) as the inventor of the fourth dimension.61 In 1901 the newspaper Novosti i birzhevaia gazeta (The News and Stock Exchange Gazette) wrote that “however much we deride spiritualism, it is beyond doubt that

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some truth can be found in spiritualism. [The world] that surrounds us is only a part of the real world. [...] It is ascertained that the objects of the world have some kind of fourth dimension.”62 And Sergei Shmurlo equated occultism with the fourth dimension in his cheap, twenty-five-kopeck pamphlet Ocherki okkul’tizma (An Outline of Occultism).63 The most lasting influence of the popularization of non-Euclidean and higher-dimensional geometry lay in literature and in art.64 Futurist and Suprematist painters such as Mikhail Larionov, Natalia Goncharova, and Kazimir Malevich evoked the fourth dimension in their works and tried thereby to develop a higher form of consciousness.65 By destroying perspective, for example when depicting objects from all sides at once or by linking the fourth dimension with time and showing objects at different moments in one picture plane, these artists followed spiritualists and later philosophers who argued that the three-dimensional world was a product of man’s “incomplete vision and psychic apparatus.”66 The paintings that resulted from this program are vivid illustrations of the disintegration of reliable forms of realist visions, that is, the distorted kaleidoscopic view that critics of spiritualism feared so much in the late 1870s. One of the writers inspired by occult references to the fourth dimension was Andrei Belyi, who described the capital of the Russian empire in his novel Petersburg—first published between 1913 and 1914—as belonging to the “world beyond the grave” (strana zagrobnogo mira).67 In this work, and in essays written at the time, Belyi followed anthroposophist Rudolf Steiner in describing the fourth dimension as the realm of the transcendent, the habitat of supernatural beings, and the source of thoughts and ideas.68 In chapter six of the novel, the character Aleksandr Ivanovich Dudkin encounters the diabolical figure Shishnarfne, who enters Dudkin’s “room as a bodily young man, endowed with three dimensions; he had leaned against the window and had become a mere contour (or, two-dimensional); and then just a layer of black soot.”69 After a few moments, even the soot smoldered away, and the matter that had constituted the visitor had “turned completely, without any leftovers, into a substance of sound [...] and it seemed to Aleksandr Ivanovich that it jabbered inside himself.”70 From inside Dudkin, Shishnarfne describes the capital as the place where the real and the supernatural merge: “Petersburg has not three but four dimensions, the fourth is little known and is only marked on maps with a dot, but this dot is the place where the plane of this existence meets the spherical surface of the immense astral cosmos; in the twinkling of an eye any dot of Petersburg’s space can eject an inhabitant of the fourth

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dimension, from whom not even walls provide protection; a moment ago I was one of the dots by the window sill, but now I am.”71 Shishnarfne, the “passport holder of the beyond,”72 consecutively assumes a three-, two-, and one-dimensional appearance in Dudkin’s room before returning to his home, the fourth-dimensional realm of spirits. Shishnarfne’s transformation mirrors the city of St. Petersburg itself, which is one-dimensional on maps where it appears as a dot, and simultaneously two-dimensional because it is also represented by circles. “Petersburg not only appears to us, but actually does appear—on maps: in the form of two small circles, one set inside the other, with a black dot in the center.”73 The line of Nevskii Prospekt, the symbol for the city in the prologue of the novel, is also two-dimensional, yet the city appears three-dimensional to ordinary inhabitants, and it is fourdimensional to the initiated. Although Belyi did not refer explicitly to Zöllner or Butlerov, Shishnarfne’s explanations and transformation echo the chemist’s claims that “beings of a higher order” could transcend the two-dimensional boundaries of a circle by carrying an enclosed dot through the third dimension across the circle’s two-dimensional boundary, while also having access to the fourth-dimensional world. At the time of writing this novel, Belyi, the son of a leading mathematician who had received substantial mathematical training, developed a philosophy according to which ideas created reality. The “cerebral play” that assumes such an important role in Petersburg “indicates a transcendent force acting through the human mind,” which turns thought into reality.74 The city of Petersburg—where the debate between Butlerov and his critics took place, where Livchak demonstrated his knot experiment to Dostoevskii—becomes in Belyi’s work “both artificer and artifact—it is part of the transcendent realm from which creative forces enter the narrator as cerebral play, as well as the product of this cerebral play.”75 By developing this train of thought, Belyi solved the conundrum that so beset Butlerov and his critics: by thinking a fourth dimension, the higher-dimensional space becomes a physical reality. “And from precisely this mathematical point [on the map], which has no dimension, [Petersburg] proclaims forcefully that it exists: from here, from this very point surges and swarms the printed book; from this invisible point speeds the official circular [i.e., Nevskii Prospekt].”76 Belyi’s contemporaries described his novel in terms similar to those with which Butlerov’s critics had reacted to the chemist’s suggestion that a fourth spatial dimension and the supernatural were linked. According to Nikolai Berdiaev, “the firmness, the organicity, the crystallized quality of our corporeal world collapses [in Petersburg], the cerebral is transformed into the existen-

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tial. [The] boundaries that separate the ephemeral world from the existential are destroyed.”77 But whereas Dostoevskii, Gadolin, Golovkinskii, Markov, and the anonymous author of Novye reformatory emphatically criticized Butlerov for tearing down these boundaries, Berdiaev hailed the dawning of a new era that he saw described in Petersburg: by uniting the ideal and the real, Belyi had created universal truth.

Occult Science in Urban Mass Culture The Case of Hypnosis From the second half of the 1880s onward, hypnosis superseded geometry as the topic that allowed contemporaries to explore the meaning of occult science. Hypnosis was an alluring practice. Slow movements of hands or of shining objects transported the subject into a dream-like state of consciousness, in which authoritative commands from the hypnotist could bring about abrupt changes in his or her self-perception, or could stimulate behavior that was entirely out of character. Despite the fact that more and more contemporaries inquired into the mechanisms of the technique, no one was able to explain conclusively the phenomena that contemporaries observed at thousands of hypnotic experiments. When Butlerov, Gadolin, and others debated the significance of mathematics for spiritualism in the late 1870s, all agreed that truth ought to be based on scientific reasoning and that (most forms of) mathematics fulfilled the requirements of rational thought. Describing hypnosis as a scientific technique, however, was far more difficult. From the last quarter of the nineteenth century onward, physicians regarded the study of hypnosis as part of their academic purview, but others disagreed. Spiritualists equally claimed expertise in the area, indeed Aksakov was confident that hypnosis would allow spiritualists to convince mainstream scientists of the existence of spirits.78 In Russia, as in the rest of Europe, hypnosis became a prominent topic in publications of the 1880s and 1890s and reached the peak of its appeal in the first decade of the twentieth century. The ambiguous yet fascinating qualities of hypnosis widened the reach of debates around the relationship between science and the occult, and at least in the popular press, reconciled the two. Ambiguity accompanied hypnosis throughout its history, which was closely intertwined with what contemporary doctors bemoaned as “charlatanism” and “superstition.”79 Hypnosis, and the synonyms contemporaries used to describe

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it (“Mesmerism,” “[animal] magnetism,” “hypnotism,” “suggestion”), evoked associations that pointed toward medical practice and physiological research, but also toward faith healing, miracles, spells, witchcraft, and even deceit and crime. This associational wealth likened the image of hypnosis in fin-de-siècle discourse to Belyi’s combination of the ideal and the real. Like Belyi’s cerebral play, hypnosis seemed to combine exact scientific thinking, intellectual speculation, and transcendent experience. A significant reason for the widespread interest in hypnosis was the sensational character of the technique and the fact that its description could be easily followed by everyone. Unlike debates about the new geometries, understanding reports about hypnosis did not require secondary schooling, and consequently articles about it appeared not only in academic periodicals and the intellectual thick journals, but also in mass publishing. The result of this broader reach was a multifaceted and polyphonic discourse about the nature of hypnosis. Through the debate around hypnosis, occult science moved far beyond the parameters of the search begun by Butlerov and his detractors for one unifying mathematical truth and became multilayered and equivocal. Hypnosis first gained public notoriety in the eighteenth century, when Franz Anton Mesmer, a Viennese doctor, used it in Paris in a way that ended in scandal.80 Mesmer believed hypnosis to be an occult force, a fluid that flowed from the hypnotist to the subject, which he called “animal magnetism.” Mesmer used his technique to cure patients whose illnesses, he argued, were caused by “obstacles” in the fluid’s flow through the body. A commission of scientists appointed by King Louis XVI of France concluded in 1784 that Mesmerism was a fraud. Mesmer had to flee Paris, and this turn of events severely undermined the reputation and practice of “animal magnetism.” Half a century later, however, it regained momentum after a new commission in Paris published a favorable report in 1831. In the 1840s surgeons and popular entertainers throughout Europe made use of its anesthetic, curative, and entertaining features. In an attempt to rid the technique of the supernatural aura that had surrounded Mesmerism, the British surgeon James Braid termed the phenomenon of Mesmerism “hypnosis” in 1842, derived from the name of the Greek god for sleep. Braid opposed Mesmer’s notion that fluids operated on the patient and favored physiological interpretations instead.81 The distinctions between Mesmerism, animal magnetism, and hypnotism

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thus lay not in the phenomena that these practices produced, but the way in which they were conducted and explained. Alison Winter has argued that unlike Mesmerism, Victorian hypnotism did without magnetic fluids, sexual associations, and statements that one mind impinged on the other.82 In Russian discussions, these distinctions cannot be drawn so neatly. In the scientific sphere, Winter’s observations also apply, but in the mainstream culture with which it interacted, ideas about fluids, sexual associations, and domineering minds remained powerful topics, and terms such as “Mesmerism,” “animal magnetism,” “hypnotism,” “hypnosis,” and “suggestion” were used interchangeably. Hypnosis experienced its heyday in established academia during the last quarter of the nineteenth century, when a significant number of respectable scientists began to research the topic.83 These scholars, most of whom were neurologists, anatomists, or histologists, focused upon the organism at the expense of the psyche when studying hypnotic phenomena. Their explanations of hypnosis were consequently largely physiological. In the 1880s, the luminary in the study of hypnosis was the French neurologist Jean-Marie Charcot, who described hypnosis as an abnormal nervous state linked to hysteria and brought about by biological predisposition. In the late 1880s, Charcot’s views were prominently challenged by Hippolyte Bernheim and his so-called Nancy school, which rejected the link between hysteria and hypnosis. According to Bernheim, the workings of hypnosis relied on psychological factors, and the technique could therefore be employed on everyone, not only hysterics. Furthermore, the hypnotic state was not a variant form of sleep in Bernheim’s view, as hypnotic influence could also be observed while the subject was awake. What set this state of mind apart from ordinary consciousness, he believed, was its susceptibility to suggestion. For Bernheim, hypnosis could be used to treat functional, that is, non-organic, ailments. He, however, conceded that it could produce functional changes that might in turn promote organic cures. Bernheim himself employed hypnosis to treat a wide range of ailments such as chorea, paralysis, and even heart diseases.84 Bernheim’s psychological views gradually gained acceptance, and toward the end of the century, physicians regarded “hypnotherapy” as appropriate to treat functional disorders only. A minority of “more venturesome individuals,” however, remained, “who would draw an hypnotic bow at almost any disease.”85 Whether hypnosis could heal functional or organic afflictions was to become the main distinction between medical and occult approaches to hypnosis. The neurologist Vladimir Mikhailovich Bekhterev,

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for example, argued in 1897 that the alleged hypnotic healings of organic ailments were in fact cases of medical misdiagnosis in which hypnotism had merely brought about psychological relief.86 Occultists, on the other hand, insisted on the “miraculous” qualities of hypnotic cure, which healed all ailments, organic and otherwise. As scientists turned toward hypnosis, expecting to make important findings about human physiology, the topic was also claimed by spiritualists as a phenomenon that gave support to their convictions. According to Aksakov, hypnosis was “the wedge that will break through the wall of scientific materialism.”87 Aksakov expected that hypnosis, alongside séance phenomena, would propel scientific research toward acknowledging other “intelligent forces” and thus to his longed-for revolution “in science and religion.”88 Aksakov was not the only spiritualist to express such hopes. Zöllner compared the hypnotic state to the experience of the fourth spatial dimension in his Wissenschaftliche Abhandlungen, Butlerov conducted numerous experiments into hypnosis in the 1880s, and Vagner held a series of lectures on the topic in which he stressed its physiological significance.89 Spiritualists concluded that hypnosis offered insights into hidden forces of nature that were analogous to the powers manifest at séances. The sleep-like state of a hypnotic subject was, in the eyes of spiritualist commentators, akin to the trance that spiritualist mediums experienced during séances.90 Rebus declared in 1896 that hypnosis and mediumistic trance were essentially the same, but while the hypnotist was visible in the case of hypnosis, trance during a séance was achieved through an invisible hypnotic agent.91 As in the case of mathematics and séance phenomena, spiritualists applied scientific notions and spiritualist ideas to their explanations of hypnosis. Doctor M. V. Pogorel’skii was one such scientifically inclined spiritualist who interpreted hypnosis within a physiological, physical, and occult context. In several articles and pamphlets “On Animal Magnetism,” Pogorel’skii described experiments he conducted using a Geissler tube, a device filled with a rarefied gas that emits light when an electric current flows through it. Pogorel’skii observed that magnets and human bodies shared the same property of inducing or distracting this light. Pogorel’skii concluded that human bodies possessed “physiological polarized energy,” which he attempted to augment by assembling a chain of two to five people.92 While the Geissler tube was a standard scientific tool, the chain of people echoed the chain of hands in spiritualist séances, as both supposedly increased an enigmatic physical force. By interpreting this energy as akin to electricity, Pogorel’skii repeated eighteenth- and

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early nineteenth-century ideas about electromagnetism that had been repeatedly put forward by Mesmerists.93 Spiritualists, however, did not attempt to explain séance phenomena merely as events caused by human electricity. Instead, defining an invisible human force was only the first step in gauging powers that lay beyond the forces recognized by mainstream physics. In his magnum opus, Animismus und Spiritismus, Aksakov set out three types of energies that prompted spiritualist phenomena: first, “personism,” a force located within the human body that was akin to Pogorel’skii’s electricity; secondly, “animism,” which was made up of energies that were part of an individual psyche but that “transcend the borders of the body”; and lastly, the force of “spiritism,” which originated in a “supraterrestrial,” external source that pointed beyond the individual person.94 Aksakov remained equivocal as to whether this last force was comparable to physical powers such as magnetism or electricity. On the one hand, he insisted that his trio of forces was akin to traditional, physically acknowledged natural powers and could be studied scientifically. On the other hand, however, he insisted that “spiritism” was “intelligent” and “independent,” and thus implied that it could be equated with the wills of deceased individuals. In an attempt to reconcile these two views, Aksakov suggested that his “new” force was “different from an ‘ordinary’ physical force” in that it had the particular quality of being “a force of curvature, that is, a force that does not proceed as a straight graph.”95 Aksakov’s metaphor of a “curved force” echoed the quality of curved spaces that was vital for the new geometries discussed above. As in the case of mathematics, Aksakov adopted contemporary scientific notions but enriched them with supernatural elements. Like his friend Butlerov and the latter’s elusive “beings of a higher order,” however, Aksakov was not willing to name these forces as “spirits.” In publications produced for a mass readership in the 1890s and later, however, there was no reluctance to call supernatural agents by their names. Popular pamphlets and newspaper articles did not attempt to remain within (outdated) physical explanations, but instead freely associated hypnosis with medicine, spiritualism, Christian miracles, and folkloric healing rituals simultaneously. The association of magnetism with Christian wonder-workings in the press was particularly strong. The successful suggestions of the hypnotist Osip Il’ich Fel’dman “were certainly bordering on miracles,” Russkii listok (The Russian Flyer) wrote in 1893.96 The miraculous (and magical) character of hypnosis was underscored by the fact that hypnotists healed through personal influence alone: they neither touched the patient nor administered medication. All that

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was necessary for hypnotic treatment were so-called passes, that is, slow repeated movements with the hands toward the patient and along his or her body, or pendulum-like moving objects and clear but authoritative commands. The healing techniques surrounded hypnotists with a supernatural aura that took its source from Christian teachings about healing, for in Christianity, healing was traditionally associated with divine power, a notion that drew on biblical accounts of Jesus’s miraculous healings and on hagiographies of wonder-working saints, relics, or icons. The association between hypnosis and Christian miracles linked the feats of Fel’dman and his hypnotist colleagues to those of Ioann Kronshtadtskii.97 The charismatic father Ioann, who ministered in a parish in Kronshtadt, in the vicinity of St. Petersburg, enjoyed a distinguished reputation for prayers that “worked.” People from all walks of life and from all social strata flocked to his parish for help. As in the case of contemporary hypnotists, Ioann’s miraculous healings were enthusiastically reported in the press. The language employed in reports about hypnosis as well as the description of hypnotic phenomena were very similar to accounts of Ioann’s healings.98 At times, Ioann’s feats were explicitly discussed as possible forms of hypnosis.99 How closely hypnosis was associated with Ioann’s healings was further illustrated by a rumor that spread about the hypnotist L. L. Onore. When Onore opened his “hypnotic Outpatients” in the largest city of the Altai region, stories made their rounds that “Ioann Kronshtadtskii had arrived in Barnaul.”100 It was, however, not only the sensational press that furthered the association between hypnosis and Christian miracles. Doctors and clergy did the same: the first, because they rejected the reality of miracles altogether and attempted to explain such astonishing events scientifically, the latter, because they vehemently tried to keep the two separate. Some medical doctors scandalously argued that biblical marvels and saintly miracles were in reality cases of hypnotism that their witnesses had failed to identify correctly.101 Although this argument was aimed at discrediting all “superstitious” belief, by repeatedly advancing it, doctors inadvertently furthered the association of hypnosis with faith healing. The position of clerics was more complex. On the one hand they insisted in the reality of miracles, but on the other they also subscribed to ideas about the physical and physiological working of hypnosis. Orthodox authors diagnosed hypnosis in cases when the saintly character of an astonishing healing could not be established. For example, men of the cloth rejected the claims of healers such as the Alsatian Shlatter or of “brother” Ioann Churikov that their healing

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powers had divine origin.102 In the eyes of clerics, these were not miracles, but ordinary hypnosis. Although Orthodox writers insisted upon a clear distinction between true miracles and false miracles (hypnosis), their repeated insistence that what Churikov’s followers believed to be miracles were in fact only cases of hypnosis further underscored the multiple meanings of hypnotism. One further associative field of hypnosis was folkloric magic.103 Mainstream publications frequently referred to znakhari and kolduny, village healers and sorcerers, who cursed and cured with secret prayers or conjurations, in the context of hypnosis. In 1892, for example, a newspaper article in Pravda (The Truth) explicitly associated hypnosis with znakharstvo (rural witchcraft), and two years later, a survey of Petersburg fortune-tellers and healers included znakhari, kolduny, folkloric sprites, spiritualists, and Fel’dman in their list as well as Ioann Kronshtadtskii.104 Neurologists such as Bekhterev did the same when they described a famous case of faith healing, administered by an old female village healer in a Moscow church, as a case of unrecognized hypnosis.105 These observers found a resemblance between traditional forms of healing (or harming) and hypnotism in the stress both placed on language, commands, and influence that was exerted at a distance. Hypnosis and traditional spells, moreover, shared the assumption that objects such as water, wax, or foodstuffs could carry and dispense a charm or hypnotic influence.106 The relevance of such ideas in the urban context is illustrated by the fact that well-known Petersburg hypnotists charged inanimate objects using their mental power. In 1872, D. Tani distributed magnetized water to Petersburgers who had sought him out in the hope that he might heal their ailments; and twenty years later, the hypnotist Fel’dman sent his “powerful and heartfelt suggestion” to Viktor Pavlovich Baturin through his calling card.107 After the turn of the century, “how-to” instruction manuals cast their associative net even wider when informing readers about the magic qualities of hypnosis. V. D. Filimovich associated hypnosis with chiromancy, Kalendar dlia dam (Calendar for Ladies) declared that “fortune-telling is a manifestation of hypnotism,” and V. S. Okkul’tist, author of the Riddles of Life, a glamorous booklet that bore an embossed silver pentagram on the cover, linked hypnosis to spiritualism, fortune-telling, crystallography, the interpretation of dreams, graphology, and the magic powers of the pentagram.108 Hypnosis could also be associated with malevolent practices, such as black magic and crime. The question whether hypnotists could bring their subjects to commit crimes against their will was hotly debated by scientists, and the scandalous possibility ensured the proposition of a visible place in

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mass publishing.109 This suggestion aroused anxieties related to violence and sexuality, and the periodical press printed sensationalist accounts to substantiate such fears. These included reports about youthful wives driven to suicide by husbands eager for their life-insurance money, genteel young ladies turned rape victims, and innocent girls duped into unwilled marriages.110 After the turn of the century, these stories were less frequently concerned with private drama but instead depicted dangers that threatened Russian society as a whole. In 1913, several newspapers reported that Russian patriots had been turned into involuntary traitors by foreign hypnotists.111 And in a scandalous court case of 1914, which received extensive coverage in the press, the defendants argued that they had been driven into heresy through the hypnotic influence of a sectarian leader.112 The multiple connotations of hypnosis resulted in differing assessments, which were, however, largely positive. Broadsheets commonly recounted sudden and unexpected healings that particularly startled the unsuccessful medical doctors of the afflicted. The usual pattern of such accounts included a short description of the patient, of his or her ailment, and of the despair the afflicted felt in the face of repeatedly unsuccessful treatments by the medical profession. In 1890, for example, readers of Novosti i birzhevaia gazeta learned about the fate of G. A. Fel’zer, a veterinarian from Samara, who had been suffering from severe difficulties in swallowing and digestive spasms for several years. Fel’zer had sought the help of professors in Kazan, Moscow, and St. Petersburg, but the physicians had been unable to relieve his symptoms. In 1890, he read about “magnetism” in Novosti i birzhevaia gazeta, and on April 15 of that year he approached Mr. Tani, the Petersburg hypnotist covered in the press story, and who also dispensed his powers through potions of water. “After the first [hypnotic] séance, which lasted for 10 to 15 minutes,” Fel’zer later recounted, “I didn’t notice anything in particular, apart from a decreased discomfort in the larynx.” After the second séance, he could “freely swallow bread with and without butter. After the third séance, I ate a cutlet. [...] After the fourth séance and the fifth, all signs of illness vanished and I now feel like an entirely healthy person.”113 Fel’zer thanked the newspaper’s editors for their “progressive views” that had first informed him about hypnosis, which itself eventually had brought about his healing. Many mainstream periodicals promoted a particular hypnotist as their sheet’s hero, and some hypnotists thereby became national celebrities. In the

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1880s and 1890s, Russia’s undisputed luminary in this area was Osip Il’ich Fel’dman, while in the 1910s, Fel’dman was succeeded in national renown by L. L. Onore. Both men went on tours, during which they were closely monitored by journalists, and they thus dispensed their healing abilities throughout the country and abroad. Fel’dman’s reputation was such that he needed no introduction during his lifetime, or in the decade following his death. When in 1893 Russkii listok interviewed Fel’dman, the hypnotist was not introduced by the newspaper’s reporter. The author only deemed it necessary to mention that Fel’dman had “put on a little bit of weight” during a stay in the United States, but otherwise, the hypnotist and his amazing cures were assumed to be well-enough known.114 Three years prior, in 1890, Tolstoi, who was acquainted with Fel’dman, satirized the hypnotist alongside Zöllner in his play Plody prosveshcheniia. In this instance, too, the author had been convinced of his audience’s ability to recognize the target of his parody in the character of the ridiculous and bogus Grosman.115 Tolstoi’s satire illustrates that not all commentators agreed with the positive depiction of hypnotists in the periodical press. As Ilya Vinitsky has shown, Tolstoi was deeply troubled by the way in which hypnosis seemingly undermined free will.116 Alongside the philosophical and moral challenges that the method raised, the question of who should be allowed to practice it became a bone of contention. Physicians increasingly saw hypnosis as part of the medical discipline, as the inclusion of hypnosis in the program of the Fourth All-Russian Congress of Physicians in 1891 illustrates. With the medical claim over hypnosis growing, doctors argued with increasing vehemence that the technique should not be practiced by laymen. To strengthen their claims, they warned of the negative effects of hypnosis if not administered by certified doctors. In so doing, they tapped into popular concerns about the possible abuse of hypnosis. Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma (Herald of Psychology, Criminal Anthropology, and Hypnotism), the organ of the Psychoneurological Institute in St. Petersburg, and edited by Vladimir Bekhterev, among others, claimed in 1904 that Fel’dman had harmed the internal organs of young patients.117 Bekhterev, who depicted Fel’dman as a rival, repeated similar claims more than two decades later.118 Pavel Iakovlevich Rozenbakh, a distinguished psychiatrist and author of the entry on hypnotism in the eminent encyclopedia published by Brokgauz and Efron, expressed the concern that suggestion, if administered by unworthy hypnotists, could lead subjects to com-

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mit crimes against their will or could turn the hypnotized into victims of fraudsters and rapists.119 Hypnosis in the hands of anyone not belonging to the medical profession, doctors repeatedly warned, was dangerous and could have the most severe consequences. Physicians successfully convinced Russian lawmakers that their claims were well founded. In response to doctors’ warnings, Russian law was amended in 1890 to require medical doctors to be present during any hypnotic session. In the same year, hypnosis was banned as a form of entertainment, and a second decree restricted its practice to medical doctors only.120 In 1903, however, a law was passed according to which doctors only had to be present when hypnosis was practiced. In 1910, a new decree restated that only doctors were allowed to use suggestion; this law was again issued in 1926.121 The frequent changes and reissuing of laws concerning hypnosis illustrate that the role of lay hypnotists remained fluid and contested. Such frequent legal amendments, moreover, suggest that official regulations were rarely adhered to. And indeed, the popular press reported frequently about conflicts between hypnotists and the law. In 1900, Peterburgskaia gazeta defended the spiritualist medium S. F. Sambor, who had recently discovered his hypnotic abilities. Sambor ran into trouble almost immediately after taking up the new practice, when the provincial “hypnocrats” (gipnokraty) called upon the authorities to prohibit his activities, because he lacked “a special license from the medical department.” But as the newspaper gleefully concluded, “Sambor had simply no other option than to obtain the document, which he did by healing a hopeless case in front of representatives of both the authorities and the medical profession.”122 Peterburgskaia gazeta was not alone in its defense of the honorable hypnotist. In the 1910s, Peterburgskii listok frequently reported on the problems the new regulations caused Onore. In 1910, “Crusade against Hypnotists” argued that Onore should be granted official permission to practice hypnosis.123 This permission, however, does not seem to have materialized: in 1911, Onore was arrested in Ialta for practicing hypnosis illegally, and in 1915, he was involved in a court case over the same matter.124 Peterburgskii listok nevertheless vehemently defended its hero, reporting the miraculous cures Onore bestowed upon his patients and criticizing, at times even ridiculing, his detractors. In contrast to what has been suggested by later students of hypnosis in Russia, the treatment of hypnosis in the press was not a clear-cut case in which spiritualist publications such as Rebus propagated the technique and defended lay practitioners,

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while the mainstream press aimed to debunk them.125 Support for lay hypnotists was widespread in conventional dailies. By taking the side of men whom doctors described as charlatans and fake magicians, mainstream publishing reconciled science and the occult. The popular science writer Vil’gel’m Vil’gel’movich Bitner combined magic, spiritualism, and physiology in his booklet, tellingly entitled Chudesa gipnotizma (The Miracles of Hypnotism).126 Practitioners who penned cheap instructions equally insisted that hypnosis was both scientific and occult. A. Khrapovitskii, author of Magneticheskoe pis’mo (Magnetic Writing) located the energy of magnetism, a term he used interchangeably with hypnosis, in the plexus solaris. Magnetism, he wrote, functioned like a second form of consciousness and allowed those who could employ autosuggestion to access hidden knowledge. To develop this force, that is, to link the plexus solaris to the brain, readers of his pamphlet were advised to perform exercises with a planchette, the little board on wheels that spiritualists used for automatic writing.127 Khrapovitskii’s neurological musings and his reference to hidden knowledge, along with his spiritualist instructions, effortlessly merged science with the occult. To some degree, this popular fusion of occult and science was accepted by academics. Like Khrapovitskii, scientists published pamphlets about hypnosis that were addressed to large lay audiences and whose sensational titles differed little from more supernaturally inclined brochures.128 One booklet even claimed in its title to treat the occult, when in actual fact the text itself discussed medical matters only.129 Moreover, the fact that the origins of hypnosis, unlike those of non-Euclidean and higher-dimensional geometry, lay outside academia seem to have contributed to a cautiously collaborative relationship between spiritualists, free-lance hypnotists, and medical doctors. The spiritualist Vagner, for example, read a paper on hypnotism at the Eighth All-Russian Congress of Exact Scientists and Physicians in 1890. He was also one of the founding members of the Society for Experimental Psychology and in this capacity collaborated with scientists who rejected his spiritualist beliefs.130 Scientists in turn found interesting subjects to study among fortune-tellers.131 This careful cooperation between occultists and men of science made it possible for Fel’dman and Onore to outperform doctors publicly in their healing feats, yet still be able to collaborate with some members of the medical profession. Fel’dman, for example, treated patients from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. in the surgery of Doctor Shtrobinder on Mamonskii Lane, and Onore collaborated with Doctor Iastrebrov in Barnaul and with the surgeon Professor Vladimir Mikhailovich Mysh of Tomsk.132

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Reports such as the one about Fel’zer healing, the feats of hypnotists who triumphed over academic medicine, and the collaboration between doctors and lay “magnetizers” illustrate that the authority of science was undergoing change. Whereas in the 1870s and 1880s, Butlerov and Aksakov were appealing to science as the method that would bestow their spiritualist beliefs with credibility, the popular press during the 1880s and 1890s promoted the power and veracity of methods that stood at the margins and—in the cases of faith healers—at times clearly outside of accepted science. This does not mean that scientific explanations had lost their authority, but that authority was now distributed more widely. Scientists remained men of therapeutic clout, but they were joined by hypnotists who had never obtained any academic credentials. As in the debate concerning the new geometries, all practitioners of hypnosis claimed that their activities not only healed individuals, but also had a larger social significance, for they could alleviate quite a few of the country’s problems. Unlike in the debate concerning mathematics, however, all practitioners were healing the same problems with the same remedy: hypnosis cured alcoholism, crime, and antisocial behavior.133 In an article in Rebus, Fel’dman stressed the considerable possibilities of healing addictions through the use of hypnosis, Onore claimed to have cured a staggering number of 885 alcoholics between March 15, 1905, and February 1, 1906, in Barnaul, and A. A. Pevnitskii, a student of Bekhterev’s, claimed in 1904 that the success rate of his hypnotic anti-alcoholism program lay at 80 percent.134 Another area where hypnosis seemed to have the potential to heal social ills was crime. Some texts claimed that hypnotists could unmask thieves, and several proposals suggested that hypnosis ought be turned against criminals, for example during police questioning.135 Hypnosis was also portrayed as a useful tool for social engineering, able to cure irritating habits such as nail-biting, rebelliousness, or a weak will.136 The “magnetizer” Iosif Grigorovich cured a girl “suffering” from bad behavior, who “felt no restraint; [...] pronounced the rudest words and smashed all the dishes she could get her hands on.” After a session of hypnotic treatment these problems allegedly ceased.137 In 1893, Fel’dman enforced social norms of motherhood in one of his patients who did not devote the appropriate time to her children, turning her into a loving mother and wife.138 In 1914, Onore healed a woman from jealousy, while in another instance he transformed a girl who was so afraid of school that she could no longer speak into a child begging to be allowed to return to the company of

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her teachers and classmates.139 The constant quality of science in Russia, occult or otherwise, then, was its perceived ability to solve the pressing problems of the day.

Conclusion From the late 1870s to the 1910s, the sphere of occult science and its audience expanded. What started off as educated attempts to explain phenomena in darkened drawing rooms gradually incorporated popular magic and turned toward the mass market. In the process, occult science became less well defined, more open to ambiguous connotations, more accessible, and more sensational. In the 1870s and 1880s, educated spiritualists such as Aksakov and Butlerov attempted to introduce otherworldly forces into established forms of scientific reasoning. In doing so, they subscribed to a view that gave preeminent authority to science as an explanatory system, and they used recent scientific insights such as the new geometries, or they alluded to such discoveries when mentioning “non-linear” forces. In so doing, they aimed to imbue their spiritualist convictions with the social authority that science commanded and ultimately with acceptance. Toward the end of the century, however, science had no epistemological superiority in popular culture. Mass publications did not necessarily attempt to strengthen the plausibility of the occult by investing it with scientific authority. Descriptions of hypnosis combined the supernatural and the scientific in ways that treated both spheres as equals. This suggests that the popular definition of science was very different from the scientism that has commonly been regarded as the hallmark of the nineteenth-century world view.140 The popular approach to science was flexible. In the sphere of mass publishing, science was open to mysterious and supernatural notions, and not in conflict with them. The new science was influenced both by changing attitudes toward positivism and by the wider media outlets that propagated it. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, absolute faith in scientific truth and in its universality was being undermined by idealist philosophers and symbolist writers.141 In the popular press, this development was accentuated by the lack of rigor and consistency that had always characterized its reporting of scientific truths.142 The history of occult science in the last quarter of the nineteenth and the first two decades of the twentieth century, then, is one of increasing pluralism. The vigorous debate about the significance of new mathematical research for

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an understanding of séance phenomena could not have taken place without the emergence of a public sphere in post-reform Russia; and in the same way the titillatingly scandalous and polyphonic picture that mass publishing painted of hypnosis in the early twentieth century owed much to the lessening of censorship after 1906. In the 1870s, the debate about the new geometries, while open, was characterized by an intensely felt uneasiness about vanishing truths, as spiritualists and their detractors alike aimed to establish a unifying theory around which the entire country could rally and that would provide it with, in Butlerov’s words, “a guiding idea.” Toward the turn of the century, however, hypnosis came to symbolize occult science that in itself was ambiguous. By fusing the world of academics with that of magicians, faith healers, and village znakhari, hypnosis illustrated how equally important and mutually influential different imperial “cultures” were.

3 The Occult Metropolis Putting the Hidden to Practical Use

A

t the turn of the twentieth century, the occult sphere changed greatly. What in the late 1870s began as a fascination with séance phenomena and an intensely felt need to explain these scientifically metamorphosed into a varied landscape of diverse practices in the new century. A crowd of self-proclaimed occultists, mystics, spiritualists, and theosophists offered their teachings, and their contemporaries, while still holding séances, also tried meditation exercises and yoga, went to see fortune-tellers, read occult novels, and encountered the supernatural in theaters, in the circus, and on the silver screen.1 In their search for individual experience of the transcendent, contemporaries shopped around; very few of them were faithfully wedded to only one of the numerous teachings and practices available. The modernist poet Valerii Briusov, for example, still participated in spiritualist séances, but he also attended theosophical discussion groups and yoga classes, and conducted meditation exercises. The poet was quite typical.2 Others later reminisced about interests that combined spiritualism with yoga, telepathy, and the training of hypnotic powers.3 In publications devoted to the subject, “occult” was understood to include a wide range of practices and theories, ranging from quasi-scientific discussions of x-rays and light waves to communications with the departed, hypnosis, clairvoyance, dietary regimes, prayers, and gymnastic exercises. The new, multifaceted occult differed from popular spiritualism of the 1870s and 1880s in several ways. It was more multivocal and, most significantly, the new occult was directed toward practical use instead of rational explanation. The advertisements on the back cover of one issue of the journal Golos vseobshchei liubvi (The Voice of Universal Love) are representative of

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this diversity of occult usage (fig. 7). In 1908, a spiritualist optician promoted his “new ‘Uni-Bifo’ glasses, for viewing close up and into the distance with the same clarity.” Next to this announcement, a company advertised its “Automagnetizer,” a “tool to magnetize parts of the human body without passes according to the methods of Prof. Diurvill, Dr. Ankos, and Dr. Lewis.” Five types of the device were available: one “for magnetizing the head (magnetizing crown),” which cost six rubles, another “for magnetizing the breast, the back, the sides, the waist, and the belly,” which cost five rubles, as did the utensil “for magnetizing legs and arms,” and the instrument needed “for intimate magnetizing.” A further notice informed readers of a pamphlet that explained “how to heal headaches, toothaches, individual neurasthenia, etc., with magnetic waves” and ended with the promise that “the first to write in will receive a free copy.” Black crystals were marketed “for the development of clairvoyance” and could be obtained for 40 kopecks, while a “sensational book” taught readers about the “power of man” as described by American philosopher R. V. Traik.4 The journal continued the practical orientation of these advertisements with articles entitled “Don’t be afraid, believe.” But the January issue of Golos vseobshchei liubvi in 1908 also illustrated that the periodical remained faithful to earlier, nineteenth-century concerns: another text was entitled “What science has to say about earthly and eternal life.” These advertisements and headings raise a number of themes analyzed in this chapter. They include the lighthearted commercialization of individual spiritual experience alongside more serious and strenuous efforts to obtain occult insight that pointed beyond the trivialities of daily concerns. Such attempts to experience the hidden developed new visions of the self. Pamphlets and journals raised issues such as self-identity, autonomy, self-assertion, and mastery over the surrounding world. They also challenged the supreme standing of the rational waking mind by advocating techniques that tapped into the hidden realms of the self, a domain that would soon be termed “the unconscious.” Numerous techniques described occult experience as an emotion, and occult “theology” was defined less by coherent teachings than by certain sensations. Often, the occult feeling arose in ritualized acts that stressed secrecy alongside an immediate experience of the sublime. In order to analyze these themes, two sets of practices will be the focus of this chapter. The first technique, which already made an appearance in the previous chapter because of its relevance to science, is hypnosis. Occult pub-

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Figure 7: Advertisements in Golos vseobshchei liubvi (left) and scientifically informed deliberations (right), (1908).

lications frequently advertised the practical usage of hypnosis because the technique allegedly allowed practitioners to influence their own behavior and that of others. Suggestion stressed individuality and autonomy and ultimately aimed at bestowing the hypnotist with mastery over the surrounding world. The second technique is the so-called occult-mental prayer, a ritual concerned with the experience of spiritual community. The two techniques, although seemingly juxtaposed, were similar in the stress they put on mental development and growth.

Publishing Context Occult manuals appeared in great numbers throughout the last decades of the tsarist empire, and with the liberalization of censorship after 1905, their

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numbers rocketed. The majority of these publications were pamphlets printed on low-quality paper; they cost a few kopecks and promised to provide instructions about occult techniques that would improve the lives of their readers in various ways. One such example was A. Khrapovitskii’s Magneticheskoe pis’mo (Magnetic Writing), a cheap publication of 32 pages, bound in an appealing pink cover.5 A large proportion of these booklets were aimed at a poorly educated audience of city dwellers, such as low-ranking employees and workers. This can be deduced from their price and the poor quality paper on which they were printed, as well as from the language their authors employed. Advertisements for such publications could be found in popular newspapers such as Peterburgskii listok, Gazeta kopeika (The Kopeck Gazette), or Malen’kaia gazeta (The Little Gazette), which were equally aimed at lower-class readers.6 The location of these promotions in the country’s most widely read broadsheets illustrates the widespread appeal of the occult and shows that pamphlets promising occult revelations and powers were by no means addressed to an exclusive or minority readership. Publishing ploys furthermore illustrate the wide appeal of the topic. Some manuals, for example, claimed to teach the buyer magic rituals that would guarantee his or her good luck, when in fact they merely advertised other, costlier editions. Mysterious Secrets: A Pamphlet Revealing the Source of the Most Interesting Information, Occult Knowledge, and Its Most Rewarding Manifestations is such a case: the disappointed buyer was given nothing apart from the promise that if he invested seven rubles—a horrendous sum for a worker or low-ranking clerk—he would be able to use occult knowledge to gain wealth and happiness.7 Similarly, Occult Science: A Complete Course of Hypnotism, Personal Magnetism, and Suggestion by “Professor Occultist” Shavel’, contained nothing supernatural. It was the scientific treatise of a medical doctor on hypnosis.8 As this illustrates, the occult sold, and publishers therefore gave books or pamphlets occult titles even if the content turned out to have nothing to do with the mysterious at all. The success of the occult in commercial publishing can also be gauged by the frequent reissuing of booklets. Pamphlets promising to teach occult knowledge rarely gave information on their circulation numbers, but some of them clearly went into numerous editions. The most impressive, although slightly unusual, example is Viktor Segno’s Zakon mentalizma (The Law of Mentalism), which by 1912 had appeared 47 times.9 Although many books were addressed to a lower-class audience, publica-

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tions for more affluent and better-educated audiences were also readily available. Count Brius’s [Bruce’s] Prophecies, for Every Person from His Pristine Calendar, Published at the Time of Peter I, Including a Biography of Count Brius represented the elite end of the spectrum of occult publishing. The album-sized book was printed on good quality paper, richly decorated, and bound in a lavish red leather cover. No price for the volume was printed on the cover, but an advertisement in the book for a tearoom that had won prizes at international trade fairs suggests that the publication was aimed at an affluent readership. The language its author used corroborates this point. Count Brius’s Prophecies used Old Church Slavonic spelling , grammar, and terms, and employed a highly hypotactic syntax.10 Only readers with a prolonged formal education would have enjoyed this kind of literary style. The book furthermore stressed Russia’s imperial tradition and heritage and the pivotal role of its tsars, something conspicuously missing from popular literature.11 Similarly, Jeu d’Amour by Countess A. Bobrinskaia, a fortune-telling manual, was written almost entirely in French. Its glossary explained only very unusual terms, assuming that the rest of the vocabulary was known to its reader.12 The content, appearance, and price of such books indicate that occult howto manuals were aimed at the widest possible spectrum of readers. In particular, these publications illustrate that such advice literature was not mainly directed at lower-class women, as Faith Wigzell has argued. Most instruction manuals, including fortune-telling books, on which Wigzell focuses, referred to their readers in the grammatically masculine form and many of the promises of such books were relevant only for male readers, such as pledges regarding future wives or a career in the state service.13 After the turn of the century, occult journals addressed a readership as diverse as that of instruction manuals. As mentioned in chapter 1, Russia’s most prominent occult journal Rebus was a fairly expensive monthly that catered to a well-educated readership. After the relaxation of censorship laws at the beginning of the twentieth century, the preeminent position of Rebus was challenged, and over 30 journals devoted to the occult appeared between 1906 and the end of the empire.14 Spiritualist was the most successful of these new publications in terms of longevity and reach (fig. 8). Spiritualist was aimed at the mass market; it was printed on cheap paper, and its articles were short and frequently illustrated. They reported séance phenomena and predictions about the fate of Russia, alongside short biographies

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Figure 8: Front and back cover of Spiritualist.

of illustrious spiritualists, accounts about science and homeopathy, Caucasian magi, and miracles. One main feature of the journal was practical instruction, which taught readers the intricacies of successful séances, hypnosis, spiritual clairvoyance (dukhovnoe iasnovidenie), spiritual and mental willpower, and occult-mental prayers. Spiritualist was published in Moscow by Viktor P. Bykov and was conspicuously cheap. An annual subscription of the weekly could be obtained for one ruble, a single issue for 20 kopecks. Although a single issue was comparatively expensive, an annual subscription of Spiritualist was well within the reach of ordinary workers and well below the price of the popular Gazeta kopeika.15 Spiritualist gained notoriety from 1907 because its editor Bykov engaged in mud-slinging with Pavel Chistiakov, then editor of Rebus. Chistiakov described Spiritualist as a frivolous and purely commercial

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publication, an attack that Bykov defused by alleging that twelve thousand readers subscribed to Spiritualist in 1907, while the editors of Rebus were struggling hard to sell copies.16 According to Bykov, Spiritualist was successful because it did not ignore the religious, moral, and social aspects of spiritualism, whereas Rebus only focused on physical explanation.17 It is impossible to establish whether Spiritualist was indeed as commercially successful as Bykov claimed; no subscription records of the journal have survived. Between 1906 and 1909, however, Bykov also brought out Golos vseobshchei liubvi, a journal whose content was remarkably similar to that of Spiritualist. Golos vseobshchei liubvi also reported séances, but in addition published articles of theosophical character, which illustrates the syncretism of the occult in the early twentieth century.18 The journal had a very practical orientation, as well, printing numerous healing instructions that allegedly taught readers how to cure blindness or cholera. Golos vseobshchei liubvi also printed listings offering or searching for services under the heading “Spiritualists for spiritualists,” which indicates that buyers were ordinary city-dwellers. One reader sought office work and pledged to agree to “very modest conditions”; a female reader looked for an opportunity to care for the infirm; another spiritualist intended to employ a like-minded babysitter.19 Golos vseobshchei liubvi was an inexpensive journal, even cheaper than Spiritualist. A mere three kopecks would buy one issue; an annual subscription cost one ruble. That Bykov started another spiritualist publishing venture a year after the foundation of Spiritualist indicates that his publishing enterprises were indeed commercially successful and that the editor expected further growth. Chistiakov’s venom also points to Bykov’s commercial success. By 1910, however, Bykov’s publishing energies had dwindled, although his notoriety increased again in 1912, when he suddenly rejected his spiritualist convictions and embraced traditional Orthodoxy.20 With this change of heart, Spiritualist ceased to appear. The success of other occult periodicals, however, demonstrates that the end of Spiritualist was due to Bykov’s Orthodox conversion, not to the decreased popularity of the topic. Another equally successful, although more expensive, occult periodical of the post-1905 period was Izida: Ezhemesiachnyi zhurnal okkul’tnykh nauk (Isis: Monthly Journal of Occult Sciences). The journal appeared in the decade between 1906 and 1916, had a vaguely theosophical mission, and cost four rubles per annum in 1909. It was published by I. K. Antoshevskii in St. Petersburg. Izida published articles devoted to “occult tradition”; for example, it printed detailed descriptions of the teachings of Paracelsus, of Egyptian

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methods of embalming, and of Lamaism. More prominent, however, were articles that taught readers various skills for discovering and using their hidden psychic forces. These included instructions for hypnosis, telepathy, telekinesis, mediumism, yoga, fakirizm, the focusing of one’s thoughts, the evocation of dreams, and directions on one’s gaze, words, and gestures. These successful journals were joined by a host of less long-lived occult periodicals, most of which survived for only a couple of years. These included Lektsii okkul’tnykh nauk (Lectures on Occult Sciences), edited by S. I. Gal’tsev in St. Petersburg, which made it to four issues in 1911 and 1912. Iz mraka k svetu (From Darkness to Light), published by a certain S. V. Piramidov in St. Petersburg, aimed to further a Russian version of “esotericism.” Its editors, however, seemed to have had little knowledge about the subject themselves, for in issue three they called upon their readers to send them whatever material about pre-Petrine mysticism they might have. After two more numbers the journal died. In comparison to the one-ruble annual subscription fee of Spiritualist, Iz mraka k svetu was an expensive journal. It cost 5.50 rubles per annum, was printed on good paper with a very appealing art-deco layout, and relied on readers’ knowledge of French. Lektsii okkul’tnykh nauk too was printed on high quality paper and also offered an aesthetically appealing layout. The entire lecture course was advertised for 18 rubles, and a single installment was available for 50 kopecks.21 Mag: Ezhemesiachnyi zhurnal okkul’tizma (The Wizard: Monthly Journal of Occultism) was a further occult journal published in the capital by A. Laptev, which appeared in three installments in 1911. With 80 kopecks for one issue and 6 rubles for an annual subscription, this was another costly publication. Like Iz mraka k svetu, Mag did not translate French or even Hebrew quotations. Not all of the short-lived occult journals were addressed to a polyglot audience. Kinematograf: Sensatsionnyi ezhenedel’nyi illiustrirovannyi zhurnal (The Cinematograph: Sensational Illustrated Weekly Journal) was published in three issues in 1908 by V. K. Panchenko in St. Petersburg, while its successor, Kinematograf: Ezhenedel’nyi illiustrirovannyi zhurnal tain i uzhasov (The Cinematograph: Weekly Illustrated Journal of Secrets and Horrors), appeared for a few months in 1910. These two journals entertained readers by ridiculing gullible spiritualists while teaching other occult “sciences” such as chiromancy and hypnosis. The variability of occult publishing is furthermore underlined by one of the most short-lived “periodicals” devoted to the occult. Vozrozhdenie khiromantii (The Renaissance of Chiromancy), edited by V. D. Filimovich in 1906, appeared in only one issue. Its editor, however, also man-

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aged to publish an additional pamphlet on the subject and to offer courses in chiromancy in his apartment on 12 Ekaterinskii Kanal (today Kanal Griboedova) in St. Petersburg.22 The landscape of occult publishing during the Duma period, then, differed markedly from the late nineteenth century, when Rebus was the unchallenged leader in the sphere. At the beginning of the twentieth century, occult publications catered to audiences with a tight budget as well as to those with more money to spare; to those who appreciated short articles written in simple language as well as to the erudite. Moreover, spiritualism was no longer the dominant occult practice.23 Séances and mediums still played a prominent role, but they were joined by other ways in which the supernatural could be experienced. These new practices put less stress on ascertaining the supernatural through scientific arguments; instead practical concerns dominated and determined the methods that flourished: hypnosis stood out as the most successful “occult” practice, but it was joined by a host of other practices. The creative mix of different techniques, a typical feature of early twentieth-century occultism, emerged in the late 1890s, but came into full bloom after the relaxation of censorship in 1905.24 The “new” twentieth-century occultism also showed more flux. Periodicals devoted to questions of the occult appeared on bookstalls only to vanish again, and fervent spiritualist propagators suddenly turned into anti-spiritualist Orthodox believers.

Hypnosis and the Powerful Individual The most popular and most frequently advertised method for putting occult forces to personal use was hypnosis. As described in the previous chapter, hypnosis rose to popularity in the 1890s, when celebrity hypnotists such as Fel’dman gained national renown. After the turn of the century, hypnosis, which everybody could employ, became the most visible occult technique. While earlier scientific debates attempted to grasp the workings of hypnosis by referring to natural forces—such as physical energies or physiological processes—practical occultism located hypnosis inside the mind and propagated the personal advantages it could offer in everyday life. It was this practical use that made suggestion a popular theme. Occult periodicals serialized instruction courses, and numerous mystical instruction manuals dealt with hypnosis. Pamphlets such as Zerkalo tainykh nauk ili otrazhenie sud’by cheloveka:

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Polnyi kurs gipnotizma (The Mirror of Secret Sciences or the Reflection of Man’s Fate: A Complete Course of Hypnosis) pledged to bestow hypnotic power on its readers, as did the journal Izida or the chic periodical Lectures about Occult Sciences, both of which ran “lecture course[s] on hypnotism.”25 Hypnosis fascinated contemporaries because it seemed to endow the hypnotist with limitless power over his (never her) object. The first lesson in all courses of hypnotism dealt with willpower. This stress on the will mirrored traditional notions about magic as well as contemporary preoccupations. Anthropologist Marcel Mauss noted in 1902 that “apart from a general power over objects, the magician has power over his own being and this is the prime source of his strength. Through force of will he accomplishes things.”26 Late imperial hypnotizing manuals evoked the connection between a sorcerer’s will and the occult powers of traditional magic. They described the will as vital because only a person with strong resolve was able to impose his desire on others. This equation of willpower with authority was furthered by the semantics of the Russian volia, which translates into English as willpower, power, and freedom from external interference.27 Authors of occult instruction manuals and of articles in journals such as Spiritualist or Izida agreed that a powerful force, which was able to command others, resided deep inside every person. “Psycho-phrenologist” ShillerShkol’nik accordingly entitled his pamphlet Our Power is Within Ourselves, while The Mirror of Secret Sciences featured a section entitled “Occultism or the Power Within Ourselves.”28 Readers, so these publications wrote, had to learn to access the mental realm in which this power resided. With some commitment this could be achieved by all. Khrapovitskii even told his readership that making use of the mysterious power that he had discovered was the lawful right (zakonnoe pravo) of everyone.29 The occult preoccupation with hidden psychological powers and the will was intrinsically linked to various cultural expressions. When occult instruction manuals described the human self and its psyche as endowed with a powerful but hidden darker side, they echoed contemporary preoccupations. Throughout Europe, people were delving into hidden spheres of the mind. Psychoanalysts described hysteria and dreams as entryways into hidden psychical realms, while philosophers developed ideas about psychological forces and some modernist writers employed drugs to access these remote areas. Occult how-to manuals thus took part in a popular exploration of changing ideas about individual personhood that expanded the understanding of the self to include dark powers and hidden emotions.

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Manuals teaching hypnosis exemplify how the occult was entangled with wider contemporary concerns. Significant social groups were preoccupied with volia in imperial Russian society. Not only occultists, but also sociologists, philosophers, theologians, revolutionaries, politicians, and psychiatrists spilled much ink on the subject. Populist revolutionaries of the 1860s, 1870s, and 1880s named their conspiratorial groups Zemlia i volia (Land and Freedom) and Narodnaia volia (People’s Will); although these terms stressed the semantic aspect of political power and freedom in volia, populist theorists also pondered the seemingly mystical qualities of individual charisma, which they saw as linked to strength of character. In 1882, for example, Nikolai Konstantinovich Mikhailovskii, the theorist of populism, argued in “Geroi i tolpa” (“Heroes and the Mob”) that power was always based upon willpower.30 Ideas about the will and its importance for personal authority, moreover, pointed toward philosophical notions advanced by Arthur Schopenhauer and Friedrich Nietzsche, which were also prominent in Russian thought of the time. Schopenhauer’s writings included texts on magnetism and magic, and this endeared him to occultists such as Aksakov, who misrepresented the philosopher in Animism and Spiritualism (1890). In this text Aksakov referred to Schopenhauer and argued that spirit, including spirits of the deceased, was the same as will; or put differently, that spiritualist manifestations were brought about through the willed acts of individual supernatural identities.31 It was one of Aksakov’s idiosyncrasies never to contradict famous thinkers, but instead to “incorporate” their thoughts into his spiritualist writings. His use of Schopenhauer is a case in point. Aksakov’s description of Schopenhauer’s will as a conscious individuality cannot be reconciled with the philosopher’s “mindless, aimless, non-rational urge” that is the ultimate principle of the universe in Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung (The World as Will and Representation).32 Aksakov’s use of will thus represents an unconventional fusion of Nietzschean omnipotent individualism with Schopenhauer’s all-pervasive driving principle. Schopenhauer’s ideas were also widely debated among philosophers and Orthodox theologians.33 Some Orthodox thinkers even pondered whether the human soul should be explained as a combination of will, emotion, and mind.34 Vladimir Solov’ev rejected Schopenhauer’s theories in his article on “The Will in Psychology and Philosophy” in the Brokgauz and Efron encyclopedia, a reference work intended to be the Russian counterpart to the Encyclopedia Britannica.35 For Solov’ev, will was a constituent part of individual consciousness.

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Many contemporaries regarded a strong sense of individuality, along with selfishness, as a defining feature of the superman, a figure that brought Nietzsche into the debate. Nietzsche’s philosophy gained popularity among the Russian intelligentsia in the 1890s—initially mainly for its aesthetic, moral, and psychological aspects—and spread into the mainstream “literary countryside” by 1900.36 In the popular sphere, Nietzsche’s ideas surrounding the superman received the most attention. Commercially successful fiction, such as Mikhail Petrovich Artsybashev’s Sanin (1907) or Anastasia Alekseevna Verbitskaia’s potboiler Kliuchi chast’ia (The Keys to Happiness) (1909), promoted heroes who exemplified this new man. This vulgarized Nietzscheanism was based on the premise that anyone could become a powerful individual “if only he would work to liberate himself spiritually and physically.”37 This was precisely what manuals teaching willpower and hypnosis promised. A strong will—along with individualism, immorality, and selfishness—were the important qualities of the new man. Contemporaries eager to emulate Nietzsche’s superman, that is, to become successful, wield authority, and subjugate the world around them, attempted to nurture these character traits, often through occult techniques. The decadent Aleksandr Dobroliubov, a friend of Briusov’s, who perceived himself as a new religious leader, cultivated “supreme individualism” and strove toward “the ultimate assertion of individual will.”38 Prince Feliks Iusupov and the actor and director Konstantin Stanislavskii were among the many who trained their wills with the aim of gaining, in the aristocrat’s words, “supernatural strength and power over myself and others.”39 Contemporaries believed in the efficacy of such training. The anti-Semitic publicist Emilii Medtner, for example, was convinced that the success of Jews was due to their unique willpower.40 Conversely, the lack of a strong will was widely diagnosed as an ailment and a symptom of degeneration.41 A sense of crisis frequently came with the impression that the willpower of important segments of society was wanting. In an advertisement for Spiritualist, potential buyers were informed that “in our times, our country needs more than at any time before to turn to the education and consolidation of its willpower, of its very own spirit, and of a kind of consolidation that could lift and empower each of us to rule not only ourselves, our family units, or our children, but also all the masses.”42 Willpower, then, was vital for personal and national well-being, and occult instruction manuals, which promised to teach precisely that, were part of a larger cultural concern with willpower that impinged on philosophy, theology, sociology, literature, medical science, and publishing enterprises.

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Occultists, unlike psychoanalysts, sided with popular literature in asserting that everyone could obtain command over the hidden but powerful parts of their mind, if only they performed the right exercises. According to authors of instruction manuals, controlling one’s mind required a mental as well as a physical mastery. Gaining sovereignty over the hidden forces of the mind began with domination over the body. Consequently, courses in hypnosis began with physical exercises. Izida published a series of “lectures” by different authors on “the development of the psychological skills of man,” among which willpower featured prominently.43 In one of these A. Likhanov asserted that the will was trained by developing its superiority over the physical body. Dietary regimes, breathing practice, and physical exercises—particularly recommended was yoga— served to achieve this aim. Following on from this was a program to develop the purposefulness of one’s gaze, the sound of one’s voice, and the determination of one’s gestures. The greatest obstacle for such a training program was, Likhanov wrote, doubt. He therefore emphatically instructed readers never to change their decisions, to look resolutely into other people’s eyes, to talk loudly, and to walk in a straight line.44 Spiritualist offered a different route to an imposing will that required some craftsmanship. In order to strengthen one’s will, the journal advised, one first had to produce a magic mirror with which one could ultimately perform hypnotizing feats. The reference in Spiritualist to magic mirrors harked back to traditional notions. Reflective objects were important in folkloric Yuletide divination practices; moreover, magic mirrors were supposed to tell the truth about “what was really happening” and to redirect magic action.45 Obtaining such an item, however, required commitment. For the magic mirror that Spiritualist advertised in 1906, readers had to “take a small amount of pulverized lead,” place it in a saucer, and heat it together with olive oil “until a fairly liquid substance is obtained.” This solution then had to be carefully poured onto an “ordinary piece of glass,” ensuring that its surface was evenly covered. (After complaints from readers, the editors of Spiritualist promised in a later installment to name ingredients that could replace olive oil, a commodity obviously not widely available in the tsarist empire.) Once cooled, this magic mirror had to be used “every morning after waking,” when the trainee “should take the tool into his right hand, hold it in his palm with the fingers at the edges so that they form magnetic points, through which the fluid can flow.” The practitioner was then instructed to “hold the mirror at a foot’s length from the base of his nose and for ten minutes, without blinking, fixate his eye upon the projection,

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i.e., look at one point without turning the eyes away,” and during all that time “focus the mind on one single idea.”46 Spiritualist provided an illustration for this assignment (fig. 9). If this training program was followed, the author of the course promised, the “operator” could obtain glimpses of the future and ultimately use the magic mirror to influence someone else by directing its magnetic emanation toward his subject’s cerebellum (fig. 10). Courses directed at strengthening one’s will with the ultimate aim of imposing it onto others furthermore included exercises devoted to obtaining deeper spiritual insight. Izida combined strengthening one’s will with autosuggestion, meditation, and cultivating ecstasy. Fixing one eye on a shining surface and engaging in breathing exercises could, the journal promised, bring about a state of mind in which “nature reveals her secrets, the inner sense of objects becomes apparent, the language of animals can be understood, and people’s thoughts can be read.”47 Similar exercises devoted to achieving clairvoyant abilities were published by Golos vseobshchei liubvi and Spiritualist, and were also propagated by pamphlets. According to Spiritualist, meditation exercises could bring about mystical revelations. The journal described such practices in great detail, advising readers to “seclude yourself in a quiet and calm room, reduce the light, and attach a white spot on a black background to the wall so that it is approximately located at the level of your eyes.” Once readers were sitting “upright but not tense,” they were supposed to hold their hands in a special way and to breathe calmly and deeply “while constantly focusing on the white spot.” If they followed a daily training program that would teach them to “hold every breath for a few seconds” before breathing out through the mouth “slowly and rhythmically and as strongly as possible,” supernatural insight could be obtained. In order to achieve this, practitioners were instructed to “lean backward on the chair on which you are sitting, close your eyes, and breathe in and breathe out slightly more slowly, approaching the point of suffocation.” In this position one would “begin to see people, both hideous and of heavenly beauty,” the journal promised, exclaiming: “Whatever visions you have, don’t be afraid. Direct your thoughts to higher spheres. This will help to prolong the appearance of these figures; you’ll enter into a spiritual association with them and you’ll be amazed at the results that everyone can obtain.”48 The exercise continued a spiritualist tradition of communication with supernatural beings, but it differed from séances or individual automatic writing

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Figure 9: Exercising with the Magic Mirror, from Professor Mister Bell. “Gipnotizm: Kurs prakticheskikh metodov ukrepleniia v sebe sily voli i dukha dlia razlichnogo roda vnusheniia.” Spiritualist, 8–12 (1906).

by stressing mental power and its influence over physical sensations. It also echoed the hesychast tradition of the Jesus Prayer, which emerged in the fourteenth century as a highly individual contemplative technique among monks and gained prominence in Russian culture in the nineteenth century. The meditative technique allowed monks and laypeople to come into contact with the divine. According to some practitioners, breathing exercises and posture were important aspects of the practice and could, like the exercise promoted in Spiritualist, give rise to psychosomatic changes and visions.49 Occult practices, however, were not only directed inward to a private experience of mysteries, but also promised instantaneous control over others, which required perseverance and additional exercises. The future hypnotist also had to gain the attention and admiration of “the masses.”50 To this end

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Figure 10: Suggestion at a distance, Kak ustraivat’ spiriticheskie seansy [...] (1906).

his behavior ought to be beyond reproach and his appearance awe-inspiring. According to Golos vseobshchei liubvi, a hypnotist’s voice had to obtain a magic quality, while Spiritualist printed detailed instructions on how to boost one’s self-confidence through self-suggestion, how to cultivate a mysterious air (e.g., by dressing entirely in black), and how to raise oneself morally above ordinary men.51 As in the course printed in the pages of Izida, the trainee who followed the instructions in Spiritualist had to erase every doubt in his own hypnotic abilities. It was also vital to keep the fact that one was following a training program in hypnosis absolutely secret. At the same time, the future hypnotist had to conduct exercises with a small group of people, to whom he gave authoritative instructions on how to hold their arms and fingers. If his subjects relaxed their muscles entirely, for example, if their left arm fell into their laps when the hypnotist instructed them to withdraw the supporting right arm, this was to be read as a sign of considerable progress. Spiritualist promised that after further exercises in hypnotizing gestures and verbal suggestions,

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every reader should at least be able to make a subject fall toward them (fig. 11), a rather modest achievement, given the grand claims of the course.52 Cheap pamphlets did not spend as much time on the development of their readers’ insights into higher truths or visions of another world as did Izida or Spiritualist, yet their promises of mental control over others were similar to the pronouncements in occult journals. Viktor Segno, author of the highly successful Zakon mentalizma (The Law of Mentalism), did not devote any time to visions of another reality. After extensively praising his method of “mentalizm”—a powerful combination of thought, ethereal waves, and willpower—which he had discovered and which would “change the life of everyone who reads this book,” he instructed readers on how to strengthen their willpower. This was done through concentration exercises and by daily repeating sentences such as “I will control my behavior and actions; I will never worry nor dither,” and “I will be successful.”53 Because thoughts “move the atoms of the air,” a person with a strong will was able perform two important acts: first, he was able to attune his brain to the powerful thoughts of preeminent individuals and thereby tap into their genius; second, he was able to move the ether through his thoughts in ways that directed the minds of weaker people.

Figure 11: Making others fall forward, from Professor Mister Bell. “Gipnotizm: Kurs prakticheskikh metodov ukrepleniia v sebe sily voli i dukha dlia razlichnogo roda vnusheniia.” Spiritualist, 8–12 (1906).

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Concentration and purposefulness was all that was required to join the ranks of “famous people,” whose success “is always due to mentalizm.”54 The numerous courses in hypnosis, then, appealed to people who wanted to take life into their own hands, who did not believe in fate but in their own prowess. Accordingly, these leaflets expressed a very different attitude from other popular forms of contemporary magical practice, such as mediumship or fortune-telling. A medium self-effacingly relayed information received from the beyond. Clairvoyance in turn was based upon the assumption that the addressee of the divination passively acquiesced in his or more often her fate. The student of hypnosis, however, strove actively to change the course of his life. Their take-charge approach expressed an awareness of individual autonomy and calling, self-assertion, and personal aspiration to empowerment. Descriptions of the new occult practitioner operated with strong gendered images. Significantly, aspiring hypnotists were always depicted as men, never as women. Catriona Kelly has suggested that advice literature about the education of the will was addressed at white-collar workers, who found themselves outside of the rigid hierarchy of the table of ranks that dominated state service, and who had to make an impression upon subordinates, superiors, and colleagues. According to her, such manuals illustrate a change in the definition of masculinity away from “feudal” perceptions based on birth to “bourgeois” individualist ideals.55 And indeed, individuality was a general concern of urbanized life in fin-de-siècle culture in general and occult instruction manuals in particular. In the metropolis, as the German sociologist Georg Simmel argued in 1903, the experiences of large crowds made it impossible to ignore questions of personal identity.56 This urgency was also felt in Russia, where “identities and selves [were] thrown into the whirlwind.”57 The need to define the self and to be “individualistic” is explicit in Segno’s promises for fame: “The purpose of my book is to improve men and women and to turn them into individuals.”58 The thoughts of a person with a strong will, so the author of Mentalizm promised, would establish and determine his individuality and ultimately also his life and fate. Occult writers promised readers that if they followed their exercises, they would be able to stand out from the masses and in some cases even be able to lead them. In that sense these writers answered the question that Russian radicals and populists of the 1860s and 1870s were agonizing over, namely the relation between the individual and society as a whole, in a clearly Western and non-Slavophile fashion. The occult self (but not its subject) was an affirmation of the autonomous human being, who possessed innate human dignity. As a concept, the hypnotizing self was endowed

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with masculine and elitist qualities. The hypnotist was active, powerful, selfreliant, and economically successful in a world full of obstacles. His was a successful self that could “transfigure what it encountered ready-made or given in the world.”59 The image of the omnipotent hypnotists that instruction manuals advanced seems to confirm Bernice Rosenthal’s argument that fin-de-siècle interests in the supernatural undercut ideas of the rights of the individual and expressed contempt for democracy and civil liberties.60 And indeed, hypnotizing manuals never expressed any qualms about the ways in which the wills of their readers’ subjects might be disregarded. Moreover, the link between hypnosis and subjugation seemed real to contemporaries. The sales pitch of manuals is indicative of this, as is evidence suggesting that the fear that one might be under the hypnotic influence of an (unknown) third party was widespread. In 1913, the physiologist Vladimir Bekhterev published an article in Russkii vrach (The Russian Physician), in which he described the paranoia of some of his bourgeois patients who claimed to be under the hypnotic control of someone else. According to their testimonies, mental suggestion was exerted from afar to prepare them for important deeds, to force them into marriage, or to ensure that they complied with the egoistic wishes of the hypnotist. Bekhterev’s article was reissued in the form of a pamphlet; this attests to the demand and interest with which it was read. Bekhterev’s success, as well as cheap instruction manuals and newspaper accounts, indicate that the power of hypnosis was real to a wide cross section of urban society.61 The association of power and authority with hypnosis remained a longlived phenomenon. Russian symbolist writers explained the charisma of Anna Mintslova, a mystic who for some time exerted great influence among them, with reference to her hypnotic abilities. The same explanation was used when contemporaries and later generations tried to come to grips with the influential role that the Siberian peasant Grigorii Rasputin played at the Russian court.62 Furthermore, during the Russian Revolution, the charismatic socialist Aleksandr Kerenskii, who incidentally dressed very carefully in black, was rumored to possess hypnotic powers and to induce states of hysteria in his listeners, while Lenin’s success was attributed to his extraordinary willpower.63 Despite the common theme of hypnosis, these narratives differed markedly from popular instruction manuals. Courses in hypnotism taught readers to trust their own abilities, to take their lives into their own hands, and to change the world around them to their personal advantage. Explaining the success of charismatic but morally ambiguous

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figures, however, exculpated symbolists, the imperial family, courtiers, and ordinary supporters, and portrayed them as the passive victims of calculating enchanters. Occult manuals, by contrast, focused on the other side of the coin and constructed a rational autonomous persona. The image of the powerful hypnotists, however, required the corresponding notion of weak minions. The message of instruction manuals was thus ambivalent, and on this point I disagree with Rosenthal’s rather too clear-cut assessment. Instruction manuals claimed that all readers could become powerful individuals, but this promise relied on the existence of powerless victims. This conflict could not be resolved within the practice of suggestion. However, the occult self was not necessarily a lonely and utterly self-reliant hypnotist. Instruction manuals also fostered an image of the independent self within a larger occult community.

The Self within the Occult Community Alongside tutorials on how to hypnotize, Spiritualist and Golos vseobshchei liubvi published instructions for a spiritual experience that was at once highly personal and communal, the so-called “occult-mental prayer” (okkul’tnomental’naia molitva).64 The exercise was very prominent in these journals. During the four-year period of its existence, every single issue of Golos vseobshchei liubvi devoted at least one page to the union of praying readers. The idea behind this occult-mental prayer, which had allegedly come from one of the journal’s subscribers, was simple. At an agreed time participants would recite a prayer, wherever they found themselves to be at this point. Golos vseobshchei liubvi explained that “it is called an occult [prayer] because it relies on the occult principle of a magic or occult chain, which is constituted by the people who find themselves at different places of the earth at a certain time [...] and are united by a common thought, by a common wish.”65 This explanation echoed the spiritualist notion of the power of a chain of hands during séances as well as the hypnotic chains discussed in the previous chapter. It also drew on the Orthodox practice of communal prayers and timed private invocation. The text of the occult-mental prayer changed every month. Between January 25, 1908, and February 25 of the same year, the praying addressed God with pleas to “help those who embarked upon scientific research, those who vowed they would drink no more alcoholic beverages, [those] who are stricken with serious illness, and those who suffer under the spirit of darkness, and those

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who destroy their private happiness.” They hoped that their “waves of spiritual energy,” which they “eagerly disseminate[d],” would help the minds and wills of the suffering and allow them to “obtain victory over evil.”66 Like all aspects of modern occultism, the occult-mental prayer combined Christian notions with technological explanations. The references to “God,” “scientific research,” and “energy” in the prayer are indicative of this attitude. The practice also echoed the contemplative function and the miraculous effects of prayers in Orthodoxy. Indeed, Golos vseobshchei liubvi insisted that the occult-mental prayer had to be in accordance with Christian principles and recommended frequent reading of the Bible. The journal, moreover, instructed readers to forgive their enemies before saying the prayer at 9 a.m. Moscow time, preferably in front of an icon. These directions combined references to the Lord’s Prayer with stipulations of technological exactness. The efficacy of the prayer was explained with reference to the mental waves that the praying generated while participating in the ritual. Reciting this prayer together with others made it stronger and more efficacious. Once more, Golos vseobshchei liubvi combined these quasi-physical explanations with traditional Christian teaching by using a biblical analogy to illustrate the workings of the prayer: one screaming person is not as loud as a screaming crowd, and it was the sound of many that made the walls of Jericho come tumbling down.67 To ensure success participants were supposed to give the exercise their utmost attention. “When you’ve ended the transmission [peredacha] of [your] mental waves, stay in complete quiet for another two to three minutes, so you can receive the waves of others that are directed at you.”68 The physics of the prayer made synchronic action vital. However, if participants were running less than 20 minutes behind schedule, they could still take part as “they would still find themselves in the period in which the prayer’s waves were in motion.”69 The readers of Golos vseobshchei liubvi and Spiritualist were not the only group to engage in prayers of this kind. Communal prayer was also propagated by the Occult-Mental Society of St. Petersburg (okkul’tno-mental’naia organizatsiia), which was affiliated with the journal Smelye mysli (Courageous Thoughts). This journal was also edited by Bykov and succeeded Golos vseobshchei liubvi in 1910 “for reasons beyond the control of [Golos’s] editors.”70 It is noteworthy that Bykov continued to advocate the occult-mental prayer in the new journal and even printed individual pamphlets describing the

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exercise. The leaflet of the Occult-Mental Society advertised the “free” service of common prayers held daily at 9 a.m. and again at 9 p.m. St. Petersburg time. Orientation to the capital’s time was the most convenient, the pamphlet noted, “because by now nearly all railway stations show the difference to St. Petersburg time.”71 Other occult societies not affiliated with Bykov propagated comparable practices. Rebus had started a similar but less successful exercise in 1900. Instructions set out very complicated calculations for establishing the exact moment of the prayer throughout the various time zones of the Russian empire, and this might have been a reason why the ritual failed to catch on.72 Members of the Smolensk Theosophical Society were more successful with their “occult-mental prayer,” which “they all recited at exactly 10:33 Smolensk time, no matter where they were.”73 According to Golos vseobshchei liubvi, readers found this ritual remarkably efficacious and wrote to thank its editors for offering this “service.” M. Kolesnikova described it as “a miracle-working balsam for my soul,” which had alleviated her worries about her daughter’s success at school.74 Other readers were equally enthusiastic. O. Lipina wrote in to Golos vseobshchei liubvi from Kharkov to express her deepest gratitude to all participants, saying that the ritual had cured her from apathy and had given her a sense in life, while K. Barkanov from Tiflis claimed that his financial situation had improved markedly since he had taken up the practice.75 Similarly, the Smolensk theosophers found the exercise “remarkably efficacious.”76 Readers like Lipina and Barkanov, the Smolensk theosophists, and adherents of the Occult-Mental Society said this ritual had given them a feeling of community and unity with like-minded people not only in their local town or settlement, but all over the vast expanse of the Russian empire. The occultmental prayer thus created a form of support and a communal experience that counterbalanced the aspirations of would-be hypnotists toward self-reliant individuality. Although letters praising the occult-mental prayer might have been modified by the editors of the two journals, publishers clearly expected this ostensible correspondence to sound plausible and to touch a sensitive chord among readers. Indeed, the prominence of occult-mental prayers in popular publishing coincides with a renaissance of the concept of sobornost’ in Russian literature and philosophy.77 Sobornost’, a term derived from sobor, meaning “the community of people gathered for a certain purpose,” as well as “cathedral,” was a theological and philosophical concept that the Slavophile thinkers Aleksei Stepanovich Khomiakov and Konstantin Sergeevich Aksakov advanced in mid-

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century to denote an, in their eyes, uniquely Russian form of community. Khomiakov described sobornost’ as a harmonious community of diverse members that ensured both individual freedom and communal wholeness. Konstantin Aksakov used the metaphor of a choir—an assembly of individual singers that merge in musical harmony—to characterize sobornost’. The philosopher Vladimir Solov’ev also drew on sobornost’ in the development of the notion of vseedinstvo (translated as “the unity of all things,” “multiplicity in unity,” or “the whole of things”).78 Between 1905 and 1917, ideas about sobornost’ were revived by symbolist writers and featured particularly prominently in the works of Viacheslav Ivanov. The professed aim and experience of the occultmental prayer resembled ideas about harmonic togetherness; in particular, the practice of the prayer echoed Konstantin Aksakov’s image of the community of a choir, whose members retained individual identities and aspirations, but were united by a larger sense of unity. The occult-mental prayer seems to have found a unique place between the egocentrism that is evident in exercises to strengthen one’s will and an urge to feel part of a larger community. The balance between an occult feeling of spiritual community and individualism, however, was not easy to strike. While hypnotizing stressed selfishness, other practices went beyond the occult-mental prayer in search for togetherness and verged toward the communal extreme. Such collective experiences, however, soon ran into trouble. The difficulties that such experiments brought about were painfully felt by a theosophical group aimed at realizing communal wholeness in extreme ways. As early as 1897, the Moscow Theosophical Society received reports from a theosophical school that had been founded with the intention to form “a body animated with one life, in which every member would become an inalienable body part and act like one organ of one single, communal life.”79 The enterprise was beset with problems of egotism that resulted from too strong a sense of individualism. The “extinguishing of individuality” that the organizers had hoped for was clearly not materializing.80 Cheap occult journals or pamphlets published after 1905 seemed more successful than theosophical educational experiments in retaining a sense of individuality while also creating an impression of community through the occultmental prayer. Publishers and readers came close to realizing the intellectual ideal of sobornost’. Their aspirations, and their publicized successes, illustrate that ordinary readers and occult publishers shared aspirations with symbolist writers and religious thinkers, and to some degree even realized the latters’ theoretical dreams. The occult-mental prayer, moreover, illustrates once more

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to what extent occultism in the early twentieth century stressed a contemplative experience rather than abstract intellectualism. Indeed, the new focus on emotional experience became a hallmark of the occult and redefined the occult understanding of what characterized a fully developed person.

The Importance of Ritual and Emotion All forms of practical occultism—meditation exercises with or without a magic mirror, suggestion, or the occult-mental prayer—stressed the importance of ritual. Followers were supposed to find a secluded place at a given time, to light candles, approach icons, recite prescribed texts. Their bodies had to assume specified poses and their breathing was to follow certain patterns. Although pamphlets and instruction courses loudly promised tangible results from occult exercises—such as power, solutions to family problems, the offsetting of debts, and financial gain—the most important component of such rituals was the bodily and emotional experience they provided. Indeed, by generating an extraordinary atmosphere that touched the soul these ceremonious actions made occult experiences real and efficacious. Occult rituals led followers away from everyday trivia and into proximity with something that, albeit vague, was magnificent, sublime, and absolute. This experience was established because occult practices created a reality that was different from ordinary life in late nineteenth- or early twentiethcentury towns or cities. Like traditional magic, modern occultism made use of age-old symbols, antiquated language, and exotic emblems to bestow its ceremonies with otherness and with expressive weight. Occult publications, for example, bore covers that associated them with ancient Egyptian religion, Western mysticism, Judaism, Freemasonry, or traditional magic. From 1904 onward, the cover of Rebus showed a winged figure crowned with a sun-like disk that resembled depictions of the Egyptian god Ra. The figure was framed by pentagrams, papyrus plants, and cobra snakes. Other occult texts also referred to ancient Egypt. Vera Kryzhanovskaia’s collected works of occult novels were decorated with a sphinx. The association of mysticism with ancient North African culture was common in Silver Age culture. Vladimir Solov’ev experienced one of his mystic visions of divine Sophia in the Egyptian desert and Nikolai Ableukhov, the central character of Andrei Belyi’s Petersburg, travels to the Nile in a spiritual quest at the end of the novel. Egyptian symbols were joined by another form of exoticism in occult publishing: representations

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of Western European mysticism. The editors of Lektsii okkul’tnykh nauk used the Christian symbol of God’s all-seeing eye by embellishing the journal’s cover with a depiction of a radiating triangle. The eye of providence in this triangular depiction had come to Russia from the West and was prominently used by Freemasons, thereby underlining the esoteric quality of Lektsii. The cover of Spiritualist also used Christian imagery, showing a sleeping man holding a skull, behind whom an angel pointed at a flame in a triangle. The Jewish Star of David decorated Sredi zagadok bytiia: Fakty iz zhizni Okul’tista [sic] (Amid the Riddles of Being: Facts from an Occultist’s Life) and Rebus after 1904 (see fig. 3).81 Some occult rituals elaborated this geographical and temporal exoticism. The papers of Petr Mikhailovich Kaznacheev contain notes taken in 1912 at a lecture by Grigorii Mebes, a “doctor of hermeticism of the Paris school” who, in his quotidian life, worked as a lecturer of mathematics and physics at the Page Corps.82 Kaznacheev’s entries mentioned not only the garments to be worn for certain rituals (linen or woolen depending on the occasion, with neophytes wearing white, the more advanced brethren red), but also quoted (pseudo-) Latin incantations. These exotic, and in Kaznacheev’s rendering grammatically totally incorrect texts, describe rituals which, like the breathing exercises advocated by Spiritualist, aimed at connecting the conscious mind with the divine presence “hiding in us” (“Te absconditiris [sic] in nobis”).83 Kaznacheev’s notes also mention Papus, the French fin-de-siècle occultist, sometime member of the Theosophical Society, the Order of the Golden Dawn, leader of neo-Martinism, and professed Slavophile, who created a neoRenaissance form of mysticism. Mebes, and possibly Kaznacheev, it seems, were following Papus in attempting to bestow their rituals with additional importance by incorporating extravagant foreign clothing, language, and forms of comportment.84 The exoticism of these occult rituals was part of the creation of another reality in which contemporaries experienced the supernatural. This other reality was far removed from the intellectualism of nineteenth- and twentiethcentury rationalism and positivism, and its irrationality became a hallmark of turn-of-the century occultism. As the nineteenth century drew to a close, the theology of the occult became a sensation, rather than a rationally accessible form of coherent teaching. Its aim was to tap into irrational states of mind and thus reach insights of an entirely different kind. A. Khrapovitskii, author of Magnetic Writing, rather typically expressed this approach when, after laborious attempts to describe his occult technique, he asserted: “It is really very

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difficult to put into words how this [state of autosuggestion] is achieved [...] it has to be felt rather than understood.”85 Other texts equally stressed the ability of occultists to “feel the importance” of mystic experience and esoteric insight.86 For this reason, occultists particularly valued music. This art form was uniquely able to touch the soul and “give rise to strong religious sentiments,” even among those who otherwise showed little affinity for spirituality.87 The stress of the occult on feeling at the expense of rational understanding created a very distinct literary style and frequently confounded outsiders. Occult authors produced highly emotional texts and constantly repeated themselves by reiterating the ancient pedigree of Greek and Egyptian religion, Western mysticism, and at times Indian Buddhism. They also commonly phrased the importance of emotional insight in numerous repetitive ways, but hardly ever said anything concrete. In 1910 the Ministry of Internal Affairs sent police officers to listen to Mebes, the orator who, two years later, would inspire Kaznacheev to resurrect his gymnasium knowledge of Latin. Mebes was lecturing on the “makeup of the universe, the three planes, man in the three planes,” and “symbolism.” The police officer ordered to listen to the occultist had trouble following Mebes and making sense of what he heard. He noted in his report that the lecture had been “highly unclear and nebulous” (ves’ma ne iasna i tumanna) and concluded that Mebes was probably politically harmless, although the confused presentation did not allow him to be entirely certain.88 Intellectual outsiders despaired at the confused, meandering, and sentimental style of occult thought, which refused to be pinned down to earthly facts.89 The voluntary members of Mebes’s audience and those who engaged in meditation exercises or (auto)suggestion, however, thought this form of expression appropriate and the related experiences valuable. Late twentiethcentury psychologists have observed that believers in magic practices perceive the unsuperstitious person to be cold and lacking in imagination. Esotericism, in contrast, provides them with warmth in an otherwise hostile materialistic culture.90 Similarly, late imperial Russian texts on the occult suggest that their authors and readers were able to marvel at a world and at a self within it that was not governed by mechanistic laws. This wonder filled their hearts with strong, positive emotions of belonging, love, and self-worth. These sentiments were, to a large degree, due to a certain literary style as well as to ceremonies that removed them from day-to-day trivialities and allowed them to experience another reality with all their senses. The language of occult text and the rituals that they taught thus once more stressed the irrational, emotional side of self-

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hood and valued the experience of these sentiments above rational calculations. Despite the flight from mechanical nature into the depth of practitioners’ emotions that they enabled, occult rituals remained linked to this world. Mental travels into the hidden realms of one’s mind were undertaken not to escape from everyday reality, but to return to it as a fuller, thoroughly inspired person. Mistik (the mystic), for example, wrote of the exuberant joy he experienced with every waking at “God’s boundless mercy,” and of the awareness that his own life was a link in the “huge chain that symbolizes the life of all people and of the universe,” which an occult world view provided. This exultation reminded him of “my duty [...] to do good” in this world.91 Other authors called upon their readers to relish the beauty of this world and not to neglect their material bodies in their spiritual searches. The awareness of otherworldly truth required the appreciation of earthly bliss. Indeed, the two were linked, for “outdoor gymnastics according to Miuller’s [Müller’s] system, followed by the rubbing of the skin with plants” were the “best means against nervous disorders” and unhappiness.92 Vegetarianism and other dietary regimes were also recommended by occult journals for the same reasons: to live an ethical, spiritually fulfilled life in a healthy, this-worldly body.93 Fruits, nuts, and vegetables were particularly recommended. The body, these publications argued, had a direct bearing on the spirituality of the mind. After 1905, occult publications increasingly referred to social upheavals and linked them to what concerned their authors and readers most: the spiritual state of Russia. In 1906, Golos vseobshchei liubvi printed a number of articles that bemoaned social conflict, violence, and the widespread confusion of values.94 In the years that followed, Spiritualist and Golos vseobshchei liubvi discussed the depraved spiritual (but not material) life of prison inmates, the detrimental influence of violence on the spirituality of those affected by capital punishment, and the materialism that disregarded internal values and that now reached even remote villages.95 The authors of these texts lamented the dissolution of a clear moral basis upon which social life could be built harmoniously. The editors of Rebus similarly described the present in 1910 as a transitory time in which most contemporaries had lost their spiritual orientation.96 Private manuscripts repeated the same complaints. Sergei Frolov possessed an occult text that bemoaned disorientation, confrontation, and contradiction in current world views, in particular the incompatibility of spirituality and materialism.97 Marx and Engels’s famous description of the modern world as one in which “all that is solid

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melts into air” aptly summarizes occultists’ regrets, although the words they chose were different from those of the philosophers.98 Occultists were not defeatist in the face of these social and spiritual ills. The above-mentioned laments usually came with a remedial program. Authors insisted that a life that followed devotional guidelines could guarantee personal happiness and fulfillment and eventually lead to the spiritual renovation of the entire country. Some of their instructions on how to obtain this end were written in the common occult tumannyi (nebulous) style that oozed schmaltz. “Skoree tushite” (“immediately extinguish”) was a case in point. The text, allegedly transmitted by the spirit of Dostoevskii at a séance, emotionally called upon readers to quench the all-consuming flames but did not state what the fiery metaphor stood for.99 Frolov’s occult manuscripts promised in similarly emotive, repetitive, and unclear language that a new mysticism would be able to unify rationalism, materialism, mysticism, and religion.100 It would be too simple to dismiss these sentimental appeals and confused promises as worthless. Occult readers, it seems, were touched by the sense of urgency and mission that such texts expressed. In other instances, occultists’ remedies were more tangible. Rebus instructed readers that occult practices helped to strengthen one’s spiritual orientation and confidence. Golos vseobshchei liubvi, in turn, toyed with educational reform that would reestablish spiritual certainty to compensate for materialism.101 Readers of the journal even collected funds so they could donate issues of the journal to prison inmates, and thereby return belief, morality, and purpose to the lives of these unhappy people.102 Occult practices promised to provide a unifying and emotionally uplifting (albeit intellectually tumannyi) solution to an intellectually confusing awareness of crisis.

Conclusion Early twentieth-century occultism differed from the late nineteenth-century fascination with the supernatural in significant ways: first, it was much more heterogeneous, and second, it challenged the preeminence of rational explanation. The new occult was eclectic and pluralist. After the turn of the century, scientific spiritualism was still propagated by Rebus, but the more popular Spiritualist widened its coverage and advocated an emotional approach to the supernatural. Moreover, in the early twentieth century other, non-spiritualist voices were increasingly heard more clearly. Even a journal with the programmatic title Spiritualist advertised clairvoyance, published miracle stories

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and accounts about reincarnation alongside instructions on how to hypnotize oneself and others, or how to become part of an occult-mental praying community. Spiritualist or theosophical ideas appeared in pamphlets and journals with and without clear spiritualist or theosophical missions. As the number of pamphlets, books, or periodicals devoted to the occult increased, ever newer idiosyncratic systems of occult thought appeared in the public sphere. Segno developed his notion of mentalizm, which alongside similar hypnotizing courses pledged to empower ordinary readers. Simultaneously, Mebes’s neo-Renaissance mysticism taught audiences exotic rituals and revived ancient languages. Indeed, a sense of nostalgia for a utopian occult past was another quality that characterized early twentieth-century occultism. Occult pronouncements harked back to an invented mystical tradition that combined Egyptian and Indian religiousness with Jewish symbolism, folkloric magic, and Christian mysticism. The diverse ideas that these publications and rituals expressed were closely interconnected with other contemporary concerns. Occult thought and practice took up sociological, philosophical, theological, and literary debates—such as ideas about the will or sobornost’—and proposed practical solutions to these questions. Instead of aiming to gauge the supernatural with scientific tools, the new occultism offered numerous techniques to explore the internal depth of the individual mind. Occult training programs promised spiritual insight and knowledge about what lay in the beyond and at the core of existence not through intellectual reasoning but through emotional experience. This occult emotion was able to resolve intellectual complexity by offering emotional truths that transcended rational contradictions. Glimpses of another world and knowledge of the essence of being offered a deeper and more valuable insight than rational explanation could provide. It was this emotional experience of sublime wisdom that made occult techniques appealing. Briusov wrote in his diary: “I have experienced the sensation of trance and clairvoyance during spiritualist séances. I’m such an ‘intellectual’ person that these rare glimpses, which made me break free of life, are very dear to me.”103 That a cheap spiritualist journal would teach its readers exercises that were similar to those that well-known writers, poets, philosophers, publishers, and artists learned from their anthroposophical leaders indicated that the late tsarist search for spiritual renovation was shared by contemporaries of diverse backgrounds and experienced by them as an urgent concern.104 Emotional insight into higher truths was linked with a new sense of individual personhood, which was not merely rational, but endowed with access

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to hidden realms of the psyche that were both powerful and a rich source for occult emotional experiences. The body, too, played an important role in experiencing this rich self. Historians have pointed to the importance of language in the articulation of subjectivity and self-awareness. Occultists’ interest in gymnastics, breathing exercises, or sensations such as suffocation show that bodily experiences were equally important in this process. Early twentieth-century occultism was quintessentially modern.105 It was eclectic and pluralist, and it expressed nostalgia for an occult past. Furthermore, it was also bound up with new concepts about the self that stressed the existence of a vast and potentially powerful hidden mental realm. Occult publications and practices expressed another modern attitude: they described the occultist as potentially omnipotent. Whereas earlier spiritualists had subjugated the supernatural world by explaining it rationally, the new turn-of-the-century occultist went further. He trained the hidden forces of his mind through self-control and imposed his inner powers on the external world. The new occultism was masculine and set upon transforming the world. The changing character of popular occultism after the turn of the century raises the question of how far this metamorphosis was bound up with the dramatic socio-political changes in the Russian empire. It is impossible to construct a clear causal link between the revolutionary events of 1905, the liberalization that followed in its wake, and the new occult. It seems highly likely that the liberalization of censorship after 1905 significantly contributed to the diversification of the occult, although first indications of the growing heterogeneity as well as the increasing stress on hidden mental powers can be observed from the 1890s. Moreover, increasing occult pluralism has also been observed in French and British occultism of the time.106 However, what seems clear is that political change in Russia was accompanied by an upsurge in occult publishing and in a diversification of occult teaching. Even though political change did not cause the metamorphosis of occult preoccupations, magical practices still reveal attitudes significant in the post1905 era. According to anthropologists and psychologists, magic grows either out of man’s experience of impotence or out of his confidence that he can dominate his surroundings.107 Early twentieth-century Russian occultism pointed toward a sense of empowerment, not impotence, even if it did at times mirror a sensation of insecurity.

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Alfred Adler, whose theories dominated the late imperial discussion of psychoanalysis, explained the will for superiority—as expressed by hypnotizing manuals—with an acute sense of powerlessness.108 Such an interpretation would also be in line with Keith Thomas’s explanation for the decline of magic in early modern England. According to this train of thought, occult instructions enjoy considerable popularity where other avenues for self-assertion are closed. Thomas, who draws inspiration from Malinowski, famously argued that individual aspirations, ideas of self-help, and growing secular opportunities caused the end of superstitious belief in England.109 This thesis, however, cannot be applied to the Russian case. At the turn of the twentieth century, inhabitants of the tsarist empire enjoyed increasing opportunities: the aspirations of underprivileged Russians received a boost in the post-1905 years. Instead of undermining occult practices, the changed circumstances made promises of autonomy, social advancement, and material success plausible. The masculine and magic quality of early twentieth-century occultism also suggests that these practices were not addressed at readers who despaired and had given up their hopes of self-assertion. Moreover, if Adler and Thomas were correct, then more occult practice should have been directed at the most disenfranchised groups: ethnic minorities, rural inhabitants, and women. Yet practical occultism was decidedly imperial, urban, and male; both in character and in the audience it addressed. Importantly, popular occultism expected empowerment to originate from within every individual, not to be awarded from without. However, this prediction of self-assertion was at times beset with doubt and thus also expressed a sense of insecurity. Segno’s mantra, “I will never worry nor dither,” suggests that methods to obtain influence over others were also intended to assuage individual anxieties. Psychologists account for the popularity of superstition among some groups in late twentieth-century America based on the uncertainty that certain professions encounter on a daily basis.110 Occult rituals, they claim, give practitioners a confidence that actually helps them. As Segno and other occult authors suggest, practical occultism in late imperial Russia also fulfilled, or at least pledged to fulfill, that function. There was another aspect in which the message of practical occultism was not as unequivocally confident as most of its publications insinuated: popular occultism was not able the resolve contemporaries’ contradictory aspirations of self-interested empowerment with their longing for communal togetherness. Despite these ambiguities in regard to self-confidence versus doubt, and self-interest versus the commitment to a communal ideal, the

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new occult forcefully advocated independence and activism. Irrespective of whether contemporaries sought to further egoistic aims or were searching for experiences of togetherness, how-to manuals taught them to take their fate into their own hands and to work toward their aspirations. At a time when many contemporaries—among them the most eloquent intellectuals —felt suspended in a state of limbo, but expected seminal developments to be imminent, practical occultism described an active way toward the “revolution of the spirit” and the renovation of life.

4 Servants, Priests, and Haunted Houses

A

t the end of the year 1900 and during 1901, several Russian journals and newspapers reported supernatural phenomena that had taken place in the house of the parish priest Ioann Solov’ev, who lived in the village of Lychentsy, some 20 miles from the provincial city of Pereslavl and 130 miles to the northeast of Moscow. The first inexplicable events occurred on November 16, 1900, when Solov’ev discovered that a mischievous creature had stuffed the stovepipes in the attic with “sheepskin, felt, a sack, and something else that had fallen into the bend.”1 As a result of this, the rooms in Solov’ev’s house soon filled with smoke. Later that night, floor mats, sacks, horsecloth, and boots seemed to be moving about the house by themselves. Solov’ev tried to calm his family (his wife Dar’ia Vasil’evna, three daughters, and two servant girls) with whatever explanations he could think of, but admitted later that “something bad crept into my mind.”2 The next day, the fire in the stove lit by itself and again filled the living room with smoke. When the priest, his wife, and the older maid hastened to the oven, they discovered woolen kerchiefs and a ball of yarn in the fire. As the strange occurrences intensified, the stove remained at the center of the unfolding events. Objects moved from one place to another, and textiles most frequently turned up in the fire. “Suddenly, it smelled of burning, we ran to the oven,” Father Ioann recounted. “In it, calico and flannel cardigans were already burning. Not a minute passed after we’d taken them out and soaked them, before we discovered three brand new pink children’s dresses [in the fire].” Simultaneously, “the sheets were taken off the kitchen poles and hidden in the water tub, into which a minute later and invisibly to all a briefcase was also stuffed.”3

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Solov’ev felt overpowered by what was going on in his house and asked his parishioners for help on November 17. Soon, his house was filled with curious onlookers who later testified to the local dean (blagochinnyi), the police, the extraordinary envoy of the governor, and the press. Sixty-year-old Marfa Timofeevna Larionova remembered, for example, how she went to the priest’s house together with other parishioners on Friday evening (the 17th) to see the disturbances [besporiadki] [...]. I saw chairs turned upside down in the living room, the [sewing] machine on the floor, two desk lamps were also standing on the floor; when I went from the living room to the next room, I smelled something burning, people were standing by the stove door. The peasant Anna Zakharova opened the door in front of my eyes, and we saw that [the fire] inside the stove was not burning with flames but with sparks, as if the cardigans were sparkling, which I, Marfa Larionova, got out with bare hands and threw onto the floor; I feared that the clothing hanging nearby would catch fire and I therefore threw them back into the stove, but I did not burn my hands. A tub with water was brought and I got these things out of the oven again, nothing remained in the oven, no hot coals were visible, I threw the burning things [into the tub] and took them outside. While I was carrying the tub, new things appeared in the oven, children’s kerchiefs. People were standing by the oven all the time but no one saw how these things got in there.4

Others confirmed that they too had found woolen dresses, aprons, “linen bundles about 8 arshins [5.5m] long,” and pillowcases in the oven. Three witnesses reported that they saw “how six boots, one after the other, came down the stovepipe in short intervals.”5 Villagers moreover testified that they found dough, which was sitting in the kitchen to rise, on the floor, boots in the flour container, and a watch in a jug of milk.6 On the afternoon of November 17, the day the priest asked his parishioners for help, Father Solov’ev decided to hold an exorcising ritual (moleben), but while the prayer was conducted, invisible hands sprinkled flour on the heads of the congregated villagers. Instead of appeasing the situation, the Christian ritual seemed to have emboldened the unknown force to mock religious custom. Five minutes after the ritual was performed, the priest discovered that sacred items had been tampered with: “the epitrachelion was spread out on the floor, the crucifix lay face down among the icons, the gospel was thrown to one side, and the prayer book to the other.”7 After four days of inexplicable and highly distressing events in his house, Solov’ev despaired and dispatched

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two telegrams. One was addressed to Bishop Sergii of Vladimir diocese, the other to the charismatic priest Ioann Kronshtadtskii. In these cables, Solov’ev asked the two hierarchs “to pray for the abode vexed by spirits of evil” (pomolit’sia o khramine, stuzhaemoi ot dukhov zloby).8 After he had sent these wires, Solov’ev felt that the force of the evil phenomena had abated. His relief was short-lived, however. In the afternoon, the local police officer inspected Solov’ev’s house. During this visit, the policeman’s service cap vanished together with the priest’s hat. Solov’ev’s diocesan superiors sent the local dean, Pavel Veselovskii, to Lychentsy, who arrived in the village the next day, on Tuesday, November 21; he witnessed some more burnings and, like the police officer before him, filed a report.9 News about the events in Solov’ev’s house initially spread as rumors in Lychentsy and the surrounding villages.10 On December 15, 1900, Vladimirskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti (Vladimir Diocesan Gazette) printed a fourteen-page account of the events based on the investigation of the local dean.11 This article was immediately taken up by other regional and national newspapers and journals, such as the broadsheet Russkii listok and the spiritualist journal Rebus.12 News about the Lychentsy hauntings was so eagerly consumed by readers that the Vladimir-based Tipo-litografiia Vl. A. Parkova reprinted the original text from the diocesan newspaper as a pamphlet with a glaring pink cover before the end of the year 1900, while Russkii listok sent their own journalist to Lychentsy and serialized his report for nine consecutive days in a sensationalist manner.13 The events in Lychentsy fascinated contemporaries to such a degree that three years later, Sudebnye dramy (Legal Dramas) printed a seventy-page analysis of the phenomena.14 Ioann Solov’ev was not the only head of household to experience turmoil of this kind. If the Russian press is any indication, haunted houses were frequent occurrences that could be found all over the tsarist empire, from Warsaw in the west to Tomsk in Siberia.15 Reports about hauntings were prominent in the 1880s, their number peaked in the 1890s, and they were less frequent, but still notable, in the first decade of the new century.16 Their popularity—the frequent copying and republishing attests to their appeal—illustrates that these narratives struck a responsive chord. In the eyes of spiritualists, cases of hauntings were noteworthy because they illustrated the independent actions of supernatural forces. But hauntings represented an inverted form of the séance and therefore raised a number of

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pertinent questions. During hauntings, supernatural agents moved into action in bright daylight and without explicit attempts of assembled spiritualists to prompt unusual phenomena. Events observed in haunted houses were also more boisterous, and they involved everyday utensils rather than the equipment for polite entertainment (card tables, musical instruments, purposefully prepared slates or pieces of rope) that characterized séances. Consequently, spiritualists hoped that studying haunted houses would allow them to answer important questions about the nature of supernatural forces, their source, and the stimuli that encouraged spiritual manifestation.17 For the wider audience, haunted houses raised questions about the possibility of invisible intervention in everyday affairs. The haunting report was a popular but problematic genre; it could not leave observers indifferent. Hauntings urged contemporaries to ponder questions about plausibility, belief, morality, and psychology. The narratives analyzed here reveal how those who witnessed, wrote, and read about hauntings subverted traditional forms of reasoning, questioned established authorities, and unified opposing thoughts into a modern world view that was characterized by a heterogeneity of truth. Moreover, these sensational stories also demonstrate a widespread interest in the hidden realms of the human psyche. The development of new concepts of subjectivity and of an innovative sense of self, alongside interests in the problem of consciousness, have traditionally been described as defining features of modern elite culture. Reports about haunted houses show how events associated with occult forces contributed to the development of such ideas in the public realm and in popular culture. These texts are also significant because they illustrate how rural events in Lychentsy related to similar cases in urban settings and merged with metropolitan publishing tastes to shape one national culture. Christine Worobec has shown the different realities that emerged when nineteenth-century peasants, ethnographers, medical doctors, and church and state officials approached the similarly elusive topic of rural klikushestvo (shrieking).18 These different professions, she argues, each developed their own interpretation of the phenomenon. In the popular genre of the haunting report, opposing interpretations were not distributed among different authors and their texts, but different realities were present in every single account. The impossibility of “diagnosing” the nature and cause of hauntings unequivocally meant that the notorious gulf between secular and religious, elite and popular had to be overcome. The content of reports about hauntings, which will be analyzed below in detail, points toward a complex understanding of the human person and of

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the natural world. The narrative makeup of these sources underlines fragmentation, disjointedness, and lack of rational logic at the structural level. Reports of hauntings moreover exhibit gaps of narrative logic; in them, causal relationships remain at best ambiguous, frequently unclear, or altogether inexpressible. An uncertainty about cause and effect characterized all accounts of supernatural events in late imperial living quarters. Numerous “solutions” to the riddle of a haunted house were suggested, but none was ever developed sufficiently to make it convincing. Simultaneously, numerous possible resolutions for the unusual phenomena were partly rejected. As in attempts to explain hypnosis, what remained was a question asked but not answered, a sense of uncertainty, and a diversity of possible but seemingly flawed interpretations. Reports about haunted houses were thus more akin to the logic and development of hallucinations or dreams than to the logic of common matter-of-fact newspaper reports.19 Indeed, accounts of hauntings and dreams share a number of characteristics. Both frequently seem absurd and both make use of images and symbols to express meaning. Because the causal relationships in their narratives are elusive and contradictions are combined into a unity of ambiguity, such accounts are open to various interpretations. They are, consequently, overdetermined, that is, they are characterized by an “enormous hermeneutic uncertainty.”20 The narratives of dreams and haunted houses exhibit a further similarity. Their stories do not evolve in a fashion that gradually develops a thought or idea. Instead, their composition allows the narrative to bring an idea into ever sharper form through a series of different successive components; but it is important to note that this idea is present from the very inception of the narrative.21 Freud described dreams as expressions whose absurdity enables the unconscious to smuggle meaning past the censor of the conscious mind. Accounts about haunted houses likewise depicted an illogical world and thereby developed ideas that were otherwise inexpressible. Haunted houses conveyed veiled truths, hidden desires, alternative or repressed reality; in short, they—like dreams—allowed the expression of unprintable or unthinkable thoughts. Unlike dreams, however, reports about haunted houses were not individual but shared experiences. They originated in one household where numerous people—master and/or mistress, children, servants, friends, and neighbors— allegedly experienced an unknown force. As soon as rumors started to spread, those who learned about the phenomena passed on information about them and participated in the construction of the narrative. This process could be furthered by the police or by church officials, when the authorities interviewed

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witnesses and compiled reports. If news about haunted houses was reported in the press, journalists and readers alike became part of the widening circle of those who directly or indirectly experienced these hauntings. Like rumors, which need to acquire plausibility in any given cultural context, the development of narratives about haunted houses depended on shared assumptions, values, and emotions.22 All commentators relied upon each other, upon contemporary reasonings, and upon local notions about plausibility to make sense of what had been observed. The police file about Lychentsy, for example, included the pamphlet Neobychainye iavlenie (An Extraordinary Phenomenon), published by Vl. A. Parkov in Vladimir, as a piece of evidence.23 The police, it seems, needed this commercially successful account to form its own assessment of what was happening in Solov’ev’s parish. The spiritualist journal Rebus, a true copycat in everything supernatural, synthesized all accessible accounts. It reprinted sections from the original church journal as well as from Russkii listok, before its editors finally received a long-awaited letter from Solov’ev himself.24 Freud and Derrida have stressed the presence of fault lines in cases of hauntings.25 For Freud, these are psychological chinks between different states of consciousness. The uncanny is for Freud something familiar and well-known that has been lost or repressed (das Un-heimliche). When that which was once familiar but has been relegated to the unconscious returns, it questions the hold of the conscious on reality and thereby acquires the quality of something unknown, potentially threatening, and unsettling.26 Derrida, by contrast, regards apertures in hauntings as ontological voids. Not unlike nineteenth-century spiritualists, he quotes Hamlet’s “the time is out of joint” as the most important quality of a haunting.27 Hauntings, in Derrida’s understanding, are brought about by the recurring presence of a specter, which is beyond knowledge and thus essentially unknowable.28 For Derrida, the presence of a specter, that is, of a deceased person, constitutes a temporal disjointure, a “non-contemporaneity of present time with itself.”29 Because the apparition of a specter calls those who perceive it to act, past, present, and future merge in the ghost. That which is no more (the past) and is not yet (the future) are joined by its presence.30 The time that is “out of joint” is for Derrida, as it is for Hamlet, an indication of injustice, and this injustice entails the possibility of evil.31 Reports about haunted houses in late imperial Russia described a time out of joint. They raised questions of justice and of simultaneity of the un-simultaneous. They also expressed both tangible and hidden wishes, anxieties and as-

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pirations that were at once highly personal and shared. Contemporaries treated such events as incidents that were beyond comprehension and that, at the same time, touched upon something that was experienced as highly familiar. Newspaper articles about the parish priest Solov’ev were modern versions of a traditional topic. Russian folklore attributed strange noises, groans, and knockings in the peasant hut to the domovoi, the spirit of the house.32 Beliefs about the domovoi were widespread throughout Russia and fairly consistent. Every country dwelling was thought to be inhabited by such a sprite. The domovoi was never seen but believed to look anthropomorphic, and people whom he had touched reported that he was covered with soft fur. In some areas, he was believed to take on animal form, preferably the shape of a cat or dog. The domovoi was generally assumed to be a benevolent, but at the same time mischievous creature. At night, he teased the livestock, choked or pinched sleepers, shuffled his feet and stamped, knocked, roared, banged doors, and threw about whatever came into his hands. “Evidence of his pranks is frequently visible during the day,” Vladimir Ivanovich Dal’ wrote. “For example, all crockery turns up in an unclean tub in the morning, the pans are taken off the poles and hung onto the crook of the oven fork, [...] tables, benches, and chairs are broken or piled up into one big heap.”33 At times when the domovoi was gentle, he stroked people and groomed livestock. According to folklore, the domovoi was only active at night; his whereabouts during the day were unclear. Some thought he preferred resting in a place near the stove, others claimed he lived under the threshold, in the attic, or in the stables. In the nineteenth century, belief in the domovoi and other folkloric spirits was in decline, but the house sprite remained a well-known figure in Russian culture.34 Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin mentioned the domovoi numerous times in his poetry, and Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevskii drafted a story entitled “Domovoi” in 1880, as did the satirist Teffi after the turn of the century.35 Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, Maksim Gor’kii, and many other authors also mentioned the creature in their writings.36 Notions about the folkloric domovoi remained widespread, and they informed the character of haunted houses in Russia. As the wayward supernatural phenomena that disturbed Ioann Solov’ev illustrate, Russian hauntings alluded to the domovoi’s traditional pranks. They usually took place in the kitchen and attic and revolved around the stove and household objects, that is, the sprite’s preferred resting places. In Lychentsy, furniture and kitchen utensils were thrown about the house in ways

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that mirrored Dal’’s description of the domovoi. Moreover, objects associated with livestock, such as horsecloth, also played a prominent role.37 The role of the domovoi as a cultural influence in Lychentsy, as in other cases of haunted houses at the time, was, however, not explicit. While the hauntings echoed ideas concerning the house sprite, the word domovoi was not mentioned once in the reports from Lychentsy. In the few cases of hauntings in which the press explicitly referred to the domovoi, this was done at the expense of those who professed a belief in the spirit. In the urban marketplace, the domovoi had become an antiquated cultural figure, and belief in him was depicted as a symbol of rural backwardness. Spiritualists ridiculed witnesses who claimed that the domovoi was responsible for supernatural havoc.38 Russian folklore alone could not explain the phenomenon of haunted houses. The Orthodox Church also accepted the reality of unquiet dwellings and had an explanation—and remedy—to account for it. According to Orthodox theology, demons (besy) could wreak havoc in houses. Orthodox literature linked demons’ mastery over a house to their ability to possess people.39 The Church insisted emphatically that “evil spirits” existed as the independent agents that the scriptures depicted. “Together with their prince, Satan, demons make up the dark demonic kingdom,” a theological encyclopedia noted. According to this publication, the aim of demons was to lead man into sin.40 Orthodox theology strongly rejected proposals that demonic phenomena, such as hauntings or demon possession, could be explained without recourse to supernatural beings. But evil spirits could be kept in check with religious rituals. The Trebnik (euchologion)—the Russian Orthodox book of prayer and ritual—contained the “Molitva o khramine, stuzhaemoi ot dukhov zloby” (“Prayer for the abode vexed by spirits of evil”), which was to be used in cases of hauntings. It was this prayer that Father Solov’ev asked Bishop Sergii and Ioann Kronshtadtskii to say on his behalf.41 Ioann Solov’ev also said the text himself, celebrating the omnipotent authority of God and praying in Church Slavonic: Oh Lord, thou who hast driven off legions of demons, command the deaf and the mute devil, and the unclean force who holds on [here], to go out of the person never to return. [...] Lord, thou are above all evil and temptation, stand by all creatures in this house, relieve them of nocturnal fear, of the arrows flying during the day, of the things that wander about in darkness, of the terror and of the noon demon: so that your male servants, your women servants, and the children be granted thy help and the protection of the angel troop; so that they may all in agreement and unison sing: the Lord is my helper.42

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Although the “molitva o khramine” was to be used in cases where an evil spirit had taken up residence in a house, the prayer clearly expressed the close connection between the demonic possession of an individual and that of a dwelling. This section—in particular use of the expression “unclean force,” the reference to “things that wander about in darkness,” nocturnal fear, and the noon demon (demon poludennyi)―moreover illustrates that folkloric spirits such as the domovoi and the poludnitsa (noon-spirit) were regarded as representatives of the kingdom of darkness by the Orthodox Church.43 The demonization of folkloric spirits by the Church, however, was never successfully incorporated into popular belief, where it coexisted with a positive assessment of the rural sprites. As in the case of the domovoi, Russian secular writings expressed little belief in the power of demons when it came to explaining haunted houses. But Orthodox notions of devils, like folkloric sprites, remained culturally prominent. Dostoevskii’s novels of the 1870s describe visions of demons that his narrators relate to sinful deeds.44 After the turn of the century, the symbolist writer Fedor Sologub created the fictional character of Ardal’on Peredonov, himself a petty demon (melkii bes), who is accompanied by the spirit-like nedotymkomka.45 When policemen, journalists, and even Orthodox deans interpreted unquiet houses in the second half of the nineteenth century, they did so with reference to modern ideas, namely those of spiritualism. The policeman who investigated Father Solov’ev’s hauntings suspected a “spiritualist maid” to be behind the events.46 According to spiritualists, it was the presence of a medium and/or that of the spirit of a deceased person that lay at the source of hauntings. Although this view was only rarely voiced explicitly in secular mainstream publications, it was frequently alluded to.47 The deceased tenant thus joined domovye and biblical demons as characters who were seemingly absent from most discussions about haunted houses, but who remained present as allusions. In attempts to explain hauntings, these ephemeral beings were eclipsed by the very physical presence of servants and their possibly mediumistic abilities.

Haunted Houses and Rebellious Servants Maidservants played the most prominent role in explanations of hauntings.48 They were members of a household who seemed well known but whose presence raised doubts about that very familiarity. When clothes repeatedly

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appeared in Solov’ev’s stove in Lychentsy, Vladimirskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti reported that the police officer suspected the maid to be behind the events.49 Similarly, when potatoes mysteriously flew out of the stove in an apartment in Kazan in 1884, the landlord sensed that the maid Sasha caused the inexplicable potato-throwing. He therefore told her to lie down at the kitchen bench and “to think as well as to wish for something to fall down and break to pieces.” Suddenly and in front of assembled police officers, “a tray came down from the wall. Immediately afterwards the girl, too, fell from the bench and regained consciousness only after she hit her head against the table.”50 As further investigations showed, the items that moved mysteriously “were by and large those that the maid had placed somewhere.”51 Other accounts were much more explicit in placing sole responsibility for sudden blows and raps on newly hired servants. In a case from the St. Petersburg region, the prosperous peasant Feodos’ia Spiridonova was eager to inform a reporter that she had taken on “the eleven- or twelve-year-old Mariia Semenova, a peasant girl from the village of Berezniaki, to serve as niania [nursemaid]. About a week later the events started: blows to the windows, which originated apparently from the outside.”52 The Spiridonovs, who suspected demons (nechistaia sila) to be behind these knocks, followed their neighbors’ advice and placed an icon against the window, but the holy picture was soon thrown to the floor. Events took on a more threatening turn when knives began to move by themselves; one of the knives even drove itself into the wooden floor. Wherever Mariia was, some supernatural event was bound to take place: “When, for example, she approached the stove,” all objects near it “began to move and fall over. Logs that lay on the stove fell to the ground without any obvious reason and in one instance a loose brick was thrown from the top of the stove at the girl.”53 The Spiridonovs asked the local priest to hold a moleben, but when the prayer service failed to end the disturbances, they saw no other option but to dismiss Mariia. All supernatural events ceased after she left.54 In December 1908, exceptional incidents occurred at 60 Ligovskii Prospekt in St. Petersburg. In the flat of the widow Berliand, “items suddenly started to jump on the spot and many items broke or were damaged.” Suspicion quickly fell on the sixteen-year-old nanny, Pelageia Arbuzova, who “was frightfully white,” trembled, spoke incomprehensibly, and claimed to see her late master. As she was exclaiming, “he’s throwing the washbasin to the floor!” those present “saw the basin fall from the washing-stand, spilling the water over the floor.” Wherever Arbuzova was in the apartment, “items started to move, to jump, and to break.” When she went outside, everything was still immediately.

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The poor girl was so “disturbed by these events that a doctor had to be called to see to her.” As news about the occurrences spread among neighbors, a rumor emerged that someone had “seen a real furry devil.”55 This report—with its explicit references to devils and the deceased master—was in line with many other accounts in asserting emphatically that if supernatural events occurred in someone’s living quarters, a domestic servant was somehow connected with them.56 Yet how precisely the maid was linked to the haunting remained elusive. These reports insinuated that a mediumistic predisposition of the housemaid in question had caused the supernatural events, while simultaneously alluding to possible Christian explanations. The mysterious influences of these domestics put their social superiors in awkward positions. In Sasha’s case from Kazan, this was exacerbated by her master’s profession: Mr. Florentsov was a retired army officer who called upon colleagues to assist in his struggle with wayward potatoes and bricks. As the local newspaper Volzhskii vestnik (The Volga Herald) reported, “about ten well-known officers came to Mr. Florentsov’s apartment,” but they could not stop the supernatural disturbance. Potatoes, which had initially fallen out of the stove, now “rolled out beneath the furniture, fell from the walls, rained down from the ceiling; sometimes a brick appeared at the scene of action.” One officer was “hit by a potato on his head, another one on his nose, some were hit by the bullets of this invisible foe at their backs, shoulders, and so on.” A police investigation proved equally useless. “The potato bombardment continued and one of the rank-and-files received such a severe blow that he was beaten off his feet by fear. However, the soldiers endured the potato fire and calmly collected the shells, eating some of them on the battlefield, thus making the most of the fact that many of them were cooked.”57 Florentsov’s difficulty provided the regional newspaper with an opportunity to depict the military and the police in a ridiculous battle against an ordinary commodity, potatoes, over which thousands of cooks asserted their supremacy on a daily basis. In other cases, a judge was portrayed as struggling against wayward slippers, a professor of physics grappled with a child’s levitating high chair, and numerous priests, among them Father Solov’ev, wrestled with misbehaving clothes.58 In these instances, male figures of religious, social, and state authority failed to control quotidian objects that belonged to the sphere of female servants. It seems plausible that such mocking depictions of powerless figures of authority explain—at least partly—the frequent appearance of such accounts in newspapers. Readers enjoyed such stories and editors were eager to please their audience.59

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The impression that servants were somehow the reason for such occurrences suggested that domestics were rebelling against figures of authority—even if they depended upon the support of supernatural forces to do so. Indeed, the term besporiadki, with which Marfa Larionova described the events in Solov’ev’s house, translates as both disorderliness and riot. Contemporaries who commented on the situation of servants agreed that domestics had good reason to complain about their living and working conditions.60 The conditions of domestic service were extremely harsh, and observers noted that servants, most of whom were female, led the most degrading life of all working women. They were totally subjugated to their employers and expected to be unobtrusive, submissive, and devoted. Despite, or because of this, employers increasingly saw the lower stratum in general and domestic servants in particular as a latent but constant threat. Literature and newspapers expressed the fear that domestics would turn into thieves, but stories of servants who—in some cases successfully—plotted to assassinate their employers also tormented the elites.61 Anxieties about thieving servants were frequently accompanied by discourses about uncontrollable hooligans and sexually immoral paupers, which both mirrored and fed these fears.62 The amateur playwright Dmitrii Sarokhtin, for example, referred to servants, bandits, and socialists in the same breath.63 Programs were set up to entrust job agents with the task of finding reliable personnel, but such measures failed to deliver on their promises. The figure of the maid who governed the country stalked the imagination of well-to-do Petersburgers and found its way into satirical newspaper drawings (fig. 12).64 The physical closeness of masters and servants added to the threat that servants posed. Haunted houses provide an example where this closeness and apparent familiarity between servant and master were transformed into an eerie and possibly dangerous relationship. In such instances, the well-known character of the submissive servant girl was questioned and she became the bearer of an uncanny (un-heimlich) power. In some hauntings, the supernatural phenomena were so menacing that they threatened the bodily well-being of employers and their families, and they mirrored famous criminal cases. In 1892, a case involving supernatural events was published in Novoe vremia that resembled a famous case of servants abusing their employers’ children to an astonishing degree. On New Year’s Eve, Professor L. and his wife returned home from a party to find their servants upset, their living room furniture smashed to pieces, and their little daughter slightly injured. According to the eyewitness report of one of the servants, she was feeding the girl when a supernatural power suddenly broke the lamp, shattered the furniture, and suspended the

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Figure 12: “What the job agency will soon be like.” The central sign in the picture reads “City bureau for the selection of ‘mistresses.’” On the table lies the Directory of Mistresses in St. Petersburg. The employers hand reference letters (attestaty) to the servants. “Na zlobu dnia: Vo chto skoro prevratitsia ‘biuro dlia naima prislugi.’” Peterburgskaia gazeta: Illiustrirovannoe prilozhenie, December 14 (1900): 409.

daughter in the air.65 The 1870 court case about a nanny who had harmed her protégée, it seems, returned in a ghost-like quality to haunt Professor L. and the readers of Novoe vremia. According to Derrida, it is precisely the repetition of an appearance that creates the characteristics of a haunting.66 In late tsarist descriptions of haunted houses, phenomena—such as injured children, flying potatoes, moving and breaking utensils, and wayward stoves—were constantly replicated by the supernatural forces. And so was the threatening servant. The uncanny character of these instances was furthermore strengthened by the Christian tradition of equating rebelliousness with evil. Lucifer is, after all, the archangel who refused to serve God and an age-old icon of insurrection.67 Although the majestic grand-style Satan of Western theology and literature was absent in Russian culture, the association between rebelliousness and demonic possession was as strong in Russian thought as it was in the West.68

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Jeffrey Brooks has shown that it pervaded popular literature; the idea was also expressed by leading writers.69 In Dostoevskii’s Besy (The Devils, 1872), it is precisely the breakdown of social hierarchy that leads to the erosion of order that the devil exploits.70 In the absence of an august Satan, Russian devils were characterized by pettiness, which is mirrored in the triviality of rebellion in haunted houses. No grand designs were advocated in such cases, but daily objects refused to adhere to calls to orderliness. Accounts about haunted houses, moreover, suggest that inexplicable phenomena were linked to a nervous illness of the maid in question. Sasha in Kazan was allegedly “very nervous and sensitive, liable to suffer from hallucinations.”71 Similarly, Natalia Riazantseva, Father Solov’ev’s servant, was said to be nervous and ill; and Pelageia Arbuzova in St. Petersburg suffered from fits and fell into a trance-like state while the spirit of her deceased master smashed dishes and “the heavy dining table turned around and around with ease.”72 So common was the presumption that servants who were the cause of supernatural events also suffered from nervous illnesses that the author of one article commented with bewilderment that the maidservant in question was apparently healthy.73 The expectation that illness was a vital contributing factor to the developments of inexplicable events in living quarters linked ailment with occult powers. This association was not specific to discussions about haunted houses. Peasants regarded klikushi (shriekers) as ill women, but they also surmised that they had access to supernatural powers; and spiritualists believed that mediumistic talent was linked to, if not dependent upon, nervous suffering.74 The notion that a mentally deranged person had access to higher truth was widespread in Russian culture. Eastern Christianity had developed this idea significantly in the concept of holy fools (iurodivye), thus linking madness and sanctity.75 The anthropologist I. M. Lewis observed that spirits show a predilection for the weak and the oppressed; those whose lives run smoothly, he argues, do not experience spirit possession.76 When possessions take place, these are, in Lewis’s understanding, expressions of upheaval and aggressive self-assertion.77 Haunted houses in late imperial Russia allowed servants in precarious social positions to stand at center stage. The maid in a haunted house gained the attention not only of her employers, but also of curious visitors and the investigating police. In these incidents, the status of a servant within a household was, much like the position of a medium during a séance, turned upside down: the lowly servant became influential.

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There were, however, severe restrictions to servants’ self-assertion in haunted houses. The frequently mentioned illness suggested that maidservants did not cause the hauntings deliberately. Their actions were determined by bad health or demonic possession. Moreover, the maids who caused inexplicable events frequently suffered from the supernatural aggression they allegedly caused. The rebellious actions of servants in haunted houses were constrained and developed according to a cultural script. A maid who allegedly caused supernatural events in her master’s apartment was far from practicing open mutiny. As Lewis puts it, supernatural protest takes place “within bounds which are not infinitely elastic.”78 Such protests ensure that neither side loses face.79 In late imperial Russia, masters, mistresses, visitors, priests, the police, journalists, and newspaper readers all participated in the unfolding drama of hauntings. Maidservants took part in a cultural performance that granted them a restricted space for acts of rebellion, and in return, this restricted space did not threaten them with accountability.80 Reports about haunted houses insinuated that servants’ innermost wishes and aspirations were brought into the open through the mysterious phenomena they described. Such implications are in line with fin-de-siècle expectations that secret truths would be uncovered through irrational states of minds such as trances, hallucinations, hypnosis, or dreams. Yet reports about hauntings might also reflect a shadowy recognition of the harshness of the servants’ lot and could thus also reflect a sense of guilt on the part of employers. Yet if the reports about haunted houses are to be seen as communal experiences akin to dreams, they could also be interpreted as the wish that servants, and pars pro toto the underprivileged classes as a whole, were not really rebellious, were not threatening the position of their social superiors, but merely acting under the influence of external (supernatural or medical) forces.81

Haunted Houses and Orthodox Priests Ioann Solov’ev was not the only village priest in late tsarist Russia to find himself in the awkward position of having his life disrupted by supernatural events. A conspicuous number of reports about haunted houses described how inexplicable disturbances afflicted the houses of clerics and their families.82 That priests should have suffered from supernatural whim in their homes seems surprising, for according to Orthodox teaching, the clerical estate should have been well equipped to drive demons away. Contemporaries shared this

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assessment, and reports about such cases frequently stressed embarrassment on the cleric’s part. Father V-ii, for example, who tended a parish in Lanshenskii district of Kazan guberniya and preferred to remain anonymous, despaired when the Orthodox exorcising prayer failed to drive out the supernatural force in his house.83 He told journalists that he had tried to conceal the fact “in order to avoid unnecessary gossip among the little educated and superstitious parishioners,” and continued to deny the presence of any trouble even after rumors had begun to make their rounds.84 When the phenomena acquired such a turbulent character that it could no longer be kept a secret, Father V-ii reluctantly informed the authorities. The unseemly quality of hauntings in priestly homes almost certainly contributed to their appeal. In Father V-ii’s case, the news spread quickly; indeed, peasants of the village seemed to have passed on the information with glowing schadenfreude.86 Parishioners’ stories linked haunted houses once again with folklore, as cuttingly satirical folktales were often directed against the clergy.87 The potential for a titillating story that included mystery and an individual in a state of personal crisis added to the success of accounts about haunted houses in the press. Readers must have enjoyed descriptions of Father Ioann Solov’ev’s increasingly desperate struggle against wayward clothes and stoves, otherwise his troubled house in Lychentsy would not have become a cause célèbre. It is indeed quite possible that although haunted houses remained distributed evenly among the professions, cases in which the clergy was involved were more frequently reported; these stories were juicy and welcomed by newspaper editors and readers alike. The striking quality of Solov’ev’s story, and those of other affected priests, however, was not merely their success among gloating audiences. What distinguishes these accounts from other narratives was their hermeneutic equivocalness and the explorations into the workings of the psyche that they offered. Questions of power were at stake in these reports, as were debates about morality and the possibility that intangible evil might linger under a thin veneer of familiar propriety. Ioann Solov’ev, for example, is depicted in the reports as both the innocent victim of external interferences and as an amoral perpetrator. These communally constructed accounts thus proposed the existence of an alternative and potentially unsettling reality, replete with doppelgängers, hidden desires, and fears. They are thus situated in Derrida’s ontological void, that is, in the chink between the real and the unreal, between the known and the unknowable, between the conscious and subconscious, where “time is out of joint” and injustice or evil is a possibility.

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On one level, hauntings in priestly homes can be interpreted as power struggles between the cleric and his parishioners. In the tsarist empire, where the clergy had remained a closed estate that recruited its members from within the clerical strata until the Great Reforms, tensions between parishioners and their priests were common occurrences.88 Since the subordination of the church to the state in the eighteenth century, the clergy were perceived by many as policemen for the state rather than as advocates for their parishioners. Priests had, moreover, acquired a rather tarnished reputation by the last quarter of the nineteenth century, as parishioners complained about abuses of power and influence. Frequently, squabbles about fees for baptisms, marriages, funerals, or requiem masses soured relations. A haunted priestly house could therefore become a powerful tool in parish conflicts. If the inexplicable phenomena took a violent turn, the clergyman needed brave villagers to help guard his home. Furthermore, parishioners could affirm their influence over their priest by pursuing information policies: they spread rumors about allegedly haunted clerical houses and sometimes even gave interviews to journalists. In Lychentsy, the sense of empowerment led some peasants to expect rather fancifully “that even the governor himself will visit the village.” In anticipation of that visit, locals debated which version of events to present to the exalted personage.89 Reports about haunted houses, however, were also musings on deep-seated fears that reality was very different from how it seemed. This related first and foremost to the character of the priest. Reports from Lychentsy stressed that Solov’ev had been a popular parish priest, loved and respected by his flock. When, as a consequence of the hauntings, he left the village in 1901, priest and parishioners “bid farewell in tears.”90 Yet accounts from Lychentsy simultaneously suggested that the priest’s seemingly untarnished behavior was in reality flawed by vice. This insinuation introduced a sinister aspect to the narrative. As events in the priest’s house unfolded, rumors reached Solov’ev’s ears “that villagers allegedly call me a drunkard, that I allegedly conspired with my servant-girl to fool people, and so on and so forth.”91 Such talk undermined the cleric’s moral authority and linked inexplicable occurrences in the dwelling to sinful behavior. On a local level, these claims might have obtained plausibility through the peasants’ knowledge that Solov’ev had indeed been addicted to strong drink in the past, although the police officer noted in his report that the cleric had not touched alcohol for three years.92 The press did not mention Solov’ev’s previous inclination for drink. Instead, newspapers quoted Solov’ev’s emphatic declarations that these rumors were groundless. The reputation of village priests in late imperial Russia, however, was that men

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of the cloth were frequently drunk and of questionable moral character.93 This stereotype was in conflict with the press’s benevolent depiction of the beleaguered parish priest and thereby opened up an interpretational void that could be filled with two contrasting explanations. Solov’ev himself insisted that he was not conspiring with his maid. But the priest also suspected a servant to be behind the phenomena. According to Solov’ev, “the beginnings of all horrors coincide, as I am firmly convinced, with the imprisonment of my previous servant. This punishment was handed out to her for a theft she committed in my house at the first day of the Holy Trinity.”94 Although the sacked maid was convicted for theft, she herself “stubbornly denied her guilt, notwithstanding even my [the priest’s] solemn pledge to forgive her if she confessed.”95 A rumor spread among the villagers that she “ran to some sort of local ‘sorcerer’” before her sentence was enforced, suggesting that Solov’ev’s chastised servant revenged her punishment by having a spell cast upon the priest’s house.96 This explanation is analogous to Keith Thomas’s analysis of witchcraft cases in early modern England.97 In Thomas’s interpretation, witchcraft accusations became expressions of guilt on the side of the accuser, who had failed to fulfill Christian duties of charity in relation to the alleged witch. The possibility of magical retribution is interpreted by Thomas in a functionalist fashion as a way of enforcing precisely those values whose lack was thought to provide the reasons for sorcery. In the case of the parish priest Solov’ev, contemporaries, including the priest himself, might have felt that the cleric failed to show Christian compassion and forgiveness toward his thieving servant. The servant’s staunch denial of her guilt might even have pointed toward the possibility that she was indeed innocent, an option her former employer refused to contemplate. The rumor that the erstwhile servant might have caused the horrific events in Solov’ev’s house, then, put the blame for the unsettling events not merely onto the former servant, but potentially also undermined the moral integrity of the priest himself. In this way, the rumor about the thieving servant girl was similar to suggestions that Solov’ev was a drunkard. The descriptions of inexplicable phenomena also suggested devilish involvement. Initially, sheepskin, a sack, felt, and something unidentifiable made it impossible for the maid Natalia to light the stove. These items, which were stuffed into the stovepipe, bore an association with the animal realm. The sheepskin, the appearance of horsecloth (popona), and the unidentifiable object could been read as allusions to the domovoi, who was closely associated with animals.98 The domovoi was, however, just

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one possible association of the mysterious force that manifested itself in Solov’ev’s house. Marfa Larionova’s observation that the fire that burnt children’s clothes was abnormal, in that it consisted only of sparks and not of flames, evoked folkloric assumptions about the demonic quality of fire. Some nineteenth-century rural inhabitants of the Russian empire reported that fire could be either benevolent or evil. Evil fire had been created by demons when they were driven out of the heavens; it burned differently from ordinary fire.99 Solov’ev himself also referred to demons (besy) in his telegrams to Bishop Sergii and Ioann Kronshtadtskii, a term that was taken up by Don Bazilio (Genrikh Iosifovich Klepatskii) in his Russkii listok articles, albeit with an ironic flavor. The police officer, moreover, noted in his report that he had discovered footprints in the snow: “the left footprint was how it ought to be, but the right one was as if twisted backwards (there’s no one [with such feet] among the local inhabitants).”100 These descriptions of a deformed foot conjured up visions of the devil with his cloven hoof. These allusions to Christian notions of demons and devils also introduced ideas about the possibility of an evil presence and of sinful acts. The disorderliness of haunted houses was highly gendered. The malevolent force, which was associated with male figures—the folkloric domovoi, demons or the devil, a sorcerer or Father Solov’ev’s lack of charity—unsettled the female sphere. Hauntings usually originated in the female space of the kitchen. Kitchens and ovens figured most prominently in haunted houses. As one affected person put it, supernatural events took place “only in the kitchen, under the roof, and in the bathhouse. We have never noticed anything of this kind in the master’s study.”101 In Lychentsy, the kitchen and the living room were the spaces that suffered most from supernatural caprice. Objects within the responsibility of the maids or the mistress were thrown about in a way that defied common logic: most prominent among these objects were textiles, which were burned in the stove, but combs and a dressing table (tualet) were also thrown about, and tubs and jars moved places, and food was spilled. True, the supernatural force also preyed on symbols of male authority, such as the policeman’s service cap or Father Solov’ev’s epitrachelion, but kitchen utensils and clothing remained more common. The supernatural force sometimes attacked women directly. In Lychentsy, a poker “flew out of the [living room] door” directly toward the village teacher, Aleksandra Petrovna Nozhevnikova, and the priest’s wife, Dar’ia Vasil’evna Solov’eva, then in the last stages of pregnancy. As the teacher testified to the police: “If we hadn’t managed to run away, it would have hit us on the forehead.”102

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In Lychentsy, as in other cases of haunted houses, the stove played a central role.103 In the reports about the events in Lychentsy, the stove was closely associated with the maids. The servants were responsible for keeping it hot, and they used it for cooking, baking, or heating water. In Lychentsy, they also slept near the oven in the kitchen. The gendered character of hauntings afforded these narratives a sexual component. Sexual tension was underlined by the circumstance that mysterious events usually involved a maid who had only recently joined the household and whose relocation potentially unsettled the sexual relations in the home. As noted above, Solov’ev was convinced that the starting of the mysterious events coincided with the imprisonment and departure of his former maid. Yet precisely at the same time, the fourteen-year-old Natalia Riazantseva joined the Solov’ev household as servant and niania.104 It was the new maid Natalia—and not Evdokiia (sometimes Avdotia) Nikitina, the second seventeen-year-old maid who had been working for the Solov’ev’s for over a year—who was lighting the stove on November 16, when the mysterious force struck for the first time. Natalia also lit the stove on November 17, when the phenomenon acquired a more violent character. Some sources suggested that the supernatural force might have had a sexual relationship with the new member of the family. When the peasant Ivan Mikhailov, who was on patrol at Solov’ev’s house one evening, went to sleep in the kitchen where the maids also spent their nights, he “heard a faint knock on the stove and suddenly saw how something cat-like fell onto his chest. Mikhailov leapt up, made the sign of the cross, and grabbed this thing. It turned out to be Evdokiia’s kerchief.”105 A few moments after that, Mikhailov’s hat and trousers, both attributes of manliness, were found on the floor (okazalis’ po polam), and Mikhailov discovered that his “sheepskin coat [tulup] was torn in two at the back, from the collar to the hem.”106 When he finally lay down, Mikhailov “heard a voice saying: ‘you Sotemski (he’s from the vill[age] of Sot’ma) get lost, you’re in my way.’”107 The cat-like animal that jumped onto Ivan Mikhailov’s breast once more evoked associations of the domovoi, who assumed the guise of a cat and suffocated sleeping peasants by pushing down on their breasts.108 But the incident could also point toward other supernatural creatures, such as fiery snakes— traditional seducers of single women—or demons. In any case, the episode suggested that outsiders like the peasant Mikhailov were in the way between the evil force and the servants. In this respect, it made little difference that the handkerchief was Evdokiia’s and not Natalia’s.

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Not long after this episode, an “ink blob” was discovered in the parish books that Father Ioann kept in his study. This stain “had the form of a humpbacked woman with nipples, or of a pregnant human figure. In the middle of this figure a white oval circle not filled with ink had formed, and in it was the letter N.”109 The witnesses’ reading of the spot as a female figure with nipples or as a pregnant woman was another pointer toward a possibly sexual interpretation of the haunting and the letter “N” associated this topic once more with Natalia. In a different haunted house, the sexual theme was even more pronounced. One morning Father Ioann Gerasimovich Menailov and his wife and children awoke to find “that next to every member of the family, and even next to the maid, dolls lay on the beds.” Dolls with skirts lay next to men, male dolls were found next to female sleepers.110 During the ensuing weeks, the customary phenomena took place: household utensils danced about, the stove behaved unpredictably, and food flew through the air. When the ascetic Archimandrite Adrian of Chernigov, who “particularly tried to avoid women,” aimed to relieve Menailov of the sarcastic spirit in his house, the ghostly intruder played a prank on him as well: during the exorcising prayer, all the furniture turned upside down. “When we had [just] calmed down, a life-sized female doll flew out of the stove [...] and bowed before Adrian.” The embarrassed archimandrite left the place in a hurry. As became clear later, the phenomena coincided with the presence of Anna Emelianovna Kornukh, Menailov’s niece, who “was very, very pretty, clever, accomplished[, ...] sang like a bird,” and immediately became the object of desire among various local youths.111 Reports about haunted houses evoked ideas about sexuality that could—for reasons of censorship regulations and cultural taboos—not have been expressed more explicitly. Although sexuality was to become a visible preoccupation of fin-de-siècle writers, jurists, doctors, sociologists, and journalists, before 1905 the topic transgressed notions of propriety and was not addressed openly in Russian popular publishing. Reports about hauntings discussed sexuality symbolically. The position of the central figure of these stories, the female servant, echoed traditional notions about the sexual promiscuity of single women. In Russian rural communities, single women—such as widows, wives of soldiers, or wives of migrant workers—were rumored to have sexual intercourse with demons. The sexual relationship with these demonic figures, however, was harmful, and the female lovers grew ill.112 Maidservants or female wards suspected of causing supernatural phenomena had much in common with rural widows or soldiers’ wives. They were outsiders, they lacked male companionship, they potentially disrupted the sexual relations in the household, they were thought to

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be in contact with supernatural forces, and they were frequently not healthy.113 Moreover, the prominent role of clothes in Lychentsy alluded to the naked body that textiles touched and covered, while the most important objects of such hauntings—the stove, stuffed pipes, pokers, and knives—can be read in a Freudian manner as symbols of sexuality. In such an interpretation, the stove would symbolically represent the servant’s body, while the aggressive appearance of knives, pokers, candlesticks, and walking sticks could be interpreted as phallic symbols.114 In such a reading, Marfa Larionova’s narrative about how she rescued a jacket (kofta) from the stove alludes to descriptions of birth or abortion, while the image of fire and heat make use of long-established metaphors for passion and lust.115 The police officer’s report supports a reading that focuses on the sexual disruption Natalia could have caused in Solov’ev’s house. According to this text, the Solov’ev case only found resolution when, early in 1901, the priest decided to leave Lychentsy and to take on a new, poorer parish in Dubrovy of Aleksandrovskii uezd. The older maid Evdokiia followed the family to the new position, while Natalia left the Solov’ev household. Since the move, the police officer stated, no further supernatural events had been noticed.116 In Father Menailov’s case, supernatural occurrences also ceased, albeit gradually, after his niece left the family and the Menailovs slowly expunged the memory of erotic attraction.117 The haunting found its metaphoric resolution some months after Anna’s departure. “At the day of the Resurrection of Christ, when the bells rang for Prime and the father had already gone to church but his wife and the rest of the family were still at home, the upper window [fortochka] suddenly opened on its own and something quite loud flew out through it.”118 With this symbolic airing and resurrection, the haunting was exorcised. What really happened in Solov’ev’s house, and whether or not he or his servant Natalia violated norms of morality, will forever remain unknown. But this does not change the character of haunting reports as shared texts that voiced veiled thoughts about sexuality. Telling or reading about a haunted house might have given contemporaries the pleasure—among other things—of participating in erotic fantasies. Where the devilish force that these sources alluded to was residing remained ambiguous. The physical manifestations suggested that it lingered in the kitchen or salon, near the stove. One further allusion insinuated that demons might have become internalized, in other words, they were residing inside those implicated in the events. The idea that earlier manifest demons had relocated into minds from which they could be less easily expelled had been

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expressed as early as 1827 by Pushkin in a poem dedicated to E. N. Ushakova; the idea remained a prominent theme in literature, as Pamela Davidson argues.119 Davidson also shows that the demonic in Russian culture has its roots in the aspiration to transcendence. The holier the saint, the more powerful the demons that tempt him; the more sacralized a ruler, the greater his demonization.120 Demonic concerns, then, proliferate when the impulse to sacralization is frustrated.121 The notion that the flip side of sacralization was demonization might be one further reason why priests’ houses were so frequently troubled by spirits. Their inhabitants were—after all—striving toward spiritual perfection more ardently than other members of the community. Father Ioann Solov’ev, as reports mentioned repeatedly, was respected by his parishioners, while his colleague with the dolls, Ioann Menailov, was known to lead a “most strict life [...] and was regarded as a saint.” Archimandrite Adrian was in turn recognized as an ascetic who “prayed ardently.”122 This close link between holiness and corruption allowed contemporaries to depict Father Solov’ev as a virtuous man and implicate him simultaneously in demonic behavior. Russkii listok very directly suggested that the evil force in Lychentsy might be located within the priest himself. “One night,” Solov’ev told Don Bazilio, “I felt very clearly that something huge, formless, fleshy, and disgusting was lying next to me” in bed. So horrible was the presence of this being (sushchestvo) that the priest was “too scared to turn [his] head to that side, because [he] felt that [he] would die immediately” if he saw it. Eventually, however, curiosity prevailed and “very carefully, without haste,” Solov’ev moved his left hand in that direction and detected “some coarse mass.” With great effort, Solov’ev recounts, “I lifted some of this mass and placed it on my chest. Then, I quickly opened my eyes: on my chest lay my right hand [ruka], which had been lying motionless alongside my body all the time, clenching the sheets.”123 Later, Solov’ev told the same journalist: “I cannot grasp the reasons for these phenomena [i.e., the hauntings], but I see in them the punishing finger [perst] of providence for my sins.”124 Secular observers such as Don Bazilio referred to Christian notions of demons in their texts, but also described hauntings in scientific language and concluded that a psychological affliction lay at the heart of the mysterious events. The policeman who investigated the case also contemplated this possibility. Although he initially suspected a “spiritualist maid” and raised suspicions about someone with crooked feet, the policeman ultimately refused to

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acknowledge any supernatural interference, abandoning the spiritualism theory when he realized that séances were not practiced in the family.125 Instead, he described Solov’ev as “a man with weak nerves, [...] who easily submits to hypnotic suggestion, [and] acts unconsciously in a hypnotic state.”126 The police officer was, however, not entirely convinced by his own proposition, because he could not explain why no one would have noticed that the hypnotized Solov’ev caused the phenomena himself. Don Bazilio also considered whether hypnosis was at play in Lychentsy and wondered whether the servant convicted of theft “belonged namely to the kind of beings [‘with a tremendous inner power’], who [are able] to trigger inexplicable appearances.”127 However, Don Bazilio ruled out a mass hypnosis in the village, but thought “mass insanity” a possibility. The journalist, however, ended his report with the Shakespeare verse that was frequently quoted in relation to alleged supernatural occurrences at the time: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”128 A. A. Titov, who published a long discussion of the Lychentsy hauntings in 1903, insisted vehemently that Solov’ev suffered from “the bifurcation of his will and his consciousness,” a medical condition that created a state of mind whereby “two personalities reside within him, which negate each other.”129 Solov’ev, Titov claimed, caused the mysterious phenomena unconsciously, but his rational self was not aware of this. Don Bazilio’s, the policeman’s, and Titov’s suggestions expressed and reworked ideas that psychologists were developing about double consciousness, multiple personalities, and the power of commonly inaccessible reaches of the mind.130 Their discussion of hypnosis, clairvoyance, mediumistic ability, and its relation to mental illness, illustrates that debates about haunted houses were closely linked to developments of a new understanding of the human self. Like hypnotists, psychologists, and occultists, these investigators stressed the multilayered quality of the human person. Reports about hauntings written for a mass audience show to what degree popular culture participated in the modernist reinterpretation of the human self and of reality. Father Solov’ev’s consciousness, it seemed, consisted of various layers and was at times so far removed from his physical persona that the priest thought his own arm belonged to an altogether different being. C. G. Jung argued that the process of passing on and thereby modifying narratives can be seen as shared psychological analysis that reveals veiled meaning.131 For Jung, variations in accounts are signs of “intense inner participation” of those who retell the story. Jung concludes that a dream, “which is notoriously harmless and never means anything” could produce malicious

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gossip if “it gave suitable expression to something that was already in the air.”132 The reports and speculation, both oral and printed, that accompanied hauntings in priestly homes functioned like Jung’s storytelling, that is, as discussions that tried to explain a situation that was experienced as needing commentary. Reports about haunted houses presented a different kind of reality, which, like séances, dreams, or hallucinations, seemed absurd to the rational, waking mind. It simply made no sense to stuff the stovepipes with fur and felt, to place clothes in a burning stove, briefcases in a tub, boots in a container with flour, a watch in a jug of milk, dough on the floorboards, or dolls of the opposite sex next to sleeping family members. In the alternative reality of the haunted house, this absurdity suggested ambiguous interpretations. Contemporaries might have simply enjoyed following a narrative in the press that thrilled them as it portrayed figures of authority wrestling with an invisible and unknowable adversary. For parishioners, the talk about a priest’s troubled house might have offered a way to gain power over the clergyman. Alternative explanations made reference to magic or supernatural beings, such as the possibility that Solov’ev’s house had been placed under a spell by a sorcerer or suffered from the whims of the domovoi, demons, the devil, or spiritualist forces. Speculation about the reasons for the mysterious events gave expression to the suspicion that things might not be as they seemed. The uncanny quality of the haunting cast doubt upon reality by emphasizing the power of the psyche.133 In Lychentsy, doubts about reality pointed toward an overindulgence in alcohol, a lack of Christian compassion, feelings of guilt and revenge, or erotic desire. These suspicions were connected, albeit in ways that never made the causal relationship explicit, to unusual states of the mind such as mediumism, hypnosis, or a weak nervous disposition.

Conclusion Haunted houses in late imperial Russia were about ambiguities, epistemological voids, the simultaneity of the un-simultaneous. Hauntings evaded clear explanations about what exactly was going on in houses troubled by supernatural mayhem and described phenomena that were beyond knowledge but not beyond expressing contradictory truths. The contradictory statements of such reports grew out of the rich cultural soil upon which descriptions of hauntings were based. Their cultural repertoire included Russian folklore, Christian teaching, spiritualist ideas, and scientific hypotheses. These schools of

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thought contributed to the cultural unconscious of stories about hauntings and influenced the patterns of their narratives. Most importantly, the rich cultural heritage from which reports about hauntings drew contributed to the hermeneutic equivocalness of hauntings. A haunted house questioned the hold of the conscious on reality by insisting on the power of deep psychological and of demonic forces. In questioning reality, hauntings combined that which was temporarily or conceptually disparate. Both Christian demons and the folkloric domovoi, which many contemporaries traced back to pagan times, retained a strong implicit presence in reports about haunted houses, while the nineteenthcentury invention of spiritualism raised the possibility of a ghostly existence, and medical notions introduced an altogether different view of the world. This bricolage of interpretations characterizes hauntings as quintessentially modern narratives. By joining spiritualist, medical, and scientific forces in the realm of mass publishing, traditional creatures such as the domovoi and demons transcended the backwardness that contemporaries associated with such figures when treating them in isolation.134 Hauntings in late imperial Russia, moreover, suggested that they evolved around a secret. They were indeed concerned with hidden truths, but they were also highly public affairs. Hauntings dealt with the uncanny in the Freudian sense, that is, they revealed truths that were at once well known and repressed. In this capacity, reports about hauntings voiced ideas that servants, tenants, parishioners, and readers suspected but were reluctant or unable to express. Reports about haunted houses also escorted ideas past the tangible censor of Russian publishing laws. Maureen Perrie has noted that satirical folktales directed against the clergy could not be published in tsarist Russia; cases about haunted houses that also expressed a satirical view of the clergy, in contrast, could.135 Hauntings might indeed have been occasions at which concerns were expressed that otherwise lacked a language for articulation. While villagers in Lychentsy and readers in the capitals knew from experience that the lives of domestic servants were harsh and that maids were frequently subjected to abuse, and thus unconsciously acknowledged that the situation of domestics represented a significant flaw in the social status quo, contemporaries were unable to express this concern in other terms.136 As Rebecca Spagnolo has shown, the language of working-class demands did not extend to and could not be used by maids.137 Hauntings themselves mirrored this speechlessness. The important role of foodstuffs and quotidian objects meant that hauntings were grounded in byt (everyday life) and possessed a very tactile character: pota-

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toes could be eaten, bricks and logs left bruises, and burning clothes smelled. Yet the agents who haunted dwellings were even more elusive than those at spiritualist séances: although they had qualities of all them, they could neither be identified as domovye, demons, the dead, nor ill inhabitants of the house in question. Unlike spirits at séances, these agents left no notes and never materialized as hazy, yet visible ghosts. They too, then, had no messages to relay. Only the emergence of unions representing domestic servants after 1905 gave maids an opportunity, albeit precarious, to address their demands and forced employers to engage with them explicitly. Significantly, after the revolutionary upheavals at the beginning of the century, the importance of maids in haunted houses waned.138 After the turn of the century, rational and scientific explanations became more and more prominent. Yet this did not mean that previous interpretations were discarded. Instead, one further interpretational layer was added to the explanatory variety that was already available. Electricity, which had newly been introduced into the daily lives of city dwellers, served particularly well as a further possible explanation of inexplicable phenomena. Jeffrey Brooks has observed how “science is often invoked when the reader is asked to accept something marvelous and mysterious without the aid of superstitious belief.”139 Scientific explanations, such as reference to electricity, completed the interpretational mix with which inexplicable events could be approached and contributed to the explanatory heterogeneity that defined the epistemic quality of supernatural occurrences. A fine example of the use of science in newspaper reports about haunted houses could be found in Volyn (The Volhynian) in 1911. When unusual phenomena occurred in Mr. Lysenko’s Zhitomir home, the affected tenant suggested that the crossing of electrically driven streetcar lines close to his house might have caused the unusual events. “During the days in question there was, obviously, an extraordinary accumulation of electricity, which ultimately found itself an outlet, and because my house is the highest in the neighborhood, the electricity swooped down on its roof from where its influence spread throughout the house.”140 However, like all other attempts to explain haunted houses, scientific descriptions also failed to be entirely satisfactory. Mr. Lysenko had to acknowledge that neither Mr. Beker, the director of the electric power plant in Zhitomir, nor the academic Dr. Dumanenskii found his explanation convincing.141 Similarly, when confronted with the inexplicable phenomena that occurred in Arbuzova’s presence in St. Petersburg, a commission of technicians suggested that “wrongly connected electric cables between neighboring apartments” could have “caused all metal utensils to be

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attracted to one another in some strange, electromagnetic way.” However, this explanation was later abandoned because it failed to explain why some cardboard boxes also behaved “strangely.”142 Another way of expressing scientific interpretations and eschewing supernatural notions was to describe the phenomena in haunted houses as fraudulent. The accusation that raps, blows, and flying objects were caused by deceitful means accompanied accounts about haunted houses throughout the period under consideration. As early as 1885, in the wake of the Kazan epidemic of hauntings, Volzhskii vestnik published a letter to the editor by an anonymous student. This undergraduate at Kazan University accused Mr. Sukhanov, to whom the phenomena spread after their first occurrence at Florentsov’s apartment, of gullibility. He charged Mr. Sukhanov with being duped by his son’s and servant’s pranks. The mysterious events were caused, the unknown author claimed, by Sukhanov’s female servant’s ruse, and by “the old man’s [...] inclination to exaggerate [and his] unwillingness to accept any opinion other than his own.”143 Similar accusations regarding other haunted houses were printed on the pages of Peterburgskaia gazeta and Peterburgskii listok.144 In 1895, Novorossiiskii telegraf (The Novorossiisk Telegraph) announced that Antonina Maliarenko, a servant who had caused supernatural events in her employer’s house, had actually achieved the baffling manifestations through fraudulent means. Similarly, in 1904, a police inquiry and investigations by an interested physicist concluded that Liuba Morozova had also caused the events in her employers’ Vladikavkaz houses through dishonest methods.145 Yet again, how precisely servants or sons had achieved these feats remained unclear. Haunted houses thus remained elusive. Reports about them were always equivocal; like dreams they were overdetermined and they remained essentially unknowable, even if different explanatory themes gained prominence at different times. While at first spiritualist notions, then psychological ideas about hypnosis, and eventually scientific notions about electricity eclipsed domovye and to a lesser degree Christian demons, all of these possible explanations always remained implicitly present. The transient quality that characterized haunted houses created an ephemeral equilibrium in which contradiction gave way to heterogeneous unity. The equivocal quality of haunted houses also argues against an unequivocal historical interpretation. Haunted houses can be read simultaneously as expressions of anxieties and of desires. They expressed apprehension about protesting social inferiors, about the loss of power and influence, about a reality that was not as it seemed and in which the holy could turn out to be vile. Yet

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they were also wishful utopias in which the tables were turned and in which servants or parishioners dominated. Hauntings, moreover, expressed erotic fantasies and fears. Reports about haunted houses easily combined contradictory messages, and they expressed anxieties as well as delight in the entertaining quality of these narratives. Solov’ev’s haunted house, and the many others that equally enthralled contemporaries, expressed an irony about priestly and secular authority, uneasiness about materialistic explanation of cause and effect, and doubt in relation to physical force, supernatural agency, and psychological power, as well as an uncertainty about holiness and sinfulness and about the appearance and hidden reality. These texts revealed a shared apprehension but also a shared relish in precisely these ambiguities, and as such are expressions of a very modern predisposition in rural and urban witnesses, journalists, inhabitants, and readers alike, who creatively made themselves at home in a world that was transient and in which the disparate held itself together in its heterogeneity.

5 Popular Occultism and the Orthodox Church

A

depts of occult teachings claimed with persistent regularity that the Orthodox Church was engaged in a hostile campaign against them. Spiritualists constantly mentioned the vicious and prejudiced attitude of the Church toward them and celebrated themselves as suppressed freethinkers. For example, Viktor Ivanovich Pribytkov, the editor of Rebus, wrote in his history of Russian spiritualism that the “majority of the clergy [are convinced that] spiritualist phenomena proceeded from the devil.”1 His brother-in-arms Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov portrayed spiritualists as defenseless victims of a powerful institution allied with the imperial state. Alluding to the fact that all books dealing with spiritual matters were subject to Church censorship in the Russian empire, Aksakov complained dramatically in a Western publication: “My work ‘Philosophy of Common Sense’ was condemned fiercely by Church censors and the fate awaiting the banned editions was extermination by fire!”2 Occultists were indeed sometimes banned from engaging in certain activities. In 1883, for example, Chief Procurator of the Holy Synod Konstantin Pobedonostsev did not grant the chemist-cum-spiritualist Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov the right to deliver a public lecture on spiritualism. Pobedonostsev feared that “Mr. Butlerov’s lectures will awaken, doubtless, a newspaper polemic of a very seductive character. Devout people will come from these lectures and polemics into great temptation and will begin to grumble that the government should allow superstition in public display. It is the duty of the Orthodox Church to condemn the popular fascination with the supernatural[.]”3 Prohibiting a public lecture, however, did not amount to persecution. So far, very little research has been devoted to the question of how theologians

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interpreted fashionable occultism, and nothing is known about whether occultism and theology might have cross-fertilized.4 Because of this dearth of information, the heavy-handed approach has seemed to be a plausible depiction of official responses, not least because until relatively recently the Russian Orthodox Church has been portrayed as stubbornly wedded to received dogma and suspicious of rational engagement with religious belief.5 The situation, however, was a great deal more complex. No evidence is currently available to describe exactly how members of the clergy took spiritualist parishioners to task on a local level. It cannot be ruled out that such conflicts occurred, and indeed, it seems rather likely that they did; it would have been in these instances that the perception of persecution among occultists would have been felt most acutely. Because of the lack of (locatable) evidence about community conflict, public discussions about occultism in the theological press and within theological academies are used in this chapter in their place. I will argue that occultism did not rank highly on the list of urgent problems with which theologians were grappling. When, in the 1880s, the popularity of the occult came to be seen as something relevant to them, Orthodox writers in Russia did not formulate a coherent view on the subject but instead discussed occultism in a sophisticated manner that was not necessarily adversarial. Whether Orthodox thought and occult teachings were in any way entangled or whether, in fact, they represented opposed entities is another focus of this chapter. Both opposition and influence can be detected in the relationship between popular occultism and the Orthodox Church. The Russian Orthodox Church found itself in a precarious situation in late imperial Russia, and this shaped the clergy’s reaction to the popularity of occult thought and practices. Although the Orthodox Church remained autonomous in areas such as family law and in parts of its administration, it had been incorporated within the state bureaucracy since the reign of Peter the Great. From 1721, the Church was headed by the chief procurator, a layperson appointed by the tsar, and required by law to defend autocracy, for example, by reporting anti-autocratic statements uttered by parishioners during confessions. By the nineteenth century, however, men of the cloth felt that the state could not be relied upon as a loyal supporter of its own church. Bureaucratic interference, political instrumentalization of religious rituals, the reduction of religious holidays, and the withdrawal of state support for missionary activities were all interpreted by numerous churchmen as signs of half-hearted support,

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if not outright betrayal. During the nineteenth century, a substantial number of clergy grew increasingly critical of the close administrative relationship between the Church and the state. They argued that this association was holding the Church back in its pastoral mission and called for the reinstatement of a church council and a patriarch. The Church was indeed perceived by many ordinary Russians as an institution that could not provide for the spiritual needs of the Orthodox faithful, who were struggling to accommodate their personal experiences of migration, poverty, social injustice, calls for political participation, and the rise of scientific explanatory models with their religious belief. The Church, in turn, felt besieged by a critical and eloquently vocal intelligentsia. Some of these intelligenty expressed radically atheist convictions, while still others developed religious systems that were clearly at odds with Orthodox dogma. Moreover, the number of sectarian groups that deliberately set themselves outside the Church’s embrace was growing steadily among the lower strata of society and seemed highly menacing from a clerical perspective.6 Within the multi-ethnic Russian empire, the Orthodox Church also felt under pressure from other creeds, most notably from the learned traditions of Protestantism and Roman Catholicism. It was not only outside forces that challenged the Russian Orthodox Church; it was also riddled with internal conflict. Parish clergy were resentful of the superior status of monks in the hierarchy, reformist clergy were pitted against those with traditionalist and nationalist convictions, and the question of learning created much discord. From the eighteenth century onward, some monks were highly trained and well read in Western systematic theology. Reformers had hoped that this enlightenment project would reinvigorate Russian theological learning and eventually Orthodoxy itself. Fixing the dogmas of Eastern Christianity promised to bring it to a position from which it could equal its Western rivals, but the unavoidable reliance on Western scholarship made this attempt complex and controversial. Simon Dixon has argued that the institutional and political constraints under which churchmen were obliged to operate prevented the creation of a coherent response to the intellectual challenges they faced. This failure was due to “the supposed immutability of the tradition that Russian scholars sought to defend, and yet were paradoxically obliged at least in part to re-create.”7 Thus Orthodox learning itself accentuated divisions within the Church as the advocates of rigorous theological training were pitted against its critics and the increasing education of a group of theologians widened the rift between them and those members of the parish clergy who were equipped only with

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rudimentary intellectual skills. Taken together, these pressures gave rise to the impression that Orthodoxy was beleaguered from all sides. The Church’s reaction to the fashionable interest in the occult was, then, merely a response to one challenge of many. This response included indifference as well as vitriol, blunt threats directed at occultists but also sophisticated theological analysis of heterodox practices. The most striking feature of the Church’s public response to occult ideas was its elusiveness. The proportionally marginal attention that popular occultism received from clerical figures is illustrated by the relative absence of the occult as a topic on the tables of contents of the theological periodical press. While numerous articles in Bogoslovskii vestnik (The Theological Herald), Golos tserkvy (The Voice of the Church), Dushepoleznoe chtenie (Edifying Reading), Khristianskoe chtenie (Christian Reading), Izvestiia St.-peterburgskoi eparkhii (News of the St. Petersburg Diocese), Pravoslavnoe obozrenie (Orthodox Review), and others were devoted to sectarian movements and, after 1870, to a lesser degree also to atheism, very few of these periodicals addressed occultism, spiritualism, or theosophy explicitly.8 The same picture emerges from the teaching programs in theological academies. Students at the Kazan Theological Academy, for example, wrote numerous essays about fundamental theology, church history, Russian literature and history, sectarian movements, and other officially recognized religions of the empire, but they very rarely touched upon occult movements in their coursework.9 This suggests that their professors did not regard occultism as important enough for students to practice their arguments against it—which stands in stark contrast to the time future clerics invested into polishing their cases against the claims of sectarian movements. Where students did tackle occult groups, these were, as in journals, depicted as circles restricted to either Western societies or distinct ethnic minorities within the Russian empire.10 Only from the early 1880s onward did fashionable occultism become a topic that was portrayed as relevant to Russian believers. In 1859, Dukhovnaia beseda depicted spiritualism as an entirely Western and Protestant affair, and in 1871 Pravoslavnoe obozrenie described it as virtually unknown in Russia.11 A decade later this impression was changing, as an angry syn otechestva (son of the fatherland) warned of spiritualism’s pernicious impact in the tsarist empire.12 He was soon joined by other writers who discussed séances and other popular forms of occultism in relation to Russian society. Yet the initial assessment remained: fashionable occultism was a topic of minor concern. Publications in church journals and essay topics set at theological academies indicate

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that clergy and theologians did not credit popular occultism with the honor of defining it as particularly “harmful.” This epithet was reserved for sectarians and radical Marxists.13 Despite this relatively marginal engagement with popular occultism, theologians shared numerous concerns with their spiritualist or theosophical contemporaries.

Mutual Concerns The table of contents of church journals and the topics of student essays do not show much theological engagement with spiritualism or theosophy, but Orthodox periodicals do reveal that clergy and theologians were perceptive observers of spiritual developments within the Russian empire as well as abroad. Bogoslovskii vestnik, published by the Moscow Theological Academy, for example, frequently reviewed foreign theological, philosophical, and scientific publications and also assessed cultural developments within the empire.14 Izvestiia St.-peterburgskoi eparkhii summarized Russian newspaper articles as well as publications that had appeared in other church publications. An analysis of these articles reveals that authors writing for theological journals were in many instances wrestling with the same questions that subscribers of Rebus or Izida encountered in their reading. These themes included individualism, immortality, and miracles, that is, the immediate experience of the supernatural; meanwhile the most prominent topic discussed by both theologians and occultists was the relationship between religion and science.

Individualism and Immortality Individualism raised problems concerning the relationship of man to society, issues of spiritual experience, and questions about the immortality of the soul. Discussions about individualism by occultists and Orthodox theologians alike were informed by the impression that the social changes taking place in Russia were transforming traditional loyalties and giving way to urban anonymity, self-reliance, and independence. Like occult manuals advising readers on “how to become individuals,” clerical journals also grappled with the experience of decreasing social cohesion.15 Occultists celebrated a popularized version of Nietzsche’s superman, which included strong magical components, such as practical instructions on how to impose one’s will on others and thus

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achieve personal aims. The self-proclaimed occult master Viktor Segno, for example, celebrated the new opportunities that growing individualization offered readers if they mastered his technique of hypnotic influence. Theologians were less celebratory about individual autonomy. In an article entitled “The Individual and Society,” S. Levitskii approved of individualism because he believed it was in accordance with God’s creation of distinct and unique beings; but Levitskii also noted that individual ambitions needed to take the general good into account.16 Levitskii stressed the importance of “human rights” and “freedom” but rejected crude Nietzscheanism and concluded that “salvation can only be achieved through selfless service to society.”17 Morality was thus vital for the theologian Levitskii, but it was influence over others that was crucial for the occultist Segno. Not all occultists, of course, promised to teach methods by which individual aims could be obtained at the expense of others. Calls for philanthropic action that made reference to one’s Christian obligations were common to occult publications too, but these were outnumbered by instructions on how to achieve personal aims without considering their possible impact upon the freedom of others.18 Although some spiritualists also sensed a danger in heightened individualism, they rarely discussed its moral implications.19 At the center of this different stress on the responsibilities of the individual lay the issue of human pride. According to Archpriest Butkevich, individualization in combination with rationalization led to human hubris and religious aberration.20 Traditional Christian values, by contrast, demanded meekness and submission to God’s supreme power.21 Spiritualist practices like the summoning of spirits lacked this meekness, Orthodox critics argued. The anonymous author of the pamphlet S Afona o spiritizme (Mount Athos on Spiritualism) reminded his readers that prayer was the only way to communicate with God. For him, claims of having communicated with the departed around a séance table in a ritual more akin to salon entertainment than devout supplication was an example of spiritualist hubris.22 An anonymous author in Pravoslavnoe obozrenie traced the roots of spiritualism back to the Enlightenment and Western, particularly French, pride. “Is it really possible to think,” he asked, “that because of a whim, because of idle curiosity and at a predetermined time, sometimes even at publicly accessible séances, conducted for financial purposes, pure spirits [...] would announce their revelations?”23 The individual hubris of occultists was most pronounced, clerics argued, in the case of theosophical expectations of salvation. In Orthodox teaching, salvation involves divine grace, but theosophists believed that humans could engineer their own return to the Godhead.24 Theologians were dismayed not only by occultists’

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claims to summon or dismiss otherworldly beings at their whim, but also by their insistence that humans held the key to their own spiritual renovation. Despite disagreements over the responsibility and role of the individual with regard to society and God, most occultists and theologians shared some common assumptions. One of these concerned immortality and the eternal life of the individual. Belief in life after death was widespread among occultists and churchmen alike, and both sides did notably share the strong desire to defend immortality against any claims that death ended all individual existence. The need to do so became urgent from the 1860s onwards, when the rising authority of science and its philosophical partners, materialism and nihilism, threatened to undermine the sense of certainty in life after death as well as Christian notions of morality, by insisting that life and thus responsibility ended with the termination of bodily functions. As has been argued in earlier chapters, the appeal of spiritualism was partly due to the proof of individual immortality that séances allegedly provided. Consequently, spiritualists described themselves as indispensable upholders of Christian teaching.25 According to one of them, “the Church may say, but it cannot prove anything, [but with spiritualism,] it is built upon facts of which no rival church can dispose.”26 Theologians also tried to substantiate the Christian notion of personal immortality, albeit without using séance phenomena to buttress their claims. Nikolai Pavlovich Rozhdestvenskii, a professor at the St. Petersburg Theological Academy, devoted a chapter in his widely used textbook Khristianskaia apologetika (Christian Apologetics) to the question of individual immortality, and students at Kazan quoted his text as they argued along the same lines in their coursework essays.27 Their arguments included two distinct aspects. Rozhdestvenskii and his student readers insisted that life after death was real, and they also stressed the related point that man retained his individuality after death. This Orthodox theological individualism was in accord with the spiritualist teaching that the spirits of the departed retained their separate identities. But this opinion was clearly opposed to some ideas of occult thought that had been influenced by Buddhist notions and reworked in theosophical writings. According to the followers of Madame Blavatsky, man was merely a temporary expression of a larger and all-embracing world spirit with whom he would merge upon the attainment of Nirvana.28 This theosophical view was vehemently criticized by theologians and their students as well as by spiritualists.29 Thus, although occultists and theologians shared the conviction in life after death, disagreements about what this truly meant united Orthodox theologians with spiritualists but set theosophers apart.

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Orthodox writers and spiritualists, however, did not agree on how immortality was to be substantiated. Church publications addressed to a popular audience, such as the monk Mitrofan’s How our Deceased Live and How We too, Will Live after Death: According to the Teachings of the Orthodox Church, Human Premonition, and Science, were intended to buttress an Orthodox version of immortality that could, in its vivid and easily understandable depictions, hold up against the exciting version of life beyond the grave that spiritualists painted.30 The book quickly went into several editions and was praised by the Holy Synod for its ability to paint “a most visual, lively, and comprehensive picture of life after death.”31 Yet despite this editorial enthusiasm, Orthodox writers faced a difficult task in substantiating immortality without recourse to spiritualist forms of “proof.” Mitrofan might have depicted life after death in colorful images, but his examples were biblical and thus less immediate than the description of the beyond that could be obtained from lost friends and relatives at spiritualist séances. While writings by Mitrofan and other theologians relied almost exclusively on colorful biblical texts to substantiate their claims for immortality, a further frequently encountered argument in support for life after death, both in publications addressed at a larger audience and at fellow theologians, was divine justice. This point was made by the anonymous author of an article in Dukhovnaia beseda who replied to the rhetorical challenge of “death ends everything”: “Akh, my friend! What kind of world would this be, if your proposition were true? [...] Justice and injustice, good and evil would merely be empty words.”32 The necessity of immortality for divine justice remained a central theme in discussions intended to buttress the reality of life after death throughout the decades; it featured prominently in Rozhdestvenskii’s 1884 textbook and was the central theme of Mikhail Grigor’ev’s student coursework essay in 1901.33 Theologians writing for a clerical audience, however, treated the topic with more subtlety than those writing for ordinary readers. Their discussions were more sophisticated and multifaceted, but they too clearly found it very hard to provide a compelling case. Rozhdestvenskii went to a great deal of trouble, showing that the soul was superior to the body not only because it could subjugate it, as some fasting feats or even cases of suicide illustrated, but also because the soul outlived the material composition of the body. After all, although the physical makeup of men changed completely every seven years, a person’s individuality and thus the soul remained the same. For Rozhdestvenskii, this alongside the fact that humans lived with the future in mind also proved the existence of an immortal and individual soul.34

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In the 1890s and after the turn of the century, however, few theologians managed to restrict their rhetorical support for immortality to biblical, moral, or spiritual arguments. In their defense of life after death, many churchmen now expressed views that were almost identical to those proposed by spiritualists in the 1870s and 1880s, that is, their arguments relied increasingly on the sciences. The appeal of scientific reasoning, it seems, was so significant that few churchmen managed to resist it.35 Spiritualists, of course, had no qualms about fusing religion and science; it was their pronounced aim to “give [the church and religion] a buttress in what is most important: factual proof.”36 But while most theologians criticized this materialist strain of spiritualism as alien to religious belief, many of them ended up making materialist arguments too. Their propositions were almost identical to occult claims that the immortal soul consisted of delicate substances, such as the ether, which were not detectible by the senses.37 The student Georgii Bogoiavlenskii, for example, started his coursework essay with an anthropological argument. He noted that the belief in immortality was common to all cultures and deduced from this that atheists’ rejections of this view formed a minority opinion that could therefore be dismissed as wrong.38 In his conclusion, however, he could not resist substantiating immortality by referring to physical emanations that radiated for millions of years, which, he suggested in a slightly confused manner, showed the immortality of individuals.39 It was not only theology students who argued along such lines. Readers of Bogoslovskii vestnik, for instance, witnessed laborious attempts to substantiate immortality on a materialist basis. In the September issue of 1897, Sergei Kuliukin showed extraordinary tolerance toward the French writer Armand Sabatier, who had suggested that all matter, including the human body, was endowed with a spirit that endured after death as a delicate plasma. Kuliukin concluded that these ideas were not in fact too far removed from Orthodox teachings about soul, individuality, and resurrection.40 Kuliukin went even further and described the immortal soul as a device that functioned like a telegraph, receiving information in the form of wave-like calibrations of the ether.41 This discussion was linked to a theological search for the place of life after death, and here again theologians and spiritualists argued very similarly. As described in chapter 2, spiritualists suggested that physical space was endowed with a fourth dimension, the realm of spirits. Zöllner and his transcendental physics were rejected by some theologians, such as Rozhdestvenskii, who argued that there was no reason to assume that such a space existed.42 Nevertheless, ideas related to the fourth spatial dimension, which as in spiritualist discussions was generally confused with non-Eu-

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clidean geometry, influenced theological thought. Like Butlerov, the philosopher Aleksandr Vvedenskii grappled with the implications of Lobachevskii’s non-Euclidean geometry.43 In an article published by Bogoslovskii vestnik, Vvedenskii struggled with the question of whether Lobachevskii’s geometry described space more correctly than did Euclidean notions.44 In his conclusion, Vvedenskii suggested that “for all of us the day will come” when we will be able to transcend our present conception of space: “after death, the question of expansion will not be relevant any more.”45 A similar idea was expressed in Kuliukin’s discussion of the soul-telegraph. Kuliukin asserted that “the soul is equipped with some form of secret ability [that makes it] independent of the restrictions of time and space.”46 Although neither Vvedenskii nor Kuliukin mentioned Zöllner or Butlerov in their articles, their ideas were very similar to spiritualist claims that spirits had access to a further spatial dimension, which rendered the constraints of ordinary three-dimensional space obsolete. Bogoiavlenskii, Kuliukin, and Vvedenskii’s arguments all show that when it came to speaking out in support of immortality, churchmen, like occultists, found it increasingly impossible to resist the appeal of scientific reasoning.47 Yet despite theologians’ failure to stay faithful to a spiritual and anti-materialist approach, their assessments illustrate a very real attempt by numerous clerics to discuss the challenge of materialism and science in a dispassionate manner. Theologians, very much like occultists, grappled with the question of immortality, and in this context they too engaged in the debate about how religion related to scientific discoveries. Sergei Glagolev, a graduate and later professor of apologetics at Moscow’s Theological Academy, was one of the authors whose musings about the relationship between religion and science appeared frequently in the pages of Bogoslovskii vestnik. In his texts, occult ideas played an important part as he tried to evaluate scientific teachings from a theological perspective.48 In 1897 he wrote a seventy-page review of Astronomie et Théologie by Th. Ortolan, a book in which the French author developed the hypothesis of multiple inhabited worlds.49 Ortolan’s theory consisted of the key belief that other planets were populated by intelligent beings who were superior to humans because they were higher incarnations of former earth dwellers, and that different worlds were linked to one another by “mutual attraction” and “moral connections,” which were centered around God, who resided in the sun. This situation, Ortolan insisted, was only temporary. “The sun will go out, the stars will be dispersed in the gloom, [... ,] heaven and earth will be transformed, and the whole universe will become the place of immortality. The worlds will be

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pulled toward the common center—toward God, and in this center they will receive a new embodiment and a new form and this is where the new life will begin.”50 Ortolan’s ideas were inspired by the teachings of the French spirite Allan Kardec, whose theory proposed a combination of reincarnation and progress that had fascinated the astronomer and mystic Camille Flammarion, who in turn was an inspiration to Ortolan.51 Ortolan’s ideas were also similar to the teachings of Helena Blavatsky, the founder of theosophy, who argued that the universe was characterized by periodicity and pulsation and ruled by the law of cycles of growth and dissolution. According to Blavatsky, human history was tied up with this development. As humans progressed from material existence to spiritual enlightenment through reincarnation, they moved from planet to planet. These ideas were disseminated through the Russian popular occult press, in which fictional stories depicted how the dead traveled to other planets and described life on Mars.52 In other narratives of this kind, enlightened mahatmas were equipped with spaceships and did much the same in the pursuit of wisdom.53 Prophecies about the impending apocalypse promised eternal life in the bodies of Martians.54 Glagolev summarized Ortolan’s teachings for Bogoslovskii vestnik in great detail, and he engaged with the science behind it. He discussed the likelihood of life on other planets in the solar system, the temperatures on their surfaces, the lack of atmosphere, and again, the properties of ether and its capabilities of securing the individuality of spirits until the resurrection of the dead. Glagolev’s article was published in several parts, and a reader who read only a middle part might well have assumed that Ortolan’s occult views were sanctioned by the editors of Bogoslovskii vestnik. In the end, however, Glagolev rejected Ortolan’s hypothesis on several grounds. First, he argued that his was a materialist approach to death and resurrection. He conceded that man ran out of space and material on earth if he wanted to believe in a literal resurrection of the dead. Instead, the theologian insisted that the Christian promise of resurrection needed to be understood as the complete rejuvenation of existence, one that went beyond the imaginary capacities of the human mind and was thus not dependent on the sufficient amount of physical material or atoms. Second, Glagolev concluded that humans had no evidence for the existence of other inhabited planets or alternative worlds and it was therefore wrong and simply fictitious to speculate about them.55 Glagolev was also critical of Ortolan’s literal reading of some parts of the Bible; he rejected, for example, the Frenchman’s search for scriptural proof for the ether. The Bible, Glagolev insisted, spoke a different language and could not be used to reach scientific

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conclusions.56 Notwithstanding his scathing conclusions, it remains noteworthy that Glagolev and the journal’s editors felt it necessary to devote 75 pages of Bogoslovskii vestnik to a serious theological engagement with Ortolan’s fanciful ideas. Glagolev’s discussions illustrate that Orthodox writers, like their contemporaries the occultists, grappled with the implications of increasing individual autonomy. Both groups shared a strongly felt conviction in the immortality of the human soul, but they differed in their view of how this immortality was constituted. Clergy and spiritualists agreed about the immortality of the individual and rejected theosophical teachings of an all-embracing world spirit. Theologians, however, differed from all occultists in their assessment about how to make the case for immortality. Theologians generally favored moral and spiritual arguments over the materialist claims of occultists, even if they too referred to radiation, telegraph waves, and higher spatial realms with increasing frequency in their attempts to prove a basic tenet of their faith.

Miracles Miracles, like immortality, raised questions about the relationship between religion and science. Such marvels greatly fascinated occultists, and they also occupied theologians. Yet while theologians remained more restrained in their reactions to alleged accounts of miracles, occultists hailed these enthusiastically. Miracles are, by definition, events in which the laws of nature are suspended or overcome by supernatural force. Occultists provided their adepts with direct and immediate examples of supernatural interference in everyday life through séance phenomena, reports about haunted houses, visions, mental exercises, and spiritual healings. Their position toward such events, however, was highly ambiguous. The occult press conflated miracles, spiritualist phenomena, and mystical experiences more generally. The articles of one journal would commonly report such different occurrences as séances, hypnotic feats, haunted houses, faith healings, and the power of prayers, thereby merging Orthodox and heterodox experiences into one big occult entity. Indeed, reports about the miraculous healings of Ioann Kronshtadtskii suggested that the famous priest was well integrated into occult circles. Thus, one article noted that Ioann had relieved a haunted house, which had also been investigated by Pribytkov and Aksakov, of its troublesome spirit, while another described at

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length how he ceremoniously opened a homeopathic pharmacy and praised the medical understanding it propagated.57 However, the various supernatural occurrences that journals such as Rebus reported did not carry equal weight. Although traditional Orthodox events were frequently covered, these were commonly texts copied from mainstream newspapers such as Peterburgskii listok, Moskovskie vedomosti (The Moscow Gazette), or Grazhdanin (The Citizen).58 They were also usually short notices. Occult investigative journalism, by contrast, delved into séances and their philosophical or scientific significance, and such discussions frequently covered numerous pages. Whether occultists ought to regard miracles such as Ioann’s healings or the curative character of icons (or at times of photographs of icons) as miraculous interventions from another realm was, however, unclear. Some prominent spiritualists such as Aksakov argued repeatedly that all mystifying events could be explained scientifically, and he consequently had to reject their miraculous quality. In practice, however, most occultists managed to combine two conflicting views—one that stressed the explanatory powers of science and another that maintained the mysterious power of occult forces. Priests and theologians, by contrast, used a much narrower definition of miracles, and they were significantly more skeptical about acknowledging supernatural interferences even though they nonetheless did so.59 One author writing in Dukhovnaia beseda posed the rhetorical question, “why do miracles not occur nowadays?” but concluded emphatically that miracles did indeed take place at present, pointing to numerous reports in the clerical press about recent marvels in support of his claim.60 Indeed, the Orthodox and occult press often published accounts of the same miracles. Like Rebus, whose editors copied articles from mainstream newspapers, church periodicals also surveyed and summarized the popular press.61 In their hunt for miracle stories, editors of church and occult journals differed little. Sergei Glagolev’s report about a certain Alsatian-born American “Infirm Healer” named Shlatter was written in reaction to articles in the pages of the dailies Moskovskie vedomosti and Novoe vremia and used the same language and metaphors that spiritualists employed.62 Yet unlike these broadsheets and spiritualists’ accounts, Glagolev was much more critical of the alleged “holy man’s” feats. For example, he remained unconvinced by the claim that Shlatter “had made a legless (?) man walk.”63 Glagolev stressed that cases such as this one raised serious religious questions, suggesting that they were either based on idle gossip, or that Shlatter’s healings could be explained in a ratio-

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nal manner. Glagolev thought it very unlikely that a true miracle had taken place, but rather, after taking magnetism, ether, x-rays, and telepathy into consideration, he concluded that Shlatter most likely healed his patients by an electric impulse radiating from his body. The apologist’s conclusion was strikingly similar to discussions of healings in Rebus, as was Glagolev’s language. Terms like tainstvennyi, zagadonichnyi, and temno (miraculous, inexplicable, and dark), and the reference to an explicatory but at the same time mysterious force (kakaia-to sila), were the staple ingredients of occult reports on baffling phenomena. The difference in Glagolev’s discussion was that the theologian compared Shlatter’s alleged feats to biblical miracles and entertained the possibility that there was nothing to them. Spiritualists, on the other hand, greeted similar reports without much skepticism.64 While spiritualists enthusiastically linked current wonders and their scientific explanations to biblical miracles, Glagolev insisted that true miracles belonged to an entirely different category.65 Glagolev vehemently argued that miracles revealed a higher truth, in a way that current wonders and their rational explanations failed to do. Science was consequently unable to “give us any new insights,” Glagolev asserted, because the limitation of the human intellect was not merely that its knowledge was incomplete, but more importantly that it “is not deep enough” and could not “understand anything in its totality.” The theologian therefore concluded: “Not everything that we are unable to explain is a miracle, but what we are by our nature unable to grasp, that is miraculous.”66 True miracles, then, were inexplicable and should not be approached with recourse to science. Glagolev was convinced that acknowledging the limitations of the human mind required a meekness that philosophers, scientists, and also occultists were unable to concede.67 For the theologian, this submission to divine wisdom was an essential part of religious life, and one that did not hinder, but rather furthered knowledge. Glagolev argued that “to repudiate the existence of miracles will lead to a situation in which reality will appear to us as being senseless chaos.” He insisted that such an outlook would not do justice to human nature, since “one essential trait of man is his hope for a miracle, man hopes for salvation from on high.”68 Rozhdestvenskii’s understanding of miracles was both more complex and more elegant than Glagolev’s propositions, but both theologians agreed in their reluctance to accept allegedly supernatural phenomena as miracles. According to Rozhdestvenskii, not everything that caused astonishment and wonder was, strictly speaking, miraculous. Some occurrences were merely

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“startling natural phenomena.”69 He went on to explain that “this category ought to include the startling phenomena from the field of spiritualism, given, of course, that we believe in their reality.”70 Even if we were to assume that they were caused by spirits, he continued, this did not make these phenomena supernatural because these spirits too were part of the natural world. “The supersensual,” he wrote, “is not yet [the same as] the supernatural,” which for Rozhdestvenskii, as for Glagolev, was of divine character. The spirits of a séance, therefore, if they existed, were “limited and bounded beings and even if they belong to the supersensual and not to the physical world, they are still part of the natural not the supernatural existence and they cannot perform anything that would be truly supernatural.”71 For Rozhdestvenskii, the distinction between the supersensual and the supernatural was vital. The supernatural was linked to divine revelation, which granted people truths that were new and unknown to them, whereas supersensual manifestations of divine providence were caused by the “natural forces and laws that the Creator has established.”72 But even if Rozhdestvenskii did not grant spiritualist phenomena the status of supernatural miracles that were part of revelation, he still allowed for them to be supersensual manifestations that were, following his own definition of them, endowed with divine character. As we will see below, he differed significantly in this positive assessment of spiritualist phenomena from the judgment of other theologically trained contemporaries. As far as true miracles were concerned, Rozhdestvenskii rejected any attempts to approach them with the tools of scientific reasoning. He disapproved of suggestions made by “present-day rationalists” that biblical miracles could be explained by Jesus’s “amazing magnetic force” or by the alleged fact that “electricity flowed from his clothes.”73 Equally, the proposition that a fourth spatial dimension, “whose discovery belonged to Zöllner,”74 elucidated the emergence of bread and wine in the feeding of the five thousand did not satisfy Rozhdestvenskii. “What strikes one most when reading these kinds of propositions is the question concerning on which grounds they rest and whether these are sufficiently reliable and stable.”75 Moreover, Rozhdestvenskii insisted that biblical miracles were accounts concerned with the greatness and power of the miracle-worker and not written to “please the curiosity of readers looking to examine the details of the deed.”76 Instead, he insisted that when it came to miracles, men would never be able to “find and note the point where the act of the supernatural forces ends and where the natural forces begin to act.”77 In this assessment, he was in agreement with Glagolev, for both men thought that

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the human mind was simply not equipped to understand miracles rationally. Explanations that were based on speculation alone, such as the alleged existence of an inaccessible space, were only illustrations of that limitation, not valid arguments.

Theological Criticism of Occultism Theologians and occultists shared a number of common concerns such as individualism, miracles, and science, but these did not suffice to bring the two groups together. In the few texts by Orthodox writers that focused explicitly on fashionable occultism, theologians were highly dismissive of occult ideas and practices. Fundamentally, these authors argued, occult practices were lacking the presence of the divine. To the anonymous author writing for Pravoslavnoe obozrenie, spiritualism was essentially pagan magic (volkhovanie) “based on lies and deception,” and the only innovation since heathen eras had been for spiritualism to use a modern language.78 According to E. Tikhomirov and I. Wieser, séance phenomena were demonic.79 By contrast, Rozhdestvenskii believed spiritualist manifestations to be natural phenomena. Despite these different views about the origins of spirit communications, commentators in the theological press collectively reproached spiritualism for failing to provide truths that went beyond clichés. E. Tikhomirov noted that messages received from the beyond at spiritualist séances were disappointingly shallow, even if they were alleged to be pronouncements of the spirits of famous thinkers.80 Describing a séance he had attended, syn otechestva wrote that the messages received from the beyond “resembled those ‘edicts of luck,’ which the fairground fairies of our world produce with photographic illustrations and which, under a certain planet, promises you a heap of good luck on Tuesday or Wednesday, etc.”81 Authors in the clerical press noted that spiritualists had failed to develop insightful theological or philosophical ideas about the divine. Despite spiritualist claims to the opposite, their truths were without any trace of revelation. According to authors who published in church journals, this lack of theological insight within spiritualism was not a coincidence. It was inconceivable to one anonymous commentator that divine revelation could be obtained from “ordinary people [of] average moral standing,” merely because they exhibited some “physiological exceptions—such as an excess of some sort of special magnetic or electric current.”82 This author thus agreed with Rozhdestvenskii

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that spiritualist phenomena were part of the natural world and did not contain divine revelation. Unlike the Petersburg professor, however, this writer was unable to grant these manifestations a divine aspect by virtue of their stemming from God’s creation. Instead, (s)he concluded that the spiritualist system of thought lacked “philosophical depth, rigorous argument, and scientific proof. [...] Spiritualists are dreamers when it comes to science, superstitious in regard to philosophy, and freethinkers in religion.”83 Orthodox writers argued that spiritualism’s failure to reveal meaningful insights had its roots in occultists’ disregard for salvation. One anonymous commentator, even if welcoming an increasingly critical attitude toward materialism, criticized spiritualism as a “pernicious reaction,” because it was “the same disbelief and materialism turned inside out.” Although spiritualists claim that they “believe in the existence of spirits and in an invisible world,” (s)he argued, they are really just like “unbelievers and materialists who appreciate only the existence of what they can see, hear, or feel.” After all, they too need “the appearance of spirits in material form and in visible, audible, and tangible signs” for their faith.84 Similarly, the priest and philosopher Pavel Florenskii described spiritualism as a refined form of positivism that was being applied to the metaphysical realm. The spiritualist creed, he insisted, was misguided because spiritualism was lacking the redeeming figure of Christ and it therefore did not allow for spiritual development.85 Vladimir Solov’ev, the great Russian philosopher and mystic of the late imperial period, argued along similar lines in Pravoslavnoe obozrenie. Solov’ev had been cautiously supportive of spiritualism in 1875, the scandalous year of the Mendeleev Commission, but as time went on, the philosopher grew increasingly critical of spiritualist teachings and also of theosophical doctrine.86 Like the anonymous author in Bogoslovskii vestnik quoted above, Solov’ev welcomed every approach that tried to break through the epistemological restrictions materialism imposed upon the mind by means of its exclusive attention on “relative and superficial appearances and evidences.”87 Solov’ev believed that the materialist approach to knowledge must inevitably remain temporary because it declared impossible all “knowledge of true being and the absolute” (poznaniia ob istinno-sushchem ili bezuslovnom) and thus ignored the “innate human metaphysical need [...] that distinguishes man from animals and is ineradicable as long as man remains man.”88 Yet despite the aim of occultists to overcome this restriction, they were themselves obstructing a full spiritual experience. In an article about schism in Russian society published in Rus’ in 1883 and reprinted in Pravoslavnoe obozrenie the follow-

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ing year, Solov’ev distinguished three strands of “educated sectarianism” in Russia.89 The first was represented by evangelical groups who taught that they had “found Christ” and thereby secured salvation. Moralizing sects constituted the second category, that is, religious groups who were convinced that the essence of Christianity lay in its moral teachings and who rejected institutions, rituals, dogma, and sacraments as unnecessary diversions from that core. The third group was made up of people for whom “religion was first and foremost linked to the fact of our immortality and the factual relation between us and the invisible world of the spirits.” These were the spiritualists, who “not only recognize the reality of so-called mediumistic phenomena, but who see in them the foundation of a new faith, which should either replace Christianity or, at least, transform it on a new basis.90 All of these groups, Solov’ev argued, stressed a vital aspect of Christianity: Christ the redeemer, a just life, or dialogue with the spiritual world. Yet all these teachings were misguided because they failed to appreciate the larger whole. The error of the evangelists, in Solov’ev’s view, was thus not that they acknowledged the importance of faith, but that they rejected the significance of earthly deeds; the morality-preaching sectarians correctly noted the need for moral conviction of the spirit, but they were mistaken in their disregard for “positive tasks in the world.” The error of spiritualism, finally, lay “not in the fact that it asserts the reality of the contact between two worlds, but in the fact that it loses sight of the ethical and moral conditions for such contact by basing it not on faith and moral sacrifice but on an external and accidental fact.”91 This exclusiveness, Solov’ev concluded, was the reason for the revelatory poverty of spiritualism. Since the movement was based on facts that contained nothing “that would be better and higher than ourselves,” there was nothing in it “that would elevate us and make us better.” Indeed, “in spiritualist appearances and revelations, we stumble upon the same human limitations and inadequacies that we find in ourselves and from which we seek refuge in religion.”92 Instead of being confronted with ever more of the same human inadequacies, man was striving toward that “which enlarges and elevates his being, which transforms his separate personality into an inherent element of the perfect and boundless entity for whom we can give ourselves up, for whom it is worthwhile renouncing one’s egoism.”93 Solov’ev linked his criticism of spiritualism to an equally negative assessment of theosophy, which, although less successful in mainstream culture, nonetheless informed some popular literature and was enthusiastically received by some intellectuals. Solov’ev applauded Helena Blavatsky’s

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desire to overcome “narrow-minded materialism,” for example by teaching that the human self consisted of multilayered elements and was thus more than “a physiological nervous function.”94 Despite the “relative truths” revealed in theosophy, Solov’ev felt compelled to reject most of Blavatsky’s doctrine. He was shocked by the confused structure of her writing, by her failure to develop a coherent article of faith based on philosophical principles, and by her “spiteful” tirades against scientific reasoning, which failed to engage in serious debate. Moreover, Solov’ev criticized Blavatsky’s claim that God was not a personal entity but merely an abstract concept; he argued that this precept, which was based on Buddhist teaching, rendered religious revelation impossible. Solov’ev subjected the details of Blavatsky’s creed to even fiercer criticism and in a manner reminiscent of Glagolev’s rejection of Ortolan’s theses and Rozhdestvenskii’s rejection of inaccessible space, he severely criticized Blavatsky’s doctrine for lacking any foundation. There was simply no evidence whatsoever to suggest that thousand-year-old Himalayan sages preserved wisdom in the high altitudes of the Asian peaks and sporadically interfered through mental power in developments worldwide. “A doctrine which is based on the reality [of such a] presupposed but in no way substantiated Secret cannot be sincere,” Solov’ev wrote.95 Similarly, there were no grounds to believe that human nature consisted of Blavatsky’s alleged seven components. “There is not the slightest attempt to explain the division of our nature into seven parts rationally. We are merely informed about this interesting news. [...] Why there should be seven of these elements, no more and no less, is quite unknown. The odd Sanskrit words and corresponding descriptions [Blavatsky uses] would easily have sufficed for 25 such hypostases.”96 Theologians who explicitly examined fashionable occultism concluded that it did not differ from the materialism it aimed to overcome in significant ways. In the eyes of theologians, its most objectionable features, however, were the baseness of messages from the beyond and the absence of divine revelation. Occultism, they argued, had no redeeming figure and did not provide the condition for man to better himself and overcome his earthly shortcomings.

Conclusion Publications sanctioned by the Church provided a forum in which Orthodox writers discussed topics that were at times identical to those themes with

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which occultists grappled in their writing, such as the implications of increasing individualism, immortality, miracles, and the relationship between religion and science. Sometimes the conclusions both groups reached overlapped in significant ways. Orthodox thinkers not only addressed the same problems, but they also engaged in subtle and insightful ways with spiritualist or theosophical teachings. The Orthodox texts examined in this chapter, however, also illustrate how awkward many theologians felt when it came to communicating religious ideas to the laity. What is most striking in this regard is the stark contrast between the messages addressed to fellow theologians or educated readers and those aimed at ordinary believers. As cheap and simple pamphlets illustrated, churchmen were extremely suspicious of the general reader’s intellectual abilities and his or her loyalty to the Church, and thus these texts tended to be more polemical and patronizing. Publications addressed to ordinary readers, which were intentionally written in a simple style so as to be easily understood, denounced spiritualism and theosophy or their tenets in dramatic language. These publications addressed their readers as “children” (deti) or “my friend” (drug moi) and bespoke an attitude of lecturing the gullible flock from an elevated pulpit.97 Some of these publications evoked historical places of Orthodox tradition and grandeur. The pamphlet S Afona o spiritizme is a fine example of this, referring to the holy republic of monks in northern Greece, a place of utmost historical and symbolic importance to Eastern Christianity.98 In the pamphlet, blunt threats warned spiritualists (and non-spiritualist readers) that they were in danger of being denied heavenly grace and of being subjugated to the devil after death if they dabbled in the occult. Another tactic tried to arouse fear by claiming that spiritualism was part of a foreign conspiracy directed either by Jewish Masons or Buddhists.99 These publications refused to engage with the issues raised by the popular fascination with an alternative form of spirituality. When talking to the narod about occultism, churchmen upheld an emotional approach to faith and rejected occult attempts to approach the supernatural with scientific theories. Publications written for an intelligentsia audience such as Pravoslavnoe obozrenie, which occupied the middle ground between academic and popular writing, discussed occult notions in an entirely different manner.100 Pravoslavnoe obozrenie, founded in the era of the Great Reforms with the aim of bringing clerical and ecclesiastical concerns to the attention of contemporary secular debate, pursued a more journalistic quest and “discussed projects for church reform [...], but also aspects of social life [iavleniia obshchestvennoi

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zhizni].”101 Its more accessible approach coincided with a consistently high number of polemical articles and a consistent anti-spiritualist stance. Yet Pravoslavnoe obozrenie also published more subtle analyses, most notably the essays by Solov’ev. It was also Pravoslavnoe obozrenie, along with the equally intelligentsia-run Novyi put’ (The New Way), or the entirely secular journal Rus’, that printed most of the articles that explicitly dealt with fashionable occultism. This underlines the importance that spiritualism had for social commentators, as opposed to the urgency with which fashionable occultism was treated within the theological academies. Academic journals, such as Bogoslovskii vestnik, published by scholars of theology for other scholars, rarely addressed occultism, and when they did, they debated the topic in less explicit ways; other intellectual concerns were much more important to professional theologians. Yet some of the academics who were writing for the journals edited by the Church’s seats of higher learning did discuss topics that were similar to those being debated in the pages of the spiritualist weekly Rebus. This illustrates that theologians and occultists shared similar interests. Theologians also expressed some of the most tolerant, even quasi-occult, views with regard to spiritualism and theosophy, as shown by Rozhdestvenskii’s balanced debate about the supernatural and supersensual in one of the country’s most frequently used theological textbooks, or by Kuliukin’s musings about the human telegraph-like soul in Bogoslovskii vestnik. The fact that these publications were read only within the theological profession might have given Rozhdestvenskii, Kuliukin, and others the freedom to discard polemic and develop their ideas without any fear of undermining Orthodoxy. When it came to academic debate, then, Russia’s Orthodox Church was well aware of international and national cultural, philosophical, and religious developments. Authors who published in academic Orthodox journals dealt with these currents on a sophisticated level and were often committed to balanced and rigorously argued analysis. In writings addressed to a theological readership, or in coursework essays by students, rational and balanced investigation was highly valued. Despite these efforts, however, theologians do not seem to have led the debate; rather they were following discussions and concerns that had originated in other social spheres. The example of recourse to science is a case in point. Whereas spiritualists had used chemical, mathematical, or physical arguments very prominently in the Russian press since the 1870s, theologians only incorporated such approaches into their texts in the 1890s. The Church, then, was

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following other social and cultural trends rather than leading the way. The fact that the subtlest and most insightful discussions of occultism were written by Orthodox thinkers such as Solov’ev, who was not a man of the cloth and frequently at odds with the official Church, moreover underlines that point. As a consequence, the influence of church debates on society at large seems to have been limited, and this explains why occultists, apart from copying miracle reports, found little inspiration in theological texts. The failure of theologians to lead contemporary discussions, such as urgent debates about science and its relationship to faith, might even have contributed to the appeal of popular occultism: what Orthodox writers did not address could be debated and even experienced through séances. The faint voice of theologians’ debates within the public sphere was not made more audible by official Church interference in cases where its officials feared that dialogue between clerics and the laity could get out of control, as, for example, in the case of the Religious-Philosophical Gatherings.102 Between 1901 and 1903, the poet, critic, and thinker Dmitrii Sergeevich Merezhkovskii and his wife the poet Zinaida Gippius organized these regular meetings in which members of the intelligentsia and the clergy discussed questions of faith: the significance of religion for art, culture, and the family, as well as the relationship between church, state, and society. Churchmen who wanted to lecture at these events had to receive prior approval of their texts from the metropolitan, and the protocols of these gatherings were increasingly subjected to church censorship. In 1903, the chief procurator of the Holy Synod banned the meetings altogether. As in the case of pamphlets about occultism addressed to a wide audience, the high-ranking Church officials felt that the Orthodox Church was losing control and had to assert its authority to the extent of employing blunt threats of damnation if need be.103 This paranoid fraction of Church officialdom did not reflect the attitude of a considerable number of Orthodox theologians and writers. Twenty years earlier, Solov’ev had lamented that Butlerov’s lecture on spiritualism had been banned by the chief procurator: “The half-hearted prohibition of spiritualism is doubly harmful. First, because it comes down mainly on scientific investigations into spiritualism,” which the philosopher regarded as important. More significantly, however, he thought this ban unwise because “declarations of such a prohibition severely hinder a free engagement against something [...] that in reality cannot be muzzled by prohibition.”104 Despite Solov’ev’s pessimism, theologians could and did engage in sophisticated debate about matters that were of great concern to the laity—

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including those fascinated by the occult—but they did not engage in a dialogue with the laity or even with their own community. It is striking that theological journals hardly ever engaged in internal debate, either; Orthodox writers argued against philosophers, foreign theologians, or spiritualists, but they did not argue against other Orthodox authors. Yet while spiritualism and theosophy might not have been very high on the Church’s agenda of urgent problems, their lack of faith in the laity and refusal to communicate openly with them granted Aksakov’s dramatic claims about Church persecution at least superficial plausibility.

6 The Occult at Court Mariia Puare and the Fate of Occultism during the Great War

I

n the autumn of 1916, a scandalous court case gripped the Russian public. In front of the St. Petersburg district court, Count Aleksei Orlov-Davydov, wealthy scion of a prominent aristocratic family, entrepreneur, Freemason, and member of the Duma, claimed that he had been duped by his second wife, the actress Mariia Puare, and her dabbling in occultism. His wife’s deception was so grave, Orlov-Davydov argued, that he ought to be granted a divorce by the judges. Puare, on her part, refuted the allegations of deceit in the witness box and insisted that the count had been privy to their shared quest for spiritual happiness and astral family planning. The court case, which promised insights into the private lives of the rich and the famous—replete with spirit communication, love, jealously, betrayal, and sex—became a cause célèbre. It received daily news coverage in the press and provided the material for a popular novel. The supernatural played a prominent role in these reports, with Petrogradskii listok entitling its accounts “V tsarstve dukhov” (“In the realm of the spirits”).1 Prominent witnesses called by the prosecution and the defense described an array of occult practices that had allegedly been conducted at the count’s St. Petersburg residence. They provided the judges with an almost complete list of the practices that had been popular throughout the previous decades. In 1916, the public assessment of these occult activities, however, differed significantly from the largely favorable descriptions that had predominated within accounts of supernatural forces in recent decades. The marital dispute of Orlov-Davydov versus Puare took place against the backdrop of Russia’s involvement in

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the Great War, a conflict that changed the public assessment of supernatural occurrences and magic practices. With the outbreak of hostilities, the supernatural became—at least for a time—enlisted in the patriotic mobilization. When disillusionment with the war spread in the summer of 1915, the character of the occult changed once more and did not return to its prewar status. The movement from patriotic expression to the perception that associated the occult with social degeneration is the focus of this chapter.

The Supernatural Turns Patriotic When hostilities broke out in the summer of 1914, the war immediately became a topic in publications dealing with the supernatural. Prophecies dominated mainstream newspapers; they were printed as brochures, pamphlets, and with some delay, also in occult journals. Soon thereafter, reports about supernatural events at the front line also made it into the press. These publications marked a significant change in popular discussion of the supernatural, for they returned traditional Christian figures and Orthodox symbols to a prominent position, thereby sidelining occult explanations and spiritualist manifestations.2 During the early months of the war, clairvoyants could be found among all social strata, and a flood of prophecies inundated the printing market. Numerous contemporaries claimed to have foreseen the hostilities before the summer of 1914. Symbolist writers such as Andrei Belyi, Aleksandr Blok, Zinaida Gippius, and Viacheslav Ivanov interpreted their earlier premonitions of doom and anxiety as prophetic.3 While they welcomed the war and expected the conflict to usher in a new era of spiritual renovation, other prophets remained more down-to-earth. Rebus declared that the English medium Alfred Wood-Peters had strongly alluded to the war during his last visit to Moscow in the spring of 1914. During his communications with the spirits, Wood-Peters had allegedly urged Russians to learn German, a piece of advice that had proven to be very useful for those who found themselves in German spas in August 1914.4 Popular pamphlets focused on the immediate future and predicted a resounding and swift Russian military victory over the Central Powers. Such prophecies addressed at the mass market were printed on poor quality paper, with numerous typographical and grammatical errors, suggesting that they had been put through the press with considerable haste. According to Petrogradskii listok (formerly Peterburgskii listok), which among other prophecies serialized predictions by a certain Madame Teb, the

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war would last five months and fourteen days, after which Germany would disintegrate and Bavaria would gain independence.5 The pamphlet From the Depth of Time: A Seventeenth-Century Monk on the War of the Twentieth Century, published in 1915, similarly claimed that the monk had predicted a Russian victory for the end of that year.6 Brother Ioannes (Johannes), whose name suggested that he was German, had produced a prophecy of Russian triumph that became exceptionally popular, probably because his nationality made the prediction seem unbiased and hence particularly reliable.7 The popular yearning for prophecies at a time of intense emotional participation in the country’s uncertain military future was underlined by Rebus’s hesitant concession to readers’ demand. The journal had attempted to strengthen its profile as a serious journal in the preceding years, and its publications in the first nine months of 1914 focused on international scientific and psychological debates relating to spiritualism. In mid-October the editors finally gave in and printed their first prophecy. A month later, allegedly after having received many letters from readers who asked for articles about the future, they even reprinted the six most popular forecasts, including that of Brother Ioannes. Hesitantly, they tried to bring themselves to see the bright side of this development. “Never before,” they remarked, “were so many prophecies, predictions, and previsions around, which are now being printed in all media in their hundreds and which are eagerly commented on by readers regardless of their materialist convictions or mystical and spiritualist world view.”8 Prophecies and reports about supernatural occurrences at the front equated patriotism with Russian Orthodoxy. In doing so, they followed official policy by the church and the state. Throughout the nineteenth century, patriotic pronouncements had linked the destiny of Russia to the fate of the Russian Orthodox Church at times of international conflict, and this view was revived in 1914.9 Moreover, at the beginning of the Great War, popular predictions about the future frequently recalled historical victories. In January 1915, Rebus printed a report about a “remarkable celestial appearance” that had been observed by residents of Novyi Petergof, a town in the vicinity of Petersburg. From 11 to 12 p.m. on Christmas day, “a cross-shaped radiance distinctly emerged on the clear horizon” that looked “like two crossing projectors.” The technical allusion was also joined by nature, for “the moon stood at the center of this radiance and everything was enclosed in a rainbow in which the color red predominated.” This appearance was significant, because “Mr. A. had seen exactly the same appearance in September 1877, i.e., at the very beginning of our Turkish campaign.”10 This miraculous experience was interpreted by those

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who witnessed it—and in all likelihood also by those who learned about it from Rebus—as a divine promise for the victory of Russia’s forces. Numerous Russian prophecies described the current war as a holy war between Christianity and its enemies, an assessment that concurred with the official stance of the Russian Orthodox Church. According to Petrogradskii listok, the nineteenth-century French fortune-teller Madame Lenorman had predicted that a war would erupt in 1914 in which France would be allied with a “great power” that would return Constantinople to Christendom.11 The Prediction of the Monk Koz’ma and Abbot Ioann concerning the World War quoted a similar vision: Koz’ma, who had “predicted the invention of the telegraph, the telephone, and the car,” had also foretold that “Turkey will be defeated, the Turks driven out of Europe, and the Christian Tsars will enter Tsargrad [i.e., Constantinople],” and reinstate crosses on the Hagia Sophia.12 As Russian newspapers and journals printed and reprinted numerous prophecies about the fate of the country as a whole, demand for predictions about private fortunes and individual fates also grew. Advertisements run by fortune-tellers in popular newspapers increased conspicuously during the war. Unsurprisingly, many such personal prophecies concerned the fate of husbands, brothers, and fathers at the front. In 1914, a gypsy couple appeared in poor areas of Moscow and promised to inform clients about the fate of relatives fighting in the war. For a modest fee, Muscovites could learn whether their loved ones were still alive and well, injured, in German captivity, or dead. The prophecy that Russia would win the war was a small bonus, included in the service.13 News that reached ordinary Russians at home concerning events on the battlefields stressed the importance of supernatural factors in the war and included articles about the mysterious at the front. In these reports, holy figures like the Mother of God, Christ, angels, or sacred objects such as icons and crosses played a decisive role. Publications of such narratives were so frequent that a book published by the Holy Synod observed with astonishment “that even Jews and publications financed with Jewish money do report on them in a serious manner.”14 Like prophecies, apparitions of biblical figures vouched for a successful Russian campaign. As in Catholic France, Mary was the most prominent intercessor on behalf of Russian troops.15 Her apparition in the theater of war allegedly ensured a victorious battle for the tsar’s soldiers in 1914.16 A similar story was published in 1916 in a collection of narratives on the miraculous at war. It told the story of soldiers who “suddenly see the Mother of God in

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the sky holding Jesus Christ in [one] arm. With the other arm she is pointing westward. All lower ranks kneel and pray. [...] Then the appearance turns into a cross and vanishes.” The battle that followed, as the publication assured its readers, was duly won by the Russian troops.17 Frequently, accounts from the front reworked traditional Orthodox narratives such as the legend of pokrov, which celebrated the protection of Byzantium by Mary during a siege by the Saracens in the tenth century. Voskresnyi listok (The Sunday Flyer), Listok dlia naroda (The People’s Flyer), and Novoe vremia quoted a German officer and his experience at the front: “We [Germans] had no idea that we would not only have to fight people but also spirits [dukhi]. When our forces were just gaining the upper hand, a female apparition appeared over the Russian troops: a woman in a white dress covered the Russians with her huge mantle so that we could no longer see them . . . . The woman looked at us with fiery eyes. Nobody could bear her gaze. How are we supposed to win [this war] if the Russians are helped by spirits[?]”18 It is noteworthy that the German soldier does not recognize the Virgin Mary, but describes her as a spirit. Russian readers of this account, of course, knew better and that knowledge assured them of their troops’ victory; but this detail also illustrates that previous spiritualist heterodoxy with its talk of spirits has now been abandoned in favor of the traditional faith. Alongside Mary, angels and Christ also featured as the protectors of Russian soldiers. In 1916, Petrogradskii listok printed a picture divided into two parts: in one of the lower corners, a mother prays for her son at the front; in the larger remaining upper part, a proud and triumphant angel saves a soldier in the midst of explosions and shellfire.19 Depictions of Christ on the battlefield linked the war both to death and also to resurrection. At Easter 1915, Petrogradskii listok printed a picture entitled “Khristos voskres na brannom pole (Paskhal’noe videnie)” (“Christ has Risen on the Martial Field [An Easter Vision]”), which depicted a triumphant Christ among the soldiers.20 Almost the same illustration was republished a year later.21 Numerous reports about miracles at the front underlined the power of icons or crosses. Crosses formed in the sky when priests blessed troops and were interpreted as a “sign of God’s mercy on our homeland.”22 Shellfire unearthed crosses or icons from the ground, which were particularly significant since in popular religion, icons that are found are seen as actively coming to the people and as invested with special, miraculous powers.23 In the Great War, these special objects were seen to have saved troops, shielding them from fatal injury. Such events, one soldier remembered, “left a deep impression on everyone. We kept the cross [... ,] which we regard as sacred.”24 As Vera Shevzov

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Figure 13: Kaiser Wilhelm was frequently associated with the devil. Courtesy of Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München.

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Figure 14: Antikhrist: izumitel’noe prorochestvo, skazannoe 314 let tomu nazad, Ekaterinodar, 1914— one of the many publications that included brother Ioannes’s prediction.

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has shown, individual believers commonly associated such special objects not only with their own lives, but also with the fate of their local community, their region, or with the Russian nation as a whole. The tsar himself participated in this belief when he requested that the miracle-working icon of the Virgin named “Vladimir” be brought to the general headquarters at the front.25 According to other reports from the front, icons protected the buildings in which they were placed. After heavy bombardment, all that was left of one particular settlement was a wall with an icon. In another case, the nail with which the icon had been attached to the wall had been destroyed by enemy fire, but the picture remained in its place and later saved soldiers from injury and death.26 Icons were, publications asserted, indestructible: “At the very moment when the explosion took place, we all saw [...] how the icon was split in two from the top to the bottom and the Christ child was separated from the Virgin. But after an instant both halves of the icon reunited in front of our eyes.”27 Moreover, crosses, bibles, and amulets could save individual lives. Petrogradskii listok reported about a soldier whose pendant depicting Saint Nicholas diverted a bullet that would otherwise have been fatal.28 While saints protected Russia and crosses saved soldiers, demonic figures featured in the depiction of the enemy. The journal Vpered! (Forward!) portrayed the kaiser together with a huge, red-winged devil, who (so the caption read) would soon overpower Germany (see fig. 13).29 German Kaiser Wilhelm II was frequently described as an associate of Satan, an assessment that was not restricted to Russia. As Annette Becker has shown, French contemporaries also equated Germany’s ruler with “the prince of darkness.”30 Most commonly, Wilhelm was portrayed as the Antichrist in Russian popular culture.31 This depiction echoed apocalyptic expectations that had been widespread among the Russian intelligentsia around the turn of the century and that had sometimes also surfaced in popular culture.32 According to the pamphlet Antikhrist: Izumitel’noe prorochestvo, skazannoe 314 let tomu nazad (The Antichrist: An Amazing 314-Year-Old Prophecy), Brother Ioannes had also predicted the following: “The Antichrist will be one of the monarchs, he will be a Lutheran.”33 Another version of Ioannes’s prediction added: “He will have only one arm (Wilhelm II has one normal arm, his right one, but the left one is crippled) [...]. The war will be his pretext to drop his mask [and] he will know no mercy.”34 The cover of that publication illustrated the violence that Russia was to experience at the hands of the German Antichrist. It depicts Wilhelm—clearly identifiable by a spiked helmet and whiskers—in a batman-like costume throwing bombs at Russian settlements and Orthodox churches.

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Ч И C Л О

90 8 200 30 70

К Е I З Е Р А

20 5 10 6 5 100 1

В И Л Ь Г Е Л Ь М А

12 8 30 - 3 5 30 - 40 1

Figure 15.

Ioannes’s was not the only prediction to identify the kaiser as the Antichrist. Wilhelm’s identity as an evil power could also be established through kabbalistic methods, that is, through insights gained by adding up the numerical values of letters. According to Petrogradskii listok, an Orthodox elder (starets) had confirmed the kaiser’s true colors by a simple calculation. He summed up the value of the letters in the phrase “the number of Kaiser Wilhelm II” (see fig. 15). The result confirmed widespread beliefs: the number of Kaiser Wilhelm II was 666, that of the beast.35 Wilhelm also appeared as the Antichrist on posters, played his evil role in raiki (traditional fun-fair peepshows), and on the silver screen.36 In Grigorii Libken’s film Dykhanie antikhristovo (The Breath of the Antichrist), he waged chemical warfare on a peaceful Polish village, while the motion picture Antikhrist (The Antichrist) echoed the rumor that Wilhelm drank human blood.37 By identifying the German kaiser with the Antichrist of the biblical apocalypse, authors, fairground showmen, film directors, and their audiences—not unlike symbolist writers—placed the Great War in the exalted narrative of a Manichaean struggle. During this confrontation, great and horrific battles were to be fought by the righteous against the forces of evil, before the end of history and the resurrection of life would take place. Such vilifications of the enemy were in line with official propaganda, and in the first year of the war, it seems that the official assessment was shared by popular culture. The prominence of Christian symbolism in reports about the supernatural from the front, that is, the importance of figures such as saints, their biblical adversaries, and sacred objects is noteworthy. Even those otherworldly helpers who were not individuals of exceptional holiness had reputations as fervent defenders of the faith. The popular nineteenth-century general Mikhail Skobelev, who regularly appeared in visions of soldiers after 1914, had been the hero of the Russo-Turkish war, a campaign that gained recognition as a holy war waged for the sake of Orthodoxy.38 The outbreak of the great war thus gave rise to a visible embrace of the traditional faith. Even the spiritualist journal Rebus reported apparitions of the Virgin and the saints. This experience was common to all warring societies in 1914, and historians have suggested several reasons for this development. On the one hand, the experience of frequent death prompted contemporaries to return to traditional religious

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teaching, which helped them to cope with the horrors of war. On the other hand, the urge for an emotional unity with fellow countrymen easily coalesced around shared religious traditions. Moreover, in Annette Becker’s words, “all wars are wars of religion,” since “believing in victory was an act of faith.”39 At a time when the psychological strain of observing the uncertain course of the war in the rear and the emotional distress of fighting seem to have strengthened patriotic sentiments and the Orthodox faith of contemporaries, heterodox belief lost its appeal. Although some committed occultists stayed faithful to their convictions, such as the theosophist who privately translated 167 pages of occult texts from the German into Russian in 1916, the fascination with the occult decreased significantly in popular culture and the public sphere during the war.40 Spiritualism was particularly challenged by the wartime mood. Jay Winter has prominently argued that “the period of the 1914–1918 war was the apogee of spiritualism in Europe.”41 My findings suggest that the opposite was the case: the war undermined the beliefs and practices of spiritualism in fateful ways. Not only did the conflict breathe new life into official religion, it also proved impossible to integrate spiritualism into the spiritual mobilization that the war engendered. The foreign pedigree of spiritualism and the internationalism of its best-known members within the Russian empire became a liability at a time when Russians were fighting foreign armies at the front and the mood of the population at home turned against perceived internal traitors, most prominently against Russian Germans, Jews, and Muslims. Critics of spiritualism had for a long time denounced its foreign origin, but it did not help that the surnames of the late doyens of Russian spiritualism suggested foreign extractions. Aksakov’s forefathers had been Tatars, Butlerov’s surname betrayed English ancestors (Butler), and Vagner had been dubbed “Professor Wurst” at the time of the 1875 scandal.42 During the war, this international connection became a source of concern as spiritualists’ loyalty to the empire seemed doubtful. In 1915, Russian media even reported that the German general Helmut von Moltke was a spiritualist, thus implying that spiritualists were conspiring against Russia.43 Russian pamphlets also insinuated that the German kaiser himself was influenced by occult thought, although Wilhelm the mystic cut a rather ridiculous figure in their descriptions. A Fortune-Teller’s Prediction: What Will Occur in Germany at the End of the 1914 War (A Fantastic Dream) ridiculed occult notions, despite being a “prophecy” itself. It predicted that Wilhelm would jump off a Zeppelin airship in an attempt to conquer a cloud. The kaiser’s behavior, so the pamphlet suggested, was informed by occult

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notions of different spaces, a claim that alluded to spiritualists’ notions about higher-dimensional realms. In the pamphlet, Wilhelm declares “that ‘space’ is made up of an infinite number of ‘worlds’ of different densities,” and he attempts to conquer “a new German colony” by planting the German flag into one of these spaces.44 It is noteworthy that the author of this “prediction” juxtaposed the patriotic use of clairvoyant powers with the enemy’s occultism. Spiritualists themselves reacted to the war with frustration and disillusionment. Their loss of self-confidence predated the war, but their despondency was exacerbated by wartime culture. As chapter 3 has shown, the diversification of the occult between 1905 and the outbreak of the war reduced the preeminent status that spiritualism had previously enjoyed within the community of heterodox believers. The years between 1905 and 1914 also saw nasty infighting between different groups of spiritualists, while erstwhile editor of Spiritualist V. P. Bykov’s polemical turn away from spiritualism and his public return to Orthodoxy was a further blow to the optimism that spiritualists had previously felt.45 How pessimistic the mood was by 1914 can be gauged from a contribution that the unflagging spokesman for spiritualism, Mikhail Perovsky-Petrovo-Solovovo, wrote for the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research. This was a journal for which he had written numerous contributions since 1889 and in which he now lamented, “I wish I had spent the energy I have devoted in the domain of Spiritism on some altogether different aim. I think the results might have been somewhat more fruitful.”46 The outbreak of hostilities served only to exacerbate this sentiment. The war not only called into question the patriotism of spiritualists and favored traditional expressions of Orthodox piety, thus sidelining alternative forms of communicating with the spiritual world; it also significantly changed the position of death in daily life, which was so important to occult practice. The new horrific prominence of death seems to have provided yet another psychological challenge to spiritualism after the summer of 1914. In chapter 1, I followed Freud in arguing that, because modern societies banished death from life, death was evoked by contemporaries in controlled and confined settings such as the séance, where it provided thrill and allowed participants to acutely experience their sense of being alive.47 During the war, however, the ubiquity of death, its horror, and its glorification in official pronouncements, either as patriotic sacrifice or fighting prowess, undermined the playful approach to death that had been so characteristic of séances. Approaching death in an entertaining manner that was inspired by salon culture became impossible at a time when millions of men in their prime were

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dying at the front. Spiritualists tried to adapt séances to the changed circumstances, but their attempts only exposed the dilemma in which they found themselves. Rebus reported in 1915 that a group of spiritualists held a séance in order to communicate with the many who had fallen at the front. The group reported that they had difficulty keeping up with the many spirits who desperately wanted to speak to them. The fallen soldiers were confused about what had happened and asked for explanations. Most of them had died so unexpectedly that they could not even remember their names but were eager to learn how the war was developing.48 These wartime ghosts behaved very differently than the departed with whom spiritualists had previously enjoyed communicating. Before the war, spirits had often been reluctant to engage in conversation with the living, and they had allegedly been omniscient, regularly providing séance participants with moral guidance, solace, and knowledge about obscure facts. Now the tables were turned. The living could barely meet the demand of those who wanted to talk to them, the séance participants now provided comfort, and it was the living who were privy to the really important knowledge about the military campaign. The here and now had quite clearly become more important than eternal life in the beyond. Prewar practices of enjoying life by summoning spirits had become unfeasible. It is possible that the wartime guilt of those at home who still had access to peaceful drawing rooms and who did not sacrifice their lives for the fate of Russia played a further part in undermining the confident prewar way in which séance participants dealt with the spirits. Rebus did not pursue attempts to help the spirits of fallen soldiers any further. Instead, the journal ran a series of articles in 1915 that discussed immortality not in relation to the spiritual beyond, but on earth, another significant departure from previous concerns.49 “Novoe uchenie o bessmertii” (“New Studies on Immortality”) reported experiments with sperm or with certain bacteria which, if regularly injected into blood vessels, rejuvenated the human body. With the cry “mortals of all countries unite!” its author D. O. Karabanovich also discussed trials to deep freeze living organisms and revive them after defrosting. Although the series also mentioned a scenario that would turn the human body into invisible but immortal electromagnetic matter—a program that resembled previous occult thought that had tried to find a middle way between material and spiritual immortality—Rebus’s embrace of eternal life for the human body indicates a significant shift in its editors’ attitudes. The series suggests that at a time of horrendous death rates, no case could be made for the allegedly truer existence of spirits in the beyond. What spiritual-

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ists along with other contemporaries longed for were guarantees for life in this world. The changed spiritual culture, alongside the increasing economic difficulties of obtaining funds and paper, resulted in ever-slimmer volumes of Rebus and in the death of other occult journals.50 While supernatural patriotism was pronounced at the beginning of the war in 1914 and early 1915, thereafter, traditional religious role models rarely appeared in the public sphere. This move, however, did not signal the return of the occult. Once saints no longer dominated the public imagination, occultism acquired a new, decadent quality.

Mariia Puare and Decadent Spiritualism After one year of fighting, the prominence of Orthodoxy in reports about the supernatural decreased. Mary, Jesus, the saints, and angels appeared less and less frequently in newspaper pages; by the end of 1915 they only emerged on the high religious holidays, such as Easter and Christmas, or in Church publications. The optimistic prophecies that had been so confident of a Russian victory vanished from popular culture. The year 1915 marked an “important turning point” in several respects.51 As Russian troops suffered painful military defeats, losses of life and of territory increased, the economic situation worsened and political dissatisfaction grew, popular attitudes toward the war altered significantly. The enthusiasm with which mainly urban groups had greeted the outbreak of hostilities waned dramatically. With the weakening of jingoism and increasingly negative assessments of the tsar’s government and its ability to wage war successfully, traditional symbols of the tsarist state, such as Russian Orthodoxy, lost their appeal. Supernatural patriotism largely disappeared from popular culture. This development was not restricted to Russia alone; Annette Becker has shown how the “Christian patriotism,” which in 1914 initiated a Catholic revival in France, had also run its course by 1916.52 The end of supernatural patriotism, however, did not mean that interest in the occult returned to its original prewar state. As in the first two decades of the century, popular newspapers such as Petrogradskii listok continued to report on supernatural occurrences, which offered neither rational nor supernatural resolution and left the reader in a state of limbo. The newspaper also continued to inform readers about the successes of L. L. Onore, who was reported to heal wounded soldiers with the help of hypnosis. Broadsheets, moreover, persisted in printing advertisements for fortune-tellers and promoting instruction

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manuals on magic.53 These texts, however, could not conceal that the heyday of the supernatural in popular culture had passed. Onore’s feats were reported almost timidly, and haunted houses troubled tenants less and less frequently. Instead, the occult increasingly acquired an ominous note. These trends to describe the occult as illicit and dangerous were not new in 1915; indeed, they developed tendencies that had emerged in the immediate prewar period. The war, however, significantly furthered the changing assessment. The ominous flavor of the occult grew strong in the last five years before the outbreak of war. In the popular press, suspicion of occult conspiracies circulated around exclusive groups. In 1910, rumors warned of Buddhist monks who allegedly planned to bring St. Petersburg and Russia forcefully under their domination.54 Three years later, numerous newspapers and journals published an alarmist article alleging that foreign Satanists had infiltrated elite institutions in Russia. These occultists were rumored to hold black masses replete with “the symbols of evil,” to plot the subjugation of Russia, and to plan the takeover of the entire world.55 The guileful occult threat did not just come from beyond the Russian empire or from non-Russian subjects of the tsar; it seemed to be moving ever closer. Between 1912 and 1914, press reports and a notable court case prominently cautioned Petersburgers against the malicious machinations—the spiritual promises and sexual enchantment—of the sectarian Dar’ia Smirnova, dubbed “Mother of God from the Okhta.”56 The war significantly furthered these apprehensions and from 1915, xenophobia and paranoia gripped the popular imagination, as contemporaries increasingly evoked conspiracies in their attempts to explain Russia’s military and economic misfortunes.57 The occult, with connotations of illicitness, secret powers, and evil intentions, was to play an important role in their hypotheses. Yet despite such potentially harmful qualities, popular culture increasingly described enthusiasm for spiritualism and the like as an aberration that warranted pity rather than condemnation. In 1916, the dangers that spiritualism posed for contemporaries’ lives were discussed at great length in all the major newspapers, which reported an illustrious hearing at the Petrograd district court. Under the heading “V tsarstve dukhov” (“In the realm of the spirits”), Petrogradskii listok informed readers about the domestic drama of Count Aleksei Anatol’evich Orlov-Davydov, which developed in front of the public’s eyes. At court and in front of a significant audience—many of whom had bought tickets for the hearings that cost up to 50 rubles on the black market—the aristocrat sued his second wife, the actress Mariia Iakovlevna Puare, for fraud.58 The court proceedings included

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everything a sensationalist press could ask for: a member of the high aristocracy, a parvenu actress with a dark past, sex, deception, cruelty, wealth, politics, and occult interference. “Love, greed, spying, bribery, the supernatural world, and all sorts of devilry are muzzily interwoven in Puare’s crime,” Malen’kaia gazeta announced gleefully in its first report on the case.59 And indeed, the domestic dispute was to offer enough material for a further eight articles in the same newspaper, most of them covering an entire page.60 The story was thus a real-life version of the popular melodrama of love, career, gender, and class cruelty that “led all others in book purchases” in wartime Russia and also dominated in cinemas.61 The proceedings at court revolved around Count Orlov-Davydov and the famous actress Mariia Iakovlevna Puare. Orlov-Davydov was the scion of one of the most prominent families in the empire. One of his forefathers, Grigorii Orlov, had been a highly decorated general and the lover of Catherine the Great. Grigorii’s descendants remained close to the highest echelons of power and culture; Aleksei Anatol’evich himself was one of the richest men in the country, a deputy of the Duma, a member of the progressive bloc, and the chairman of the Kaluga assembly of the nobility. He was a close friend of the politician Aleksandr Kerenskii and of Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich, a cousin to the last tsar.62 Ten years prior to Orlov-Davydov’s appearance at the district court, the count had met the actress and singer Mariia Iakovlevna Puare. Her background was significantly humbler than that of the aristocrat. Born in Moscow in 1863, she was the daughter of a French instructor of gymnastics, swimming, and fencing who had sought his fortune in Russia.63 Mariia’s childhood had been full of hardship; she was orphaned at the age of 12 and married off to a much older husband four years later. Despite these setbacks in her personal life, Mariia showed talent as an actress and singer and received an education at the Moscow Conservatory. She joined the troupe of the impresario and entertainer Mikhail Lentovskii in 1880 and appeared on the stage of the Imperial Aleksandrinskii Theater in St. Petersburg from 1890, where she celebrated her greatest successes as “the lead actress for vaudeville and comedy.”64 Puare also wrote poetry and music and gained some renown for her romansy, Russian chansons that became very prominent in light entertainment during the second half of the nineteenth century.65 When she met Orlov-Davydov in 1906, her star had already begun to decline. In 1900 she contracted pneumonia, moved back to Moscow, eventually lost her engagement at the imperial theater in St. Petersburg, and was forced to tour the

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provinces. Attempts to set up her own theater were short-lived.66 Despite these misfortunes, Orlov-Davydov—who had first heard about “the extremely successful artist” Puare in his student days—still made the acquaintance of an independent, successful, and well-known woman and seems to have been intrigued by her achievements.67 Their friendship quickly turned into a more intimate relationship, and the count eventually divorced his first wife Fekla, neé Baroness von Stahl, and secretly married Puare on January 17, 1914, his friend Kerenskii acting as chauffeur and best man. Despite this happy conclusion to their acquaintance, the relationship between the count and the actress went awry some time before their wedding. Puare, it seems, felt that she was gradually losing her lover and moved to ensure that the couple would have a child to bind them together. Indeed, the count’s close friend Makarov claimed before the judges in 1916 that OrlovDavydov only married the actress because Puare expected a son.68 The “birth” of the son Aleksei, however, was unusual, not only because of his mother’s age of 51 years. Puare, who knew that she could not in fact bear children, experienced “an imaginary pregnancy” and eventually an equally illusory birth, during which she found the infant in the underworld of St. Petersburg. This chain of events only began to involve more commonplace occurrences when baby Aleksei was baptized and registered as the son of Orlov-Davydov during a traditional Orthodox ceremony later that year. According to the count, this “forgery of the parish register,” and the marital deception that accompanied it, were the reasons for his legal actions against his wife.69 Puare’s deception would not have been possible without the assistance of the spirits, and all the newspapers that commented on this case made the most of the decisive role that the supernatural played in the development of the drama. “The piquancy of this trial revolves around all dramatis personae, who—it seems—were preoccupied with ‘the realm of mysterious spirits,’” Petrogradskii listok announced two days before the proceedings had even begun.70 Indeed, Mariia Puare did not dispute that Aleksei was neither her nor Orlov-Davydov’s biological son, but insisted instead that they were his spiritual parents. According to her, the count was fully aware of the circumstances of Aleksei’s “appearance” and had been present at the child’s birth in his “astral body.”71 The newspapers, and eventually also the judges, sided with her description of events, even though they disagreed about the existence of astral bodies. “It’s possible both of them were in a state of trance,” Petrogradskii listok surmised.72 The press described the history of Puare and Orlov-Davydov’s mutual attraction as a story that revolved around their shared ventures into the

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spiritual world. According to Malen’kaia gazeta, it was this passion that initially brought the couple together. When, in 1906, the count learned that “the actress engaged in spiritualism, hypnotism, chiromancy, and other ‘divinatory sciences,’ he became so interested, partly because he too engaged in things supernatural, that he begged the actress Mariia Puare to get to know her closely and to acquaint himself with her magical pursuits.”73 Before long, the news coverage of this case resembled a catalogue of the occult practices and beliefs that had been prominent during the last four decades of the tsarist empire. Throughout their acquaintance, count and actress keenly engaged in spiritualist séances; he also employed the services of chiromancers, while she turned to a graphologist.74 They encountered hypnosis and visited fortune-tellers. During the séances that they experienced together, Puare fell into a trance and the count diagnosed “passive” mediumistic abilities.75 At these sessions, “spirits [appeared] that created visible marvels, threw stones, played the harp, extinguished[?] electricity.” Once, the famous medium “Jan Guzik himself visited [their circle]; then sparks fell from the ceiling and a screen landed on the head of one gentleman.”76 The spirits also transmitted messages, advising Puare and OrlovDavydov to begin an intimate relationship and to produce an heir for the house of the Orlov-Davydovs.77 Allegedly, this suggestion was awkwardly written on paper by the spirit of the count’s deceased daughter Ol’ga. Puare energetically acted upon these recommendations and, with recourse to magical rituals, found baby Aleksei. In the eyes of witnesses and commentators, the couple’s séances and their compliance with the spirits’ recommendations did not betray a laudable scientific motivation to explain the last mysteries of human existence, nor a spiritual quest leading toward deeper insight, nor a concern with tradition and lineage; rather they revealed the egoism typical of the rich and famous and OrlovDavydov’s wish to be deceived by a shrewd woman. “It was exactly as in Plody prosveshcheniia in the Aleksandrinskii [theater],” the witness Ushakova exclaimed, referring in one sentence to Lev Tolstoi’s popular anti-spiritualist play in which servants pull threads to simulate spirit manifestations and fool their gullible master, and to Puare’s previous place of work.78 As in Tolstoi’s play, the newspapers that reported from the Petersburg district court used Orlov-Davydov’s enthusiasm for things supernatural to criticize the count, and by extension the entire privileged strata of society, as corrupted and decadent. Puare was merely the unscrupulous schemer in this narrative. “The significance of this trial lies in the fact that it reveals the dregs of society, and we are

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shown the entire moral filth of those people who move among high society and who with proudly raised heads demand respect for themselves.”79 The mass periodicals that reported from the district court suggested that Orlov-Davydov’s dissolute lifestyle and obsession for the occult were signs of the aristocrat’s untrustworthiness. “The count is a very busy man,” Gazeta kopeika and Malen’kaia gazeta noted sarcastically. “He spent the mornings with Mariia Iakovlevna, then drove to the chiromancer, then engaged in spiritualism and summoned ghosts, and in the interim he popped into the State Duma.”80 The count’s irresponsibility was not only an individual quality, but a characteristic that he shared with his fellow Duma deputies, who appeared in the witness stand before the district court. “The selection of witnesses is exclusive (everyone of repute is present!). Only the ghosts haven’t been summoned as witnesses!” N. Shigaleev exclaimed in Gazeta kopeika. The newspaper dutifully announced that the Duma deputies Kerenskii and Vasilii Alekseevich Maklakov, as well as the actor Iurii Vasil’evich Korvin-Krukovskii, were scheduled to be questioned.81 To underline Orlov-Davydov’s depravity, Ezhednevnaia gazeta kopeika (The Daily Kopeck Gazette), Gazeta kopeika, and Petrogradskii listok made the most of the count’s frequent visits to fortune-tellers of all sorts and, in particular, of his attachment to the shady chiromancer Filimovich.82 The palm reader, who had published an instruction manual about his art in 1906 and had himself tried editing three short-lived occult journals until 1915, appeared in court on the day before his draft into the active army and was cross-examined about his friendship with Orlov-Davydov.83 The newspapers established that the two men had known each other for about ten years, during which “the count often turned to [Filimovich] for predictions and was always satisfied, as all that he predicted became reality.”84 The media went still further and insinuated that this friendship had turned into an indecent attachment. Newspapers mentioned that Filimovich engaged in illicit love magic and noted that the “accidental acquaintance” between the aristocrat and the fortune-teller, who must have held the count’s hand frequently, became an “affectionate relationship” in which Orlov-Davydov addressed Filimovich with the familiar ty and with his first name’s diminutive “Slava.”85 Malen’kaia gazeta reported that the count repeatedly presented Filimovich with flowers, an ascertainment that caused indignation in the courtroom. “What a nightmare,” the journalist exclaimed, “it’s clear now, why [parts of the hearing were conducted] behind closed doors.”86 Shortly after the trial, the notorious author Count Amori, whose specialty was the private and sexual lives of the upper classes and foreign royalty, pub-

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lished a “fictionalized” version of Puare’s life entitled Grafinia Artistka (The Countess Actress).87 This “Sensational Story of Our Time,” so the subtitle suggested, very explicitly elaborated on the count’s homosexual desires. His allegedly nonconformist yearnings were in Amori’s depiction closely related to his extraordinary interest in the spirits, for his aristocratic “mind was nourished solely by the occult sciences and pornography.”88 Homosexuality and bisexuality had become prominent topics in literature and popular publishing after 1905. In these publications unconventional sexuality was commonly linked to artistic decadence, biological degeneration, and an urban lifestyle. More importantly, however, these texts, which were sometimes disguised as medical surveys, amused and titillated a wide readership.89 By elaborating on the insinuations voiced in the press, Amori situated the count’s behavior in the context of modern depravity. Amori also described how the chiromancer hypnotized Orlov-Davydov, thereby turning the count into his minion. This claim further elaborated ideas of perversion. In real life, Gazeta kopeika reported that Orlov-Davydov’s lawyer had argued along the same line in his client’s defense.90 Count Amori developed this theme further and described Orlov-Davydov’s obsessions as a form of biological degeneration, a theory that was widely accepted by scientists and social commentators at the time.91 In a language that echoed Karl-Joris Huysman’s description of the antihero Floressas Des Esseintes in A Rebours, a cult book of decadence, Amori explained that “the formerly renowned family” of the count, which in the past had brought forth men of state, had become spiritually impoverished. “The children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren inherited a glorious name, distinction and millions, but the forebears’ divine spark did not grace the descendants’ brow.”92 When Amori’s “fictional” count is examined by doctors, they “find the typical symptoms of degeneration.”93 Similarly, the count’s fellow spiritualists were described as representatives of an outlived species. One of them “was the graybeard O-v, who’d lost possession of his faculties. This interesting person had once known Aksakov, Butlerov, Professor Vagner, and many a true spiritualist.”94 In this description, enthusiasm for the occult became a marker of elite degeneration and untrustworthiness, an assessment reminiscent of the accusations directed toward spiritualists by their critics in the 1875 debate about four-dimensional spaces. While Russia’s traditional elite was described as decadent, degenerate, dimwitted, and foolish, those who led the aristocracy by their noses were depicted in 1916 as calculating and potentially dangerous schemers. Petrogradskii

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listok and Malen’kaia gazeta suspected that Puare lured Orlov-Davydov into her apartment with the promise of supernatural phenomena in order to facilitate their “wild affair” (burnyi roman). “As a French woman and an actress [who] knew how to live stylishly,” she allegedly also had an eye on his fortune.95 Similar incentives were said to have motivated Filimovich, the clairvoyants Anna Ivanovna Cherniavskaia, M. Pogani, and the maidservant cum medium “freilen” (Fräulein) Borgart. And indeed, Cherniavskaia and Borgart admitted in 1916 that their mediumistic abilities had relied on fraud.96 The theme of deception was echoed by other newspaper articles unrelated to the case, which also warned of fraudulent activities by spiritualists. Under the heading “Beware of Spiritualists!” Petrogradskii listok warned readers about “practices” of communicating with the beyond that allowed fraudsters to fabricate bills of exchange and extract considerable sums of money from their clients.97 Newspapers also warned of the dangers of hypnosis in general, which could deprive victims, like Orlov-Davydov, of their willpower. The selfassertiveness that had been such a popular promise of occult activities in the decade before the outbreak of the First World War now reared its ugly face. Spiritualists deceived naïve clients, chiromancers used hypnosis to turn men of wealth and influence into their underlings, and calculating women combined their suggestive and mediumistic powers with their sex appeal to outwit the descendants of heroic Russian generals. On the face of it, the Puare scandal revolved around a domestic drama and had little to do with Russia’s involvement in the Great War. Yet the war did feature in the public discussion of the case. On the newspaper page, the reports from the St. Petersburg district court were framed by news from the front. The war was addressed explicitly when Filimovich had to be cross-examined earlier than had initially been scheduled, because he had received his summons to front-line service; and the war was mentioned when a witness statement received from the front was read out in court. The war also influenced the way in which spiritualism, with its foreign pedigree, was depicted. Foreigners or persons of foreign extraction featured prominently in the case, and press reports about Puare’s, Pogani’s, and Borgart’s schemes can be read as expressions of the larger fear of foreign conspiracies that gripped Russia during the years of the First World War. Yet it remains important to note that publicly voiced misgivings about the German Borgart, the Hungarian Pogani, and the French Puare, all of whom conspired against a Duma deputy and by extension against the political leadership of Russia, featured alongside negative statements about the Russians Cherniavskaia and Filimovich, whose trustworthiness was also doubted.

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The negative assessment of Orlov-Davydov himself in turn echoed contemporary criticism of privileged front-dodgers, who evaded the harsh realities of the war and instead led luxurious and decadent lives in the rear.98 Reports from the district court also expressed, in veiled form, misgivings about the tsarist government.99 This anti-governmental sentiment grew with Russia’s military misfortunes. As mentioned above, newspapers were very critical of the behavior of Duma deputies in the courtroom, one of whom, Vasilii Maklakov, was the brother of the minister of the interior, Nikolai Alekseevich Maklakov, a fact that linked the case not only to the Russian parliament, but also to the tsarist government. The court proceedings, however, also allowed contemporaries to be critical of even higher places. Commentators, well aware of the enthusiasm for mystic practices at the imperial palace, described them as a sign of the dynasty’s degeneration and sexual perversion. Some contemporaries claimed that the tsar, like Orlov-Davydov, was being hypnotized by occultists, had lost his willpower, and was homosexual.100 Moreover, the secret police, who monitored public opinion, noted that Russians were convinced that the tsar was being fooled by his foreign wife, by her untrustworthy friend Anna Vyrubova, who had a well-known penchant for mysticism, and by the shady Rasputin. Rumors even alleged that Tsarevich Aleksei was, like the infant Aleksei Orlov-Davydov, in reality not the tsar’s son.101 These speculations mirrored the public reports about Orlov-Davydov to a remarkable extent and it is possible that contemporaries used and perceived the case of Mariia Puare as a way to criticize a leadership that was protected from explicit condemnation through censorship and anti-defamation legislation. Denouncing spiritualism thus also provided the opportunity to pour scorn on an allegedly decadent, corrupt, and incapable government whose failures could only be explained by hostile occult powers.102 Newspaper reports about Puare together with Count Amori’s literary adaption of the case thus anticipated the public “Rasputiniade”—the at times vulgar preoccupation with the sexual and conspiratorial exploits of “the mad monk”—that emerged underground in 1916 and exploded immediately after the February Revolution of 1917 to become a main feature of revolutionary mass culture.103 The public discussion of Puare and her life took up another theme that became urgent in the context of the war: gender. Historians have frequently pointed to the fact that wars are periods of intense deconstruction and reconstruction of gender notions.104 The Great War in Russia was no exception in this respect. As women engaged in activities that were previously reserved for men—be it in the urban labor force, in village assemblies, or even as

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soldiers at the front—their roles were progressively defeminized.105 Yet at the same time, images of femininity, nurturance, and the family were increasingly evoked to balance depictions of violence and destruction. These developments created a dissonance between women’s military defeminization and the desire for feminine nurture, which gave rise to anxieties about gender relations. These apprehensions, in turn, were mirrored in the treatment of the supernatural. As I have argued in chapter 3, maidservants had previously been perceived as the associates of those spirits who troubled their employers’ houses; but in this alliance the girls had remained the passive partner and the spirits (or an illness) retained mastery over them. In Puare’s case, the situation was rather different. The actress and her fellow female occultists were now depicted as consciously in command of the beyond, or at least as those who securely held the threads in their hands with which the alleged “supernatural beings” were being manipulated. Puare’s unfeminine assertiveness despite her very feminine looks might have been the reason why fertility became a prominent topic in the trial.106 The single-minded Puare was, despite her appearance, not a real woman, since she was unable to bear children and had to evoke “mystification” in order to become the spiritual mother of baby Aleksei. The press made much of Puare’s determination, her dark past, her previous lovers, and the fact that, long before she met Orlov-Davydov, she had already once pulled off the same trick with the gentle Prince Pavel Dmitrievich Dolgorukov, with whom she had had a “daughter,” Tania.107 The newspapers also insinuated that Puare herself was to blame for her inability to bear children and suggested that she had previously had an abortion. This criminal deed was presented as a direct result of her amoral lifestyle and the decision “not to spoil her figure.”108 Nikolai Platonovich Karabchevskii, one of Russia’s most famous defense lawyers and Orlov-Davydov’s representative in this trial, implied that Puare had thus willingly forfeited the quintessential distinction of womanhood. In his concluding statement, he remarked that Puare “could not be a mother. She did not give birth, she did not nurture a single child with her milk, and one would need to be too great an actress to experience and to play the role of a mother sincerely.”109 Karabchevskii smugly declared himself to be an objective arbiter of befitting gender roles because he himself, though he had never given birth either, fulfilled the requirements of masculinity. Professional success and self-assertiveness in women, however, undercut genuine femininity and was mirrored in the functions, or malfunctions, of the body.

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Karabchevskii’s remarks were in line with widespread wartime fears about the consequences of changing female behavior, which threatened to lead to the disintegration of the family and posed a danger to society more generally.110 But there were other reasons why Puare personified the disconcertingly shifting gender norms particularly well. In the late imperial boom years of commercial theater, actresses had come to typify the new self-assertive but also permissive and self-indulgent women, whose behavior challenged traditional role models.111 The wartime climate further underlined Puare’s unconventional behavior. The gender crisis did not just affect the public description of Puare in 1916; Orlov-Davydov’s masculinity too, was open for debate, as insinuations about his flowery friendship with Filimovich implied. Moreover, the count’s passive reception of spirit messages was contrasted to Puare’s alleged activism, purposefulness, and deceptive rationalism in this matter. The count, Petrogradskii listok asserted, had been robbed of his willpower.112 He was thus very different from the male occultist that had been prominent until the war—from scientific investigators à la Aksakov and Butlerov, consciously self-fashioning modernists such as Briusov, or the proudly self-respecting followers of occult training programs. In 1916, however, the jury and judges restored traditional gender roles by acquitting Puare and refuting Orlov-Davydov’s position. In their verdict, they followed the defense and described the actress as the passive victim of adverse social circumstances, which had brought her to fall for and be abused by strong and powerful men. Orlov-Davydov, on the other hand, only pretended to be gullible, weak, and irrational, the jury argued. “He is a highly calculating individual and intends to rid himself of whatever he no longer requires,” Petrogradskaia gazeta wrote, quoting court proceedings. “Where is his spiritual quest, his esteem for the views of the spirits? He is the owner of a splendid sugar factory, an impressive beet refinery. He’s unlikely to have amassed his huge fortune there with the help of spirits!”113 The press enthusiastically approved of the judges’ verdict. Newspapers were jubilant when Puare was acquitted, suggesting that the public mood was willing to excuse ambitious behavior not becoming of a woman, as long as she was willing to reintegrate herself within the traditional gender paradigm of the weaker sex.114 Yet despite the verdict, the uncertainty about gender relations remained and in response to the case, Gazeta kopeika published a passionate plea for the reformation of family law.115 Count Amori ended his novel in an open manner that suggested that the actress might still go on to lead an eventful life. After describing how she left the court in an

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automobile, he exclaimed, “With this, one chapter in the affair of Mariia Leopoldovna has ended. Now a new life and new challenges await her.”116 Once more, discussions of the occult provoked ambiguous assessments that could be read in various ways: as covert attempts to challenge or come to terms with changing gender roles, as indictment of the tsarist government, as criticism of Orlov-Davydov and his circle, as disapprovals of Puare, Borgart, Pogani, Filimovich, and their fellow occultists, or—following Tolstoi’s Plody prosveshcheniia—as the cheeky and entertaining feats of shrewd schemers at the expense of rich and gullible aristocrats who deserved no better. The newspaper coverage of the court proceedings expressed all of these sentiments. Puare’s acquittal and the restoration of traditional role models, however, was greeted by all of them with an audible sigh of relief. In a pensive passage, Malen’kaia gazeta noted: “To tell the truth, she is no better than the chiromancer [or] the count and his retinue[,] she is only more likable and evokes sincere compassion.”117

Conclusion Mariia Puare and Aleksei Anatol’evich Orlov-Davydov occupied the minds of contemporaries in the autumn of 1916; they featured prominently in the newspapers and their “wild affair” inspired a sensational novel. Very soon thereafter, however, their prominent legal dispute, in which spirits played such a significant role, fell into oblivion. In revolutionary Russia, the Puare scandal paled into insignificance against “revelations” about the fallen Romanov dynasty and was drowned out by the loud “Rasputiniade” that came into full swing a few months after the notorious hedonist had been assassinated in December 1916. Some of those who had participated in or attentively observed the court proceedings subsequently wrote memoirs, but they barely mentioned the case. Memoirists, particularly those who shared political convictions and amicable ties with Orlov-Davydov, later seemed embarrassed about his misadventures. Karabchevskii, for example, only briefly and very disrespectfully referred to the “disgraced count” in a general description about political maneuvers of 1917 but failed to mention that he himself had acted as Orlov-Davydov’s lawyer and thus played a significant role in the scandal.118

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Kerenskii did not mention Orlov-Davydov in his memoirs at all, despite the fact that the two had been good friends for years and worked closely together in the political sphere in 1917. Indeed, their amity seems to have become a reputational liability, and only hostile commentators who aimed to discredit the future head of the Provisional Government stressed his close ties with Orlov-Davydov.119 The scandal of 1916 certainly put an end to the count’s political career. In 1917, Orlov-Davydov emigrated to France, and in 1932 he moved into the residential home for Russian émigrés in Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois, where he died soon thereafter. A similar though less comfortable fate awaited the previously celebrated actress Mariia Puare. She lost her property in the revolution and had to deal with material precariousness until her death. In 1919, she lived in a community center in St. Petersburg, before moving into a communal apartment in Moscow two years later, where she died in 1933. Throughout the 1920s she petitioned the Soviet government in heartbreaking letters for a pension.120 None of the records about Puare’s or Orlov-Davydov’s lives after their scandalous breakup mention further pursuits of occult rituals, but autobiographies addressed to the Bolshevik authorities are unlikely places for occult professions. Apologetic biographies by later twentieth-century admirers, like the memoirs of Karabchevskii or Kerenskii, betray embarrassment on behalf of their authors for their heroes’ occult enthusiasm and try to brush aside an unbecoming pursuit, no matter how important it had been to the couple at the time.121 The events of 1917 have in numerous ways influenced how eyewitnesses and later historians have described Russian attitudes toward the supernatural during the last decades of the Russian empire. In many respects, the post-revolutionary view of the occult in late imperial Russia has its roots in the changing assessment during the war. In the decade between 1905 and 1914, officials and Russian intellectuals explained the popularity of the occult with the experience of war, revolutionary upheaval, and subsequent disillusionment.122 Some of them implied that a penchant for the occult was akin to a mental illness, a consequence of emotional stress. The Great War, however, seemed to contradict their assessment. The conflict did not bring about a popular embrace of occult thought; on the contrary, it severely undercut the appeal of heterodox practices that aimed to provide contact with the other world. As the initial patriotic fervor gave way to fierce criticism of the tsarist government, monarchists as well as ardent critics of the Romanovs described the imperial family’s infatuation with mystics as decadent, and they interpreted occult preoccupations at the

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palace as indications of Nicholas’s inability to govern. This assessment has led critics to describe fascination with the occult as a penchant of the elites.123 Literary critics have followed symbolist writers in viewing Russian culture between 1914 and 1918 as preoccupied with apocalypticism and heightened expectations of spiritual renovation.124 While this mood certainly existed among literary circles, popular culture during the war was not concerned with grand theories of universal spiritual salvation beyond a material victory of Russian forces on the battlefields. When war broke out in 1914, mass culture reacted to the hostilities by providing consumers with cheap prophecies that predicted the desired Russian victory and with reports from the front in which saints and angels supported the Russian cause by supernatural means. When the Antichrist featured in pamphlets, his deeds as well as calls to overcome him remained firmly rooted in this world.125 Popular occultism remained practical, and when saints intervened on the behalf of Russian soldiers, they saved their bodies, not their souls, from enemy fire. In some ways, this supernatural patriotism created precisely the sense of greater togetherness that occultists had sought to experience through “occultmental prayers” in the years following the upheavals of 1905. When the military triumph did not materialize, however, this spiritual unity broke apart and the assessment of the supernatural changed. Although prophecies were still advertised in the popular press and reports about “mysterious” events suggested that supernatural forces continued to intervene in earthly lives, the saints vanished from such descriptions. Prewar occultism, however, did not return. Spiritualism was now increasingly associated with fraud, conspiracies, a decadent and degenerate elite, and with gender relations that appeared to be shifting disconcertingly. These newer descriptions drew on attitudes that had been present, albeit marginally, before 1914, and they anticipated the “Rasputiniade” of 1917. In this critical assessment of the privileged and their allegedly degenerate penchant for the occult, popular culture and the views of monarchists, who blamed Nicholas’s II personal shortcomings—including his and his wife’s mysticism—for the demise of tsarism, merged. Such revolutionary agreement ignores the fact that throughout the last decades of the empire, the supernatural had been highly appealing not only to aristocrats and professionals, but also to those who could only afford a couple of kopecks for an instruction manual that promised them contact with the other world and thereby the acquisition of influence or insight.

Conclusion

T

he occult in late imperial Russia was widespread, multifaceted, controversial, informal, inclusive, and intricately bound up with the experience of the modern. Occultism grappled with the urgent questions of the day but did not provide straightforward answers. It combined elements that seemed to pertain to different eras and different intellectual disciplines, and it was uniquely able to unite contradictions into a single unity of ambiguity. In the public realm, occultism claimed, among other things, to bridge the rift between religion and science. Occultism also connected high art and mass culture, and it straddled the intellectual periphery and the cultural center. For example, the dream-like logic of narratives about haunted houses revealed rich interpretative layers that reflected and refracted the ambivalence of contemporary attitudes. Hauntings illustrated how significantly Orthodox theology, Russian folklore, and scientific notions shaped contemporaries’ interpretations of inexplicable events, but they also showed the limits to the persuasiveness of these thoughts. Hauntings both subverted and reasserted traditional authorities and gender roles, and they questioned the existence of the enlightened self and of rational consciousness. It was not only theories about inexplicable phenomena that exhibited these characteristics; occult practices and rituals operated analogously. Hypnosis, for example, merged rural notions about folkloric spells with contemporary physiological hypotheses, with theological discussions about biblical miracles, and with spiritualist ideas about clairvoyance and communications with those beyond. Moreover, the technique combined private love magic with public debates about charisma and power. Despite its prominence in turn-of-thecentury culture, the workings of hypnosis remained elusive, and much of the fascination the topic exercised stemmed from its possibilities and uncertainties.

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The position of occultism in Russian mainstream culture thus cut across common binary oppositions. These included such prominent juxtapositions as popular versus elite, science versus faith, private versus public, heterodox versus orthodox, urban versus rural, political opposition versus accommodation, tradition versus progress, material versus spiritual, and life versus death. While these oppositions did exist and had relevance to contemporaries, they were neither all-pervasive nor insurmountable. Supernatural phenomena did not merely epitomize modern ambiguities; occultism also provided contemporaries with a program to engage actively with them, and those who followed its teachings embraced the opportunities of their age. Occultists made use of railroads, telephones and telegraphs, modern printing technologies, and the market mechanisms of capitalism in order to promulgate their convictions, publicize their visionary services, and sell their publications. But occult practices also propagated strategies to deal with the practical and emotional challenges of the rapidly changing environment that ordinary readers of publications encountered in their daily lives. Haunted houses and the discussions that evolved around them allowed contemporaries to articulate concerns that could otherwise not be expressed, and such events could thus be therapeutic. Occult techniques instructed readers on how to overcome alcoholism and material need, how to protect themselves against accidents, and how to triumph over apathy and disorientation. Publications taught exercises for strengthening the will, for obtaining mastery over others, or for discovering the purposes of existence. How-to books decried the perils of a purely mechanistic attitude as well as the dangers of passive faith; and more importantly still, they explained to their audiences how to deal with these challenges by transfiguring both the outside world and the inner self. Occult behavior created meaning by engaging with the public sphere while at the same time remaining private and invisible. While it drew on Christian values and scientific notions, it positioned itself outside of institutionalized proceedings. Occult exercises were modern because of the centrality they awarded to the self as their point of reference. It was not external constraints, but internal development that motivated occult resolutions and choices. This self-referential nature led to a constant reassessment and development of the self within occult practice, and not surprisingly, contemporaries made use of occult practices for self-fashioning in various ways. In their attempts to gain mastery over the world through knowledge, and over their inner selves through meditative training programs, occultists had more in common with some of their critics than either side was willing to

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concede. Indeed, the diverging views of those who insisted on the reality of otherworldly beings and those who interpreted ghostly visions as psychological illusions represent two different routes to insight obtained through the occult. The first group, those who defended a physical reality of spirits, despite arguing scientifically, did not attempt to explain the tangible, but the spiritual world. Even those who argued that ghosts only appeared in the minds of those who saw them attempted to gauge an invisible world, that of the hidden workings of the psyche, by analyzing visionary experiences. Despite their differences, both sides aimed to widen human understanding and control the intangible and fleeting forces of invisible realms; and both thought that it was through visions of fleeting spirits that they could obtain insights into pressing questions. The endpoints that they hoped to reach lay at the opposite extremes of a continuum: the first group was convinced that laws of nature could be applied to every aspect of existence, including the spiritual and immaterial that was external to man and located somewhere in the ether; while the second group aimed to describe the hidden, possibly suppressed and irrational realms within the human mind. In their deep fascination with invisible forces, and their painstaking attempts to understand, control, and employ the hidden forces of the self, Russian occultists were closely connected to the intellectual and emotional developments of their Western contemporaries. Not only was spiritualism a Western import when it first emerged in Russia in the 1850s, but its more affluent followers frequently traveled abroad and entertained close relationships with like-minded contemporaries in France, Germany, Britain, Italy, or the United States. They invited foreign mediums to Russia and published their findings in the Western as well as the Russian press. The same is the case for research into the hidden forces of the mind, such as hypnosis, and it also applied to theosophical or artistic concerns. Like occultists, critics of the fascination with the supernatural also operated internationally. The transnational character of popular occultism was not restricted to the polyglot and the affluent; less prosperous contemporaries also took part in this international exchange of ideas and search for meaning. The cheap publications that poorer readers consumed not only reported developments from overseas but also printed numerous translations of pieces taken from nonRussian publications. In turn, news from the tsarist empire about supernatural experiences in which ordinary Russians were involved and that were informed by traditional folkloric notions also made it into the foreign press. Thus the fascination with the occult in late imperial Russia was closely

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intertwined with similar developments abroad, and this international connectedness once more confirms its modern character. Some historians have interpreted turn-of-the century occultism, and in particular spiritualism, as a new religion.1 My research, by contrast, suggests that occultism was a highly personal and flexible intellectual and emotional response to lived realities, which unlike religion did not make absolute claims on occultists’ world views and their moral comportment. Of course, immediate and personal encounters with the supernatural world did at times give meaning to the pre- and post-mortem dimension of human existence, and this was a quality that occult phenomena shared with religious belief. Yet despite this creation of meaning, popular occultism did not grow into a full-fledged religious movement. Recent sociological definitions of religion have stressed believing, belonging, and behavior as its three defining features.2 While occultists held convictions that differed from those of mainstream Orthodox believers, felt solidarity with fellow brothers and sisters, and engaged in rituals that set them apart, none of these sentiments was strong enough to create a stable and recognizable identity. Their occult beliefs were ever-changing and could be accommodated with older Christian tenets, their sense of belonging could be combined with traditional identities, and their occult behavior did not engender a coherent moral code that determined everyday life. According to Emile Durkheim, religions divide the world into sacred and profane spheres.3 In this respect, too, occultism diverted from traditional belief systems. The occult outlook regarded the entirety of life’s experience as spiritually significant and enchanted, and thus coincidence and chance—which could explain a sudden improvement of one’s financial situation, lines on the palms of hands, or bullets that missed soldiers—did not exist in occult thought. Instead occultists interpreted these events as prophetic omens that pointed toward higher truths.4 Occultism, then, offered an additional understanding of the world that could be added to other convictions and ideologies, be they religious, scientific, civic, or political. This, however, was no insignificant addition. Rather, it enriched the emotional experience of everyday life by reminding followers of the awe and the sense of mystery that accompanied life and ultimately bestowed it with meaning. The occult comprehension of life, which was increasingly bound up in emotional sensations of awe and revelation, was not, however, just about a passive indulgence in universal harmony. The occult program included

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action and domination. For its practitioners, occultism held out the promise of a superior position both in relation to fellow men and in the face of higher powers. The occultist could gain this elevated place through knowledge about the world, knowledge about the self, and the mental and physical subjugation of others. Attempts to define the chemical makeup of spirits, meditation and breathing exercises with the magical mirror, training to strengthen the will and tap into the powers of geniuses, or courses in hypnotizing oneself and others were all possible steps in the scheme of occult self-assertion. In this urge to command, occultism once more departed from traditional religion, in which human individuals are keenly aware that they are subjugated to, and maybe even at the mercy of, higher powers. Occultists approached the world around them with awe, but unlike devout believers they were simultaneously filled with the confidence that supernatural powers could be controlled by them, or at least put to their personal use. Their practices therefore revealed autonomous and reflexive actors who fashioned themselves as independent individuals and were deeply concerned about the development of their spirituality and their authority. In Russia, the emergence of occult ideas and practices in mainstream culture was closely related to the blossoming of a pluralist culture. The complex image of Russian culture that emerges from depictions of occult experience allows us to rethink the common periodization of Russian history that describes this era as riven by irreconcilable conflicts. Despite fierce controversies, the occult sphere was one where opposite views coexisted and were, to some degree, tolerated. The same can be said about the cultural sphere in which these ideas were expressed. The external critics of occultism, such as the Orthodox theologians or some outspoken scientists, did not succeed in reasserting a normative truth in that public realm. Indeed, there is no indication that they seriously attempted to establish a uniform ideology. These detractors might have disagreed with occultists, but they gradually accepted that the latters’ views were also voiced in public. An analysis of occultism in late imperial Russia does therefore not depict a society that was irreversibly drifting apart along doctrinal, ideological, political, or social fault lines. Indeed, the fiercest rivals from the spiritualist versus the anti-spiritualist camps—such as the spiritualist Vagner and the anti-spiritualist Dostoevskii—continued to support each other emotionally despite their vitriolic disagreements over spiritualism.5

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Viewed through the lens of occultism, late imperial society was characterized by a polyphony of diverse voices, and this ephemeral equilibrium comprised disagreement as well as toleration. In other words, popular occultism contributed to and was a sign of a pluralist outlook that allowed contemporaries to see conflict and dissonance as less threatening than they would later appear. In the case of occultism, its ability to hold the disparate together and to express multiple truths was fatally undermined during the First World War. After 1915, occult interests came to be seen as signs of degeneration, decadence, gullibility, evil machinations, and untrustworthiness. A legacy of this development was that twentieth-century commentators attempted to disentangle spiritualism, literature, visions, aesthetic modernism, non-Euclidean geometry, and meditation exercises, and to exorcise what was unbecoming in these concerns from the public image of historical luminaries. For Briusov and numerous of his contemporaries, however, all these concerns were enmeshed in the lived experience of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Russia.

Notes

Introduction 1. On Briusov’s occult interests, see N. A. Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura nachala XX veka i okkul’tizm: Issledovaniia i materialy (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 1999), 279–310. 2. Rossiiskaia gosudarstvennaia biblioteka, Rukopisnyi otdel (RGB), f. 386, kart. 71, ed. khr. 44; kart. 1, ed. khr. 12; kart. 2, ed. khr. 6. 3. RGB, f. 386, kart. 2, ed. khr. 6, l. 50. 4. Attempts to provide statistics for occult enthusiasm have been largely unconvincing, due to the scarcity of institutionalized societies that kept membership records, as well as the absence of reliable information on subscription numbers and print runs of occult publications. Maria Carlson, for example, offers statistical data but gives no indication as to their provenance. Maria Carlson, “No Religion Higher than Truth”: A History of the Theosophical Movement in Russia, 1875–1922 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 5. 5. I. K. Antoshevskii, Bibliografiia okkul’tizma: Ukazatel’ sochinenii po alkhimii, astrologii, germeticheskoi meditsine, gipnotizmu, Kabale, magii, magnetizmu, spiritizmu, telepatii, teosofii, filosofii okkul’tizma, fakirizmu, khiromantii i pr., 1783–1909 gg. (St. Petersburg, 1910); A. V. Zapadov and M. S. Cherepakhov, eds., Russkaia periodicheskaia pechat’, 1702–1894: Spravochnik (Moscow: Gos. Izd-vo polit. lit-ry, 1959); V. M. Barashenkov, ed., Bibliografiia periodicheskikh izdanii Rossii, 1901–1916 (Leningrad: Izd. Gos. Publichnoi Biblioteki, 1961). 6. Vik. P., “Peterburgskie spirity I: U V. I. Pribytkova,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, February 1, 1893, 2; Vik. P., “Peterburgskie spirity II: U V. I. Krzhanovskoi,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, February 3, 1893, 2–3; Vik. P., “Peterburgskie spirity III: U I. Kh. Tani,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, February 5, 1893, 2; Vik. P., “Peterburgskie spirity IV: U S. I. Merezhkovskogo,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, February 6, 1893, 3; Vik. P., “Peterburgskie spirity V: U A. K. Bodisko,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, February 9, 1893, 2; Vik. P., “Peterburgskie spirity VI: U Dr-a L. E. Brazol’,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, February 12, 1893, 2. 7. P., “Peterburgskie spirity I.” 8. RGB, f. 386, kart. 72, ed. khr. 20, l. 1–1ob. 9. Pribytkov underlined the uneven standing between himself and the much younger poet by repeatedly addressing him as Valerii Aleksandrovich (instead of Iakovlevich). RGB, f. 386, kart. 99, ed. khr. 38. 10. “Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov,” Rebus 22, no. 3 (1903): 25–27; no. 5 (1903): 45–46.

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11. Novyi entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (St. Petersburg: Brokgauz Efron, 1916), 29:363. For theological and sociological definitions of occultism, see Colin Campbell, “The Cult, the Cultic Milieu, and Secularization,” A Sociological Yearbook of Religion in Britain 5 (1972): 119–36; Horst Stenger, Die soziale Konstruktion okkulter Wirklichkeit: Eine Soziologie des “New Age” (Opladen: Leske + Budrich, 1993); Peter Gerlitz and Wolfram Janzen, “Okkultismus,” in Theologische Realenzyklopädie, ed. Gerhard Krause and Siegfried M. Schwertner (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1995), 25:216–30; Wouter Hanegraaff, New Age Religion and Western Culture: Esotericism in the Mirror of Secular Thought (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996); Antoine Faivre, “Occultism,” in Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Lindsay Jones, Mircea Eliade, and Charles J. Adams (Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2005), 6780–83; Marco Pasi, “Occultism,” in The Brill Dictionary of Religion, ed. Kocku von Stuckrad (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 3:1364–68. Unlike Pasi, Faivre, and Oppenheim, I regard spiritualism as part of occultism, because contemporaries described it as such and because it exhibited the characteristics of occult theory and practice described below. Janet Oppenheim, The Other World: Spiritualism and Psychical Research in England, 1850– 1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 85–102. 12. Stenger, Soziale Konstruktion, 20; Pasi, “Occultism.” 13. James Webb, The Occult Establishment (La Salle, IL: Open Court Publishing, 1976); Oppenheim, The Other World, 2; Hanegraaff, New Age Religion; Sabine DoeringManteuffel, Das Okkulte: Eine Erfolgsgeschichte im Schatten der Aufklärung, von Gutenberg bis zum World Wide Web (Munich: Siedler, 2008). 14. Viktor Pribytkov, B. I. Taits, et al., “Medium Sambor v Peterburge,” Rebus 13, no. 18 (1894): 179–80; no. 19 (1894): 191–92; no. 20 (1894): 199–200; no. 23 (1894): 226–27; no. 24 (1894): 234–35; no. 27 (1894): 261–62; no. 28 (1894): 270–71; no. 29 (1894): 280–81; no. 30 (1894): 294; no. 32 (1894): 312–13; no. 34 (1894): 328–29. Quote in no. 28 (1984): 271. V. D. Filimovich, Chistaia Khiromantiia: Populiarnoe rukovodstvo k ee izucheniiu; S 6-iu risunkami ruk (St. Petersburg, 1906); Iu. A. Shavel’, Okkul’tnye nauki: Polnyi prakticheskii kurs gipnotizma, lichnogo magnetizma i vnusheniia; Telepatiia (zaochnoe vnushenie) (St. Petersburg: Tip. R. V. Korotaevoi, 1912); Zerkalo tainykh nauk ili otrazhenie sud’by cheloveka: Polnyi kurs gipnotizma (Moscow: Aviator, 1911). 15. Webb, The Occult Establishment, 15; Faivre, “Occultism”; Pasi, “Occultism.” 16. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Animismus und Spiritismus: Versuch einer kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Halluzination und des Unbewussten; Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmanns Werk “Der Spiritismus,” 2 vols. (Leipzig: Mutze, 1890). 17. Doktor Sirias, “Znachenie slov, upotrebliaemykh v spiritualizme,” Rebus 11, no. 18 (1892): 192–94. 18. One work of almost encyclopedic scope was the highly popular Zerkalo tainykh nauk. 19. Pasi, “Occultism.” 20. Rossiiskaia natsional’naia biblioteka, Rukopisnyi otdel (RNB), f. 822, no. 537, l. 1. 21. Tsentral’nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Moskvy (TsIAM), f. 2355, op. 1, ed. khr. 145. Emphasis mine. 22. Campbell, “Cult,” 123. 23. For a twentieth-century comparison, see ibid., 128. 24. Kak ustraivat’ spiriticheskie seansy, kollektivnye i edinolichnye: Dlia priamogo i neposredstvennogo obshcheniia s zagrobnom mirom; Okolo 100 risunkov, chertezhei

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i spiritogramm v tekste (Moscow, 1906); “Kak razvivat’ v sebe iasnovidenie,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 2 (1906): 12; Ium, “Besedy starogo spirita: Kak vyzyvat’ Dukhov,” Spiritualist 1 (1906): 5–12; A-r Mikhailovich, “Kak ia razvil v sebe dukhovnoe mogushchestvo,” Spiritualist 10 (1906): 475–576. 25. Jacques Derrida, Specters of Marx: The State of Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International (New York: Routledge, 1994), 11. 26. Webb, The Occult Establishment, 15; Gerlitz and Janzen, “Okkultismus”; Thomas Laqueur, “Why the Margins Matter: Occultism and the Making of Modernity,” Modern Intellectual History 3, no. 1 (2006): 117. 27. Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 37–42. On other similarly versatile occultists, see Carlson, “No Religion Higher,” 83–85. 28. Feliks Iusupov, Memuary v dvukh knigakh: Do izgnaniia, 1887–1919; V izgnanii (Moscow: Zakharov, 2001); Andrew R. White, “Stanislavsky and Ramacharaka: The Influence of Yoga and Turn-of-the-Century Occultism on the System,” Theatre Survey 47, no. 1 (2006): 73–92. 29. The consistent support for Russian Orthodoxy contradicts the assessment advanced by some researchers that occultists at times expressed strongly anti-Christian views. Oppenheim, The Other World, 67; Faivre, “Occultism”; Pasi, “Occultism.” 30. Campbell, “Cult.” 31. Hanegraaff, New Age Religion, 15–16. 32. Webb, The Occult Establishment, 3. My use of the term occult thus departs from those that stress hierarchy and prescriptive organization. For the latter, see Gerlitz and Janzen, “Okkultismus”; Alex Owen, The Place of Enchantment: British Occultism and the Culture of the Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 75; David Allen Harvey, Beyond Enlightenment: Occultism and Politics in Modern France (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2005). 33. I. S. Turgenev, Ottsy i deti (St. Petersburg: Nauka, 2008). Originally published in 1862. 34. Max Weber, “Wissenschaft als Beruf,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Wissenschaftslehre, ed. Johannes Winckelmann (Tübingen: Mohr, 1988), 582–613. 35. Faivre, “Occultism”; Pasi, “Occultism.” 36. Hanegraaff, New Age Religion, 520–21. According to Hanegraaff, it is precisely the existence of occultism in the context of secularized culture that distinguishes it from older, e.g., Renaissance, forms of esotericism. 37. See, for example, Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England (London: Penguin Books, 1991); Jay Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 54; Leonid Heretz, Russia on the Eve of Modernity: Popular Religion and Traditional Culture under the Last Tsars (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 38. See, for example, David Blackbourn, Marpingen: Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Bismarckian Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993); Olaf Blaschke, “Das 19. Jahrhundert: Ein Zweites Konfessionelles Zeitalter?” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 26 (2000): 39–75; Ruth Harris, Lourdes: Body and Spirit in the Secular Age (London: Penguin, 2000); Irina Paert, Spiritual Elders: Charisma and Tradition in Russian Orthodoxy (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2010). 39. See, for example, Ruth Harris, “Possession on the Borders: The ‘Mal de

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Morzine’ in Nineteenth-Century France,” The Journal of Modern History 69 (September 1997): 451–78; Laura Engelstein, Castration and the Heavenly Kingdom: A Russian Folktale (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999); Owen, Place of Enchantment; S. A. Smith, “The Religion of Fools? Introduction,” Past and Present 199, no. 3 (2008): 7–55. 40. On definitions of modernity, see Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Manifest der kommunistischen Partei (Berlin: Dietz, 1982), 16; Marshall Berman, All That Is Solid Melts Into Air: The Experience of Modernity (New York: Viking Penguin, 1988); Zygmunt Bauman, Modernity and Ambivalence (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991); Anthony Giddens, The Consequences of Modernity (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991); Mary Gluck, “Review Essay of Anthony Giddens’ Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Modernity in the Late Modern Age,” History and Theory 32, no. 2 (1993): 214–20; Mark D. Steinberg, Proletarian Imagination: Self, Modernity, and the Sacred in Russia, 1910–1925 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2002); Zvi Ben-Dor Benite, Gurminder K. Bhambra, et al., “AHR Roundtable: Historians and the Question of ‘Modernity’,” American Historical Review 116 (June 2011): 631–750. 41. Richard Stites, The Women’s Liberation Movement in Russia: Feminism, Nihilism, and Bolshevism, 1860–1930 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978); Jeffrey Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read: Literacy and Popular Literature, 1861–1917 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985); Daniel R. Brower, The Russian City between Tradition and Modernity, 1850–1900 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990); Louise McReynolds, The News under Russia’s Old Regime: The Development of a Mass-Circulation Press (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991); Joan Neuberger, Hooliganism: Crime, Culture, and Power in St. Petersburg, 1900–1914 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993); Stephen P. Frank and Mark D. Steinberg, eds., Cultures in Flux: Lower-Class Values, Practices, and Resistance in Late Imperial Russia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994); Barbara Evans Clements, Rebecca Riedman, and Dan Healey, eds., Russian Masculinities in History and Culture (Houndmills: Palgrave, 2002); Louise McReynolds, Russia at Play: Leisure Activities at the End of the Tsarist Era (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2003); Robert D. Crews, For Prophet and Tsar: Islam and Empire in Russia and Central Asia (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006); Susan K. Morrissey, Suicide and the Body Politic in Imperial Russia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Wayne Dowler, Russia in 1913 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2010). 42. Karl Schlögel, Petersburg: Das Laboratorium der Moderne, 1909–1921 (Munich: Hanser, 2002), 21. 43. On utopia, see Svetlana Boym, The Future of Nostalgia (New York: Basic Books, 2001). 44. On the occult invention of a Renaissance tradition, see Harvey, Beyond Enlightenment. On their utopian projects, see Aksakov, Animismus (1890). 45. Derrida, Specters. 46. Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” in The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, ed. Jonathan Mayne (New York: Da Capo Press, 1964), 13. 47. The erasing of spiritualism from Soviet accounts of Briusov’s life has been noted by Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 281. 48. RGB, f. 368, kart. 1, ed. khr. 12, 1. 3. 49. Ibid., l. 29ob. 50. Valerii Briusov, Dnevniki, 1891–1910 (Moscow: Izd. M. i S. Sabashnikovykh, 1927), 12.

Notes to Pages 15–16 199

51. Whereas the Soviet edition mentions a séance with Lang but then fails to describe the sittings, this entire entry disappeared from the English version. The same is the case for Briusov’s remark on non-Euclidean geometry, which contemporaries linked to the occult. The editor of the English edition refers to and quotes the manuscript, thus indicating that she must have been aware of the importance of spiritualism in Briusov’s life and artistic development. Joan Delaney Grossman, ed., The Diary of Valery Bryusov (1893–1905) (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 35–37. 52. Aleksei A. Brusilov, Memoires du général Broussilov: Guerre 1914–1918 (Paris: Hachette, 1929); Brusilov, Moi vospominaniia: Posmertnoe izdanie (Moscow: Gos. Izd-vo otdel voennoi literatury, 1929), 31–35; Brusilov, A Soldier’s Notebook, 1914–1918 (London: Macmillan, 1930); Brusilov, Moi vospominaniia (Moscow: Voennoe izdatel’stvo, 1943); Brusilov, Moi vospominaniia (Minsk: Kharvest, 2002), 29–36, 49. I am grateful to Karen Petrone for pointing this out to me. 53. G. V. Bykov, Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1961), 164; Charles Coulston Gillespie, ed., Dictionary of Scientific Biography (New York: Scribner, 1970), 2:620–25; Aleksandr M. Prokhorov, ed., Bol’shaia sovetskaia entsiklopediia, 3rd ed., 30 vols. (Moscow: Sovetskaia entsiklopediia, 1970–1981). 54. E. Ukolova and V. Ukolov, Grafinia Marusia: Sud’ba artistki Marii Puare (Moscow: Izd-vo Mezhdunarodnogo fond gumanitarnykh initsiativ, 2002), 106–7. 55. Recent works that bemoan this include Roger Luckhurst, “‘Something Tremendous, Something Elemental’: On the Ghostly Origins of Psychoanalysis,” in Ghosts: Deconstruction, Psychoanalysis, History, ed. Peter Buse and Andrew Stott (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1999), 56; Owen, Place of Enchantment, 5–6; Corinna Treitel, A Science for the Soul: Occultism and the Genesis of the German Modern (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 24–26; Helmut Zander, Anthroposophie in Deutschland: Theosophische Weltanschauung und gesellschaftliche Praxis, 1884–1945 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007); Ruth Harris, The Man on Devil’s Island: Alfred Dreyfus and the Affair that Divided France (London: Allen Lane, 2010), 170–86. 56. G. V. Plekhanov, “O tak nazyvaemykh religioznykh iskaniiakh v Rossii,” in Sochineniia (Moscow, 1925), 17:291; Leon Trotsky, Literature and Revolution (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1971); Nina N. Berberova, Liudi i lozhi: Russkie masony XX stoletiia (New York: Russica Publishers, 1986); S. I. Witte, The Memoirs of Count Witte (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1990); M. V. Rodzianko, “Krushenie imperii,” in Grigorii Rasputin: Sbornik istoricheskikh materialov, ed. V. Kriukov and I. Saiko (Moscow: Terra, 1997), 1:245–94; Iusupov, Memuary. 57. Nathan Smith, “The Role of Russian Freemasonry in the February Revolution: Another Scrap of Evidence,” Slavic Review 27, no. 4 (1968): 604–8; Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, “Political Implications of the Early Twentieth-Century Occult Revival,” in The Occult in Russian and Soviet Culture, ed. Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 379–418; Aleksandr Etkind, Khlyst: Sekty, literatura i revoliutsiia (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 1998); V. S. Brachev, Masony v Rossii: Za kulisami vidimoi vlasti, 1731–2001 (St. Petersburg: Stomma, 2002). 58. Webb, The Occult Establishment, 34–36; Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke, The Occult Roots of Nazism: The Ariosophists of Austria and Germany, 1890–1935 (Wellingborough: Aquarian Press, 1985); Harvey, Beyond Enlightenment, 125; Dan Edelstein, “Hyperborean Atlantis: Jean-Sylvain Bailly, Madame Blavatsky, and the Nazi Myth,” Studies in Eighteenth Century Culture 35 (2006): 267–91; Philippe Boutry, “Parler par spectres: Überlegungen

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zur französischen Geschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts,” in Gespenster und Politik: 16. bis 21. Jahrhundert, ed. Claire Gantet and Fabrice D’Almeida (Paderborn: Fink, 2007), 321–38; John Warne Monroe, Laboratories of Faith: Mesmerism, Spiritism, and Occultism in Modern France (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008); Peter Staudenmaier, “Occultism, Race, and Politics in German-Speaking Europe, 1880–1940: A Survey of the Historical Literature,” European History Quarterly 39, no. 1 (2009): 47–70. 59. Friedrich Engels, “Dialektik der Natur,” in Werke (Berlin: Dietz, 1962), 20:337–47; Theodor W. Adorno, “Thesen gegen den Okkultismus,” in Minima Moralia: Reflexionen aus dem beschädigten Leben (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1969), 321. 60. Webb, The Occult Establishment, 9; Winter, Sites of Memory, 54–77; Peter Buse and Andrew Stott, “Introduction: A Future for Haunting,” in Buse and Stott, Ghosts, 1–20; Steven Connor, “The Machine in the Ghost: Spiritualism, Technology and the ‘Direct Voice’,” in Buse and Stott, Ghosts, 205; Michael D. Gordin, A WellOrdered Thing: Dmitrii Mendeleev and the Shadow of the Periodic Table (New York: Basic Books, 2004). 61. Alex Owen, The Darkened Room: Women, Power, and Spiritualism in Late Nineteenth-Century England (London: Virago, 1989); Owen, Place of Enchantment; Treitel, Science for the Soul; Priska Pytlik, Okkultismus und Moderne: Ein kulturhistorisches Phänomen und seine Bedeutung für die Literatur um 1900 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2005); Laqueur, “Why the Margins.” 62. Carlson, “No Religion Higher”; Joan Delaney Grossman, “Alternate Beliefs: Spiritualism and Pantheism among the Early Modernists,” in Christianity and the Eastern Slavs, vol. 3, Russian Literature in Modern Times, ed. Boris Gasparov (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 113–33; Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, ed., The Occult in Russian and Soviet Culture (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997); Adam Weiner, By Authors Possessed: The Demonic Novel in Russia (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1998); Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura; Pamela Davidson, ed., Russian Literature and Its Demons (New York: Berghahn Books, 2000); John McCannon, “Searching for Shambhala: The Mystical Art and Epic Journeys of Nikolai Roerich,” Russian Life 44, no. 1 (2001): 48–56; Renata von Maydell, Vor dem Thore: Ein Vierteljahrhundert Anthroposophie in Russland (Freiburg: Projekt Verlag, 2005); Ilya Vinitsky, Ghostly Paradoxes: Modern Spiritualism and Russian Culture in the Age of Realism (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009); White, “Stanislavsky and Ramacharaka.” 63. E. V. Pomerantseva, Mifologicheskie personazhi v russkom fol’klore (Moscow: Nauka, 1975); Felix Haase, Volksglaube und Brauchtum der Ostslaven (Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1980); Felix J. Oinas, Essays on Russian Folklore and Mythology (Columbus, OH: Slavica Publishers, 1985); N. A. Krinichnaia, Lesnye navazhdeniia: Mifologicheskie rasskazy i pover’ia o dukhe-“khoziaina” lesa (Petrozavodsk: Karel’skii nauchnyi tsentr RAN, 1993); Faith Wigzell, Reading Russian Fortunes: Print Culture, Gender, and Divination in Russia from 1765 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); W. F. Ryan, The Bathhouse at Midnight: An Historical Survey of Magic and Divination in Russia (Stroud: Sutton, 1999); Elizabeth A. Warner, “Russian Peasant Beliefs and Practices Concerning Death and the Supernatural Collected in Novoskol’niki Region, Pskov Province, Russia, 1995; Part I: The Restless Dead, Wizards, and Spirit Beings,” Folklore 111 (2000): 67–90; N. A. Krinichnaia, “V glushii dalekoi zhivut sedye kolduny,” Zhivaia starina: Zhurnal o russkom fol’klore i traditsionnoi kul’ture 3 (2001): 19–20.

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64. Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 19. 65. See, for example, V. Snegirev, “Spiritizm kak filosofsko-religioznaia doktrina,” Pravoslavnyi sobesednik (January 1871): 12–41; (April 1871): 279–316; L. N. Tolstoi, Sobranie sochinenii v dvadtsati tomakh (Moscow: Khudozhestvennaia literatura, 1963), 11:119–228. 66. Weber, “Wissenschaft als Beruf”; Pamela Davidson, “Russian Literature and Its Demons: Introductory Essay,” in Davidson, Russian Literature, 2. Indeed, most current contributions about ghosts take their metaphorical identity for granted. See, for example, Slavoj Žižek, “The Spectre of Ideology,” in Mapping Ideology (London: Verso, 1994), 1–33; Aleksandr Etkind, “Post-Soviet Hauntology: Cultural Memory of the Soviet Terror,” Constellations 16, no. 1 (2009): 182–200. For a good overview of the real versus metaphorical approach, see Claire Gantet and Fabrice D’Almeida, “Einleitung,” in Gespenster und Politik, 17–48. 67. David Joravsky, Russian Psychology: A Critical History (Oxford: Blackwell, 1989); Treitel, Science for the Soul. See also I. V. Viazemskii, “Ocherk istorii razvitiia sovremennogo gipnotizma,” Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma 10 (1904): 737–62; A. A. Pevnitskii, “K voprosu ob iasnoslyshanii,” Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma 1, no. 7 (1904): 449–56. 68. Sigmund Freud, Psychopathology of Everyday Life (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1914), 275–339; Freud, “Das Unheimliche,” in Gesammelte Werke: Chronologisch geordnet. Zwölfter Band. Werke aus den Jahren 1917–1920 (Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer, 1972), 229–68; Peter Gay, Freud: A Life for Our Time (New York: Norton, 1988), 354–55; Sigmund Freud, “Traum und Okkultismus,” in Neue Folge der Vorlesungen zur Einführung in die Psychoanalyse (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2005), 34–59. On the history of psychoanalysis in Russia, see Aleksandr Etkind, Eros des Unmöglichen: Die Geschichte der Psychoanalyse in Russland (Leipzig: Kiepenheuer, 1996); Martin A. Miller, Freud and the Bolsheviks: Psychoanalysis in Imperial Russia and the Soviet Union (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998). 69. C. G. Jung, Psychology and the Occult (London: Routledge, 2008), 147. 70. See, for example, Paul Barber, Vampires, Burial, and Death: Folklore and Reality (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988); Mary Allerton Kilbourne Matossian, Poisons of the Past: Molds, Epidemics, and History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989). 71. David J. Hufford, The Terror That Comes in the Night: An Experience-Centered Study of Supernatural Assault Traditions (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982). See also David J. Hufford, “Beings Without Bodies: An Experience-Centered Theory of the Belief in Spirits,” in Out of the Ordinary: Folklore and the Supernatural, ed. Barbara Walker (Logan: Utah State University Press, 1995), 11–45. 72. Unlike Freud, who always retains a materialist conviction, Jung’s arguments are frequently analogous to those of spiritualists, with the difference that Jung replaces spirits and their superhuman abilities with the facilities of the psyche. The otherwise parallel nature of his thought makes his views too similar to those of occultists to be able to function as a theoretical device with which one might read occult texts against the grain. Compare, for example, J. K. Friedrich Zöllner, “On Space of Four Dimensions,” The Quarterly Journal of Science 8 (1878): 227–37; C. G. Jung, The Collected Works of C. G. Jung. (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1961), 8:996. See also Jung, Psychology and the Occult, 175–83.

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73. Svod zakonov rossiikoi imperii, poveleniem gosudaria imperatora Nikolaia Pavlovicha sostavlennyi, vol. 15, Svod zakonov ugolovnykh (St. Petersburg: Tip. Vtorogo otdeleniia Sobst. e. i. v. kantseliarii, 1842); Jutta Scherrer, Die Petersburger religiösphilosophischen Vereinigungen: Die Entwicklung des religiösen Selbstverständnisses ihrer Intelligencija-Mitglieder, 1901–1917 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1973); Engelstein, Castration; Aleksandr Etkind, “Whirling with the Other: Russian Populism and Religious Sects,” The Russian Review 62 (October 2003): 565–88; Daniel Beer, “The Medicalization of Religious Deviance in the Russian Orthodox Church, 1880–1905,” Kritika 5, no. 3 (2004): 451–82; Heather J. Coleman, Russian Baptists and Spiritual Revolution, 1905– 1929 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005). 74. Scherrer, Vereinigungen; Carlson, “No Religion Higher”; Engelstein, Castration; Coleman, Russian Baptists; Maydell, Vor dem Thore. 75. The cultural history of late imperial Russia, while attempting to move away from high politics, nonetheless remains preoccupied with questions of power. For example, debates about sexuality or degeneration have been analyzed in order to reveal the fate of political liberalism. Laura Engelstein, The Keys to Happiness: Sex and the Search for Modernity in Fin-de-Siècle Russia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996); Daniel Beer, Renovating Russia: The Human Sciences and the Fate of Liberal Modernity, 1880–1930 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008). 76. Lutz Häfner, Gesellschaft als lokale Veranstaltung: Die Wolgastädte Kazan’ und Saratov, 1870–1914 (Cologne: Böhlau, 2004); Joseph Bradley, Voluntary Associations in Tsarist Russia: Science, Patriotism, and Civil Society (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009). 77. Steinberg, Proletarian Imagination; Vera Shevzov, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); Mark D. Steinberg and Heather J. Coleman, eds., Sacred Stories: Religion and Spirituality in Modern Russia (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007); Laurie Manchester, Holy Fathers, Secular Sons: Clergy, Intelligentsia, and the Modern Self in Revolutionary Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2008). 78. Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read; Neuberger, Hooliganism; Hubertus F. Jahn, Patriotic Culture in Russia during World War I (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995); McReynolds, Russia at Play.

Chapter 1 1. On the intelligentsia’s turn to the spiritual, see Jutta Scherrer, Die Petersburger religiös-philosophischen Vereinigungen: Die Entwicklung des religiösen Selbstverständnisses ihrer Intelligencija-Mitglieder, 1901–1917 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1973); Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal and Martha Bohachevsky-Chomiak, eds., A Revolution of the Spirit: Crisis of Value in Russia, 1890–1924 (New York: Fordham University Press, 1990); Joan Delaney Grossman, “Alternate Beliefs: Spiritualism and Pantheism among the Early Modernists,” in Christianity and the Eastern Slavs, vol. 3, Russian Literature in Modern Times, ed. Boris Gasparov (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 113–33; Judith Deutsch Kornblatt and Richard F. Gustafson, eds., Russian Religious Thought (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996); Catherine Evtuhov, The Cross and the Sickle: Sergei Bulgakov and the Fate of Russian Religious Philosophy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997).

Notes to Pages 21–22 203

2. The Russian word for spiritualism is spiritizm, a term that mirrors the early influence of French, and to a lesser extent German, works on the matter. In the 1890s, when most authority was attributed to British texts, spiritualizm was regularly used along with spiritizm, although the latter remained the more prevalent expression. I will use the common English terms “spiritualism” and “spiritualist” to describe this fin-de-siècle phenomenon. For spiritualism in Russia, see Thomas E. Berry, Spiritualism in Tsarist Society and Literature (Baltimore: Edgar Allan Poe Society, 1985); Maria Carlson, “Fashionable Occultism: Spiritualism, Theosophy, Freemasonry, and Hermeticism in Fin-de-Siècle Russia,” in The Occult in Soviet and Russian Culture, ed. Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 135–52; N. A. Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura nachala XX veka i okkul’tizm: Issledovaniia i materialy (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 1999); Michael D. Gordin, “Loose and Baggy Spirits: Reading Dostoevskii and Mendeleev,” Slavic Review 60, no. 4 (2001): 756–80; Ilya Vinitsky, Ghostly Paradoxes: Modern Spiritualism and Russian Culture in the Age of Realism (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009). For spiritualism in America and Europe, see R. Laurence Moore, In Search of White Crows: Spiritualism, Parapsychology, and American Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977); Janet Oppenheim, The Other World: Spiritualism and Psychical Research in England, 1850–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Logie Barrow, Independent Spirits: Spiritualism and English Plebeians, 1850–1910 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1986); Alex Owen, The Darkened Room: Women, Power, and Spiritualism in Late Nineteenth-Century England (London: Virago, 1989); Bret E. Carroll, Spiritualism in Antebellum America (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997); Diethard Sawicki, Leben mit den Toten: Geisterglauben und die Entstehung des Spiritismus in Deutschland, 1770–1900 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2002); Corinna Treitel, A Science for the Soul: Occultism and the Genesis of the German Modern (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004); John Warne Monroe, Laboratories of Faith: Mesmerism, Spiritism, and Occultism in Modern France (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008). 3. Carroll, Spiritualism, 2. 4. On the exposure of mediums, see Owen, Darkened Room, 61–63. The exposure of the star medium Eusapia Paladino in 1895 and again in 1910 came as a bombshell to the spiritualist community, which had been promoting the authenticity of her phenomena; it was also a shock to society at large, as boxes of newspaper clippings show. However, after both scandals Paladino was able to continue her career as a “professional medium” without much further ado. Archive of the Society for Psychical Research (SPR Archive), Eusapia Paladino, box 1. 5. See, for example, the proud announcement that A. M. Shilov had been accepted as a member by the London-based Society for Psychical Research. “Kratkie zametki,” Rebus 4, no. 12 (1885): 115. 6. Kardec was the pseudonym of Hippolyte Rivail. Monroe, Laboratories, 95–149. 7. A. F. Koni, Peterburg: Vospominaniia starozhila (Moscow: Tsentrpoligraf, 2003), 86. 8. “Kratkii ocherk razvitiia spiritualizma v Rossii,” Rebus 6, no. 20 (1887), 207. Part of this article was pinched from A-Russian-Spiritualist, “The Growth of Spiritualism in Russia,” Light: A Journal of Psychical, Occult, and Mystical Research 7, no. 326 (1887): 148–50.

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9. On Home, see Daniel Dunglas Home, Light and Shadows of Spiritualism (New York: G. W. Carleton & Co., 1877); Jean Burton, Heyday of a Wizard: Daniel Home, the Medium (New York: A. A. Knopf, 1944); Alan Gauld, “Home, Daniel Dunglas (1833–1886),” in Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, ed. H. G. C. Matthew and Brian Howard Harrison (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), ; Dmitrii Aleksandrovich Obolenskii, Zapiski kniazia Dmitriia Aleksandrovicha Obolenskogo, 1855–1879 (St. Petersburg: NestorIstoriia, 2005), 178–79. 10. “Kratkii ocherk,” 207. 11. On early Russian spiritualism, see Vinitsky, Ghostly Paradoxes, 3–20. 12. V., “Dva slova o spiritizme,” Trudy Kievskoi dukhovnoi akademii (April 1869): 177–92. 13. V. Snegirev, “Spiritizm kak filosofsko-religioznaia doktrina,” Pravoslavnyi sobesednik (January 1871): 16. 14. Ibid. 15. Spiritizm, kak sredstvo obshcheniia s zagrobnym mirom (po issledovaniiam noveishego vremeni) (Moscow: Kardek, 1905), 43. 16. On Aksakov, see Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Biographische Skizze des Herausgebers der “Psychischen Studien” des Herrn Alexander N. Aksakow, Kaiserlich Russischen Wirklichen Staatsraths zu St. Petersburg. Sonder-Abzug aus den “Psychischen Studien” Monatliche Zeitschrift vorzüglich der Untersuchung der wenig gekannten Phänomene des Seelenlebens gewidmet (Leipzig, 1896); V. Pribytkov, “Vopros o spiritizme v Rossii,” Rebus 19, no. 45 (1900): 387–88. See also the obituaries “Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov,” Rebus 22, no. 3 (1903): 25–27; no. 5 (1903): 45–46; M. PetrovoSolovovo, “Alexander Aksakov,” Journal of the Society for Psychical Research 11 (1903): 45–49, 57–58. 17. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Evangelie po Svedenborgu: Piat’ glav Evengeliia ot Ioanna s izlozheniem i tolkovaniem ikh dukhovnogo smysla po “nauke o sootvetstviiakh” (Leipzig, 1870). 18. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Animismus und Spiritismus: Versuch einer kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Hallucination und des Unbewussten. Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmann’s Werk: “Der Spiritismus.” Zweite verbesserte Auflage (Leipzig: O. Mutze, 1894): xxvi. 19. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Spiritualizm i nauka (St. Petersburg, 1872). 20. Aksakov, Animismus (1894), 1, 5. 21. Aksakov, Biographische Skizze. 22. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Animismus und Spiritismus: Versuch einer kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Halluzination und des Unbewussten. Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmanns Werk “Der Spiritismus.” Vierte verbesserte und um ein “Vorwort” und eine “Autobiographie” vermehrte Auflage (Leipzig: Mutze, 1905), 1:lxxx. 23. Rossiiskaia gosudarstvennaia biblioteka (RGB), f. 231/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 31, l. 5. 24. N. Vagner, “Über die psychodynamischen Erscheinungen,” Psychische Studien 2, no. 3 (1875): 97–106. 25. Institut russkoi literatury (IRL), f. 341, op. 1, no. 624.

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26. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Der Spiritualismus und die Wissenschaft: Experimentelle Untersuchungen über die psychische Kraft, von W. Crookes, PrüfungsSitzungen des Mr. D. D. Home mit den Gelehrten zu St. Petersburg und London (Leipzig: Wagner, 1872); Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Animismus und Spiritismus: Versuch einer kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Halluzination und des Unbewussten. Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmanns Werk “Der Spiritismus,” 2 vols. (Leipzig: O. Mutze, 1890). 27. Aksakov, Animismus (1894), 2. 28. Cambridge University Library, SPR Tracts Biog. I. Aksakov’s engagement with the wider international spiritualist community is further underlined by his bequest of £3805, 3s, and 1d to the Society for Psychical Research after his death. Journal of the Society for Psychical Research 11 (1903–1904): 57–58. 29. IRL, f. 435, no. 1; IRL, f. 612, no. 232, l. 1; RGB, f. 548, op. 3, d. 23; Wladimir Szylkarski, Wilhelm Lettenbauer, and Ludolf Müller, eds., Deutsche Gesamtausgabe der Werke von Wladimir Solowjew (Freiburg im Breisgau: Wewel, 1953), 8:55–56. 30. Andrzej Walicki, A History of Russian Thought: From the Enlightenment to Marxism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 76. 31. RGB, f. 231/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 31, l. 5. 32. Ibid., l. 3ob. 33. Mikhail Petrovich Pogodin, Prostaia rech’ o mudrenykh veshchakh (Moscow: Tip. V. M. Frish, 1873), 469. 34. RGB, f. 231/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 31. 35. Ibid., l. 6. 36. Ibid. Emphases in the original. 37. A. A. Polovtsov, Russkii biograficheskii slovar’ (St. Petersburg: Tipografiia I. N. Slorokholova, 1896–1918): 3:528–33; G. V. Bykov, Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1961). 38. A. M. Butlerov, “Mediumicheskie iavleniia,” Russkii vestnik, no. 120 (1875): 300–48. 39. On the commission, see V. Pribytkov, “Vopros o spiritizme v Rossii,” Rebus 19, no. 14 (1900): 126; Burton, Heyday, 244. 40. “Vagner, Nikolai Petrovich,” in Kritiko-biograficheskii slovar’ russkikh pisatelei i uchennykh (ot nachala russkoi obrazovannosti do nashikh dnei), ed. S. A. Vengerov (St. Petersburg: Tip. M. M. Stasiulevicha, 1895), 4:2:19–24; Aleksandr M. Prokhorov, ed., Bol’shaia sovetskaia entsiklopediia, 3rd ed., 30 vols. (Moscow, 1970–1981), 4:225. 41. Brédif is an enigmatic figure; all that is known about his life is that he lived in the nineteenth century and was investigated by Flammarion, who reported that Brédif produced strange apparitions. Arthur S. Berger and Joyce Berger, The Encyclopaedia of Parapsychology and Psychical Research (New York: Paragon House, 1991). Neither the national bibliographies nor the encyclopedia mention him. For his visit to Russia, see A-Russian-Spiritualist, “The Growth of Spiritualism in Russia”; Pribytkov, “Vopros o spiritizme (1900).” 42. N. P. Vagner, “Pis’mo k redaktoru: Po povodu spiritizma,” Vestnik Evropy (April 1875): 855–75. 43. Ibid. 44. “Der Spiritismus in St. Petersburg,” Psychische Studien 2, no. 5 (1875): 235. 45. Butlerov, “Mediumicheskie iavleniia.” The editor of Vestnik Evropy had had enough of spiritualism by this point, but the positive disposition of Katkov, editor of

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Russkii vestnik, ensured an equally visible platform for the voicing of spiritualist ideas. RGB, f. 120, kart. 51, ed. khr. 35; IRL, f. 293, op. 1, no. 287, ll. 1–2. 46. Ibid.; A. Butlerov, “Der russische Mathematiker M. W. Ostrogradsky als Spiritualist,” Psychische Studien 1, no. 7 (1874): 300–7; “Professor Friedrich Zöllner in Leipzig über Mr. Slade’s Mediumschaft,” Psychische Studien 5, nos. 2–3 (1878): 50–58, 101–8. 47. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, “Materialen zum Urtheile über den Spiritismus. Herausgegeben von D. Mendelejew,” Psychische Studien 3, no. 9 (1876): 405–6. 48. Vagner, “Pis’mo.” 49. On the Mendeleev commission, see Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, “Ernennung eines wissenschaftlichen Comités zu St. Petersburg zur Untersuchung mediumistischer Phänomene,” Psychische Studien 2, no. 7 (1875): 322–23; Aksakov, “Wie das wissenschaftliche Comité zu St. Petersburg die mediumistischen Phänomene untersucht und was sich dabei ergeben hat,” Psychische Studien 3, no. 4 (1876): 145– 47; Aksakov, “Der Bericht des wissenschaftlichen Comité’s zu St. Petersburg über seine Untersuchungen der mediumistischen Phänomene,” Psychische Studien 3, no. 5 (1876): 193–202; D. I. Mendeleev, Materialy dlia suzhdeniia o spiritizme (St. Petersburg: Tip. t-va Obshchestv. pol’za, 1876); Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Razoblacheniia: Istoriia mediumicheskoi kommissii fizicheskogo obshchestva pri S.-Peterburgskom universitete s prilozheniem vsekh protokolov i prochikh dokumentov (St. Petersburg: Tip. V. Bezobrazova, 1883); Don C. Rawson, “Mendeleev and the Scientific Claims of Spiritualism,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 122, no. 1 (1978): 1–8; Michael D. Gordin, A Well-Ordered Thing: Dmitrii Mendeleev and the Shadow of the Periodic Table (New York: Basic Books, 2004), 81–110; Ilya Vinitsky, “Table Talks: The Spiritualist Controversy of the 1870s and Dostoevsky,” The Russian Review 67, no. 1 (2008): 88–109. Gordin’s account is excellent, although slightly biased towards Mendeleev’s perspective. 50. “Herr Staatsrath Aksákow in London,” Psychische Studien 2, no. 10 (1875): 470; Henry S. Olcott and Helena P. Blavatsky, “Zu dem russischen Aufruf an Medien,” Psychische Studien 2, no. 9 (1875): 421–22. 51. Madame Clayer was the pseudonym of Mary Marshall, who became Mrs. St. Clair after her marriage. According to Aksakov, she wanted to remain incognito and was therefore introduced to the commission as Madame Clayer. Aksakov, Animismus (1905), 1:lxvii. See also A-Russian-Spiritualist, “The Growth of Spiritualism in Russia.” There is ample confusion about her name in the secondary literature. 52. Rawson sees in the dispute between Mendeleev and his colleagues Butlerov and Vagner a generational conflict and also a feud between provincialism and socialization in the capital. I am not convinced by this argument, because Mendeleev and his spiritualist colleagues were only five to six years apart in age, and all three of them were from the provinces. Gordin argues that spiritualists mainly came from the aristocracy and through spiritualism attempted to “create a newly reinvigorated public role for noblemen.” Their opponent Mendeleev, by contrast, allegedly advocated the bourgeois ideals of scientificity and meritocracy. I do not share this view either, since all the participants in this debate claimed to act according to similar norms of honor. Moreover, members of the spiritualist and anti-spiritualist camps both belonged to the nobility (Aksakov, Butlerov, A. V. G., Markov) and to non-aristocratic strata respectively (Mendeleev, Dostoevskii, Vagner). Rawson, “Mendeleev”; Gordin, Well-Ordered Thing, 98–99. 53. Mendeleev, Materialy; Gordin, Well-Ordered Thing.

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54. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, “Ablehnender Protest des Herausgebers an die Commission der physikalischen Gesellschaft der Universität zu St. Petersburg, ernannt zur Untersuchung der mediumistischen Phänomene,” Psychische Studien 3, no. 9 (1876): 385–93; Aksakov and A. Butlerov, “Erwiderung der Zeugen Herren Aksakow und Prof. Butlerow gegen den Bericht des wissenschaftlichen Comités zu St. Petersburg über dessen Untersuchung der mediumistischen Phänomene,” Psychische Studien 3, no. 6 (1876): 241– 44; Aksakov, “Bericht”; N. Vagner, “Erwiderung des Zeugen H. Prof. Wagner gegen den Bericht des wissenschaftlichen Comite’s zu St. Petersburg,” Psychische Studien 3, no. 7 (1876): 289–93; N. Vagner, “Professor Wagner’s ablehnender Protest,” Psychische Studien 3, no. 9 (1876): 398–99. 55. Aksakov, Razoblacheniia. Aksakov’s reply appeared in print with a delay of seven years owing to family differences over how assets had—or had not—been spent. Pribytkov, “Vopros o spiritizme,” no. 1 (1901): 4–6. 56. Ibid. 57. Sanktpeterburgskie vedomosti, May 4, 1876, 122; “Protest des russischen Publikums zu St. Petersburg,” Psychische Studien 3, no. 7 (1876): 293–96. 58. V. P. Bykov, Spiritizm pered sudom nauki, obshchestva i religii: Lektsii-besedy (Moscow: Izd. E. I. Bykovoi, 1914), 76. 59. RGB, f. 336/II, kart. 56, ed. khr. 12. For the treatment of spiritualism in Dostoevskii’s Dnevnik pisatelia, see Gordin, “Loose and Baggy.” 60. On the discussion in 1878 and 1879, see chapter 2. 61. On Pribytkov, see Viktor Pribytkov, “Iz moikh vospominanii,” Rebus 2, no. 3 (1883): 28; Vik. P., “Peterburgskie spirity I: U V. I. Pribytkova,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, February 1, 1893, 2; Iasnovidiashchii, “Peterburgskie spirity,” Peterburgskii listok, November 19, 1895, 7; “V. I. Pribytkov,” Rebus 29, no. 44 (1910): 2–3; N. G. Martynov and P. Chistiakov, “Pamiati Viktora Ivanovicha Pribytkova,” Rebus 29, no. 45 (1910): 4–5. 62. Viktor Pribytkov, “Mediumizm Elizavety Dmitrievny Pribytkovoi,” Rebus 15, no. 45 (1896): 365–66; no. 46 (1896): 381–82; no. 47 (1896): 389–91; no. 48 (1896): 401–2; no. 49 (1896): 413–15; no. 50 (1896): 425–26; no. 51 (1896): 437–39; no. 52 (1896): 449–52; Rebus 16, no. 1 (1897): 4–6; no. 2 (1897): 15–16; no. 3 (1897): 23–25; no. 4 (1897): 33–34. These articles were later published as a brochure. V. I. Pribytkov, Mediumizm Elizavety Dmitrievny Pribytkovoi: Vospominaniia V. Pribytkova (St. Petersburg: Red. zhur. Rebus, 1897). 63. RGB, f. 336/II, kart. 56, ed. khr. 12; RGB, f. 93/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 185. 64. Vinitsky, “Table Talks,” 93. Psychische Studien had Russian subscribers, but it could only serve an exclusive audience of those who read German well: “Nachricht für unsere russischen Abonnenten,” Psychische Studien 3, no. 11 (1876): 526. 65. Pribytkov, “Vopros o spiritizme,” no. 3 (1901): 31. 66. Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii (GARF), f. 102, op. 77, d. 17. 67. Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv (RGIA), f. 777, op. 3, d. 68; f. 776, op. 8, d. 72; V. Pribytkov, “Vopros o spiritizme,” no. 3 (1901): 32. 68. Mainstream newspapers regularly referred to Rebus. See, for example, G. N., “Voskresnye negativy: Prividenie v *** departamente,” Sanktpeterburgskie vedomosti, May 8, 1888, 2–3; “Cherti,” Peterburgskii listok, August 15, 1893, 1–2. 69. Maria Carlson, “No Religion Higher than Truth”: A History of the Theosophical Movement in Russia, 1875–1922 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 25.

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70. Sigmund Freud, Die Traumdeutung (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2007), 284–85. 71. Christine D. Worobec, “Miraculous Healings,” in Sacred Stories: Religion and Spirituality in Modern Russia, ed. Mark D. Steinberg and Heather J. Coleman (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007), 26. 72. On the Russian salon, see Lina Bernstein, “Women on the Verge of a New Language: Russian Salon Hostesses in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century,” in Russia, Women, Culture, ed. Helena Goscilo and Beth Holmgren (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1996), 209–24; M. Aronson and S. Reiser, Literaturnye kruzhki i salony (St. Petersburg: Akademicheskii proekt, 2001); A. I. Reitblat, Kak Pushkin vyshel v genii: Istoriko-sotsiologicheskie ocherki o knizhnoi kul’ture Pushkinskoi epokhi (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2001); Ursula Keller and Natalja Sharandak, Abende nicht von dieser Welt: St. Petersburger Salondamen und Künstlerinnen des Silbernen Zeitalters (Berlin: Grambin Aviva, 2003); Anna Ljunggren, Poeziia Tiutcheva i salonnaia kul’tura XIX veka (Moscow: Nauka, 2006); T. F. Prokopova, ed., Moskovskii Parnas: Kruzhki, salony, zhurfiksy Serebriianogo veka, 1890–1922 (Moscow: Intelvak, 2006); M. M. Leonov, Salon V. P. Meshcherskogo: Patronat i posrednichestvo v Rossii rubezha XIX–XX vv. (Samara: Samarskii nauchnyi tsentr RAN, 2009). 73. Friedrich Christian Weber, Das veränderte Russland, im welchem die jetzige Verfassung des Geist- und Weltlichen Regiments (Frankfurt: Bey Nicolai Försters und Sohnes, 1738), 226–27. 74. Reitblat, Kak Pushkin. 75. Ibid., 106. 76. On Russian Freemasonry, see Nathan Smith, “Political Freemasonry in Russia, 1906–1918,” The Russian Review 44 (1985): 157–71; Andrei Ivanovich Serkov, Istoriia russkogo masonstva, 1845–1945 (St. Petersburg: Izd-vo im. N. I. Novikova, 1997); Douglas Smith, Working the Rough Stone: Freemasonry and Society in EighteenthCentury Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1999); Georgii Vladimirovich Vernadskii, Russkoe masonstvo v tsarstvovanie Ekateriny II (St. Petersburg: Izd-vo im. N. I. Novikova, 1999); A. I. Serkov, Russkoe Masonstvo, 1731–2000: Entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (Moscow: Rosspen, 2001); Ilya Vinitsky, “Amor Hereos, or How One Brother Was Visited by an Invisible Being,” Kritika 9, no. 2 (2008): 291–315. 77. Smith, Working the Rough Stone, 26–51. 78. RGB, f. 386, kart. 99, ed. khr. 38, l. 2. 79. Ibid., ll. 9–10. 80. IRL, f. 119, op. 1, no. 36. 81. RGB, f. 231/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 31, l. 5ob; A. Butlerov, “Meine neuesten Erfahrungen im Gebiete des Mediumismus,” Psychische Studien 2, no. 9 (1875): 385–99. 82. “Uvlekat’sia” is commonly used in reference to someone’s hobbies, as for example in “uvlekat’sia tennisom, shakhmatami,” meaning to be keen on tennis, chess, etc. 83. Alkhazar-Tovii Moldavanin, Chrezvychaino-interesnaia i neobyknovennozabavnaia dlia semeinykh vechernykh spiriticheskikh seansov Domashniaia Volshebnaia Knizhka: Knizhka volshebnitsa, po kotoroi mozhno pokazyvat’ teni (prividenii) zhelaemykh lits, khotia by oni vo vremia seansa byli v otsutstvii za neskol’ko tysiach verst ili uzhe umerzhie, uznat’ imena i leta sovershenno neznakomykh lits; Krome togo po etoi knizhke mozhno uznat’, skol’ko kto imeet pri sebe v karmane deneg ili u sebia v dome, nesmotria

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uzhe i na to, chto esli-by takoe litso bylo ot svoego doma na rasstoianii za neskol’ko sot ili tysiach verst (Moscow, 1883). 84. RGB, f. 231/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 31, l. 5. Briusov also used this kind of table for his séances. RGB, f. 386, kart. 2, ed. khr. 6, l. 21. 85. Ibid., l. 20. 86. RGB, f. 231/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 31, l. 5ob. 87. I. Iarkovskii, “Mediumicheskie iavleniia vne seansa v Peterburge,” Rebus 16, no. 22 (1897): 188. For similar descriptions, see, for example, RGB, f. 231, kart. 1, ed. khr. 31, l. 6. 88. M B.kin, “Medium Sambor v Peterburge: Dva seansa,” Rebus 13, no. 20 (1894): 199–200; O. Stano, “Seans Ianeka v S.-Peterburgskom mediumicheskom kruzhke 24-marta,” Rebus 18, no. 15 (1899): 139; SPR Archive, Journals and Proceedings, Sambor, batch 2. 89. RGB, f. 386, kart. 2, ed. khr. 6, ll. 13, 14, 17, 22, 25. 90. RGB, f. 231/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 31, l. 7. 91. Geoffrey K. Nelson, Spiritualism and Society (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1969); Oppenheim, The Other World; Owen, Darkened Room; Carroll, Spiritualism; Richard J. Noakes, “Telegraphy Is an Occult Art: Cromwell Fleetwood Varley and the Diffusion of Electricity to the Other World,” British Journal for the History of Science 32 (1999): 421–59; Treitel, Science for the Soul. Moore sees spiritualism as a reaction against the overbearing influence of science: R. Laurence Moore, “Spiritualism and Science: Reflections on the First Decade of Spirit Rappings,” American Quarterly 24 (1972): 474–500. 92. Oppenheim, The Other World, 29; Owen, Darkened Room, 82–85; Monroe, Laboratories, 12. 93. V. Anzimirov, “Iavleniia umershikh, veshchie sni,” Rebus 24, no. 14 (1905): 4–5. See also Aleksandr Mikhailovich, Vospominaniia: Dve knigi v odnom tome (Moscow: Zakharov-AST, 1999), 472; Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 305. 94. RGB, f. 231/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 31, l. 7. 95. Szylkarski et al., Deutsche Gesamtausgabe, 8:55. 96. Vladimir Sergeevich Solov’ev, “O raskole v russkom narode i obshchestve, 1882–1883,” in Sobranie sochinenii Vladimira Sergeevicha Solov’eva, ed. S. M. Solov’ev and E. L. Radlov (St. Petersburg: Prosveshchenie, 1913), 3:279. See chapter 5 for a more detailed discussion of Solov’ev’s criticism of spiritualism. 97. Treitel, Science for the Soul, 12. 98. GARF, f. 102, del-vo 3, d. 350; “Zagrobnoe stikhotvorenie Aleksandra Sergeevicha Pushkina,” Rebus 18, no. 22 (1899), cover page; “Vydaiushchiisia sluchai,” Rebus 20, no. 28 (1901): 334–35. 99. Rossiiskaia natsional’naia biblioteka, Rukopisnyi otdel (RNB), f. 822, no. 535, l. 2. 100. RNB, f. 822, no. 537, l. 9. 101. On nostalgia and its orientation toward a utopian past, see Svetlana Boym, The Future of Nostalgia (New York: Basic Books, 2001). 102. Sigmund Freud, “Zeitgemäßes über Krieg und Tod,” in Gesammelte Werke: Chronologisch geordnet. Zehnter Band, Werke aus den Jahren 1913–1917 (London: Imago, 1940), 341. 103. Ibid., 342. 104. Ibid., 344.

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105. According to Freud, the wish for the death of loved ones is an integral part of the ambiguous emotions of the human psyche, even if consciously man feels ashamed of such feelings. Ibid., 350–53. 106. The classic literary reflection on and criticism of this scientific outlook is Ivan Turgenev’s character Bazarov of Ottsy i deti (1862). See also Ann Hibner Koblitz, “Science, Women, and the Russian Intelligentsia: The Generation of the 1860s,” Isis 79, no. 2 (1988): 208–26. 107. Briusov was also very thoughtful about his clothing for self-fashioning. Joan Delaney Grossman, Valery Bryusov and the Riddle of Russian Decadence (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 22; Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 280–310. 108. Owen, Darkened Room, 203. 109. Ibid., 4, 67. 110. Walter Leaf, “Mr. Petrovo-Solovovo on Spiritism,” Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research 19 (1905): 397–409; “O chlenovreditel’nykh seansakh: K zametke g-na Smolenskogo,” Rebus 32, no. 10 (1913): 5; I. L. Smolenskii, “Interesnyi iuridicheskii vopros,” Rebus 32, no. 10 (1913): 5–6. The success of Guzik’s career can be deduced from his income as a medium. One of his sitters reported that the Pole took up to 30 rubles for one evening, a sum that considerably exceeded the monthly salary of a worker. N. Shvanvich, “O seansakh Iana Guzika v Moskve,” Rebus 24, no. 12 (1905): 3–5; no. 13 (1905): 3–6; A. Zarin, “Odin iz magov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 28, 1916. 111. P. Ch., “O Vladikavkazskom mediume,” Rebus 23, nos. 25–26 (1904): 1–2. For the lack of education among mediums, see also RGB, f. 93/II, kart. 10, ed. khr. 5. 112. Leaf, “Mr. Petrovo-Solovovo on Spiritism.” On Sambor, see “Detailed report on the Séance of December 8th (Nov. 26th),” SPR Archive, Mediums Files, Sambor; “O chlenovreditel’nykh seansakh: K zametke g-na Smolenskogo”; Smolenskii, “Interesnyi iuridicheskii vopros.” 113. Pribytkov, Mediumizm; Louise McReynolds, “The Murderer in the City: Narratives of Urbanism,” paper presented at the conference “Cultures of the Russian City,” St. Petersburg, June 2004, 15. On the role of unprofessional women mediums, see Owen, Darkened Room, 49–73. 114. For the ubiquity of sexual allusions at a spiritualist séance, see Owen, Darkened Room, 218. 115. Sh-n, “Seans Sambora,” Rebus 17, no. 23 (1898): 199–200; M. PetrovoSolovovo, “Seans Sambora,” Rebus 18, no. 3 (1899): 31. 116. Mikh. Petrovo-Solovovo, “Interesnyi sluchai na seanse S. F. Sambora,” Rebus 18, no. 11 (1899): 107–9. 117. RGB, f. 386, kart. 2, ed. khr. 6, l. 33. 118. Ibid., ll. 37–38. 119. RNB, f. 386, kart. 1, ed. khr. 12, ll. 19, 26; Cited in Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 280. 120. RGB, f. 386, kart. 2, ed. khr. 6, ll. 49, 54. See also RGB, f. 386, kart. 71, ed. khr. 43, ll. 7–10. 121. RGB, f. 386, kart. 2, ed. khr. 6, ll. 41. For a similar occurrence, see RGB, f. 120, kart. 51, ed. khr. 35. 122. One indication of this is his handwriting, which matches that used for other texts he sent to publishers, but differs greatly from that of drafts he composed for his

Notes to Pages 45–49 211

personal use. See RGB, f. 386, kart. 72, ed. khr. 20. See also Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 279–310. 123. Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 292. See also Grossman, Valery Bryusov and the Riddle of Russian Dominance, 4, 21. 124. Georgii Ivanov, Stikhotvoreniia; Tretii Rim: Roman; Peterburgskie zimy: Memuary; Kitaiskie teni: Literaturnoe portrety (Moscow: Kniga, 1989), 413–20. 125. Vagner, “Über die psychodynamischen Erscheinungen”; “Stuchit!,” Rebus 12, no. 11 (1893): 121; Aksakov, Animismus (1894). 126. A. N. Khovrin, “Redkaia forma giperestezii vysshikh organov chuvstv (Eksperimental’nye nabliudeniia nad usilennoi razlichitel’noi sposobnostiu v odnom sluchae bol’shoi isterii),” Voprosy nervno-psikhicheskoi meditsiny 3, no. 2 (1898): 247–91; no. 3 (1898): 441–75; Magnus Ljunggren, The Russian Mephisto: A Study of the Life and Work of Emilii Medtner (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1994); Boris Groys and Michael Hagemeister, eds., Die Neue Menschheit: Biopolitische Utopien in Russland zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2005), 22; Susan K. Morrissey, Suicide and the Body Politic in Imperial Russia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Daniel Beer, Renovating Russia: The Human Sciences and the Fate of Liberal Modernity, 1880–1930 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008); C. G. Jung, Psychology and the Occult (London: Routledge, 2008), 31, 157. 127. RGB, f. 386, kart. 71, ed. khr. 43, l. 1. 128. L. Krupenskaia, “Kurenie na spiriticheskikh seansakh,” Spiritualist 1, no. 2 (1905): 66; Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 292; Prokopova, Moskovskii Parnas, 274; GARF, f. 102, op. 3, del-vo 60, ch. 26. 129. Briusov only once refers to exact instruments, i.e., thermometers and barometers, in his detailed chronology of his séances. RGB, f. 386, kart. 2, ed. khr. 6, l. 19. I disagree with Delaney Grossman, who claims that spiritualism was associated either with parlor games or with positivist thought, which led writers to pursue other occult techniques. Grossman, “Alternate Beliefs,” 125. 130. Freud, “Zeitgemäßes,” 350. 131. Jeffrey Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read: Literacy and Popular Literature, 1861–1917 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985); Joan Neuberger, Hooliganism: Crime, Culture, and Power in St. Petersburg, 1900–1914 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993); Mark D. Steinberg, Proletarian Imagination: Self, Modernity, and the Sacred in Russia, 1910–1925 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2002). 132. Harley D. Balzer, ed., Russia’s Missing Middle Class: The Professions in Russian History (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1996).

Chapter 2 1. A. M. Butlerov, “Chetvertoe izmerenie prostranstva i mediumizm,” Russkii vestnik, no. 133 (1878): 945–71. 2. N. Golovkinskii, “Zametka chitatelia na stat’iu A. M. Butlerova ‘Chetvertoe izmerenie i mediumizm’,” Russkii vestnik 4 (1878): 448–72; A. V. G., “Chetvertoe izmerenie i spiritizm,” Vestnik Evropy 1–2 (1879): 253–71. Gadolin’s identity can be deduced from J. K. Friedrich Zöllner, Wissenschaftliche Abhandlungen (Leipzig: L. Staackmann, 1878), 3:84–104; I. F. Masanov, Slovar’ psevdonimov russkikh pisatelei,

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uchennykh i obshchestvennykh deiatelei (Moscow: Izd-vo knizhnoi palaty, 1956–1960), 1:35. Gadolin and Golovkinskii were joined in their criticism by an anonymous author who, judging from the content of his pamphlet, was another respected scientist: Novye reformatory ‘o chetyrekh izmereniiakh’ v religii i nauke (Revel, 1878). 3. Evgenii Markov, “Literaturnaia letopis’,” Golos, April 6, 1878; F. M. Dostoevskii, “Brat’ia Karamazovy,” Russkii vestnik 3 (1879): 396; Dostoevskii, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh (Leningrad: Nauka, 1972), 30:1:16. Butlerov responded to these largely critical replies in a ninety-seven-page defense of his convictions. A. Butlerov, “Empirizm i dogmatizm v oblasti mediumizma,” Russkii vestnik, no. 2 (1879): 757–812; no. 3 (1879): 5–47. 4. J. K. Friedrich Zöllner, “On Space of Four Dimensions,” The Quarterly Journal of Science 8 (1878): 227–37. 5. Butlerov, “Chetvertoe izmerenie,” 961. 6. Ibid. 7. Butlerov was not aware that mathematicians defined knots as one-dimensional constructs embedded in a three-dimensional space. 8. Zöllner, Wissenschaftliche Abhandlungen, 16–297. Zöllner was renowned for his research on comets and his spectral analysis of stars. Hermann Julius Meyers, Meyers Grosses Konversations-Lexikon: Ein Nachschlagewerk des allgemeinen Wissens (Leipzig: Bibliographisches Institut, 1908), 20:982–83. On the scandal he caused in Germany with his support for spiritualism, see Corinna Treitel, A Science for the Soul: Occultism and the Genesis of the German Modern (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 3–17. 9. In Kantian philosophy the term “absolute space” makes little sense. Kant does not see space as a Newtonian absolute, but rather as a form of our outer senses. Kant would, however, agree with Zöllner and Butlerov that we can only experience a small subsection of things—we experience only appearances, not things in themselves. Immanuel Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft: Nach der ersten und zweiten Originalausgabe (Hamburg: F. Meiner, 1998), 97–105. I would like to thank Yoon Choi for explaining the Kantian doctrine of space to me. On Zöllner’s reading of Kant, see Wayne H. Stromberg, “Helmholtz and Zoellner: Nineteenth-Century Empiricism, Spiritism, and the Theory of Space Perception,” Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 25 (1989): 371–83. 10. Euclidean axioms include the following statements: 1.) Any two points can be joined by a straight line; 2.) Any straight line segment can be extended indefinitely in a straight line; 3.) Given any straight line segment, a circle can be drawn having the segment as radius and one endpoint as center; 4.) All right angles are congruent. 11. Nikolai Lobachevskii, Geometrische Untersuchung zur Theorie der Parallellinien (Berlin: G. Fincke, 1840). 12. A. Vucinich, “Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachevskii: The Man Behind the First NonEuclidean Geometry,” Isis 53 (1962): 465–81. 13. Felix Klein, Vorlesungen über die Entwicklung der Mathematik im 19. Jahrhundert (Berlin: J. Springer, 1926), 167–91. Spatial higher dimensions should not be associated with time. 14. Ibid., 171. 15. Ibid., 171–82. 16. Bernhard Riemann, Über die Hypothesen, welche der Geometrie zugrunde liegen (Göttingen: Dieterich, 1867). 17. Novye reformatory, 53.

Notes to Pages 54–57 213

18. According to Golovkinskii, three-dimensional space was Euclidean, while fourdimensional space was Riemannian. Golovkinskii, “Zametka,” 456. For an example of this confusion, see A. Vucinich, Science in Russian Culture, 1861–1917 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1970), 173. 19. Vucinich, Science in Russian Culture; Ann Hibner Koblitz, “Science, Women, and the Russian Intelligentsia: The Generation of the 1860s,” Isis 79, no. 2 (1988): 208– 26; Elizabeth A. Hachten, “In Service to Science and Society: Scientists and the Public in Late Nineteenth-Century Russia,” Osiris 17 (2002): 171–209; Joseph Bradley, “Pictures at an Exhibition: Science, Patriotism, and Civil Society in Imperial Russia,” Slavic Review 67, no. 4 (2008): 934–66. 20. Rossiiskaia gosudarstvennaia biblioteka (RGB), f. 336/II, kart. 56, ed. khr. 12, l. 4. 21. A. V. G., “Chetvertoe izmerenie,” 268–69. 22. Ibid., 270. 23. Joan L. Richards, Mathematical Visions: The Pursuit of Geometry in Victorian England (Boston: Academic Press, 1988), 2. 24. Lobachevskii contemplated measuring triangles formed of two opposed points on the earth’s orbit and one of the fixed stars in order to establish whether Euclidean or non-Euclidean geometry better described the universe. Norman Daniels, “Lobachevsky: Some Anticipations of Later Views on the Relation between Geometry and Physics,” Isis 66, no. 1 (1975): 75–85. 25. Felix Klein, “Ueber die sogennante Nicht-Euklidische Geometrie,” Mathematische Annalen 6 (1873): 112–13. 26. A. V. G., “Chetvertoe izmerenie,” 261. 27. Butlerov, “Chetvertoe izmerenie,” 958. 28. Novye reformatory, 17; Golovkinskii, “Zametka,” 453. 29. F. Dostoevskii, “Pis’mo v redaktsiiu,” Novoe vremia, March 27, 1878. On Livchak’s acquaintance with Dostoevskii, see RGB, f. 93/I, kart. 6, ed. khr. 29; f. 93/II, kart. 6, ed. khr. 26. 30. Butlerov, “Empirizm i dogmatizm,” 793; Dostoevskii, Polnoe sobranie, 30:1:268. 31. Butlerov, “Empirizm i dogmatizm,” 793–94. Topology, or geometria situs, i.e., the subdivision of mathematics that describes—among other things—knots, was another relatively recent development. However, since the mid-1870s, Klein and others had been able to show that knots in a sealed rope that could not be tied in three-dimensional space could be tied in four-dimensional space. Butlerov’s mathematical friend was simply not up to date. Felix Klein, “Über den Zusammenhang der Flächen,” Mathematische Annalen 9 (1875): 473–82. 32. Butlerov, “Empirizm i dogmatizm,” 973. 33. Zöllner, Wissenschaftliche Abhandlungen, 1:227. 34. Novyi entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (St. Petersburg: Brokgauz Efron, 1916), 25:755–58. 35. As his readers knew, spiritualists and other mystics frequented the palaces of Alexander II and had found a patron in Grand Prince Konstantin, who in 1878 also held sittings with Slade. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, “Dr. Slade’s Séancen mit dem Grossfürsten Constantin in Petersburg,” Psychische Studien 7 (1878): 181; Markov, “Literaturnaia letopis’”; Jean Burton, Heyday of a Wizard: Daniel Home, the Medium

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(New York: A. A. Knopf, 1944); S. I. Witte, The Memoirs of Count Witte (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1990), 355–65. 36. Markov, “Literaturnaia letopis’.” 37. Ibid. 38. Gadolin, who came from an influential Finnish aristocratic family and had risen quickly in the military, was a conservative member of the tsar’s entourage. Polovtsov, Russkii biograficheskii slovar’, 4:103–6; E. K. Larman, Aksel’ Vil’gel’movich Gadolin (Moscow: Nauka, 1969). His criticism of the press and spiritualism were shared by Konstantin Pobedonostsev, the chief procurator of the Holy Synod. G. V. Bykov, Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1961), 162. On post-Reform publishing practices, see Benjamin Rigberg, “The Tsarist Press Law, 1894–1905,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 13 (1965): 331–43; Paul A. Russo, “Golos and the Censorship, 1879–1883,” Slavonic and East European Review 61, no. 2 (1983): 226–37; Daniel P. Todes, “Biological Psychology and the Tsarist Censor: The Dilemma of Scientific Development,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 58, no. 4 (1984): 529–44; I. P. Foote, “The St. Petersburg Censorship Committee, 1828–1905,” Oxford Slavonic Papers 24 (1991): 60–120; Louise McReynolds, The News under Russia’s Old Regime: The Development of a Mass-Circulation Press (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991); I. P. Foote, “Counter-Censorship: Authors v. Censors in Nineteenth-Century Russia,” Oxford Slavonic Papers 27 (1994): 62–105. 39. Novye reformatory, 14. 40. A. V. G., “Chetvertoe izmerenie,” 255. 41. Novye reformatory, 10, 43. 42. Ibid., 10, 43, 54. 43. Ibid., 43. 44. Ibid., 57. 45. Ibid., 62. On flux and modernity, see Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” in The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, ed. Jonathan Mayne (New York: Da Capo Press, 1964), 1–40; Carl E. Schorske, Fin-de-Siècle Vienna: Politics and Culture (New York: Vintage Books, 1981); Marshall Berman, All That Is Solid Melts Into Air: The Experience of Modernity (New York: Viking Penguin, 1988); Karl Schlögel, Petersburg: Das Laboratorium der Moderne, 1909–1921 (Munich: Hanser, 2002); Mark D. Steinberg, Proletarian Imagination: Self, Modernity, and the Sacred in Russia, 1910–1925 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2002). 46. Gordin argues that the concept of gentlemanly decorum was advanced by spiritualists, most of whom were nobles, in an attempt to “create a newly reinvigorated public role for noblemen.” Their opponent Mendeleev, by contrast, aimed to replace “trust in people” by scientific method. I do not share this view. All participants in this debate claimed to be acting according to norms of honor. Moreover, members of both the spiritualist and anti-spiritualist camps belonged to the nobility (Aksakov, Butlerov, Gadolin, Markov) and to non-aristocratic strata respectively (Mendeleev, Dostoevskii, Vagner). Michael D. Gordin, A Well-Ordered Thing: Dmitrii Mendeleev and the Shadow of the Periodic Table (New York: Basic Books, 2004), 98–99. 47. Novye reformatory, 58. See also pages 59, 60, 64. 48. Markov, “Literaturnaia letopis’.” 49. Ibid. 50. See, for example, S. Glagolev, “Chudo i nauka,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (June

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1893): 477–514. For a detailed discussion about theological responses, see chapter 5. 51. Dostoevskii, “Brat’ia Karamazovy,” 396. It would, of course, be rash to assume that the view of a fictional character automatically corresponds to that of his creator. In this case, however, Ivan Karamazov’s and Dostoevskii’s own view on spiritualism are very similar. Dostoevskii, Polnoe sobranie, 22:32–37, 99–101, 126–32. 52. On Russian sects, see, for example, T. I. Butkevich, Obzor russkikh sekt i ikh tolkov, s izlozheniem ikh proiskhozhdeniia, rasprostraneniia i veroucheniia i s oproverzheniem poslednego. Izdanie vtoroe, ispravlennoe i znachitel’no dopolnennoe (Petrograd: I. L. Tuzov, 1915); Aleksandr Etkind, Khlyst: Sekty, literatura i revoliutsiia (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 1998); Laura Engelstein, Castration and the Heavenly Kingdom: A Russian Folktale (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999); Nicholas B. Breyfogle, Heretics and Colonizers: Forging Russia’s Empire in the South Caucasus (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005); Heather J. Coleman, Russian Baptists and Spiritual Revolution, 1905–1929 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005). 53. Butlerov, “Empirizm i dogmatizm,” 29. 54. Ibid., 35, 42. 55. On the public sphere and the social mission of the periodical press, see Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society (Cambridge: Polity, 2008). On the Russian context, see Joseph Bradley, “Subjects into Citizens: Societies, Civil Society, and Autocracy in Tsarist Russia,” American Historical Review 107, no. 4 (2002): 1094–123; Lutz Häfner, “Civil Society, Bürgertum i ‘mestnoe obshchestvo’: V poiskakh analiticheskikh kategorii izucheniia obshchestvennoi i sotsial’noi modernizatsii v pozneimperskoi Rossii,” Ab Imperio 3, no. 3 (2002): 161–208; Manfred Hildermeier, “Bildungsqualifikationen und bürgerliche Gesellschaft,” Cahiers du monde russe 43, no. 4 (2002): 591–600; Joseph Bradley, Voluntary Associations in Tsarist Russia: Science, Patriotism, and Civil Society (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009). Russo, “Golos and the Censorship”; V. A. Kitaev, “The Unique Liberalism of Vestnik Evropy (1870–1890),” Russian Studies in History 46, no. 1 (2007): 43–61. 56. A discussion of spiritualism also had very practical advantages as it allowed commentators to evade problems of censorship. Such strategies were common ploys. Foote, “Counter-Censorship.” 57. IRL, f. 293, op. 1, no. 287. 58. Butlerov, “Chetvertoe izmerenie,” 971. 59. Butlerov, “Empirizm i dogmatizm.” 60. Leonid Sabaneev, “Pavel Florensky: Priest, Scientist, and Mystic,” Russian Review 20, no. 4 (1961): 312–25; Nicoletta Misler, “Toward an Exact Aesthetics: Pavel Florensky and the Russian Academy of Artistic Sciences,” in Laboratory of Dreams: The Russian Avant-Garde and Cultural Experiment, ed. John E. Bowlt and Olga Matich (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 118–32; P. D. Uspenskii, Novaia model’ vselennoi (Moscow: Grand, 2000). 61. L. N. Tolstoi, Sobranie sochinenii v dvadtsati tomakh (Moscow: Khudozhestvennaia literatura, 1963), 11:199. 62. “Nauchnye novosti,” Novosti i birzhevaia gazeta, June 12, 1901, 3. 63. Sergei Shmurlo, Ocherki okkul’tizma (Moscow: Vozrozhdenie dukha, 1912), 51–54, 34. 64. Susan P. Compton, “Malevich’s Suprematism—The Higher Intuition,” The

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Burlington Magazine 118, no. 881 (1976): 577–85; Linda Dalrymple Henderson, “The Merging of Time and Space: The ‘Fourth Dimension’ in Russia from Ouspensky to Malevich,” Soviet Union/Union Sovietique 5, no. 2 (1978): 171–203; Henderson, The Fourth Dimension and Non-Euclidean Geometry in Modern Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983); Anthony Parton, Mikhail Larionov and the Russian Avant-Garde (London: Thames and Hudson, 1993); Anke Niederbudde, Mathematische Konzeptionen in der russischen Moderne: Florenskij, Chlebnikov, Charms (Munich: Sagner, 2006). 65. Art historians have explained this artistic creativity with Uspenskii’s reading of Charles Howard Hinton, who had published about the fourth dimension and knowledge in 1888 and 1904. According to these historians, Russians first heard about the topic from this English source in 1909. Only by acknowledging the previous influence can we appreciate the frequent reference to spiritualism in writings by the avant-garde. 66. Henderson, “The Merging of Time and Space,” 182. 67. Andrei Belyi, Peterburg: Roman v vos’mi glavakh s prologom i epilogom (Moscow: Nauka, 1981), 295. 68. V. E. Aleksandrov, “Unicorn Impaling a Knight: The Transcendent and Man in Bely’s Petersburg,” Canadian-American Slavonic Studies 16 (1982): 13. Maguire and Malmstad note that in the 1912 article “Circular Movement,” Belyi describes inhabitants of the fourth dimension as angels. A. Belyi, “Krugovoe dvizhenie”, Trudy i Dni, nos. 4–5 (July-October 1912), 12–22. Cited in Robert A. Maguire and John E. Malmstad, “Petersburg,” in Andrey Bely: Spirit of Symbolism, ed. John E. Malmstad (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987), 142. 69. Belyi, Peterburg, 297. 70. Ibid. 71. Ibid., 298. 72. Ibid., 297. 73. Ibid., 10. 74. Aleksandrov, “Unicorn Impaling a Knight,” 17–18. 75. Ibid., 22. 76. Belyi, Peterburg, 10. Translated by Maguire and Malmstad. 77. N. Berdyaev, “An Astral Novel: Some Thoughts on Andrei Bely’s Petersburg,” in The Noise of Change: Russian Literature and the Critics (1891–1917), ed. Stanley J. Rabinowitz (Ann Arbor: Ardis, 1986), 198–99. Originally published in Nikolai Berdiaev, Krizis iskusstva (Moscow: Izd. G. A. Lemana i S. I. Sakharova, 1918), 36–47. 78. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Der Spiritismus und die Wissenschaft: Experimentelle Untersuchungen über die psychische Kraft, von E. Crookes, PrüfungsSitzungen der Mr. D. D. Home mit den Gelehrten zu St. Petersburg und London (Leipzig: Wagner, 1872): xiv. 79. I. V. Viazemskii, “Ocherk istorii razvitiia sovremennogo gipnotizma,” Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma 1, no. 10 (1904): 737–62; V. SukhovaOsipova, “Gipnotizm,” Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma 1, no. 8 (1904): 614–16. 80. On hypnosis, see Robert Darnton, Mesmerism and the End of the Enlightenment in France (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1968); Terry M. Parssinen, “Professional Deviants and the History of Medicine: Medical Mesmerists in Victorian Britain,” in On the Margins of Science: The Social Construction of Rejected Knowledge, ed. Roy Wallis (Keele: University of Keele, 1979), 103–20; Robert G. Weyant, “Protoscience,

Notes to Pages 66–69 217

Pseudoscience, Metaphors, and Animal Magnetism,” in Science, Pseudo-Science, and Society, ed. Marsha P. Hanen, Margaret J. Osler, Paul Thagard, and Robert G. Weyant (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1980), 77–114; Alan Gauld, A History of Hypnotism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Alison Winter, Mesmerized: Powers of Mind in Victorian Britain (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998); Andreas Mayer, Mikroskopie der Psyche: Die Anfänge der Psychoanalyse im HypnoseLabor (Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2002). 81. J. Milne Bramwell, “James Braid: Surgeon, ‘Hypnotist’,” Brain: A Journal of Neurology 73 (Spring 1896): 1–27; Gauld, A History, 279–88. 82. Winter, Mezmerized, 184–85. 83. Gauld, A History, 297. 84. Ibid., 337. 85. Ibid. 86. V. M. Bekhterev, Suggestion and Its Role in Social Life (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1998), 36. 87. Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv (RGIA), f. 1284, op. 188; Trudy pervogo vserossiiskogo s”ezda spiritualistov i lits, interesuiushchikhsia voprosami psikhizma i mediumizma v Moskve s 20 po 27 oktiabria 1906 goda (Moscow: Tip. K. L. Men’shova, 1907); L. L. Onore, Pis’mo L. L. Onore, sostavshemusia v oktiabre mesiatse 1906 goda v gorode Moskve Pervomy Vserossiiskomu s”ezdu spiritualistov i lits, interesuiushchikhsia voprosami psikhizma, s otvetnym pis’mom (Krasnoiarsk: Tip. M. I. Abalakova, 1907), 4. 88. Aksakov, Der Spiritismus und die Wissenschaft, xiv; Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, “Prospectus,” Psychische Studien 1, no. 1 (1874): 2. 89. Friedrich Zöllner, Die Transcendentale Physik und die sogenannte Philosophie: Eine deutsche Antwort of eine “sogenannte wissenschaftliche Frage” (Leipzig: Staackmann, 1879), 96; RGB, f. 93/II, kart. 1, ed. khr. 131; Ludmila Zielinski, “Hypnotism in Russia, 1800–1900,” in Abnormal Hypnotic Phenomena: A Survey of NineteenthCentury Cases, ed. Eric J. Dingwall (London: Churchill, 1968), 84. See also A. Butlerov, “Seans ‘myslennogo vnusheniia’ v redaktsii Rebusa,” Rebus 4, no. 6 (1885): 55–57; A. Butlerov, “Myslennoe vnushenie i teoriia veroiatnostei,” Rebus, no. 1 (1885): 1–2; no. 2 (1885): 13–16; no. 3 (1885): 25–28; no. 4 (1885): 35–37; no. 5 (1885): 45–47. 90. Evgenii K., “Chto eto takoe,” Rebus 6, no. 11 (1887): 128–29. As late as 1930 Bol’shaia sovetskaia entsiklopediia would give “medium” as a “little used term” to describe someone in a hypnotic state. Otto Iu. Shmidt, ed., Bol’shaia sovetskaia entsiklopediia (Moscow: Sovetskaia entsiklopediia, 1926–1947), 17:60. 91. Viktor Pribytkov, “Mediumizm Elizavety Dmitrievny Pribytkovoi,” Rebus 15, no. 49 (1896): 413. 92. M. V. Pogorel’skii, “Pis’ma o zhivotnom magnetizme,” Rebus 17, no. 28 (1898): 243–46; 18, no. 7 (1899): 69–72; Pogorel’skii, Elektrofotosfeny i energografiia kak dokazatel’stvo sushchestvovaniia fiziologicheskoi poliarnoi energii, ili tak nazyvaemogo zhivotnogo magnetizma i ikh znacheniia dlia meditsiny i estestvoznaniia. S 48 fotografiiami i 2 fototipiiami, s prilozheniem portreta i faksimile avtora (St. Petersburg: V. V. Demakova, 1899); Pogorel’skii, Elektrofotosfeny i energografiia (St. Petersburg, 1912). 93. V. P. Bykov, Spiritizm pered sudom nauki, obshchestva i religii: Lektsii-besedy (Moscow: Izd. E. I. Bykovoi, 1914). 94. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Animismus und Spiritismus: Versuch einer

218

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kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Hallucination und des Unbewussten. Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmann’s Werk: “Der Spiritismus.” Zweite verbesserte Auflage (Leipzig: O. Mutze, 1894), xxx–xxxiii. 95. Ibid., 329. 96. “U O. I. Fel’dman,” Russkii listok, February 4, 1893, 3. 97. On Ioann Kronshtadtskii, see Nadieszda Kizenko, A Prodigal Saint: Father John of Kronstadt and the Russian People (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2000). 98. See, for example, “Sila molitvy ottsa Ioanna,” Rebus 4, no. 34 (1885): 311; “Po molitve o. Ioanna Kronshtadtskogo,” Russkii listok, 24 February, 1893, 2; V. P. Bykov, “Molitva i znachenie ee na spiriticheskikh seansakh,” Spiritualist 1, no. 2 (1905): 60. 99. Stroganova, “Eshche ob istselenii v sele Konchanskom,” Peterburgskaia Gazeta (1901), reprinted in “Eshche ob istselenii v sele Konchanskom,” Rebus 20, no. 40 (1901): 353–54. 100. Onore, Pis’mo, 5. 101. Bekhterev, Suggestion and Its Role, 31–149. 102. D. Bogoliubov, “Iz besedy s ‘ivanovtsami’ (po dnevniku missionera),” Izvestiia po s-peterburgskoi eparkhii (May 1907): 12–21; Ieromonakh Veniamin, Podmena khristianstva: K sporam o Churikove, ‘brattsakh’, strannikakh i proch. (St. Petersburg: Izd. V. M. Skvortsov, 1911). On the Orthodox position regarding miracles and the occult, see chapter 5. 103. V. V. Baikova-Semiganovskaia, “Narodnye sredstva, zagovory, simpaticheskie lecheniia,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 2 (1907): 157, 254–55; “Novaia Kniga znakharstvo ili russkie narodnye zagovory,” Moskovskaia gazeta kopeika, February 5, 1911, 5. For the longevity of the association of hypnosis with folk magic, see V. M. Bekhterev, “Vnushenie i chudesnye istseleniia,” Vestnik znaniia 5 (1925): 321–32. 104. “Znakhari i znakharstvo,” Pravda: Gazeta politicheskaia, ekonomicheskaia, nauchnaia i literaturnaia 67 (1892): 119–20; Otshel’nik, Peterburgskie gadalki, znakhari, iurodivye i pr. (St. Petersburg: Tip. S. A. Kornatovskogo, 1894), 87–88, 98. 105. N. Ia. Piaskovskii, “Paster i Pirogov v oblasti religii i koe-chto ob istselenii sikozisa,” Moskovskie vedomosti, October 17, 1895, 2; Bekhterev, Suggestion and Its Role, 34. 106. E. N. Eleonskaia, “Zagovor i koldovstvo na Rusi v XVII i XVIII stoletiiakh,” in Russkoe koldovstvo, by V. I. Dal’ et al. (Moscow: Eksmo, 2002), 120–214. 107. Tsentral’nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Sankt Peterburga (TsIASPb), f. 487, op. 1, d. 1214; RGB, f. 218, kart. 188, ed. khr. 14. 108. V. D. Filimovich, Chistaia Khiromantiia: Populiarnoe rukovodstvo k ee izucheniiu; S 6-iu risunkami ruk (St. Petersburg, 1906); S. D. Vol’kov-Davydov, Sredi zagadok bytiia: Fakty iz zhizni okkul’tista (Moscow: K. V. C., 1907); Kalendar dlia dam ([St. Petersburg], 1911). For similar associations, see also A. Khrapovitskii, Magneticheskoe pis’mo: Populiarnyi ocherk i prakticheskie sovety nachinauishchim (Moscow: Tip. Mamontova, 1907); P. Son-, “Iz mira tainstvennogo,” Peterburgskii listok, June 15, 1907, 2; “Lichnoe vliianie,” Gazeta kopeika (Moskva), April 20, 1909, 6; Zerkalo tainykh nauk ili otrazhenie sud’by cheloveka: Polnyi kurs gipnotizma (Moscow: Aviator, 1914).

Notes to Pages 72–75 219

109. On scientific debates regarding the possible criminal abuses of hypnosis, see Ruth Harris, Murders and Madness: Medicine, Law, and Society in the Fin de Siècle (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), 155–207; Bekhterev, Suggestion and Its Role, 21–22. 110. “Kratkie zametki,” Rebus 10, no. 24 (1891): 206; “Gipnoticheskoe prestuplenie,” Rebus 16, no. 26 (1897): 219; “Zhertva Gipnoza,” Russkii listok, February 24, 1901, 3; L. E. O., “Nechto o g. Chinskom,” Rebus 27, no. 26 (1908): 3–4. 111. “Peterburgskie ‘satanisty’,” Peterburgskii listok, February 12, 1913, 3; Anatolii B., “Peterburgskie ‘satanisty’,” Rebus 32, no. 8 (1913): 4–5; Anatolii B., “Peterburgskie ‘satanisty’,” Golos Moskvy, February 10, 1913, 4. 112. “Delo ‘Okhtenskoi bogoroditsy’, ‘tsaria Solomona’ i ‘apostola Petra’,” Peterburgskii listok, March 7, 1914, 3; March 9, 1914, 9; March 10, 1914, 2; March 11, 1914, 2; March 12, 1914, 4; March 13, 1914, 4; March 14, 1914, 2; March 15, 1914, 4; March 17, 1914, 3; March 18, 1914, 3. 113. A. Fel’zer, “Pis’ma v Redaktsiiu,” Novosti i birzhevaia gazeta, May 23, 1890, 3. Italics in the original. 114. “U O. I. Fel’dman.” In 1926, Bekhterev mentioned Fel’dman in an article on hypnosis, again without deeming it necessary to offer any kind of introduction. V. M. Bekhterev, “O lechenii gipnozom,” Vestnik znaniia: Dvukhnedel’nyi illiustrirovannyi populiarno-nauchnyi zhurnal 2 (1926): 85–96. 115. In the same play, Tolstoi satirizes the spiritualist “inventors” of the fourth dimension, German Shmit (Hermann Schmidt) and Iosef Shmatsofen (Josef Schmatzofen). Tolstoi, Sobranie sochinenii, 11:119–228. On their acquaintance, see IRL, f. 123, op. 1, no. 1137. 116. Ilya Vinitsky, Ghostly Paradoxes: Modern Spiritualism and Russian Culture in the Age of Realism (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 136–55. 117. Sukhova-Osipova, “Gipnotizm.” 118. Bekhterev, “O lechenii gipnozom.” These claims are at odds with Bekhterev’s insistence elsewhere that hypnosis can only affect psychological dysfunctions. Bekhterev, Suggestion and Its Role, 36. 119. P. Rozenbakh, “Gipnotizm,” in Entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (St. Petersburg, 1893), 8А:726–34. 120. P. Rozenbakh, “Gipnotizm”; “Gipnoz,” in Bol’shaia sovetskaia entsiklopediia, S. I. Vavilov and B. A. Vvedenskii, eds., 2nd ed. (Moscow, 1952): 11:403–5. 121. Rozenbakh, “Gipnotizm”; “Gipnoz.” 122. “Mediumy progressiruiut (Iz besedy s g. Stano),” Peterburgskaia gazeta, November 22, 1900, 3. 123. “Pokhod protiv gipnotizerov,” Peterburgskii listok, August 3, 1910, 1. 124. “Intsident s L. L. Onore,” Peterburgskii listok, August 8, 1911, 4; “Na seansakh u L. L. Onore,” Petrogradskii listok, February 28, 1915, 5. 125. This argument is made in Vinitsky, Ghostly Paradoxes, 145. 126. V. Bitner, Chudesa gipnotizma (St. Petersburg: Tip. P. P. Soikina, 1894). 127. Khrapovitskii, Magneticheskoe pis’mo. 128. V. M. Bekhterev, Bred gipnoticheskogo ocharovaniia ili Paranoia suggestiodelira (St. Petersburg, 1913).

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129. Iu. A. Shavel’, Okkul’tnye nauki: Polnyi prakticheskii kurs gipnotizma, lichnogo magnetizma i vnusheniia; Telepatiia (zaochnoe vnushenie) (St. Petersburg: Tip. R. V. Korotaevoi, 1912). 130. Zielinski, “Hypnotism in Russia,” 84–85. 131. A. A. Pevnitskii, “K voprosu ob iasnoslyshanii,” Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma 1, no. 7 (1904): 449–56. 132. RGB, f. 218, kart. 188, ed. khr. 14; Onore, Pis’mo. 133. Rozenbakh, “Gipnotizm”; O. I. Fel’dman, “P’ianstvo i gipnoticheskoe vnushenie,” Rebus 16, no. 37 (1897): 312–14; “O lechenii p’ianstva gipnoticheskim vnusheniem,” Rebus 18, no. 17 (1899): 160–61; no. 20 (1899): 186–87; “Gipnotizm i alkogoliki,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, October 8, 1900, 2. 134. Fel’dman, “P’ianstvo i gipnoticheskoe vnushenie”; Onore, Pis’mo, 8; Patricia Herlihy, The Alcoholic Empire: Vodka and Politics in Late Imperial Russia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 44. 135. “Mediumy progressiruiut (Iz besedy s g. Stano).” Fel’dman, however, did not think much of the idea. He regarded himself as a progressive, and police interrogation under hypnosis was more akin to inquisition than just juridical practice. “Kratkie zametki,” Rebus 5, no. 6 (1886): 68; “Gipnoz na skam’e podsudimykh,” Rebus 14, no. 45 (1895): 411–13. 136. Nadezhda Nikolaevna Anton’eva, “Izlechenie dushevno-bol’noi,” Rebus 7, no. 35 (1888): 315; I. V. Viazemskii, “Ocherk istorii”; Muzei Tsirkogo Iskusstva, R_vyr/154. 137. Anton’eva, “Izlechenie dushevno-bol’noi.” 138. “U O. I. Fel’dman.” 139. “Na seansakh u L. L. Onore,” Peterburgskii listok, March 16, 1914, 4; “Na seansakh u L. L. Onore,” Petrogradskii listok, October 30, 1914, 14. 140. Zygmunt Bauman, Modernity and Ambivalence (Cambridge: Polity, 1991); Peter Holquist, “To Count, to Extract, and to Exterminate: Population Statistics and Population Politics in Late Imperial and Soviet Russia,” in A State of Nations: Empire and Nation-Making in the Age of Lenin and Stalin, ed. Ronald Grigor Suny and Terry Martin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 111–44; Daniel Beer, “The Medicalization of Religious Deviance in the Russian Orthodox Church, 1880–1905,” Kritika 5, no. 3 (2004): 451–82. 141. Vucinich, Science in Russian Culture, 234–59. 142. Jeffrey Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read: Literacy and Popular Literature, 1861–1917 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), 259.

Chapter 3 1. On the occult in entertainment, see Julia Mannherz, “The Occult and Popular Entertainment in Late Imperial Russia,” in Russia’s New Age, ed. Michael Hagemeister, Birgit Menzel, and Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal (Munich: Kubon & Sagner, 2012), 19–42. 2. N. A. Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura nachala XX veka i okkul’tizm: Issledovaniia i materialy (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 1999), 37–42. On other similarly versatile occultists, see Maria Carlson, “No Religion Higher than Truth”: A History of the Theosophical Movement in Russia, 1875–1922 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 83–85.

Notes to Pages 79–83 221

3. Feliks Iusupov, Memuary v dvukh knigakh: Do izgnaniia, 1887–1919; V izgnanii (Moscow: Zakharov, 2001); Andrew R. White, “Stanislavsky and Ramacharaka: The Influence of Yoga and Turn-of-the-Century Occultism on the System,” Theatre Survey 47, no. 1 (2006): 73–92. 4. “Ochki ‘Uni-Bifo,’ ‘Avtomagnetizer’ i ‘Sensatsionnaia kniga,’” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 27 (1908): 432. 5. A. Khrapovitskii, Magneticheskoe pis’mo: Populiarnyi ocherk i prakticheskie sovety nachinaiushchim (Moscow: Tip. Mamontova, 1907). 6. “Nostradam,” Peterburgskii listok, September 14, 1893, 1; “Spiritualist,” Peterburgskii listok, March 1, 1906, 1; “Lichnoe vliianie,” Gazeta kopeika (Moskva), April 20, 1909, 6; “Sverkhestestvennyi sluchai,” Gazeta kopeika, April 16, 1914, 1; “Svet na puti i karma: Puti dostizheniia indiiskikh iogov,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 16, 1916, 1; “Polnaia kniga Raskrytiia tain Volshebstva,” Petrogradskii listok, March 6, 1916, 1; “Znakharstvo i narodnye zagovory,” Petrogradskii listok, March 9, 1916, 1. On the readership of these newspapers, see A. V. Zapadov and M. S. Cherepakhov, eds., Russkaia periodicheskaia pechat’, 1702–1894: Spravochnik (Moscow: Gos. Izd-vo polit. lit-ry, 1959); Manfred Hagen, Die Entfaltung politischer Öffentlichkeit in Russland, 1906–1914 (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1982), 144–48; Jeffrey Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read: Literacy and Popular Literature, 1861–1917 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985); Louise McReynolds, The News under Russia’s Old Regime: The Development of a Mass-Circulation Press (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991). 7. Misticheskie tainy: Broshiura ukazyvaiushchaia istochnik interesneishikh svedenii, kasaiushchikhsia ucheniia ob okkul’tizme i o naibolee vydaiushchikhsia proiavleniiakh ego (St. Petersburg: Amerikanskaia skoropechatnia, 1907). The subject headings inside the book, too, give the impression that the most guarded occult secret will be revealed on its pages. Similarly, Noveishii fokusnik i charodei: Polnoe opisanie volshebstva, fokusov, sviatochnykh gadanii i predskazanii sud’by kazhdogo cheloveka na novyi god. Sostavleno po Briusu, Devitsy Lenorman, Martyn Zadeki i dr. (St. Petersburg: A. A. i M. I. Kholmushiny, 1907) had nothing on practical occultism and rejected any claims that supernatural events existed. Paul Sédir, Indiiskii fakirizm, ili, prakticheskaia shkola dlia razvitiia psikhicheskikh sposobnostei. S prilozheniem slovaria terminov indusskogo fakirizma (St. Petersburg: Tipolit. I. Lur’e, 1909) does not give any practical instructions either. 8. Iu. A. Shavel’, Okkul’tnye nauki: Polnyi prakticheskii kurs gipnotizma, lichnogo magnetizma i vnusheniia; Telepatiia (zaochnoe vnushenie) (St. Petersburg: Tip. R. V. Korotaevoi, 1912). 9. A. V. Segno, Zakon mentalizma: Prakticheskoe nauchnoe ob”iasnenie mysli i dushevnoi sily, zakon upravliaiushchii vsemi myslennymi i fizicheskimi deistviiami i iavleniiami, sushchnost’ zhizni i smerti (Moscow: A. A. Levenson, 1912). 10. The antiquated language included words such as ‘shchastie’ (good luck), ‘stradati budet’ (will suffer), ‘umeti’ (to be able to), ‘uchiti’ (to learn/to teach), ‘zhiti’ (to live), ‘khoshchet’ (wants), ‘iakozhe’ (as well), ‘sii’ (this), ‘ashche’ (too), instead of ‘schast’e,’ ‘stradat’ budet,’ ‘umet’,’ ‘uchit’,’ ‘zhit’,’ ‘khochet,’ ‘kak,’ ‘etot,’ ‘tozhe.’ Ia. V. Brius, Predskazaniia Grafa Briusa, dlia kazhdogo cheloveka iz ego pervobytnogo kalendaria izdannogo pri gosudare Petre 1-m s biografiei Grafa Briusa (Moscow: K. E. Kiselev, 1904). 11. Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read, 241.

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12. A. Bobrinskaia, Jeu d’Amour: Frantsuzskaia gadal’naia kniga XV veka (St. Petersburg: Tipografiia V. S. Balasheva, 1886). Another book addressed to a privileged readership is V. A. S., Iasnovidiashchaia: Mysli i fakty; Prosviashchaetsia gospozhe Giuloten (Moscow, 1888). 13. In some instances, as in Count Bruce’s prophecies, about three quarters of a page were written for a male audience, while about one fourth, set apart and clearly marked, applied to females. Brius, Predskazaniia Grafa Briusa. For books addressed to a male readership only, see Volshebnoe Zerkalo: Noveishii i bolee pravdivyi sposob gadaniia, posredstvom zerkala, po sposobu drevnerusskogo volkhva i gadatelia “Deda Vseveda.” Ne zhenites’ i ne vykhodite zamuzh prezhde chem ne pogadaete chrez eto chudodeistvennoe i magicheskoe zerkalo (St. Petersburg, 1898); Predskazaniia sud’by cheloveka po planetam (St. Petersburg, 1905); A. I. Litvinov, Prakticheskoe rukovodstvo k uznavaniiu chelovecheskoi sud’by s ukazaniem pravil chteniia chuzhikh myslei, byt’ schastlivym i liubimim vsemi (Kharkov, 1887); Noveishii Peterburgskii Orakul: Chut’ ne 1.000 interesneishikh voprosov i otvetov na peterburgskie zloby dnia (St. Petersburg, 1893). Faith Wigzell, Reading Russian Fortunes: Print Culture, Gender, and Divination in Russia from 1765 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 14. L. N. Beliaeva, V. M. Barashenkov, and M. K. Zinove’va, et al., eds., Bibliografiia periodicheskikh izdanii Rossii, 1901–1916 (Leningrad: Izd. Gos. Publichnoi Biblioteki, 1958–1961). 15. An annual subscription to Gazeta kopeika cost three rubles in 1908. 16. V. P. Bykov, “Otkrytoe pis’mo,” Spiritualist 9 (1907): 436–43; P. Chistiakov, “Otkrytoe pis’mo g-nu Bykovu,” Rebus 36, nos. 36–37 (1907). Maria Carlson asserts that Rebus boasted 16,000 subscribers in 1905, but does not provide any source for that claim. Carlson, “No Religion Higher,” 5. 17. V. P. Bykov, “K chemu my prishli,” Spiritualist 8, no. 1 (1912): 1–16; no. 3 (1912): 91–93. 18. N. K. Boianus, a member of the Smolensk Theosophical Society, published articles with a theosophical content in Spiritualist and Golos vseobshchei liubvi. N. K. Boianus, “Chto takoe teosofiia,” Spiritualist, no. 2 (1907): 67–74; Boianus, “Mental’naia sila, kak put’ dukhovnogo samosovershenstvovaniia,” Spiritualist, no. 5 (1907): 231–34; no. 6 (1907): 276–79; Boianus, “Nauchnaia obosnovannost’ gomeopatii s astral’noi tochki zreniia,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 5 (1908): 75–79; Carlson, “No Religion Higher,” 83. 19. “Ob”iavleniia: Spiritualisty-spiritualistam,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 2, no. 31 (1907): 512. 20. Bykov, “K chemu my prishli.” 21. This suggests that the publishers had anticipated a longer life for their journal than the four issues that eventually appeared in print. 22. V. D. Filimovich, Chistaia Khiromantiia: Populiarnoe rukovodstvo k ee izucheniiu; S 6-iu risunkami ruk (St. Petersburg, 1906). 23. For similar developments in Western Europe, see Alex Owen, The Place of Enchantment: British Occultism and the Culture of the Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004); John Warne Monroe, Laboratories of Faith: Mesmerism, Spiritism, and Occultism in Modern France (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008). 24. Indications for this development are the prominence of hypnosis in mainstream newspapers in the 1890s, the fascination Mintslova exerted among writers in 1900, and the

Notes to Pages 88–90 223

foundation of the Theosophical Society in Russia in 1901. 25. “Kurs lektsii o gipnotizme,” Lektsii okkul’tnykh znanii, no. 1 (1911): 1–48; Zerkalo tainykh nauk ili otrazhenie sud’by cheloveka: Polnyi kurs gipnotizma (Moscow: Aviator, 1911); A. N. Dial’ti, “Skrizhali maga: Rukovodstvo k razvitiiu psikhicheskikh sposobnostei cheloveka; Lektsiia XI: Gipnotizm,” Izida, no. 5 (1915): 3–9. The pages of “Kurs lektsii” were cut out in the copy of the Biblioteka akademii nauk (St. Petersburg), attesting to the (imperial or Soviet) popularity of the topic. Further similar courses included Bell’s “Gipnotizm: Kurs prakticheskikh metodov ukrepleniia v sebe sily voli i dukha dlia razlichnogo roda vnusheniia,” Spiritualist, no. 8 (1906): 365–74; no. 9 (1906): 424–29; no. 10 (1906): 469–76; no. 11 (1906): 523–26; no. 12 (1906): 584–87; Kh. M. ShillerShkol’nik, Novyi kurs gipnotizma: Nasha sila vnutri nas (Warsaw: Miss Khasse, 1910), reprinted in 1911 and 1914; Shavel’, Okkul’tnye nauki. 26. Marcel Mauss, A General Theory of Magic (London: Routledge, 2007), 41. 27. V. I. Dal’, Tolkovyi slovar’ zhivogo velikorusskogo iazyka v chetyrekh tomakh (Moscow: Izd-vo Russkii iazyk, 1998): 1:238–40. 28. Shiller-Shkol’nik, Novyi kurs gipnotizma, 331–46. 29. Khrapovitskii, Magneticheskoe pis’mo, 16. 30. N. K. Mikhailovskii, “Geroi i tolpa,” in Sochineniia N. K. Mikhailovskogo (St. Petersburg: Red. zhurnala Rus. bogatstvo, 1896), 1:95–190. 31. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Animismus und Spiritismus: Versuch einer kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Halluzination und des Unbewussten. Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmanns Werk “Der Spiritismus.” Vierte verbesserte und um ein “Vorwort” und eine “Autobiographie” vermehrte Auflage, 2 vols. (Leipzig: Mutze, 1905), 2:442–44. Butlerov also enlisted Schopenhauer in support of his spiritualist convictions. A. Butlerov, “Empirizm i dogmatizm v oblasti mediumizma,” Russkii vestnik, nos. 2–3 (1879): 800. 32. Robert Wicks, “Arthur Schopenhauer,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2009 Edition), ed. Edward N. Zalta, ; Arthur Schopenhauer, Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung (Zurich: Haffmans Verlag, 1988). 33. “Sklonenie sovremennogo bezbozhiia k upadku,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (February 1893): 269; Natsional’nyi arkhiv respubliki Tatarstana (NART), f. 10, op. 2, d. 1087; d. 207, l. 10. 34. NART, f. 10, op. 2, d. 56. 35. V. Solov’ev, “Volia v psikhologii i filosofii,” in Entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (St. Petersburg: Brokgauz Efron, 1892), 7:175–78. 36. Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, “Introduction,” in Nietzsche in Russia, ed. Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), 16. On the influence of Nietzsche’s ideas in philosophy, literature, theater, art, architecture, and music, see Rosenthal, Nietzsche in Russia; Rosenthal, ed., Nietzsche and Soviet Culture: Ally and Adversary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 37. Edith W. Clowes, “Literary Reception as Vulgarization: Nietzsche’s Idea of the Superman in Neo-Realist Fiction,” in Rosenthal, Nietzsche in Russia, 320. Anastasia Verbitskaia’s Kliuchi schast’ia also had epigraphs from Nietzsche. 38. Joan Delaney Grossman, “Aleksandr Dobroliubov and the Invisible Book,” in Iz knigi nevidimoi, by Aleksandr Dobroliubov (Berkeley: Berkeley Slavic Specialties, 1983), vii.

224

Notes to Pages 90–97

39. Iusupov, Memuary, 98; White, “Stanislavsky and Ramacharaka,” 82. 40. Magnus Ljunggren, The Russian Mephisto: A Study of the Life and Work of Emilii Medtner (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1994), 47. 41. I. V. Viazemskii, “Ocherk istorii razvitiia sovremennogo gipnotizma,” Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma 10 (1904): 737–62; Daniel Beer, Renovating Russia: The Human Sciences and the Fate of Liberal Modernity, 1880–1930 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008). 42. Kak ustraivat’ spiriticheskie seansy, kollektivnye i edinolichnye: Dlia priamogo i neposredstvennogo obshcheniia s zagrobnom mirom; Okolo 100 risunkov, chertezhei i spiritogramm v tekste (Moscow, 1906), 143. 43. Dial’ti, “Skrizhali maga: Gipnotizm.” 44. A. A. Likhanov, “Skrizhali maga: Rukovodstvo k razvitiiu psikhicheskikh sposobnostei cheloveka,” Izida, no. 1 (1913): 3–5; no. 4 (1914): 3–7; no. 5 (1914): 4–12; no. 7 (1914): 3–7; no. 8 (1914): 4–9; nos. 9–10 (1914): 5–9; no. 11 (1914): 6–14; no. 12 (1914): 3–7; no. 6 (1915): 1–6. 45. Numerous rituals in traditional culture allowed girls to perceive their future spouse in mirrors. W. F. Ryan, The Bathhouse at Midnight: An Historical Survey of Magic and Divination in Russia (Stroud: Sutton, 1999), 36, 99–102, 226. 46. Bell, “Gipnotizm,” 425. 47. “Skrizhali maga: Rukovodstvo k razvitiiu psikhicheskikh sposobnostei cheloveka,” Izida 5 (1914): 12. 48. Bell, “Gipnotizm,” 425. 49. Irina Paert, Spiritual Elders: Charisma and Tradition in Russian Orthodoxy (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2010), 63–64, 117. 50. Kak ustraivat’ spiriticheskie seansy, 143. 51. Bell, “Gipnotizm”; V. Perotskii, “Magicheskoe vliianie golosa,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 2, no. 2 (1907): 76–78; no. 3 (1907): 93–94. 52. Bell, “Gipnotizm,” 584–87. 53. Segno, Zakon mentalizma, 66, 125. 54. Ibid., 28. 55. Catriona Kelly, “The Education of the Will: Advice Literature, Zakal, and Manliness in Early Twentieth-Century Russia,” in Russian Masculinities in History and Culture, ed. Barbara Evans Clements, Rebecca Friedman, and Dan Healy (Houndmills: Palgrave, 2002), 136. 56. Georg Simmel, “The Metropolis and Mental Life,” in The Sociology of Georg Simmel, ed. Kurt Wolff (London: The Free Press of Glencoe, 1964), 409–24. 57. Mark D. Steinberg, “‘Black Masks’: Performance, Image, and Identity on the Streets of the City,” paper presented at the conference “Cultures of the Russian City,” St. Petersburg, June 2004. 58. Segno, Zakon mentalizma, 69. 59. Laura Engelstein and Stephanie Sandler, “Introduction,” in Self and Story in Russian History (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000), 7. 60. Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, “Political Implications of the Early TwentiethCentury Occult Revival,” in The Occult in Russian and Soviet Culture (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 379–418. 61. V. M. Bekhterev, Bred gipnoticheskogo ocharovaniia ili Paranoia suggestiodelira (St. Petersburg, 1913).

Notes to Pages 97–103 225

62. René Fülop-Miller, Der Heilige Teufel: Rasputin und die Frauen (Leipzig: Grethlein & Co., 1927), 4–5, 64; Bernhard Pares, The Fall of the Russian Monarchy: A Study of the Evidence (London: J. Cape, 1939); V. Kriukov, ed., Grigorii Rasputin: Sbornik istoricheskikh materialov, 4 vols. (Moscow: Terra, 1997); Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 58. 63. Orlando Figes and Boris Ivanovich Kolonitskii, Interpreting the Russian Revolution: The Language and Symbols of 1917 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 82–84, 102. 64. “Besplatnaia organizatsiia okkul’tno-mental’noi molitvy o blagosostoianii kazhdogo iz uchastnikov,” Spiritualist, no. 6 (1907): 295–96; “Okkul’tno-mental’naia molitva,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 4 (1908): 62. 65. “Okkul’tno-mental’naia organizatsiia, dlia novykh podpischikov,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 4, no. 3 (1909): 44–45. 66. “Okkul’tno-mental’naia molitva.” 67. “Okkul’tno-mental’naia organizatsiia,” 44–48. See also, Ios. Zhenishek, “Energiia mysli,” Spiritualist, no. 8 (1907): 384–89. 68. “Okkul’tno-mental’naia organizatsiia,” 45. 69. Ibid., 47. 70. “Ot redaktsii,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 4, nos. 27–28 (1909): 305. I have not been able to establish the reasons for these events. 71. Okkul’tno-mental’naia organizatsiia na 1910 g.: Otdel’nyi ottisk iz zhurn. “Smelye Mysli” (Moscow, 1910). 72. “K stat’e ‘Obshchenie dush’ (no. 36 ‘Rebusa’),” Rebus 19, no. 45 (1900): 391. 73. Carlson, “No Religion Higher,” 83. 74. “Otkrytye pis’ma v okkul’tno-mental’nuiu organizatsiiu,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 4, no. 1 (1909): 16. 75. “Okkul’tno-mental’naia molitva.” 76. Carlson, “No Religion Higher,” 83. 77. Jutta Scherrer, Die Petersburger religiös-philosophischen Vereinigungen: Die Entwicklung des religiösen Selbstverständnisses ihrer Intelligencija-Mitglieder, 1901– 1917 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1973); P. Tulaev, “Sobor and Sobornost’: The Russian Orthodox Church and Spiritual Unity of the Russian People,” Russian Studies in Philosophy 31, no. 4 (1993): 25–53; Evert van der Zweerde, “Sobornost’ als Gesellschaftsideal bei Vladimir Solov’ev und Pavel Florenskij,” in Pavel Florenskij—Tradition und Moderne: Beiträge zum Internationalen Symposium an der Universität Potsdam, ed. N. Franz, M. Hagemeister, and F. Haney (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2001), 225–46; N. Franz, ed., Lexikon der russischen Kultur (Darmstadt: Primus, 2002). 78. Zweerde, “Sobornost’,” 228–33; Judith Deutsch Kornblatt, Divine Sophia: The Wisdom Writings of Vladimir Solovyov (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2009), 16. 79. (Tsentral’nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Moskvy) TsIAM, f. 2355, op. 1, ed. khr. 143. 80. Ibid., l. 3ob. 81. S. D. Vol’kov-Davydov, Sredi zagadok bytiia: Fakty iz zhizni okkul’tista (Moscow: K. V. C., 1907); “Podpiska na sobranie sochinenii V. I. Kryzhanovskoi,” Rebus 30, no. 46 (1911): 8. 82. Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii (GARF), f. 102, op. 119, del-vo 4, no. 399, l. 1. 83. Rossiiskaia gosudarstvennaia biblioteka (RGB), f. Kazn, kart. I, d. 6; Owen,

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Notes to Pages 103–6

Place of Enchantment; David Allen Harvey, Beyond Enlightenment: Occultism and Politics in Modern France (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2005); Monroe, Laboratories. I would like to thank Juliane Kerkhecker for helping me with the Latin of this source. 84. On the exoticism of Papus’s rituals, see Monroe, Laboratories. 85. Khrapovitskii, Magneticheskoe pis’mo, 18. 86. TsIAM, f. 2355, op. 1, ed. khr. 145, l. 30ob. 87. “Muzyka i mediumizm,” Spiritualist, no. 2 (1909): 65–71; TsIAM, f. 2355, op. 1, d. 23, ll. 20–21. 88. GARF, f. 102, op. 119, del-vo 4, no. 399. The policeman’s superiors decided to keep Mebes under observation. 89. This is a frequent criticism leveled at Helena Blavatskaia’s writing, both by contemporary intellectuals and by historians. Wladimir Solowjew, “Eine Bemerkung über E. P. Blavatskaja,” in Deutsche Gesamtausgabe der Werke von Wladimir Solowjew, ed. Wladimir Szylkarski, Wilhelm Lettenbauer, and Ludolf Müller (Freiburg im Breisgau: Wewel, 1953), 4:501–9; Theodor W. Adorno, “Thesen gegen den Okkultismus,” in Minima Moralia: Reflexionen aus dem beschädigten Leben (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1969), 321–29; Carlson, “No Religion Higher,” 46–47. 90. Stuart A. Vyse, Believing in Magic: The Psychology of Superstition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 220. 91. Mistik, “Iz moego dnevnika,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 2 (1908): 20–21. 92. “Obnovliaisia kazhdyi den’,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 4 (1908): 54–59. 93. F. V. Dok, “Vegetarianstvo, kak sistema zhizni, soobrazno s zakonami prirody,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 19 (1908): 299–303; Vegetarianets, “Frukty, orekhi, ovoshchy i ikh pitatel’nye svoistva,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 17 (1908): 283–86. On the connection between vegetarianism, fasting, spirituality, and a life in accordance with ethical principles, see Peter Brang, Ein unbekanntes Russland: Kulturgeschichte vegetarischer Lebensweisen von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart (Cologne: Böhlau, 2002), 15–23. 94. “Sbilis’ s puti,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi, no. 4 (1906): 25–27; “Normal’nyi khristianskii vzgliad na Dumu,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi, no. 12 (1906): 92; “Spiritualist i sovremennye sobytiia,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi, no. 15 (1906): 113–15; “Otkuda pridet spasenie,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi, no. 36 (1906): 281–84. 95. Kniaz-Inok, “Kakovy dolzhny byt’ nashi tiurmy,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 19 (1908): 290–93; Kniaz-Inok, “Kakovy dolzhny byt’ nashi tiurmy,” Spiritualist 6 (1908): 222–27; Nadezhdin, “Kakovy na samom dele nashi tiurmy,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 23 (1908): 355–61; Starik, “Kto vinovat?” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 2 (1908): 17–20; N. Bogoslovskii, “Smertnaia kazn’, so spiritualesticheskoi tochki zreniia,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 4 (1909): 179–82. 96. I. L., “K chitateliam ‘Rebusa’,” Rebus 29, no. 2 (1910): 6–8. 97. Rossiiskaia natsional’naia biblioteka (RNB), f. 822, no. 531, l. 42. 98. Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Manifest der kommunistischen Partei (Berlin: Dietz Verlag, 1982), 16. 99. “Skoree tushite,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 1, no. 7 (1906): 49–50. 100. RNB, f. 822, no. 531, l. 42. 101. Starik, “Kto vinovat?” 102. “Brat’ia spiritualisty!” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 51 (1908): 801.

Notes to Pages 106–13 227

103. Bogomolov, Russkaia literatura, 39. 104. Here I disagree with Bogomolov. See ibid., 19. 105. On modernity, see Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” in The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, ed. Jonathan Mayne (New York: Da Capo Press, 1964), 1–40; Marshall Berman, All That Is Solid Melts Into Air: The Experience of Modernity (New York: Viking Penguin, 1988); Svetlana Boym, The Future of Nostalgia (New York: Basic Books, 2001); Mark D. Steinberg, Proletarian Imagination: Self, Modernity, and the Sacred in Russia, 1910–1925 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2002). 106. Owen, Place of Enchantment; Monroe, Laboratories. 107. Malinowski expresses both these views despite veering more toward the former, Adler also focuses on impotence, while the empowering quality of magic is stressed by Evans-Pritchard and Mauss. Alfred Adler, Praxis und Theorie der Individualpsychologie: Vorträge zur Einfü hrung in die Psychotherapie für Ärzte, Psychologen und Lehrer (Munich: J. F. Bergman, 1930); Alfred Adler, Menschenkenntnis (Zurich: Rascher, 1947); Bronislaw Malinowski, Magic, Science, and Religion, and Other Essays (London: Souvenir Press, 1948), 19, 79; E. E. Evans-Pritchard, Witchcraft, Oracles, and Magic among the Azande (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 427; Mauss, General Theory of Magic, 41. 108. Adler, Praxis und Theorie; Adler, Menschenkenntnis; Ljunggren, The Russian Mephisto, 68–69. 109. Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England (London: Penguin Books, 1991). 110. Vyse, Believing in Magic, 201.

Chapter 4

47.

1. “Neobychainye iavleniia,” Vladimirskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti 24 (1900): 839. 2. Ibid. 3. Ibid., 840. 4. Ibid., 846. 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid., 844, 841. 7. Ibid., 840–41. 8. Ibid., 842. 9. Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii (GARF), f. 102, D-3, op. 1901, d.

10. Ibid. 11. “Neobychainye iavleniia.” 12. “Sviashchennik, postradaiushchii ot besov,” Russkii listok, December 30, 1900, 3; “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia,” Rebus 20, no. 2 (1901): 21–22; no. 6 (1901): 54–55; “Novye samoproizvol’nye iavleniia,” Rebus 20, no. 8 (1901): 71; “Rasskaz sotrudnika ‘Russkogo Listka,’” Rebus 20, no. 10 (1901): 105–6; no. 11 (1901): 117–18; I. Solov’ev, “Pis’mo ottsa Solov’eva o iavleniiakh, byvshchikh v ego dome,” Rebus 20, no. 7 (1901): 62–63. 13. Neobychainye iavleniia (Vladimir, 1900); Don-Bazilio, “Navozhdenie ili deistvitel’nost’? Sviashchennik, postradaiushchii ot besov,” Russkii listok, January 22–30, 1901, 3.

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Notes to Pages 113–17

14. A. A. Titov, “Nechistaia sila,” Sudebnye dramy 7, no. 4 (1903): 3–70. I’d like to thank Sandra Dahlke for alerting me to this source. 15. See, for example, “Prokazy Varshavskikh chertei,” Rebus 5, no. 46 (1886): 434– 35; P. Mel’nikov, “Nepokoinyi dom v Tomskoi gubernii,” Rebus 25, nos. 45–46 (1906): 5–7. 16. Of the 101 cases analyzed here, 26 date from the 1880s, 38 from the 1890s, 29 from the 1900s, and 9 from the 1910s. 17. Ium, “Psikhologiia ‘nepokoinykh’ domov i sostoianie ‘miatushchikhsia’ dukhov,” Spiritualist 9 (1908): 486–98. Within the worldwide spiritualist community, Russians provided stories of haunted houses for international discussion. See, for example, Emma Hardinge Britten, Nineteenth Century Miracles: Or Spirits and Their Work in Every Country of the Earth; A Complete Historical Compendium of the Great Movement Known as “Modern Spiritualism” (London: E. W. Allen, 1884), 361–63; Walter Leaf, “Predvestniki Spiritizma za poslednie 250 lyet. (The Precursors of Spiritism for the Last 250 Years) by A. M. Aksakoff. St. Petersburg, 1895,” Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research 12 (1896): 319–30; M. Petrovo-Solovovo, “Account by Ivan Kupreyanoff of Tver,” Journal of the Society for Psychical Research 9 (1899): 58–60. 18. Christine D. Worobec, Possessed: Women, Witches, and Demons in Imperial Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2001). 19. Daniel Pick and Lyndal Roper, eds., Dreams and History: The Interpretation of Dreams from Ancient Greece to Modern Psychoanalysis (New York: Routledge, 2004); Sigmund Freud, “Traum und Okkultismus,” in Neue Folge der Vorlesungen zur Einführung in die Psychoanalyse (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2005), 34–59; Irina Paperno, “Dreams of Terror: Dreams from Stalinist Russia as a Historical Source,” Kritika 7, no. 4 (2006): 793–824; Sigmund Freud, Die Traumdeutung (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2007). 20. Daniel Pick and Lyndal Roper, “Introduction,” in Dreams and History, 13. 21. On the narrative quality of dreams, see C. G. Jung, The Collected Works of C. G. Jung, vol. 4, Freud and Psychoanalysis (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1961). 22. On rumors, see ibid.; Steve Smith, “Fear and Rumour in the People’s Republic of China in the 1950s,” Cultural and Social History 5, no. 3 (2008): 269–88. 23. Neobychainye iavleniia; GARF, f. 102, D-3, op. 1901, d. 47. 24. Solov’ev, “Pis’mo ottsa Solov’eva.” 25. Sigmund Freud, “Das Unheimliche,” in Gesammelte Werke: Chronologisch geordnet. Zwölfter Band, Werke aus den Jahren 1917–1920 (Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer, 1972), 229–68; Jacques Derrida, Specters of Marx: The State of Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International (New York: Routledge, 1994). 26. Freud, “Das Unheimliche.” 27. Derrida, Specters, 18–29. 28. Ibid., 6. 29. Ibid., 25. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid., 29. 32. For literature on the domovoi see, for example, E. V. Pomerantseva, Mifologicheskie personazhi v russkom fol’klore (Moscow: Nauka, 1975); Felix Haase, Volksglaube und Brauchtum der Ostslaven (Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1980); Felix J. Oinas, Essays on Russian Folklore and Mythology (Columbus, OH: Slavica Publishers, 1985); Linda Ivanits, Russian Folk Belief (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1992); V. I. Dal’,

Notes to Pages 117–19 229

O poveriiakh, sueveriiakh i predrassudkakh russkogo naroda: Materialy po russkoi demonologii. (St. Petersburg: Izd-vo Litera, 1996). 33. Dal’, O poveriiakh, 18. 34. On the decline of belief in folkloric spirits, see N. Kh., “K voprosu o religioznykh vozzreniakh krest’ian Kaluzhskoi gubernii,” Etnograficheskoe obozrenie 4, nos. 2–3 (1892): 213; Pomerantseva, Mifologicheskie personazhi, 49; Ivanits, Russian Folk Belief, 72; Dal’, O poveriiakh, 48. 35. V. V. Vinogradov and S. I. Bernshtein, eds., Slovar’ iazyka Pushkina: V chetyrekh tomakh (Moscow: Gos. izd-vo inostrannykh i natsional’nykh slovarei, 1956–1961), 1:684–85. Pushkin wrote a poem entitled “Domovomu” in 1819 and refers to the house sprite in Evgenii Onegin and other works. Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v desiati tomakh (Moscow: Akademii nauk SSSR, 1962–1966), 1:362, 5:107. See also F. M. Dostoevskii, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh (Leningrad: Nauka, 1972), vol. 2. Teffi’s story was published in 1931 in exile, which testifies to the longevity of the domovoi. N. A. Teffi, Sobranie sochinenii (Moscow: Lakom, 1998–), 223–35. 36. Dostoevskii, Polnoe sobranie, 2:399–402; A. P. Chekhov, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii i pisem v tridtsati tomakh (Moscow: Nauka, 1974), 2:130. 37. British haunted houses from the same period, by comparison, were of a very different quality; they were far less boisterous than their Russian counterparts. While supernatural beings usually appeared to the landlord and his family as shady figures in England, they did not throw about household items nor did they physically harm members of the household. W. F. Barrett, A. P. Percival Keep, et al., “First Report of the Committee on Haunted Houses,” Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research 1, no. 2 (1883): 101–15; R. C. Morton, “Record of a Haunted House,” Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research 8 (1892): 311–32. 38. See, for example, I. Bronshtein, “Strannyi fakt,” Rebus 4, no. 12 (1885): 114– 15; Petrovo-Solovovo, “Account.” 39. Polnyi pravoslavnyi bogoslovskii entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (St. Petersburg: P. P. Soikin, 1913): 1:429–30. 40. Ibid. 41. Trebnik (Moscow, 1836), 169–70. 42. Ibid. 43. On the demonization of folkloric sprites through the Orthodox Church, see Faith Wigzell, “The Russian Folk Devil and His Literary Reflections,” in Russian Literature and Its Demons, ed. Pamela Davidson (New York: Berghahn Books, 2000), 59–86. 44. Nikolai Stavrogin, the central character of Besy (The Possessed, 1870), for example, declares that he has visions of demons when confessing his sins to Tikhon. Dostoevskii, Polnoe sobranie, 11:5–30. 45. Fedor Sologub, Melkii bes: Roman; Zaklinatel’nitsa zmei: Roman; Rasskazy (Moscow: Sov. Rossiia, 1991). 46. GARF, f. 102, D-3, op. 1901, d. 47. 47. This view is explicitly mentioned in P. M., “Iz mira tainstvennogo,” Peterburgskii listok, February 11, 1907, 5; “Star’ i nov: Strashnyi dom,” Petrogradskii listok, October 30, 1916, 12. 48. The prominent role of servants is one peculiarity of Russian hauntings. In Victorian Britain, for example, servants were not depicted as having any special relation

230

Notes to Pages 120–22

to the unusual phenomena. Barrett et al., “First Report”; Morton, “Record.” 49. “Neobychainye iavleniia,” 842. 50. M. B., “Mediumicheskie iavleniia v Kazani (Korrespondentsiia ‘Rebusa’),” Rebus 4, no. 3 (1885): 30. 51. Ibid. 52. Bar. A. Pritvits, “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia v derevne Iugantovo, Luzhskoi volosti, Iamburskogo uezda, S.-Peterburgskoi gubernii,” Rebus 15, no. 11 (1896): 88–89. 53. Ibid., 89. 54. Ibid. 55. Vas. B., “Tainstvennye shutki dukhov na Ligovke: Benefis spiritov v stolitse,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, January 21, 1908, 5. See also Vas. B., “Nepokoinye doma v Peterburge i Moskve,” Rebus 27, nos. 48–49 (1908): 7–8. 56. For other reports of haunted houses in which servants were the first suspects, see “Povtorenie neob”iasnimykh iavlenii,” Rebus 5, no. 1 (1886): 7–8; “Sluchai samoproizvol’nykh mediumicheskikh iavlenii bliz S.-Peterburga,” Rebus 7, no. 15 (1888): 147–48; N. Lisenkov, “Nepokoinyi dom v Rostove,” Rebus 10, no. 19 (1891): 164; “Tainstvennoe iavlenie,” Rebus 11, no. 4 (1892): 43; “Chetyrnadtsatiletnii medium v Odesse,” Rebus 14, no. 47 (1895): 428–29; V. Khlopitskii, “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia v Varshave,” Rebus 16, no. 40 (1897): 335; “Nepokoinyi Dom: Pis’ma iz Lanshevskogo uezda,” Rebus 18, no. 32 (1899): 279–80; no. 33 (1899): 289–90; no. 34 (1899): 296–97; no. 5 (1899): 303–4; P. Ch., “O Vladikavkazskom mediume,” Rebus 23, no. 25 (1904): 1–2; no. 26–27 (1904): 1–2. 57. “Kartofel’naia kolonada,” Volzhskii vestnik, December 16, 1884, 3. 58. Peterburzhets, “S nekotorykh por,” Novoe vremia, January 15, 1892, 3; DonBazilio, “Navozhdenie”; “Nepokoinye iavleniia v Zhitomire,” Rebus 30, no. 45 (1911): 5–6. 59. On the appeal of stories mocking figures of authority, see Jeffrey Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read: Literacy and Popular Literature, 1861–1917 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), 166–213; Maureen Perrie, “Folklore as Evidence of Peasant Mentalité, Social Attitudes, and Values in Russian Popular Culture,” The Russian Review 48, no. 2 (1989): 119–43. 60. On domestics, see Rose L. Glickman, Russian Factory Women: Workplace and Society, 1880–1914 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986); Barbara Alpern Engel, Between the Fields and the City: Women, Work, and Family in Russia, 1861–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Angela Rustemeyer, Dienstboten in Petersburg und Moskau, 1861–1917: Hintergrund, Alltag, soziale Rolle (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1996); Rebecca Spagnolo, “Serving the Household, Asserting the Self: Urban Domestic Servant Activism, 1900–1917,” in The Human Tradition in Imperial Russia, ed. Christine D. Worobec (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2009), 141–54. 61. Rustemeyer, Dienstboten, 50–52. 62. For studies on unruly women such as female servants, workers, prostitutes, and other members of the lower classes, see Engel, Between the Fields and the City; N. B. Lebina and M. V. Shkarovskii, Prostitutsiia v Peterburge: 40-e gg. XIX v–40-e gg. XX v. (Moscow: Progress-Akademiia, 1994); Laurie Bernstein, Sonia’s Daughters: Prostitutes and Their Regulation in Imperial Russia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995); Laura Engelstein, The Keys to Happiness: Sex and the Search for Modernity in Fin-de-

Notes to Pages 122–25 231

Siècle Russia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996); Rustemeyer, Dienstboten. Haunted houses illustrate that this discourse was widespread earlier than the cases that Engelstein and Neuberger analyze would suggest. 63. Ibid., 161. 64. “Na zlobu dnia: Vo chto skoro prevratitsia ‘biuro dlia naima prislugi’,” Peterburgskaia gazeta: Illiustrirovannoe prilozhenie, December 14, 1900, 409. Rustemeyer dates the fear of the servant to the post-1905 years. The caricature from Peterburgskaia gazeta suggests, however, that this anxiety had already gripped employers by 1900. Rustemeyer, Dienstboten, 161–62. 65. Peterburzhets, “S nekotorykh por.” 66. For Derrida, a haunting is defined by the presence of a specter. “A specter is always a revenant. One cannot control its coming and goings because it begins by coming back.” Derrida, Specters, 11. 67. Adam Weiner, By Authors Possessed: The Demonic Novel in Russia (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1998), 15–17. 68. Weiner, By Authors Possessed; Pamela Davidson, “Russian Literature and Its Demons: Introductory Essay,” in Russian Literature, 1–28. 69. Jeffrey Brooks, “How Tolstoevskii Pleased Readers and Rewrote a Russian Myth,” Slavic Review 64 (2005): 538–59. 70. W. J. Leatherbarrow, “The Devil’s Vaudeville: ‘Decoding’ the Demonic in Dostoevsky’s The Devils,” in Davidson, Russian Literature, 279–306. 71. B., “Mediumicheskie iavleniia.” 72. Titov, “Nechistaia sila,” 35–36; B., “Nepokoinye doma v Peterburge i Moskve.” 73. Khlopitskii, “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia v Varshave.” 74. Alex Owen, The Darkened Room: Women, Power, and Spiritualism in Late Nineteenth-Century England (London: Virago, 1989), 206–8; Worobec, Possessed, 67. 75. E. Poselianin, Russkaia tserkov’ i russkie podvizhniki 18-go veka (St. Petersburg: Izd. I. L. Tuzova, 1905); Ewa M. Thompson, Understanding Russia: The Holy Fool in Russian Culture (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1987); J. Forest, “Holy Foolishness and the Russian Orthodox Church,” Parabola: Myth, Tradition, and the Search for Meaning 19, no. 4.2 (1994): 22–28; S. A. Ivanov, Vizantiiskoe iurodstvo (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnye otnosheniia, 1994). 76. I. M. Lewis, Ecstatic Religion: An Anthropological Study of Spirit Possession and Shamanism (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978), 60–64. 77. Ibid., 158, 182. 78. Ibid., 78. 79. Ibid., 78–79. 80. Reference to allegedly inexplicable events could also serve more practical needs. Imputing mischief to supernatural influence provided servants with a welcome excuse for misfortune. Blaming a deceased landlord for a broken dish or some inexplicable force for an injured child left the servant innocent in the face of professional failure. 81. Freud, of course, regards dreams as expression of wishes. Freud, Traumdeutung. 82. See, for example, Sviashchennik Nadezhnyi, “Fakty prezhnykh let,” Rebus 3, no. 11 (1884): 106–7; “Nepokoinyi dom,” Rebus 12, no. 41 (1893): 393; Aleksandr Donarskii, “Nepokoinyi dom v Tobol’skoi gub.,” Rebus 12, no. 45 (1893): 427–28; K. K., “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia v Chernigove v 40-kh godakh,” Rebus 16, no. 4 (1897): 34–36; “Samoproizvol’nye iavleniia,” Rebus 17, no. 44 (1898): 376;

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Notes to Pages 126–30

“Nepokoinyi dom: Pis’ma iz Lanshevskogo uezda”; “Sviashchennik, postradaiushchii ot besov”; “Rasskaz sotrudnika”; Don-Bazilio, “Navozhdenie”; Martirii Petrov, “Interesnyi fakt,” Rebus 20, no. 24 (1901): 223. 83. “Nepokoinyi dom: Pis’ma iz Lanshevskogo uezda,” 304. 84. Ibid., 279–80, 304. 85. Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv (RGIA), f. 796, op. 445, d. 345. 86. It was but little comfort to Father V-ii that his Muslim colleague, the mullah of the neighboring village, Imen’ki, had experienced similar phenomena. “Nepokoinyi dom: Pis’ma iz Lanshevskogo uezda,” 280. 87. Perrie, “Folklore,” 124. 88. On the Orthodox clergy and their relationship to parishioners, see Gregory L. Freeze, The Parish Clergy in Nineteenth-Century Russia: Crisis, Reform, Counter-Reform (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983); Simon Dixon, “The Church’s Social Role in St. Petersburg, 1880–1914,” in Church, Nation, and State in Russia and Ukraine, ed. Geoffrey A. Hosking (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1991), 167–92, and other articles in the same volume; Vera Shevzov, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); Simon Dixon, “The Russian Orthodox Church in Imperial Russia, 1721–1917,” in The Cambridge History of Christianity, vol. 5, Eastern Christianity, ed. Michael Angold (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 325– 47; Gregory L. Freeze, “Russian Orthodoxy: Church, People, and Politics in Imperial Russia,” in The Cambridge History of Russia, vol. 2, Imperial Russia, ed. Dominic Lieven, Maureen Perry, and Ronald Grigor Suny (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 284–305; Laurie Manchester, Holy Fathers, Secular Sons: Clergy, Intelligentsia, and the Modern Self in Revolutionary Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2008). 89. GARF, f. 102, D-3, op. 1901, d. 47, l. 17. I have seen no evidence suggesting that the governor of Vladimir guberniya visited Lychentsy. 90. Ibid. 91. “Rasskaz sotrudnika,” 117. 92. GARF, f. 102, D-3, op. 1901, d. 47, l. 16. 93. Freeze, Parish Clergy, 364; Manchester, Holy Fathers, Secular Sons, 14–16. 94. “Rasskaz sotrudnika,” 105. 95. Ibid. 96. Ibid. 97. Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England (London: Penguin Books, 1991). 98. Dal’, O poveriiakh, 16–22. 99. Other peasants distinguished between benevolent and malicious flames. S. V. Maksimov, “Nechistaia, nevedomaia i krestnaia sila” in Russkoe koldovstvo, by V. I. Dal’ et al. (Moscow: Eksmo, 2002), 307–08. 100. “Neobychainye iavleniia”; GARF, f. 102, D-3, op. 1901, d. 47, l. 14; Don-Bazilio, “Navozhdenie.” On Don Bazilio’s identity, see I. F. Masanov, Slovar’ psevdonimov russkikh pisatelei, uchennykh i obshchestvennykh deiatelei (Moscow: Izd-vo Vses. knizhnoi palaty, 1956–1960), 1:348. 101. “Nepokoinyi dom: Pis’ma iz Lanshevskogo uezda,” 297. 102. “Neobychainye iavleniia,” 842. 103. See, for example, “Kartofel’naia kolonada”; K., “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia”; E. Zasiadko, “Nepokoinye iavleniia,” Rebus 28, no. 35

Notes to Pages 130–34 233

(1909): 5–7. 104. GARF, f. 102, D-3, op. 1901, d. 47, l. 17. 105. Ibid., l. 14. 106. Ibid., l. 15. 107. Ibid. 108. S. V. Maksimov, Nechistaia, nevedomaia i krestnaia sila (St. Petersburg: Tov. R. Golike i A. Gil’borg, 1903), 30; Pomerantseva, Mifologicheskie personazhi, 94–113; Dal’, O poveriiakh, 16–17. 109. Titov, “Nechistaia sila,” 11. 110. K., “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia,” 35. These events had allegedly taken place in 1843 or 1844 but were reported only in 1897. 111. Ibid. 112. Maksimov, “Nechistaia, nevedomaia i krestnaia sila,” 305–7; L. N. Vinogradova, “Seksual’nye sviazy cheloveka s demonicheskimi sushchestvami,” in Seks i erotika v russkoi traditsionnoi kul’ture, ed. A. L. Toporkov (Moscow: Ladomir, 1996), 207–24. 113. On the frequent topic of sexual relations between employers and servants in Russian literature in the 1880s, see Rustemeyer, Dienstboten, 144; Spagnolo, “Serving the Household,” 145. One fin-de-siècle explanation for klikushestvo—demon possession in the eyes of the Church, hysteria in the eyes of doctors—was sexual frustration. As mentioned above, klikushestvo resembled servants’ nervous illnesses. Worobec, Possessed, 170–71. 114. An oven poker attacked the village teacher and Dar’ia Solov’eva in Lychentsy, a knife was thrown at Sasha in Kazan, while in Chernigov, a heavy candlestick was thrown into a cradle, and a walking stick wreaked havoc. B., “Mediumicheskie iavleniia”; K., “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia,” 35; “Neobychainye iavleniia,” 842. For the classical psychoanalytic reading of such symbols, see Freud, Traumdeutung, 349. 115. On the association of passion with heat, see, for example, Andrei Zorin, “The Perception of Emotional Coldness in Andrei Turgenev’s Diaries,” Slavic Review 68, no. 2 (2009): 238–58. 116. GARF, f. 102, D-3, op. 1901, d. 47, l. 17. 117. K., “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia,” 36. 118. Ibid. 119. Davidson, Russian Literature, 2. “Ek. N. Ushakovoi,” in Sobranie sochinenii, by A. S. Pushkin (Moscow: Khudozhestvennaia literatura, 1974–1978), 2:100. 120. Davidson, Russian Literature, 13. 121. Ibid. 122. K., “Samoproizvol’nye mediumicheskie iavleniia,” 35. 123. Don-Bazilio, “Navozhdenie,” January 27, 1901. Italics in the original. 124. Ibid. 125. GARF, f. 102, D-3, op. 1901, d. 47. 126. Ibid., l. 17. 127. Don-Bazilio, “Navozhdenie,” January 30, 1901. 128. Ibid.; William Shakespeare, “Hamlet,” in William Shakespeare: The Complete Works, ed. Stanley W. Wells and Gary Taylor (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 1.5.166–67. 129. Titov, “Nechistaia sila,” 68–69. 130. On ideas about double consciousness, multiple personalities, and splitting, see Alan Gauld, A History of Hypnotism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995).

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131. Jung, Freud and Psychoanalysis. 132. Ibid., 45–46. 133. Freud, “Das Unheimliche,” 263. 134. The combination of ancient spirituality with modern science was also prominent outside of Russia, as the enthusiasm for everything Celtic by British occultists illustrates. Alex Owen, The Place of Enchantment: British Occultism and the Culture of the Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 68–69, 168–69. 135. Perrie, “Folklore,” 124. 136. Ruth Harris makes this claim in relation to the possessed women of a remote village in France. Ruth Harris, “Possession on the Borders: The ‘Mal de Morzine’ in Nineteenth-Century France,” The Journal of Modern History 69 (September 1997): 451–78. 137. Spagnolo, “Serving the Household.” 138. Ibid. 139. Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read, 259–60. 140. “Nepokoinye iavleniia v Zhitomire,” 6. 141. Ibid. For similar scientific explanations, see V. M. Danilevskii, “Telepaticheskoe iavlenie,” Rebus 23, no. 23 (1904): 3–5; B., “Nepokoinye doma v Peterburge i Moskve”; M. F., “Tainstvennaia sila istseliaiushchaia bol’nykh,” Peterburgskii listok, July 1, 1911, 3; “Koloshenskaia chertovshchina,” Petrogradskii listok, January 14, 1916, 3. 142. B., “Nepokoinye doma v Peterburge i Moskve,” 7. 143. “Vnimanie ‘Rebusa’ i vsekh spiritov,” Volzhskii vestnik, March 2, 1885, 2. 144. “Eshche o chertovshchine,” Peterburgskii listok, November 6, 1894, 4; Viktor Pribytkov, “Eshche o nepokoinom dome na Vasil’evskom Ostrove,” Rebus 13, no. 13 (1894): 135–36; “Mistifikatsiia v ‘tainstvennom dome,’” Peterburgskii listok, July 1, 1901, 4; “Neobyknovennoe iavlenie: Ot nashego moskovskogo korrespondenta po telefonu,” Peterburgskii listok, February 15, 1909, 6. 145. Kri-Kri, “Iz zapisknoi knizhki,” Novorossiiskii telegraf, October 18, 1895; Ch., “O Vladikavkazskom mediume.”

Chapter 5 1. V. Pribytkov, “Vopros o spiritizme v Rossii,” Rebus 20, no. 6 (1901): 53–54. 2. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, Animismus und Spiritismus: Versuch einer kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Halluzination und des Unbewussten. Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmanns Werk “Der Spiritismus.” Vierte verbesserte und um ein “Vorwort” und eine “Autobiographie” vermehrte Auflage (Leipzig: Mutze, 1905), 1:xcii. 3. Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv (RGIA), f. 797, op. 53, no. 73. Quoted in G. V. Bykov, Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1961), 162. In his Reflections of a Russian Statesman, Pobedonostsev expressed similar reservations about a free press in general, complaining that publications addressed “all men, some of whom [...] have no ability for forming opinions, and mechanically accept the opinions of their newspapers.” Basil Dmytryshyn, ed., Imperial Russia: A Source Book, 1700–1917 (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1967), 281. 4. The only book devoted to occultism in modern Russia, Bernice Rosenthal’s The Occult in Russian and Soviet Culture (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), does not list

Notes to Pages 141–43 235

the “church,” “orthodoxy,” or “theology” in its index. Only Maria Carlson provides some glimpses of church reactions to theosophy in her book on the theosophical movement in Russia. Maria Carlson, “No Religion Higher than Truth”: A History of the Theosophical Movement in Russia, 1875–1922 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993). 5. Laurie Manchester, Holy Fathers, Secular Sons: Clergy, Intelligentsia, and the Modern Self in Revolutionary Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2008), 16. 6. On sects, see Vladimir Bonch-Bruevich, ed., Materialy k istorii i izucheniiu russkogo sektanstva i raskola (St. Petersburg, 1908); Aleksandr Etkind, Khlyst: Sekty, literatura i revoliutsiia (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 1998); Laura Engelstein, Castration and the Heavenly Kingdom: A Russian Folktale (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999); Page Herrlinger, “Raising Lazarus: Orthodoxy and the Factory Narod in St. Petersburg, 1905–1914,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 52 (2004): 341–54; Nicholas B. Breyfogle, Heretics and Colonizers: Forging Russia’s Empire in the South Caucasus (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005); Heather J. Coleman, Russian Baptists and Spiritual Revolution, 1905–1929 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005). 7. Simon Dixon, “The Russian Orthodox Church in Imperial Russia, 1721–1917,” in The Cambridge History of Christianity, vol. 5, Eastern Christianity, ed. Michael Angold (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 334. 8. Shakhov lists six articles that dealt with spiritualism in Pravoslavne obozrenie in the sixteen-year period between 1871 and 1886, and none that addressed theosophy or occultism more generally. V. V. Shakhov, Ukazatel’ k Pravoslavnomu obozreniiu za 1871–1886 gg. (Moscow: Univ. tip., 1887). Only four out of these six addressed spiritualism in Russia. A similar pattern emerges from my own survey of theological periodicals and from Ukazatel’ sochinenii, soderzhenshchikhsia vo vsekh 88 chastiakh “Khristianskoe chtenie” (St. Petersburg, 1861); Ukazatel’ statei, pomeshchennykh v zhurnale “Pravoslavnyi Sobesednik” za pervye desiat’ let izdaniia ego (s 1855 po 1864 g.) (Kazan, 1865); Ukazatel’ dukhovnogo ucheno-literaturnogo zhurnala “Strannik” za pervoe desiatiletie ego izdaniia (1860–1869) (St. Petersburg, 1870); S. S. E., ed., Ukazatel’ statei “Pravoslavnogo Sobesednika,” 1877–1891 gg. (Kazan: Tipografiia Imperatorskogo Universiteta, 1876); V. Liustritskii, ed., Ukazatel’ k “Pravoslavnomu Sobesedniku,” vol. 1, Za dvadtsat’ let ego izdaniia s 1855 po 1876 g. (Kazan: Tipografiia Imperatorskogo Universiteta, 1877); Sistematicheskii ukazatel’ statei, pomeshchennykh v zhurnale “Trudy Kievskoi dukhovnoi akademii” za 1860–1904 gg. 2 vols. (Kiev, 1905– 1915); Ukazatel’ k “Pravoslavnomu Sobesedniku” za 1892–1909 gg. (Kazan, 1910); G. A. Andreev, Khristianskaia periodicheskaia pechat’ na russkom iazyke, 1801–1917 gg.: Bibliograficheskii ukazatel’ v trekh tomakh (New York: N. Ross, 1998). 9. P. P. Popov, “Obzor fonda Kazanskoi dukhovnoi akademii” (unpublished manuscript, Sergiev Posad, 1985). 10. See, for example, Natsional’nyi arkhiv respubliki Tatarstana (NART), f. 10, op. 2, d. 1121; d. 518. 11. I. Osinin, “Shvedenborg i ego uchenie,” Dukhovnaia beseda 29 (1859): 80–94; “Noveishii spiritizm i ego sviaz’ s drevnimi iazicheskimi sueveriiami i zabludeniiami,” Pravoslavnoe Obozrenie, no. 8 (1871): 196–244; no. 10 (1871): 456–85; no. 11 (1871): 644–79; no. 12 (1871): 781–807. 12. Syn-Otechestva, “Snom peterburgskikh spiritov,” Pravoslavnoe Obozrenie (February 1881): 442–45.

236

Notes to Pages 144–46

13. This conforms to a 1901 report by the Ministry of the Interior to the Petersburg town governor listing the harmfulness of heresies and sects. Spiritualists and theosophers do not appear on this list. Heresies regarded as particularly harmful were those whose teaching questioned the political status quo and undermined social institutions such as marriage. Tsentral’nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Sankt Peterburga (TsIASPb), f. 19, op. 93, d. 35. 14. “Po povodu neurozhaia,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (January 1892): 121–26; A. Selivanov, “Opravdanie nauki. Teoriia poznaniia V. Vundta,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (February 1906): 253–74. This topic will be discussed in greater detail below. 15. For occult manuals advising on how to deal with individualization, see Bell, “Gipnotizm: Kurs prakticheskikh metodov ukrepleniia v sebe sily voli i dukha dlia razlichnogo roda vnusheniia,” Spiritualist 8 (1906): 365–74; 9 (1906): 424–29; 10 (1906): 469–76; 11 (1906): 523–26; 12 (1906): 584–87; V. Perotskii, “Magicheskoe vliianie golosa,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 2, no. 2 (1907): 76–78; no. 3 (1907): 93–94; A. V. Segno, Zakon mentalizma: Prakticheskoe nauchnoe ob”iasnenie mysli i dushevnoi sily, zakon upravliaiushchii vsemi myslennymi i fizicheskimi deistviiami i iavleniiami, sushchnost’ zhizni i smerti (Moscow: A. A. Levenson, 1912). 16. S. Levitskii, “Lichnost’ i obshchestvo,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (June 1900): 222– 40; (July 1900): 385–407. 17. Ibid., 406. 18. See, for example, Kniaz-Inok, “Kakovy dolzhny byt’ nashi tiurmy,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 19 (1908): 290–93; and “Okkul’tno-mental’naia molitva o blagosostoianii kazhdogo iz uchastnikov,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 19 (1908): 303–4; G. Faneg, “O koldovstve,” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 2 (1908): 21–26; no. 3 (1908): 41–46. 19. Usually, occultists blamed only their occult rivals for fostering antisocial convictions. Ne-Prosviashchennyi, “Chto takoe teosofiia,” Rebus 23, nos. 44–45 (1904): 9–10. 20. T. I. Butkevich, Obzor russkikh sekt i ikh tolkov, s izlozheniem ikh proiskhozhdeniia, rasprostraneniia i veroucheniia i s oproverzheniem poslednego. Izdanie vtoroe, ispravlennoe i znachitel’no dopolnennoe (Petrograd: I. L. Tuzov, 1915). 21. S. Glagolev, “Religiia i nauka v ikh vzaimnootnoshenii k nastupaiushchemu XX-mu stoletiiu,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (November 1899): 359–85; (December 1899): 585–613; (January 1900): 37–74. 22. S Afona o spiritizme (St. Petersburg, 1867), 10–11; Ne-Prosviashchennyi, “Chto takoe teosofiia.” 23. “Noveishii spiritizm,” 240, 793–94. 24. Carlson, “No Religion Higher,” 145–46. For a similar critique, see M. V. Lodyzhenskii, Vragi khristianstva: Doklad, chitannyi v Petrograde na religioznom sobranii v dome E. G. Shvarts 28 dekabria 1915 g. (Petrograd, 1916), 4. 25. “Mediumicheskie seansy v Moskve,” Rebus 8, no. 25 (1889): 231–33. 26. Prince Emil Wittgenstein, aide-de-camp to the tsar, in a letter to Emma Hardinge Britten. Quoted in Emma Hardinge Britten, Nineteenth Century Miracles: Or Spirits and Their Work in Every Country of the Earth; A Complete Historical Compendium of the Great Movement Known as “Modern Spiritualism” (London: E. W. Allen, 1884), 351. Italics in the original. 27. NART, f. 10, op. 2, d. 56; Nikolai Pavlovich Rozhdestvenskii, Khristianskaia apologetika: Kurs osnovnogo bogosloviia chitannyi studentam Spb. dukh. akademii v 1881/2 uchebnom godu (St. Petersburg: I. L. Tuzov, 1884), 411–35; NART, f. 10, op. 2, d. 257; d. 207; d. 378.

Notes to Pages 146–49 237

28. Aksakov, Animismus (1905); D. O. Karabanovich, “Novoe uchenie o bessmertii,” Rebus 34, nos. 2–3 (1915): 4–5; no. 4 (1915): 3–6; no. 5 (1915): 1–3. 29. NART, f. 10, op. 2, d. 1326. 30. Monakh Mitrofan, Kak zhivut nashi umershie i kak budem zhit’ i my po smerti: Po ucheniiu pravoslavnoi tserkvy, po predchuvstviiu obshchechelovecheskogo dukha i vyvodam nauki (St. Petersburg: I. L. Tuzov, 1897), 1:xx. The book was published and endorsed by the Church hierarchy. Its introduction suggested that the work’s title was deliberately phrased in an ambiguous manner so that potential readers might mistake it for a spiritualist publication. 31. Ibid., ix. 32. “Uchenie o voskresenii mertvykh, predlozhennoe v pervom poslanii sv. apostola Pavla k korinfianam,” Dukhovnaia beseda, no. 29 (1859): 70–80; “Svecha vo tmu i sumrak,” Dukhovnaia beseda, no. 43 (1859): 117–23; no. 44 (1859): 161–71; no. 45 (1859): 201–9; no. 46 (1859): 241–51; no. 47 (1859): 282–94; no. 48 (1859): 323–33; no. 49 (1859): 367–73; no. 52 (1859): 515–31. Quote in no. 44 (1859): 162. 33. Rozhdestvenskii, Khristianskaia apologetika, 411–21; NART, f. 10, op. 2, d. 257. 34. Rozhdestvenskii, Khristianskaia apologetika, 416–24. 35. On a related point, see Daniel Beer, “The Medicalization of Religious Deviance in the Russian Orthodox Church, 1880–1905,” Kritika 5, no. 3 (2004): 451–82. 36. Aleksandr Nikolaevich Aksakov, “Po povodu stat’i V. S. Solov’eva: ‘O nashikh svetskikh eresiakh,’” Rus’, no. 9 (1883): 37. 37. See, for example, Matv. Fidler, “Vliianie sveta na materializatsiiu,” Rebus 7, no. 35 (1888): 315–17; “Religiia s filosovskoi tochki zreniia i sopostovlenie ucheniia khristianskoi tserkvi s ucheniem spiritizma,” Spiritualist 1, no. 1 (1905): 42–47. 38. NART, f. 10, op. 2, d. 207, l. 15. 39. Ibid., l. 97ob. 40. Sergei L. Kuliukin, “Mozhno li otritsat’ lichnoe bessmertie s tochki zreniia nauki?” Bogoslovskii vestnik (April 1897): 154–65. 41. Sergei Kuliukin, “Bibliografiia: Iavlenia telepatii i znachenie ikh vo oblasti osnovnykh psikhologicheskikh voprosov. Po povodu sochineniia Kamilla Flammariona ‘L’inconnu et les problèmes psychiques.’ Paris, 1900 g.,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (May 1901): 200–27. On spiritualists and ether, see, for example, Vik. P., “Peterburgskie spirity V: U A. K. Bodisko,” Peterburgskaia gazeta, February 9, 1893, 2. 42. Rozhdestvenskii, Khristianskaia apologetika, 166. Glagolev also rejected Zöllner’s propositions in Sergei Glagolev, “Chudo i nauka,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (June 1893): 477–514. 43. Catherine Evtuhov, “An Unexpected Source of Russian Neo-Kantianism: Alexander Vvedenky and Lobachevsky’s Geometry,” Studies in East European Thought 47 (1998): 245–58. Given Aleksandr Vvedenskii’s interest in Kantian notions of space, the author of the article cited here is most probably Aleksandr Ivanovich Vvedenkii, not Aleksei Ivanovich. 44. A. Vvedenskii, “Uchenie Kanta o prostranstve,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (June 1895): 390–404. 45. Ibid. 46. Kuliukin, “Bibliografiia: Iavlenia telepatii.” 47. Rozhdestvenskii’s 1884 argument that the soul outlived the material makeup of the body was a first step towards these later, exclusively materialistic arguments.

238

Notes to Pages 149–53

48. See, for example, Glagolev, “Chudo i nauka”; S. Glagolev, “Bol’noi tselitel’,” Bogoslovskii vestnik 3 (June 1896): 434–68; S. Glagolev, “Astronomiia i Bogoslovie,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (September 1897): 311–42; (October 1897):150–68; (November): 304–27; Glagolev, “Religiia i nauka v ikh vzaimnootnoshenii.” 49. Glagolev, “Astronomiia i Bogoslovie.” 50. Ibid., 151. 51. John Warne Monroe, Laboratories of Faith: Mesmerism, Spiritism, and Occultism in Modern France (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008). 52. Mikhail Zotov, Iavlenie umershego muzha zhene v sorokovoi den’ (Moscow: Lomonosov, 1910). 53. V. I. Kryzhanovskaia, “The Wrath of God: A Novel of the Occult,” in Entertaining Tsarist Russia: Tales, Songs, Plays, Movies, Jokes, Ads, and Images from Russian Urban Life, 1779–1917, ed. James von Geldern and Louise McReynolds (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998), 299–306. 54. I. A. Karyshev, Rozhdenie Antikhrista i obnovlenie zemli: Mediumicheskoe soobshchenie (St. Petersburg, 1906). 55. Glagolev, “Astronomiia i Bogoslovie.” 56. Glagolev went so far as to argue that the language of the Bible was the language of “ordinary men,” which described things as they seemed and not necessarily as they were: for example that the sun revolved around the earth. This was a bold claim indeed for a theologian. Ibid., 169. 57. “Slovo ottsa Ioanna Kronshtadtskogo,” Rebus 11, no. 48 (1892): 474–75; Viktor Pribytkov, “Eshche nepokoinyi dom v Peterburge,” Rebus 13, no. 10 (1894): 105–6. 58. S. Resanov, “Chudesnoe istselenie,” Rebus 4, no. 18 (1885): 167–68; “Istselenie,” Rebus 9, no. 2 (1890): 20; “Dva pis’ma, pomeshchennye v ‘Mosk. Ved.’ (no. 286) po povodu istseleniia ot sikoza molitvoiu,” Rebus 14, no. 46 (1895): 422–23; no. 47 (1895): 430–31. 59. See, for example, Vera Shevzov, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). 60. “Svecha vo tmu i sumrak,” 515–23. 61. Aleksandr Volkov, “Tainstvennaia istoriia,” Iakutskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti 22, no. 17 (1908): 262–72; Aleksandr Volkov, “Tainstvennaia istoriia,” Rebus 28, no. 18 (1909): 5–7; no. 19 (1909): 4–6. Other sources included Mogilevskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti for “Iavlenie umershego,” Rebus 2, no. 41 (1883): 366. Tverskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti was copied for Liubov Tikhonovna Obalesheva, “Russkie telepaticheskie sluchai: Iavlenie prismertnogo prizraka,” Rebus 11, no. 18 (1892): 187–88. 62. Glagolev, “Bol’noi tselitel’.” 63. Ibid., 438. 64. In 1895, Rebus informed its readers of a miraculous healing in a report that it had copied from Moskovskie vedomosti. The editors were so enthusiastic about this case that they also informed the Society for Psychical Research in London. Konstantin Dorobets, “Sluchai istseleniia ot sikoza molitvoiu,” Rebus 14, no. 44 (1895): 401–2; “Sluchai istseleniia ot sikoza,” Moskovskie vedomosti, Sepember 24, 1895, 3; “A Recent Case of Faith Healing (in Moscow),” Journal of the Society for Psychical Research 7 (1895): 172–73. 65. This explains a seeming inconsistency in Glagolev’s writing, that is the tension between his criticism of scientists for entertaining a world view according to which

Notes to Pages 153–57 239

miracles are explicable, if not now, then in the future, and his own attempts to do just that in the case of Shlatter. 66. Glagolev, “Chudo i nauka,” 512–13. 67. Glagolev, “Religiia i nauka v ikh vzaimnootnoshenii,” 612. 68. Glagolev, “Chudo i nauka,” 514. 69. Rozhdestvenskii, Khristianskaia apologetika, 160. 70. Ibid. 71. Ibid., 160–61. 72. Ibid., 111. 73. Ibid., 165. 74. Ibid. 75. Ibid., 166. 76. Ibid. 77. Ibid. 78. “Noveishii spiritizm,” 485. 79. “Spiritizm i Khristianstvo. Stat’ia prof. I. Vizera iz Zeitschrift f K Theologie 1880,” Pravoslavnoe Obozrenie, no. 1 (1881): 129–46; no. 2 (1881): 411–29; E. Tikhomirov, “Pritcha o bogatom i Lazare i spiritizm,” Pravoslavnoe Obozrenie, no. 1 (1884): 77. 80. Tikhomirov, “Pritcha o bogatom i Lazare i spiritizm,” 75. 81. Syn-Otechestva, “Snom peterburgskikh spiritov,” 444. 82. “Noveishii spiritizm,” 793. 83. Ibid., 796. 84. “Sklonenie sovremennogo bezbozhiia k upadku,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (February 1893): 264. See also O. K., Sovremennyi spiritizm i mistitsizm (Kharkov: Tip. Mirn. trud, 1912). 85. P. Florenskii, “Spiritizm kak antikhristianstvo. Po povodu dvukh poem: ‘Lestvitsa’ A. L. Miropol’skogo, 1902; A. Belyi. ‘Severnaia simfoniia (1-ia geroicheskaia),’ 1903,” Novyi put’ 3 (June 1904): 149–67. 86. In January 1875, Solov’ev wrote to Prince D. N. Tsertelev: “I am more and more convinced of the importance and indeed the necessity of spiritualist phenomena for the description of a veritable metaphysic. However, I don’t intend to announce this publicly as it would not help the cause but would ruin my good name.” Solov’ev did ask Tsertelev to pass on his best wishes to Aksakov and also to thank Aksakov for the copy of Psychische Studien he had received from him. Wladimir Szylkarski, Wilhelm Lettenbauer, and Ludolf Müller, eds., Deutsche Gesamtausgabe der Werke von Wladimir Solowjew (Freiburg im Breisgau: Wewel, 1953), 8:55–56. 87. Vladimir Solov’ev, “Metafizika i polozhitel’naia nauka,” Pravoslavnoe obozrenie (February 1875): 197. 88. Ibid. 89. Vlad. Solov’ev, “Neskol’ko slov o nashikh svetskikh eresiakh i o sushchnosti tserkvi,” Rus’ 3, no. 7 (1883): 13–19; Vladimir Sergeevich Solov’ev, “O raskole v russkom narode i obshchestve, 1882–1883,” in Sobranie sochinenii Vladimira Sergeevicha Solov’eva, ed. S. M. Solov’ev and E. L. Radlov (St. Petersburg: Prosveshchenie, 1913), 3:245–80. 90. Ibid., 277–78. 91. Ibid., 278.

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Notes to Pages 157–65

92. Ibid., 279. 93. Ibid., 280. 94. Szylkarski et al., Deutsche Gesamtausgabe, 4:508–9. 95. Ibid., 4:506–7. 96. Ibid., 4:507–8. 97. “Svecha vo tmu i sumrak”; “Pouchenie Aleksiia Mitropolita Moskovskogo,” Golos tserkvy (February 1912): 101–9. 98. S Afona o spiritizme. For similar pamphlets, see F. S. Zaitsev, Kak provesti krest’ianam zimnye vechera (Kotelnich: Tip. V. K. Shil’nikova, 1910); K., Sovremennyi spiritizm i mistitsizm; Lodyzhenskii, Vragi khristianstva. 99. See, for example, the work of the self-proclaimed defender of Orthodoxy, Bykov. V. P. Bykov, Spiritizm pered sudom nauki, obshchestva i religii: Lektsii-besedy (Moscow: Izd. E. I. Bykovoi, 1914). 100. In 1896, Bogoslovskii vestnik cost six rubles per annum (seven with delivery and eight for customers residing abroad), and single issues do not seem to have been on offer. Taken together with its learned content, its footnotes, and reviews of foreign-language books, this clearly suggests that it was a journal with libraries as its most likely subscribers. 101. Entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (St. Petersburg: Brokgauz Efron, 1891–1904), 24:928. 102. Jutta Scherrer, Die Petersburger religiös-philosophischen Vereinigungen: Die Entwicklung des religiösen Selbstverständnisses ihrer Intelligencija-Mitglieder, 1901– 1917 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1973). 103. Ibid., 126. 104. V. S., “Primechanie k stat’e A. N. Aksakova,” Rus’, no. 9 (1883): 39.

Chapter 6 1. “V tsarstve dukhov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 16, 1916, 2; “V tsarstve dukhov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 18, 1916, 2; “V tsarstve dukhov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 19, 1916, 5. 2. A similar tendency had been seen ten years earlier, at the time of the RussoJapanese war. However, in comparison with the conflict of 1914, Russia’s disastrous war with Japan left fewer traces in discussions of the supernatural, and saints did not eclipse the importance of heterodox occult themes in 1904/1905. 3. Ben Hellman, Poets of Hope and Despair: The Russian Symbolists in War and Revolution, 1914–1918 (Helsinki: Institute for Russian and East European Studies, 1995). 4. “Po puti,” Rebus 33, no. 34 (1914): 3–4. 5. “Konchina papy Piia X i predskazanie g-zhi de-Teb,” Petrogradskii listok, August 12, 1914, 2. Madame Teb’s predictions were reprinted in “Po puti,” Rebus 33, no. 28 (1914): 3–6. 6. Ioganes, Iz t’my vekov: Monakh XVII veka o voine XX veka (Arzamas: Tip. Poroshenkova, 1915). 7. Ioannes also appeared in “Po puti,” Rebus 33, no. 28 (1914): 3–6; Antikhrist: Izumitel’noe prorochestvo, skazannoe 314 let tomu nazad (Ekaterinodar, 1914); Iz t’my; P. M. Moranov, Predskazaniia Monakha Koz’my i Abbata Ioanna o vsemirnoi voine (Kharkov, 1915).

Notes to Pages 165–70 241

8. “Po puti,” Rebus 33, no. 28 (1914): 3; “Soderzhanie na 1914 god,” Rebus, no. 34 (1914): 3–4. 9. Dietrich Beyrau, “Projektionen, Imaginationen und Visionen im Ersten Weltkrieg: Die orthodoxen Militärgeistlichen im Einsatz für Glauben, Zar und Vaterland,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 52, no. 3 (2004): 402–20; Stephen M. Norris, A War of Images: Russian Popular Prints, Wartime Culture, and National Identity, 1812– 1945 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2006). Beyrau claims that the mood of patriotic religiosity was merely the expression of a top-down propagandistic program that did not resonate with ordinary audiences. I disagree with this assessment. The sheer number and commercial success of such pamphlets suggests that the patriotic sentiment was genuine and shared by readers. 10. “Po puti,” Rebus 34, nos. 2–3 (1915): 3–4. 11. “Predskazanie znamenitoi Lenorman,” Petrogradskii listok, August 11, 1914, 3. 12. Moranov, Predskazaniia. 13. N. K., “Iasnovidenie i voina,” Rebus 33, no. 32 (1914): 7–8. Some enterprising gadalki abused popular demand for prophecies to extort money from their clients. “Koldun’ia i nemetskii chert,” Petrogradskii listok, January 11, 1915, 3. 14. Velichaishchaia iz velikikh voin s avstro-nemtsami i turkami za pravdu Bozhiiu, za svobodu narodov: Dush. krasota i doblest’ rus. soldata (Petrograd: Petrograd Sinodal’naia tip., 1916), 4. 15. Annette Becker, War and Faith: The Religious Imagination in France, 1914– 1930 (Oxford: Berg, 1998), 75. 16. “Sverkhnormal’noe na voine,” Rebus 33, no. 29 (1914): 3–4. 17. Velichaishchaia iz velikikh voin, 55. 18. Voskresnyi listok, no. 2, 1914; Listok dlia naroda, no. 24, 1914; Novoe Vremia, no. 14284 (1914). Cited in ibid., 57. 19. Petrogradskii listok, February 4, 1916, 17. 20. “Khristos voskres na brannom pole (Paskhal’noe videnie),” Petrogradskii listok, March 21, 1915, 7. 21. “Voskresnyi Spasitel’: Paskhal’nye videnie,” Petrogradskii listok, April 9, 1916, 9. 22. “Chudesnoe iavlenie kresta,” Petrogradskii listok, March 15, 1915, 8. 23. On miraculous and found icons, see Vera Shevzov, “Miracle-Working Icons, Laity, and Authority in the Russian Orthodox Church, 1861–1917,” The Russian Review 58 (January 1999): 26–48. 24. “Po puti: Mysli, fakty, zametki, slukhi,” Rebus 34, nos. 11–12 (1915): 2–3; Velichaishchaia iz velikikh voin, 16–17. 25. Vera Shevzov, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 178–79. 26. “Chudesnoe na voine,” Rebus 33, no. 31 (1914): 6; Listok dlia naroda, no. 24, 1914. Cited in Velichaishchaia iz velikikh voin, 15. 27. Ibid., 44. 28. “Chudesnoe spasenie ot germanskogo snariada,” Petrogradskii listok, November 27, 1914, 2. For a similar account see “Krest spas,” Gazeta kopeika, September 17, 1914, 4. 29. “Vil’gel’m i d’iavol,” Vpered! Ezhenedel’nyi iumoricheskii zhurnal s kartinami 2, no. 43 (1915): cover page. 30. Becker, War and Faith, 10.

242

Notes to Pages 170–72

31. See “Po puti,” Rebus 33, no. 28 (1914): 3–6; Iz t’my. 32. A. Beliaev, “Proiskhozhdenie Antikhrista,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (October 1893): 21–40; Natsional’nyi arkhiv respubliki Tatarstana (NART), f. 10, op. 2, d. 230; A. M. Bukharev, “Issledovanie Apokalipsisa,” Bogoslovskii vestnik (September 1914): 337– 42; (December 1914): 369–74; (May 1915): 59–63; (August 1915): 561–72; (September 1915): 577–80; David M. Bethea, The Shape of Apocalypse in Modern Russian Fiction (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989); Michael Hagemeister, “Eine Apokalypse unserer Zeit: Die Prophezeihungen des heiligen Serafim von Sarov über das Kommen des Antichrist und das Ende der Welt,” in Finis Mundi: Endzeiten und Weltenden im östlichen Europa; Festschrift für Hans Lemberg zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Joachin Hösler, Hans Lemberg, and Wolfgang Kessler (Stuttgart: F. Steiner Verlag, 1998), 41–60; Hagemeister, “Vladimir Solov’ev and Sergej Nilus: Apocalypticism and Judeophobia,” in Vladimir Solov’ev: Reconciler and Polemicist, ed. William Peter van den Bercken, Manon de Courten, and Evert van der Zweerde (Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 287–96. On popular fears, see P. I. Iakobii, “‘Antikhrist’: Sudebno-psikhiatricheskii ocherk,” Sovremennaia psikhiatriia (June 1909): 288–30; (July-August 1909): 337–55; Tsentral’nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Sankt Peterburga (TsIASPb), f. 224, op. 1, d. 852, ll. 386–87; “Antikhrist: Lektsiia episkopa Alekseiia,” Peterburgskii listok, February 12, 1914; N. S. Gur’ianova and N. N. Pokrovskii, Krest’ianskii antimonarkhicheskii protest v staroobriadcheskoi eskhatologicheskoi literature perioda poznego feodalizma (Novosibirsk: Nauka, 1988). 33. Antikhrist: Izumitel’noe prorochestvo, 4. 34. Moranov, Predskazaniia. 35. The elder, however, had miscalculated on several occasions. First, if all the digits are added up, Kaiser Wilhelm exceeds the beast by ten, since the sum of “his” numerals is 676. Moreover, the elder erred in the numerical values of the letters, equating “в” with 2 rather than 12. This might be a printing error, since 12 would provide the desired sum, but there is the further error that “з” is 7, not 6. “Vil’gel’m—Antikhrist,” Petrogradskii listok, December 21, 1914, 10. 36. Frank Kämpfer, “Der rote Keil”: Das politische Plakat; Theorie und Geschichte (Berlin: Mann, 1985), 15; Hubertus F. Jahn, Patriotic Culture in Russia during World War I (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995), 31. 37. Antikhrist, produced by a studio that called itself Liutsifer, was a big hit in 1915. At one cinema, it was shown on a continuous loop without interruption from seven o’clock in the morning until midnight. Jahn, Patriotic Culture, 166. 38. “Sverkhnormal’noe na voine”; Hans Rogger, “The Skobelev Phenomenon: The Hero and His Worship,” Oxford Slavonic Papers 9 (1976): 46–78; Jahn, Patriotic Culture, 34; Norris, A War of Images, 80–106. For symbolist references to the White general, see Hellman, Poets, 92. 39. Becker, War and Faith, 8. On the faith of Russian soldiers, see O. S. Porshneva, Mentalitet i sotsial’noe povedenie rabochikh, krest’ian i soldat Rossii v period pervoi mirovoi voiny: 1914–mart 1918 g. (Ekaterinburg: UrO RAN, 2000), 222. On similar traditional apparitions, see “Alleged Visions on the Battlefield,” Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, no. 17 (1915): 95; “An Enquiry Concerning the ‘Angels at Mons,’” Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, no. 17 (1915): 106–18. 40. Tsentral’nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Moskvy (TsIAM), f. 2355, op. 1, ed. khr. 145. 41. Jay Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 76.

Notes to Pages 172–76 243

42. See, for example, V. Snegirev, “Spiritizm kak filosofsko-religioznaia doktrina,” Pravoslavnyi sobesednik (January 1871): 12–41; (April 1871): 279–316; L. N. Tolstoi, Sobranie sochinenii v dvadtsati tomakh (Moscow: Khudozhestvennaia literatura, 1960– 1964), 11:199. On “Professor Wurst,” see Ilya Vinitsky, “Table Talks: The Spiritualist Controversy of the 1870s and Dostoevsky,” The Russian Review 67, no. 1 (2008): 96. 43. “Po puti,” Rebus 34, nos. 2–3 (1915): 3–4. 44. K. B., Predskazaniia iasnovidiashchei: Chto proizoidet v Germanii v kontse voiny 1914 goda (skazochnyi son); Dlia chteniia ranenym i bol’nym voinam (chistyi dokhod v ikh pol’zu) (Petrograd, 1914), 27. 45. V. P. Bykov, “K chemu my prishli,” Spiritualist 8, no. 1 (1912): 1–16; no. 3 (1912): 91–93; V. P. Bykov, Spiritizm pered sudom nauki, obshchestva i religii: Lektsiibesedy (Moscow: Izd. E. I. Bykovoi, 1914). 46. M. Perovsky-Petrovo-Solovovo, “Review: Personal Experiences in Spiritualism (Including the Official Account and Record of the American Palladino Séances) by Hereward Carrington,” Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research 27 (1914): 185. 47. Sigmund Freud, “Zeitgemäßes über Krieg und Tod,” in Gesammelte Werke: Chronologisch geordnet. Zehnter Band, Werke aus den Jahren 1913–1917 (London: Imago, 1940), 324–55. 48. A. i B., “Otgoloski voiny ‘v inom mire,’” Rebus 43, nos. 39–40 (1915): 8–10. 49. D. O. Karabanovich, “Novoe uchenie o bessmertii,” Rebus 34, nos. 2–3 (1915): 4–5; no. 4 (1915): 3–6; no. 5 (1915): 1–3. 50. Rassvet and Voprosy khiromantii i gipnotizma ceased publishing in 1914, Vestnik okkul’tizma i spiritizma in 1915, Izida and Vestnik teosofii in 1916, and Izvestiia rossiiskogo teosoficheskogo obshchestva in early 1917. See L. N. Beliaeva, V. M. Barashenkov, and M. K. Zinove’va et al., eds., Bibliografiia periodicheskikh izdanii Rossii, 1901–1916 (Leningrad: Izd. Gos. Publichnoi Biblioteki, 1958–1961); Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, ed., The Occult in Russian and Soviet Culture (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 423–35. 51. Norris, A War of Images, 160. 52. Becker, War and Faith, 106. 53. “Ranenyi geroi u L. L. Onore,” Petrogradskii listok, June 2, 1915, 14; “Polnaia kniga raskrytiia tain volshebstva,” Petrogradskii listok, March 6, 1916, 1; “Znakharstvo i narodnye zagovory,” Petrogradskii listok, March 9, 1916, 1; “Kto kogo durachit?” Petrogradskii listok, September 16, 1916, 2; “Na granitse tainstvennogo,” Petrogradskii listok, October 9, 1916, 2. 54. TsIASPb, f. 224, op. 1, d. 852, ll. 386–87. 55. Anatolii B., “Peterburgskie ‘satanisty,’” Golos Moskvy, February 10, 1913, 4. The article was reissued as “Peterburgskie ‘satanisty,’” Peterburgskii listok, February 12, 1913, 3; Anatolii B., “Peterburgskie ‘satanisty,’” Rebus 32, no. 8 (1913): 4–5. 56. “Delo okhtinskoi ‘bogoroditsy,’” Peterburgskii listok, September 16, 1912, 3; “Okhtinskaia bogoroditsa,” Peterburgskii listok, June 15, 1913, 3; June 16, 1913, 3; June 17, 1913, 2; TsIASPb, f. 569, op. 17, d. 1527; “Delo ‘Okhtenskoi bogoroditsy,’ ‘tsaria Solomona’ i ‘apostola Petra,’” Peterburgskii listok, March 7, 1914, 3; March 9, 1914, 9; March 10, 1914, 2; March 11, 1914, 2; March 12, 1914, 4; March 13, 1914, 4; March 14, 1914, 2; March 15, 1914, 4; March 17, 1914, 3; March 18, 1914, 3. 57. Boris Kolonitskii, “Tragicheskaia erotika”: Obrazy imperatorskoi sem’i v gody pervoi mirovoi voiny (Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2010), 220–40, 289–312, 355–61.

244

Notes to Pages 176–78

58. “V tsarstve dukhov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 16, 1916, 2; “V tsarstve dukhov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 18, 1916, 2; “V tsarstve dukhov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 19, 1916, 5. Unfortunately, the files of the district court at TsIASPb are not accessible, and I have therefore been forced to rely on the press coverage as well as on archival material on Puare and Orlov-Davydov from other archives. 59. “Za grafskoi korony i millionam,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 17, 1916, 3. 60. “Za grafskoi korony i millionami,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 18, 1916, 3; “Mishurnyi blesk,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 22, 1916, 2–3; “Mishurnyi blesk,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 23, 1916, 3; A. Zarin, “Mishurnyi blesk,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 24, 1916, 2; A. Zarin, “Mishurnyi blesk,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 25, 1916, 2–3; A. Zarin, “Mishurnyi blesk,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 26, 1916, 2; A. Zarin, “Mishurnyi blesk,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 27, 1916, 2. 61. Richard Stites, “Days and Nights in Wartime Russia: Cultural Life, 1914– 1917,” in European Culture in the Great War: The Arts, Entertainment, and Propaganda, 1914–1918, ed. Aviel Roshwald and Richard Stites (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 11, 16. 62. The family’s archive includes letters by such illustrious correspondents as the Russian empress Aleksandra Fedorovna; Serbian and Italian kings; Daniel Bernoulli; Karl von Linné; and Leonard Euler. Rossiiskaia gosudarstvennaia biblioteka (RGB), f. 219, op. 219. On Aleksei Anatol’evich Orlov-Davydov, see Nikolai Platonovich Karabchevskii, Chto glaza moi videli, vol. 1, Revoliutsiia i Rossiia (Berlin: Izd. Ol’gi Diakovoi, 1921), 41; S. P. Mansyrev, “Moi vospominaniia o gosudarstvennoi Dume,” Istorik i sovremennik, no. 3 (1922): 17, 19; Nina N. Berberova, Liudi i lozhi: Russkie masony XX stoletiia (New York: Russica Publishers, 1986), 7; S. I. Witte, The Memoirs of Count Witte (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1990), 70; Andrei Ivanovich Serkov, Russkoe Masonstvo, 1731–2000: Entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (Moscow: Rosspen, 2001). 63. Muzei Bakhrushina, f. 220, no. 26; E. Ukolova and V. Ukolov, Grafinia Marusia: Sud’ba artistki Marii Puare (Moscow: Izd-vo Mezhdunarodnogo fond gumanitarnykh initsiativ, 2002). 64. Muzei Bakhrushina, f. 220, no. 26, l. 4; Ukolova and Ukolov, Grafinia Marusia. On Lentovskii’s accessible productions, see E. Antony Swift, Popular Theatre and Society in Tsarist Russia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 61–64. 65. Louise McReynolds, Russia at Play: Leisure Activities at the End of the Tsarist Era (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2003), 226–29. 66. In the late 1920s, Puare claimed in petitions to the Bolshevik authorities that she had lost her job in 1905 because of revolutionary poetry that she had written. Muzei Bakhrushina, f. 220, no. 26, ll. 1, 13. Ukolov and Ukolova assert that she left the Imperial Theater voluntarily in 1895, because she could not compete with its star actresses, Savina and Komissarzhevskaia, for the lead roles. Ukolova and Ukolov, Grafinia Marusia, 55. 67. N. Shigaleev, “Poslednyi debiut artistki M. Ia. Puare,” Gazeta kopeika, September 20, 1916, 3. 68. “Poslednyi debiut artistki M. Ia. Puare,” Gazeta kopeika, September 22, 1916, 3. 69. “Poslednyi debiut artistki M. Ia. Puare,” Gazeta kopeika, September 21, 1916, 3. 70. “V tsarstve dukhov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 18, 1916, 2. 71. “Poddel’nyi graf,” Petrogradskii listok, September 22, 1916, 3. 72. “Poddel’nyi graf,” Petrogradskii listok, September 26, 1916, 2–3. 73. “Za grafskoi korony i millionam,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 17, 1916, 3.

Notes to Pages 179–81 245

74. “Grafolog o g-zhe Puare,” Petrogradskii listok, September 22, 1916, 2. While a graphologist would traditionally read someone’s character by analyzing his or her handwriting, grafolog here serves as a pun, for it could also be understood to mean someone who can read a count (graf). 75. “Poddel’nyi graf,” Petrogradskii listok, September 21, 1916, 2–3. 76. “Grafolog.” 77. “V pogone za millionami,” Ezhednevnaia gazeta kopeika, September 22, 1916, 2–3. 78. “Grafolog”; Tolstoi, Sobranie sochinenii, 11:119–228. 79. “Mishurnyi blesk,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 23, 1916, 3. 80. “M. Ia. Puare opravdana,” Gazeta kopeika, September 27, 1916, 2; A. Zarin, “Mishurnyi blesk,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 27, 1916, 2. 81. Shigaleev, “Poslednyi debiut.” 82. “Grafolog”; “Poslednyi debiut” (September 22); “V pogone za millionami,” Ezhednevnaia gazeta kopeika, September 22, 1916, 2–3. 83. V. D. Filimovich, Chistaia Khiromantiia: Populiarnoe rukovodstvo k ee izucheniiu. S 6-iu risunkami ruk (St. Petersburg, 1906); Rosenthal, The Occult, 432–35. 84. “V pogone za millionami,” Ezhednevnaia gazeta kopeika, September 22, 1916, 2–3. 85. Ibid. 86. “Mishurnyi blesk,” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 22, 1916, 2–3. However, the newspapers that now depicted Filimovich and his profession as the culmination of debauchery omitted to mention that they themselves had printed advertisements for Filimovich and his colleagues until very recently, and in some cases continued to advertise for fortune-tellers. “Khiromant,” Peterburgskii listok, March 3, 1909, 7; “Khiromantiia,” Moskovskaia gazeta kopeika, July 3, 1910, 5; “Khiromant,” Moskovskaia gazeta kopeika, November 15, 1911, 6. 87. In this text, Mariia Iakovlevna became Mariia Leopoldovna, Count Orlov was turned into Count Voronov and Filimovich into Khokhemov. Ippolit P. Rapgof [Graf Amori], Grafinia-Artistka: Sensatsionnaia byl’ nashikh dnei (Moscow: Tip. AO Mosk. izdvo, 1916). On Amori, see James von Geldern and Louise McReynolds, eds., Entertaining Tsarist Russia: Tales, Songs, Plays, Movies, Jokes, Ads, and Images from Russian Urban Life, 1779–1917 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998), 349. I would like to thank James von Geldern for sending me a xerox of the “novel.” 88. Rapgof, Grafinia, 39. 89. Dan Healey, Homosexual Desire in Revolutionary Russia: The Regulation of Sexual and Gender Dissent (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 101–7. 90. “M. Ia. Puare opravdana”; Rapgof, Grafinia, 50–51. 91. Daniel Beer, Renovating Russia: The Human Sciences and the Fate of Liberal Modernity, 1880–1930 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008). 92. Rapgof, Grafinia, 38–39, translation by J. von Geldern; Joris-Karl Huysmans, Against Nature, trans. Margaret Mauldon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 3–4. 93. Rapgof, Grafinia, 45. 94. Ibid., 51. In real life, Petrogradskii listok also claimed that Orlov-Davydov had contact with spiritualists who had been confidants of Aksakov, Pribytkov, Vagner, PetrovoSolovovo, Kryzhanovskaia, and others. A. Zarin, “Odin iz magov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 28, 1916.

246

Notes to Pages 182–85

95. “V pogone za millionami,” Ezhednevnaia gazeta kopeika, September 24, 1916, 1. 96. “Grafolog”; “V pogone za millionami” (September 22). 97. “Osteregaites’ ‘spiritov,’” Petrogradskii listok, September 20, 1916, 2. 98. Stites, “Days and Nights,” 24. 99. For a political reading of this case, see Julia Mannherz, “Die Geister und der Dumaabgeordnete Graf Orlov-Davydov: Gespenster und Politik im Zarenreich,” in Gespenster und Politik: 16. bis 21. Jahrhundert, ed. Claire Gantet and Fabrice d’Almeida (Paderborn: Fink, 2007), 235–52. 100. Kolonitskii, “Tragicheskaia erotika,” 359. On the widespread conviction that the court was a hotbed of perversion, see also O. S. Porshneva, Krest’iane, rabochie i soldaty rossii nakanune i v gody pervoi mirovoi voiny (Moscow: Rosspen, 2004), 107, 202. 101. Some contemporaries claimed that the tsarina had an affair with A. A. Orlov, commander of the Ulan regiment, thus linking the Puare case even more closely to criticism of the imperial family. Kolonitskii, “Tragicheskaia erotika,” 147, 159, 319, 361. 102. After the revolution, the association between spiritualism and hapless government became a cliché in memoirs. Witte even mentions Orlov-Davydov’s séances in this context. Bernhard Pares, The Fall of the Russian Monarchy: A Study of the Evidence (London: J. Cape, 1939); Witte, Memoirs, 70, 355–70, 362; V. Kriukov, ed., Grigorii Rasputin: Sbornik istoricheskikh materialov (Moscow: Terra, 1997), 1:245–94; Feliks Iusupov, Memuary v dvukh knigakh: Do izgnaniia, 1887–1919; V izgnanii (Moscow: Zakharov, 2001). 103. Kolonitskii, “Tragicheskaia erotika,” 352–74. 104. Margaret Randolph Higonnet, ed., Behind the Lines: Gender and the Two World Wars (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987), 1–17. 105. On the increasing defeminization of nurses in wartime Russia, see Kolonitskii, “Tragicheskaia erotika,” 326–43. On women soldiers, see Melissa K. Stockdale, “‘My Death for the Motherland Is Happiness’: Women, Patriotism, and Soldiering in Russia’s Great War, 1915–1917,” American Historical Review (2004): 78–118. For a general overview, see Alfred G. Meyer, “The Impact of World War I on Russian Women’s Lives,” in Russia’s Women: Accommodation, Resistance, Transformation, ed. Barbara E. Clements, Barbara Alpern Engel, and Christine Worobec (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 208–24. 106. Lyndal Roper has argued that anxieties surrounding fertility played a vital role in early modern attitudes toward witchcraft. Until the war, this topic had not been raised in Russian discussions of the supernatural. Lyndal Roper, Witch Craze: Terror and Fantasy in Baroque Germany (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004). 107. “V tsarstve dukhov,” Petrogradskii listok, September 16, 1916, 2; “V pogone za millionami” (September 22); “Protsess Puare,” Petrogradskaia gazeta, September 25, 1916, 4; Zarin, “Mishurnyi” (September 25). In Amori’s version, Dolgorukov became “Prince Dolgov.” Rapgof, Grafinia, 32–37. Ukolov and Ukolova, who dismiss Puare’s supernatural interest, do not even mention that her motherhood in regard to Tania was contentious, despite the fact that they quote Puare’s plea to the jury in which she admits having deceived Dolgorukov. Ukolova and Ukolov, Grafinia Marusia, 142–44. 108. “M. Ia. Puare opravdana.” 109. “Poslednyi debiut artistki M. Ia. Puare,” Gazeta kopeika, September 26, 1916, 2. 110. Meyer, “The Impact of World War I,” 216. 111. McReynolds, Russia at Play, 113–53. 112. “Poddel’nyi graf,” Petrogradskii listok, September 21, 1916, 2–3.

Notes to Pages 185–93 247

113. “Protsess Puare,” Petrogradskaia gazeta, September 29, 1916, 2. 114. “M. Ia. Puare opravdana.” 115. Ol’ga Gridina, “Brachnaia Tsep’,” Gazeta kopeika, September 29, 1916, 3. 116. Rapgof, Grafinia, 64. 117. Zarin, “Mishurnyi” (September 25). 118. Karabchevskii, Chto glaza moi videli, vol. 1. 119. Alexander Kerensky, The Kerensky Memoirs: Russia and History’s Turning Point (London: Cassell, 1966). Kerenskii does refer to Karabchevskii and to V. A. Maklakov. Karabchevskii, Chto glaza moi videli, vol. 1; Mansyrev, “Moi vospominaniia,” 19; Berberova, Liudi i lozhi, 7; I. V. Gessen, Arkhiv russkoi revoliutsii (Moscow: Terra, 1991), 15. 120. Muzei Bakhrushina, f. 220, no. 26; Ukolova and Ukolov, Grafinia Marusia. 121. Ukolova and Ukolov barely mention the fascination with the occult, and claim that as a devout Orthodox, Puare condemned the practice and only hesitantly engaged in it to please the count. Ukolova and Ukolov, Grafinia Marusia, 106. 122. Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii (GARF), f. 102, op. 119, del-vo 4, no. 398; NART, f. 326, op. 1, d. 516, l. 35. 123. Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, “Political Implications of the Early TwentiethCentury Occult Revival,” in Rosenthal, The Occult, 379–418; Daniel Beer, “The Medicalization of Religious Deviance in the Russian Orthodox Church, 1880–1905,” Kritika 5, no. 3 (2004): 451–82. 124. Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal and Martha Bohachevsky-Chomiak, eds., A Revolution of the Spirit: Crisis of Value in Russia, 1890–1924 (New York: Fordham University Press, 1990); Hellman, Poets; Hagemeister, “Vladimir Solov’ev.” 125. The same applies for the years leading up to the new century, in which popular culture, unlike elite culture, was also thoroughly unimpressed by the possibility of the impending end of the world.

Conclusion 1. Logie Barrow, Independent Spirits: Spiritualism and English Plebeians, 1850– 1910 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1986); Ilya Vinitsky, Ghostly Paradoxes: Modern Spiritualism and Russian Culture in the Age of Realism (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 3. From the Soviet perspective, occultism and Orthodoxy were almost synonymous as both were equally “superstitious.” G. V. Bykov, Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1961), 160–64. 2. Grace Davie, The Sociology of Religion (Los Angeles: Sage Publications, 2007). 3. Emile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (London: Allen and Unwin, 1976). 4. On the “abolition of chance” in occultism, see Sigmund Freud, Psychopathology of Everyday Life (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1914), 308; Horst Stenger, Die soziale Konstruktion okkulter Wirklichkeit: Eine Soziologie des “New Age” (Opladen: Leske + Budrich, 1993), 251. 5. Rossiiskaia gosudarstvennaia biblioteka (RGB), f. 93/II, kart. 2, ed. khr. 2. In this assessment of late imperial Russia I agree with Wayne Dowler, Russia in 1913 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2010).

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Selected Bibliography

Primary Sources Archives GARF—Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii IRL—Institut russkoi literatury (Pushkinskii dom) Muzei Bakhrushina Muzei tsirkogo iskusstva NART—Natsional’nyi arkhiv respubliki Tatarstana RGB—Rossiiskaia gosudarstvennaia biblioteka, Rukopisnyi otdel RGIA—Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi istoricheskii arkhiv RNB—Rossiiskaia natsional’naia biblioteka, Rukopisnyi otdel SPR Archive—Archive of the Society for Psychical Research, University Library Cambridge TsIAM—Tsentral’nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Moskvy TsIASPb—Tsentral’nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Sankt Peterburga

Periodical Publications Bogoslovskii vestnik Brain: A Journal of Neurology Dukhovnaia beseda Etnograficheskoe obozrenie Ezhednevnaia gazeta kopeika Gazeta kopeika Golos Moskvy Golos vseobshchei liubvi Iakutskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti Izida Izvestiia po s-peterburgskoi eparkhii Journal of the Society for Psychical Research Khristianskoe chtenie Lektsii okkul’tnykh znanii Light: A Journal of Psychical, Occult, and Mystical Research Malen’kaia gazeta Moskovskaia gazeta kopeika Novorossiiskii telegraf

250

Selected Bibliography

Novosti i birzhevaia gazeta Novyi put’ Peterburgskaia gazeta (from August 1914 Petrogradskaia gazeta) Peterburgskii listok (from August 1914 Petrogradskii listok) Pravda: Gazeta politicheskaia, ekonomicheskaia, nauchnaia i literaturnaia Pravoslavnoe obozrenie Pravoslavnyi sobesednik Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research Psychische Studien Rebus Rus’ Russkii listok Russkii vestnik Spiritualist Trudy kievskoi dukhovnoi akademii Vestnik Evropy Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma Vestnik znaniia: Dvukhnedel’nyi illiustrirovannyi populiarno-nauchnyi zhurnal Vladimirskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti Vpered! Ezhenedel’nyi iumoricheskii zhurnal s kartinami

Selected Primary Works Aksakov, Aleksandr Nikolaevich. Animismus und Spiritismus: Versuch einer kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Hallucination und des Unbewussten. Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmann’s Werk: “Der Spiritismus.” Leipzig: O. Mutze, 1890. ———. Animismüs und Spiritismus: Versuch einer kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Hallucination und des Unbewussten. Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmann’s Werk: “Der Spiritismus.” Zweite verbesserte Auflage. Leipzig: O. Mutze, 1894. ———. Animismus und Spiritismus: Versuch einer kritischen Prüfung der mediumistischen Phänomene mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hypothesen der Hallucination und des Unbewussten. Als Entgegnung auf Dr. E. v. Hartmanns Werk: “Der Spiritismus.” Vierte verbesserte und um ein “Vorwort” und eine “Autobiographie” vermehrte Auflage. 2 vols. Leipzig: Mutze, 1905. ———. Biographische Skizze des Herausgebers der “Psychischen Studien” des Herrn Alexander N. Aksakow, Kaiserlich Russischen Wirklichen Staatsraths zu St. Petersburg. Sonder-Abzug aus den “Psychischen Studien” Monatliche Zeitschrift vorzüglich der Untersuchung der wenig gekannten Phänomene des Seelenlebens gewidmet. Leipzig, 1896. ———. Der Spiritualismus und die Wissenschaft: Experimentelle Untersuchungen uber die psychische Kraft, von W. Crookes, Prüfungs-Sitzungen des Mr. D. D. Home mit den Gelehrten zu St. Petersburg und London. Leipzig: Wagner, 1872. ———. Evangelie po Svedenborgu: Piat’ glav Evengeliia ot Ioanna s izlozheniem i tolkovaniem ikh dukhovnogo smysla po “nauke o sootvetstviiakh.” Leipzig, 1870.

Selected Bibliography 251

———. Razoblacheniia: Istoriia mediumicheskoi kommissii fizicheskogo obshchestva pri S.-Peterburgskom universitete s prilozheniem vsekh protokolov i prochikh dokumentov. St. Petersburg: Tip. V. Bezobrazova, 1883. ———. Spiritualizm i nauka. St. Petersburg, 1872. Aleksandr Mikhailovich. Vospominaniia: Dve knigi v odnom tome. Moscow: ZakharovAST, 1999. Antikhrist: Izumitel’noe prorochestvo, skazannoe 314 let tomu nazad. Ekaterinodar, 1914. Antoshevskii, I. K. Bibliografiia okkul’tizma: Ukazatel’ sochinenii po alkhimii, astrologii, germeticheskoi meditsine, gipnotizmu, Kabale, magii, magnetizmu, spiritizmu, telepatii, teosofii, filosofii okkul’tizma, fakirizmu, khiromantii i pr., 1783–1909 gg. St. Petersburg, 1910. B., Anatolii. “Peterburgskie ‘satanisty,’” Golos Moskvy, February 10, 1913, 4. ———. “Peterburgskie ‘satanisty,’” Peterburgskii listok, February 12, 1913, 3. B., K. Predskazaniia iasnovidiashchei: Сhto proizoidet v Germanii v kontse voiny 1914 goda (skazochnyi son); Dlia chteniia ranenym i bol’nym voinam (chistyi dokhod v ikh pol’zu). Petrograd, 1914. B., M. “Mediumicheskie iavleniia v Kazani (Korrespondentsiia ‘Rebusa’).” Rebus 4, no. 3 (1885): 30. B., Vas. “Nepokoinye doma v Peterburge i Moskve.” Rebus 27, nos. 48–49 (1908): 7–8. ———. “Tainstvennye shutki dukhov na Ligovke: Benefis spiritov v stolitse.” Peterburgskaia gazeta, January 21, 1908, 5. Barrett, W. F., A. P. Percival Keep, et al., “First Report of the Committee on Haunted Houses,” Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research 1, no. 2 (1883): 101– 15. Bekhterev, V. M. Bred gipnoticheskogo ocharovaniia ili Paranoia suggestio-delira. St. Petersburg, 1913. ———. Suggestion and Its Role in Social Life. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1998. Bell. “Gipnotizm: Kurs prakticheskikh metodov ukrepleniia v sebe sily voli i dukha dlia razlichnogo roda vnusheniia.” Spiritualist, no. 8 (1906): 365–74; no. 9 (1906): 424– 29; no. 10 (1906): 469–76; no. 11 (1906): 523–26; no. 12 (1906): 584–87. Belyi, Andrei. Peterburg: Roman v vos’mi glavakh s prologom i epilogom. Moscow: Nauka, 1981. Bonch-Bruevich, Vladimir, ed. Materialy k istorii i izucheniiu russkogo sektanstva i raskola. 3 vols. St. Petersburg, 1908. Britten, Emma Hardinge. Nineteenth Century Miracles: Or Spirits and Their Work in Every Country of the Earth; A Complete Historical Compendium of the Great Movement Known as “Modern Spiritualism.” London: E. W. Allen, 1884. Brius, Ia. V. Predskazaniia Grafa Briusa, dlia kazhdogo cheloveka iz ego pervobytnogo kalendaria izdannogo pri gosudare Petre 1-m s biografiei Grafa Briusa. Moscow: K. E. Kiselev, 1904. Briusov, Valerii. Dnevniki, 1891–1910. Moscow: Izd. M. i S. Sabashnikovykh, 1927. Brusilov, Aleksei A. Moi vospominaniia: Posmertnoe izdanie. Moscow: Gos. izd-vo otdel voennoi literatury, 1929. Butkevich, T. I. Obzor russkikh sekt i ikh tolkov, s izlozheniem ikh proiskhozhdeniia, rasprostraneniia i veroucheniia i s oproverzheniem poslednego. Izdanie vtoroe, ispravlennoe i znachitel’no dopolnennoe. Petrograd: I. L. Tuzov, 1915.

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Butlerov, A. “Chetvertoe izmerenie prostranstva i mediumizm.” Russkii vestnik 133 (1878): 945–71. ———. “Empirizm i dogmatizm v oblasti mediumizma.” Russkii vestnik, no. 2 (1879): 757–812; no. 3 (1897): 5–47. ———. “Mediumicheskie iavleniia.” Russkii vestnik, no. 120 (1875): 300–348. Bykov, V. P. “K chemu my prishli.” Spiritualist 8, no. 1 (1912): 1–16; no. 3 (1912): 91–93. ———. Spiritizm pered sudom nauki, obshchestva i religii: Lektsii-besedy. Moscow: Izd. E. I. Bykovoi, 1914. Chekhov, A. P. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii i pisem v tridtsati tomakh. Moscow: Nauka, 1974–. Dal’, V. I. O poveriiakh, sueveriiakh i predrassudkakh russkogo naroda: Materialy po russkoi demonologii. St. Petersburg: Izd-vo Litera, 1996. ———. Tolkovyi slovar’ zhivogo velikorusskogo iazyka v chetyrekh tomakh. Moscow: Izd-vo Russkii iazyk, 1998. “Delo ‘Okhtenskoi bogoroditsy,’ ‘tsaria Solomona’ i ‘apostola Petra.’” Peterburgskii listok, March 7, 1914, 3; March 9, 1914, 9; March 10, 1914, 2; March 11, 1914, 2; March 12, 1914, 4; March 13, 1914, 4; March 14, 1914, 2; March 15, 1914, 4; March 17, 1914, 3; March 18, 1914, 3. Dial’ti, A. N. “Skrizhali maga: Rukovodstvo k razvitiiu psikhicheskikh sposobnostei cheloveka; Lektsiia XI: Gipnotizm.” Izida, no. 5 (1915): 3–9. Don-Bazilio. “Navozhdenie ili deistvitel’nost’? Sviashchennik, postradaiushchii ot besov.” Russkii listok, January 22–30, 1901, 3. Dostoevskii, F. M. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh. Leningrad: Nauka, 1972–1990. E., S. S., ed. Ukazatel’ statei “Pravoslavnogo Sobesednika,” 1877–1891 gg. Kazan: Tipografiia Imperatorskogo Universiteta, 1876. Eleonskaia, E. N. “Zagovor i koldovstvo na Rusi v XVII i XVIII stoletiiakh.” In Russkoe koldovstvo. By V. I. Dal’, et al., 120–214. Moscow: Eksmo, 2002. Entsiklopedicheskii slovar’. St. Petersburg: Brokgauz Efron, 1891–1907. Fel’dman, O. I. “P’ianstvo i gipnoticheskoe vnushenie,” Rebus 16, no. 37 (1897): 312–14. Filimovich, V. D. Chistaia Khiromantiia: Populiarnoe rukovodstvo k ee izucheniiu; S 6-iu risunkami ruk. St. Petersburg, 1906. G., A. V. “Chetvertoe izmerenie i spiritizm.” Vestnik Evropy 1–2 (1879): 253–71. Glagolev, Sergei. “Astronomiia i Bogoslovie.” Bogoslovskii vestnik (September 1897): 311–42; (October 1897):150–68; (November 1897): 304–27. ———. “Bol’noi tselitel’.” Bogoslovskii vestnik 3 (June 1896): 434–68. ———. “Chudo i nauka.” Bogoslovskii vestnik (June 1893): 477–514. ———. “Religiia i nauka v ikh vzaimnootnoshenii k nastupaiushchemu XX-mu stoletiiu.” Bogoslovskii vestnik (November 1899): 359–85; (December 1899): 585–613; (January 1900): 37–74. Golovkinskii, N. “Zametka chitatelia na stat’iu A. M. Butlerova ‘Chetvertoe izmerenie i mediumizm.’” Russkii vestnik 4 (1878): 448–72. “Grafolog o g-zhe Puare.” Petrogradskii listok, September 22, 1916, 2. Grossman, Joan Delaney, ed. The Diary of Valery Bryusov (1893–1905). Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980. Iasnovidiashchii. “Peterburgskie spirity.” Peterburgskii listok, November 19, 1895, 7. Ioganes. Iz t’my vekov: Monakh XVII veka o voine XX veka. Arzamas: Tip. Poroshenkova, 1915.

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Iusupov, Feliks. Memuary v dvukh knigakh: Do izgnaniia, 1887–1919; V izgnanii. Moscow: Zakharov, 2001. Ivanov, Georgii. Stikhotvoreniia; Tretii Rim: Roman; Peterburgskie zimy: Memuary; Kitaiskie teni: Literaturnye portrety. Moscow: Kniga, 1989. K., O. Sovremennyi spiritizm i mistitsizm. Kharkov: Tip. Mirn. trud, 1912. “Kak razvivat’ v sebe iasnovidenie.” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 2 (1906): 12. Kak ustraivat’ spiriticheskie seansy, kollektivnye i edinolichnye: Dlia priamogo i neposredstvennogo obshcheniia s zagrobnom mirom; Okolo 100 risunkov, chertezhei i spiritogramm v tekste. Moscow, 1906. Karabanovich, D. O. “Novoe uchenie o bessmertii.” Rebus 34, nos. 2–3 (1915): 4–5; no. 4 (1915): 3–6; no. 5 (1915):1–3. Karabchevskii, Nikolai Platonovich. Chto glaza moi videli. Vol. 1, Revoliutsiia i Rossiia. Berlin: Izd. Ol’gi Diakovoi, 1921. “Kartofel’naia kolonada.” Volzhskii vestnik, December 16, 1884, 3. Karyshev, I. A. Rozhdenie Antikhrista i obnovlenie zemli: Mediumicheskoe soobshchenie. St. Petersburg, 1906. Khrapovitskii, A. Magneticheskoe pis’mo: Populiarnyi ocherk i prakticheskie sovety nachinaiushchim. Moscow: Tip. Mamontova, 1907. Kniaz-Inok. “Kakovy dolzhny byt’ nashi tiurmy.” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 19 (1908): 290–93. Koni, A. F. Peterburg: Vospominaniia starozhila. Moscow: Tsentrpoligraf, 2003. “Kratkii ocherk razvitiia spiritualizma v Rossii.” Rebus 6, no. 20 (1887): 207–10. Kriukov, V., ed. Grigorii Rasputin: Sbornik istoricheskikh materialov. 4 vols. Moscow: Terra, 1997. Kuliukin, Sergei L. “Bibliografiia: Iavlenia telepatii i znachenie ikh vo oblasti osnovnykh psikhologicheskikh voprosov. Po povodu sochineniia Kamilla Flammariona ‘L’inconnu et les problèmes psychiques.’ Paris, 1900 g.” Bogoslovskii vestnik (May 1901): 200–227. ———. “Mozhno li otritsat’ lichnoe bessmertie s tochki zreniia nauki?” Bogoslovskii vestnik (April 1897): 154–65. “Kurs lektsii o gipnotizme.” Lektsii okkul’tnykh znanii, no. 1 (1911): 1–48. “Lichnoe vliianie.” Gazeta kopeika (Moskva), April 20, 1909, 6. Likhanov, A. A. “Skrizhali maga: Rukovodstvo k razvitiiu psikhicheskikh sposobnostei cheloveka.” Izida, no. 1 (1913): 3–5; no. 4 (1914): 3–7; no. 5 (1914): 4–12; no. 7 (1914): 3–7; no. 8 (1914): 4–9; nos. 9–10 (1914): 5–9; no. 11 (1914): 6–14; no. 12 (1914): 3–7; no. 6 (1915): 1–6. Litvinov, A. I. Prakticheskoe rukovodstvo k uznavaniiu chelovecheskoi sud’by s ukazaniem pravil chteniia chuzhikh myslei, byt’ schastlivym i liubimim vsemi. Kharkov, 1887. Liustritskii, V., ed. Ukazatel’ k “Pravoslavnomu Sobesedniku.” Vol. 1, Za dvadtsat’ let ego izdaniia s 1855 po 1876 g. Kazan: Tipografiia Imperatorskogo Universiteta, 1877. Lodyzhenskii, M. V. Vragi khristianstva: Doklad, chitannyi v Petrograde na religioznom sobranii v dome E. G. Shvarts 28 dekabria 1915 g. Petrograd, 1916. “M. Ia. Puare opravdana.” Gazeta kopeika, September 27, 1916, 2. Maksimov, S. V. “Nechistaia, nevedomaia i krestnaia sila.” In Russkoe koldovstvo. By V. I. Dal’, et al., 215–364. Moscow: Eksmo, 2002. Markov, Evgenii. “Literaturnaia letopis’.” Golos, April 6, 1878.

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“Mediumy progressiruiut (Iz besedy s g. Stano).” Peterburgskaia gazeta, November 22, 1900, 3. Mikhailovich, A-r. “Kak ia razvil v sebe dukhovnoe mogushchestvo.” Spiritualist 10 (1906): 475–576. “Mishurnyi blesk.” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 22, 1916, 2–3. “Mishurnyi blesk.” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 23, 1916, 3. Misticheskie tainy: Broshiura ukazyvaiushchaia istochnik interesneishikh svedenii, kasaiushchikhsia ucheniia ob okkul’tizme i o naibolee vydaiushchikhsia proiavleniiakh ego. St. Petersburg: Amerikanskaia skoropechatnia, 1907. Mitrofan, Monakh. Kak zhivut nashi umershie i kak budem zhit’ i my po smerti: Po ucheniiu pravoslavnoi tserkvy, po predchuvstviiu obshchechelovecheskogo dukha i vyvodam nauki. 2 vols. St. Petersburg: I. L. Tuzov, 1897–1915. Moldavanin, Alkhazar-Tovii. Chrezvychaino-interesnaia i neobyknovenno-zabavnaia dlia semeinykh vechernykh spiriticheskikh seansov Domashniaia Volshebnaia Knizhka: Knizhka volshebnitsa, po kotoroi mozhno pokazyvat’ teni (prividenii) zhelaemykh lits, khotia by oni vo vremia seansa byli v otsutstvii za neskol’ko tysiach verst ili uzhe umerzhie, uznat’ imena i leta sovershenno neznakomykh lits; Krome togo po etoi knizhke mozhno uznat’, skol’ko kto imeet pri sebe v karmane deneg ili u sebia v dome, nesmotria uzhe i na to, chto esli-by takoe litso bylo ot svoego doma na rasstoianii za neskol’ko sot ili tysiach verst. Moscow, 1883. Moranov, P. M. Predskazaniia Monakha Koz’my i Abbata Ioanna o vsemirnoi voine. Kharkov, 1915. Morton, R. C. “Record of a Haunted House.” Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research 8 (1892): 311–32. Neobychainye iavleniia. Vladimir, 1900. “Neobychainye iavleniia.” Vladimirskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti 24 (1900): 837–50. “Neobyknovennoe iavlenie: Ot nashego moskovskogo korrespondenta po telefonu.” Peterburgskii listok, February 15, 1909, 6. “Nepokoinye iavleniia v Zhitomire,” Rebus 30, no. 45 (1911): 5–6. “Nepokoinyi dom: Pis’ma iz Lanshevskogo uezda.” Rebus 18, no. 32 (1899): 279–80; no. 33 (1899): 289–90; no. 34 (1899): 296–97; no. 5 (1899): 303–4. Noveishii fokusnik i charodei: Polnoe opisanie volshebstva, fokusov, sviatochnykh gadanii i predskazanii sud’by kazhdogo cheloveka na novyi god. Sostavleno po Briusu, Devitsy Lenorman, Martyn Zadeki i dr. St. Petersburg: A. A. i M. I. Kholmushiny, 1907. “Noveishii spiritizm i ego sviaz’ s drevnimi iazicheskimi sueveriiami i zabludeniiami.” Pravoslavnoe obozrenie, no. 8 (1871): 196–244; no. 10 (1871): 456–85; no. 11 (1871): 644–79; no. 12 (1871): 781–807. Novye reformatory ‘o chetyrekh izmereniiakh’ v religii i nauke. Revel, 1878. Novyi entsiklopedicheskii slovar’. St. Petersburg: Brokgauz Efron, 1911–1916. Obolenskii, Dmitrii Aleksandrovich. Zapiski kniazia Dmitriia Aleksandrovicha Obolenskogo, 1855–1879. St. Petersburg: Nestor-Istoriia, 2005. “Okkul’tno-mental’naia molitva.” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 4 (1908): 62. “Okkul’tno-mental’naia molitva o blagosostoianii kazhdogo iz uchastnikov.” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 3, no. 19 (1908): 303–4. “Okkul’tno-mental’naia organizatsiia, dlia novykh podpischikov.” Golos vseobshchei liubvi 4, no. 3 (1909): 44–48. Okkul’tno-mental’naia organizatsiia na 1910 g.: Otdel’nyi ottisk iz zhurn. “Smelye Mysli.” Moscow, 1910.

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Onore, L. L. Pis’mo L. L. Onore, sostoiavshemusia v oktiabre mesiatse 1906 goda v gorode Moskve Pervomy Vserossiiskomu s”ezdu spiritualistov i lits, interesuiushchikhsia voprosami psikhizma, s otvetnym pis’mom. Krasnoiarsk: Tip. M. I. Abalakova, 1907. Otshel’nik. Peterburgskie gadalki, znakhari, iurodivye i pr. St. Petersburg: Tip. S. A. Kornatovskogo, 1894. P., Vik. “Peterburgskie spirity V: U A. K. Bodisko.” Peterburgskaia gazeta, February 9, 1893, 2. Peterburzhets, “S nekotorykh por.” Novoe vremia, January 15, 1892, 3. Petrovo-Solovovo, M. “Account by Ivan Kupreyanoff of Tver.” Journal of the Society for Psychical Research 9 (1899): 58–60. Pevnitskii, A. “K voprosu ob iasnoslyshanii.” Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma 1, no. 7 (1904): 449–56. Plekhanov, G. V. “O tak nazyvaemykh religioznykh iskaniiakh v Rossii.” In Sochineniia. Vol. 17. Moscow, 1925. “Po puti.” Rebus 33, no. 28 (1914): 3–6. “Po puti.” Rebus 33, no. 34 (1914): 3–4. “Po puti.” Rebus 34, nos. 2–3 (1915): 3–4. “Poddel’nyi graf.” Petrogradskii listok, September 21, 1916, 2–3. Pogorel’skii, M. V. Elektrofotosfeny i energografiia. St. Petersburg, 1912. ———. Elektrofotosfeny i energografiia kak dokazatel’stvo sushchestvovaniia fiziologicheskoi poliarnoi energii, ili tak nazyvaemogo zhivotnogo magnetizma i ikh znacheniia dlia meditsiny i estestvoznaniia. S 48 fotografiiami i 2 fototipiiami, s prilozheniem portreta i faksimile avtora. St. Petersburg: Tip. V. V. Demakova, 1899. ———. “Pis’ma o zhivotnom magnetizme.” Rebus 17, no. 28 (1898): 243–46. ———. “Pis’ma o zhivotnom magnetizme.” Rebus 18, no. 7 (1899): 69–72. “Polnaia kniga Raskrytiia tain Volshebstva.” Petrogradskii listok, March 6, 1916, 1. Polnyi pravoslavnyi bogoslovskii entsiklopedicheskii slovar’. St. Petersburg: P. P. Soikin, 1913. Polovtsov, A. A., ed. Russkii biograficheskii slovar’. 25 vols. St. Petersburg: Tipografiia I. N. Slorokholova, 1896–1918. “Poslednyi debiut artistki M. Ia. Puare.” Gazeta kopeika, September 22, 1916, 3. Predskazaniia sud’by cheloveka po planetam. St. Petersburg, 1905. Pribytkov, V. Mediumizm Elizavety Dmitrievny Pribytkovoi: Vospominaniia V. Pribytkova. St. Petersburg: Red. zhur. Rebus, 1897. ———. “Vopros o spiritizme v Rossii.” Rebus 19, no. 14 (1900): 126–29; no. 15 (1900):135–36; no. 16 (1900): 143–44; no. 17 (1900): 151–53; no. 20 (1900): 174– 75; no. 22 (1900): 191–92; no. 23 (1900): 200–201; no. 24 (1900): 206–8; no. 26 (1900): 223–25; no. 27 (1900): 230; no. 28 (1900): 237–38; no. 29 (1900): 248–49; no. 30 (1900): 259; no. 45 (1900): 387–88; no. 46 (1900): 393–95; no. 47 (1900): 405–6; no. 52 (1900): 455–56; 20, no. 1 (1901): 4–6; no. 2 (1901): 19–21; no. 3 (1901): 30–32; no. 4 (1901): 39–41; no. 5 (1901): 45–47; no. 6 (1901): 53–54; no. 7 (1901): 61–62. Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v desiati tomakh. Moscow: Izdat. Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1962–1966. Rapgof, Ippolit [Graf Amori]. Grafinia-Artistka: Sensatsionnaia byl’ nashikh dnei. Moscow: Tip. AO Mosk. izd-vo, 1916.

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“Rasskaz sotrudnika ‘Russkogo Listka.’” Rebus 20, no. 10 (1901): 105–6; no. 11 (1901): 117–18. Rozenbakh, P. “Gipnotizm.” In Entsiklopedicheskii Slovar’. Vol. 8a. Edited by I. E. Andreevskii, 726–34. St. Petersburg: F. A. Brokgauz, I. A. Efron, 1893. Rozhdestvenskii, Nikolai Pavlovich. Khristianskaia apologetika: Kurs osnovnogo bogosloviia chitannyi studentam Spb. dukh. akademii v 1881/2 uchebnom godu. St. Petersburg: I. L. Tuzov, 1884. S Afona o spiritizme. St. Peterburg, 1867. Segno, A. V. Zakon mentalizma: Prakticheskoe nauchnoe ob”iasnenie mysli i dushevnoi sily, zakon upravliaiushchii vsemi myslennymi i fizicheskimi deistviiami i iavleniiami, sushchnost’ zhizni i smerti. Moscow: A. A. Levenson, 1912. Shakhov, V. V. Ukazatel’ k Pravoslavnomu obozreniiu za 1871–1886 gg. Moscow: Univ. tip., 1887. Shavel’, Iu. A. Okkul’tnye nauki: Polnyi prakticheskii kurs gipnotizma, lichnogo magnetizma i vnusheniia: Telepatiia (zaochnoe vnushenie). St. Petersburg: Tip. R. V. Korotaevoi, 1912. Shigaleev, N. “Poslednyi debiut artistki M. Ia. Puare.” Gazeta kopeika, September 20, 1916, 3. Shiller-Shkol’nik, Kh. M. Novyi kurs gipnotizma: Nasha sila vnutri nas. Warsaw: Miss Khasse, 1910. Shmurlo, Sergei. Ocherki okkul’tizma. Moscow: Vozrozhdenie dukha, 1912. Sirias. “Znachenie slov, upotrebliaemykh v spiritualizme.” Rebus 11, no. 18 (1892): 192– 94. Sistematicheskii ukazatel’ statei, pomeshchennykh v zhurnale “Trudy Kievskoi dukhovnoi akademii” za 1860–1904 gg. 2 vols. Kiev, 1905–1915. “Skrizhali maga: Rukovodstvo k razvitiiu psikhicheskikh sposobnostei cheloveka.” Izida 5 (1914): 4–12. “Slovo ottsa Ioanna Kronshtadtskogo.” Rebus 11, no. 48 (1892): 474–75. Snegirev, V. “Spiritizm kak filosofsko-religioznaia doktrina.” Pravoslavnyi sobesednik (January 1871): 12–41; (April 1871): 279–316. Solov’ev, I. “Pis’mo ottsa Solov’eva o iavleniiakh, byvshchikh v ego dome.” Rebus 20, no. 7 (1901): 62–63. Solov’ev, Vladimir Sergeevich. “Metafizika i polozhitel’naia nauka.” Pravoslavnoe obozrenie (February 1875): 197–206. ———. “Neskol’ko slov o nashikh svetskikh eresiakh i o sushchnosti tserkvi.” Rus’ 3, no. 7 (1883): 13–19. ———. “O raskole v russkom narode i obshchestve, 1882–1883.” In Sobranie sochinenii Vladimira Sergeevicha Solov’eva, edited by S. M. Solov’ev and E. L. Radlov, 3:245–80. St. Petersburg: Prosveshchenie, 1913. Spiritizm, kak sredstvo obshcheniia s zagrobnym mirom (po issledovaniiam noveishego vremeni). Moscow: Kardek, 1905. Sukhova-Osipova, V. “Gipnotizm.” Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma 1 (1904): 614–16. “Svecha vo tmu i sumrak.” Dukhovnaia beseda, no. 43 (1859): 117–23; no. 44 (1859): 161–71; no. 45 (1859): 201–9; no. 46 (1859): 241–51; no. 47 (1859): 282–94; no. 48 (1859): 323–33; no. 49 (1852): 367–73; no. 52 (1859): 515–31.

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“Sviashchennik, postradaiushchii ot besov.” Russkii listok, December 30, 1900, 3. Svod zakonov rossiiskoi imperii, poveleniem gosudaria imperatora Nikolaia Pavlovicha sostavlennyi. Vol. 15, Svod zakonov ugolovnykh. St. Petersburg: Tip. Vtorogo otdeleniia Sobst. e. i. v. kantseliarii, 1842. Syn-Otechestva. “Snom peterburgskikh spiritov.” Pravoslavnoe obozrenie (February 1881): 442–45. Szylkarski, Wladimir, Wilhelm Lettenbauer, and Ludolf Müller, eds. Deutsche Gesamtausgabe der Werke von Wladimir Solowjew. 8 vols. Freiburg im Breisgau: Wewel, 1953. Tikhomirov, E. “Pritcha o bogatom i Lazare i spiritizm.” Pravoslavnoe Obozrenie, no. 1 (1884): 77. Titov, A. A. “Nechistaia sila.” Sudebnye dramy 7, no. 4 (1903): 3–70. Tolstoi, L. N. Sobranie sochinenii v dvadtsati tomakh. Moscow: Khudozhestvennaia literatura, 1960–1964. Trudy pervogo vserossiiskogo s”ezda spiritualistov i lits, interesuiushchikhsia voprosami psikhizma i mediumizma v Moskve s 20 po 27 oktiabria 1906 goda. Moscow: Tip. K. L. Men’shova, 1907. Turgenev, I. S. Ottsy i deti. St. Petersburg: Nauka, 2008. “V pogone za millionami.” Ezhednevnaia gazeta kopeika, September 22, 1916, 2–3. “V tsarstve dukhov.” Petrogradskii listok, September 16, 1916, 2. “V tsarstve dukhov.” Petrogradskii listok, September 18, 1916, 2. “V tsarstve dukhov.” Petrogradskii listok, September 19, 1916, 5. Vagner, N. P. “Pis’mo k redaktoru: Po povodu spiritizma.” Vestnik Evropy (April 1875): 855–75. ———. “Über die psychodynamischen Erscheinungen.” Psychische Studien 2, no. 3 (1875): 97–106. Velichaishchaia iz velikikh voin s avstro-nemtsami i turkami za pravdu Bozhiiu, za svobodu narodov: Dush. krasota i doblest’ rus. Soldata. Petrograd: Petrograd Sinodal’naia tip., 1916. Viazemskii, I. V. “Ocherk istorii razvitiia sovremennogo gipnotizma.” Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma 10 (1904): 737–62. Vol’kov-Davydov, S. D. Sredi zagadok bytiia: Fakty iz zhizni okkul’tista. Moscow: K. V. C., 1907. Volshebnoe Zerkalo: Noveishii i bolee pravdivyi sposob gadaniia, posredstvom zerkala, po sposobu drevnerusskogo volkhva i gadatelia “Deda Vseveda.” Ne zhenites’ i ne vykhodite zamuzh prezhde chem ne pogadaete chrez eto chudodeistvennoe i magicheskoe zerkalo. St. Petersburg, 1898. Vvedenskii, A. “Uchenie Kanta o prostranstve.” Bogoslovskii vestnik (June 1895): 390– 404. Witte, S. I. The Memoirs of Count Witte. Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1990. “Za grafskoi korony i millionam.” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 17, 1916, 3. Zarin, A. “Mishurnyi blesk.” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 25, 1916, 2–3. ———. “Mishurnyi blesk.” Malen’kaia gazeta, September 27, 1916, 2. Zerkalo tainykh nauk ili otrazhenie sud’by cheloveka: Polnyi kurs gipnotizma. Moscow: Aviator, 1914. “Znakharstvo i narodnye zagovory.” Petrogradskii listok, March 9, 1916, 1.

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Zöllner, J. K. Friedrich. “On Space of Four Dimensions.” The Quarterly Journal of Science 8 (1878): 227–37. ———. Wissenschaftliche Abhandlungen. 4 vols. Leipzig: L. Staackmann, 1878.

Selected Secondary Material Adler, Alfred. Praxis und Theorie der Individualpsychologie: Vorträge zur Einführung in die Psychotherapie für Ärzte, Psychologen und Lehrer. Munich: J. F. Bergman, 1930. ———. Menschenkenntnis. Zurich: Rascher, 1947. Adorno, Theodor W. “Thesen gegen den Okkultismus.” In Minima Moralia: Reflexionen aus dem beschädigten Leben, 321–29. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1969. Aleksandrov, V. E. “Unicorn Impaling a Knight: The Transcendent and Man in Bely’s Petersburg.” Canadian-American Slavonic Studies 16 (1982): 1–44. Andreev, G. A. Khristianskaia periodicheskaia pechat’ na russkom iazyke, 1801–1917 gg.: Bibliograficheskii ukazatel’ v trekh tomakh. New York: N. Ross, 1998. Aronson, M., and S. Reiser. Literaturnye kruzhki i salony. St. Petersburg: Akademicheskii proekt, 2001. Balzer, Harley D., ed. Russia’s Missing Middle Class: The Professions in Russian History. Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1996. Barrow, Logie. Independent Spirits: Spiritualism and English Plebeians, 1850–1910. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1986. Bauman, Zygmunt. Modernity and Ambivalence. Cambridge: Polity, 1991. Becker, Annette. War and Faith: The Religious Imagination in France, 1914–1930. Oxford: Berg, 1998. Beer, Daniel. “The Medicalization of Religious Deviance in the Russian Orthodox Church, 1880–1905.” Kritika 5, no. 3 (2004): 451–82. ———. Renovating Russia: The Human Sciences and the Fate of Liberal Modernity, 1880–1930. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008. Beliaeva, L. N., V. M. Barashenkov, and M. K. Zinove’va et al., eds. Bibliografiia periodicheskikh izdanii Rossii, 1901–1916. Leningrad: Izd. Gos. Publichnoi Biblioteki, 1958–1961. Berberova, Nina N. Liudi i lozhi: Russkie masony XX stoletiia. New York: Russica Publishers, 1986. Berman, Marshall. All That Is Solid Melts Into Air: The Experience of Modernity. New York: Viking Penguin, 1988. Bernstein, Lina. “Women on the Verge of a New Language: Russian Salon Hostesses in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century.” In Russia, Women, Culture, edited by Helena Goscilo and Beth Holmgren, 209–24. Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1996. Berry, Thomas E. Spiritualism in Tsarist Society and Literature. Baltimore: Edgar Allan Poe Society, 1985. Bethea, David M. The Shape of Apocalypse in Modern Russian Fiction. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989. Beyrau, Dietrich. “Projektionen, Imaginationen und Visionen im Ersten Weltkrieg: Die orthodoxen Militärgeistlichen im Einsatz für Glauben, Zar und Vaterland.” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 52, no. 3 (2004): 402–20.

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Blackbourn, David. Marpingen: Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Bismarckian Germany. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993. Blaschke, Olaf. “Das 19. Jahrhundert: Ein Zweites Konfessionelles Zeitalter?” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 26 (2000): 39–75. Bogomolov, N. A. Russkaia literatura nachala XX veka i okkul’tizm: Issledovaniia i materialy. Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 1999. Boutry, Philippe. “Parler par spectres: Überlegungen zur französischen Geschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts.” In Gespenster und Politik: 16. bis 21. Jahrhundert, edited by Claire Gantet and Fabrice D’Almeida, 321–38. Paderborn: Fink, 2007. Brachev, V. S. Masony v Rossii: Za kulisami vidimoi vlasti, 1731–2001. St. Petersburg: Stomma, 2002. Bradley, Joseph. “Pictures at an Exhibition: Science, Patriotism, and Civil Society in Imperial Russia.” Slavic Review 67, no. 4 (2008): 934–66. ———. “Subjects into Citizens: Societies, Civil Society, and Autocracy in Tsarist Russia.” American Historical Review 107, no. 4 (2002): 1094–123. ———. Voluntary Associations in Tsarist Russia: Science, Patriotism, and Civil Society. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009. Brang, Peter. Ein unbekanntes Russland: Kulturgeschichte vegetarischer Lebensweisen von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart. Cologne: Böhlau, 2002. Breyfogle, Nicholas B. Heretics and Colonizers: Forging Russia’s Empire in the South Caucasus. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005. Brooks, Jeffrey. “How Tolstoevskii Pleased Readers and Rewrote a Russian Myth.” Slavic Review 64 (2005): 538–59. ———. When Russia Learned to Read: Literacy and Popular Literature, 1861–1917. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985. Brower, Daniel R. The Russian City between Tradition and Modernity, 1850–1900. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990. Burton, Jean. Heyday of a Wizard: Daniel Home, the Medium. New York: A. A. Knopf, 1944. Bykov, G. V. Aleksandr Mikhailovich Butlerov. Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1961. Campbell, Colin. “The Cult, the Cultic Milieu, and Secularization.” A Sociological Yearbook of Religion in Britain 5 (1972): 119–36. Carlson, Maria. “Fashionable Occultism: Spiritualism, Theosophy, Freemasonry, and Hermeticism in Fin-de-Siècle Russia.” In The Occult in Russian and Soviet Culture, edited by Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, 135–52. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997. ———. “No Religion Higher than Truth”: A History of the Theosophical Movement in Russia, 1875–1922. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993. Carroll, Bret E. Spiritualism in Antebellum America. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997. Clements, Barbara Evans, Rebecca Friedman, and Dan Healey, eds. Russian Masculinities in History and Culture. Houndmills: Palgrave, 2002. Clowes, Edith W. “Literary Reception as Vulgarization: Nietzsche’s Idea of the Superman in Neo-Realist Fiction.” In Nietzsche in Russia, edited by Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, 315–29. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986. Coleman, Heather J. Russian Baptists and Spiritual Revolution, 1905–1929. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005.

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Compton, Susan P. “Malevich’s Suprematism—The Higher Intuition.” The Burlington Magazine 118, no. 881 (1976): 577–85. Daniels, Norman. “Lobachevsky: Some Anticipations of Later Views on the Relation between Geometry and Physics.” Isis 66, no. 1 (1975): 75–85. Davidson, Pamela, ed. Russian Literature and Its Demons. New York: Berghahn Books, 2000. Davie, Grace. The Sociology of Religion. Los Angeles: Sage Publications, 2007. Derrida, Jacques. Specters of Marx: The State of Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International. New York: Routledge, 1994. Dixon, Simon. “The Church’s Social Role in St. Petersburg, 1880–1914.” In Church, Nation, and State in Russia and Ukraine, edited by Geoffrey A. Hosking, 167–92. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1991. ———. “The Russian Orthodox Church in Imperial Russia, 1721–1917.” In The Cambridge History of Christianity. Vol. 5, Eastern Christianity, edited by Michael Angold, 325–47. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Dowler, Wayne. Russia in 1913. DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2010. Durkheim, Emile. The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. London: Allen and Unwin, 1976. Engel, Barbara Alpern. Between the Fields and the City: Women, Work, and Family in Russia, 1861–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Engels, Friedrich. “Dialektik der Natur.” In Werke. Vol. 20, 337–47. Berlin: Dietz, 1962. Engelstein, Laura. Castration and the Heavenly Kingdom: A Russian Folktale. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999. ———. The Keys to Happiness: Sex and the Search for Modernity in Fin-de-Siècle Russia. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996. Engelstein, Laura, and Stephanie Sandler. “Introduction.” In Self and Story in Russian History, 1–19. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000. Etkind, Aleksandr. Eros des Unmöglichen: Die Geschichte der Psychoanalyse in Russland. Leipzig: Kiepenheuer, 1996. ———. Khlyst: Sekty, literatura i revoliutsiia. Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 1998. ———. “Post-Soviet Hauntology: Cultural Memory of the Soviet Terror.” Constellations 16, no. 1 (2009): 182–200. ———. “Whirling with the Other: Russian Populism and Religious Sects.” The Russian Review 62 (October 2003): 565–88. Evans-Pritchard, E. E. Witchcraft, Oracles, and Magic among the Azande. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972. Evtuhov, Catherine. The Cross and the Sickle: Sergei Bulgakov and the Fate of Russian Religious Philosophy. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997. ———. “An Unexpected Source of Russian Neo-Kantianism: Alexander Vvedensky and Lobachevsky’s Geometry.” Studies in East European Thought 47 (1998): 245–58. Faivre, Antoine. “Occultism.” In Encyclopedia of Religion. 2nd ed. Edited by Lindsay Jones, Mircea Eliade, and Charles J. Adams, 10:6780–83. Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2005. Foote, I. P. “Counter-Censorship: Authors v. Censors in Nineteenth-Century Russia.” Oxford Slavonic Papers 27 (1994): 62–105. ———. “The St. Petersburg Censorship Committee, 1828–1905.” Oxford Slavonic Papers 24 (1991): 60–120.

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Frank, Stephen P., and Mark D. Steinberg, eds. Cultures in Flux: Lower-Class Values, Practices, and Resistance in Late Imperial Russia. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994. Franz, N., ed. Lexikon der russischen Kultur. Darmstadt: Primus, 2002. Freeze, Gregory L. The Parish Clergy in Nineteenth-Century Russia: Crisis, Reform, Counter-Reform. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983. ———. “Russian Orthodoxy: Church, People, and Politics in Imperial Russia.” In The Cambridge History of Russia. Vol. 2, Imperial Russia, edited by Dominic Lieven, Maureen Perry, and Ronald Grigor Suny, 284–305. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Freud, Sigmund. “Das Unheimliche.” In Gesammelte Werke: Chronologisch geordnet. Zwölfter Band, Werke aus den Jahren 1917–1920, 229–68. Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer, 1972. ———. Die Traumdeutung. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2007. ———. Psychopathology of Everyday Life. London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1914. ———. “Traum und Okkultismus.” In Neue Folge der Vorlesungen zur Einführung in die Psychoanalyse, 34–59. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2005. ———. “Zeitgemäßes über Krieg und Tod.” In Gesammelte Werke: Chronologisch geordnet. Zehnter Band, Werke aus den Jahren 1913–1917, 324–55. London: Imago, 1940. Gantet, Claire, and Fabrice D’Almeida. “Einleitung.” In Gespenster und Politik: 16. bis 21. Jahrhundert, 17–48. Paderborn: Fink, 2007. Gauld, Alan. A History of Hypnotism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. ———. “Home, Daniel Dunglas (1833–1886).” In Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, edited by H. G. C. Matthew and Brian Howard Harrison. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004, . Gay, Peter. Freud: A Life for Our Time. New York: Norton, 1988. Gerlitz, Peter, and Wolfram Janzen. “Okkultismus.” In Theologische Realenzyklopädie. Vol. 25, Ochino–Parapsychologie, edited by Gerhard Krause and Siegfried M. Schwertner, 216–30. Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1995. Giddens, Anthony. The Consequences of Modernity. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991. Glickman, Rose L. Russian Factory Women: Workplace and Society, 1880–1914. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986. Gordin, Michael D. “Loose and Baggy Spirits: Reading Dostoevskii and Mendeleev.” Slavic Review 60, no. 4 (2001): 756–80. ———. A Well-Ordered Thing: Dmitrii Mendeleev and the Shadow of the Periodic Table. New York: Basic Books, 2004.. Grossman, Joan Delaney. “Aleksandr Dobroliubov and the Invisible Book.” In Iz knigi nevidimoi, by Aleksandr Dobroliubov, vii–xxv. Berkeley: Berkeley Slavic Specialties, 1983. ———. “Alternate Beliefs: Spiritualism and Pantheism among the Early Modernists.” In Christianity and the Eastern Slavs. Vol. 3, Russian Literature in Modern Times, edited by Boris Gasparov, 113–33. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995. ———. Valery Bryusov and the Riddle of Russian Decadence. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985. Groys, Boris, and Michael Hagemeister, eds. Die Neue Menschheit: Biopolitische Utopien in Russland zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2005. Gur’ianova, N. S., and N. N. Pokrovskii. Krest’ianskii antimonarkhicheskii protest v

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staroobriadcheskoi eskhatologicheskoi literature perioda poznego feodalizma. Novosibirsk: Nauka, 1988. Haase, Felix. Volksglaube und Brauchtum der Ostslaven. Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1980. Hachten, Elizabeth A. “In Service to Science and Society: Scientists and the Public in Late Nineteenth-Century Russia.” Osiris 17 (2002): 171–209. Häfner, Lutz. “Civil Society, Bürgertum i ‘mestnoe obshchestvo’: V poiskakh analiticheskikh kategorii izucheniia obshchestvennoi i sotsial’noi modernizatsii v pozneimperskoi Rossii.” Ab Imperio 3, no. 3 (2002): 161–208. ———. Gesellschaft als lokale Veranstaltung: Die Wolgastädte Kazan’ und Saratov, 1870–1914. Cologne: Böhlau, 2004. Hagemeister, Michael. “Eine Apokalypse unserer Zeit: Die Prophezeihungen des heiligen Serafim von Sarov über das Kommen des Antichrist und das Ende der Welt.” In Finis Mundi: Endzeiten und Weltenden im östlichen Europa; Festschrift für Hans Lemberg zum 65. Geburtstag, edited by Joachin Hösler, Hans Lemberg, and Wolfgang Kessler, 41–60. Stuttgart: F. Steiner Verlag, 1998. ———. “Vladimir Solov’ev and Sergej Nilus: Apocalypticism and Judeophobia.” In Vladimir Solov’ev: Reconciler and Polemicist, edited by William Peter van den Bercken, Manon de Courten, and Evert van der Zweerde, 287–96. Leuven: Peeters, 2000. Hagen, Manfred. Die Entfaltung politischer Öffentlichkeit in Russland, 1906–1914. Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1982. Hanegraaff, Wouter. New Age Religion and Western Culture: Esotericism in the Mirror of Secular Thought. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996. Harris, Ruth. Lourdes: Body and Spirit in the Secular Age. London: Penguin, 2000. ———. The Man on Devil’s Island: Alfred Dreyfus and the Affair that Divided France. London: Allen Lane, 2010. ———. Murders and Madness: Medicine, Law, and Society in the Fin de Siècle. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989. ———. “Possession on the Borders: The ‘Mal de Morzine’ in Nineteenth-Century France.” The Journal of Modern History 69 (September 1997): 451–78. Harvey, David Allen. Beyond Enlightenment: Occultism and Politics in Modern France. DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2005. Hellman, Ben. Poets of Hope and Despair: The Russian Symbolists in War and Revolution, 1914–1918. Helsinki: Institute for Russian and East European Studies, 1995. Henderson, Linda Dalrymple. The Fourth Dimension and Non-Euclidean Geometry in Modern Art. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983. ———. “The Merging of Time and Space: The ‘Fourth Dimension’ in Russia from Ouspensky to Malevich.” Soviet Union/Union Sovietique 5, no. 2 (1978): 171–203. Herlihy, Patricia. The Alcoholic Empire: Vodka and Politics in Late Imperial Russia. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Herrlinger, Page. “Raising Lazarus: Orthodoxy and the Factory Narod in St. Petersburg, 1905–1914.” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 52 (2004): 341–54. Higonnet, Margaret Randolph, ed. Behind the Lines: Gender and the Two World Wars. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987. Hildermeier, Manfred. “Bildungsqualifikationen und bürgerliche Gesellschaft.” Cahiers du monde russe 43, no. 4 (2002): 591–600. Holquist, Peter. “To Count, to Extract, and to Exterminate: Population Statistics and Population Politics in Late Imperial and Soviet Russia.” In A State of Nations:

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Empire and Nation-Making in the Age of Lenin and Stalin, edited by Ronald Grigor Suny and Terry Martin, 111–44. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Hosking, Geoffrey A., ed. Church, Nation, and State in Russia and Ukraine. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1991. Hufford, David J. “Beings Without Bodies: An Experience-Centered Theory of the Belief in Spirits.” In Out of the Ordinary: Folklore and the Supernatural, edited by Barbara Walker, 11–45. Logan: Utah State University Press, 1995. ———. The Terror That Comes in the Night: An Experience-Centered Study of Supernatural Assault Traditions. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982. Ivanits, Linda. Russian Folk Belief. Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1992. Jahn, Hubertus F. Patriotic Culture in Russia during World War I. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995. Joravsky, David. Russian Psychology: A Critical History. Oxford: Blackwell, 1989. Jung, C. G. The Collected Works of C. G. Jung. 20 vols. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1953–1979. ———. Psychology and the Occult. London: Routledge, 2008. Kämpfer, Frank. “Der rote Keil”: Das politische Plakat; Theorie und Geschichte. Berlin: Mann, 1985. Kelly, Catriona. “The Education of the Will: Advice Literature, Zakal, and Manliness in Early Twentieth-Century Russia.” In Russian Masculinities in History and Culture, edited by Barbara Evans Clements, Rebecca Friedman, and Dan Healy, 131–51. Houndmills: Palgrave, 2002. Kizenko, Nadieszda. A Prodigal Saint: Father John of Kronstadt and the Russian People. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2000. Klein, Felix. Vorlesungen über die Entwicklung der Mathematik im 19. Jahrhundert. Berlin: J. Springer, 1926. Koblitz, Ann Hibner. “Science, Women, and the Russian Intelligentsia: The Generation of the 1860s.” Isis 79, no. 2 (1988): 208–26. Kolonitskii, Boris. “Tragicheskaia erotika”: Obrazy imperatorskoi sem’i v gody pervoi mirovoi voiny. Moscow: Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 2010. Kornblatt, Judith Deutsch. Divine Sophia: The Wisdom Writings of Vladimir Solovyov. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2009. Kornblatt, Judith Deutsch, and Richard F. Gustafson, eds. Russian Religious Thought. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996. Krinichnaia, N. A. Lesnye navazhdeniia: Mifologicheskie rasskazy i pover’ia o dukhe“khoziaine” lesa. Petrozavodsk: Karel’skii nauchnyi tsentr RAN, 1993. ———. “V glushii dalekoi zhivut sedye kolduny.” Zhivaia starina: Zhurnal o russkom fol’klore i traditsionnoi kul’ture 3 (2001): 19–20. Laqueur, Thomas. “Why the Margins Matter: Occultism and the Making of Modernity.” Modern Intellectual History 3, no. 1 (2006): 111–35. Larman, E. K. Aksel’ Vil’gel’movich Gadolin. Moscow: Nauka, 1969. Lewis, I. M. Ecstatic Religion: An Anthropological Study of Spirit Possession and Shamanism. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978. Ljunggren, Anna. Poeziia Tiutcheva i salonnaia kul’tura XIX veka. Moscow: Nauka, 2006. Ljunggren, Magnus. The Russian Mephisto: A Study of the Life and Work of Emilii Medtner. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1994.

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Index

actresses, 185. See also Puare Adler, Alfred, 109 Adorno, Theodor, 16 Adrian of Chernigov, 131, 133 Aksakov, Aleksandr Nikolaevich, 28–30; and Briusov, 4–5; and hypnosis, 65, 68, 69; and Livchak, 57; and Mendeleev Commission, 28–30; and Pogodin, 26, 37–38, 40, 41; and Rebus, 30–32; and spiritualism, 11, 24–32; and Tatar ancestors, 172; and Vl. Solov’ev, 239n86; Animismus und Spiritismus, 25; and Schopenhauer, 89; on physical “energies”, 69; as representative of spiritualism, 151, 181, 245n94; on hostility of church, 140, 162; on miracles, 152; Psychische Studien, 25; scientific aspirations of, 25–27, 38; Spiritualizm i nauka, 24; weekly séances of, 36 Aksakov, Konstantin Sergeevich, 100–101 Aleksandra Fedorevna, tsarina, 183, 246n101 Aleksandrinskii Theater, 177 Alexander II, 22, 24, 213n35 ambiguity: and haunted houses, 9, 135–39; and hypnosis, 78; and occultism, 189–90 Andropova, Madame, 43 angels, 166–67, 175 animal magnetism. See hypnosis antichrist, 169–71, 188; Antikhrist (film), 171, 242n37 anxiety: about servants, 122–25; and occult, 109. See also conspiracies apocalypse, 171, 247n125. See also antichrist

apparitions, 17–18, 116, 165–67, 166–67. See also materializations; spirits; visions Arbuzova, Pelageia, 120–21, 124, 137 Artsybashev, Mikhail Petrovich, 90 Baturin, Viktor Pavlovich, 71 Bekhterev, Vladimir Mikhailovich, 67–68, 71, 73, 97 Belyi, Andrei: and WWI, 164; Peterburg; and Egypt, 102; and fourth dimension, 48, 63–65 Berdiaev, Nikolai, 64–65 Bernheim, Hippolyte, 67 Bitner, Vil’gel’m Vil’gel’movich, 75 Blavatsky, Helena Petrovna, 146, 150, 157–58 Blok, Aleksandr, 164 Bobrina, Aleksandra Ivanovna, 36 Bogoiavlenskii, Georgii, 148–49 Bogoslovskii vestnik, 148–51, 160, 240n100 Bolyai, János, 52 Borgart, Fräulein, 182 Braid, James, 66 Brédif, Camille, 28, 205n41 Britain, 21, 29, 191, 229n37, 229n48 Briusov, Valerii Iakovlevich: and Aksakov, 4; and decadence, 14, 42, 44–46; and irrationality, 107; and Lang (Miropol’skii), 3, 44–45, 199n51; and Maslova, 14, 44–45; and posthumous eradication of occult interests, 14–15, 20; and Pribytkov, 4, 5, 36; and séances, 37–38, 44–46; and various occult interests, 11, 79

270

INDEX

Brusilov, Aleksei, 15 Buddhism, Buddhist, 159, 176 Butkevich, Archpriest, 145 Butlerov, Aleksandr Mikhailovich: and Aksakov, 27, 57; and English ancestors, 172; and fourth dimension, 49–58; and Home, 24, 37–38; and hypnosis, 68; and later generations on his spiritualist interests, 15; and Livchak, 57; and scientificity of spiritualism, 7, 27–29, 28–30, 49–58, 69, 77; and spiritual orientation offered by spiritualism, 61, 78; and Vagner, 27; and Vestnik Evropy, 62; as representative of spiritualism, 11, 181; prohibited lecture of, 140, 161 Bykov, Viktor P., 30, 84–85, 85, 99–100, 173 Charcot, Jean-Marie, 67 Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 117 Cherniavskaia, Anna Ivanovna, 182 Chistiakov, Pavel, 84–85 Churikov, Ioann, 70–71 clairvoyance, 92–93 conspiracies, 15–16, 176, 183 Constantinople, 166 Count Amori (Ippolit Rapgof), 180–81, 185–86 Crookes, William, 7, 28 crosses, 165–67 Dal’, Vladimir Ivanovich, 117–18 David, star of, 103 death, 7, 40–43, 173–74 decadence, 14, 42, 45, 179–81, 187–88 degeneration, 181, 183 demons, 118–21, 123–24, 128–33, 229n44 Derrida, Jacques, 9, 14, 116, 123 devil, 121, 129, 168–70 Dobroliubov, Aleksandr, 90 Dolgorukov, Pavel Dmitrievich, 184 domovoi, 117–18, 128–29, 130 Don Bazilio (Genrikh Iosifovich Klepatskii), 129, 133–34 Dostoevskii, Fedor Mikhailovich: and Livchak, 56; and spiritualism, 42;

and fourth dimension, 62; Brat’ia Karamazovy, 30, 49, 60; Dnevnik pisatelia, 30; and Vagner, 193; Besy, 124; on demons, 119; on domovoi, 117; spirit of, 106 Dukhovnaia beseda, 152 Duma, 180, 182–83 Egypt, 102–3 Engels, Friedrich, 16, 105–6 exorcising ritual, 112–13, 126, 131 Ezhednevnaia gazeta kopeika, 180 Fel’dman, Osip Il’ich, 69–71, 73, 220n135 Fel’zer, G. A., 72 Filimovich, V. D., 71, 86–87, 180–82, 185 Flammarion, Camille, 150, 205n41 Florenskii, Pavel, 62, 156 Florentsov, Mr., 121 folklore, 8–9, 117–18, 126, 189 fourth dimension: and biblical miracles, 154; and immortality, 148–49; and madness, 58–59, 173, 181; and séance phenomena, 49–59; in literature, philosophy and art, 62–66, 216n65, 219n115 Fox, Kate and Margaret, 21 France (French): and Orlov-Davydov, 187; and Russian spiritualists, 191; in WWI, 166, 175; occult in history of, 15; spiritualism in, 22 fraudulent nature of occult phenomena, 18, 29, 138, 182 Freemasonry: and conspiracies, 15, 159; and Orlov-Davydov, 163; and popular occultism, 11; in Russia, 36; symbols of, 103 Freud, Sigmund: on death, 41, 210n105; on dreams, 115; on occult, 19; on rebus puzzles, 34; on uncanny, 116; on unconscious, 46. See also psychoanalysis Frolov, Sergei Petrovich, 41, 105 Gadolin, Aksel’ Vil’gel’movich (pseud. A.V.G.), 49, 55–56, 62; and relationship of mathematics to space, 56

INDEX 271

Gauss, Carl Friedrich, 52 Gazeta kopeika, 82, 180, 185 gender: and haunted houses, 129–32; and instruction manuals, 83, 96–97; and Puare, 183–85; in occultism, 108–9 geometry: Euclidean, 212n10; topology, 213n31. See also fourth dimension Germany (Germans): and occult in history of, 15–16; and Russian spiritualism, 25, 58, 191; and WWI, 164–73, 182 ghosts. See spirits Gippius, Zinaida, 161, 164 Glagolev, Sergei, 149–51, 152–54, 238n56 Glumelina, Iuliia, 24 God, 155–57. See also Jesus Christ Golos, 49 Golos vseobshchei liubvi, 79–81, 85, 98–100, 105–6 Golovkinskii, Nikolai Alekseevich, 49, 56, 62 Goncharova, Natalia, 63 Gor’kii, Maksim, 117 graphology, 179, 245n74 Grigor’ev, Mikhail, 147 Guzik, Jan, 42–43, 46, 179, 210n110 haunted houses: and amoral behavior, 127–35; and army, 121; and dreams, 115–16, 134–35, 138; and folklore, 117–19, 126; and fraud, 138; and narrative, 115–16; and nervous illness, 124–25, 133–34; and police, 113, 121, 133–34; and rebellion, 122–25; and servants, 119–25, 129–31; and sexuality, 130–32; and stove, 111–12, 130, 132; equivocalness of, 136–39, 189; in Britain, 229n37, 229n47; popularity of reports, 9, 113; scientific explanations of, 137–38. See also exorcising ritual hesychasm, 93 holy fools, 124 Holy Synod, 147, 161, 166 Home, Daniel Dunglas, 22, 24, 37–38 homosexuality, 181 Huysman, Karl-Joris, 181 hypnosis: and autosuggestion, 80–81; and

crime, 71–74, 76; and folklore, 71, 91; and gender, 96–98; and hauntings, 134; and magic, 71; and medical profession, 48, 67, 67–68, 70, 72, 73–75; and miracles, 69–70, 154; and Orthodox Church, 70–71; and power, 8, 87–98, 97–98, 181–82; and psyche, 67–68; and Russian law, 74; and selfhood, 96–98; and superman, 90; as occult science, 65–77; as treatment against social ills, 76–77; in mass publishing, 66, 70, 72–75, 189; instructions in, 87–98, 93–96 hysteria, 67 icons, 166–70 immortality, 41–42, 60, 144–51, 174–75. See also death individualism, 107–10, 144–46 instruction manuals, 84–86, 87–91 Ioannes (Johannes), brother, 165–66, 169–71 irrationality, 103–4, 191 Iusupov, Feliks, 90 Ivanov, Viacheslav, 101, 164 Izida: Ezhemesiachnyi zhurnal okkul’tnykh nauk, 85–86, 88, 91–92 Iz mraka k svetu, 86 Jesus Christ, 166–67, 175 Judaism, Jews, 7, 90, 107, 159, 166, 172 Jung, C. G., 18, 134–35, 201n72. See also psychoanalysis Kant, Immanuel, 51–52 Karabchevskii, Nikolai Platonovich, 184–85, 186–87 Kardec, Allan, 22, 150 Kavelin, Konstantin Dmitrievich, 26 Kazan, 27, 52, 120–21, 124, 138 Kazan Theological Academy, 143 Kaznacheev, Petr Mikhailovich, 103–4 Kerenskii, Aleksandr Fedorovich, 97, 177–78, 180, 187 Khomiakov, Aleksei Stepanovich, 100–101 Khrapovitskii, A., 75, 88, 103–4

272

INDEX

Kinematograf: Ezhenedel’nyi illiustrirovannyi zhurnal tain i uzhasov, 86 Kinematograf: Sensatsionnyi ezhenedel’nyi illiustrirovannyi zhurnal, 86 Klein, Felix, 56, 213n31 Koni, Anatolii Fedorovich, 22 Konstantin Nikolaevich, prince, 213n35 Kornukh, Anna Emelianovna, 131–32 Korvin-Krukovskii, Iurii Vasil’evich, 180 Kroll, Aleksandra, 22, 24 Kronshtadtskii, Ioann, 70, 113, 151–52 Kryzhanovskaia, Vera, 102, 245n94 Kuliukin, Sergei, 148–49, 160 Lang, Aleksandr (pseud. Miropol’skii), 3, 44–45, 199n51 Larionova, Marfa Timofeevna, 112, 122, 132 Larionov, Mikhail, 63 Lektsii okkul’tnykh nauk, 86, 103 Lenin, Vladimir Il’ich, 97 Lenorman, Madame, 166 Lentovskii, Mikhail, 177 Leskov, Nikolai Semenovich, 26 Levitskii, S., 145 Listok dlia naroda, 167 Livchak, Iosif (Osip) Nikolaevich, 56–57 Lobachevskii, Nikolai Ivanovich, 52–56, 59, 62, 149, 213n24 Lychentsy, 111–13, 117–18, 126–35 madness, 59, 124, 181, 187 Mag: Ezhemesiachnyi zhurnal okkul’tizma, 86 magic: and folklore, 135; and hypnosis, 48, 69–71, 75, 77, 88, 109; and Orlov-Davydov and Puare, 179; and psychology, 104, 108; and superman, 144–45; in occultism, 82, 102, 109; love m., 180, 189 magic mirror, 91–93, 102, 224n45 Mag: Zhurnal okkul’tnykh nauk, 6 Maklakov, Nikolai Alekseevich, 183 Maklakov, Vasilii Alekseevich, 180, 183 Malen’kaia gazeta, 82, 177, 179–80, 182, 186

Malevich, Kazimir, 63 Maliarenko, Antonina, 138 Markov, Evgenii L’vovich, 49, 57–58, 62 Marx, Karl, 105–6 Maslova, Elena Andreevna, 14, 44–45 materialization, 28, 30, 38–39. See also apparition; spirits; visions mathematics, 48, 55–57, 62, 213n31. See also geometry; fourth dimension Mauss, Marcel, 88 Mebes, Grigorii, 103–4 medium, spiritualist: and illness, 124; and séance, 21; and trance, 68; exposures of, 21–22, 203n4 Medtner, Emilii, 90. See also Guzik, Jan; Paladino, Eusapia; Sambor, S. F.; Slade, Henry; Wood-Peters, Alfred Menailov, Ioann Gerasimovich, 131–33 Mendeleev Commission, 28–30, 48, 206n52 Mendeleev, Dmitrii Ivanovich, 28–30, 57 Merezhkovskii, Dmitrii Sergeevich, 161 Mesmer, Franz Anton, 66 Mesmerism. See hypnosis Mikeshin, Mikhail Osipovich, 26 Mikhailov, Ivan, 130 Mikhailovskii, Nikolai Konstantinovich, 89 mind: and internalized demons, 132–33; hidden reaches of, 80–81, 88, 91, 107–8, 125, 191; and power, 134; and sin, 126–35. See also madness; psychology Ministry of Internal Affairs, 104 Mintslova, Anna, 97 miracles, 69–71, 151–55 Mitrofan, monk, 147, 237n30 modernity: and haunted houses, 114, 139; and occultism, 12–13, 108, 190; and séances, 45–47 Moltke, Helmut von, 172 Morozova, Liuba, 43, 138 Moscow: and Lychentsy, 111; and Puare, 177, 187; and publishing, 84; faith healing in, 71; fortune-tellers in, 166; séances in, 3–4, 36, 164 Moscow Theological Academy, 144, 149

INDEX 273

Moskovskie vedomosti, 152 Moskovskii vestnik, 26 Muslims, 172, 232n86 Mysh, Vladimir Mikhailovich, 75 nervous illness, 124–25. See also madness; mind Nicholas II, 15, 170, 183, 187–88 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 89–90, 144–45 Nikitina, Evdokiia, 130, 132 Nikolai Mikhailovich, Grand Duke, 177 non-Euclidean geometry, 52–60. See also fourth dimension; geometry; immortality; mathematics Novoe vremia; on fourth dimension, 49, 56, 62; on haunted house, 122–23; on miracles, 152, 167 Novorossiiskii telegraf, 138 Novosti i birzhevaia gazeta, 62, 72 Novye reformatory “o chetyrekh izmereniiakh” v Religii i Nauke, 58–59 Novyi put’, 160 Nozhevnikova, Aleksandra Petrovna, 129 occultism: and art, 16; and body, 41, 69, 91, 105, 108; and danger, 176–77; and decadence, 14, 20; and eclecticism, 7, 9, 79–81; and emotion, 8, 102–6, 192; and exoticism, 102–3; and folklore, 16, 91; and lack of divine, 155–57; and modernity, 12–13, 190–91; and politics, 108–9, 183, 186–88; and power over minds, 91–97, 108–9, 193; and rationalism, 6–7, 12, 16, 18; and Russian Orthodoxy, 10, 140–62; and science, 6–9, 48–78, 77–78; and social elites, 188; and the tsarist state, 19–20; decline of during WWI, 172–75, 175–88, 240n2; definition of, 5–11, 79–80, 192–93, 196n11, 197n32; in private lives, 17, 19, 102–6, 190; occult community, 11–12, 109–10, 192; position of in mainstream culture, 4–5, 9–10, 17, 81–87, 190 occult-mental prayer, 8, 81, 98–102, 99, 188 Onore, L. L., 70, 73–74, 175–76

Orlov-Davydov, Aleksei Alekseevich (baby son of Aleksei Anatol’evich), 178 Orlov-Davydov, Aleksei Anatol’evich count, 20, 163, 176–88, 177–78, 187 Orlovy-Davydovy family, 177, 244n62 Orthodox Church: and haunted houses, 118–19; and laity, 159; and occultism as minor concern of, 143–44, 236n13; and scientific reasoning, 148–51; and society and state, 141–43, 161; and war-time patriotism, 165–71, 175; criticism of occult, 140–41, 145–46, 155–57, 159 Orthodox clergy, 125–35, 127 Ortolan, Th., 149–51 Ostrogradskii, Mikhail Vasil’evich, 28 Owen, Robert, 59 Paladino, Eusapia, 203n4 Papus (Gerard Encausse), 103 patriotism, supernatural, 164–75, 241n9 Perovsky-Petrovo-Solovovo, Mikhail. See Petrovo-Solovovo Peterburgskaia gazeta (from August 1914 Petrogradskaia gazeta), 4, 74, 138, 185 Peterburgskii listok (from August 1914 Petrogradskii listok); advertising occult manuals, 82; and WWI, 164– 67; on hauntings, 138; on hypnotists, 74; on Puare case, 163, 175–76, 178, 181–82, 185 Peter I, 35 Petrovo-Solovovo, Mikhail (also Perovsky-Petrovo-Solovovo), 43, 173, 245n94 Pevnitskii, A. A., 76 planets, 149–51 pluralism in Russian society, 77, 106–8, 193–94 Pobedonostsev, Konstantin, 140, 161, 234n3 Pogani, M., 182 Pogodin, Mikhail Petrovich, 26, 37, 40 Pogorel’skii. M. V., 68–69 Pravda, 71 Pravoslavnoe obozrenie, 156–57, 159–60 Pribytkova, Elizaveta Dmitrievna, 30, 43

274

INDEX

Pribytkov, Viktor Ivanovich: and Briusov, 5; and scientificity of spiritualism, 6; as representative of spiritualism, 4, 11, 151, 245n94; editor of Rebus, 30–32; on hostility of church, 140; regular séances of, 36 Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, 173 prophecy, 164–66, 170, 172, 175, 188 psychoanalysis, 18, 88. See also Adler, Alfred; Freud, Sigmund; Jung, C. G. psychology, 18, 133–35, 191 Puare, Mariia Iakovlevna, 15, 20, 163, 176–88, 244n66 Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich, 117, 133; spirit of, 40 Rasputin, Grigorii, 97, 183 Rebus: and Christian figures, 171; and occult-mental prayer, 100; and other occult journals, 83–85; and WWI, 164–66, 174–75; fame of, 4; on confusion of values, 105; on Lychentsy hauntings, 113, 116; on miracles, 152, 238n64; positivism and mysticism in, 34; publishing of, 30–35; symbolism of, 34–35 reincarnations, 149–50 Religious-Philosophical Gatherings, 161 Riazantseva, Natalia, 124, 130–32 Riemann, Bernhard, 53 ritual, 8, 102–3 Rozenbakh, Pavel Iakovlevich, 73–74 Rozhdestvenskii, Nikolai Pavlovich, 146–48, 153–55, 160 Rus’, 157, 160 Russian Revolution: and late imperial historiography, 20; and occult, 15, 186–88; and Rasputin, 183 Russkii listok, 69, 73, 113, 133 Russkii vestnik, 49, 57, 62 Russo-Turkish war, 171 salon, 35–37. See also séance; spiritualist Sambor, S. F., 43–44, 74 Sarokhtin, Dmitrii, 122 satanists, 176

Schopenhauer, Arthur, 89 science: and haunted houses, 137–39; and hypnosis, 65–78; and occult-mental prayer, 99; and Orthodoxy, 147–56; and spiritualism, 25–29, 48–65; role of in society, 54, 76–78. See also hypnosis; mathematics; occultism; spiritualism séance, spiritualist: and banality, 155–56; and Briusov, 3; and hypnosis, 68; and salon culture, 35, 173–74; and self-fashioning, 42–45; and sexual adventures, 43–45, 179; and the irrational, 42, 45–46; and WWI, 173–74; egalitarian character of, 37, 42–43; phenomena of, 37–41; and mathematics, 49–50, 49–51; playful character of, 36–37, 40–44, 42–45, 173; setup of, 5–6, 21. See spiritualism sects: and danger, 176; and hypnosis, 72; and occultism, 11, 19; and Orthodox Church, 142–43, 157; and spiritualism, 60–61 Segno, Viktor, 95–96, 109, 145 Semenova, Mariia, 120 servants, 122, 136–37, 231n80 Shakovskaia, Ol’ga Semenovna, 54 Shmurlo, Sergei, 63 Simmel, Georg, 96 Skaldin, Aleksei Dmitrievich, 45 Skobelev, Mikhail, 171 Slade, Henry, 49–50 sobornost’, 100–101 Sologub, Fedor, 119 Solov’eva, Dar’ia Vasil’evna, 111, 129 Solov’ev, Ioann, 111–13, 125–35 Solov’ev, Vladimir Sergeevich; and Aksakov, 26, 239n86; and Egypt, 102; and interest in spiritualism, 239n86; and séances, 40, 42; criticism of occult by, 156–58, 161; on sobornost’, 101; on will, 89 spirits: and modernity, 13; and psychology, 7, 17–18, 201n72; and Puare, 178–79; at séances, 38, 43–45; and fourth dimension, 51; at war, 167, 174; occuptations of in afterlife, 40

INDEX 275

spiritualism: and danger, 176; and death, 5, 39–42, 173–74; and decadence, 14, 179–80; and decline during WWI, 173–75; and haunted houses, 113–14, 119; and folklore, 118; and hypnosis, 68; and lack of divine, 155–57; and literature, 3, 4, 30, 40, 45, 49, 60, 62– 65; and madness, 181; and miracles, 153; and religion, 6, 60–61, 61, 140– 62; and science, 6, 25–29, 38, 77–78; and social elites, 22, 179–81; as a threat to society, 57–59; as celebration of life, 40–42; as Western fashion, 24, 143; internationalism of, 25, 172, 182, 191–92; popularity in Russia, 21–33, 47, 107; relationship to occultism, 79–80, 87; revelatory poverty of, 40, 157; use of term, 203n2 Spiritualist, 83–85, 90–95, 98–99, 105–6 Stanislavskii, Konstantin, 90 Steiner, Rudolf, 63 St. Petersburg, 120–22; and fourth dimension, 63–65; and occult press, 85–86; and Puare, 177–78, 187; and Vagner, 27; conspiracies in, 176; haunted houses in, 120–21, 124, 137– 38; occult-mental society of, 99–100; séances in, 24, 28, 29–30, 43 St. Petersburg district court, 163, 177–86 St. Petersburg Theological Academy, 146 suggestion. See hypnosis Swedenborg, Emanuel, 59 Tani, D., 71–72 Teb, Madame, 164 Teffi (Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Lokhvitskaia), 117 Theosophy: and popular occultism, 11, 85, 100–101; in press, 107; on immortality, 145–46; orthodox criticism of, 157–58 Tikhomirov, E., 155 Titov, A. A., 134 Tolstoi, Lev Nikolaevich: and Fel’dman, 73; and spiritualism in Anna Karenina, 30; and spiritualism in Plody prosveshcheniia, 30, 62, 73, 179 trance, 45, 68, 107, 124, 178–79

Trebnik, 118 Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich, 30 Uspenskii, Petr Demianovich, 62 Vagner, Nikolai Petrovich: and Butlerov, 27–29; and Dostoevskii, 193; and German ancestors, 172; and hypnosis, 68, 75; and Livchak, 57; and scientificity of spiritualism, 7, 28–30; and Vestnik Evropy, 28; as representative of spiritualism, 181, 245n94 Verbitskaia, Anastasia Alekseevna, 90 Veselovskii, Pavel, 113 Vestnik Evropy, 28, 49, 56, 62 Vestnik okku’ltnykh nauk, 6 Vestnik psikhologii, kriminal’noi antropologii i gipnotizma, 73 Virgin Mary, 166–67, 175 visions, 35, 92–93, 102, 119, 191. See also apparitions; materializations; spirits Vladimirskie eparkhial’nye vedomosti, 113 Volyn, 137 Volzhskii vestnik, 138 Voskresnyi listok, 167 Vvedenskii, Aleksandr, 62, 149 Vyrubova, Anna, 183 Weber, Max, 12 Wilhelm II, 168–73, 242n35 will, willpower, 88–92, 95–97, 101 Wood-Peters, Alfred, 164 World War I, 20, 163–88 Wundt, Wilhelm, 40 znakharstvo, 71 Zöllner, Karl Friedrich; and alleged madness, 59; and hypnosis, 68; and scientificity of spiritualism, 7, 28, 49– 51, 57–58; in Russian theology, 148, 154; Wissenschaftliche Abhandlungen, 51