Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski 089357404X, 9780893574048

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Dubitando Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski

     

 

Donald Ostrowski

DUBITANDO STUDIES IN HISTORY AND CULTURE IN HONOR OF DONALD OSTROWSKI

EDITED BY

BRIAN J. BOECK RUSSELL E. MARTIN DANIEL ROWLAND

Bloomington, Indiana, 2012

Each  contribution  copyright  ©  2012  by  its  author.  All  rights  reserved.   Cover  designed  by  Tracey  Theriault.     ISBN  978-­‐‑0-­‐‑89357-­‐‑404-­‐‑8  

Library  of  Congress  Cataloging-­‐‑in-­‐‑Publication  Data  

  Dubitando  :  studies  in  history  and  culture  in  honor  of  Donald  Ostrowski  /   Brian  J.  Boeck,  Russell  E.  Martin,  Daniel  Rowland.       p.  cm.     Includes  bibliographical  references  and  index.     ISBN  978-­‐‑089357-­‐‑404-­‐‑8     1.  Russia-­‐‑-­‐‑Civilization.  2.  Russia-­‐‑-­‐‑History.  3.  Kievan  Rus-­‐‑-­‐‑Civilization.  4.   Kievan  Rus-­‐‑-­‐‑History.  I.  Ostrowski,  Donald  G.,  honouree.  II.  Boeck,  Brian  J.,   1971-­‐‑  III.  Martin,  Russell,  1963-­‐‑  IV.  Rowland,  Daniel  B.  (Daniel  Bruce),  1941-­‐‑     DK71.D825  2012   947.0072-­‐‑-­‐‑dc23         2012042462  

                 

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

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Contents     Acknowledgments    .................................................................................................    ix   Russell  E.  Martin   A  Tribute  to  a  Doubter  and  Questioner    ........................................................    1   Daniel  Rowland   An  Appreciation  of  Donald  Ostrowski    .........................................................    5   Brian  J.  Boeck   Tribute  to  a  Caterfly    .........................................................................................    9   Bibliography  of  Donald  Ostrowski    .....................................................................    11  

Rus’ and Eurasia Christopher  P.  Atwood   Huns  and  Xiōngnú:  New  Thoughts  on  an  Old  Problem    ..........................    27   Inés  García  de  la  Puente   Archaeological  Finds  of  Camels  in  Pre-­‐‑Mongol  Rus’:   A  Reassessment    ..............................................................................................    53   Олексій  Толочко   «Показующе  им  истинную  веру»:  Летописное     обрамление  руско-­‐‑византийского  договора  911  г.    ...............................    61   Susana  Torres  Prieto   “A  Godly  Regiment  in  the  Heavens  Came  to  Help  Aleksandr…”:   The  Sanctity  of  Heroic  Princes  in  Kievan  Rus’    ...........................................    67   Lawrence  Langer   For  Want  of  Coin:  Some  Remarks  on  the  Mongol   Tribute  and  the  Problem  of  the  Circulation  of  Silver    ................................    85  

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George  G.  Weickhardt   Legal  Foundations  of  Novgorod-­‐‑Hansa  Trade  in   the  Twelfth  through  Fourteenth  Centuries    ..............................................    103   Bulat  M.  Rakhimzyanov   The  Muslim  Tatars  of  Muscovy  and  Lithuania:   Some  Introductory  Remarks    .......................................................................    117   Brian  J.  Boeck   The  Don  Interpolation:  An  Imagined  Turning  Point   in  Russian  Relations  with  the  Tatar  World    ...............................................    129   Sean  Pollock   “Thus  We  Shall  Have  Their  Loyalty  and  They  Our  Favor”:     Diplomatic  Hostage-­‐‑Taking  (amanatstvo)  and  Russian     Empire  in  Caucasia    ......................................................................................    139  

Rulers and Rulership Elena  N.  Boeck   Believing  is  Seeing:  Princess  Spotting  in  St.  Sophia  of  Kiev    ..................    167   Michael  S.  Flier   Envisioning  the  Ruler  in  Medieval  Rus’:     The  Iconography  of  Intercession  and  Architecture    .................................    181   Charles  J.  Halperin   Ruslan  Skrynnikov  on  Ivan  IV    ...................................................................    193   Isolde  Thyrêt   The  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich  and  the  Evolution   of  the  Muscovite  Tsaritsa’s  Role  in  16th-­‐‑Century  Russia    .......................    209   Russell  E.  Martin   Law,  Succession,  and  the  18th-­‐‑Century  Refounding   of  the  Romanov  Dynasty    .............................................................................    225    

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The Church and Religious Belief and Custom David  Goldfrank   Adversus  Haereticos  Novgorodensos:     Iosif  Volotskii’s  Rhetorical  Syllogisms    ......................................................    245   David  B.  Miller   A  Venerable  Elder:  Varsunofii  Iakimov  of   the  Trinity-­‐‑Sergius  Monastery    ....................................................................    275   Valerie  Kivelson   Caught  in  the  Act:    An  Illustration  of  Erotic  Magic  at  Work    .................    285   Nickolas  Lupinin   Prayer:  A  Golden  Galaxy  of  Virtue    ............................................................    301  

Texts, Images, Contexts William  R.  Veder   Glagolitic  Books  in  Rus’    ...............................................................................    315   Francis  Butler   The  “Legend  of  Gorislava”  (not  “Rogned”  or  “Rogneda”):     An  Edition,  Commentary,  and  Translation    ..............................................    335   Daniel  Rowland   The  Curious  (and  Happy)  Story  of  an  Important  Source   for  Muscovite  Cultural  History:  The  Dormition  Cathedral   of  the  Mother  of  God  Monastery  in  Sviiazhsk    .........................................    353   Chester  S.  L.  Dunning   An  Overlooked  Anglo-­‐‑Russian  Tale  of  the  Time  of  Troubles    ...............    369   Daniel  H.  Kaiser   The  Sacrament  of  Confession  in  the  Russian  Empire:     A  Contribution  to  the  Source  Study  of  Ispovednye  rospisi    .......................    383    

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Nancy  Shields  Kollmann   Pictures  at  an  Execution:   Johann  Georg  Korb’s  Execution  of  the  Strel’tsy    .........................................    399   Fred  Spier   The  Elusive  Apollo  8  Earthrise  Photo    .......................................................    409  

Land, People, and Society in Muscovy Ann  Kleimola   Ni  pes  ni  vyzhlets  ni  gonchaia  sobaka:   Images  of  Dogs  in  Rus’    ................................................................................    427   C.  K.  Woodworth   Muscovy  as  a  Clan-­‐‑Based  State    ..................................................................    443   Janet  Martin   Netstvo  and  the  Conditionality  of  Pomest’e  Land  Tenure    .......................    461   Carol  B.  Stevens   Anna  Dorothea  and  the  Major:     Rape  and  Military  Courts  in  Petrine  Russia    .............................................    475   John  LeDonne   Should  Cossacks  Be  Allowed  to  Sell  Their  Land?    ...................................    487   Contributors    .........................................................................................................    503  

     

Acknowledgments   The  editors  would  like  to  express  their  heartfelt  gratitude  to  everyone  whose   key  assistance  made  possible  the  publication  of  this  peer-­‐‑reviewed  volume  of   essays.  Over  the  course  of  many  months  Vicki  Polansky,  the  managing  editor   at   Slavica,   displayed   an   extraordinary   dedication   to   the   project.   She   contributed   generous   amounts   of   her   time,   constantly   paid   meticulous   attention   to   details,   and   provided   excellent   editorial   suggestions   for   each   article.  Without  her  constant  assistance  and  keen  editorial  eye  it  would  have   been   impossible   to   produce   a   volume   that   represents   such   a   variety   of   disciplinary   approaches   and   engages   scholarship   in   multiple   languages.   George  Fowler,  director  of  Slavica,  went  above  and  beyond  the  call  of  duty  in   helping   to   resolve   complicated   formatting   issues   and   proving   expertise   for   dealing   with   fonts   ranging   from   Chinese   to   Glagolitic.   Tracey   Theriault   of   Slavica   designed   the   volume’s   handsome   cover.   Larisa   Walsh,   Slavic   Cataloger  Regenstein  Library,  University  of  Chicago,  provided  key  and  much   appreciated   assistance   in   obtaining   Cataloging   in   Publication   data   for   the   volume.   Thomas   Foster,   Chair   of   the   Department   of   History   at   DePaul   University,  understood  the  yeoman’s  work  involved  in  the  project  and  kindly   agreed  to  provide  a  departmental  financial  subvention  for  the  publication  of   all  the  images  in  the  volume.  

     

A Tribute to a Doubter and Questioner Russell E. Martin     Dubitando  enim  ad  inquisitionem  venimus;  inquirendo   veritatem  percipimus.  

  With   these   words—“By   doubting,   we   come   to   question;   by   questioning,   we   perceive  truth”—Peter  Abelard  began  his  monumental  Sic  et  Non;  and  we,  the   editors   of   this   volume,   have   placed   the   first   of   these   words   (dubitando:   “by   doubting”)  at  the  beginning  of  the  title  of  this  book  honoring  our  dear  friend   and   esteemed   colleague   Donald   Ostrowski.   It   is   a   fitting   way   to   frame   this   tribute  since  Don  has  been  doubting  (dubitando)  and  questioning  (inquirendo)   documentary   sources   and   interpretative   models   his   entire   career   as   a   his-­‐‑ torian   of   early   Russia   and   Ukraine.   The   relationship   between   doubting   and   questioning   was   obvious   to   Abelard,   and   his   bold—some   in   his   lifetime   thought   heretical—pursuit   of   the   truth   brought   him   both   fame   and   trouble.   Don’s  own  penchant  for  doubting  and  questioning  as  a  means  for  getting  at   the  truth  about  early  Slavic  history  has  been  just  as  bold  and  heretical,  a  little   less  trouble-­‐‑filled,  but  just  as  successful  at  uncovering  the  truth.   Don  has  been  dealing  in  truth  for  many  years.  Nearly  every  work  in  his   long  and  substantial  bibliography  is  dedicated  to  examining,  and  often  chal-­‐‑ lenging,   a   long-­‐‑held   tenet   of   belief   among   scholars   of   early   Russia   and   Ukraine.  Perhaps  Don’s  best  known  work  is  his  edition  of  the  Povest’  vremen-­‐‑ nykh   let   (PVL)—the   Rus’ian   Primary   Chronicle   that   survives   in   numerous   copies   from   different   parts   of   the   East   Slavic   space,   with   vexing   and   signifi-­‐‑ cant  variant  readings  distinguishing  these  copies  into  text  critical  branches  of   interrelated  versions  of  the  story.  The  relationship  between  these  versions  of   the   PVL   has   attracted   the   attention   of   many   of   Russia’s   and   Ukraine’s   best   textual  scholars  over  the  centuries.  As  a  result,  very  few  felt  today  the  need  to   start  questioning  these  texts  and  these  textual  relations  that  had  been  etched   in  stone  for  so  long.  But  Don  doubted  that  the  work  done  so  far  on  this  sub-­‐‑ stantial  body  of  texts  had  uncovered  the  truth  about  the  PVL,  and  so  he  went   about  questioning  the  traditional  relationships  and  isolated  readings,  compar-­‐‑ ing   versions   of   the   PVL   word   by   word.   Whether   Don   reached   the   “truth”   is   something  even  he  would  say  only  time  will  tell,  but  we  would  not  now  have   a   new   mammoth   edition   of   the   PVL   without   Don   (and   his   co-­‐‑editors)   first   doubting,  questioning,  and  believing  that  they  should  try  to  get  closer  to  the   truth.  

Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 1–4.

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This  kind  of  boldness  and  gumption  appears  in  Don’s  many  other  works,   many   of   which   tackle   time-­‐‑honored   interpretations   of   persons,   events,   and   individual  texts.  Don  recently  turned  nearly  upside  down  the  textual  stemma   for   the   vita   of   St.   Alexander   Nevskii.   He   challenged   the   traditional   meaning   and   purpose   of   service   tenure   landholding   (pomest’e)   in   Muscovy.   He   ques-­‐‑ tioned   the   time-­‐‑honored   understanding   of   scholars   of   the   Judaizer   “heresy.”   He   reenvisioned   the   Muscovite   Assembly   of   the   Land   (Zemskii   sobor).   He   overturned   what   most   thought   was   going   on   at   the   15th-­‐‑   and   16th-­‐‑century   councils  of  the  Russian  Church.  He  established  the  origin  of  Psalmic  citations   in   the   PVL.   Working   with   me,   he   reconsidered   the   heretical   speculations   of   Aleksandr  Zimin  and  the  origin  of  the  Igor  Tale.  And  Don’s  book  on  the  na-­‐‑ ture   and   extent   of   cross-­‐‑cultural   borrowing   between   the   Muscovites   and   the   Mongols  has  laid  out  arguments  that  are  so  striking  and  novel  that  the  field  is   still   digesting   the   implications   of   his   findings.   Don   has   most   recently   taken   his  doubting  and  questioning  outside  the  field  of  early  Slavic  studies—to  the   on-­‐‑going  debate  over  the  authorship  of  Shakespeare’s  works.  Don  has  (since   2008)  been  on  the  editorial  board  of  the  online  and  print  journal  Brief  Chron-­‐‑ icles:  An  Interdisciplinary  Journal  of  Authorship  Studies,  which  is  dedicated  to  in-­‐‑ vestigating  the  Shakespearean  canon  from  an  Oxfordian  perspective.  Clearly,   Don   has   produced   a   long   list   of   studies   and   new   discoveries   rooted   in   his   doubting   and   questioning.   Nearly   everything   in   his   extensive   bibliography   presents   a   new   and   convincing   revision   of   things   we   thought   we   knew   so   well.   But   this   is   not   to   say   that   Don   is   a   doctrinaire   revisionist.   Often,   his   doubting  and  questioning  have  led  him  back  to  familiar  ground  and  interpre-­‐‑ tations.  For  all  its  many  bold  and  revisionist  claims  about  the  role  and  influ-­‐‑ ence   of   the   Mongols   in   early   Russian   history,   Don’s   book   about   the   Musco-­‐‑ vites   and   the   Mongols   ends   up   supporting   (and   providing   some   of   the   best   evidence  for)  the  classic  argument,  formerly  made  for  passionate  and  roman-­‐‑ tic   reasons,   that   the   Muscovites   were   deeply   linked   to,   and   borrowed   from,   Byzantium.   This   same   pattern—adding   new   and   supporting   evidence   to   fa-­‐‑ miliar  arguments—is  true  as  well  in  his  study  of  the  “extraordinary  career”  of   Tsarevich  Peter  (Kudai  Kul),  of  Tsar  Simeon  Bekbulatovich,  and  of  old  Mus-­‐‑ covite  political  tales.  Doubting  and  questioning  is  always  the  methodology  in   Don’s   work,   and   his   conclusions   are   what   they   are.   Don   goes   wherever   the   evidence   takes   him.   Sometimes   the   evidence   leads   to   new   and   controversial   territory,   and   other   times   back   to   familiar   landscapes.   In   all   things,   it   is   al-­‐‑ ways  the  evidence  that  guides  Don  to  his  conclusions.  He  is  the  least  ideologi-­‐‑ cal  historian  I  know.   It  is  precisely  Don’s  regard  for  the  evidence  that  is  perhaps  his  most  im-­‐‑ portant  attribute  as  a  scholar,  and  it  is  an  attribute  that  I  believe  is  a  manifes-­‐‑ tation  of  his  character:  his  unfailing  and  highly  principled  sense  of  integrity.   Don  has  absolutely  no  axe  to  grind  in  any  of  his  research.  I  remember  a  con-­‐‑ versation   with   Don   once   when   he   was   uncharacteristically   agitated   by   a   pa-­‐‑

A TRIBUTE TO A DOUBTER AND QUESTIONER

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per  he  had  heard  at  a  conference  that  treated  textology,  paleography,  codicol-­‐‑ ogy,  and  other  kinds  of  textual  studies  as  “ancillary  disciplines.”  As  I  recall  it,   Don’s  point  was  that  all  interpretive  models  must  be  rooted  in  a  firm  under-­‐‑ standing   of   the   sources,   and   any   model   or   theory   that   strays   even   an   inch   from  the  sources  is  not  worth  his  time.  This  is  especially  true,  of  course,  when   working   with   sources   in   the   medieval   and   early   modern   periods,   when   the   dating   and   general   paucity   of   sources   present   enormous   problems   for   histo-­‐‑ rians  trying  to  reconstruct  a  period,  a  reign,  a  biography,  or  a  belief  or  prac-­‐‑ tice.  But  Don  has  argued  in  print  and  in  conference  presentations  that  source   study   (fontology)   is   not   something   just   for   the   pre-­‐‑modernists.   Historians   study   texts—reading   them,   dating   them,   interpreting   them—both   as   the   sources   of   our   information   about   the   past,   but   also   as   a   discrete   and   worthy   subject   of   our   time   and   attention   in   their   own   right.   He   is   right,   of   course.   And  his  conviction  that  all  historians,  regardless  of  the  period  they  study,  are   textual  scholars  is  revealed  in  nearly  every  one  of  the  articles,  book  chapters,   and,   perhaps   especially,   book   reviews   he   has   written.   Don’s   highly-­‐‑tuned   sense   of   integrity,   then,   boils   down   to   an   undistracted   faithfulness   to   the   sources.  His  professional  integrity  is  an  extension  of  his  character.   I   came   to   know   Don   toward   the   end   of   my   time   in   graduate   school   at   Harvard,  but  my  friendship  and  mentor-­‐‑mentee  relationship  with  him  devel-­‐‑ oped   mostly   after   I   had   left   Cambridge   for   western   Pennsylvania   and   as   I   began   my   annual   summer   pilgrimages   back   to   Widener   Library.   Don   and   I   began   to   meet   at   Peet’s   Coffee   House   in   Harvard   Square   for   hours   of   shop   talk  about  Muscovite  history  and  the  politics  of  working  in  our  field  in  these   crepuscular   times.   These   hours   together   with   laptops   and   lattés   are   among   the  most  important  intellectual  experiences  I  have  had  since  finishing  gradu-­‐‑ ate   school.   It   was   at   one   of   these   sessions   that   Don   suggested   that   I   write   a   book  about  bride-­‐‑shows  in  Muscovy,  a  topic  I  had  been  writing  on  for  some   time   but   had   never   considered   pulling   together   into   a   monograph.   Don   was   there  at  the  beginning  of  that  project,  and  he  read  every  word  of  every  chap-­‐‑ ter  afterward,  advising  me  on  small  points  of  fact  and  Slavonic  grammar,  and   engaging  with  genuine  enthusiasm  the  large  conceptual  ideas  in  the  book.  He   was,  in  a  word,  very  generous  with  his  time  and  his  insights,  and  I  am  deeply   grateful  to  him  for  it.   And   I   am   hardly   the   lone   beneficiary   of   Don’s   integrity   and   generosity.   While  Don  and  I  would  sit  at  Peet’s  Café  and  debate  topics  on  early  Russian   or  Eurasian  history,  we  would  often  be  interrupted  by  his  students,  who  call   him  by  his  first  name  and  who  feel  entirely  free  and  invited  to  approach  him   with  any  sort  of  question  they  might  have.  Or,  just  to  chat.  His  students  come   to   Peet’s   because   they   know   he’ll   be   there   (he   is   so   frequent   a   visitor   to   this   café   that   he   was   once   proclaimed   the   “Customer   of   the   Week”)   and   they   know  he’ll  be  willing  to  drop  whatever  he’s  doing—like  talking  to  me—to  an-­‐‑ swer  a  question  or  to  read  over  a  draft.  Don  has  been  teaching  at  the  Harvard   Extension  School  since  1982.  He  has  been  Research  Advisor  in  the  Social  Sci-­‐‑

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ences   since   1988   and   Lecturer   in   Extension   Studies   since   1992.   Before   and   during   these   years,   Don   has   also   taught   at   Boston   University   (1991–92   and   1996–98),  in  the  Committee  on  Degrees  in  History  and  Literature  at  Harvard   (1984–86),   in   the   Department   of   Slavic   Languages   at   Harvard   (1984–85),   and   in  the  History  Department  at  Harvard  (1981−83),  as  well  as  teaching  courses   at   Emerson   College   and   Newbury   College.   Don   takes   his   teaching   responsi-­‐‑ bilities   enormously   seriously   and   had   been   recognized   for   his   achievements   in   the   classroom   at   Harvard,   winning   the   Petra   T.   Shattuck   Excellence   in   Teaching  Award  in  1992.  Yet  he  is  also  one  of  the  most  prolific  scholars  in  our   field.  Employed,  as  I  am,  at  a  self-­‐‑described  “student-­‐‑centered  college,”  where   the  balance  between  teaching,  research,  and  service—the  Holy  Trinity  before   which   all   professors   prostrate   themselves—is   tremendously   hard   to   find,   I   can  only  stand  with  gaping  jaw  at  the  success  he  has  found  in  all  three  areas   of  his  work.  It  is  therefore  not  enough  to  praise  and  celebrate  Don  as  a  highly   published   and   respected   researcher   and   author.   One   must   also   think   of   him   as   a   teacher   and   as   a   successful   and   energetic   contributor   to   the   Extension   School  community.   And  beyond  the  Harvard  Extension  School.  Don  has  been  an  active  leader   in  service  to  his  field,  as  well.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  and  first  officers  of   the   Association   for   the   Study   of   Eastern   Christianity   (ASEC)   and   one   of   the   first   (and   most   active)   members   of   the   Early   Slavic   Studies   Association   (ESSA).   (His   edition   of   the   PVL   won   the   ESSA’s   very   first   Distinguished   Scholarship   Award.)   Perhaps   Don’s   most   important   service   to   the   field   has   been  his  chairing  (since  1998)  of  the  Early  Slavic  Seminar  at  the  Davis  Center   at   Harvard   University,   a   monthly   gathering   of   early   Slavic   specialists   that   provides   a   venue   for   experts   from   around   the   country   (and   the   world)   to   present  their  current  research  to  the  community  of  scholars  at  Harvard.  These   lectures  have  been  the  setting  for  the  first  public  presentations  of  some  of  the   most  important  (and  controversial)  ideas  in  recent  scholarship.  They  have  be-­‐‑ come   places   to   express   doubt,   to   raise   questions,   and   to   seek   the   truth,   and   thus  have  very  much  taken  on  Don’s  personality.   Festschriften  are  rare  tributes,  especially  in  these  tough  days  in  the  pub-­‐‑ lishing   world.   And   they   ought   to   be   rare.   To   offer   one   to   a   colleague   is   the   highest  accolade,  and  the  highest  accolade  ought  to  be  offered  sparingly  and   deservedly.  I  can  think  of  no  one  who  deserves  this  accolade  more  than  Don,   who  has  published  fundamental  and  enduring  works  of  scholarship,  who  has   contributed   broadly   to   the   survival   and   fitness   of   the   field   of   early   Slavic   studies,   and   who   has   energized   students   to   think   critically   and   historically   through   his   teaching.   He   has   taught   us   all   by   his   example   to   doubt   and   to   question,  and  has  done  so  with  enormous  generosity  and  integrity.  Don  is  one   of   the   models   I   attempt   to   emulate   in   my   professional   life.   And   it   is   to   this   model  of  scholarly  doubting  and  questioning  that  I,  along  with  my  co-­‐‑editors,   gratefully  offer  this  book.  

     

An Appreciation of Donald Ostrowski Daniel Rowland    

  Don  Ostrowski  is  my  oldest,  and  one  of  my  very  closest,  friends  among  our   colleagues  and  fellow  workers  in  the  vineyard  of  early  modern  Russian  his– tory.   It   is   a   great   pleasure   indeed   to   present   this   volume   to   him.   I   first   met   Don   in   the   fall   of   1972.   I   had   just   returned   from   the   Soviet   Union,   and   was   working  at  Harvard’s  Widener  Library,  when  I  ran  into  Don  in  the  stacks,  on   the  floor  that  housed  most  of  the  Slavic  collection.  As  he  told  me  of  his  work   on  the  Church  Council  of  1503,  both  his  enthusiasm  and  his  knowledge,  plus   a  certain  pleasure  in  overturning  accepted  opinions,  made  a  great  impression   on  me.  We  became  fast  friends,  much  to  my  benefit,  both  personally  and  pro-­‐‑ fessionally.   Some   of   my   happiest   memories   are   of   long,   long   conversations   with   Don   about   one   or   another   problem   in   Muscovite   history,   and,   a   little   later,   about   ideas,   techniques,   and   materials   for   teaching   that   field,   and   oth-­‐‑ ers.  Don’s  deep  knowledge  of  the  sources  and  his  keen  analytical  mind  made   pretty  much  every  moment  of  these  conversations  intensely  stimulating  and,   sometimes,  a  little  scary.   It  is  these  qualities  that  come  to  mind  when  I  think  of  Don’s  work  in  our   field,   and   his   deep   influence   on   all   who   practice   in   it.   Don   follows   the   evi-­‐‑ dence   of   the   sources,   or   “source   testimony”   as   he   often   calls   it,   without   fear   and   without   preconceptions   that   I   could   detect.   He   examines   all   the   sources   that  he  can  find  for  a  given  problem,  including  most  emphatically  the  history   of  that  piece  of  evidence  from  its  creation  to  the  present,  and  then  draws  what   he  feels  are  the  appropriate  conclusions,  regardless  of  what  others  may  have   concluded   in   the   past.   What   has   always   been   particularly   remarkable   to   me   about  Don  is  that,  although  his  conclusions  often  contradict  the  work  of  other   historians,   he   is   never   motivated   by   personal   rivalries   or   animus.   On   the   contrary,  he  is  full  of  good  cheer  as  he  follows  his  trail  of  evidence,  wherever   it  leads.  He  never  seems  to  be  offended  by  the  views  (or  the  personalities)  of   those  who  disagree  with  him,  but  welcomes  source-­‐‑based  arguments  regard-­‐‑ less  of  the  rank  or  identity  of  his  opponent.   A   story   illustrates   this   point,   a   story   which   circulated   years   ago,   when   Don   and   I   were   both   very   junior   members   of   our   field.   It   seems   that   a   very   senior   scholar,   with   a   distinguished   position   in   a   famous   university   abroad,   was   giving   a   talk   at   the   Harvard   Ukrainian   Research   Institute.   He   made   a   statement  that  surprised  Don,  who  then,  during  the  question  period  after  the   talk,  asked  this  highly  respected  visitor  for  the  sources  that  might  back  up  his   Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 5–7.

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DANIEL ROWLAND

assertion.  Different  versions  of  the  story  have  different  endings,  but  all  agree   that  those  present  were  shocked  that  Don  would  ask  such  a  distinguished  vis-­‐‑ itor  such  a  question.  Don  of  course  meant  absolutely  no  offense:  the  question   is  the  question  that  Don  always  asks,  whether  his  interlocutor  is  a  student  at   the   Harvard   Extension   School,   a   close   friend,   or   a   revered   authority   from   a   famous  institution.  Historical  assertions  have  always  to  be  backed  up  by  the   sources,  and  never  accepted  on  faith.  He  is  cheerfully  (and  admirably)  fearless   in  pressing  everyone  to  cite  the  evidence.   This   fearless   desire   to   examine   sources   has   led   Don   to   explore   many   fields,  some  often  quite  distant  from  his  original  “field”  of  Muscovite  history.   Over  a  relationship  that  spans  almost  40  years,  I  can  hardly  remember  a  time   when   Don   was   not   chewing   on   some   historical   question   and   wondering   about   the   sources   on   which   conventional   opinions   were   based.   His   endless   and   wide-­‐‑ranging   curiosity   led   to   conversations   over   several   years   as   to   whether  William  Shakespeare  was  the  author  of  the  works  conventionally  at-­‐‑ tributed  to  him.  He  wondered,  as  many  of  us  had  done,  about  the  connections   between  Sufism  and  Hesychasm,  but  Don  worked  seriously  to  find  the  links.   His   Muscovite   work   led   him   famously   to   study   the   Mongols   and   Central   Asia,   which   then   led   to   a   deep   interest   in   Chinese   history,   and   then   world   history.   He   has   taught   courses   on   a   truly   astonishing   variety   of   subjects,   al-­‐‑ ways  with  the  same  emphasis  on  the  sources  for  whatever  question  he  might   be   discussing.   Because   of   Don’s   original   approach   to   any   historical   issue,   however   far   removed   from   the   history   of   Muscovy,   Howard   Zinn   singled   Don’s  course  in  American  history  as  one  of  the  best  he  knew  of.     Don’s   interests   vary   as   widely   in   scale   as   they   do   in   geography.   He   is   particularly  well-­‐‑known  among  scholars  of  Muscovy  for  his  painstaking  and   fine-­‐‑grained   studies   of   the   history   of   various   sources,   from   the   “Kurbskii”   corpus,  to  the  Life  of  Aleksandr  Nevskii,  to  the  entire  Primary  Chronicle.  But,   as   his   work   in   world   history   attests,   he   tackles   the   broadest   problems   with   equal   enthusiasm   and   skill.   I   am   especially   fond   of   his   publications   in   the   theory   of   history,   which   I   have   assigned   often   to   my   own   students,   who   al-­‐‑ ways  share  my  enthusiasm.  Don  is  as  much  at  home  discussing  whether  the   plot  of  Russian  history  overall  is  a  comedy  or  a  tragedy  as  he  is  debating  the   existence  of  an  unattested  text  in  the  stemma  of  a  13th-­‐‑century  tale  or  life.     Don  devotes  tremendous  energy  to  teaching,  and  to  his  students.  I  cannot   count   the   number   of   intense,   often   late-­‐‑at-­‐‑night   conversations   we’ve   had   about  how  one  or  another  problem  could  best  be  taught  or  how  best  to  incor-­‐‑ porate   primary   sources   into   our   classroom   discussions.   Any   discussion   of   teaching   makes   Don’s   eyes   light   up.   He   has   composed   a   remarkable   hand-­‐‑ book   on   writing   a   thesis   for   his   social   science   students   at   the   Extension   School,   an   excellent   guidebook   that   I   have   often   used   in   my   own   teaching.   And  seldom  is  the  meeting  with  Don  when  he  fails  to  extol  the  work  of  one  of   his  current  students,  students  whose  theses,  by  the  nature  of  Don’s  job  at  the  

AN APPRECIATION OF DONALD OSTROWSKI

7

Extension   School,   cover   again   an   astonishingly   wide   range   of   topics   within   the  social  sciences.   Finally,  Don  is  and  has  always  been  a  wonderful  and  generous  friend  and   colleague.  From  the  moment  he  first  befriended  me  in  1972,  I  have  benefited   from  endless  discussions,  bibliographic  references,  and  critical  readings  of  my   work   by   Don.   He   has   been   equally   attentive   to   the   needs   and   queries   of   the   most  junior  and  the  most  senior  members  of  our  field.  I  have  spent  countless   nights  sleeping  on  the  floor  of  whatever  apartment  Don  happened  to  be  living   in  near  Cambridge,  since  commuting  daily  from  our  house  in  Maine  has  been   impractical.  I  don’t  think  I’ve  ever  asked  him  for  help  that  he  was  unwilling   to   give.   Like   my   co-­‐‑editors,   I   only   hope   this   volume   can   serve   as   an   inade-­‐‑ quate  expression  of  my  respect  and  my  affection.  

     

Tribute to a Caterfly Brian J. Boeck    

  This  tribute  honors  Don  Ostrowski  as  a  scholar,  a  skeptic,  and  a  role  model.  In   an  age  of  restrictively  narrow  specialization,  he  has  glided  across  the  bound-­‐‑ aries  that  divide  periods,  methods,  and  disciplinary  perspectives.  In  a  time  of   increasing  demands  for  policy-­‐‑relevant  research  and  diminishing  opportuni-­‐‑ ties  for  graduate  training  in  early  Russian  and  Eurasian  history,  he  has  men-­‐‑ tored   a   number   of   young   scholars   and   encouraged   numerous   successful   forays  into  fertile,  pre-­‐‑1800  pastures  avoided  by  the  herd.  Whether  exposing   textological   machinations   or   confronting   tautological   meta-­‐‑narratives,   Don   has   displayed   an   unbridled   curiosity   blended   with   source-­‐‑critical   rigor   and   healthy  skepticism.   I  first  met  Don  in  the  mid-­‐‑1990s  when  I  was  starting  my  graduate  study  at   Harvard.   I   don’t   recall   the   topics   of   our   first   conversations,   but   I   vividly   re-­‐‑ member   that   during   those   conversations   he   asked   seemingly   innocent   ques-­‐‑ tions   which   prodded   me   subsequently   to   undertake   multiple   trips   to   the   stacks  of  Widener  library  in  search  of  answers.  Don  had  already  blazed  many   of  the  trails  that  beckoned  me,  but  he  always  treated  my  queries  as  those  of  a   colleague.   In  the  late  1990s  and  early  2000s  I  was  fortunate  to  become  a  casual  mem-­‐‑ ber  of  Don’s  salon.  Although  my  presence  in  Cambridge  was  intermittent,  due   to   moves,   grants,   and   extended   periods   of   archival   research   in   Russia,   the   Early  Slavic  lunches—later  seminars—that  Don  organized  at  the  Davis  Center   provided  me  with  a  second  education.  Don  made  sure  that  graduate  students   were   most   welcome   to   join   visiting   luminaries   and   Cambridge   notables   in   discussing   and   debating   fascinating   aspects   of   the   pre-­‐‑modern   past   of   Eur-­‐‑ asia.  The  casual  atmosphere  of  encouragement  and  constructive  criticism  that   Don  fostered  advanced  scholarly  dialogue  in  a  way  that  no  conference  setting   could  ever  match.   Don  remained  on  my  mind  long  after  I  left  Cambridge  in  2002.  At  some   point  in  the  1990s  he  had  suggested  to  me  that  world  history  is  a  burgeoning   field   that   deserves   the   attention   of   scholars   of   Russia.   On   a   number   of   occa-­‐‑ sions   he   dropped   not-­‐‑so-­‐‑subtle   hints   about   the   value   of   global   approaches.   They  would  not  only  enhance  the  teaching  resumes  of  newly  minted  Ph.D.s,   but   would   also   point   to   new   directions   for   research   that   insular   and   nation-­‐‑ centered  scholars  would  never  notice.  He  suggested  books,  shared  his  syllabi,   and   demonstrated   the   value   of   the   comparative   approach   in   numerous   publications.   Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 9–10.

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BRIAN BOECK

Don’s   own   articles   and   book   reviews   contain   a   plethora   of   insights   that   historians   of   the   pre-­‐‑modern   world   would   do   well   to   constantly   keep   in   mind.  Scholarly  narratives  are  often  no  more  than  “a  tangled  web  of  assump-­‐‑ tions,   bald   statements,   and   misidentifications.”1   Before   we   can   speculate   about  “what  really  happened”  we  must  first  deal  with  fontology,  which  Don   defines  as  “both  internal  and  external  analysis  of  sources  with  the  aim  of  es-­‐‑ tablishing   authorship,   date,   provenance,   and   authenticity.”2   Before   we   can   seriously  interpret  a  historical  text,  we  must  know  its  publication  history,  its   manuscript   history,   the   principles   used   for   editing   the   text   and   reproducing   variant   readings,   and   the   patterns   of   variation   in   all   extant   versions   of   it.   Finally,  when  sending  our  own  studies  out  into  the  world  we  must  strive  to   present  the  crucial  evidence  in  a  manner  that  would  permit  the  results  of  our   work  with  the  sources  to  be  confirmed  or  at  least  scrutinized  by  a  skeptic  like   Don.   Above   all   Don   taught   me   that   a   true   historian   knows   no   boundaries.     While   his   subspecialization   is   very   dear   to   him,   he   is   equally   conversant   in   the   philosophy   of   history,   Hayden   White’s   approaches   to   historical   narra-­‐‑ tives,  textual  scholarship,  Kuhnian  paradigm  shifts,  silk  roads,  and  world  sys-­‐‑ tems.  Don  co-­‐‑authored  a  response  to  one  of  the  most  important  20th-­‐‑century   typologies   of   history,   Ihor   Ševčenko’s   “Two   Varieties   of   Historical   Writing.”   Ševčenko   divided   historical   practitioners   into   the   categories   of   technical   his-­‐‑ torians  and  vivid  historians,  comparing  the  former  to  caterpillars  focused  on   cabbage   leaves   (sources   and   small-­‐‑scale   insights)   and   the   latter   to   butterflies   which  flitter  across  vast  expanses  of  the  garden  (to  grasp  the  big  picture  and   display  colorful  flourishes  that  speak  to  contemporaries).3  Don  endorsed  the   notion  that  the  ideal  historian  “would  be  able  to  operate  with  equal  facility  on   many   different   levels   of   historical   investigation,   from   the   fontological   to   the   fictional.”4  This  “caterfly”  would  change  shapes,  shift  back  and  forth  between   forms,   and   break   free   of   all   paradigmatic   constraints.   Three   decades   after   helping   to   coin   the   term,   Don   himself   exemplifies   this   rarest   of   all   historical   creatures.   Long   live   the   caterfly   and   woe   unto   those   butterpillars   whose   studies  do  not  live  up  to  his  high  standards!                                                                                                                               1

 Donald  Ostrowski,  review  of  Maksim  Grek  v  Rossii,  by  N.  V.  Sinitsyna,  Kritika  15,  no.  1   (1979):  19.   2  Donald  Ostrowski,  “A  ‘Fontological’  Investigation  of  the  Muscovite  Church  Council   of  1503”  (Ph.D.  diss.,  Pennsylvania  State  University,  1977),  vi.   3  Ihor   Ševčenko,   “Two   Varieties   of   Historical   Writing,”   History   and   Theory   8   (1969):   332–45.   4  Ellen   Hurwitz   and   Donald   Ostrowski,   “The   Many   Varieties   of   Historical   Writing:   Caterpillars  and  Butterflies  Reexamined,”  in  Okeanos:  Essays  Presented  to  Ihor  Ševčenko   on   His   Sixtieth   Birthday   by   His   Colleagues   and   Students,   ed.   Cyril   Mango,   Omeljan   Pritsak,   and   Uliana   M.   Pasicznyk,   Harvard   Ukrainian   Studies   7   (Cambridge,   MA:   Harvard  Ukrainian  Research  Institute,  1983),  306.    

     

Bibliography of Donald Ostrowski       1971 Films   for   Elementary   History   and   Geography.   2nd   ed.   University   Park:   The   Pennsylvania  State  University.   1976 Review  of  Opisanie  rukopisei  Sinodal’nogo  sobraniia  (ne  voshedshikh  v  opisanie  A.   V.   Gorskogo   i   K.   I.   Nevostrueva),   compiled   by   T.   N.   Protas’eva.   Kritika:   A   Review  of  Current  Books  on  Russian  History  12:  1–15.   1977 The  Council  of  1503:  Source  Studies  and  Questions  of  Ecclesiastical  Landowning  in   Sixteenth-­‐‑Century   Muscovy.   Co-­‐‑editor   with   Edward   L.   Keenan.   Cam-­‐‑ bridge,  MA:  Kritika  Press.     “A   ‘Fontological’   Investigation   of   the   Muscovite   Church   Council   of   1503.”   2   vols.  Ph.D.  diss.,  The  Pennsylvania  State  University,  1977.   “Historiographical   Survey   of   the   Moscow   Church   Council   of   1503.”   In   The   Council  of  1503:  Source  Studies  and  Questions  of  Ecclesiastical  Landowning  in   Sixteenth-­‐‑Century   Muscovy,   edited   by   Edward   L.   Keenan   and   Ostrowski,   1–8.  Cambridge,  MA:  Kritika  Press.     Review   of   Problemy   paleografii   i   kodikologii   v   SSSR,   edited   by   A.   D.   Liublin-­‐‑ skaia.  Jahrbücher  für  Geschichte  Osteuropas  25:  264–65.   1979 Review  of  Maksim  Grek  v  Rossii,  by  N.  V.  Sinitsyna.  Kritika:  A  Review  of  Current   Soviet  Books  on  Russian  History  15:  17–30.   1980 Review   of   Obshcherusskie   letopisi   XIV–XV   vv.,   by   Ia.   S.   Lur’e;   and   Nachal’nye   etapy  drevnerusskogo  letopisaniia,  by  A.  G.  Kuzmin.  Kritika:  A  Review  of  Cur-­‐‑ rent  Soviet  Books  on  Russian  History  16:  5–23.     Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 11–23.

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1981 “Textual  Criticism  and  the  Povest’  vremennykh  let:  Some  Theoretical  Consider-­‐‑ ations.”  Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  5  (1):  11–31.   Review   of   Handbuch   zur   Nestorchronik,   edited   by   Ludolf   Müller.   (=   “Forum   Slavicum,”  48–49).  Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  5  (2):  270–71.   Review  of  Krupnaia  votchina  severno-­‐‑vostochnoi  Rusi  kontsa  XIV–pervoi  poloviny   XVI  v.,  by  L.  I.  Ivina.  American  Historical  Review  86  (1):  179.   Review  of  Perepiska  Ivana  Groznogo  s  Andreem  Kurbskim,  edited  by  Ia.  S.  Lur’e   and  Iu.  D.  Rykov.  Kritika:  A  Review  of  Current  Soviet  Books  on  Russian  His-­‐‑ tory  17:  1–17.     Review   of   Povest’   o   Petre   i   Fevronii,   by   R.   P.   Dmitrieva;   and   Povest’   o   Mitiae:   Rus’  i  Vizantiia  v  epokhu  kulikovskoi  bitvy,  by  G.  M.  Prokhorov.  Slavic  Review   40  (1):  103–04.     1982 “Recent   Descriptions   from   the   Soviet   Union   of   Early   Slavic   Manuscripts.”   Polata  knigopisnaia  6:  2–29.     “Yet  Another  ‘Refutation’  of  the  Keenan  Thesis.”  Russian  History  9  (1):  121–26.     Review   of   Nikonovskii   svod   i   russkie   letopisi   XVI–XVII   vekov,   by   B.   M.   Kloss.   Kritika:  A  Review  of  Current  Soviet  Books  on  Russian  History  18:  15–26.   1983 “Did   a   Church   Council   Meet   in   1581?   A   Question   of   Method.”   Slavic   Review   42  (2):  258–65.    “The  Many  Varieties  of  Historical  Writing:  Caterpillars  and  Butterflies  Reex-­‐‑ amined.”  In  “Okeanos:  Essays  Presented  to  Ihor  Ševčenko  on  His  Sixtieth   Birthday   by   His   Colleagues   and   Students,”   edited   by   Cyril   A.   Mango,   Omeljan   Pritsak,   and   Uliana   M.   Pasicznyk.   Special   issue,   Harvard   Ukrainian  Studies  7:  293–308.  [Co-­‐‑author  with  Ellen  Hurwitz]   Review   of   Mikhail,   Prince   of   Chernigov   and   Grand   Prince   of   Kiev   1224–1246,   by   Martin  Dimnik.  Slavonic  and  East  European  Review  61  (2):  279–80.   Review  of  Rossiia  na  rubezhe  XV–XVI  stoletii,  by  A.  A.  Zimin.  Kritika:  A  Review   of  Current  Soviet  Books  on  Russian  History  19:  63–70.   1985 “A   Typology   of   Historical   Theories.”   Diogenes,   no.   129:   127–45.   [Also   ap-­‐‑ peared  as  “Essai  de  typologie  des  théories  de  l’histoire,”  Diogène,  no.  129:   130–50;  and  as  “Tipología  de  las  teorías  históricas,”  Diógenes,  no.  129:  127– 46.]  

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1986 “Church  Polemics  and  Monastic  Land  Acquisition  in  Sixteenth-­‐‑Century  Mus-­‐‑ covy.”   Slavonic   and   East   European   Review   64   (3):   355–79.   [Reprinted   in   Major   Problems   in   Early   Modern   Russian   History,   edited   by   Nancy   Shields   Kollmann  (New  York:  Garland  Publishing  Co.,  1992).]   1987 “The   Christianization   of   Rus’   in   Soviet   Historiography:   Attitudes   and   Inter-­‐‑ pretations,  1920–1960.”  Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  11  (3–4):  444–61.   Review  of  Medieval  Russian  Culture,  edited  by  Henrik  Birnbaum  and  Michael   S.  Flier.  Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  11  (1–2):  246–48.   1988 “A   Source-­‐‑Oriented   Theory   of   Historical   Study.”   Diogenes,   no.   143:   23–40.   [Also  appeared  as  “Retour  aux  sources  de  l’histoire,”  Diogène,  no.  143:  23– 41.]   “Western  Civ  Is  on  the  Rise  with  Older  Students.”  Boston  Globe,  March.     Review   of   Die   Bojarenduma   unter   Ivan   IV:   Studien   altmoskauer   Herrschaftsord-­‐‑ nung,   by   Hans-­‐‑Walter   Camphausen.   Jahrbücher   für   Geschichte   Osteuropas   36:  283–84.   1989 “The  Historian  and  the  Virtual  Past.”  The  Historian:  A  Journal  of  History  51  (2):   201–20.   1990 “A   Metahistorical   Analysis:   Hayden   White   and   Four   Narratives   of   ‘Russian’   History.”   Clio:   A   Journal   of   Literature-­‐‑History-­‐‑Philosophy   of   History   19   (3):   215–36.   “The  Mongol  Origins  of  Muscovite  Political  Institutions.”  Slavic  Review  49  (4):   525–42.    “Second-­‐‑Redaction   Additions   in   Carpini’s   Ystoria   Mongalorum.”   In   “Adelphotes:   A   Tribute   to   Omeljan   Pritsak   by   His   Students,”   edited   by   Frank  E.  Sysyn.  Special  issue,  Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  14  (3–4):  522–50.     “A  Stemma  for  the  First  Letter  of  A.  M.  Kurbskii.”  Oxford  Slavonic  Papers  23:   1–12.  

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1991 “Byzantium  and  the  Creation  of  a  Muscovite  Historical  Past.”  In  XVIIIth  Inter-­‐‑ national  Congress  of  Byzantine  Studies.  Moskovskii  gosudarstvennyi  universitet   im.   M.   V.   Lomonosova,   8–15   August   1991,   833–34.   Moscow:   Institut  vseob-­‐‑ shchei  istorii  AN  SSSR  i  Institut  slavianovedeniia  i  balkanstiki  AN  SSSR.   “What   Makes   a   Translation   Bad?   Gripes   of   an   End   User.”   Harvard   Ukrainian   Studies  15  (3–4):  429–46.    “Why   Were   the   Streltsi   Old   Believers?”   NEWS   of   the   History   Department   at   Boston  University,  October:  6,  12–14.   1992 “Errata   [to   “What   Makes   a   Translation   Bad?].”   Harvard   Ukrainian   Studies   16   (1–2):  237.    “The   Military   Land   Grant   along   the   Muslim-­‐‑Christian   Frontier.”   Russian   History/Histoire  russe  19:  327–59.   1993 “Council   of   1503,   Orthodox   Church.”   In   Modern   Encyclopedia   of   Religions   in   Russia   and   the   Soviet   Union,   edited   by   Paul   D.   Steeves,   5:   226–32.   Gulf   Breeze,  FL:  Academic  International  Press.   “Why   Did   the   Metropolitan   Move   from   Kiev   to   Vladimir   in   the   Thirteenth   Century?”  In  Christianity  and  the  Eastern  Slavs,  vol.  1:  Slavic  Cultures  in  the   Middle  Ages,  edited  by  Boris  Gasparov  and  Olga  Raevsky-­‐‑Hughes,  83–101.   Berkeley:   University   of   California   Press.   [Revised   version,   “The   Move   of   the  Metropolitan  from  Kiev  in  1299,”  available  at   http://hudce7.harvard.edu/ ostrowski/Rus’%20Church/metromove.pdf]   Review  of  The  Laws  of  Rus’—Tenth  to  Fifteenth  Centuries,  translated  and  edited   by  Daniel  H.  Kaiser,  vol.  1  of  The  Laws  of  Russia,  series  1.  Salt  Lake  City:   Charles  Schlacks,  Jr.,  1992.  Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  17  (3–4):  386–87.   1994 Review  of  Religion  and  Society  in  Russia:  The  Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centuries,   by  Paul  Bushkovitch.  Canadian-­‐‑American  Slavic  Studies  28:  306–09.   “Errata”  [to  “The  Military  Land  Grant  along  the  Christian-­‐‑Muslim  Frontier”].   Russian  History/Histoire  russe  21  (1–4):  249−50.  

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1995 “From   China   to   the   Charles:   Proposal   and   Thesis   Writers   Support   Group   Meetings  for  Candidates  in  Social  Sciences.”  ALM  Messenger:  Newsletter  of   the  Master  of  Liberal  Arts  Program  of  the  Harvard  University  Extension  School   1  (1):  5.    “Index  Verborum  to  the  Sinai  Fragments.”  [Co-­‐‑editor  with  Ihor  Ševčenko]  In   Ihor   Ševčenko,   “Report   on   the   Glagolitic   Fragments   (of   the   Euchologim   Sinaiticum?)   Discovered   on   Sinai   in   1975   and   Some   Thoughts   on   the   Models   for   the   Make-­‐‑up   of   the   Earliest   Glagolitic   Manuscripts.”   Harvard   Ukrainian  Studies  6.  Reprinted  in  Ihor  Ševčenko,  Byzantium  and  the  Slavs    in   Letters   and   Culture.   Cambridge,   MA:   Harvard   Ukrainian   Research   Institute;  Naples:  Instituto  universitario  orientale.     Primary   Sources   Supplement   to   World   History.   St.   Paul:   West   Educational   Publishers.    “The  Waiting  Game,  or  Where  O  Where  Can  My  Thesis  Director  Be?”  ALM   Messenger:   Newsletter   of   the   Master   of   Liberal   Arts   Program   of   the   Harvard   University  Extension  School  1  (2):  1,  5.   1997 “Film  in  History.”  NEWS  of  the  History  Department  at  Boston  University,  April:   8–9.   “Finding   That   Elusive   Thesis   Topic   in   the   Social   Sciences.”   ALM   Messenger:   Newsletter   of   the   Master   of   Liberal   Arts   Program   of   the   Harvard   University   Extension  School  2  (1):  3–5.    “Kamen”   Kraeug”l’n”:   Rhetoric   of   the   Medieval   Slavic   World.   Essays   Pre-­‐‑ sented   to   Edward   L.   Keenan   on   His   Sixtieth   Birthday   by   His   Colleagues   and   Students.”   Special   issue,   Harvard   Ukrainian   Studies   19   (1995).   [Co-­‐‑ editor  with  Nancy  Shields  Kollmann,  Andrei  Pliguzov,  and  Daniel  Row-­‐‑ land].   “Loving  Silence  and  Avoiding  Pleasant  Conversations:  The  Political  Views  of   Nil   Sorskii.”   In   “Kamen”   Kraeug”l’n”:   Rhetoric   of   the   Medieval   Slavic   World.   Essays   Presented   to   Edward   L.   Keenan   on   His   Sixtieth   Birthday   by   His   Colleagues   and   Students,”   edited   by   Nancy   Shields   Kollmann,   Ostrowski,   Andrei   Pliguzov,   and   Daniel   Rowland,   476–96.   Special   issue,   Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  19  (1995).   Appendix  for  Ihor  Ševčenko,  “To  Call  a  Spade  a  Spade,  or  the  Etymology  of   Rogalie.”   In   “Kamen”   Kraeug”l’n”:   Rhetoric   of   the   Medieval   Slavic   World.   Essays   Presented   to   Edward   L.   Keenan   on   His   Sixtieth   Birthday   by   His   Colleagues   and   Students,”   edited   by   Nancy   Shields   Kollmann,   Ostrowski,   Andrei   Pliguzov,   and   Daniel   Rowland,   617–26.   Special   issue,   Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  19  (1995).  

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Review  of  Dve  istorii  Rusi  XVI  v.:  Rannie  i  pozdnie,  nezavisimye  i  ofitsial’nye  leto-­‐‑ pisi   ob   obrazovanii   Moskovskogo   gosudarstva,   by   Ia.   S.   Lur’e.   Russia   Mediae-­‐‑ valis  9:  197–202.   Review   of   The   Legend   of   the   Novgorodian   White   Cowl:   The   Study   of   Its   “Pro-­‐‑ logue”and   “Epilogue,”   by   Miroslav   Labunka.   Harvard   Ukrainian   Studies   21   (3–4):  492–94.   1998 “City   Names   of   the   Western   Steppe   at   the   Time   of   the   Mongol   Invasion.”   Bulletin  of  the  School  of  Oriental  and  African  Studies  61  (3):  465–75.   Muscovy  and  the  Mongols:  Cross-­‐‑Cultural  Influences  on  the  Steppe  Frontier,  1304– 1589.  Cambridge:  Cambridge  University  Press.   “Preliminary   Report   of   the   ESSA   Computer   Committee.”   Newsletter   of   the   Early  Slavic  Studies  Association  11  (2):  3–4.   “The  Tamma  and  the  Dual-­‐‑Administrative  Structure  of  the  Mongol  Empire.”   Bulletin  of  the  School  of  Oriental  and  African  Studies  61  (2):  262–77.   “Toward   Establishing   the   Canon   of   Nil   Sorsky’s   Works.”   Oxford   Slavonic   Papers  31:  35–50.   Review   of   The   Dynasty   of   Chernigov,   1054–1146,   by   Martin   Dimnik.   Russian   Review  57  (2):  295–96.   1999 “Principles  of  Editing  the  Povest’  vremennykh  let.”  Palaeoslavica  7:  5–25.   “A  Reexamination  of  Richard  Halliburton’s  Interview  with  P.  Z.  Ermakov  as   Evidence  for  the  Murder  of  the  Romanovs.”  Russian  History/Histoire  russe   25:  301–28.   “Who  Are  the  Rus’  and  Why  Did  They  Emerge?”  Palaeoslavica  7:  307–12   2000 “Donald   Ostrowski   Replies.”   Kritika:   Explorations   in   Russian   and   Eurasian   History  1  (4):  832–33.   “Early   Pomest’e   Grants   as   a   Historical   Source.”   Oxford   Slavonic   Papers   33:   36– 63.   “Muscovite   Adaption   of   Steppe   Political   Institutions:   A   Reply   to   Halperin’s   Objections.”  Kritika:  Explorations  in  Russian  and  Eurasian  History  1  (2):  267– 304.   “Reply   to   Ryan.”   Reviews   in   History,   September   2000,   http://ihr.sas.ac.uk/ihr/ reviews/ostrowskiD.html.  

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Review   of   A   History   of   Russia,   Central   Asia   and   Mongolia,   vol.   1,   Inner   Eurasia   from  Prehistory  to  the  Mongol  Empire,  by  David  Christian.  Speculum  75  (4):   902–04.   2001 “Mongol’skie   korni   russkikh   gosudarstvennykh   uchrezhdenii.”   In   Amerikanskaia   rusistika:   Verkhi   istoriografii   poslednikh   let.   Period   Kievskoi   i   Moskovskoi   Rusi.   Antologiia,   compiled   by   George   Majeska,   edited   by   T.   I.   Kuznetsova,   and   translated   by   Z.   N.   Isidorovoi,   525–42.   Samara:   Izd-­‐‑vo   “Samarskii   universitet,”   2001.   [Previously   published   as   “The   Mongol   Origins   of   Muscovite   Political   Institutions,”   Slavic   Review   49   (1990):   143– 71.]   “A  Muscovite  Saint  Set  and  Iona  the  Intruder.”  Russia  Mediaevalis  10:  150–55.     2002 “The   Façade   of   Legitimacy:   Exchange   of   Power   and   Authority   in   Early   Modern  Russia.”  Comparative  Studies  in  Society  and  History  44  (3):  534–63.   “Ironies   of   the   Tale   of   the   White   Cowl.”   In   Chrusai   Pulai/Zlataja   vrata:   Essays   Presented   to   Ihor   Ševčenko   on   His   Eightieth   Birthday   by   His   Colleagues   and   Students,  edited  by  Peter  Schreiner  and  Olga  Strakhov,  27–54.  Cambridge,   MA:  Palaeoslavica.   “Military   Mobilization   by   the   Muscovite   Grand   Princes   (1313–1533).”   In   The   Military  and  Society  in  Russia,  1450–1917,  edited  by  Eric  Lohr  and  Marshall   Poe,  19–40.  Leiden:  Brill.     Muscovy  and  the  Mongols:  Cross-­‐‑Cultural  Influences  on  the  Steppe  Frontier,  1304– 1589.   Cambridge:   Cambridge   University   Press,   2002.   “Corrections,   Changes   and   Updates”   to   Muscovy   and   the   Mongols:   Cross-­‐‑Cultural   Influences   on   the   Steppe   Frontier,   1304–1589,   http://hudce7.harvard. edu/~ostrowski/mm/errata2.pdf.  [Paperback  edition]     “Ruling  Class  Structures  of  the  Kazan’  Khanate.”  In  The  Turks,  vol.  2,  Middle   Ages,   edited   by   Hasan   Celâl   Güzel,   C.   Cem   Oğuz,   and   Osman   Karatay,   841–47.   Ankara:   Yeni   Türkiye,   2002.   [Also   appeared   as   “Kazan   Han-­‐‑ liği’nda   İddarî   Yapi,”   in   Türkler,   vol.   8,   translated   by   Özgür   Çinarli   and   Mustafa   Cankal,   edited   by   Hasan   Celâl   Güzel,   Kemal   Çiçek,   and   Salim   Koca,  453–59.  Ankara:  Yeni  Türkiye]   Review   of   Srednevekovoe   rasselenie   na   Belom   ozere,   by   N.   A.   Makarov,   S.   D.   Zakharov,  and  A.  P.  Buzhilova.  Slavic  Review  61  (4):  847–48.  

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2003 “Berdibek.”   In   Supplement   to   the   Modern   Encyclopedia   of   Russian,   Soviet,   and   Eurasian   History,   edited   by   Bruce   Adams,   Edward   J.   Lazzerini,   and   George  N.  Rhyne,  4:  125.  Gulf  Breeze,  FL:  Academic  International  Press.   “Berke.”   In   Supplement   to   the   Modern   Encyclopedia   of   Russian,   Soviet,   and   Eurasian   History,   edited   by   Bruce   Adams,   Edward   J.   Lazzerini,   and   George   N.   Rhyne,   4:   137–38.   Gulf   Breeze,   FL:   Academic   International   Press.   “Current  State  of  Sixteenth-­‐‑Century  Muscovite  Church  Studies”  (abstract).  In   Monastic  Traditions:  Selected  Proceedings  of  the  Fourth  International  Hilandar   Conference,   edited   by   Charles   E.   Gribble   and   Predrag   Matejic,   207–09.   Bloomington,  IN:  Slavica  Publishers.   “Introduction.”   In   The   Povest’   vremennykh   let:   An   Interlinear   Collation   and   Paradosis,   compiled   and   edited   by   Donald   Ostrowski,   1:   xvii–lxxiii.   Harvard  Library  of  Early  Ukrainian  Literature,  10,  pt.  1.  Cambridge,  MA:   Harvard   Ukrainian   Research   Institute.   [Also   appeared   as   “Vstup,”   in   ibid.,  vol.  2,  pp.  ci–clviii.]   “500  let  spustia:  Tserkovnyi  sobor  1503  g.”  Palaeoslavica  11:  214–39.   The  Povest’  vremennykh  let:  An  Interlinear  Collation  and  Paradosis.  3  vols.  Edited   by  Donald  Ostrowski.  Harvard  Library  of  Early  Ukrainian  Literature  10.   Cambridge,   MA:   Harvard   Ukrainian   Research   Institute.   http://hudce7. harvard.edu/~ostrowski/pvl/   2004 “The  Assembly  of  the  Land  (Zemskii  Sobor)  as  a  Representative  Institution.”  In   Modernizing   Muscovy:   Reform   and   Social   Change   in   Seventeenth-­‐‑Century   Russia,   edited   by   Jarmo   Kotilaine   and   Marshall   Poe,   117–42.   London:   Routledge  Curzon.     “Batu.”  In  Encyclopedia  of  Russian  History,  edited  by  James  R.  Millar,  1:  130–31.   New  York:  Macmillan.   “Christianization.”   In   Encyclopedia   of   Russian   History,   edited   by   James   R.   Millar,  1:  252–53.  New  York:  Macmillan.   “The   Extraordinary   Career   of   Tsarevich   Kudai   Kul/Peter   in   the   Context   of   Relations  between  Muscovy  and  Kazan’.”  In  States,  Societies,  Cultures:  East   and  West:  Essays  in  Honor  of  Jaroslaw  Pelenski,  edited  by  Janusz  Duzinkie-­‐‑ wicz,   Myroslav   Popovych,   Vladyslav   Verstiuk,   and   Natalia   Yakovenko,   697–719.  New  York:  Ross  Publishing.   “Golden  Horde.”  In  Encyclopedia  of  Russian  History,  edited  by  James  R.  Millar,   2:  57173.  New  York:  Macmillan.     “Kazan’.”  In  Encyclopedia  of  Russian  History,  edited  by  James  R.  Millar,  2:  732– 33.  New  York:  Macmillan.  

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“Kulikovo  Field,  Battle  of.”  In  Encyclopedia  of  Russian  History,  edited  by  James   R.  Millar,  2:  796.  New  York:  Macmillan.   “Makary,  Metropolitan.”  In  Encyclopedia  of  Russian  History,  edited  by  James  R.   Millar,  3:  886–88.  New  York:  Macmillan.   “Metropolitan.”   In   Encyclopedia   of   Russian   History,   edited   by   James   R.   Millar,   3:  918–19.  New  York:  Macmillan.   “Primary   Chronicle.”   In   Encyclopedia   of   Russian   History,   edited   by   James   R.   Millar,  3:  1224–26.  New  York:  Macmillan.   “Yarlyk.”  In  Encyclopedia  of  Russian  History,  edited  by  James  R.  Millar,  4:  1700– 01.  New  York:  Macmillan.   Review  of  Moskva  i  Orda,  by  A.  A.  Gorskii.  Kritika:  Explorations  in  Russian  and   Eurasian  History  5  (3):  383–85.   2005 “Chingis   Khan.”   In   Supplement   to   the   Modern   Encyclopedia   of   Russian,   Soviet,   and   Eurasian   History,   edited   by   Bruce   Adams,   Edward   J.   Lazzerini,   and   George  N.  Rhyne,  6:  42–48.  Gulf  Breeze,  FL:  Academic  International  Press.   “Direction   of   Borrowing:   The   Relationship   of   the   Life   of   Iosif   by   Lev   Filolog   and   the   Life   of   Serapion,   Archbishop   of   Novgorod.”   Palaeoslavica   13   (1):   109– 41.   “Scribal  Practices  and  Copying  Probabilities  in  the  Transmission  of  the  Text  of   the  Povest’  vremennykh  let.”  Palaeoslavica  13  (2):  48–77.   2006 “The   Account   of   Volodimir’s   Conversion   in   the   Povest’   vremennykh   let:   A   Chiasmus  of  Stories.”  Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  28:  567–80.   “Alexander   Nevskii’s   ‘Battle   on   the   Ice’:   The   Creation   of   a   Legend.”   Russian   History/Histoire  russe  33:  289–312.   “Closed  Circles:  Edward  L.  Keenan’s  Early  Textual  Work  and  the  Semiotics  of   Response.”  Canadian  Slavonic  Papers  48:  247–68.   “The  Growth  of  Muscovy,  1462–1533.”  In  The  Cambridge  History  of  Russia,  vol.   1:   From   Early   Rus’   to   1689,   edited   by   Maureen   P.   Perrie,   213–39.   Cam-­‐‑ bridge:  Cambridge  University  Press.   “Striving   for   Perfection:   Transcription   of   the   Laurentian   Copy   of   the   Povest’   vremennykh  let.”  Russian  Linguistics  30  (3):  437–51.   2007 A.   A.   Zimin   and   the   Controversy   over   the   Igor   Tale.   [Co-­‐‑edited   with   Russell   E.   Martin].  Armonk,  NY:  M.  E.  Sharpe,  2007.  

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“The   Galician-­‐‑Volynian   Chronicle,   the   Life   of   Alexander   Nevskii   and   the   Thirteenth-­‐‑Century  Military  Tale.”  Palaeoslavica  15:  307–24.   “Guest  Editors’  Introduction.”  In  A.  A.  Zimin  and  the  Controversy  over  the  Igor   Tale,   edited   by   Russell   E.   Martin   and   Donald   Ostrowski,   3–12.   Armonk,   NY:  M.  E.  Sharpe,  2007.   “Moscow  the  Third  Rome  as  Historical  Ghost.”  In  Byzantium:  Faith  and  Power   (1261–1557).  Perspectives  on  Late  Byzantine  Art  and  Culture,  edited  by  Sarah   Brooks,  170–79.  New  York:  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art.     “The   Načal’nyj   Svod   Theory   and   the   Povest’   vremennykh   let.”   Russian   Linguistics  31  (3):  269–308.   “The  Title  of  the  Povest’  vremennykh  let  Redux.”  Ruthenica  6:  316–21.   Review  of  Die  Russisch-­‐‑orthodoxe  Kirche  in  mittelalterlichin  Pskov,  by  Julia  Prinz-­‐‑ Aus  der  Wiesche.  Jahrbücher  für  Geschichte  Osteuropas  55:  440–41.   2008 “An   Ideal   Prince   for   the   Times:   Alexander   Nevskii   in   Rus’   Literature.”   Palaeoslavica  16  (2):  259–71.   “Melchior   Sternfels   von   Fuchshaim   in   Muscovy.”   Russian   History/Histoire   russe  35  (3–4):  395–408.   “Redating  the  Life  of  Alexander  Nevskii.”  In  Rude  &  Barbarous  Kingdom  Revisited:   Essays  in  Russian  History  and  Culture  in  Honor  of  Robert  O.  Crummey,  edited   by  Chester  S.  L.  Dunning,  Russell  E.  Martin,  and  Daniel  Rowland,  23–39.   Bloomington,  IN:  Slavica.   “Parallels   of   Mysticism:   The   Hesychasm   of   Nil   Sorskii   and   Sufism.”   In   Nil   Sorskii   v   kul’ture   i   knizhnosti   Drevnei   Rusi:   Materialy   konferentsii,   12   maia   2008   g.,   edited   by   A.   I.   Alekseev   et   al.,   41–52.   St.   Petersburg:   Rossiiskaia   natsional’naia  biblioteka.   “16th-­‐‑Century   Muscovite   Cavalrymen.”   In   Picturing   Russia:   Explorations   in   Visual  Culture,  edited  by  Valerie  A.  Kivelson  and  Joan  Neuberger,  28–32.   New  Haven:  Yale  University  Press.   “Where   Was   Riurik’s   First   Seat   according   to   the   Povest’   vremennykh   let?”   Drevniaia  Rus’:  Voprosy  medievistiki,  no.  3  (33)  (September):  47–48.     Review  of  Latin  Books  and  the  Eastern  Orthodox  Clerical  Elite  in  Kiev  1632–1780,   by  Liudmila  V.  Charipova.  Journal  of  Ecclesiastical  History  59  (4):  777.   Review   of   The   Origins   of   the   Slavic   Nations:   Premodern   Identities   in   Russia,   Ukraine,   and   Belarus,   by   Serhii   Plokhy.   Canadian   Slavonic   Papers   50   (3–4):   521–22.   Review  of  Tekstologiia  drevnei  Rusi,  by  S.  A.  Bugoslavskii;  Tekstologiia  russkikh   letopisei   XI–nachala   XIV   vv.,   vypusk   1,   Kievo-­‐‑Pecherskoe   letopisanie   do   1112   goda;   and   Galitsko-­‐‑Volynskaia   letopis’.   Tekst.   Kommentarii.   Issledovanie,   compiled   by   N.   F.   Kotliar,   V.   Iu.   Franchuk,   and   A.   G.   Plakhonin,   under   the  editorship  of  N.  F.  Kotliar.  Kritika:  Explorations  in  Russian  and  Eurasian   History  9  (4):  939–49.  

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2009 “The  Application  of  Biblical  Exegesis  to  the  Study  of  the  Rus’  Chronicles.”  In   Medieval   Slavonic   Studies:   New   Perspectives   for   Research/Études   slaves   médiévales.   Nouvelles   perspectives   de   recherché,   edited   by   Juan   Antonio   Àlvarez-­‐‑Pedrosa   and   Susana   Torres   Prieto,   169–91.   Collection   historique   de  l’Institut  d’Études  slaves  43.  Paris:  Institut  d’Études  slaves.   “Foreword.”   In   Konstantin   Sheiko,   Nationalist   Imaginings   of   the   Russian   Past:   Anatolii   Fomenko   and   the   Rise   of   Alternative   History   in   Post-­‐‑Communist   Russia,  edited  by  Stephen  Brown,  9–10.  Stuttgart:  Ibidem-­‐‑Verlag.     “Identifying  Psalmic  Quotations  in  the  Povest’  vremennykh  let.”  In  Culture  and   Identity  in  Eastern  Christian  History:  Papers  of  the  First  Biennial  Conference  of   the  Association  for  the  Study  of  Eastern  Christian  History  and  Culture,  edited   by   Russell   E.   Martin   and   Jennifer   D.   Spock   with   the   assistance   of   M.   A.   Johnson,   217–50.   Eastern   Christian   Studies   1   (=   Ohio   Slavic   Papers   9).   Columbus:   Ohio   State   University   Center   for   Slavic   and   East   European   Studies.     “Images  of  the  White  Cowl.”  In  The  New  Muscovite  Cultural  History:  A  Collec-­‐‑ tion   in   Honor   of   Daniel   B.   Rowland,   edited   by   Valerie   Kivelson,   Karen   Petrone,   Nancy   Shields   Kollmann,   and   Michael   Flier,   271–84.   Blooming-­‐‑ ton,  IN:  Slavica  Publishers.   “The  Mongols  and  Rus’:  Eight  Paradigms.”  In  A  Companion  to  Russian  History,   edited  by  Abbott  Gleason,  66–86.  Oxford:  Wiley-­‐‑Blackwell.   “The  Tatar  Campaign  of  1252.”  Palaeoslavica  17  (2):  46–64.   Review  of  Byzantine  Hermeneutics  and  Pedagogy  in  the  Russian  North:  Monks  and   Masters   at   the   Kirillo-­‐‑Belozerskii   Monastery,   1397–1501,   by   Robert   Roman-­‐‑ chuk.  Slavic  Review  68  (2):  426–27.   2010 “The  End  of  Muscovy:  The  Case  for  ca.  1800.”  Slavic  Review  68  (2):  426–38.   “The  Replacement  of  the  Composite  Reflex  Bow  by  Firearms  in  the  Muscovite   Cavalry.”   Kritika   11   (3):   513–34.   [Reprinted   with   illustrations   in   Everyday   Life  in  Russian  History:  Quotidian  Studies  in  Honor  of  Daniel  Kaiser,  edited  by   Gary   Marker,   Joan   Neuberger,   Marshall   Poe,   and   Susan   Rapp,   203–27.   Bloomington,  IN:  Slavica  Publishers.]   Review   of   State   Service   in   Sixteenth   Century   Novgorod:   The   First   Century   of   the   Pomestie  System,  by  Vincent  E.  Hammond.  Slavic  Review  69  (4):  999–1000.  

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2011 “Introduction.”   In   Portraits   of   Old   Russia:   Imagined   Lives   of   Ordinary   People,   1300–1725,   edited   by   Ostrowski   and   Marshall   T.   Poe,   xxiii–xxviii.   Ar-­‐‑ monk,  NY:  M.  E.  Sharpe.   “Memoir   of   a   Tatar   Prince.”   In   Portraits   of   Old   Russia:   Imagined   Lives   of   Ordi-­‐‑ nary   People,   1300–1725,   edited   by   Ostrowski   and   Marshall   T.   Poe,   14–23.   Armonk,  NY:  M.  E.  Sharpe.   “Pagan   Past   and   Christian   Identity   in   the   Primary   Chronicle.”   In   Historical   Narratives   and   Christian   Identity   on   a   European   Periphery:   Early   History   Writing  in  Northern,  East  Central,  and  Eastern  Europe  (c.  1070–1200),  edited   by  Ildar  H.  Garipzanov,  229–53.  Turnhout:  Brepols.   Portraits  of  Old  Russia:  Imagined  Lives  of  Ordinary  People,  1300–1725.  [(Co-­‐‑edited   with  Marshall  T.  Poe]  Armonk,  NY:  M.  E.  Sharpe.   Review  of  Dating  Shakespeare’s  Plays:  A  Critical  Review  of  the  Evidence,  edited  by   Kevin   Gilvary.   Brief   Chronicles:   An   Interdisciplinary   Journal   of   Authorship   Studies   3:   246−57,   available   at   http://www.shakespearefellowship.org/ briefchronicles/briefchronicles-3.pdf.   Review   of   Kasimovskoe   khanstvo   (1445–1552   gg.):   Ocherki   istorii,   by   Bulat   Rakhimzianov.  Russian  Review  70  (2):  333–34.   2012  “Inner   Eurasia:   Empires   and   Silk   Roads.”   Kritika:   Explorations   in   Russian   and   Eurasian  History  13  (1):  201−15.     “The  Letter  concerning  Animosities  as  a  Polemical  Source  for  Monastic  Rela-­‐‑ tions  of  the  Mid-­‐‑Sixteenth  Century.”  Russian  History  39  (1−2):  77−105.     “Peter’s   Dragoons:   How   the   Russians   Won   at   Poltava.”   In   Poltava   1709:   The   Battle   and   the   Myth,   edited   by   Serhii   Plohy   and   Michael   Flier,   81–106.   Cambridge,  MA:  Harvard  Ukrainian  Research  Institute.   “Simeon  Bekbulatovich  (?–1616).”  In  Russia’s  People  of  Empire:  Life  Stories  from   Eurasia,   1500   to     the   Present,   edited   by   Williard   Sunderland   and   Steven   Norris,  27−36.  Bloomington:  Indiana  University  Press.   “Simeon  Bekbulatovich’s  Remarkable  Career  as  Tatar  Khan,  Grand  Prince  of   Rus’,   and   Monastic   Elder,”   and   “Response.”   Russian   History   39   (3−4):   269−99,  339−45.   Review  of  The  Horse,  the  Wheel,  and  Language:  How  Bronze-­‐‑Age  Riders  from  the   Eurasian   Steppe   Shaped   the   Modern   World,   by   David   W.   Anthony.   Middle   Ground:  An  Online  Journal  for  World  Historians,  no.  4  (Spring),  available  at   http://www2.css.edu/app/depts/HIS/historyjournal/index.cfm?name=Review-of-TheHorse,-the-Wheel-and-Language:-How-Bronze-Age-Riders-from-the-EurasianSteppes-Shaped-the-Modern-World-by-David-W.-Anthony&cat=7&art=85  

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Forthcoming “‘Dressing  a  Wolf  in  Sheep’s  Clothing’:  Toward  Understanding  the  Composi-­‐‑ tion  of  the  Life  of  Alexander  Nevskii.”  In  Centers  and  Peripheries  in  the  Chris-­‐‑ tian  East:  Papers  from  the  Second  Biennial  Conference  of  the  Association  for  the   Study  of  Eastern  Christian  History  and  Culture.  Edited  by  Eugene  Clay,  Rus-­‐‑ sell   Martin,   and   Barbara   Skinner.   In   the   series   Eastern   Christian   Studies,   3.  Columbus:  Ohio  State  University  Center  for  Slavic  and  East  European   Studies.   “The   Integration   of   Early   Modern   Russia   into   World   History.”   In   Eurasian   Slavery,   Ransom   and   Abolition   in   World   History   1550−1860,   edited   by   Christoph  Witzenrath  (to  be  published  by  Ashgate).    “The   Moscow   Church   Councils,   1447–1589.”   In   The   Tapestry   of   Russian   Christianity:  Studies  in  History  and  Culture,  edited  by  Nickolas  Lupinin  and   Donald   Ostrowski.   In   the   series   Eastern   Christian   Studies   2.   Columbus:   Ohio  State  University  Center  for  Slavic  and  East  European  Studies.   The   Tapestry   of   Russian   Christianity:   Studies   in   History   and   Culture.   Edited   by   Nickolas   Lupinin   and   Donald   Ostrowski.   In   the   series   Eastern   Christian   Studies   2.   Columbus:   Ohio   State   University   Center   for   Slavic   and   East   European  Studies.   “Systems  of  Succession  in  Rus’  and  Steppe  Societies.”  Ruthenica  11  (2012).  

Rus’ and Eurasia

     

Huns and Xi ngnú: New Thoughts on an Old Problem*  

Christopher P. Atwood       In  a  recent  article,  Étienne  de  la  Vaissière  has  marshaled  a  strong  case  that  the   people   identified   in   Sogdian   as   Xwn   and   in   Sanskrit   as   Hūṇa   are   indeed   ex-­‐‑ actly  the  same  people  as  the  Chinese  Xiōngnú.1  Given  that  Xwn  and  Hūṇa are   usually  identified  with  the  Greek  Ounnoi  or  Latin  Hunni,  this  would  lead  us   to   agree   with   de   la   Vaissière   that   the   old   theory   that   Xiōngnú=Hun   has   de-­‐‑ feated  its  antagonists  and  is  worth  of  consideration  once  again.     There  is  one  serious  problem  with  this  equivalence,  though,  one  that  de  la   Vaissière  does  not  address  very  concretely.  This  is  the  very  poor  phonological   match  between  Chinese  Xiōngnú,  Sogdian  Xwn,  Sanskrit  Hūṇa,  Greek  Ounnoi,   and   Latin   Hunni.2   As   Otto   Maenchen-­‐‑Helfen   put   it   long   ago:   “the   equation   Hun  =  Hiung-­‐‑nu  is  phonetically  unsound.”3  While  de  la  Vaissière  criticizes  H.   W.  Bailey  for  just  assuming  that  the  Avestan  X∆yaona  and  Hun  must  be  phono-­‐‑ logical  matches,  he  too  offers  no  explanation  for  the  rather  large  gap  between   Chinese   Xiōngnú   and,   for   example,   Greek   Ounnoi,   except   to   invoke   vaguely   different  dialects  and  unnamed  potential  intermediaries.4  

                                                                                                                          It  is  a  pleasure  to  present  this  scholarly  contribution  to  Donald  Ostrowski  on  the  occa-­‐‑ sion  of  his  65th  birthday.  I  also  would  like  to  thank  my  colleagues  Richard  Nance  (e-­‐‑ mails,  17  and  30  January  and  2  February  2011)  and  Jamsheed  Choksy  (e-­‐‑mails,  21  Janu-­‐‑ ary   and   1   February   2011)   for   their   valuable   discussions   of   questions   of   Sanskrit   and   Iranian  philology  with  me.  Dr.  Mark  Dickens  of  Cambridge  likewise  gave  me  invalu-­‐‑ able  assistance  with  Syriac  sources  (emails  of  18  February,  and  Mark  Dickens,  “Refer-­‐‑ ences  to  Chionites  in  Syriac  Literature,”  unpublished  ms.  prepared  for  Christopher  P.   Atwood).   Needless   to   say,   I   am   of   course   solely   responsible   for   all   the   remaining   errors.  In  order  to  highlight  the  peculiar  problems  associated  with  using  Chinese  tran-­‐‑ scriptions   for   non-­‐‑Chinese   words,   I   have   added   tone   markers   to   all   the   cases   where   Chinese  words  are  used  to  transcribe  foreign  names  and  terms.   1  Étienne  de  la  Vaissière, “Huns  et  Xiongnu,”  Central  Asiatic  Journal  49  (2005):  3–26.   2  The  list  of  Greek  and  (in  less  exhaustive  detail)  Latin,  Sanskrit,  Armenian,  and  Iran-­‐‑ ian  variants  is  found  in  Gyula  Moravcsik,  Byzantinoturcica,  2:  Sprachreste  der  Türkvölker   in  den  byzantinischen  Quellen,  2nd  ed.  (Berlin:  Akademie-­‐‑Verlag,  1958).   3  Otto  Maenchen-­‐‑Helfen,  “Archaistic  Names  of  the  Hiung-­‐‑nu,”  Central  Asiatic  Journal  6   (1961):  249–61,  here  249.   4  De  la  Vaissière,  “Huns  et  Xiongnu,”  7–8.   Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 27–52.

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Taking   the   western   Eurasian   transcriptions   together,   they   differ   from   Xiōngnú  in  up  to  four  significant  ways:    

 

1.   Xiōngnú5   is   a   two-­‐‑syllable   word,   but   Sogdian   xwn~γwn,   Syriac   Hun,  Armenian  Hon,6  and  Pahlavi  Xyōn  have  no  second  syllable,   while   the   second   syllable   in   Greek   Ounnoi,   and   Latin   Hunni   seems  to  be  simply  a  case  ending;   2.   Xiōngnú  begins  with  a  velar  spirant  [x],  but  Sanskrit  Hūṇa,  Syriac   Hūn,   and   Armenian   Hon   have   a   glottal   spirant   [h],   and   Greek   Ounnoi  has  no  initial  spirant  at  all;7     3.   Xiōngnú   has   a   velar   nasal   [ŋ];   Sanskrit   Hūṇa has   a   retroflex   ṇ,   while  the  other  forms  have  a  dental  nasal  [n];     4.   Xiōngnú  has  some  form  of  glide  or  semi-­‐‑vowel  [j]  or  [π]  preceding   the  main  vowel;  except  for  Avestan  X∆yaona  and  Pahlavi  Xyōn,  the   other  western  Eurasian  variants  do  not.    

 

I   will   not   belabor   here   the   additional   fact   that   the   rounded   vowel   seems   to   vary  between  u  and  o  both  within  and  between  the  various  transcriptions.     Of   course,   Xiōngnú   is   only   the   modern   Mandarin   pronunciation   of   the   characters   匈奴.   Perhaps   some   or   all   of   these   features   might   be   the   result   of   developments  in  Chinese  phonology  postdating  the  time  when  those  charac-­‐‑ ters   were   first   applied   to   the   Xiōngnú.   In   fact,   only   with   the   last   of   the   four   discrepancies   mentioned   is   this   possible.   Xiōngnú   匈奴   was   pronounced   in   Early  Mandarin  (of  the  Yuan  dynasty)  as  [xjuŋ-­‐‑nu],8  in Tang-­‐‑era  Middle  Chi-­‐‑ nese   (Northwest   dialect)   as   [xiuŋ-­‐‑ndu].9   Older   reconstructed   pronunciations   include Wei-­‐‑era  Middle  Chinese  of  Luoyang  as  [xuawŋ-­‐‑nɔ]10  and  *huoŋ-­‐‑no  in  

                                                                                                                          5

 It  should  be  noted  that  the  X  in  Xiōngnú  is  a  conventional  marker  used  in  the  modern   Pinyin   transcription   system   to   mark   the   Chinese   phoneme   [ɕ].   It   has   nothing   to   do   with  the  velar  spirant  [x],  although  in  this  case  it  does  develop  historically  from  [x]  in   Early  Mandarin  and  earlier.   6  I  omit  here  the  Syriac  and  Armenian  gentilics  -­‐‑āyē,  and  -­‐‑k’.   7  The  rough  breathing  mark  found  in  some  cases  seems  to  be  everywhere  insertions  of   later  editors,  influenced  by  the  Latin.   8  W.   South   Coblin,   A   Handbook   of   ’Phagsba   Chinese   (Honolulu:   University   of   Hawai’i   Press,  2007),  §§36,  244.   9  Tokio  Takata,  Tonkō  shiryō  ni  yoru  Chūgokugo  shi  no  kenkyū:  Kyū  jisseiki  no  Kasei  hōgen   (Tokyo:  Sobunsha,  1988),  §§1199,  0088a.   10  Edwin  G.  Pulleyblank,  Lexicon  of  Reconstructed  Pronunciation  in  Early  Middle  Chinese,   Late   Middle   Chinese,   and   Early   Mandarin   (Vancouver:   University   of   British   Columbia   Press,  1991),  s.v.  xiōng  匈  and  nú  奴.  

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Old  Northwest  Chinese,  c.  A.D.  400.11  Finally,  for  the  Han  era,  when  the  tran-­‐‑ scription   would   have   been   actually   coined,   Old   Chinese   (Han   or   Zhou   dynasty)  reconstructions  include:     *x(r)joŋ-­‐‑na;12     *hπoŋº-­‐‑na  <  *hoŋ-­‐‑nâ;13     *xoŋ-­‐‑NA.14     As  one  may  see,  the  speculations  of  Pulleyblank15  about  an  initial  consonant   cluster   in   xiōng 匈,   have   mostly   not   been   confirmed   by   subsequent   research-­‐‑ ers,   although   Baxter   does   posit   a   possible   initial   consonant   cluster. Three   of   the  four  features  that  differentiate  Xiongnu  from  Ounnoi—the  second  syllable,   the  velar  spirant  [x],  the  velar  nasal  [ŋ]—can  be  found  as  far  back  as  one  can   go.  Only  the  glide,  whether  [j],  [u],  or  [π],  might  be  a  feature  of  later  Chinese   phonetic  evolution.   It   is   sometimes   thought   that   the   second   syllable   in   the   Chinese   tran-­‐‑ scription,  nú  奴,  must  have  been  added  simply  in  its  meaning  as  “slave”  and   hence   may   be   removed   from   consideration   in   analyzing   the   phonetic   ele-­‐‑ ments.  But  this  purely  arbitrary;  no  case  of  xiōng  匈  alone  is  ever  attested  for   this   ethnonym   in   Chinese.   Nor   is   nú   a   semantically   significant   classifier   at-­‐‑ tached   to   a   purely   phonetic   core   transcription;   xiōng   匈   and   nú   奴   form   a   whole  phrase,  “savage  slaves,”  and  are  both  simultaneously  phonetic  and  se-­‐‑ mantic  in  content.   We  thus  have  a  serious  problem:  while  the  Sogdians  used  the  word  xwn   and   the   Indians   the   word   Hūṇa to   designate   quite   specifically   the   people   called  Xiōngnú  in  Chinese,  the  names  appear  to  be  quite  different.  So  far  there                                                                                                                             11  W.  South  Coblin,  A  Compendium  of  Phonetics  in  Northwest  Chinese,  Journal  of  Chinese   Linguistics   Monograph   Series,   no.   7   (Berkeley,   CA:   Journal   of   Chinese   Linguistics,   1994),  §§1199,  0088.     12  William  H.  Baxter,  A  Handbook  of  Old  Chinese  Phonology  (Berlin:  Mouton  de  Gruyter,   1992),  798,  779.   13  Axel  Schuessler,  ABC  Etymological  Dictionary  of  Old  Chinese  (Honolulu:  University  of   Hawai‘i  Press,  2007),  541,  404.   14  Paul  R.  Goldin,  “Steppe  Nomads  as  a  Philosophical  Problem  in  Classical  China,”  in   Mapping  Mongolia:  Situating  Mongolia  in  the  World  from  Geologic  Times  to  the  Present,  ed.   Paula  Sabloff  (Philadelphia:  University  of  Pennsylvania  Press,  2011),  220–46,  here  226;   cf.   Laurent   Sagart,   The   Roots   of   Old   Chinese   (Amsterdam:   John   Benjamins,   1999).   The   initial   *h-­‐‑   in   the   Coblin   and   Schuessler   reconstructions   is   a   conventional   representa-­‐‑ tion,  common  in  Chinese  philology,  of  the  velar  spirant  [x].  Chinese  has,  in  fact,  never   had  a  genuine  glottal  spirant,  although  the  velar  spirant  phoneme  is  often  realized  in  a   similar  way.   15  Edwin  G.  Pulleyblank,  “The  Consonantal  System  of  Old  Chinese,”  Asia  Major,  n.s.,  9   (1962):  58–144,  206–65.    

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have  been  three  broad  schools  addressing  this  problem  (my  analysis  follows   that  of  de  la  Vaissière  in  “Huns  et  Xiongnu”).16  The  first,  represented  by  Otto   Maenchen-­‐‑Helfen  insists  that  the  philological  difficulties  cannot  be  overcome   and  the  whole  issue  has  been  a  tissue  of  coincidences  and  misunderstandings.   As   I   have   stated,   I   believe   the   data   marshaled   by   de   la   Vaissière   makes   this   position   untenable.   Sogdian   Xwn   and   Sanskrit   Hūṇa were   used   to   designate   the  historical  Xiongnú—that  is  a  plain  fact  which  must  be  explained,  not  just   ignored.   A   second   position   is   what   de   la   Vaissière   calls   the   “pan-­‐‑Iranian”   position,   espoused   by   Harold   Bailey,   S.   Parlato,   and   recently   by   Jamsheed   Choksy.17   In   this   position,   all   or   most   of   the   terms—Sogdian   xwn~γwn,   Khorazmian  Hūn,  Khotanese  Saka  Huna,  Syriac  Hun-­‐‑,  Armenian  Hon,  Pahlavi   Xyōn,  and  Sanskrit  Hūṇa —are  to  be  derived  from  the  same  Iranian  word,  at-­‐‑ tested   in   Avestan   as   X∆yaona,   which   has   the   generic   sense   of   “hostiles,   oppo-­‐‑ nents.”  Greek  Ounnoi,  Khounoi,  Khiōnes,  etc.  are  all  derivatives  of  these  Iranian   forms,  in  various  stages  of  phonetic  evolution.  Thirdly,  de  la  Vaissière’s  own   explanation  may  be  called  the  “steppe  transmission”  position.  In  this  position,   Xiōngnú   and   Ounnoi   are   connected   as   autonyms   of   steppe   peoples   of   uncer-­‐‑ tain   language.   The   philological   difficulties   involved   in   their   connection   are   outgrowths   of   our   ignorance   of   the   particular   languages   involved.   Such   a   position   has   the   benefit   of   not   offering   any   hypotheses   which   can   be   dis-­‐‑ proven,  but  it  can  hardly  be  considered  satisfactory.  Nor  does  it  offer  any  way   to  distinguish  real  cognates  from  fake.     How  these  terms  could  be  versions  of  one  another  is  a  major  philological   puzzle  involving  the  very  first  case  in  which  a  people  originating  in  Mongolia   impinged   on   the   history   of   Europe.   I   believe   that   I   can   shed   significant   new   light,  particularly  by  highlighting  the  key  role  of  India  in  the  process  of  sound   change.  Its  resolution  will  be  a  fitting  tribute  to  Donald  Ostrowski,  whose  re-­‐‑ search  has  so  illuminated  a  later  phase  in  this  history  of  East-­‐‑West  interaction   in  Central  Eurasia.   The Greek Terms and Their Eastern Correspondences The  place  to  begin  this  discussion  is  with  the  range  of  Greek  forms  that  have   been  linked  to  the  Huns,  considering  for  each  their  possible  origins  in  Central   Asian  or  Eurasian  steppe  languages   Ounnoi   The  general  Greek  term  for  the  Huns,  and  the  only  one  used  for  those  in  the   Pontic  and  Hungarian  steppes  and  in  Roman  service,  is  Ounnoi  or  Ounoi.  This                                                                                                                             16

 De  la  Vaissière,  “Huns  et  Xiongnu,”  3–10.    Jamsheed  Choksy,  “X∆iiaona-­‐‑   or  Hun  Reconsidered,”  Acta  Orientalia  Academiae  Scien-­‐‑ tiarum  Hung.  65,  no.  1  (2012):  93–98.  

17

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is   a   masculine   plural,   implying   the   unattested   singular   Ounnos~Ounos,   with   the   -­‐‑os   being   the   nominative   ending   and   presumably   not   part   of   the   root.   Greek  had  already  lost  the  glottal  spirant  by  the  second  century  A.D.,18  so  it  is   not  surprising  that  the  original  form  lacked  the  “rough  breathing”  that  in  An-­‐‑ cient  Greek  had  marked  the  glottal  spirant  [h].  The  geminate  consonant  -­‐‑nn-­‐‑  is   presumably  not  significant,  since  it  varies  with  a  non-­‐‑geminate  spelling  in  -­‐‑n-­‐‑   and   in   any   case   Greek   geminate   consonants   had   become   simple   consonants   long  before  this  time.19  This  Ounnoi,  without  the  initial  h-­‐‑,  is  probably  the  ori-­‐‑ gin   of   the   Latin   Hunni   of   Ammianus   Marcellinus,   Marcellinus   Comes,   and   Jordanes.  Given  the  Greek  form,  it  is  likely  that  the  Latin  h-­‐‑   in  Hunni  was  in   fact   not   pronounced,   any   more   than   Ammianus   Marcellinus’s   h-­‐‑   in   Halani   “Alans”   or   Jordanes’s   h-­‐‑   in   Hunuguri   “On-­‐‑Oghur”   (Greek   Onongouroi)   was   intended  to  be  pronounced.  Later  Latin  variants  in  ch-­‐‑    should  be  the  result  of   confusion  with  either  the  name  War-­‐‑Khunni  that  designated  the  Avars  and/or   Ptolemy’s  Khounoi.   In  John  Malalas’s  Chronography,  however,  there  is  one  attested  example  of   a   different   form:   Ounna~Ouna   (a   feminine   singular).   Given   the   expectation   that  ethnonyms  would  be  masculine  plurals,  the  less  expected  feminine  form   is   more   likely   to   be   the   original,   which   was   then   conformed   to   the   expected   masculine   plural.   This   also   then   demonstrates   that   the   second   syllable   in   Greek   is   not   simply   a   case   ending,   but   was   originally   part   of   the   word,   and   was  only  later  reinterpreted  as  a  case  ending.   What  non-­‐‑Greek  form  can  be  linked  with  Ounna~Ouna?  Only  forms  with   an  initial  glottal  spirant  [h]  could  possibly  be  considered,  since  any  form  with   a  velar  spirant  [x]  would  become  kh-­‐‑  in  Greek.  Similarly,  if  the  original  form  is   a  disyllabic  Oun(n)a,  then  any  form  with  only  one  syllable  may  be  excluded.   Finally,  any  form  with  the  glide  -­‐‑y-­‐‑   may  be  excluded,  since  that  too  would  be   represented   in   Greek   (see   Khyōn   below).   These   considerations   eliminate   Ptolemy’s   earlier   Khounoi,   Armenian   Hon-­‐‑,   Syriac   Hun-­‐‑,   Khorazmian   Hūn,   Sogdian   xwn~γwn,20   Avestan   X∆yaona,   and   Pahlavi   Xyōn   from   consideration.   The   only   extant   Asian   variant   which   could   conceivably   be   the   origin   of   the   Greek  Oun(n)a  is  Sanskrit  Hūṇa and  Khotanese  Saka  Huna-­‐‑.  But  Saka  Huna-­‐‑   is   attested  only  in  the  ninth  century  and  in  an  obviously  “generic”  context.21  By                                                                                                                             18

 E.  B.  Petrounias,  “Development  in  Pronunciation  during  the  Hellenistic  Period,”  in   A   History   of   Ancient   Greek   from   the   Beginning   to   Late   Antiquity,   ed.   A.-­‐‑F.   Christides   (Cambridge:  Cambridge  University  Press,  2001),  599–609,  here  607.     19  Ibid.,  607–08.     20  B.   Gharib,   Sogdian   Dictionary:   Sogdian-­‐‑Persian-­‐‑English   (Tehran:   Farhangan   Publica-­‐‑ tions,  1995),  §4377,  10732.   21  W.   B.   Henning,   “The   Date   of   the   Sogdian   Ancient   Letters,”   Bulletin   of   the   School   of   Oriental  Studies  12,  no.  3–4  (1948):  601–15,  here  615;  Otto  Maenchen-­‐‑Helfen,  “Pseudo-­‐‑ Huns,”   Central   Asiatic   Journal   1   (1955):   101–06,   here   101;   Harold   W.   Bailey,   Culture   of   the  Sakas  in  Ancient  Iranian  Khotan  (1981;  repr.,  Delmar,  NY:  Caravan  Books,  1982),  91.    

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contrast,   Sanskrit   Hūṇa is   attested   from   at   least   the   third   century   A.D.,   and   probably  from  the  first  century  B.C.,  and  in  an  ethnically  specific  context  (see   below).  Thus  the  Sanskrit  version  would  seem  to  be  the  only  possible  origin   of  Greek  Oun(n)a.   But  historically,  deriving  a  Greek  name  for  a  people  of  the  Pontic  steppe   directly  from  a  Sanskrit  name  seems  quite  problematic.  Could  there  be  a  basis   for   Ounna   in   an   Iranian   language,   one   that   would   be   more   historically   and   geographically  plausible?  Since  Henning’s  seminal  article  (1948)22  it  has  been   proposed  that  the  xwn  found  in  the  Ancient  Sogdian  Letter  II  of  c.  312  is  the   origin   of   Greek   Ounna,   etc.   Since   then,   the   term   has   been   found   as   γwn   and   xwn  in  the  eighth-­‐‑century  documents  of  Mug.23  As  mentioned,  a  Greek  origin   in  Sogdian  would  presuppose  that  γwn~xwn  must  represent  a  form  in  initial   h-­‐‑.  Sogdian  itself  has  only  a  velar  spirant  [x],  although  a  glottal  spirant  [h]  has   been   recently   proposed   as   an   allophone.24   But   in   foreign   words   x   (Semitic   hēth)  may  represent  “any  kind  of  foreign  h-­‐‑sound,”  and  hence  Xwn  could  rep-­‐‑ resent   Xun,   Xūn,   Hun,   or   Hūn.25   The   variant   in   γ   is   particularly   significant   here,   since   γ   (Semitic   gimel)   is   the   usual   representation   of   Sanskrit   h   in   Sog-­‐‑ dian   (Table   1   at   the   end   of   this   article).   That   this   word   is   a   glottal   spirant   is   confirmed   by   the   form   in   Arabic-­‐‑script   Khorazmian,   where   it   is   hūn,   with   a   glottal   spirant   [h]   (the   Arabic   script   has   both   a   glottal   and   a   velar   spirant).   Syriac  Hunāyē  and  Armenian  Honk‘  would  suggest  the  same  reading  in  [h].26     Even  so,  however,  Sogdian-­‐‑Khorazmian  Hun~Hūn  cannot  be  the  origin  of   the   Greek   Ounna,   because   it   does   not   have   the   second   syllable.   Fortunately,   however,   Chinese   records   preserve   a   word   used   in   Sogdiana   with   a   second   syllable   ending   in   the   vowel   -­‐‑a.   In   a   well-­‐‑known   passage   from   the   Wèi   shū   魏書,   deriving   from   the   record   of   a   tribute   mission   sent   from   Sogdiana   to   North   China   in   457,   a   new   dynasty   in   Sogdiana   is   described   as   of   Xiōngnú   origin:     The   country   of   Sogd   粟特   is   situated   to   the   west   of   the   Congling   [Pamir   mountains].…   It   is   also   called   Wēnnà   Shā   溫那沙.…27                                                                                                                             22

 Henning,  “The  Date  of  the  Sogdian  Ancient  Letters.”    Gharib,  Sogdian  Dictionary,  §4377,  10732;  de  la  Vaissière,  “Huns  et  Xiongnu,”  10.   24  Gharib,  Sogdian  Dictionary,  xxxii–xxxiii.   25  Henning,  “The  Date  of  the  Sogdian  Ancient  Letters,”  615.   26  Cf.  ibid.   27  I  have  omitted  the  phrases  “It  is  what  was  Yancai  in  ancient  times”  and  “It  lies  on  a   great   salt   sea   and   to   the   northwest   of   Kangju.   It   is   16,000   li   distant   from   Dai.”   As   Kazuo   Enoki   already   realized,   all   of   these   comments   are   taken   from   the   Hanshu   ac-­‐‑ count   of   Yancai,   and   are   relevant   to   Sogd   only   on   the   condition   that   Sogd   is   in   fact   “Yancai”;  Enoki,  “Sogdiana  and  the  Hsiung-­‐‑nu,”  Central  Asiatic  Journal  1  (1955):  43–62,   here   47–50.   This   identification   is,   however,   certainly   incorrect.   See   also   A.   F.   P.   Hulsewé,  China  and  Central  Asia:  The  Early  Stage.  125  B.C.–A.D.  23  (Leiden:  Brill,  1979),   23

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Formerly,  the  Xiōngnú  killed  its  king  and  took  over  the  country.  King   Hūní  忽倪  was  the  third  ruler  of  the  line.  

 

粟特國，在葱嶺之西  。  。  。  一名溫那沙 。。。先是， 匈奴殺其王而 有其國，至王忽倪已三世矣.28  

 

This   passage   has   a   long   history   in   Western   writings   about   the   Xiōngnú   and   Huns.  Enoki  and  de  la  Vaissière  have  clarified  its  historical  situation,  purging   it  of  previous  speculations  about  Alans  and  Crimea  and  so  forth.  Even  so,  the   passage  still  clearly  links  the  history  of  the  Xiōngnú  with  the  Ounna~Ounnoi.   As   Kazuo   Enoki   recognized,   Wēnnà   溫那,   to   be   read   in   Middle   Chinese   as   ’Onna,  can  be  identified  with  Greek  Ounnoi,  and  even  more  exactly  with  John   Malalas’s   original   Ounna.29   With   shā   沙   being   the   well-­‐‑known   Iranian   royal   title   shāh,   Wēnnàshā   溫那沙   is   “Shāh/King   of   the   ’Onna.”   Later,   Wēn   溫   (ap-­‐‑ proximate  Middle  Chinese:  ’On),  in  an  abbreviated  form  minus  nà  那,  became   the  family  name  of  the  kings  of  Samarqand.30     But   a   closer   look   at   the   Chinese   transcription   and   its   historical   context   shows,   I   believe,   that   this   form   found   in   Sogdiana   must   be   derived   from   a   Baktrian  Greek  reading  of  Sanskrit  Hūṇa.   The   phoneme   in   Middle   Chinese   marked   in   the   transcription   above   by   ’   represents   the   glottal   stop   [÷],   the   presence   or   absence   of   which   remained   a   phonemic  distinction  in  Chinese  up  through  the  Ming  dynasty,  depending  on   the  dialect.31  Within  the  Chinese  transcription  of  Sanskrit  (which  should  also  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  129–30;  Edouard  Chavannes,  trans.,  “Les  pays  d’Occident  d’après  le   Wei  Lio,”  T’oung   Pao,  ser.  2,  vol.  6  (1905):  519–71,  here  558–59;  Chavannes,  “Les  pays  d’Occident  d’après   le  Heou  Han  chou,”  T’oung  Pao,  ser.  2,  vol.  8  (1907):  149–234,  here  195–96.     28  Wei  Shou,  Wei  shu  (Beijing:  Zhonghua  shuju,  1974),  102/2285;  cf.  Li  Yanshou,  Beishi   (Beijing:   Zhonghua   shuju,   1974),   97/3221;   cf.   Du   You,   Tongdian   (Beijing:   Zhonghua   shuju,  1988),  193/5258.   29  Enoki,   “Sogdiana   and   the   Hsiung-­‐‑nu,”   59,   62   n.   60.   For   the   Tang   Middle   Chinese   pronunciation,  see  Takata,  Tonkō  shiryō  ni  yoru  Chūgokugo  shi  no  kenkyū,  §§0781,  0005,   0054:  ÷wəәn,   ndâ3,  ṣa1.  Actual  Tibetan  spellings  are  ’on-­‐‑ḥda-­‐‑sha.  The  denasalization  of  the   na  is  a  special  dialect  feature  of  Northwest  Chinese  probably  not  found  in  the  dialect   being  used  here.  Coblin  reconstructs  the  Old  Northwest  Mandarin  reading  of  c.  400  as   *÷on,  *na,  *ṣä  (Compendium  of  Phonetics  in  Northwest  Chinese,  §§0781,  0005,  0054).   30  Although   the   form   in   o-­‐‑,   rather   than   u-­‐‑   may   seem   to   be   a   block   to   associating   this   with  Greek  Ou-­‐‑  and  Sanskrit  -­‐‑u-­‐‑,  Chinese  at  this  time  did  not  have  a  final  in  -­‐‑un,  only  -­‐‑ on,  and  syllables  with  this  final  transcribed  Tibetan  -­‐‑on  and  Sanskrit  -­‐‑un  indifferently;   W.   South   Coblin,   Studies   in   Old   Northwest   Chinese,   Journal   of   Chinese   Linguistics   Monograph  Series,  no.  4  (Berkeley:  Project  on  Linguistic  Analysis,  University  of  Cali-­‐‑ fornia,  1991):  94–95.  Thus  its  use  as  transcription  is  not  significant  for  our  purposes.     31  Ibid.,  23;  Coblin,  A  Handbook  of  ’Phagsba  Chinese,  45.  

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apply   to   South   Central   Asian32   languages   generally),   the   glottal   stop   corre-­‐‑ sponds  to  a  “plain  vocalic  onset,”  while  Sanskrit  h-­‐‑   (which  may  been  voiced   as   [Ó],   at   least   in   some   contexts)   is   always   represented   by   Chinese   syllables   with   reconstructed   initials   as   [x]   or   [γ].33   Wēnnàshā   溫那沙   and   Wēn   溫   thus   must   represent   a   variant   that   has   already   lost   any   initial   spirant   and   has   a   plain  vocalic  onset.  In  short,  something  more  or  less  identical  to  Greek  Ounna   can  be  found  as  far  east  as  Sogdiana  in  the  fifth  century,  if  not  before.   The  word  shāh,  in  this  variant  ’Onnashāh,34  offers  an  important  clue  to  its   historical  origin,  linking  it  to  Baktria  after  the  Sassanids.  Sogdian  has  a  variety   of  forms  for  “king”—’γš’wn’k,35  ’γš’ywn’k,36  xšwny,37  and  xšywny,38  to  be  read   as  khshēwanē  or  variations  thereof—which  all  represent  a  much  more  conserv-­‐‑ ative  form  of  this  common  Iranian  word  than  the  Pahlavi  shāh.  The  term  shāh   is   attested   in   Sogdian   only   in   a   borrowed   compound   form,   “shah   of   shahs”:   š’nš’y  (read  as  shanshāy),  cf.  Saka  shahenishāhi.39  But  in  Baktria,  after  the  fall  of   the  Kushans,  the  term  shāh  was  used  under  Sassanid  influence  widely  in  coins   and   documents   as   a   compound   in   terms   such   as  Košanoša(h)o   “Kushānshāh”   and  Šahanošao  “Shāhanshāh.”40  The  term  ’Onnashāh  closely  parallels  this  form   in  having  an  ethnonym  followed  by  the  word  shāh,  in  its  Pahlavi  form;  it  thus   indicates  influence  from  the  post-­‐‑Kushan  rulers  of  Baktria.   This  derivation  of  the  ’Onnashāh  from  Baktrian  fits  perfectly  with  the  his-­‐‑ tory   of   Sogdiana   at   this   time.   The   ’Onnashāh   dynasty   came   to   Sogdiana   not   by  a  fresh  invasion  from  the  northern  steppes,  but  by  a  conquest  of  Sogdiana   from   the   south.   The   conquest   is   associated   with   the   Baktrian   king   Kidāra                                                                                                                             32

 Inspired  by  the  use  of  “East  Central  Asia”  to  refer  to  Xinjiang  in  Mallory  and  Mair’s   The   Tarim   Mummies,   I   use   the   term   “South   Central   Asia”   to   refer   to   roughly   modern   day  Afghanistan,  Uzbekistan,  Tajikistan,  Turkmenistan,  and  the  neighboring  areas  of   northeast  Iran  and  northwest  Pakistan.  See  J.  P.  Mallory  and  Victor  H.  Mair,  The  Tarim   Mummies:   Ancient   China   and   the   Mystery   of   the   Earliest   Peoples   from   the   West   (London:   Thames  and  Hudson,  2002).   33  Coblin,  Studies  in  Old  Northwest  Chinese,  23.   34  I  will  write  this  variant  hereafter  with  the  geminate  consonant,  given  that  it  is  found   as  such  in  both  Greek  and  Chinese  reflex.  But  Greek  had  already  lost  geminate  conso-­‐‑ nants  and  the  gemination  of  consonants  is  a  common  feature  of  Chinese  transcriptions   and  does  not  necessarily  represent  a  geminate  -­‐‑n-­‐‑  in  the  original.   35  Gharib,  Sogdian  Dictionary,  §719.   36  Ibid.,  §727.   37  Ibid.,  §10666.   38  Ibid.,  §10676.   39  Ibid.,  §9157.   40  Nicholas   Sims-­‐‑Williams,   “Ancient   Afghanistan   and   Its   Invaders:   Linguistic   Evi-­‐‑ dence   from   the   Bactrian   Documents   and   Inscriptions,”   Proceedings   of   the   British   Acad-­‐‑ emy  116  (2002):  225–42,  here  232.  

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whose   people   appear   in   Sanskrit   sources   as   Hūṇa and   in   Greek   as   Ounnoi.41   According   to   de   la   Vaissière’s   reconstruction,   Kidāra   began   to   expand   from   his  Baktrian  base  area  both  north  into  Sogdiana  and  south  into  India  around   420.42   The   southern   origin   of   the   ’Onnashāh   title   and   the   ’On   family   is   con-­‐‑ firmed   by   the   Chinese   statement   in   the   later   Súi   shū   隋書   that   Samarqand’s   Wēn/’On  dynasty  was  of  Yuèzhī  月氏  origin.43  By  this  time,  in  Chinese,  Yuèzhī   月氏   designated   Baktriana,   where   the   Yuèzhī   had   settled,   and   all   its   resident   people.   For  the  same  reasons  as  Greek  Ounna,  the  ’Onna  in  this  title  ’Onnashāh  can   only   be   derived   from   Sanskrit   Hūṇa,   out   of   all   known   ethnonyms   in   the   re-­‐‑ gion.   The   only   differences   are   the   alteration   of   the   retroflex   ṇ to   a   coronal   n   and  the  elimination  of  the  initial  glottal  spirant.  (The  gemination  of  the  -­‐‑n-­‐‑   is   probably  an  artefact  of  the  Greek  and  Chinese  transcriptions  and  has  no  sig-­‐‑ nificance.)   Both   of   these   changes   would   normally   be   expected   in   any   Greek   transcription  of  a  Sanskrit  word.  To  be  sure,  the  Baktrian  language  did  have  a   glottal  spirant  (represented  in  the  Greek  script  as  the  upsilon  υ)  and  did  not   necessarily  eliminate  that  sound  in  its  transcriptions  of  Sanskrit.44  But  we  do   find   examples   of   eliminated   [h],   as   seen   for   example,   in   the   name   Heracles   (Erakilo)   and   the   Hephthalites   (Evadhalo).45   Given   the   profound   influence   of   Greek  in  Baktria,  and  the  attested  Greek  inscriptions,  some  written  by  ethnic   Indians,46  it  is  an  irresistible  conclusion  that  the  transition  from  Sanskrit  Hūṇa to  Greek  Ounna  happened  not  in  the  East  Roman  Empire,  but  directly  in  Bak-­‐‑ tria.  This  is  also  suggested  by  the  attestation  of  the  form  Ounnia  in  the  Chris-­‐‑ tian   geographer   Cosmas   Indicopleustes,   writing   around   A.D.   550.   In   this   work,  he  alternates  Ounnoi  and  Ounnia  (each  used  twice)  and  links  them  con-­‐‑ sistently   to   Baktria   and   northern   India.47   If   that   is   the   case,   and   given   the   rapid  decline  in  Baktrian  Hellenism  after  the  first  century  B.C.,48  the  first  use   of  Ounna  in  Greek  should  long  predate  the  “great  invasions.”    

                                                                                                                          41

 Richard  N.  Frye,  The  History  of  Ancient  Iran  (Munich:  C.  H.  Beck,  1984),  345–46,  349,   355;  Moravcsik,  Sprachreste  der  Türkvölker,  159,  citing  Priscus.   42  Étienne  de  la  Vaissière,  Sogdian  Traders,  trans.  James  Ward  (Leiden:  Brill,  2005),  97– 117.   43  Wei  Zheng  et  al.,  Suishu,  ed.  Linghu  Defen  (Beijing:  Zhonghua  shuju,  1973),  83/1848;   cf.  Enoki,  “Sogdiana  and  the  Hsiung-­‐‑nu,”  158–59.     44  Sims-­‐‑Williams,  “Ancient  Afghanistan  and  Its  Invaders,”  230–31.   45  Ibid.,  228,  233.   46  Nicholas   Sims-­‐‑Williams,   “News   from   Ancient   Afghanistan,”   The   Silk   Road   4,   no.   2   (2006–07):  5–10,  here  5.   47  E.   O.   Winstedt,   ed.,   The   Christian   Topography   of   Cosmas   Indicopleustes   (Cambridge:   Cambridge  University  Press,  1909),  69,  119,  325,  324  [text],  335,  345,  356  [notes].   48  Sims-­‐‑Williams,  “News  from  Ancient  Afghanistan,”  5.  

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But  where  did  Sanskrit  Hūṇa come  from?  I  believe  the  clue  to  this  lies  in   two   terms,   Greek   Khōnai   and   Chinese   Hūní   忽倪,   which   have   not   yet   been   linked.   Khōnai(oi)   This   name,   as   the   “nation   of   the   Khōnai(-­‐‑ōn),”   appears   in   an   East   Roman   itinerary  to  the  Garden  of  Eden,  dating  to  the  sixth  century.  Such  an  itinerary   may  seem  unpromising  as  a  source  of  geographical  data.  Indeed  Otto  Maen-­‐‑ chen-­‐‑Helfen  has  arbitrarily  rejected  its  value,  claiming  these  Khōnai  are  to  be   sought  “somewhere  around  the  Red  Sea.”49  But  the  itinerary,  especially  when   read  alongside  Cosmas  Indicopleustes,50  clearly  links  this  “nation  of  the  Khō-­‐‑ nai”   to   India.51   Moravcsik   associated   the   name   with   the   Pahlavi   term   Xyōn,   and  thus  with  Greco-­‐‑Roman  Khiōn(itai)  and  with  the  War-­‐‑Khōn(itai).52  In  fact  it   looks  quite  different  from  either  Khiōn(itai)  or  War-­‐‑Khōn(itai),  themselves  quite   distinct   from   each   as   well   in   origin   and   form.   From   Khiōn   it   differs   in   the   absence  of  the  glide  -­‐‑i-­‐‑,  while  from  both  it  differs  in  the  presence  of  a  second   syllable   with   a   diphthong   -­‐‑ai.   This   diphthong,   as   well   as   velar   spirant   [x],   makes  it  likewise  different  from  Sanskrit  Hūṇa.   There   is,   however,   a   name   with   which   this   term   may   be   matched   quite   closely,  and  that  is  found  in  the  passage  from  the  Wèi  shū  I  have  already  cited.   In  addition  to  the  title  ’Onnashāh  溫那沙  already  examined,  there  also  appears   the   name   of   the   current   king,   Hūní   忽倪.   In   Tang-­‐‑era   Mandarin   Hūní   is   at-­‐‑ tested   as   xwəәr-­‐‑ngiäi,53   while   Coblin   reconstructs   the   Old   Northwest   Mandarin   as   *hot-­‐‑ŋiei   and   Pulleyblank   reconstructs   the   Wei-­‐‑era   Luoyang   Mandarin   as                                                                                                                             49

 Maenchen-­‐‑Helfen,  “Pseudo-­‐‑Huns,”  103–04.  Maenchen-­‐‑Helfen  claimed  that  since  the   “neighbors   of   the   Chonai   to   the   West   were   the   Diaba   (Diva   in   Latin,   Davad   in   Georgian)   [who]   lived   east   of   India   maior   (Ethiopia),   Axioma   (Aksum),   and   India   minor  (Southern  Arabia),  the  Chonai  must  be  sought  somewhere  around  the  Red  Sea”   (104).  What  he  hides  from  his  readers  is  that  between  this  Diaba~Diva  and  the  African   and  Arabian  places  mentioned  later  is  stated  to  be  a  journey  to  a  port  and  a  sea  voyage   of  seven  stages.  Nor  does  he  mention  Pigulevskaia’s  plausible  link  of  this  Diaba~Diva   to   Sanskrit   dvīpa;   N.   Pigulevskaia,   Vizantiia   na   putiakh   v   Indiiu   (Moscow:   Akademiia   nauk,  1951),  121–22.     50  Cosmas   Indicopleustes   has   Ounnia,   and   the   Georgian   text   of   the   “Itinerary”   cor-­‐‑ rupted  Greek  Khōnai  to  Khounia.  I  wonder  therefore  if  Cosmas  Indicopleustes  did  not   originally   have   Ounnai,   which   might   have   been   corrupted   to   Ounnia,   as   a   parallel   to   the  India  associated  with  it.   51  Z.   Avalichvili,   “Geographie   et   legend   dans   un   écrit   apocryphe   de   Sainte   Basile,”   Revue  de  l’Orient  chrétien,  3rd  ser.,  26  (1927–28):  279–304,  here  281,  285,  289–90;  Pigulev-­‐‑ skaia,  Vizantiia,  119–22,  409–410.     52  Moravcsik,  Sprachreste  der  Türkvölker,  236,  s.v.  Ounnoi.   53  Takata,  Tonkō  shiryō  ni  yoru  Chūgokugo  shi  no  kenkyū,  §§0787,  0227.  

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*xwəәt-­‐‑ŋ´i.54   Keeping   in   mind   that   rùshēng   入聲   (“entering   tone”)55   characters   were  used  very  freely  in  transcriptions,  with  their  character  being  usually  de-­‐‑ termined  by  the  initial  consonant  of  the  following  character,56  the  actual  Mid-­‐‑ dle  Chinese  pronunciation  of  this  binome  should  be  something  like  *xuŋjai  or   *xoŋ´i,  that  is,  a  rather  close  match  for  the  Greek  Khōnai.  The  only  major  dif-­‐‑ ference  was  the  switch  from  a  velar  nasal  to  a  dental  nasal.  But  this  is  easily   understood  by  the  limitations  of  Greek  syllable  structure,  where  a  velar  nasal   can  be  found  only  at  the  end  of  a  syllable  and  before  a  g-­‐‑,  k-­‐‑,  or  kh-­‐‑   which  be-­‐‑ gins   a   new   syllable   (i.e.,   -­‐‑γγ-­‐‑,   -­‐‑γχ,   etc.).   From   the   Chinese   transcription,   it   is   evident   that   the   syllable   structure   was   *xo-­‐‑ŋ´i,   and   in   this   situation,   trans-­‐‑ forming   the   velar   nasal   to   a   dental   nasal   did   no   more   violence   to   the   word   than  would  have  the  other  possibility,  transforming  it  into  *xoŋg´i.   The   semantic   implication   is   that   *xoŋ´i   忽倪   represents   not   a   personal   name,   but   the   king’s   title,   “King   of   the   *Xoŋ´i/Khōnai.”   Such   a   confusion   of   royal  titles  and  personal  names  is  common  enough  and  should  cause  no  sur-­‐‑ prise.   But   such   an   identification   also   leads   irresistibly   to   an   identification   of   King   of   the   Khōnai/*Xoŋ´i   with   the   Shāh   of   the   ’Onna/Hūṇa,   and   both   ethno-­‐‑ nyms  with  the  Xiōngnú.   Now   if   Ounna/Hūṇa may   seem   hard   to   relate   to   Xiōngnú,   Khōnai/*Xoŋ´i   actually  bears  a  rather  close  resemblance  to  *Hoŋ-­‐‑nâ  which  in  one  reconstruc-­‐‑ tion,  at  least,  is  given  as  the  conjectural  common  Chinese  form  of  the  word.57   The  two  significant  differences  are  the  ŋ  in  *Xoŋ´i  for  ŋ-­‐‑n  in  *Hoŋ-­‐‑nâ  and  the   final   -­‐‑i   in   *Xoŋ´i.   The   first   may   actually   be   an   idiosyncrasy   of   the   tran-­‐‑ scription.   As   mentioned,   Chinese   transcriptions   of   foreign   words   frequently   geminate  consonants  in  transcription.  In  the  original  Chinese  transcription  of   Xiōngnú,   one   may   plausibly   assume   that   ŋa   was   rendered   as   na   (modern   Mandarin  nu  奴)  both  because  of  its  meaning  and  because  the  final  velar  nasal   of  xiong  匈  “covered”  that  part  of  the  pronunciation.  That  is,  the  ŋ-­‐‑n  combina-­‐‑ tion  could  be  simply  rendering  a  ŋ.58   As  for  the  -­‐‑ai  vs.  -­‐‑a,  Paul  Pelliot  early  recognized  a  paradigm  in  Mongo-­‐‑ lian  in  which  personal,  place,  or  ethnonyms  appear  frequently  in  three  forms:   -­‐‑Ø,   -­‐‑i,   and   -­‐‑n,   giving   as   examples   alasha~alashai~alashan,   as   well   as   altai~altan                                                                                                                             54

 Coblin,   Compendium   of   Phonetics   in   Northwest   Chinese,   §§0787,   0227;   Pulleyblank,   Lexicon  of  Reconstructed  Pronunciation,  s.v.  hū  忽  and  ní  倪.   55  This  term  in  Chinese  philology  refers  to  characters  which  were  pronounced  in  Mid-­‐‑ dle  Chinese  and  earlier  forms  with  non-­‐‑nasal  final  consonants,  -­‐‑p,  -­‐‑t  (or  -­‐‑r),  and  -­‐‑k.   56  Edwin   G.   Pulleyblank,   “The   Chinese   Name   for   the   Turks,”   Journal   of   the   American   Oriental  Society  85,  no.  2  (1965):  121–25.   57  Schuessler,   ABC   Etymological   Dictionary   of   Old   Chinese,   541,   404.   Note   that   Schues-­‐‑ sler’s  *h  is  actually  an  [x].   58  On  such  use  of  a  syllable  final  and  syllable  initial  together  to  render  a  single  foreign   sound,  again  see  Pulleyblank,  “The  Chinese  Name  for  the  Turks.”    

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and  qitai~qitan  as  examples  of  the  second  two.59  To  the  latter  two  one  may  add   alta,  a  common  form  of  “gold”  today,  and  khatā,  the  form  that  qitai~qitan  took   in   many   Western   transcriptions.   The   same   three-­‐‑way   variant   is   found   in   ad-­‐‑ jectives  and  verb  forms  as  well:  thus  with  the  adjective  “bad,”  we  have  maghu,   maghui,   and   maghun.60   The   exact   semantic   valences   of   -­‐‑Ø,   -­‐‑i,   and   -­‐‑n   are   still   unclear   (definiteness   and   plurality   seem   to   be   involved),   but   they   were   cer-­‐‑ tainly  productive  of  variant  forms  in  ethnonyms.   Nor   does   invoking   such   a   variation   necessarily   depend   on   seeing   the   Xiōngnú   as   Mongolic   in   language.   As   Pelliot’s   examples   show,   the   variant   forms   once   generated   easily   cross   language   boundaries.   Kitan   is   found   in   Mongolian,   Khitay   is   found   in   Russian,   and   Khatā   is   found   in   Turkic   lan-­‐‑ guages—but   all   were   generated   as   variant   forms   of   a   single   stem.   Moreover   the   -­‐‑i   and   -­‐‑n   as   morphemes,   perhaps   having   a   collective   or   plural   meaning,   may   well   cross   language   family   boundaries,   just   as   the   Altaic   vocational   suffix   -­‐‑chi   was   borrowed   into   Tajiki   and   the   Romance   plural   in   -­‐‑s   was   bor-­‐‑ rowed  into  English.     But   if   Khōnai   can,   via   *Xoŋ´i   忽倪,   be   seen   as   a   variant   of   Xiōngnú   匈奴,   then   Hūṇa too   can   likely   be   seen   as   a   variant   of   Xiōngnú.   If   we   assume   the   Chinese   -­‐‑ngn-­‐‑   of   Xiōngnú   actually   represents   a   single   velar   nasal,   then   San-­‐‑ skrit   too,   just   like   Greek,   would   have   a   serious   problem   representing   this   sound.   Velar   nasals   (whether   the   ṇ or   ṃ)   must   be   followed   by   a   stop,   not   a   vowel.  Sanskrit  also  has  no  velar  spirant  [x]  and  so  would  have  to  represent  it   with   an   [h].   Khōnai   and   Hūṇa can   both   be   seen,   therefore,   as   independent   transcriptions,  not  mediated  through  each  other  or  through  any  other  attested   form,  of  the  term  Xiōngnú  in  two  reconstructed  variant  forms:  *Xoŋai~*Xoŋa.   With  regard  to  the  four  differences  between  Ounnoi  and  Xiōngnú,  the  ex-­‐‑ act  point  at  which  they  occurred  can  now  be  pinpointed:    

1.   The  second  syllable  was  lost  twice  independently,  once  in  Greek   as   the   final   vowel   -­‐‑a   was   assimilated   into   the   nominative   plural     -­‐‑oi,   and   once   in   the   Eastern   Iranian   languages   Sogdian   and   Khorazmian  as  a  result  of  a  usual  process  of  dropping  short  final   -­‐‑a  from  Sanskrit  loan  words.   2.   The   velar   spirant   [x]   became   a   glottal   spirant   [h]   in   the   Sanskrit   transcription,   because   Sanskrit   does   not   have   velar   spirants.   It   was  lost  in  the  process  of  transfer  from  Sanskrit  to  Greek,  which   took  place  in  Baktria.                                                                                                                             59

 Paul   Pelliot,   Notes   on   Marco   Polo,   3   vols.   (Paris:   Adrien-­‐‑Maisonneuve,   1959–63),   1:   136,   31,   220;   Paul   Pelliot   and   Louis   Hambis,   Histoire   des   campagnes   de   Gengis   Khan:   Cheng-­‐‑wou  ts’in-­‐‑tcheng  lou  (Leiden:  E.  J.  Brill,  1951),  23,  129,  252.   60  D.   Tumurtogoo,   Mongolian   Monuments   in   Uighur   Mongolian   Script   (XIII–XVI   Cen-­‐‑ turies):  Introduction,  Transcription,  and  Bibliography  (Taipei:  Institute  of  Linguistics,  Aca-­‐‑ demica  Sinica,  2006),  464–65.  

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3.   The  semi-­‐‑vowel  or  glide  -­‐‑i-­‐‑   or  -­‐‑y-­‐‑   in  Xiōngnú  is  an  artefact  of  later   Chinese  phonetic  evolution.   4.   The   nasal   was   originally   a   velar   nasal   [ŋ]   followed   immediately   by  a  vowel.  This  sequence  was  impossible  in  Sanskrit  and  so  [ŋ]   was  replaced  by  the  retroflex  dental  nasal  ṇ.  The  retroflex  sound   was  likewise  impossible  in  Greek  and  Iranian  languages  and  was   replaced  by  a  coronal  dental.       For  a  general  summary  of  my  conclusions  on  this  group  of  terms  related   to  Greek  Ounna  and  Khōnai,  see  Table  3.   Khiōn(es~itae)   This  term  appears  by  itself  only  in  Latin,  in  Ammianus  Marcellinus’s  account   of  the  years  356–59.  There  the  Chionitae  appear  as  a  people  in  the  east  of  the   Sassanid   empire,   under   their   king   Grumbates,   who   first   fought   against   and   then  allied  with  the  Sassanids.  Ammianus  Marcellinus  explicitly  defines  these   Khionites   as   a   type   of   Hunni   (“Huns”),   although   he   says   they   were   racially   different  from  the  other  Hunni.61  As  Étienne  de  la  Vaissière  has  pointed  out,   the  name  Grumbates  is  now  attested  in  Baktrian  as  Gorambad,  adding  to  the   verisimilitude  of  the  account.62  The  Latin  name  Chionitae  appears  to  be  also   related   to   the   term   Kermikhiōnes,   which   the   historian   Theophanes   Byzantios   (author   of   a   chronicle   covering   A.D.   566–81)   says   was   the   Persian   name   for   the  Türks.  This  may  be  analyzed  as  Middle  Persian  Karmīr  Xyōn  (Red  Xyōn).63   Although   Khion(es~itae)   is   not   particularly   common   in   Greco-­‐‑Roman   sources,   it   is   well-­‐‑known   in   the   Persian   world.   There   it   appears   in   Pahlavi   sources  as  Xyōn  and  in  Syriac  as  Xyōn-­‐‑.  The  Pahlavi  Middle  Persian  certainly   goes   back   to   Avestan,   where   the   name   appears   twice   in   the   Mazdean   scrip-­‐‑ tures   as   local   enemies   of   the   prophet   Zarathustra.   The   Avestan   form   is   X∆yaona,  where  the  X∆   marks  a  unique  letter  with  a  diacritical,  of  unclear  read-­‐‑ ing.64  As  Jamsheed  Choksy  has  noted,  this  certainly  gives  X∆yaona  the  appear-­‐‑ ance   of   being   a   foreign   word,   even   as   the   scriptural   narrative   seems   to   treat   him   as   the   ruler   of   an   Iranian   kingdom,   whose   king,   Arejataspa   (Pahlavi:                                                                                                                             61

 Ammianus   Marcellinus,   History,   trans.   J.   C.   Rolfe,   3   vols.   (1935;   repr.,   Cambridge,   MA:   Harvard   University   Press,   1982),   16:   9.4,   17:   5.1,   18:   6.22,   and   19:   1.7;   cf.   Frye,   History  of  Ancient  Iran,  311.   62  De  la  Vaissière,  “Huns  et  Xiongnu,”  19.   63  Moravcsik,  Sprachreste  der  Türkvölker,  158–59,  s.v.  Kermikhiōnes.   64  Ibid.,   236,   s.v.   “Ounnoi”;   Choksy,   “X∆iiaona-­‐‑   or   Hun   Reconsidered”;   cf.   Harold   W.   Bailey,  “Iranian  Studies,”  Bulletin  of  the  School  of  Oriental  Studies  6,  no.  4  (1932):  945–55,   here  946;  and  Bailey,  “Hyaona-­‐‑,”  in  Indo-­‐‑Celtica:  Gedächtnisschrift  für  alf  Sommerfelt,  ed.   H.  Pilch  and  J.  Thurow  (Munich:  Max  Hueber,  1972),  18–28.  Since  the  Greek  and  Latin   transcriptions   of   the   Pahlavi   Xyōn   clearly   indicate   a   reading   closer   to   [x]   than   [h],   I   follow  Choksy  in  using  ẋ  rather  than  ḣ  for  the  initial  consonant.    

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Arjasp),  has  an  Iranian  name.65  In  any  case,  the  Avestan  form  is  certainly  the   origin   of   the   Greco-­‐‑Roman   variants:   Avestan   X∆yaona   >   Pahlavi   Xyōn   >   Latin   Chionitae,  Greek  Khiōnes.  Moreover,  the  vehicle  of  transmission  to  the  Roman   empire  was  via  the  Sassanid  Empire,  not  the  Pontic  steppe.  In  Sassanid  usage,   the  name  designated  both  the  ancient  enemies  of  Mazdeism,  but  also  the  con-­‐‑ temporary  “Huns”  broadly  speaking,  of  which  the  Türks  were  seen  as  but  a   variety.   Can  H∆yaona  be  linked  to  the  Xiōngnú?  Not  according  to  the  present  state   of  knowledge.  Until  Zarathustra’s  time  and  place  is  located  more  specifically   than   “Bronze   Age   Central   Asia,”   any   proposed   link   of   Xiōngnú/*Xoŋa(i)   to   Avestan   X∆yaona   must   remain   purely   speculative.   Moreover,   while   Baxter   re-­‐‑ constructs   the   name   as   *x(r)joŋ-­‐‑na,   in   which   the   initial   [x(r)j]   could   possibly   represent  the  rare  initial  X∆y-­‐‑,  Schuessler’s  reconstruction  of  the  Xiōngnú  name   goes  back  to  *hπoŋ-­‐‑na  and  eventually  to  *hoŋ-­‐‑nâ  which  I  link  to  Hūní/*Xoŋa(i)   忽倪.66  This  much  simpler  initial  is  rather  harder  to  link  to  X∆yaona  than  Bax-­‐‑ ter’s  complex  reconstruction.  Finally,  Xiōngnú/*Xoŋa(i)  was  not  an  ethnonym,   but   a   dynastic   name,   almost   or   completely   unknown   before   the   time   of   the   first   ruler   Mòdùn   冒頓   around   200   B.C.67   This   makes   a   historical   link   to   X∆yaona,   a   term   attested   at   least   several   centuries   earlier   and   far   to   the   west,   problematic,  to  say  the  least.     Not  so  difficult,  but  also  not  without  its  problems  is  any  relation  of  Pah-­‐‑ lavi  Xyōn  to  the  parallel  Sogdian  xwn~γwn  and  Syriac  Hunāyē.  As  regards  the   Sogdian,  the  Khorazmian  form  Hūn  would  seem  to  indicate  that  Henning  was   correct  in  his  argument  that  the  initial  consonant  in  xwn~γwn  is  to  be  read  as  a   glottal   spirant   [h],   not   a   velar   spirant   [x].   Likewise   although   Choksy   points   out   that   the   -­‐‑yao-­‐‑   of   Avestan   “experienced   a   variety   of   resolutions   ranging   from   yō   (as   discussed   below   for   xyōn)   to   ō   (written   as   w   and   v),”68   it   seems   very   doubtful,   even   on   the   evidence   he   presents,   whether   an   evolution   of   -­‐‑ yao-­‐‑   to   -­‐‑ō-­‐‑   could   have   occurred   by   the   3rd   century   A.D.   in   the   conservative   Eastern  Iranian  dialects,  if  it  had  not  occurred  in  the  more  progressive  Pahlavi   dialects   even   by   the   9th   century.   Meanwhile   in   Syriac,   that   Hunāyē   (hwny’)   does  not  derive  from  Xyōn  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  Syriac  does  have  a  di-­‐‑                                                                                                                           65  Choksy,   “X∆iiaona-­‐‑   or   Hun   Reconsidered.”   For   these   references   in   context,   see   the   translations  from  the  Mazdean  scriptures  in  Mary  Boyce,  trans.  and  ed.,  Textual  Sources   for  the  Study  of  Zoroastrianism  (Chicago:  University  of  Chicago  Press,  1990),  77  (X∆yaona),   76,  77,  78,  79  (Xyōn),  96.   66  Baxter,  Handbook  of  Old  Chinese  Phonology,  798,  779;  Schuessler,  ABC  Etymological  Dic-­‐‑ tionary  of  Old  Chinese,  541,  404.   67  Edwin  G.  Pulleyblank,  “Ji  Hu  稽胡:  Indigenous  Inhabitants  of  Shaanbei  and  Western   Shanxi,”  in  Opuscula  Altaica:  Essays  Presented  in  Honor  of  Henry  Schwarz,  ed.  Edward  H.   Kaplan   and   Donald   H.   Whisenhunt   (Bellingham:   Western   Washington   University,   1994),  499–531;  Goldin,  “Steppe  Nomads.”   68  Choksy,  “X∆iiaona-­‐‑  or  Hun  Reconsidered,”  98.  

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rect   derivation   from   Xyōn   which   is   quite   different:   Xyonāyē   (kywny’).69   The   presence   of   k   instead   of   h,   and   yw   instead   of   w   in   this   second   written   form   makes  their  absence  in  the  first  all  the  more  significant.  Joshua  the  Stylite  in-­‐‑ deed   uses   both   forms,   with   Kīyūnāyē   as   a   kind   of   specialized   equivalent   of   Hūnāyē:   “In   our   own   time   the   Persian   king   Peroz   received   gold   on   many   [occasions]   from   the   Romans   for   his   wars   against   the   Kīyūnāyē,   i.e.,   the   Hūnāyē.”70   Clearly   this   passage   demonstrates   that   Kīyūnāyē   and   Hūnāyē   are   seen  as  two  different  words  for  the  same  people.  The  term  is  also  found  occa-­‐‑ sionally  in  other  historical  works,  such  as  the  Martyrdom  of  Mar  Ma‘īn  (dated   to  c.  363),  and  the  list  of  maphrians  (roughly  metropolitans)  in  Bar  Hebraeus,   demonstrating   that   the   term   here   is   no   corruption.71   Since   Kīyūnāyē   is   obvi-­‐‑ ously  derived  from  Pahlavi  Xyōn,  Hūnāyē  is  then  just  as  obviously  not.     Moreover,   even   if   Sogdian   xwn~γwn   could   be   derived   from   X∆yaona   that   does  not  mean  it  was.  The  Sanskrit  Hūṇa,  which  as  I  have  argued  had  already   spawned   Greco-­‐‑Baktrian   ’Onna/Ounna   in   Baktria,   and   would   later   spawn   Khotanese  Saka  Huna,  could  certainly  have  spawned  Sogdian  xwn~γwn,  to  be   read  as  Hun.  If  there  is  a  link  between  Sogdian  xwn~γwn,  then  certainly  San-­‐‑ skrit   Hūṇa must   be   the   origin   of   Sogdian   Hun,   not   the   other   way   around.   First,   while   Sanskrit   has   both   retroflex   and   ordinary   coronal   n,   Sogdian   has   only  the  coronal  n.  If  this  Hun(n)a  form  was  borrowed  into  Sanskrit  from  Sog-­‐‑ dian,   it   would   be   represented   with   an   ordinary   coronal   n   and   not   with   a   retroflex,  but  a  retroflex  ṇ in  Sanskrit  can  only  be  represented  by  a  coronal  n   in   Sogdian   (see   Table   2).   Secondly,   Sogdian   frequently   omits   final   -­‐‑a   in   bor-­‐‑ rowed  Sanskrit  words,  but  there  is  no  reason  for  Sanskrit  to  add  a  paragogic  -­‐‑ a   to   Sogdian   or   other   Iranian   words.   In   Tokharian   languages,   it   is   a   general   rule   that   Sanskrit   final   -­‐‑a   becomes   -­‐‑e/ä   with   animate   nouns   and   -­‐‑Ø   (zero)   in   inanimate  nouns.72  In  Sogdian,  however,  even  animate  nouns  ending  in  -­‐‑a  fre-­‐‑ quently  go  to  -­‐‑Ø  (see  Table  2).73  We  see  another  example  of  this  in  the  dynas-­‐‑ tic   name   Wēnnà   溫那   <   ’Onna   which   from   the   mid-­‐‑fifth   to   the   late   sixth   cen-­‐‑ tury   was   abbreviated   to   Wēn   溫   <   ’On.   Finally,   if   xwn~γwn   is   to   be   read   like                                                                                                                             69

 Moravcsik,  Sprachreste  der  Türkvölker,  236,  s.v.  “Ounnoi,”  citing  Janos  Harmatta.    Frank  R.  Trombley  and  John  W.  Watt,  trans.,  The  Chronicle  of  Pseudo-­‐‑Joshua  the  Stylite   (Liverpool:  Liverpool  University  Press,  2000),  9–10.     71  Jean-­‐‑Maurice  Fiey,  “Ma‘īn,  général  de  Sapor  II,  confesseur  et  Évéque,”  Le  Muséon  84   (1971):   437–53,   here   441;   Jean-­‐‑Baptiste   Abbeloos   and   Thomas   Joseph   Lamy,   ed.   and   trans.,  Gregorii  Barhebraei  Chronicon  Ecclesiasticum,  3  (Louvain:  E.  Peeters  and  Maison-­‐‑ neuve,   1877),   159–60.   See   Dickens,   “References   to   Chionites   in   Syriac   Literature.”   I   would   like   to   thank   Mark   Dickens   for   sharing   with   me   his   expertise   on   Syriac   philology.   72  Masahiro  Shōgaito,  “On  Uighur  Elements  in  Buddhist  Mongolian  Texts,”  Memoirs  of   the  Toyo  Bunko  49  (1991):  27–49,  here  29.   73  The   same   is   true   in   Baktrian;   see   Sims-­‐‑Williams,   “Ancient   Afghanistan   and   Its   In-­‐‑ vaders,”  230–31.   70

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Khorazmian  Hūn,  then  it  has  a  glottal  spirant,  a  sound  not  native  to  the  lan-­‐‑ guage,74  but  found  in  Sanskrit.  As  noted  the  Sogdian  γ  is  used  especially  for   the  h  borrowed  from  Sanskrit  (see  Tables  1  and  2).  Thus  Sanskrit  Hūṇa could   generate  Sogdian  Hun  but  not  vice  versa.   For  these  reasons,  I  think  it  most  likely  that  de  la  Vaissière75  is  correct  and   Pahlavi  Xyōn,  when  used  to  designate  various  nomads  to  the  east,  is  a  purely   learned   Sassanid   and   Mazdean   term,   derived   not   from   any   living   tradition,   but  solely  from  an  identification  of  contemporary  nomads  with  the  X∆yaona  of   the   Zoroastrian   scriptures.   It   is   thus   the   equivalent   of   the   Greek   designation   of  the  Ounna  as  Massagetai  or  Sauromatai,  one  more  of  the  many  “archaistic   names”   of   the   Huns.76   Sogdian   xwn~γwn,   Khorazmian   Hūn,   and   Khotanese   Saka   Huna-­‐‑   are   all   most   likely   to   be   derived   from   Sanskrit   Hūṇa,   not   from   Avestan  X∆yaona.   For  a  general  summary  of  my  conclusions  so  far,  see  Tables  3  and  4.   Khounoi~Khōn(itai)   This  brings  us  to  the  last  Greek  forms  with  a  velar  spirant.  Under  a  form  with   a  velar  spirant  [x]  comes  the  earliest  name  to  be  identified,  by  some  at  least,   with  the  “Huns”:  Khounoi  in  Ptolemy,  placed  in  the  western  Pontic  steppe  be-­‐‑ tween  the  Iranian  Rhoxolani  and  the  Dacian  or  Germanic  Bastarnae.77  A  form   in   Kh-­‐‑   next   appears   in   the   Chronicle   of   Menander   Protector,   covering   years   A.D.   558–82,   and   in   the   continuation   by   Theophylactus   Simocatta,   covering   years   582–602.   In   these   sixth-­‐‑century   instances,   the   name   appears   in   a   com-­‐‑ pound   with   Ouar   (=   War),   as   Ouarkhōnitai   in   Menander,   and   as   Ouar   and   Khounni   [sic]   together   in   Theophylactus   Simocatta   and   Nicephorus   Callistus   Xanthopulos   (c.   1256–1317)   who   cites   him.   This   twin   people   is   part   of   the   Turkic  Oghurs  and  is  identified  with  the  Avars  (Abaroi)  in  the  Pontic  and  Cas-­‐‑ pian  steppes.78   The  name  thus  appears  to  be  of  a  Turkic  people.  No  explicit  identification   is  made  with  the  “Huns”  by  any  ancient  author,  although  the  variant  in  Theo-­‐‑ phylactus  Simocatta,  with  -­‐‑ou-­‐‑   for  ō,  the  geminate  n,  and  a  plural  in  -­‐‑i,  seems   influenced   by   a   Greek   back-­‐‑translation   of   Latin   Hunni.   This   name   could   be   dismissed  except  that  it  is  the  only  one  of  the  names  found  in  Greek  sources                                                                                                                             74

 Henning,  “The  Date  of  the  Sogdian  Ancient  Letters,”  605;  Gharib,  Sogdian  Dictionary,   xxxii–xxxiii.   75  See  de  la  Vaissière,  Sogdian  Traders,  98.   76  Maenchen-­‐‑Helfen,  “Archaistic  Names  of  the  Hiung-­‐‑nu.”   77  Moravcsik,   Sprachreste   der   Türkvölker,   236,   s.v.   “Ounnoi”;   Claudius   Ptolemy,   The   Geography  (1931;  repr.,  New  York:  Dover,  1991),  80.   78  Moravcsik,   Sprachreste   der   Türkvölker,   223,   348;   R.   C.   Blockley,   trans.,   The   History   of   Menander  the  Guardsman  (Liverpool:  F.  Cairns,  1985),  171–79,  frag.  43;  Michael  Whitby   and  Mary  Whitby,  trans.,  The  History  of  Theophylact  Simocatta  (Oxford:  Oxford  Univer-­‐‑ sity  Press,  1986),  188–93.  

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that   can   be   plausibly   associated   with   Sogdian   Xwn   (probably   Khōn).   This   name   would   certainly   have   entered   Greek   with   an   initial   velar   spirant   [x]   (=   kh-­‐‑).  Moreover,  in  the  link  with  the  War-­‐‑Khōn,  this  seems  to  be  the  first  name   that   we   can   convincingly   call   an   autonym   of   the   steppe   peoples   themselves,   uninfluenced  by  Sanskrit  or  Avestan.     There  is,  moreover,  a  very  similar  ethnonym  attested  in  Turkic  languages:   the  Qun  (attested  in  Chinese  as  渾,  pronounced  Hūn  in  Modern  Mandarin).79   This   name   appears   as   one   of   many   clan   names   among   the   original   Turkic-­‐‑ speaking   peoples,   the   Oghuz   (also   known   as   Tegreg   or   “High   Carts”),80   dur-­‐‑ ing  the  Türk  and  Uyghur  eras.81  The  Greek  velar  spirant  kh  [x]  regularly  cor-­‐‑ responds  to  [q]  in  Old  Turkic.82  Indeed  the  Greek  and  Chinese  histories  of  the   Qun  and  War-­‐‑Khōn  appear  to  refer  to  the  same  events.  Just  as  the  War-­‐‑Khōn   were  opponents  of  the  Türk  empire,  so  too  in  the  Súishū,  the  Abar  (Ābá  阿拔)   and  Qun  渾  appear  alongside  the  Tegreg  鐵勒,  Izgil  思結,  and  others  in  a  list  of   peoples  rebelling  against  the  qaghan  Tardu  of  the  new  Türk  empire.83  Later,   the   Qūn   also   appear   in   al-­‐‑Bīrūnī’s   Tafhīm   (c.   1029),   and   the   geography   of   al-­‐‑ Marwazī  (fl.  1056–1120)  as  one  of  the  “eastern  Turks.”84     There  is  every  reason  to  accept  the  identity  of  the  War-­‐‑Khōn(itai)  with  the   Qun  of  Turkic  history.  It  is  thus  the  only  Greek  ethnonym  I  have  reviewed  so   far  which  actually  has  a  clear  link  to  the  Altaic  world.  Qun  is  often  related  to   Quman,   as   two   derivations   from   a   single   stem,   Turkic   quba   “pale   yellow,   grey,   dun”   or   Mongolian   gho’a   “beautiful,   elegant;   fallow   (as   an   animal  

                                                                                                                          79  Cf.  Early  Mandarin  γun  (Coblin,  Handbook  of  ’Phagsba  Chinese,  §378);  Middle  Chinese   *γon~xwəәn   (cf.   Coblin,   Compendium   of   Phonetics   in   Northwest   Chinese,   §§0782,   0616–17;   Takata,  Tonkō  shiryō  ni  yoru  Chūgokugo  shi  no  kenkyū,  §§0782,  0616–17).   80  Cf.  Edwin  G.  Pulleyblank,  “The  ‘High  Carts’:  A  Turkish-­‐‑Speaking  People  before  the   Türks,”  Asia  Major,  3rd  ser.,  3,  pt.  1  (1990):  21–26.     81  Wei  Zheng,  Suishu,  84/1879;  Wang  Pu,  comp.,  Tang  huiyao  [唐會要]  (Shanghai:  Com-­‐‑ mercial   Press,   1936),   96/1725,   cf.   Liu   Xu   [劉昫]   et.   al.,   Jiu   Tangshu   [舊唐書]   (Beijing:   Zhonghua   shuju,   1975),   199B/5343;   Liu   Xu,   Jiu   Tangshu,   3/59;   Wang   Pu,   Tang   huiyao,   73/1314,   cf.   Liu   Xu,   Jiu   Tangshu,   195/5196,   199B/5348;   and   Wang   Pu,   Tang   huiyao,   98/1744.   82  Moravcsik,  Sprachreste  der  Türkvölker,  36,  344,  s.v.  “Kherkhis.”   83  Wei   Zheng,   Suishu,   51/1335;   cf.   Li   Yanshou,   Beishi,   22/822.   The   Abar   (Ābá   阿拔)   or   Awars  appear  elsewhere  as  a  component  people  in  the  Oghuz  or  “High  Cart”  confed-­‐‑ eracy.  See  Wei  Zheng,  Suishu,  54/1368  and  84/1869,  cf.  Li  Yanshou,  Beishi,  99/3294.  In   the  last  citation,  the  Abar  are  called  a  kingdom/empire  (guó  國).   84  V.   Minorsky,   Sharaf   al-­‐‑Zämān   Ṭāhir   Marvazi   on   China,   the   Turks,   and   India   (London:   Royal   Asiatic   Society,   1942),   29–30,   95–100;   Omeljan   Pritsak,   “Two   Migratory   Move-­‐‑ ments  in  Eurasian  Steppe  in  the  9th–11th  Centuries,”  in  Proceedings  of  the  Twenty-­‐‑Sixth   Congress  of  Orientalists  (New  Delhi:  Ghosh,  1968),  157–63.    

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color).”85  This  etymology  is  reflected  in  such  terms  as  “pallid  ones”  that  later   become  closely  associated  with  the  western  half  of  the  Qipchaq  confederacy,   which  dominated  the  Pontic  steppe  from  the  12th  to  13th  century.  As  part  of   the  Quman-­‐‑Qipchaq  confederacy  taking  refuge  in  Hungary,  Qun  became  the   origin  of  the  well-­‐‑known   Kun  family  name  there.86  On  the  other  hand,  if  we   accept   an   identification   of   the   Qun   with   Ptolemy’s   Khounoi,   then   it   is   most   likely   not   an   originally   Turkic   term,   but   one   derived   from   Iranian   or   some   other  language;  its  association  with  quba~gho’a  “fallow,  pallid”  would  then  be   a  folk  etymology.  In  any  case,  I  can  see  no  justification  for  associating  any  of   these  terms  with  the  Huns  or  Xiōngnú.   For  a  general  summary  of  my  conclusions  on  these  terms,  see  Table  5.   III. From *Xoŋa(i) to H nºa Given  the  picture  presented  so  far,  the  greatest  difficulty  in  understanding  the   succession   of   variant   names   is   not   in   their   philological   connections   but   in   their  historical  connections.  It  has  generally  been  assumed  that  the  movement   of   the   names   for   Xiōngnú   and   Hun   followed   the   steppe   migration   routes   westward.   But   instead   we   find   a   succession   of   variant   forms   that   leap   from   Mongolia  to  India,  and  then  from  India  spread  north  and  west  to  the  Roman   empire.   To  help  explain  this  seemingly  anomalous  pattern,  I  would  like  to  return   now  to  Sanskrit  Hūṇa and  the  origin  of  the  “Huns.”  As  I  have  argued,  Hūṇa is   likely   a   straightforward   transcription   of   the   name   Xiōngnú,   in   its   original   pronunciation  as  [*xoŋa]  (with  a  variant  [*xoŋai]).  Confirming  this  fact  is  the   clear   evidence   that   Hūṇa was   believed   by   well-­‐‑informed   Indians   to   be   the   same  word  as  Xiōngnú.  As  Étienne  de  la  Vaissière  has  demonstrated,  the  Bud-­‐‑ dhist  translator  Dharmaraksºa  (Ch.  Zhu  Fahu  竺法護)  in  288  and  308  found  the   word   Hūṇa mentioned   in   two   different   Buddhist   sutras,   the   Tathāgatācintya-­‐‑ guhyanirdeśa-­‐‑sūtra  and  the  Lalitavistarasūtra  as  one  of  the  far-­‐‑flung  peoples  of   the   world   and   translated   them   both   into   Chinese   as   Xiōngnú.   As   a   man   of  

                                                                                                                          85

 J.   Marquart,   “Über   der   Volkstum   der   Komanen,”   in   Osttürkische   Dialektstudien,   edited   by   W.   Bang   and   Marquart,   Abhandlungen   der   Königlichen   Gesellschaft   der   Wissenschaften   zu   Göttingen.   Philologisch-­‐‑historische   Klasse,   N.F.,   13,   no.   1.   (Berlin:   Weidmannsche   Buchhandlung,   1914);   Paul   Pelliot,   “À   propos   des   Coman,”   Journal   asiatique  15  (1920):  125–85.  Cf.  P.  B.  Golden,  “Cumanica  IV:  The  Tribes  of  the  Cuman-­‐‑ Qıpčaqs,”  Archivum  Eurasiae  medii  aevi  9  (1995–.97):  99–122,  here  101.   86  Imre   Baski,   “On   the   Ethnic   Names   of   the   Cumans   of   Hungary,”   in   Kinship   in   the   Altaic   World,   ed.   Elena   V.   Boikova   and   Rostislav   B.   Rybakov   (Wiesbaden:   Harrasso-­‐‑ witz,  2006),  43–54,  here  48  and  52.  

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Yuèzhī/Tokharian   ancestry   working   at   Dunhuang,   he   was   presumably   well-­‐‑ informed  about  these  things.87     When  was  *Xoŋa(i)  transcribed  into  Sanskrit  as  Hūṇa?  This  certainly  hap-­‐‑ pened   well   before   the   fifth-­‐‑century   Hūṇa invasions   of   India.   The   earliest   known  use  of  the  term  in  Sanskrit  is  in  the  Buddhist  sutras  from  which  those   translations   were   drawn,   the   Lalitavistarasūtra   and   Tathāgatācintyaguhya-­‐‑ nirdeśa-­‐‑sūtra.   Sadly,   these   two   texts,   like   most   Buddhist   sutras   cannot   be   dated,   except   that   they   must   obviously   have   been   written   before   they   were   translated,   that   is,   before   288–308.   However,   Étienne   de   la   Vaissière   has   ar-­‐‑ gued  that  the  historical  context  of  the  other  references  to  peoples  such  as  the   Śaka,   Parthians,   Greeks   (Yavana),   and   Tokharians   (Tukhāra),   but   without   Kushans,  place  this  text  roughly  around  the  first  century  B.C.,  and  in  any  case   before   the   Kushan   expansion.   Within   this   context,   the   Tathāgatācintyaguhya   nirdeśa-­‐‑sūtra   refers   to   the   Hūṇa/Xiōngnú   as   a   language   group,   one   distinct   from   these   others   mentioned.88   Thus   knowledge   of   the   Hūṇa/Xiōngnú   must   have   entered   India   as   part   of   an   early   expansion   of   Indian   geographical   knowledge   and   international   trade,   long   before   the   Hūṇa actually   impinged   on  India’s  borders.   It  may  seem  surprising  that  the  eastern  Iranian  languages  (Sogdian,  Kho-­‐‑ razmian,  and  Khotanese  Saka)  derived  their  name  for  these  nomads  from  the   south,  from  Sanskrit,  and  not  directly  from  them  as  neighbors.  But  the  same  is   probably  true  for  their  terms  for  China  itself.  The  Indian  and  Iranian  terms  for   China  are  fairly  similar:  Sogdian  čyn  >  čynstan,  Sanskrit  Cīna,89  and  as  Pelliot   demonstrated,   they   certainly   derive   from   the   Qin   秦   dynasty.90   The   rather   important  philological  question  of  whether  the  sequence  of  Qin  秦,  in  Middle   Chinese  dzin  >  cīna  >  čyn  or  dzin  >  čyn  >  cīna  is  more  plausible  or  else  whether   dzin  generated  čyn  and  cīna  independently  has  never  been  investigated,  to  my   knowledge.  But  once  again,  a  form  with  final  -­‐‑a  is  much  more  likely  to  be  the   origin  of  a  form  without,  than  the  other  way  around.     Two   avenues   of   contact   between   China   and   the   West   are   documented.   The  first  one  is  that  through  the  Gansu  甘肅  corridor  and  the  Tarim  Basin  that   was  opened  by  HanWudi’s  漢武帝  conquests,  from  121  B.C.  on.  The  other  be-­‐‑ gan   almost   two   centuries   earlier   with   the   Qin   dynasty   conquest   of   Sichuan   四川  in  316  B.C.  This  opened  up  trade  through  Yunnan  雲南  through  Assam   and   Bengal   into   Northern   India.   That   this   route,   much   less   famous   than   the                                                                                                                             87

 De  la  Vaissière,  “Huns  et  Xiongnu,”  11–12;  Boucher,  “Dharmarakṣa  and  the  Trans-­‐‑ mission  of  Buddhism  to  China,”  Asia  Major  19,  no.  1–2  (2006):  13–37, esp.  24,  26.   88  De  la  Vaissière,  “Huns  et  Xiongnu,”  11–14.   89  See   Bailey,   Culture   of   the   Sakas,   81–82;   Gharib,   Sogdian   Dictionary,   §§3341,   3355;   Henning,  “The  Date  of  the  Sogdian  Ancient  Letters,”  608–09.   90  Paul  Pelliot,  “L’origin  du  nom  de  ‘Chine,’”  T’oung  pao,  2nd  ser.,  13,  no.  5  (1912):  727– 42;  Pelliot,  “Encore  à  propos  du  nom  de  ‘Chine,’”  T’oung  pao,  2nd  ser.,  14,  no.  3  (1913):   427–28.    

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much   bally-­‐‑hooed   “Silk   Road,”   predated   the   Central   Asian   route   is   demonstrated   by   the   astonishment   of   the   Han   envoy   and   scout   Zhang   Qian   張騫 who   found   Sichuanese   cloths   and   bamboos   already   in   the   markets   of   Baktria.91   It   is   by   no   means   impossible   then,   that   the   Xiōngnú   came   to   the   attention  of  India  as  early  as  the  second  century  B.C.,  and  via  trade  through   Sichuan  and  Yunnan,  not  Central  Asia.   As  de  la  Vaissière  argued,  the  Xiōngnú  do  not  appear  to  have  actually  di-­‐‑ rectly   impinged   upon   the   eastern   Iranian   speakers   until   around   A.D.   350.   Serindia   was   mostly   Tokharian-­‐‑speaking,   and   one   might   imagine   that   there   would  be  an  independent  Tokharian  reflex  of  the  Xiōngnú  name  in  those  lan-­‐‑ guages,  but  such  names  have  not  survived.  But  Serindia  itself  was  in  no  posi-­‐‑ tion  to  be  an  exporter  or  transmitter  of  Chinese  or  Xiōngnú  names  and  terms   to   the   eastern   Iranian   people.   The   image   of   Kashghar,   Khotan,   Kucha   and   others   as   flourishing   cities   along   the   Silk   Road   must   not   be   projected   back   anachronistically.  In  a  seminal  article,  Erich  Zürcher  pointed  out  that  Serindia   was   until   about   120   A.D.   quite   poor   and   underpopulated.   Chinese   was   its   only  written  language.  By  260  at  the  latest,  Serindian  cities  had  begun  writing   in  a  non-­‐‑Chinese  language—not  the  native  vernacular,  but  instead  Prakrit  in   the   Kharoṣṭhī   script,   derived   from   northwest   India.   Far   from   being   a   trans-­‐‑ mitter   of   East-­‐‑West   interaction,   Serindia,   until   the   third   century,   was   an   ob-­‐‑ stacle   to   cultural   interchange   (Zürcher   1990;   Boucher   2006:   34-­‐‑37;   Hansen   1998).  Even  after  that  time,  until  the  sixth  century  Serindian  cities  continued   to   use   Indian   languages   exclusively,   at   least   for   religious   purposes   (Nattier   1990).  It  should  thus  not  be  surprising  that  the  eastern  Iranians  did  not  adopt   whatever   term   the   Serindians   had   been   using   for   the   Xiōngnú   but   instead   simply  adopted  the  already  well  known  Indian  term.  This  the  Serindians  car-­‐‑ ried  with  them  to  the  cities  of  China  when  they  began  trading  there.   Contact  with  the  Hūṇa/Xiōngnú,  or  at  least  with  those  that  they  and  their   neighbors   all   identified  with  Hūṇa/Xiōngnú,   became   much   closer   in   the   mid-­‐‑ fourth   century.   After   a   period   of   nomadic   settlement   in   South   Central   Asia,   around  A.D.  350,  Baktria  emerged  again,  as  it  had  under  the  Kushans/Yuèzhī,   as   a   base   for   an   expanding   empire   built   by   the   new   settlers.   The   Sassanids   reached   back   into   their   history   and   revived   the   ancient   Avestan   term   X∆yaona/Xyōn/Khiōn  to  designate  the  invaders.  By  420,  these  nomads,  who  con-­‐‑ tinued  the  Kushan  tradition  of  writing  in  Greek-­‐‑script  Baktrian,  seem  to  have   accepted  the  Sanskrit  version  of  their  ethnonym,  i.e.,  Hūṇa,  as  their  own.  Thus   Kidāra’s   dynasty   was   called   Ounnoi   by   the   Greeks,   Hūṇa   in   India,   and,   as   I   have  demonstrated,  ’Onna  by  its  own  branch  dynasty  in  Sogdiana.92  But  with                                                                                                                             91

 A.  F.  P.  Hulsewé,  China  and  Central  Asia:  The  Early  Stage.  125  B.C.–A.D.  23  (Leiden:   Brill,  1979),  211.     92  That   the   *Xoŋa(i)   accepted   their   sedentary   neighbors’   version   of   their   own   ethno-­‐‑ nym,   Hūṇa,   as   their   own   can   be   compared   to   how   the   Mongols   in   Central   Asia  

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an  actual  influx  of  Xiōngnú,  the  native  ethnonym  finally  made  its  occasional   appearance   in   direct   transcriptions:   *Xoŋ´i/Hūní   忽倪   into   Chinese   and   Khōnai  into  Greek.     V. H nºa, ’Onna, and the Origin of the “Huns” But  how  did  it  happen  that  around  375,  when  the  East  Roman  Empire  heard   of  a  new  nomadic  empire  from  across  the  Don  attacking  the  Alans,  the  term   that   they   took   over   to   designate   these   new   nomads   was   not   an   Iranian,   Turkic,   or   other   native   term,   but   a   Greco-­‐‑Baktrian   version   of   the   Sanskrit   word  for  the  Xiōngnú  of  Mongolia?   The  answer  must  be  that  this  encounter  was  the  first  chapter  in  the  well-­‐‑ documented  history  of  symbiosis  between  Central  Asian  merchants  and  sed-­‐‑ entary   empires.   Although   Ammianus   Marcellinus   presents   his   Huns   as   ut-­‐‑ terly  alien,  with  no  conceivable  policy  or  desire  other  than  slaughter,  the  fact   that   he   and   the   other   Greco-­‐‑Roman   historians   used   for   them   a   term   which   had   passed   through   Baktria   and   Sogdiana   shows   that   South   Central   Asians   must   have   mediated   the   knowledge   that   the   Roman   frontier   generals   and   armies  had  about  this  people.  Either  the  people  of  this  new  polity  themselves   actually  called  themselves  Huna/Ounna,  in  which  case  their  state  or  confedera-­‐‑ tion  must  be  seen  as  a  result  of  Sogdian/Baktrian  leadership  and  organization,   or  else  this  term  was  simply  what  they  called  themselves  when  speaking  with   Romans,   in   which   case   South   Central   Asians   must   have   been   their   inter-­‐‑ preters   and   diplomats.   Either   way,   the   appearance   of   the   name   Huna~   Ounna~Ounnoi  beyond  the  Don  River  can  only  mean  that  oasis  Iranian  influ-­‐‑ ence   had   penetrated   through   the   steppes   of   Kazakhstan   and   was   shaping   a   political  unit  on  the  Don  River,  at  least  in  part,  to  fulfill  its  purposes.   But   this   Central   Asian   mercantile   influence   must   have   been   working   on   an  ethnic  reality  that  was  already  being  shaped  by  movements  from  the  east.   In  the  case  of  South  Central  Asia,  the  fact  that  the  new  fifth-­‐‑century  monarchs   in   Samarqand   titled   themselves   not   just   the   ’Onnashāh,   but   also   the   King   of   the  *Xoŋai  (transcribed  as  *Xoŋ´i/Hūní  忽倪  or  Khōnai)  bears  witness  to  a  fresh   influx  of  people  named  *Xoŋai/Xiōngnú  into  South  Central  Asia.  In  the  Pontic   steppe   the   evidence   is   less   direct,   but   the   fact   that   even   the   earliest   of   these   Khiōnites  and  the  Kidarites  were  identified  by  their  Greek  and  Roman  histo-­‐‑ rians   as   species   within   the   genus   of   Hunni/Ounnoi   speaks   to   some   linkage,   however   distant.   And   if   nomads   calling   themselves   *Xoŋa(i)   were   the   titular   powers   in   this   new   polity,   it   would   explain   why   at   least   the   Greek   writers,   unlike  the  Syriac  and  Armenian  ones,  borrowed  the  name  in  a  form  that  pre-­‐‑ served  the  final  -­‐‑a.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     eventually  came  to  call  themselves  by  the  Persian  version  of  their  name,  i.e.,  Moghuls   or  Mughals.  

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The  *Xoŋai/’Onna/Ounna  assault  west  over  the  Don  was  likely  intended  to   serve  the  aims  of  mercantile  clients,  by  establishing  an  outlet  to  the  sea,  such   as  at  Sudak  in  Crimea  which  was  later  known  as  a  Sogdian  colony.93  Jordanes   refers   to   “Cherson   [i.e.,   Crimea],   where   the   avaricious   traders   bring   in   the   goods   of   Asia”   as   being   under   the   protection   of   the   Akatziri   Huns.94   This   is   quite  late,  around  A.D.  551,  but  at  least  testifies  that  this  link  between  Asian   commercial   centers   and   Crimea   predated   the   rise   of   the   Türk   empire.   But   if   Sudaq  in  Crimea  was  one  anchor  of  a  “Silk  Road,”  the  other  anchor  was  not  in   China,   but   in   India.   In   the   year   313,   Sogdian   merchants   were   writing   about   China   that   “all   the   details   of   how   China   fared,   it   would   be   a   story   of   debts   and  woe;  you  have  no  wealth  from  it”95—nor  by  375  had  Chinese  affairs  im-­‐‑ proved   much.   By   contrast   India   was   under   the   powerful   and   stable   Gupta   empire.  Although  Indian  merchants  and  their  trade  in  Central  Asia  and  Rus-­‐‑ sia   have   too   long   been   neglected   by   historians,96   India   was   probably   the   ul-­‐‑ timate  destination  in  view  for  the  money  used  to  pay  for  the  “goods  of  Asia.”     Conclusions My  conclusions  may  be  summarized  fairly  briefly  in  the  form  of  certain  iden-­‐‑ tifications  and  historical  propositions:  

 

1.   Sanskrit   Hūṇa and   Greek   Khōnai   are   transcriptions   of   the   word   Xiōngnú   匈奴,   transcribed   in   Old   Chinese   as   *Xoŋa   (variant:   *Xoŋai).  Sanskrit  writers  were  using  this  term  well  before  any  mi-­‐‑ gration   of   the   Xiōngnú   from   Mongolia.   They   may   have   learned   about   the   Xiōngnú   not   via   the   “Silk   Road”   but   via   the   Sichuan-­‐‑ Yunnan  route.   2.   Sanskrit   Hūṇa was   read   by   Greeks   in   Baktria   as   Ounna   (Middle   Chinese   ’Onna),   a   term   that   was   probably   used   for   the   far   off   Xiōngnú  nomads  by  the  first  century  B.C.  Only  in  the  fourth  cen-­‐‑ tury  A.D.  did  these  Ounna/’Onna  become  a  matter  of  immediate   political  importance.   3.   Sogdian   xwn~γwn   is   to   be   read   as   Hun.   It   is   a   close   relative   of   Khorazmian  Hūn  and  Saka  Huna.  All  derive  from  an  original  San-­‐‑ skrit  Hūṇa.                                                                                                                             93

 De  la  Vaissière,  Sogdian  Traders,  242–49.    Charles  C.  Mierow,  trans.,  The  Gothic  History  of  Jordanes  (1915;  repr.,  Merchantville,   NJ:  Evolution  Publishing,  2006),  59,  §36–37).   95  Henning,   “The   Date   of   the   Sogdian   Ancient   Letters,”   607,   citing   Ancient   Letter   II,   30–31.   96  See,  however,  Scott  Cameron  Levi,  The  Indian  Diaspora  in  Central  Asia  and  Its  Trade,   1550–1900  (Leiden:  Brill,  2002).   94

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NGNÚ

4.   Sometime   around   A.D.   350,   a   polity   in   today’s   Kazakhstan/   Caspian   steppe   formed,   in   which   Central   Asian   (Sogdian?   Bak-­‐‑ trian?)   merchants   played   a   major   part   as   merchant   partners.   People  from  the  old  *Xoŋa(i)  empire  also  certainly  played  a  lead-­‐‑ ing  role  in  this  new  polity.   5.   Starting  around  350  in  South  Central  Asia,  and  around  375  in  the   Pontic   Steppe,   this   new   Hūṇa/’Onna/Hun   force   launched   various   attacks   on   the   Sassanid   empire   and   the   Alans   of   the   Pontic   Steppe.   6.   Greeks   called   these   new   invaders   Ounna   following   Baktrian   Greek  usage,  soon  nativized  to   Ounnoi  (Latin  Hunni).  The  Sassa-­‐‑ nids  used  an  archaic  scriptural  term  to  call  them  Khyōn  from  the   name  of  the  enemies  of  Zarathustra  in  the  Avesta.  But  the  Syriac   and   Armenian   writers   used   their   reflexes   (Syriac   Hunāyē,   Arme-­‐‑ nian   Honk’)   of   the   most   common   Sogdian   form   Hun   (written   xwn~γwn)  to  refer  to  them.   7.   After   a   ’Onna/Hūṇa/Khōnai/*Xoŋai   king   conquered   Sogdiana,   the   rulers  of  Samarqand  called  themselves  ’Onnashāh,  or  King  of  the   *Xoŋai/Khōnai,  a  title  modeled  on  that  of  their  Baktrian  liege  lord,   “Kushānshāh.”  

 

49

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CHRISTOPHER P. ATWOOD

Table 1 Sanskrit   Arhat   Vihāra   Mahā-­‐‑  

 

Sogdian   rγ’nt   βrγ’r   mγ’  

Reference     Kara  2000,  s.v.  arqad   Kara  2000,  s.v.  buqar   Kara  2000:  s.v  maqarač  

Table 2 Sanskrit   Ānanda  

Sogdian   ’’n’nt  

Tokharian   ānant  (A)  

Asura  

’’swr  

asūre  

pretyekabuddha  

pr’tykpwt  

pratikapañakte  

Preta  

pr’yt  

prete  

Bodhisattva  

pwtystβ  

bodhisātve  

Canḍāla  

čnt’r  

caṇḍāle  

Gandharva  

knt’rβ  

gandharve  

Kiṃnara

kynntr  

kinnare  

Mahārāja  

mγ’r’č  

n.a.  

śramaṇa  

šrm’n  

ṣamāne  

Śrāvaka  

šr’βk  

n.a.  

Vidyādhara  

βyty’δr  

vidyādhare  

 

Reference   Shōgaito  1991:   31   Kara  2000,  s.v.   asuri   Kara  2000,  s.v   biratikabud   Kara  2000,  s.v.   birid   Kara  2000,  s.v.   bodistv   Kara  2000,  s.v.   čandalčid   Kara  2000,  s.v.   gandari   Kara  2000,  s.v.   kinari   Kara  2000,  s.v.   maqarač-­‐‑nu’ud   Kara  2000,  s.v.   širamani   Kara  2000,  s.v.   širavag   Kara  2000,  s.v.   vidyadari    

HUNS AND XI

Table 3

  Ancient  Terms   *Xoŋa(i)  

 

51

NGNÚ

>  OC     *hoŋ-­‐‑nâ   匈奴 >  

Medieval  Terms  

Modern   Terms   >  MM   Xiōngnú   匈奴   >  MM   Hūní  忽倪  

 

 

 

 

 

MC   *Xoŋɛi   忽倪   Gk.   Khōnai   >  Gk.   Oun(n)oi   >  MC     ’Onna   溫那    

 

 

 

 

 

>  L.   Hunni    

 

 

>  MC     ’On  溫   >  Arm.   Honk‘  

 

 

>  

 

   

>  Skt.   Hūṇa    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

>  Sgd.   Hun   (xwn~   γwn)  =   Kh.  Hūn   >  

>  Gk.   Oun(n)a    

>  Syr.   Hunāyē   (hwny’)  

 

 

 

 

 

>  MM   Wēnnà   溫那   >  MM   Wēn  溫    

Sk.   Huna  

Table 4 Ancient  Terms   Av.  X∆yaona  >      

 

 

Pah.  Xyōn      

Medieval  Terms   >  Syr.  Kywny’   >  L.  Chionitae   >  Gk.  Khiōnes  

 

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CHRISTOPHER P. ATWOOD

Table 5 Ancient  Terms   ?>  

Qun/   Xun?        

 

    ?>  Gk.  Khounoi  

Medieval  Terms   Tu.  Qun   >  MC  xwəәn  渾          

Modern  Terms   >  MM  hūn  渾  

>  Gk.  Khōn   >  Gk.  Khounni    

Notes  to  Tables  3–5   Ancient  and  Medieval  are  roughly  divided  about  A.D.150–200   OC  =  Old  Chinese   Arm.  =  Armenian   Av.  =  Avestan   Gk.  =  Greek   Kh.  =  Khorazmian   L.  =  Latin   MM  =  Modern  Mandarin   MC  =  Middle  Chinese   Pah.  =  Pahlavi   Sk.  =  Khotanese  Saka   Skt.  =  Sanskrit   Sogd.  =  Sogdian   Syr.  =  Syriac   >  indicates  derivation    

     

 

     

Archaeological Finds of Camels in Pre-Mongol Rus’: A Reassessment*   Inés García de la Puente  

Camels  are  mentioned  in  Rus’ian  chronicles,  appear  in  a  fresco  in  St.  Sophia   of  Kiev,  and  have  left  physical  traces  of  their  journeys  through  Rus’.1  Archae-­‐‑ ologists   have   long   been   aware   of   the   presence   of   camel   finds   dating   back   to   pre-­‐‑Mongol  times.  These  osteological  remains  have  often  been  used  as  yet  an-­‐‑ other   argument   to   prove   the   existence   of   a   caravan   route   that   linked   Volga   Bulgaria  and  Kiev.2  Based  on  the  information  provided  by  the  Muslim  geog-­‐‑ raphers   el-­‐‑Dschaihany   and   al-­‐‑Idrisi,   B.   A.   Rybakov   reconstructed   the   land   route  that  merchants  followed  from  Volga  Bulgaria  to  Kiev  in  the  ninth–tenth   centuries.  He  even  suggested  the  location  of  the  day  stops  that  in  his  opinion   would   have   been   necessary   on   the   journey   from   the   Bulgarian   Great   City,   where   trade   caravans   from   the   Muslim   markets   arrived   regularly,   to   Kiev.3   Some   16   years   later,   the   Soviet   archaeologist   Motsiia   endorsed   Rybakov’s   theory   of   a   lively,   land   caravan   route   between   Great   City   and   Kiev,   but   he   slightly   modified   the   path   of   the   route   proposed   by   Rybakov,   and   he   dated   the  peak  of  its  functioning  to  the  11th–first  half  of  the  12th  centuries.4  During   the  excavations  carried  out  in  1991  no  trace  of  the  route  in  Bulgarian  territory   could   be   found.   This   absence   was   explained   by   archaeologists   as   a   sign   that                                                                                                                             This  little  piece  of  research  is  dedicated  to  Don  Ostrowski,  who  supported  and  encour-­‐‑ aged  my  work  week  after  week  at  Peet’s  throughout  the  nearly  three  years  that  I  lived   in  Cambridge  (MA),  and  ever  afterwards.   1  On  the  chronicle  information  on  camels  and  of  the  camel  fresco  in  the  northern  tower   of  St.  Sophia,  see  Inés  Garcia  de  la  Puente,  “On  the  Camels  that  Accompanied  a  Prin-­‐‑ cess”  (unpublished  manuscript).   2  For  a  summarized  overview  of  the  study  of  the  Bulgar-­‐‑Rus’  trade,  see,  for  example,   R.  M.  Valeev,  “Torgovye  sviazi  Volzhskoi  Bulgarii  i  Rusi  v  domongol’skii  period  (X– XIII  vv.),”  in  Volzhskaia  Bulgariia  i  Rus’:  K  1000-­‐‑letiiu  russko-­‐‑bulgarskogo  dogovora,  ed.  A.   G.  Petrenko,  P.  N.  Starostin,  and  A.  Kh.  Khalikov  (Kazan’:  Institut  iazyka,  literatury  i   istorii  im.  G.  Ibragimova  KFAN  SSSR,  1986),  20–37,  here  20–23.   3  Velikii   Gorod   or   Great   City,   identified   with   the   archaeological   site   of   the   fortified   town   Biliar   gorodische,   was   the   capital   city   of   Volga   Bulgaria.   V.   V.   Sedov,   intro-­‐‑ duction   to   Issledovaniia   Velikogo   Goroda,   ed.   Sedov   (Moscow:   Nauka,   1976),   3;   and   A.   Kh.   Khalikov,   “Istoriia   izucheniia   Biliarskogo   gorodishcha   i   ego   istoricheskaia   topo-­‐‑ grafiia,”  in  Issledovaniia  Velikogo  Goroda,  5–56,  esp.  5.   4  V.  P.  Motsiia,  “Novye  svedeniia  o  torgovom  puti  iz  Bulgara  v  Kiev,”  in  Zemli  iuzhnoi   Rusi  v  IX–XIV  vv.,  ed.  P.  P.  Tolochko  (Kiev:  Naukova  Dumka,  1985),  131–33.     Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 53–59.

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INÉS GARCÍA DE LA PUENTE

the  route  followed  different  itineraries  in  that  section,  and  dismissed  as  a  pos-­‐‑ sible  consequence  of  the  humble  resources  of  the  expedition.  In  contrast,  the   1989   expedition   had   been   successful   in   determining   some   rest   stops   in   the   Rus’ian  section.5   Independently  of  how  frequent  or  infrequent  its  use  may  have  been,  the   land   trade   route   between   Bulgar   and   Kiev   provided   a   means   of   communi-­‐‑ cation   between   the   Muslim   world   and   Rus’—and   thus   Western   markets— without  Novgorod  as  an  intermediary.  It  challenges  the  traditional  picture  of   long-­‐‑distance  trade  routes  in  Rus’  because  it  excludes  (a)  river  transportation,   (b)   Novgorod,   and   (c)   the   south-­‐‑to-­‐‑north   axis   that   were   implied   features   of   the  well-­‐‑known  Dnieper  and  Volga  routes.  All  of  these  factors,  together  with   the   scarcity   of   Rus’ian   written   sources   referring   to   this   route,   have   impeded   scholarly  work  on  it.6  In  this  brief  piece  of  research  I  would  like  to  focus  on  an   aspect  of  extant  scholarly  work  on  the  route  that  I  believe  needs  revision:  the   archaeological  evidence  on  camels  in  its  Rus’ian  section,  and  in  the  territories   of   Rus’   prior   to   the   Mongol   conquest.   I   will   demonstrate   that   documented   camel  finds  in  pre-­‐‑Mongol  Rus’  are  not  numerous.   The  information  published  about  camel  finds  in  Rus’  is  misleading.  One’s   first   impression   after   reading   the   archaeological   materials   is   that   there   have   been  numerous  discoveries  of  camel  remains.  However,  a  detailed  reading  of   the  published  osteological  data  indicates  that  what  has  been  unearthed  is,  in   reality,   meager.   In   the   following   paragraphs   I   will   present   and   evaluate   the   information   published   on   archaeological   finds   of   camels   in   Rus’.   In   order   to   give  a  better  overview  of  the  data,  I  will  first  present  a  table  summarizing  the   information:7                                                                                                                             5

 A.   Kh.   Khalikov,   “Torgovye   puti   Bulgarii   v   IX–XII   vv.   i   ikh   arkheologicheskoe   izu-­‐‑ chenie  (na  primere  puti  iz  Bulgara  v  Kiev),”  in  Put’  iz  Bulgara  v  Kiev,  ed.  P.  P.  Tolochko   et  al.  (Kazan’:  Rossiiskaia  akademiia  nauk,  Kazanskii  nauchnyi  tsentr,  Institut  iazyka,   literatury  i  istorii  im.  G.  Ibragimova,  1992),  12–22.  For  the  evidence  discussed  here,  see   15–16,  18.   6  The   written   materials   are   scant   not   only   for   the   study   of   the   land   route,   but   of   any   pre-­‐‑Mongol  Bulgar–Kiev  route  in  general.  One  of  the  pieces  of  “evidence”  often  used   in   scholarship   to   prove   the   Bulgar-­‐‑Rus’   trade   is   the   Bulgar-­‐‑Rus’   treaty   of   AD   1006.   However,  the  existence  of  this  treaty,  inserted  by  V.  N.  Tatishchev  in  the  second  redac-­‐‑ tion   of   his   Istoriia,   is   more   than   dubious   (Tatishchev,   Istoriia   rossiiskaia   v   semi   tomakh   [Moscow-­‐‑Leningrad:   Akademiia   nauk,   1963],   2:   69),   as   Shakhmatov,   Martynov,   and   Peshtich  showed:  A.  A.  Shakhmatov,  “K  voprosu  o  kriticheskom  izdanii  ‘Istorii  rossii-­‐‑ skoi’  V.  N.  Tatishcheva,”  in  Dela  i  dni,  bk.  1  (St.  Petersburg,  1920),  80–95;  M.  Martynov,   “‘Dogovor’  Vladimira  s  volzhskimi  bolgarami  1006  goda,”  Istorik-­‐‑Marksist,  no.  2  (1941):   116–17;   S.   L.   Peshtich,   “O   ‘dogovore’   Vladimira   s   volzhskimi   bolgarami   1006   goda,”   Istoricheskie  zapiski  18  (1946):  327–35.  On  the  unreliability  of  Tatishchev  as  a  historian  in   the  modern  sense  of  the  word,  see  A.  Tolochko,  “Istoriia  rossiiskaia”  Vasiliia  Tatishcheva:   Istochniki  i  izvestiia  (Moscow:  Novoe  literaturnoe  obozrenie;  Kiev:  Kritika,  2005).     7  I  want  to  thank  Roman  Kovalev  for  his  generous  help.  He  provided  me  with  a  most   valuable  bibliography  on  camels,  as  well  as  with  some  of  his  own  manuscripts.    

CAMELS IN PRE-MONGOL RUS’

55

Table  18   Author  

Number  of   bones  

Location  of   find  

Period  

Source  

Efimenko  and   Tret’iakov  (1948,   57)  

6  (3  individu-­‐‑ als)  

Bol’shoe   Borshevsk   gorodishche  

Borshevsk   culture  (8th– 9th  centuries)  

Report  on  previous   excavations  

Tsalkin  (1969,  92,   table  1,  and  p.  95)  

6  (3  individu-­‐‑ als)  

Borshevo  1  

Report  on  previous   excavations  

1  

Titchikha  

Borshevsk   culture  (8th– 9th  centuries)  

Timchenko   (1972,  172)  

1  

Kiev  

Medieval  

Report  on  excava-­‐‑ tion  

Kropotkin  (1973,   228–29;  230  nn.  27   and  28)  

Undetermined  

Belgorod  

Not  provided  

“communication  by   L.  A.  Golubevaia”  

Kiev  

Timchenko  (1972)  

Left  bank   of  Dnepr  

Tsalkin     (1969,  92)  

Zotsenko  (1992,   53)  

Undetermined  

Kiev  and   Vyshgorod  

12th  century  

Not  provided  

Motsiia  and   Khalikov  (1997,  66)  

Undetermined  

Kiev  and   Vyshgorod  

Medieval  

Not  provided  

Sedova     (1997,  184)  

Undetermined  

Suzdal’  kreml  

Not  provided  

Mention  to  V.  V.   Sedov’s  1967–68   excavations  

Rodina   (2004,  67)  

Undetermined  

Suzdal’  kreml  

Not  provided  

Sedova  (1997,  184)  

Poluboiarinova   (2008,  93,  and  n.   316)  

Undetermined  

Kiev,   Vyshgorod  

Not  provided  

Kropotkin  (1973,   230)  

Undetermined  

Borshevsk   gorodishche,   Titchikha  

1  

Suzdal’  

Efimenko  and   Tret’iakov  (1948,  57)   8 Sedova  (1977,  184)  

                                                                                                                          8

 Sources:   P.   P.   Efimenko   and   P.   N.   Tret’iakov,   “Drevnerusskie   poseleniia   na   Donu,”   Materialy  i  issledovaniia  po  arkheologii  SSSR  8  (1948):  45–65;  V.  I.  Tsalkin,  “Fauna  iz   raskopok  borshevskikh  i  romenskikh  gorodishch,”  Sovetskaia  arkheologiia,  no.  4  (1969):   91–101;   N.   G.   Timchenko,   K   istorii   okhoty   i   zhivotnovodstva   v   Kievskoi   Rusi   (srednee   podneprov’e)   (Kiev:   Naukova   dumka,   1972);   V.   V.   Kropotkin,   “Karavannye   puti   v   vo-­‐‑ stochnoi  Evrope,”  in  Kavkaz  i  Vostochnaia  Evropa  v  drevnosti,  ed.  P.  M.  Muchnaev  and  V.   I.   Markovin   (Moscow:   Nauka,   1973):   226–30;   V.   N.   Zotsenko,   “Volzhskaia   sistema   putei  soobshchenii  v  istorii  iuzhnoi  Rusi,”  in  Put’  iz  Bulgara  v  Kiev,  ed.  P.  P.  Tolochko   et  al.  (Kazan’:  Rossiiskaia  akademiia  nauk,  Kazanskii  nauchnyi  tsentr,  Institut  iazyka,   literatury  i  istorii  im.  G.  Ibragimova,  1992),   47–54;  A.  P.  Motsiia  and  A.  Kh.  Khalikov,   Bulgar-­‐‑Kiev:  Puti,  sviazi,  sud’by  (Kiev:  Redaktsionno-­‐‑izdatel’skii  tsentr  Instituta  arkheo-­‐‑

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Kropotkin   provides   a   vague   allusion   to   camel   bones   found   in   Belgorod,   but   his  source  is  an  undetermined  “communication  by  L.  A.  Golubevaia  in  1973”;   such   an   informal   source   challenges   the   reliability   of   the   information   pro-­‐‑ vided.9   Moreover,   Kropotkin   bases   his   mention   of   camels   in   Kiev   on   Tim-­‐‑ chenko,   and   of   camels   on   the   left   bank   of   the   Dnieper   on   Tsalkin.10   In   turn,   Timchenko   informs   us   that   one   camel   bone   was   found   in   the   medieval   ar-­‐‑ chaeological   layers   of   Kiev;   regretably,   he   does   not   elaborate   on   this   inter-­‐‑ esting  piece  of  information,  which  he  lists  only  in  a  table.11   Tsalkin   lists   six   bones   of   camels   belonging   to   three   individuals   found   in   the   Borshevsk   culture   site   Borshevo   1,   and   one   camel   in   the   site   Titchikha.12   The  Borshevsk  archaeological  culture  was  located  in  the  area  of  the  lower  Vo-­‐‑ ronezh   and   middle   Don,   in   what   scholars   traditionally   identify   as   the   terri-­‐‑ tory  of  the  Viatichans,  and  where  some  Mordvinians  and  Alans  also  resided   (it  roughly  corresponds  to  the  east  of  the  later  Pereiaslav  and  Chernigov  prin-­‐‑ cipalities).   Dated   to   the   eighth   and   ninth   centuries,   together   with   the   Romensk   culture   it   is   considered   to   be   the   oldest   known   archaeological   cul-­‐‑ ture   of   the   Eastern   Slavs.13   Tsalkin   specifies   that   the   bones   belonged   to   two-­‐‑ humped  (Bactrian)  camels;  he  reasons  that  although  they  were  known  in  the   Borshevsk   culture,   they   were   rare   and   did   not   play   any   important   role   in   farming.14   Motsiia   and   Khalikov   state   that   “[camel]   bones   have   been   discovered   in   the  cultural  layers  of  the  medieval  period  of  Kiev   and  Vyshgorod,”15  but  do   not   provide   any   reference   that   would   support   their   report.16   Similarly,   Zo-­‐‑ tsenko   mentions   camel   bones   found   in   the   archaeological   layers   of   12th-­‐‑ century   Kiev   and   Vyshgorod.   He   makes   this   statement   in   passing,   and   he   does  not  provide  any  evidence  or  the  source  for  this  claim.  These  two  publi-­‐‑                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   logii  NAN  Ukrainy,  1997);  M.  V.  Sedova,  Suzdal’  v  X–XV  vekakh  (Moscow:  Russkii  mir,   1997);   M.   E.   Rodina,   Mezhdunarodnye   sviazi   severo-­‐‑vostochnoi   Rusi   v   X–XIV   vv.   (po   materialam  Rostova,  Suzdalia,  Vladimira  i  ikh  okrugi):  Istoriko-­‐‑arkheologicheskie  ocherki  (Vla-­‐‑ dimir:   Arkaim,   2004);   M.   D.   Poluboiarinova,   “Torgovlia   Bolgara,”   in   Gorod   Bolgar:   Kul’tura,  isskustvo,  torgovlia,  ed.  P.  N.  Starostin  (Moscow:  Nauka,  2008),  27–107.   9  V.   V.   Kropotkin,   “Karavannye   puti   v   vostochnoi   Evrope,”   in   Kavkaz   i   Vostochnaia   Evropa   v   drevnosti,   ed.   P.   M.   Muchnaev   and   V.   I.   Markovin   (Moscow:   Nauka,   1973),   226–30.   10  Ibid.,  228–29,  230  nn.  27  and  28;  N.  G.  Timchenko,  K  istorii  okhoty  i  zhivotnovodstva  v   Kievskoi   Rusi   (srednee   podneprov’e)   (Kiev:   Naukova   dumka,   1972),   172;   V.   I.   Tsalkin,   “Fauna  iz  raskopok  borshevskikh  i  romenskikh  gorodishch,”  Sovetskaia  arkheologiia,  no.   4  (1969):  91–101.     11  Timchenko,  K  istorii  okhoty,  172,  table  1.   12  Tsalkin  “Fauna  iz  raskopok,”  92,  table  1,  95.   13  Ibid.,  91.   14  Ibid.,  95.   15  Vyshgorod  is  located  around  12  miles  north  of  Kiev  on  the  Dnieper  bank.     16  A.   P.   Motsiia   and   A.   Kh.   Khalikov,   Bulgar-­‐‑Kiev:   Puti,   sviazi,   sud’by   (Kiev:   Redaktsi-­‐‑ onno-­‐‑izdatel’skii  tsentr  Instituta  arkheologii  NAN  Ukrainy,  1997),  66.  

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cations   give   information   that   is   suspiciously   similar   (both   talk   of   Kiev   and   Vyshgorod)  and  vague  (none  specifies  how  many  bones,  or  in  which  site  they   were   found).17   Given   that   Zotsenko’s   work   predates   Motsiia   and   Khalikov’s   by  five  years,  it  could  be  that  Motsiia  and  Khalikov  simply  repeated  the  infor-­‐‑ mation  that  Zotsenko  had  already  published.     Poluboiarinova  notes  discoveries  of  camel  bones  in  Kiev,  Vyshgorod,  Bor-­‐‑ shevsk   gorodishche,   Titchikha,   and   Suzdal’,   but   she   simply   reiterates   infor-­‐‑ mation  found  in  previous  publications  (Kropotkin,  Efimenko  and  Tret’iakov,   and  Sedova).18  Poluboiarinova  quotes  Sedova  as  writing  that  one  camel  bone   was   unearthed   in   Suzdal’,   although   Sedova   does   not   specify   the   number   of   bones;   moreover   Poluboiarinova   seems   to   have   mistakenly   dated   Sedova’s   monograph  to  1977  instead  of  to  1997.19  I  have  already  pointed  out  the  lack  of   originality  of  part  of  Kropotkin’s  information  about  the  camels.  As  for  Efim-­‐‑ enko  and  Tret’iakov,  they  indeed  note  the  “unexpected”  discovery  of  six  two-­‐‑ humped  (Bactrian)  camel  bones  belonging  to  three  individuals  found  in  Bol’-­‐‑ shoe  Borshevsk  gorodishche.20  These  remains,  in  the  eyes  of  the  two  archaeol-­‐‑ ogists,   give   rise   to   three   conclusions.   First,   that   camel   remains   are   rare   com-­‐‑ pared   to   those   of   other   animals.   Second,   since   the   camels   were   eaten   (here   they   do   not   explain   how   they   know   that   they   were   eaten),   camels   were   known  well  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  settlement.  Third,  the  settlers  “bred  cam-­‐‑ els   for   domestic   use,   probably   as   transport   animals.”   Even   if   we   accept   the   notion   that   camels   were   eaten,   and   if   we   accept   the   proposition   that   the   settlers   of   Bol’shoe   Borschevsk   gorodishche   were   familiar   with   camels,   con-­‐‑ cluding  that  they  bred  camels  for  domestic  use  is  too  far-­‐‑fetched  a  conclusion.   As   I   mentioned   above,   both   the   study   by   Efimenko   and   Tret’iakov   and   the   study   by   Tsalkin   mention   six   bones   belonging   to   three   Bactrian   camels   found  in  the  Borshevsk  culture.21  Although  Efimenko  and  Tret’iakov  say  that   they   were   found   in   “Bol’shoe   Borshevskoe   gorodishche,”   and   Tsalkin   in   “Borshevo  1,”  the  two  names  refer  to  the  same  site,  as  can  be  concluded  from   the   fact   that   Tsalkin   refers   to   Efimenko   and   Tret’iakov’s   excavations   as   “Borshevo  1.”22  Although  Tsalkin  does  not  specify  whether  he  is  basing  part   of  his  article  on  Efimenko  and  Tret’iakov’s  publications,  the  coincidence  in  the   number   of   bones,   the   number   of   individuals,   and   the   location   suggests   it   is   likely  that  all  three  archaeologists  are  talking  about  the  same  three  camels.  In                                                                                                                             17

 V.   N.   Zotsenko,   “Volzhskaia   sistema   putei   soobshchenii   v   istorii   iuzhnoi   Rusi,”   in   Put’  iz  Bulgara  v  Kiev,  47–54.   18  M.   D.   Poluboiarinova,   “Torgovlia   Bolgara,”   in   Gorod   Bolgar:   Kul’tura,   isskustvo,   tor-­‐‑ govlia,  ed.  P.  N.  Starostin  (Moscow:  Nauka,  2008),  27–107.   19  Ibid.   20  P.  P.  Efimenko  and  P.  N.  Tret’iakov,  “Drevnerusskie  poseleniia  na  Donu,”  Materialy   i  issledovaniia  po  arkheologii  SSSR  8  (1948):  45–65.   21  Ibid.,  57;  Tsalkin,  “Fauna  iz  raskopok,”  92,  table  1.   22  Tsalkin,  “Fauna  iz  raskopok,”  91.  

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this  case,  we  must  consider  Efimenko  and  Tret’iakov’s  publication  as  primary,   since  it  was  published  21  years  before  Tsalkin’s.  The  six  bones  noted  by  Efim-­‐‑ enko  and  Tret’iakov   do   not,  most  likely,  provide  information  relevant  to  the   study   of   camels   in   Rus’.   They   were   found   in   a   site   of   the   Borshevsk   culture,   which  dates  to  the  eighth  and  ninth  centuries—and  for  most  of  this  period  no   “Rus’ian  land”  existed  yet  in  the  Middle  Dnieper.23  These  bones  are  not  only   pre-­‐‑Mongol,  but  probably  pre-­‐‑Rus’  as  well.   Finally,  Sedova’s  mention  of  the  Bactrian  camel  finds  in  Suzdal’  is  made   only  in  passing  and  she  does  not  specify  if  they  are  dated  to  Mongol  or  pre-­‐‑ Mongol  times  (her  book  deals  with  a  period  of  500  years  prior  to  the  15th  cen-­‐‑ tury).24  For  the  argument  presented  here  it  is  pertinent  to  note  that  she  relates   them   to   the   caravan   trade   between   the   Eastern   countries   and   Northeastern   Rus’.25  Rodina  just  quotes  Sedova  without  adding  any  new  information.26   Among   all   the   references   to   camels   appearing   in   the   publications   that   I   have   consulted,   the   only   convincing   original   data   about   pre-­‐‑Mongol   finds   seem  to  be  provided  by  Timchenko,  Zotsenko,  and  Sedova.27  We  must,  how-­‐‑ ever,   treat   even   this   information   cautiously   because   the   Timchenko   and   Sedova   publications   refer   vaguely   to   the   “medieval”   period,   while   Zotsenko   does   not   provide   his   sources.   Although   they   probably   do   not   belong   strictly   to  Rus’,  the  findings  in  the  Borshevsk  culture  noted  by  Efimenko  and  Tret’ia-­‐‑ kov  are  relevant  to  this  list  as  well.28  This  means  that  camels  had  been  seen  in   the  lands  that  would  later  become  Rus’  (Borshevsk  culture),  that  some  camels   died   in   “medieval”   Kiev   and   Suzdal’,   and   that   others   ended   their   lives   in   12th-­‐‑century  Kiev  and  Vyshgorod.    It  would  be  very  difficult  to  defend  the  proposition  that  the  only  camels   ever  seen  in  pre-­‐‑Mongol  Rus’  were  the  ones  whose  bones  have  been  found  by   archaeologists  in  the  20th  century.  Apart  from  the  camels  whose  bones  have   been   found,   other   camels   must   have   traveled   through   the   territory   even   if   they   did   not   die   in   Rus’,   and   other   camels   must   have   died   in   Rus’,   but   their   remains  either  disappeared  or  will  never  be  found.  Nonetheless,  osteological   data  show  that  camel  finds  in  pre-­‐‑Mongol  Rus’  are  not  numerous.  Although                                                                                                                             23

 Efimenko  and  Tret’iakov,  “Drevnerusskie  poseleniia  na  Donu,”  57.    M.  V.  Sedova,  Suzdal’  v  X–XV  vekakh  (Moscow:  Russkii  mir,  1997),  184.     25  On  the  growing  importance  of  trade  between  Bulgar  and  Suzdal,  and  Suzdal  aspira-­‐‑ tions  on  Bulgar  markets  since  the  beginning  of  the  12th  century,  see  Sedova,  Suzdal’  v   X–XV  vekah,  182–84;  and  J.  Martin,  Treasure  of  the  Land  of  Darkness:  The  Fur  Trade  and  Its   Significance  for  Medieval  Russia  (Cambridge:  Cambridge  University  Press,  1986  [2004]),   86–87,  119–26.   26  M.  E.  Rodina,  Mezhdunarodnye  sviazi  severo-­‐‑vostochnoi  Rusi  v  X–XIV  vv.  (po  materialam   Rostova,   Suzdalia,   Vladimira   i   ikh   okrugi):   Istoriko-­‐‑arkheologicheskie   ocherki   (Vladimir:   Arkaim,  2004),  67.   27  Timchenko,   “K   istorii   okhoty,”   172;   Zotsenko,   “Volzhskaia   sistema   putei,”   53;   Sedova,  “Suzdal’  v  X–XV  vekah,”  184.   28  Efimenko  and  Tret’iakov,  “Drevnerusskie  poseleniia  na  Donu,”  57.   24

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camels   played   some   role   in   the   Bulgaria-­‐‑Kiev   route,   their   role   was   not   as   important  as  has  been  suggested  in  previous  studies.  In  addition,  the  fact  that   camel  bones  do  not  only  appear  in  settlements  related  to  this  route  suggests   that  the  presence  of  camels  in  Rus’  deserves  more  attention  from  scholars.      

     

«èÓ͇ÁÛ˛˘Â ËÏ ËÒÚËÌÌÛ˛ ‚ÂÛ»: ãÂÚÓÔËÒÌÓ ӷ‡ÏÎÂÌË ÛÒÍÓ-‚ËÁ‡ÌÚËÈÒÍÓ„Ó ‰Ó„Ó‚Ó‡ 911 „.   éÎÂÍÒ¥È íÓÎÓ˜ÍÓ  

Текст   договора   Руси   с   Византией   911   г.   сопровожден   в   летописи   рас-­‐‑ сказом   о   том,   как   прибывших   в   Константинополь   киевских   послов   по   окончании   переговоров   и   в   честь   подписания   соглашения   император   Лев  VI  повелел  ознакомить  с  христианскими  реликвиями,  находящими-­‐‑ ся   в   Большом   дворце,   а   также   продемонстрировать   им   «церковную   красоту»:     Цр҃ь же Леѡнъ почти послы Роус̑кыє . дарми . златом . и паволоками . и фофоудьами. и пристави к ним моужи свои . показати и м црк҃внүю красотоу . и полаты златыа . и в ни х соущаа богатество . злата много . и паволокы . и камьньє драгоє . и стрс̑ти Гн҃ѧ . и венець и гвоздиє . и хламидү багрѧнүю . и мощи ст҃ых оучаще ӕ к вѣре своєи . и показүюще им истинүю вѣроу и тако ѿпоусти а во свою землю с честию великою1     Это  сообщение,  интегрирующее  текст  договора  в  повествовательную   структуру  летописи  и  позволяющее  ловко  осуществить  переход  от  доку-­‐‑ ментального   текста   к   дальшейшему   рассказу,   справедливо   признано   плодом   творчества   автора   Повести   временных   лет.   Для   реконструкции   действительного   хода   событий   оно   едва   ли   представляет   какую-­‐‑либо   ценность.  Зато  сообщает  кое-­‐‑что  важное  о  самом  летописце.  Например,   намекает  на  его  знакомство  с  расположением  зданий  в  Большом  дворце:   «полаты   златыа»   несомненно   представляет   собой   перевод   названия   главного   зала   приемов   византийских   императоров,   «Хризотриклиния».   Интригует   и   точное   знание   о   реликвиях,   содержащихся   в   Большом   дворце.  Перечисленные  летописцем  «страсти  Христовы»:  венец,  гвозди  и   багряница  были  перенесены  во  дворец  незадолго  до  завершения  Повести  

                                                                                                                          1

 ПСРЛ  1:  37–38;  ПСРЛ  2:  28.  Please  see  also  the  excellent  edition  of  the  PVL  by  our   honoree,   Donald   Ostrowski   (The   Povest’   vremennykh   let:   An   Interlinear   Collation   and   Paradosis,   comp.   and   ed.   Donald   Ostrowski   et   al.,   3   vols.   [Cambridge,   MA:   Harvard   University  Press,  2003]).   Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 61–66.

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éãÖäëßâ íéãéóäé

временных  лет,  в  1106  г.2  (что,  кстати  говоря,  устанавливает  несомненный   terminus  post  quem  для  нашего  сообщения).     Понятно  и  место  сообщения  в  общей  концепции  Повести  временных   лет.  Летописец  использует  все  известные  ему  случаи  контактов  с  Визан-­‐‑ тией  для  ознакомления  русов  с  христианством,  и  наш  случай  самый  пер-­‐‑ вый   в   этой   череде:   при   подписании   договора   944   г.   уже   фигурируют   «крещеная  русь»,  во  время  визита  в  Константинополь  крестится  княгиня   Ольга  и  т.д.  Главный  посыл  нашего  сообщения,  несомненно,  миссионер-­‐‑ ский:   император   демонстрировал   послам   «истинную   веру»   (храмы   и   реликвии)  и  тем  самым  «учил  своей  вере».  В  этом  смысле  сообщение  под   911  г.  смыкается  с  гораздо  более  известным  рассказом  о  выборе  вер  Вла-­‐‑ димиром   под   987   г.   Посланным   в   Константинополь   послам   демон-­‐‑ стрировали  христианство  совершенно  аналогичным  образом:  император   Василий  II  якобы  показывал  послам  «красоту  церковную»  в  Софийском   соборе:     и поставиша ӕ на пространьнѣ мѣстѣ . показающе красоту цркв҃н ую . пѣньӕ и службъı архиєрѣиски престоӕньє дьӕконъ . сказающе имъ служеньє Ба҃ своєго . ѡни же во изумѣньи бъıвше . оудивившес̑ похвалиша службу ихъ . и призваша є цр ҃ѧ . Василии и Костѧнтинъ . рѣста имъ идѣте в землю вашю . и ѿпустиша ӕ с даръı велики и съ чс̑тью3     Два   сообщения,   следовательно,   представляют   собой   части   единого   комплекта:   в   первом   послам-­‐‑язычникам   демонстрируют   сокровища   и   реликвии  дворца,  во  втором  –  Софийский  собор  и  службу  в  нем.   При   всей   мотивированности   сообщений   замыслом   и   структурой   Повести   временных   лет,   с   точки   зрения   достоверности,   они   выглядят   все   же   несколько   необычно.   Случай   экстраординарный:   император   лично   водит   неверных   по   дворцу,   показывая   сокровища   и   реликвии,   а   также   устраивает   специальную   службу   в   Софии   для   язычников.4   Трудно   по-­‐‑                                                                                                                           2

 См.:  John  Wortley  and  Constantine  Zuckerman,  “The  Relics  of  Our  Lord’s  Passion  in   the  Russian  Primary  Chronicle,”  Византийский  временник  63  (2004):  67–75.   3  ПСРЛ  1:  107–08;  ПСРЛ  2:  93–94.   4  Исследователи,   обращавшие   внимание   на   это   сообщение,   справедливо   высказывали   недоумение:   «Можно   было   избрать   и   лучший   способ   произвести   впечатление   на   скандинавов-­‐‑язычников   (кем   на   самом   деле   были   русы),   чем   знакомить   их   с   набором   реликвий,   связанных   со   страстями   Христовыми   и   его   казнью»   (John   Wortley   and   Constantine   Zuckerman,   “The   Relics   of   Our   Lord’s   Pas-­‐‑ sion  in  the  Russian  Primary  Chronicle,”  67).  См.  также  в  стандартном  комментарии   к  ПВЛ:  «Откуда  мог  взять  составитель  «Повести  временных  лет»  все  эти  известия?   –  их  нет  в  предшествующем  Начальном  своде,  где  отсутствует  и  самый  договор»   (Повесть   временных   лет.   Т.   2:   Приложения.   Статьи   и   комментарии   Д.   С.   Лихачева.  М.,  Л.,  1950.  С.  280).  

ãÖíéèàëçéÖ éÅêÄåãÖçàÖ êìëäé-ÇàáÄçíàâëäéÉé ÑéÉéÇéêÄ 911 É.

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нять,  что  заставляло  летописца  полагать,  будто  подобного  рода  события   могут  выглядеть  правдоподобными  и  будут  восприняты  его  читателями   как   действительно   происшедшие.   Однако   и   признать   наши   сообщения   полностью   вымышленными   без   всякой   опоры   в   реальности   также   затруднительно.     Как   кажется,   можно   указать   на   литературный   источник   сообщения   под   911   г.,   повествующий   об   аналогичном,   но   действительно   случив-­‐‑ шемся   событии,   как   раз   во   время   правления   императора   Льва   VI   и   весьма  близко  хронологически  к  искомому  911  г.     По  совпадению,  в  том  самом  907  г.,  в  котором,  согласно  ПВЛ  состоял-­‐‑ ся  поход  Руси  на  Константинополь,  в  последствии  улаженный  договором   911   г.,   в   Константинополь,   как   сообщает   Иоанн   Скилица,5   прибыли   послы  из  Тарса  и  Милитены  для  обмена  пленными.6  Лев  VI  принял  их  с   большой   помпой:   император   приказал   особо   украсить   дворец   Маг-­‐‑ навру,   и   также   особенно   украсить   Софию,   куда   по   окончании   перего-­‐‑ воров   лично   отвел   мусульман   и   демонстрировал   перед   ними   хранящиеся   там   священные   предметы   и   одежды,   используемые   при   отправлении   литургии.   Скилица   был   скандализирован   подобным   пове-­‐‑ дением   императора,   отметив,   что   иноплеменникам,   и   к   тому   же   невер-­‐‑ ным,   не   подобало   бы   показывать   вещи,   сокрытые   даже   от   большинства   благочестивых  христиан.     Действительно,   поступок   из   ряда   вон   выходящий.   Однако   у   Льва   VI   были   особые   причины   оказать   посольству   выдающиеся   почести.   Дело   в   том,  что  с  посольством  прибыл  отец  Самоны,  крещенного  араба  и  фаво-­‐‑ рита  императора,  и  показ  имел  целью  убедить  его  креститься  и  остаться   в  Константинополе.  За  несколько  лет  перед  тем  Самона  пытался  бежать   на   родину   в   Милитену,   где   жил   его   отец,7   и,   вероятно,   император   Лев   хотел   предотвратить   подобные   попытки   своего   любимца   в   будущем.  

                                                                                                                          5

 John  Skylitze,  A  Synopsis  of  Byzantine  History,  811–1057,  trans.  J.  Wortley,  intro.  J.-­‐‑C.   Cheynet  and  B.  Flusin  (Cambridge,  2010),  183.   6  О   дате   посольства   см.:   Васильев   А.   А.   Византия   и   арабы.   Т.   2.   Политические   отношения   Византии   и   арабов   за   время   Македонской   династии   [Записки   историко-­‐‑филологического   факультета   Императорского   Санкт-­‐‑Петербургского   университета,   ч.   66].   СПб.,   1902.   С.   162.   Ромили   Дженкинс   датирует   посольство   весной   908   г.   (Romilly   J.   H.   Jenkins,   “The   Chronological   Accuracy   of   the   ‘Logothete’   for  the  Years  A.  D.  867–913,”  Dumbarton  Oaks  Papers,  19  (1965):  111). Едва  ли  следует   этому   совпадению   придавать   какое-­‐‑либо   значение.   Автор   ПВЛ   не   мог   бы   вычислить   абслютную   дату   события   с   такой   точностью,   это   задача,   как   видно,   трудна  и  для  современного  исследователя.  Летописец,  однако,  мог  понимать,  что   речь  идет  о  последних  годах  правления  Льва  VI. 7  Об   этом   загадочном   событии,   а   также   о   карьере   Самоны   см.:   R.   J.   H.   Jenkins,   “The  ‘Flight’  of  Samonas,”  Speculum  23,  no.  2  (April  1948):  217–35.  

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Отец   Самоны,   впрочем,   остался   не   вполне   убежден8   и,   как   и   киевские   послы,  отбыл  домой  некрещенным.     Вероятно,  именно  личная  заинтересованность  императора  Льва  стала   причиной  его  необычного  поступка.  Во  всяком  случае,  это  единственный   в   своем   роде   случай   персонального   «миссионерства»   визнатийского   им-­‐‑ ператора.  Подобное  не  случалось  прежде,  не  повторится  и  после.   Узнать   о   подобном   событии   можно   было   только   из   письменного   источника.   Иоанн  Скилица,  разумеется,  справедливо  не  числиться  среди  источ-­‐‑ ников   ПВЛ.   Но   сообщение   о   тарситских   послах   широко   и   практически   идентично   представлено   в   византийской   хронографии   Х   в.   (хроникax,   суммарно   именуемых   scriptores   post   Theophanem). О   нем   сообщают   Про-­‐‑ должатель   Феофана,9   псевдо-­‐‑Симеон,10   продолжатель   Георгия   Амар-­‐‑ тола,11  а  также  позднейшие  историки.12  Все  они,  так  или  иначе,  восходят   к  хронике  Симеона  Логофета.     В   составе   продолжателя   Амартола   текст   был   переведен   на   славянский:     ѿ Тарса изиде Авельваки ѡнъ и Самонинъ ѿц ҃ь. и си х цр҃ь видѣвъ, красотою много Манавроу оукрасишѧж и великоую цр҃вь многымъ строениемъ и показаша всѧ честны съсүды Срацином, еже недостоино есть крстианска красота неправеднымъ иноӕзычником чл҃к омъ видѣти бж҃иа слоужбы съсоуды. Самонии же ѿц҃ь хотѣти быти с сыном, но пач оучаше и въ своаси възвратисѧ и своеа дръжатисѧ вѣры: “азъж, реч, елма могыи скоро к тебѣ придоу“13     Амартол   был   среди   главных   источников   составителя   ПВЛ,   либо   в   виде   самостоятельной   хроники,14   либо,   как   чаще   полагают,   в   составе   некоего  хронографа.15    

                                                                                                                          8

 Сообщается,   что   его   отговаривал   сам   Самона,   обещая   в   скором   времени   со-­‐‑ вершить  повторный  побег  на  родину.   9  Продолжатель   Феофана.   Жизнеописания   византийских   царей.   Пер.   Я.   Н.   Любар-­‐‑ ского.  СПб.,  2009.  С.  234.   10  Theophanes   Continuatus,   Ioannes   Caniata,   Symeon   Magister,   Georgius   Monachus,   ed.   Immanuelis  Bekkeri,  Corpus  Scriptorum  Historiae  Byzantinae  (Bonn,  1838),  711.   11  Theophanes  Continuatus,  Ioannes  Caniata,  Symeon  Magister,  Georgius  Monachus,  868.   12  См.:  Васильев  А.  А.  Византия  и  арабы,  162.   13  Истрин   В.   М.   Книгы   временныя   и   образные   Георгия   мниха.   Хроника   Георгия   Амартола  в  древнем  славянорусском  переводе.  Текст,  исследование  и  словарь.  Т.   1.  Текст.  Пг.,  1920.  С.  539.   14  Вилкул  Т.  Повесть  временных  лет  и  Хронограф.  Paleoslavica  15,  no.  2  (2007):  79–88.  

ãÖíéèàëçéÖ éÅêÄåãÖçàÖ êìëäé-ÇàáÄçíàâëäéÉé ÑéÉéÇéêÄ 911 É.

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Итак,   можно   думать,   что   сюжет   об   императоре,   демонстрирующем   послам-­‐‑нехристианам  реликвии  и  церковную  утварь,  а  также  устраиваю-­‐‑ щем  для  них  службу  в  Софии,  летописец  заимствовал  из  продолжателя   Амартола.  Но  набор  увиденных  послами  реликвий  и  их  место  хранения   –  «полаты  златые»  –  происходят  из  другого  источника.     Император   Алексей   Комнин   (1081–18)   перенес   свою   резиденцию   из   Большого  во  Влахернский  дворец,  с  тех  пор  и  вплоть  до  захвата  Констан-­‐‑ тинополя   латинянами   остававшийся   главной   императорской   резиден-­‐‑ цией.  С  переселением  императоров  во  Влахерны,  территория  Большого   дворца,   с   ее   церквами   и   реликвиями   в   них,   становится   доступна   для   регулярного   и   свободного   посещения   паломниками.   В   паломническом   обиходе   весь   район   дворца,   как   кажется,   получает   наименование   «Зла-­‐‑ тых   палат».   Об   этом   можно   судить   на   основании   Паломника   Добрыни   Ядрейковича,   перечислившего   практически   те   же,   что   и   автор   ПВЛ,   реликвии  и  так  же  называвшего  Большой  дворец  «Златыми  палатами»:16     Се же во царскихъ Златыхъ полатахъ: крестъ честныі и вѣнець, губа, гвозди, кровь же лежаше иная, багряница, копие, трость, повоі святыя Богородицы і

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  15

 Соответствующий  текст  находим  и  в  Летописце  Еллинском  и  Римском,  который,   как   считается,   отражает   гипотетический   Хронограф   по   великому   изложению,   источник  визатийский  сведений  для  автора  ПВЛ:    

 

Мира же ради от Тарсъ изиде Авельвакъ онъ и Сомонинъ отець. Сих царь видивъ, красотою многою Манавру украсиша. Украсиша же и Великую церковь многым строениемь, и показа многы съсоуды срачиномь, еже недостоино есть крестьянская красота неправедным и иноязычником человѣку видити божественныя службы съсуды. Самонинъ бо отець хоть быти съ сыномь, нь паче учяше и восвояси взвратися и своея держатися вѣры: “Аз же – рече, – елма могыи, и скоро к тебѣ приииду”

 

(Летописец   Еллинский   и   Римский.   Т.   1.   Текст.   Изд.   О.   В.   Твороговым   и   С.   А.   Давыдовой.  СПб.,  1999,  480).  А.  А.  Шахматов,  определяя  фрагменты  из  Амартола   в  составе  ПВЛ,  для  статьи  911  г.  указывает  только  на  сообщение  о  явлении  кометы   (Шахматов  А.  А.  Повесть  временных  лет  и  ее  источники.  ТОДРЛ.  Т.  4.  М.,  Л.,  1940.   С.   50).   Впрочем,   это   и   объяснимо:   задачей   Шахматова   было   идентифицировать   преимущественно  буквальные  заимствования.   16  Это   не   единственное   совпадение.   Таким   же   расхожим   паломническим   впечатлением   выглядит   фраза   вернувшихся   в   Киев   к   Владимиру   послов   о   церковной   службе:   «не   свѣмъı   на   н҃бѣ   ли   єсмъı   бъıли   .   ли   на   земли   .   нѣс̑   бо   на   земли   такаго   вида   .   ли   красотъı   такоӕ»   (ПСРЛ   1:   108).   Добрыня   передает   аналогичное   впечатление   очень   близко:   «пѣние   же   воспоютъ   калуфони,   аки   аггели,  і  тогда  будетъ  стояти  во  церкви  той  аки  на  небеси  іли  аки  въ  раи»  (Книга   Паломник,  21).  

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пояс і срачица Господня […] и иныхъ святыхъ мощей много в Златых полатахъ17     Перечисленные   реликвии   на   самом   деле   хранились   в   церкви   Богородицы   Фароской,   считавшейся   дворцовой   часовней.18   «Полаты   златыя»   летописи,   следовательно,   представляет   собой   не   указание   на   какое-­‐‑то   конкретное   здание   дворца,   Хризотриклиний,   но   отражает   словарь  паломников,  в  котором  так  стали  называть  в  ХІІ  в.  весь  Большой   дворец.19  Трудно  сомневаться,  что  и  знанием  о  реликвиях,  хранящихся  во   дворце,   летописец   также   обязан   либо   собственному   опыту   паломника,   либо  рассказам  побывавших  в  Константинополе  богомольцев,  либо  даже   какому-­‐‑то  утраченному  описанию  цареградских  святынь.      

                                                                                                                          17

 Книга  Паломник.  Сказание  мест  святых  во  Цареграде  Антония,  архиепископа   Новгородского.  Под  ред.  Хр.  М.  Лопарева.  Православный  Палестинский  сборник.   Т.   17,   вып.   3.   СПб.,   1899.   С.   18–19,   21.   В   XIV   в.   эти   же   реликвии   оказались   в   монастыре   св.   Георгия   в   Мангане.   Посетивший   Константинополь   в   1395   г.   дьяк   Александр   отметил:   «А   въ   монастыри   въ   Манъганѣ   срасти   Спасовы   вси,   и   багряница,   кровь,   копье,   трость,   губа   и   отъ   брады;   святыхъ   мощеи   множество   в   томъ  монастыри»  (ПСРЛ  4:  376).  См.  также:  George  P.  Majeska,  Russian  Travelers  to   Constantinople   in   the   Fourteenth   and   Fifteenth   Centuries,   Dumbarton   Oaks   Studies   19   (Washington,  DC,  1984),  368–69.   18  John  Wortley  and  Constantine  Zuckerman,  “The  Relics  of  Our  Lord’s  Passion  in  the   Russian  Primary  Chronicle,”  73.   19  После  отвоевания  Константинополя  название  дворцовой  территории  у  палом-­‐‑ ников   изменилось.   Стефан   Новгородец   (1340-­‐‑е   гг.)   называет   ее   «двором»   и   «полатой  правовернаго  царя  Коньстантина»;  Игнатий  Смолянин  (1389)  называет   «двором  Костянтиновым»;  «царевым  двором  Константиновым»  называет  дворец   анонимный   паломник   1390-­‐‑х   гг.   (George   P.   Majeska,   Russian   Travelers   to   Constantinople   in   the   Fourteenth   and   Fifteenth   Centuries,   39,   93,   97,   143);   и   так   же,   «Костянтиновым   двором   царевым»,   называет   территорию   Большого   дворца   Александр  дьякон  (1395)  (ПСРЛ  4:  376).  

     

“A Godly Regiment in the Heavens Came to Help Aleksandr…”: The Sanctity of Heroic Princes in Kievan Rus’ Susana Torres Prieto    

    Among  the  many  topics  to  which  Donald  Ostrowski  has  dedicated  his  atten-­‐‑ tion   throughout   the   years,   the   Life   of   Aleksandr   Nevskii   has   been   the   object   of   several  articles.1   In   one   of   the   most   recent,   Professor   Ostrowski   presented   a   hypothetical   reconstruction   of  what  the   military   Tale  of  Aleksandr   Nevskii   might  have  been   like  before  undergoing  the  “additions”  that  would  have  turned  it  into  the  at-­‐‑ tested   Life   of   Aleksandr   Nevskii.   The   stemma   he   proposed   for   explaining   the   relationship  among  the  various  versions  of  the  Life  of  the  Novgorodian  prince   is,   of   course,   entirely   plausible   and   thoroughly   consistent   with   his   ideas   on   the  composition  and  dating  of  the  chronicles.     The  question,  however,  is  whether  such  a  military  tale  ever  existed  and,  if   so,   why   its   reconstruction   should   be   attempted.   Be   that   as   it   may,   the   exis-­‐‑ tence  of  a  military  tale  anterior  to  the  attested  Life,  indeed,  the  very  existence   of  the  “military  tale”  as  a  literary  generic  form  in  Rus’  has  been  the  subject  of   discussion   for   decades,   as   Ostrowski   aptly   summarized   in   his   article.   Such   discussion  is  inevitably  linked  to  a  broader  debate  concerning  theories  about   literary  genres  in  ancient  Russian  literature.   The  debate  around  a  theory  of  genres  in  medieval  Rus’  is  not  new.  Many   are   the   questions   that   have   been   posed   in   the   last   decades,   although   some   have  deserved  special  attention,  either  by  schools  of  thought  or  individuals.2   For  some  time,  one  of  the  perhaps  most  pressing  has  been  whether  there  was                                                                                                                             1

Donald   Ostrowski,   “Alexander   Nevskii’s   ‘Battle   of   the   Ice’:   The   Creation   of   a   Leg-­‐‑ end,”   Russian   History/Histoire   russe   33,   no.   2–4   (2006):   289–312;   Ostrowski,   “The  Gali-­‐‑ cian   Chronicle,   the   Life   of   Alexander   Nevskii,   and   the   13th-­‐‑Century   Military   Tale,”   Palaeoslavica  15,  no.  2  (2007):  307–24,  Ostrowski,  “Redating  the  Life  of  Alexander  Nev-­‐‑ skii,”   in   Rude   &   Barbarous   Kingdom   Revisited:   Essays   in   Russian   History   and   Culture   in   Honor   of  Robert  O.  Crummey,  ed.   Chester   S.  L.  Dunning,  Russell  E.  Martin,  and  Daniel   Rowland  (Bloomington,  IN:  Slavica  Publishers,  2008):  23–39.   2 See,  for  example,  the  list  of  questions  proposed  by  Norman  Ingham  in  the  article  that   opened   the   forum   on   this   question   in   the   Slavic   and   East   European   Journal.   Norman   W.  Ingham,  “Genre-­‐‑Theory  and  Old  Russian  Literature,”  Slavic  and  East  European  Jour-­‐‑ nal  31,  no.  2  (1987):  234–45.   Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 67–83.

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a  clear  concept  of  “literary  genre”  in  medieval  Russia  and  whether  these  gen-­‐‑ res,  if  they  existed,  could  be  organized,   or  were  organized  at  the  time,  in  the   form  of  a  recognizable  system.     In   the   first   place,   those   genres   that   were   not   strictly   liturgical   or   para-­‐‑ liturgical   were   almost   always   excluded   from   the   discussion.   Studies   were   focused  mainly  on  homiletics  and  hagiography;  only  later  did  historiography   become   the   object   of   attention.   The   German   School,   represented   by   Klaus-­‐‑ Dieter  Seeman  and  Wolf-­‐‑Heinrich  Schmidt,  in  an  attempt  to  apply  the  tenets   of   the   exegetical   school   of   the   formgeschichtliche   Schule   of   German   Protestant   theology,   carried   out  a  revision  of   the   concepts   held  until   then  by  the  Soviet   school,   as   represented   by   D.   S.   Likhachev.   Its   central   concept,   the   so-­‐‑called   Sitz   im   Leben,   subordinated   the   definition   of   a   text   to   the   occasion   in   which   such   text   was   (re)presented   in   society.   Such   subordination   of   a   written   text,   literary  or  not,  to  its  social  occurrence,  as  well  as  its  qualification  according  to   its   social   dimension,   brought   about   the   introduction   of   concepts   such   as   Gebrauchskonvention  (the  convention  of  usage)  or  Interaktionsbereich  (field  of  in-­‐‑ teraction).  The  German  school  preferred  to  use  the  term  “types  of  texts”  (Text-­‐‑ sorten)  rather  than  literary  genres,  and  it  held  that  all  written  texts,  literary  or   not,   were   subject   to   this   typology.   Accordingly,   it   rejected   the   existence   of   a   system  of  genres  or  of  any  hierarchy  among  them.     These   German  theorists  emphasized  the   relevance   of  the  social  function-­‐‑ ality  of  literature,  which  could  not  be  simply  explained  by  a  greater  or  lesser   degree  of  misalignment  with  the  Neoclassical  theory  of  genres,  and  therefore   their  studies  focused  mainly  on  homiletics3  (the  most  socially  biased  of  all  lit-­‐‑ erary  forms  in  the  Middle  Ages)  and,  partially,  on  hagiography.4   G.  Lenhoff  has  greatly  contributed  in  recent  years  to  the  debate  on  literary   genres  in  medieval  Rus’  by  applying  the  theories  of  the  German  school  to  the   study   of   saints’   cults,   particularly   the   cult   of   the   prince-­‐‑martyrs   Boris   and   Gleb.   By   applying   Jauss’s   theories   and   his   concept   of   Rezeptionsästhetik,   Len-­‐‑ hoff  tried  to  find  an  answer  to  the  problems  posed  by  the  Slavic  tradition  and   proposed   the   existence   of   “protogenres”   rather   than   genres   among   which   there   would  have  existed  a   mutual   vertical,   rather  than  horizontal,   relation.5                                                                                                                             3

 See   the   classification   made   by   K.   D.   Seemann,   “Genres   and   Alterity   of   Old  Russian   Literature,”  Slavic  and  East  European  Journal  31,  no.  2  (1987):  246–58,  here  249.   4  Within   the   area   of   hagiography,   the   German   School   focused   its   research   on   those   texts  that  had  a  specific  social  reflection,  for  example,  the  short  versions  of  the  lives  of   saints   that   were   used   in   liturgy   to   commemorate   each   saint   on   his   or   her   name   day.   Nevertheless,   the   definition   itself   of   hagiography   is   problematical,   as   Simon   Franklin   has   pointed   out;   S.   Franklin,   “Towards   Post-­‐‑Soviet   Pre-­‐‑Modernism:   On   Recent   Ap-­‐‑ proaches   to   Early   Rus(s)ian   Hagiography,”   Byzantine   and   Modern   Greek   Studies   18   (1994):  250–75,  here  255.   5  This  concept  of  verticality  was  advanced  by  Lenhoff  in  her  article  “Toward  a  Theory   of  Protogenres  in  Medieval  Russian  Letters,”  Russian  Review  43  (1984):  31–54,  and  fully  

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Nevertheless,  the  application  of  such  theories  to  the  Slavic  case  suffered  from   two  fundamental  flaws.  Firstly,  it  implied  that  the  recipients  of  texts,  the  audi-­‐‑ ence  or  the  readers,  were  able  to  identify  certain  aesthetic  features  in  a  certain   type  of  text  that  would  allow  them  to  determine  what  type  of  text  it  was  and   therefore  classify  it  under  the  heading  of  a  literary  genre  or  kind.  According  to   Lenhoff,  the  definition  of  a  genre  as  such  would  have  to  be  able  to  unify  sev-­‐‑ eral  texts  under  a  common  characteristic  which  would  imply  something  more   than  simple   thematic  restrictions  and  mere  cultural  function,  since,  if  it   were   only   so,   the   definition   of   a   genre   would   be   equivalent   to   a   mere   typological   category.6  She  insisted  that  a  defined  literary  genre  required  a  sufficient  num-­‐‑ ber   of   written   conventions   identifiable   by   an   “educated   audience.” 7   With   these  tenets  and  the  available  material,  Lenhoff  focused  her  analysis  on  litur-­‐‑ gical  hymns.  However,  no  theory  that  can  only  be  successfully  applied  to  one   literary  form  can  encompass  or   satisfactorily   define   the  production   of  an  en-­‐‑ tire  literary  period,  and  this  is,  to  our  understanding,  the  second  fundamental   flaw  of  Lenhoff’s  theory  and,  therefore,  of  the  Berlin  School.8   In   the   same   article,   however,   as   regards   the   definition   of   hagiographical   literature,  Lenhoff  concludes  that  the  definition  of  a  vita  depends  on  its  theme   rather  than  on  verbal  conventions.9  Thus,  she  states  that  the  model  of  a  saint’s                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     developed  in  her  “Categories  of  Early  Russian  Writing,”  Slavic  and  East  European  Jour-­‐‑ nal  31,  no.  2  (1987):  259–71.  It  approaches  the  system  of  literary  genres,  or  protogenres,   from   a   functional   point   of   view,   assuming   that   “in   a   vertically   organized   corpus,   the   genesis  of  a  text  and  the  shape  it  assumes  are  occasioned  by  extra-­‐‑literary  cultural  sys-­‐‑ tems  and  subsystems”  (263).   6  Lenhoff,  “Toward  a  Theory  of  Protogenres,”  36.   7  “The  common  feature  would,  of  necessity,  have  to  involve  more  than  restrictions  on   a  text’s  subject  and  any  fixed  cultural  function,  for  in  that  case  the  term  ‘genre’  would   be   merely   an   imprecise   synonym   for   a   typological   category   that   has   nothing   to   do   with   writing   at   all.   What   is   required,   in   short,   is  a   set   of   verbal   conventions,   features   peculiar   to   the   medium   which   function   as   models   for   writing.   When   a   text   follows   a   sufficient  number  of  written  conventions  to  be  consistently  identifiable  by  an  educated   audience,   then   the   criteria   enumerated   in   our   basic  definition   of   a   genre   are   fulfilled,   and   we   may   legitimately   conclude   that   we   are   working   with   the   equivalent   of   a   lit-­‐‑ erary  genre”  (ibid.,  34).   8  However,  the  author  herself  acknowledges  that,  even  in  the  case  of  liturgical  hymns,   there  are  no  conventions  of  features  of  theme  and  content  that  would  allow  us  to  dis-­‐‑ tinguish  one  from  another:  “But  however  closely  East  Slavic  liturgical  hymns  may  ap-­‐‑ proximate   poetic   literary   genres,   no   intrinsic   verbal   conventions   or   features   of   theme   and  content  necessarily  distinguish  one  kind  from  another.  A  single  text  can  shift  from   the  category  of  Heirmos  to  Troparion  to  Kontakion  or  Sedalion  with  no  verbal  changes   whatsoever,  for  such  liturgical  hymns  are  distinguished  not  by  compositional  features,   but  by  their  function  in  a  service”  (ibid.,  35).   9  Following   the   distinctions   established   by   primitive   Christian   tradition,   the   author   separates   the   biographies   of   saints   (bios,   vita   =   zhitie)   from   the   narrations   of   martyrs  

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life  is  neither  exclusively  nor  primarily  verbal  in  nature,  its   written  evidence   being   alien   to   the   concept   of   literary   genre.   Paradoxically,   the   same   abun-­‐‑ dance   of   common   features   used   to   deny   the   existence   of   genres   is   then   re-­‐‑ jected  in  the  acknowledgement  of  relations  between  them,   thus  purporting  a   vertical,  rather  than  a  horizontal  system.   For   his  part,  another  great   specialist  in   the  theory   of  genres  in  the  litera-­‐‑ ture  of  Kievan  Rus’,  Norman  W.  Ingham,  proposed,  in  an  article  that  has  be-­‐‑ come   a   classic,   that,   out   of   the   five   possible   factors   whose   specific   conver-­‐‑ gence  would  determine  the  generic  classification  of  a  literary  work  in  ancient   Russian  literature  (function,  subject-­‐‑matter,  mode,  kind,  and  style),  the  two  deter-­‐‑ mining   ones   were   the   mode   (form   of   representation,   modus)   and   the   kind   (sometimes  expressed  as  Gattung).10   For   Ingham,   the   definition   of   “mode”   was   essential   in   attempting   to   es-­‐‑ tablish   a   genre   classification,   since   a   work   might   show   a   dominating   mode   without  being  necessarily  ascribed   to  a  particular  genre.11  According   to  him,   the  insufficient  attention  given  to  this  fact  is  largely  responsible  for  the  failure   of  attempts   to  elaborate  a   satisfactory  theory   of  genres  in   the  case  of  ancient   Russian   literature.   Thus,   Ingham   states   that   the   narrative   has   a   fundamental   modal   dimension,   and   not   a   generic   one.   However,   Ingham   ends   up   attrib-­‐‑ uting   to   the   concept   of   “narrative   mode”   the   same   characteristics   that   have   traditionally  been  ascribed  to  the  concept  of  genre,  i.e.,  the  tropos,  the  way  in   which  the  theme  is  combined  with  the  form.  In  the  case  of  historiography,  for   example,   Ingham   argues   that   its   dominance   as   a   literary   mode   does   not   in   itself  imply  its  existence  as  a  specific  literary  type.  This  classification  in  which   mode   is   dominant,   as   in   the   case   of   the   povest 'ʹ   or   the   slovo,   would   not,   ac-­‐‑ cording   to   Ingham,   be   applicable   to   all   literary   forms.   In   the   case   of   the   vita   (zhitie),  the  term  refers  primarily  to  the  content,  and  by  combining  the  theme   with  the  compositional  scheme,  we  would  obtain  a  type.  Ingham  seems  to  ex-­‐‑ clude  the  possibility  that  a  literary  work  might  contain  more  than  one  literary   mode  in  sequence,  or  a  combination  of  several  modes,  and  consequently  faces   the   problem,   already   encountered   by   Lenhoff,   of   establishing   a   consistent   equivalence   between   the   titles   of   the   works   (slovo,   pokhvala,   pouchenie)   and                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     (martyrion,   passio   =   muchenie/strast'ʹ)   (ibid.).   Despite   the   existence   of   adequate   Slavic   terms,  attested  in  the  manuscripts,  it  is  far  from  clear  that  such  a  distinction  was  per-­‐‑ ceived  in  Slavia  Orthodoxa.   10  “Given  a  subject  and  a  function,  the  most  decisive  factors  in  shaping  the  work  were   mode  (manner  of  representation,  modus)  and  kind  (structural  work-­‐‑type;  often  referred   to  ambiguously  as  genre,  Gattung).”  Norman  W.  Ingham,  “Narrative  Mode  and  Liter-­‐‑ ary   Kind   in   Old   Russian:   Some   Theses,”   in   Gattung   und   Narration   in   den   älteren   slav-­‐‑ ischen   literaturen,   ed.   K.   D.   Seemann   (Wiesbaden:   Kommission   bei   O.   Harrassowitz,   1987),  173.   11  “A   piece   of   writing   could   exhibit   a   dominant   mode   while   lacking   a   recognizable   genre”  (ibid.,  174).  Such  a  statement  immediately  raises  the  question  of  which  were  the   recognizable  genres?  

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their   contents.   He  neither  presents  a   tentative  list   of  existing   modes,  restrict-­‐‑ ing  himself  to   underlining   that  the  modal  dimension   of  literature  is,  at  base,   theoretical—since  the  modes  have  to  do  with  the  relation  between  author  and   recipients—nor   makes   any   attempt   to   elaborate   a   theory   about   how   they   might   have   been   understood,   once   again   placing   the   blame,   as   the   German   school  had  done,  on  the  lack  of  generic  classifications  inherited  from  the  Byz-­‐‑ antine  tradition.     From  our  point  of  view,  the  discussion  would  benefit  from  incorporating   a   few   other   variables.   Firstly,   as   has   already   been   mentioned,   the   German   school   studied   the  texts  insofar  as   they   have  a  social  dimension.  Such  analy-­‐‑ sis,   therefore,   excludes   texts   that   are   private   in   nature,   those   intended   to   be   read  mainly  by  monks  (who  also  composed  them)  or  by  learned  people  (who   sometimes   commissioned   them),   that   “educated   audience”   that   Lenhoff   de-­‐‑ scribed.   After   the   studies   carried   out   by   Dmitrieva   and   others   on   the   use   of   text   miscellanies   in   monastic   environments,   and   having,   thanks   to   five   dec-­‐‑ ades   of   studies   focusing   on   Novgorodian   birch-­‐‑bark   letters,   a   more   precise   knowledge  of  the  degree  and  extent   of  literacy  in  medieval  Russian,  particu-­‐‑ larly   Novgorodian,   society,   any   theory   seeking   a   satisfactory   answer   to   the   question  of  what  was  understood  as  a  literary  genre  in  medieval  Russian  liter-­‐‑ ature   should   not   restrict   itself   to   providing   partial   answers   suitable   only   to   specific  areas  of  the  literary  legacy.   Seeman12  drew  attention   to  the  relevance   of   codicology  and  the  physical   transmission  of  knowledge.  Information  regarding  the  number  of  copies  and   the   layout   of   texts   within   codices   is   key   to   the   study   of   both   privately   and   publicly  oriented  texts.  Such  distribution  and  disposition  varies  with  time  and   adds   a   diachronic   dimension   to   an   analysis   that   insists   on   being   synchronic   when  textual  evidence  is  not.  None  of  the  theories  admits  the  possibility  that   the  functionality  of  the  texts,  whether  originally  intended  for  private  or  public   reading   or   hearing,   could   have   evolved   by   being   adjusted   to   new   realities,   and  that  the  social  function  of  any  given  literary  work,  whatever  its  function   and   whatever   its   form,   does   not   necessarily   have   to   be   the   same   in   the   12th   century   as   in   the   16th.   If   the   concept   of   Sitz   im   Leben   has   been   endlessly   re-­‐‑ peated  to  analyze  literature  in  its  social  dimension,  producing  the  concept  of   vertical  relations,  rather  than  horizontal  or  genetic,  maybe  another  concept  of   Sitz   im   Zeit  should  also  be  added   to  the  analysis  in   order   to  incorporate   this   diachronic  dimension.   Secondly,   blaming   the   absence   of   genre   theories   in   Byzantine   literature   for   their  absence  in  Slavic  letters,  as  has   often  been   done,   is,  to   say  the  least,   unwise.  There  is  no  doubt  that  among  translated  Byzantine  works  the  number   of  liturgical  and  paraliturgical  texts  is  far  greater  than  those  that  could  be  clas-­‐‑

                                                                                                                          12

 Seemann,  “Genres  and  Alterity  of  Old  Russian  Literature,”  250–53.    

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sified  as  secular  literature,  but  this  does  not  justify  considering  the  latter  fruit-­‐‑ less  exceptions  (Unikate)  to  a  rule  that  fails  to  provide  valid  parameters.13     Turning  to  the  present  question,  one  of  the  more  frequently  studied  gen-­‐‑ res  has  been  hagiography,  the  zhitie (Lat.  vita;  Gr.  βιος), which  presents  quite   peculiar   characteristics.   Firstly,   there   seems   to   be   no   agreement   among   spe-­‐‑ cialists  as  to  whether  the zhitie  constitutes  a  single  genre  or  many,  whether  it   is  a  type  or  a  function,  whether  it  is  Byzantine  in  origin  or  Slavic  in  intention,   and,  finally,  whether  it  is  a  religious  or  a  secular  genre.     Lenhoff,  for  example,  concluded  on  the  basis  of  “negative  evidence”  that   the  zhitie  did  not  constitute  a  genre,  since  she  assumed  the  literary  character-­‐‑ istics  of  saints’  lives  to  have  originated  in  extraliterary  sociocultural  systems. 14   She  argued   that   the   characteristics  attributed  by  D.  S.   Likhachev   to   the   zhitie   as  a  literary  genre,  i.e.,  the  typical  tripartite  structure  of  the  texts,  already  de-­‐‑ scribed  by  Loparev  in  regard  to  Byzantine  saints’  lives  dated  to  the  eighth  and   ninth  centuries  (rhetorical  introduction,  central  narration,  and  rhetorical  con-­‐‑ clusion,  followed  by  a  list  of  miracles  and  a  eulogy  to  the  saint),15  and  the  use   of   what   Likhachev   called   “literary   etiquette,” 16   were   not   exclusive   to   saints’   lives  and  therefore  could  not  be  considered  defining  features  of  a  genre  (“it  is   so  general  a  way  of  distinguishing  a  literary  kind  as  to  be  meaningless”).  The   same   critique   could   be   made,   in   fact,   about   rhyme   in   poetry   or   the   dialogic   form   in   drama.   She   also   points   out   that   the   lack   of   “consistent   verbal   mark-­‐‑ ers”  “suggests  that  the  structural  symmetry  was  not  a  priority  for  the  medie-­‐‑ val  Russian  hagiographer.”  One  cannot  resist  asking  to  which  medieval  hagi-­‐‑ ographer   the   author   was   referring,   whether   to   one   writing   in   11th-­‐‑century   Kievan  Rus’  or  in  16th-­‐‑century  Muscovy.  Likewise,  the  fact  that  conventional   expressions   were   used   in   more   than   one   genre   (for   example,   in   zhitie   and   eulogies)   and,   according   to   Lenhoff,   “migrate   from   text   to   text   because   the   commonplaces   are   connected   to   the   object   (predmet)   being   depicted”   invali-­‐‑                                                                                                                           13

 Ibid.,   256–57.   Certainly,   liturgic   and   paraliturgic   genres   (lives   of   saints,   sermons,   homilies)  have  a  clear  social  dimension  that  other  literary  productions  do  not,  as  far  as   we  know  at   present,  and  this   fact  poses  a   problem   for  the   central  theses  of  the  afore-­‐‑ mentioned  school.  Henrik  Birnbaum  shared  Seemann’s  skepticism  regarding  the  exis-­‐‑ tence   of   a   hierarchical   system   of   genres   in   medieval   Russian   literature,   but   for   dif-­‐‑ ferent   reasons:   the   very   manner   of   the   creative   process   and   intertextuality   between   genres  makes  it  difficult  to  assign  many  literary  works  to  generic  categories  as  we  per-­‐‑ ceive   them   nowadays;   H.   Birnbaum,   “Orality,   Literacy,   and   Literature   in   Old   Rus’,”   Die  Welt  der  Slaven  30,  no.  1  (1985):  161–96,  here  176–77.   14  G.  Lenhoff,  “Medieval  Russian  Saints’  Lives  in  Socio-­‐‑Cultural  Perspective,”  Russian   Literature  39  (1996):  205–22.   15  C.  M.  Loparev,  “Vizantijskie  žitija  svjatych  VIII–IX  vekov,”  Vizantijskij  vremennik  17:   1–224;  18:  1–47;  19:  1–151  (1910–12).   16  D.  S.  Likhachev,  Poetika  drevnerusskoi  literatury,  2nd  ed.  (Leningrad:  Khudozhestven-­‐‑ naia  literatura,  Leningradskoe  otdelenie,  1971).  

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dates  their   capacity  to  be   defining   of  a  genre.   Finally,   she  notes   the  impossi-­‐‑ bility   of   using   the   titles   or   headings   of   literary   works   to   acertain   their   contents.     It  is  time  for  a  new  analysis  of  the  biographical  genre,  whether  sacred  or   secular,  for  several  reasons:  firstly,  because  it  has  been  used  to  deny  the  exis-­‐‑ tence  of  a  genre  system  in  medieval  Rus’;  secondly,  because  it  is  a  genre  that,   as   was   the   case   with   homiletics,   enjoyed,   from   a   very   early   time,   autochtho-­‐‑ nous  production;  and  thirdly,  but  most  important  at  present,  because  the  ex-­‐‑ istence  (or  non-­‐‑existence)  of  the  princely  biography  as  a  genre  or  sub-­‐‑genre  is   also   under   discussion.   Moreover,   it   is   the   only   literary   form   that   bridges   sa-­‐‑ cred  and  profane  literature.     The  construction  of  multiple  discourses  employing  the  same  instruments   is  the  very  foundation   of  literature,  and   neither   structural  universals   nor   the   use   of   similar   resources   contradict   the   existence   of   genres.   If   they   did,   we   would  have  to  conclude  that  there  are  no  literary  genres  whatsoever,  neither   then  nor  now,  neither  in   Russia   nor  in   France.   The   tripartite  structure  found   in   medieval   Rus’   hagiographical   and   biographical   narratives   is   not   only   not   exclusive  to   them,  it  is  universal.   From   studies   of  Indo-­‐‑European  literary  ty-­‐‑ pology   and   Propp’s   structuralism,   not   to   mention   scholarly   research   on   the   creation   of   myths,   it   is   well   known   that   the   protagonist   is   portrayed   within   the   framework   of   a   literary   structure   that   is   almost   always   tripartite.17   It   is   there   where   similarities   between   hagiographic   narratives   and   medieval   ro-­‐‑ mances  begin.  As   Leclereq  aptly  put   it,  the   difference   lies  in   the  intention   of   the  narrative,  which  in  the  case  of  saints’  lives  is  clearly  edification.18  The  fact   that   certain   features   are   shared   by   other   forms   of   literary   discourse   cannot   invalidate   the   existence   of   such   discourse.   If   we   want   to   find   out   what   was   understood  in  medieval  Slavic  letters  in  general,  and  in  Russian  in  particular,   by   hagiography,   it   is   necessary   to   look   for   the   features   which,   beyond   those   shared   with   other   narrative   forms,   distinguish   hagiographical   works   as   a   genre  within  the  context  in  which  they  were  created,  rather  than  denying  the  exis-­‐‑ tence   of   hagiography   according   to   our   parameters.   If,   as   Jauss   very   aptly   stated,19   the   point   is   discerning   the   Erwartungsrichtung   (direction   of   expecta-­‐‑ tions),  this  should  be  done  taking  into  account  existing  literary  forms,  particu-­‐‑ larly   those   with   which   this   or   any   other   genre   share   particular   features,   in                                                                                                                             17

 See,   respectively,   C.   Watkins,   How   to   Kill   a   Dragon:   Aspects   of   Indo-­‐‑European   Poetics   (New   York:   Oxford   University   Press,   1995);   V.   Ia.   Propp,   Morfologiia   skazki,   2nd   ed.,   (Moscow:  Nauka,  Glav.  red.  vostochnoi  lit-­‐‑ry,  1969);  E.  M.  Meletinskii,  Proiskhozhdenie   geroicheskogo   eposa:   Rannie   formy   i   arkhaicheskie   pamiatniki   (Moscow:   Izd-­‐‑vo   vostochnoi   literatury,   1963);   Meletinskii,   Poetika   mifa,   2nd   ed.   (Moscow:   Vostochnaia   literatura   RAN,  Shkola  “Iazyki  Russkoi  kul ’tury,”  1995).   18  J.  Leclercq,  The  Love  of  Learning  and  the  Desire  for  God:  A  Study  of  Monastic  Culture,  3rd   ed.  (New  York:  Fordham  University  Press,  1982),  162.   19  H.  R.  Jauss,  “Littérature  médiévale  et  théorie  des  genres,”  Poétique  1  (1970):  79–101.  

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order  to  analyze  its  specific  conditions  in  a  synchronic  dimension  and  its  pos-­‐‑ sible  diachronic  evolution.     This   task   was   admirably   carried   out   in   the   case   of   the   zhitie   by   H.   Birn-­‐‑ baum.20   In   his   article   “Byzantine   Tradition   Transformed:   The   Old   Serbian   Vita,”   Birnbaum   not   only   identified   the   possible   Byzantine   models,   but   also   pinpointed  and  analyzed  the  areas   of  contact  between  the  lives   of  saints  and   the   lives   of   princes.   In   the   case   of   Serbian   literature,   Birnbaum   described   an   evolution  from  hagiography  proper  in  the  first  lives  of  princes  toward  a  genre   of  secular  biography  closer  to  historiography.  In  the  case  of  Kievan  Rus’,  and   contrary  to  other  scholars,  he  agreed  with  Ingham  in  the  definition  of  secular   biography  as  a  sub-­‐‑genre  of  hagiography,  particularly  due  not  only  to  the  co-­‐‑ incidence  of  structures  and  literary  topoi,  but  also  because  the  number  of  sam-­‐‑ ples  available  for  analysis   was  at  best  two,  and  at   worst   only  one,   the  Life   of   Aleksandr  Nevskii.21   In   recent   decades,   many   excellent   studies   have   focused   on   analyzing   a   particular   type   of   princely   biography,   namely,   that   of   the   prince-­‐‑martyr,   whose  compositional  models  (proemium,  praexis,  translatio,  curriculum  vitae,  ad-­‐‑ monitio,   miracula)   certainly   place   it   closer   to   hagiographic   literature.   In   the   case  of  non-­‐‑martyr  princes,  it  has  been  suggested  that  the  hardly  “Christian”   attitudes   attributed,   for   example,   to   Prince   Aleksandr   Nevskii   (“potentially   incompatible  with  features  of  a  saint”)—he  was  characterized  simultaneously   as  a  fierce  warrior  and  a  pious  ruler—posed  a  problem  to  the  medieval  reader   (“the  code  of  princely  behavior  versus  the  credo  of  saintly  ideal”),  which  im-­‐‑ plied  as  well  a  thematic  deviation  from  a  laterally  prescribed  norm.22   Nevertheless,  such  a  combination  of  ideas  was  probably  familiar  to  a  me-­‐‑ dieval   Russian   audience.   In   fact,   and   despite   the   insistent   denial   of   some   scholars,   there   were   in   Byzantium   forms   that   were   close   to   our   narratives   both   in   structure   and   intention.   The   basilikos   logos,   a   variety   of   the   enkomion,   was  already  known  to  Menander  Rhetor  in  the  late  3rd  century  as  the  appro-­‐‑ priate  form  to  be  used  to  address  an  enkomion  to  the  emperor  on  notable  occa-­‐‑ sions.  It  should  contain  certain  points,  namely,  the  emperor’s  origin,  physical   appearance,   upbringing,   habits,   deeds   in   peace   and   war,   four   virtues   (cour-­‐‑ age,   righteousness,   prudence,   and   good   sense),   philanthropy,   and   good   for-­‐‑ tune,   the   latter   disappearing   in   Christianized   forms   in   favor   of   piety.   The   mirror  of  princes  in  Byzantine  literature  seems  to  have  had  a  rather  doctrinal   tone,  in  contrast  to  the  merely  encomiastic  tone  of  the  basilikos  logos.  Neverthe-­‐‑                                                                                                                           20

 Henrik  Birnbaum,  “Byzantine  Tradition  Transformed:  The  Old  Serbian  Vita,”  in  As-­‐‑ pects  of  the  Balkans:  Continuity  and  Change,  ed.  Birnbaum  and  S.  Vryonis,  Jr.  (The  Hague:   Mouton,  1972);  243–84.  For  the  specific  case  of  the  Serbian  narratives,  see  B.  I.  Bojovic,   L'ʹidéologie   monarchique   dans   les   hagio-­‐‑biographies   dynastiques   du   Moyen   Age   serbe,   Orien-­‐‑ talia  Christiana  analecta  (Roma:  Pontifico  Istituto  Orientale,  1995).   21  To  this  we  could  possibly  add  the  life  of  Mikhail  of  Chernigov,  with  reservations.   22  Lenhoff,  “Categories  of  Early  Russian  Writing,”  265–66.  

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less,  both  in  works  and  in  tradition,  the  ideal  emperor  should  combine  sound   moral   principles   with   Christian   virtues   and   a   godlike   philanthropy.   Seem-­‐‑ ingly,  after  the  11th  century  two  further  characteristics  were  added  to  the  im-­‐‑ perial  ideal:  noble  origin  and  personal  military  prowess.23   Leaving   aside   the   many   problems   posed   by   the   fact   that,   in   the   case   of   Aleksandr   Nevskii,   as   with   others,   their   zhitie   have   been   extracted   from   longer  narrative  forms  in   which  they   were  inscribed,  thus  depriving  them  of   one   of   their   fundamental   raisons   d’être,   another   problem   appears   when,   hav-­‐‑ ing  been  “extracted,”  they  do  not  fit  the  conventions  of  a  literary  genre  as  we   pretend  they  should.  It  is  then  purported  that  these  supposedly  independent   creations  were  added  to  the  longer  forms,  the  chronicles,  suffering  the  modifi-­‐‑ cations,  the  additions  of  religious  traits  not  present  in  the  purported  originals.   In  the  case  of  the  Nevskii  Life,  the  hypothetical  military  tale  (voinskaia  povest’)   that   had   supposedly   existed   before   lost   its   functionality   and   evolved   into   a   more  religiously  marked  narration.24     All   these   interpretations   seem   to   have   in   common   the   scholar’s   inability   to  accept  that  historical  characters,  immoral,  in  our  eyes,  in  much  of  their  be-­‐‑ havior,   were   described   using   literary   devices   identical   to   those   employed   in   hagiographical   tales,   being   at   the   same   time   military   heroes.   However,   the   attribution   of   typically   Christian   virtues   to   rulers   is   not   only   consistent   with   the   long   traditions   of   Byzantine   Cesaropapism,25   but   is   also   a   characteristic   found   in   Serbian   literature   and   in   Slavic   more   generally,   as   Birnbaum   has   noted.26   Furthermore,   the   appearance   of   Christian   virtues   in   descriptions   of   princes  is  already  present  in  the  Povest ’  vremmenykh  let  (henceforth,  PVL)  from   early  times.   Starting  with  the  description  of  Prince  Mstislav  (col.  150:  15–25),27       Въ  лѣто  6544.  Мьстиславъ  изыде  на  ловы  и,  разболѣ  ся  и  умьре.  И   положиша  и  въ  цьркъви  у  святаго   Съпаса,  юже  самъ  (заложилъ/   създалъ)  бѣ  бо  възьдано  ея  при  немь  възвыше,  яко  на  кони  стоячи   рукою   досячи.   Бѣ   же   Мьстиславъ   дебелъ   тѣлъмь,   чьрмьнъ   лиц-­‐‑ ьмь,   великома   очима,   храбръ   на   рати,   милостивъ,   и   любяше                                                                                                                             23

 A.   P.   Kazhdan,   ed.,   The   Oxford   Dictionary   of   Byzantium   (New   York:   Oxford   Univer-­‐‑ sity  Press,  1991),  267,  1379–80.   24  A.  D.  Stokes,  “What   Is  a  Voinskaia  Povest'ʹ?”  Canadian-­‐‑American  Slavic  Studies  13,  no.   1–2  (1979):  49–50.   25  See,   among   others,   G.   Dagron,   Empereur   et   prêtre:   Étude   sur   le   "ʺcésaropapisme"ʺ   byzantin  (Paris:  Gallimard,  1996).   26  Birnbaum,  “Byzantine  Tradition  Transformed,”  278–79.   27  All  citations  of  the  PVL  are  taken  from  the  critical  edition  prepared  by  D.  Ostrowski:   D.  G.  Ostrowski  et  al.,  The  Povest'ʹ  vremennykh  let:  An  Interlinear  Collation  and  Paradosis,   3   vols.   (Cambridge,   MA:   Distributed   by   Harvard   University   Press   for   the   Harvard   Ukrainian  Research  Institute,  2003).    

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дружину   по   велику,   имѣния   не   щадяше,   ни   пития,   ни   ядения   браняше.   По   семь   же   прия   власть   его   вьсю   Ярославъ,   и   бысть   единовластьць  Русьскои  земли     and   continuing   with   the   description   of   Iaroslav   (col.   151:   27–152:   5),   which   emphasized  his  Christian  virtues  as  well  as  his  cultural  endeavors,   И   бѣ   Ярославъ   любя   цьркъвьныя   уставы,   и   попы   любяше   по-­‐‑ велику,  излиха  же  чьрноризьцѣ,  и  кънигамъ  прилежа,  и  почитая   часто  въ  дьне  и  въ  нощи.  И  съьбра  письцѣ  мъногы,  и  прекладаше   отъ  Грекъ  на  Словѣньское  письмо;  и  съписаша  кънигы  мъногы,  и   съниска   имиже   поучають   ся   вѣрьнии   людие   наслажаються   уче-­‐‑ ния  божьствьнаго      to  the  description   of  Prince   Rostislav  (col.  166:  15–166:  20),  similar   to  that  of   Mstislav,     Сего  же  котопана  побиша  камениемь  Кърсуньстии  людие.  Бѣ  же   Ростиславъ   мужь   добръ   на   рати,   възрастъмь   же   лѣпъ   и   красьнъ   лицьмь   и   милостивъ   убогымъ.   Умьре   же   мѣсяца   февраля   въ   3   дьнь,  и  тамо  положенъ  бысть  въ  цьркъви  святыя  Богородица.     or  even  that  of  Vsevolod  Iaroslavich  (col.  215:  27–216:  11),       Въ   лѣто   6601,   индикта   1   лѣто,   престави   ся   великыи   кънязь   Вьсе-­‐‑ володъ,   сынъ   Ярославль,   вънукъ   Володимирь,   мѣсяца   априля   13   дьнь,  а  погребенъ  бысть  14  дьнь,  недѣли  сущи  тъгда  страстьнѣи  и   дьни   сущю   четвьртъку,   въ   ньже   положенъ   бысть   въ   гробѣ   въ   велицѣи   цьркъви  святыя  София.  Сии  благовѣрьныи  кънязь  Вьсе-­‐‑ володъ  бѣ  (издѣтьска  /   измлада),  любя  правьду,  набъдя  убогыя   и   въздая   чьсть   епископомъ   и   презвутеромъ,   излиха   же   любяше   чьрноризьцѣ,   и   подаваше   требование   имъ.   Бѣ   же   и   самъ   въз-­‐‑ дьржа  ся  отъ  пияньства  и  отъ  похоти.     and  culminating  in  the  description  of  Prince  Vladimir  (col.  264:  15–264:  23  and   281:  7–281:  16),       святительскыи,   не   преслуша   мольбы   его.   Володимиръ   же   такъ   есть   любьзнивъ,   любъвь   имѣя   къ   митрополитомъ,   и   къ   еписко-­‐‑ помъ   и   къ   игуменомъ,   паче   же   чьрньчьскыи   чинъ   любя,   и   при-­‐‑ ходящая  къ  нему  напиташе  и  напояше,  акы  мати  дѣти  своя.  Аще   кого   видить   или   шюмьна,   или   въ   коемь   зазорѣ,   не   осужаше,   нъ   вьсе   на   любъвь   прекладаше   и   утѣшаше.   Нъ   мы   на   предьнее   възвратимъ  ся.  

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Половьцѣ,   а   полонъ   отяша.   Въ   сеже   лѣто   престави   ся   Янь,   старьць   добрыи,   живъ   лѣтъ   90,   въ   старости   маститѣ;   живъ   по   закону   Божию,   не   хужии   бѣ   пьрвыхъ   правьдьникъ.   У   негоже   и   азъ  слышахъ  мънога  словеса,  яже  въписахъ  въ  лѣтописьць.  Бѣ  бо   мужь  благъ,  и  кротъкъ  и  съмѣренъ,  огрѣбая  ся  отъ  вьсякоя  вещи,   егоже  и  гробъ  есть  въ  Печерьскомь  монастыри,  въ  притворѣ,  иде-­‐‑ же  лежить  тѣло  его,  положено  мѣсяца  июня  въ  24. we   find   that   descriptions   of   princes   seek   to   highlight   not   only   their   political   and  military  deeds,  but  also  their  pious  behavior.  This  attribution  of  a  specific   type   of   descriptive   treatment   to   each   prince   according   to   his   historical   role   corresponds  not  to  a  confusion  of  models  on  the  part  of  the  copyist,  nor  even   to   a   confusion   of   genres   (historiography/hagiography),   but   rather   the   oppo-­‐‑ site:  the  copyist,  conscious   of   the  relevant  features   to   be  highlighted  on  each   occasion,   underlines   those   dictated   by   tradition   at   each   of   the   successive   stages  of  transmission,  at  each  Sitz  im  Zeit  .     This  little  example   demonstrates  that   the  attribution   of  saintly   virtues   to   princes   was  not  unusual,  a  phenomenon  sufficiently  strange  to   create  a   con-­‐‑ flict   of   genres.   In   this   sense,   the   hypothesis   advanced   by   A.   P.   Tolochko28   is   useful.  He  argues  that  the  genre  of  the  princely  biography,  equivalent  to  what   in  other  cultures  would  have  acted  as  the  “mirror  of  princes,”  was  replaced  in   old   Rus’   culture   by   the   literary   form   of   the   funerary   lament,   which   thus   as-­‐‑ sumed   the   functions   of   the   other   genre   since,   according   to   literary   evidence,   the  “mirror  of  princes”  as  a  self-­‐‑contained  literary  form  did  not  exist  in  Rus’.   Tolochko  believes  that  the  descriptions  of  princes,  particularly  the  panegyrics   inserted  in   the  chronicles,  do   not   constitute  a  genre   or  sub-­‐‑genre,  developed   independently   of   the   chronicles   and   inserted   into   them   a   posteriori   as   inter-­‐‑ polations,  but  rather  that  the  sources  are  the  chronicles  themselves.  Analyzing   the  pokhvala  to  Saint  Vladimir,  he  traces  features  shared  with  narratives  com-­‐‑ posed   in   honor   of   such   figures   as   David   Rostislavich,   Andrei   Bogolubskii,   and  Igor’   Olgovich  and   concludes  that   texts   of  this  type  were  composed  fol-­‐‑ lowing  the  principle  of  imitatio  of  predecessor  texts.  Moreover,  he  claims  that   this   manner   of   composition   was   not   restricted   to   the   chronicles   of   Galicia-­‐‑ Volynia  or  Kiev,  but  was  characteristic  of  all  Rus’  principalities.  He  concludes   that  in  funerary  panegyrics  the  identification  of  the  deceased  with  a  princely   line  of  forefathers  and  the  use  of  hagiographical  literary  topoi  to  describe  the   prince  as  saint  or  martyr  (the  appearance  of  a  white  dove  over  the  tomb  of  the   prince  or   of  a  star  accompanying  the  coffin  until  it  is   buried)   was  motivated   by  the  desire   to  emphasize  the  sanctity   of  the  prince.   In  this  sense,  Tolochko   considers  the  systematic  description  of  princes  as  martyrs,  particularly  in  the   first   stages   of   Christianization,   to   point   to   the   notion   of   the   prince   as   an                                                                                                                             28

 A.  P.  Tolochko,  “Pokhvala  ili  zhitie?  (Mezhdu  tekstologiei  i  ideologiei  kniazheskikh   panegirikov  v  drevnerusskom  letopisanii),”  Palaeoslavica  7  (1999):  26–38.  

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imitatio   Christi,   who,   for   being   so,   has   been   given   a   divine   mission,   which   is   the  defense  of  the  land  as  well  as  the  defense  of  the  faith,  in  the  belief  that  if   the  dynasty  is  holy,  so  too  is  the  land  over  which  it  rules.     This   link   between   religion   and   political   power   is   present   from   the   very   moment   of  Christianization   of  the   Rus’,   which,  as  Vladimir  Vodoff  has  aptly   pointed   out,   was   a   political   decision.29   Although   the   Byzantine   doctrine   of   Cesaropapism   was   never   fully   adopted   in   Rus’,   since   the   ruling   prince   was   not  appointed  as  head  of  the  Church,  the  idea  of  the  sacred  nature  of  imperial   power  was  certainly  encouraged.   This  policy  of  the  sacralization  of  power,  however,  does  not  die  out  after   the   first   generations   have   achieved   the   political   preeminence   for   which   they   longed  and  cannot  be  reduced  to  a  more  or  less  active  architectural  policy  of   religious   or   monastic   building.   As   Pierre   Gonneau   has   also   noted,   such   a   policy   is   abundantly   clear   in   the   funerary   rites   and   dispositions   of   princes,   ruling   or   not,   of   the   main   dynastic   branches   until   the   end   of   the   16th   cen-­‐‑ tury.30  Three  models  of  princely  relations  with  the  monastic  world  can  be  iso-­‐‑ lated:  firstly,  the  prince-­‐‑monk,  a  tradition  inaugurated  by  Aleksandr  Nevskii   himself;   secondly,   the   model   of   princes   who   preserve   merely   protocol   rela-­‐‑ tions   with   the   monasteries;   and   thirdly,   the   prince-­‐‑benefactor,   who   leaves   dispositions  in  his  will  to  protect  a  given  monastery  after  his  death.     Of   these   three   models,   the   one   that   interests   us   the   most   is   the   first,   not   only   because   it   was   a   tradition   inaugurated   by   Nevskii   himself,   but   also   be-­‐‑ cause  it  survives,  alternating  with  others,  until  Ivan  IV.  The  princes  conform-­‐‑ ing  to  this  model  decide  to  take  monastic  vows  before  death  in  order  to  obtain   divine   assistance   at   death’s   door.   Thus   it   is   described   in   what   Gonneau   has   called  the  “hagio-­‐‑biographies  that  celebrate  [the  Princes’]  military  prowess  to-­‐‑ gether  with  their  piety.   The   case   of   Aleksandr   Nevskii   is,   in   this   sense,   anthological,   since   it   unites   the   military   and   religious   virtues   of   a   leader   whose   literary   reflection   corresponds  to  a  reality  documented  in  historiography.     As   mentioned   above,   some   specialists   have   insisted   that   the   Life   of   Alek-­‐‑ sandr  Nevskii,  among  others,  be  considered  a  Unikate,  since  it  did  not  give  rise   to  a  genre,  being  the  sole  example  of  a  biography  of  a  ruling  prince.  However,   it  is  certainly  not  the  only  hagio-­‐‑biography  inserted  in  a  chronicle,  which,  we   should   not  forget,  where  it   was   originally  situated.  It   will   suffice   to   mention   the  lives   of  Dmitrii  Donskoi  or  Mikhail   of  Chernigov,   or   the  princes  of  Tver’                                                                                                                             29

 Vladimir   Vodoff,   Christianisme,   pouvoir   et   société   chez   les   slaves   orientaux   (Xe–XVIIe   siècles):  Autour  du  mythe  de  la  Sainte  Russie,  Cultures  et  sociétés  de  l’Est  37  (Paris:  Insti-­‐‑ tut  d’études  slaves  Centre  d’études  slaves,  2003),  63.     30  P.   Gonneau,  “Les  Princes  de   Moscou  face  à  la  mort:   Modèle  monastique  et  sainteté   lignagère   (1263–1598),”   Cahiers   du   Monde   russe   46,   no.   1–2   (2005):   193–210;   Gonneau,   “Le  trepas  du   prince  et  la  gloire  de  la  dynastie  a  l’epoque  de  la  rivalité  entre  Tver’  et   Moscou  (1263–1399),”  Istina  2  (2005):  115–36.  

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killed   by   the   Horde,31   apart   from   all   the   above-­‐‑mentioned   descriptions   and   funerary  laments  inserted  in  chronicles.   Thus  we  read  in  of  Nevskii’s  parents  in  his  Life:     Съй   бѣ   князь   Александръ   родится   от   отца   милостилюбца   и   мужелюбца,   паче   же   и   кротка,   князя   великаго   Ярослава   и   от   матере  Феодосии.   And  then,  a  little  bit  further  down,  there  is  a  list  of  his  virtues:       Князь же Александръ воскорѣ иде и изверже град их из осно-­‐‑ вания, а самых извѣша и овѣх с собою поведе, а инѣх, по-­‐‑ миловавъ, отпусти бѣ бо милостивъ паче мѣры.   По плѣнении же Неврюнeвѣ князь великый Александръ церкви въздвигну, грады испольни, люди распуженыа събра в домы своя.   Не внимая богатьства и не презря кровъ праведничю, сиротѣ и вдовици въправду судяй, милостилюбець, благь домочадцемь своимъ и вънѣшнимъ от странъ приходящимь кормитель.   И умножишася дни живота его в велицѣ славѣ, бѣ бо иерѣ   любець и мьнихолюбець, и нищая любя, митрополита же и епископы чтяше и послушааше их, аки самого Христа.   The   Life   of   Aleksandr   Nevskii   recuperates,   consequently,   certain   loci   com-­‐‑ munes   on   the   sanctity   and   Christian   virtues   of   the   prince   already   seen   in   examples  from   the  chronicles.  It  also  follows  the   model  set  by   the  Byzantine   basilikos   logos.   Furthermore,   it   incorporates   new   formulas,   which   could   be   traced  directly  back  either  to  biblical  sources  (parallels  with  King  David)  or  to   literary   sources   that   could   be   unequivocally   qualified   as   epic,   such   as   the   Romance  of  Alexander  and  Flavius  Josephus’s  War  of  the  Jews.   These  formulaic   elements   are   to   be   found   again   later   both   in   other   epic   texts,   such   as   the   Devgenievo  Dejanie,32  and  in  other  zhitie,  such  as  that  of  Boris  Aleksandrovich,   grand  prince  of  Tver’  (d.  1461).33   The  Life   of  Aleksander  Nevskii,   therefore,   should   be  considered,   not  a  Uni-­‐‑ kate   but   the   culminating   point,   the   most   perfect   representative   of   a   literary   genre  whose  representatives,  before  and  after  its  composition,  might  not  have                                                                                                                             31

 V.  A.  Kuchkin,  Povesti  o  Mikhaile  Tverskom:  Istoriko-­‐‑tekstologicheskoe  issledovanie  (Mos-­‐‑ cow:   Nauka,   1974);   V.   Vodoff,   “Les   Récits   sur   la   mort   de   Mixail   Aleksandrovič   de   Tver’   (1399)   et   les   courants   politiques   et   ecclésiastiques   de   son   temps,”   Cyrillometho-­‐‑ dianum  8–9  (1984–85):  67–76.   32  Mari   Isoaho,   The   Image   of   Aleksandr   Nevskiy   in   Medieval   Russia:   Warrior   and   Saint   (Leiden:  Brill,  2006),  29–66.   33  Vodoff,  Christianisme,  pouvoir  et  société,  229–45.  

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been  so  nicely  polished,  but   which   were   composed,  nevertheless,  employing   the   same  resources  and   with   the   same  aim.   Aside  from   the  fact   that  the   title   itself   (Povest 'ʹ   o   zhitie)   might   seem   to   some   specialists   to   indicate   that   we   are   before  a  hybrid  literary  work,  from  the  point  of  view  of  generic  classification,   from   a   formal   point   of   view   it   could   be   equated   to   other   descriptions   of   princes,   the   main   difference   with   them   being   the   treatment   of   the   epic   con-­‐‑ tents.  And  we  find  ourselves  before  a  wonderful  paradox:  the  zhitie  is  consid-­‐‑ ered  by  some  scholars  to  be  a  form  of  hagiography,  despite  its  epic  elements,   while  others  classify  it  as  a  military  tale  (voinskaia  povest’),  despite  its  religious   elements.     Nevertheless,  the  preceding  analysis   shows  that,  from  an  early  time,   de-­‐‑ scriptions  of  ruling  princes  highlighted  both  their  military  prowess  and  their   Christian   virtue,   perhaps   as   part   of   the   process   of   developing   a   rhetoric   of   power  in  which  the  ruling  prince,  since  he  could  not  assume  the  role  of  head   of   the   Church,   aimed   to   reinforce   his   authority   by   making   it   palpably   clear   that  his  power  emanated  from  God,  as  was  well  stated  in  Nevskii’s  Life:     Се   же   слышах   от   самовидца,   иже   рече   ми,   яко   видѣх   полкъ   божий  на  въздусѣ,  пришедши  на  помошь  Александрови.     Furthermore,   aside   from   its   reflection   in   more   or   less   realistic   literary   constructions,  the  sanctity  of  the  members  of  ruling  dynasties  was  reflected  in   princely  funerary  rituals  and  dispositions  as  well  as  in  the  far  from  negligible   fact   that   many   of   them   decided   to   take   monastic   vows   before   death.   Hence-­‐‑ forth,  in  contrast  to  the  time  of  Boris  and  Gleb,  the  paradigm  for  the  prince  in   Rus’,   that   is,   the   prince’s   dual   role   as   representation   of   political   power   and   metaphor   in   this   world   of   divine   power,   is   no   longer   exclusively   that   of   the   prince-­‐‑martyr.   Despite   later   examples,   such   as   Mikhail   of   Chernigov   or   the   princes   of   Tver’,   the   prince-­‐‑martyr   typology   loses   its   dominance.   The   new   prototype,  consequently,  is  closer  to  that  of  the  Christian  ruler,  which  should   not   necessarily   appear   surprising   or   contradictory   to   the   contemporary   reader.  Medieval  images  of  Christian  rulership  exclude  neither  cruelty  to  the   enemy   or   monasticism.   Neither,   for   that   matter,   were   epic   heroes   lacking   in   Christian   values.   Both   in   autochthonous   epic   production   and   in   translations   of  epic   works   made  in   Rus’,   the   heroes,  princes  or   not,   received  their  power   from   God   and   were   strong   defenders   of   both   the   land   and   the   faith,   which   were  inextricably  linked  and  never  mutually  exclusive.34  If   there  was   such  a                                                                                                                             34

 On  these  aspects   of  Russian  epos,  see  Susana  Torres  Prieto,   “Slavic  Epic:   Past  Tales   and   Present   Myths,”   in   Epic   and   History,   ed.   Kurt   A.   Raaflaub   and   David   Konstan   (Chichester,  West  Suffix,  UK:  Wiley-­‐‑Blackwell,  2010),  223–43;  Torres  Prieto,  “Found  in   Translation?  Heroic  Models  in  Slavonic,”  in  Medieval  Slavonic  Studies:  New  Perspectives   for   Research,   ed.   J.   A.   Álvarez-­‐‑Pedrosa   Núñez   and   S.   Torres   Prieto   (Paris:   Institute   d’Études  Slaves,  2009),  115–27.  

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thing  as  a  military  tale  in  Rus’,  it  was  fully  Christian  in  ethos.  Only  a  modern   conception  of  the  ideal  ruler  and  the  source  of  his  earthly  power  could  force  a   generic   classification   of   the   literary   heritage   in   which   ideas   that   were   not   mutually  exclusive  appear  to  be  so.     In  terms  of  formal  composition,  we  have  seen  that  there  were  precedents   in   Byzantium   (basilikos   logos)   that   were   probably   known   in   Kievan   Rus’   and   that  could  have  served  as  productive  models  for  the  depiction  of  princes.     If,  moreover,   we  admit  the  plausibility   of  Tolochko’s   suggestion,  accord-­‐‑ ing   to   which   certain   literary   genres   could   have   been   displaced   in   a   culture   such   as   that   of   Kievan   Rus’,   where   autographs   and   independent   works   are   hard  to  find,  the  genre  distinctions  applied  in  other  cultural  environments  to   independent   literary   works   should   then   be   applied   to   other   types   of   narra-­‐‑ tives  that  performed  the  same  social  function.  The  result  of  this  difference  in   production  would  be  that,  rather  than  a  theory  of  genres,  we  should  attempt  a   theory  of  discourse,  that  is,  a  theory  that  dismisses  the  idea  of  a  literary  work   as  a  closed  narrative  in  which  certain  literary  resources  are  exclusively  put  to   the   service   of   a   specific   function   and   purpose   in   favor   of   a   new   one   empha-­‐‑ sizing   the   keys   to   the   narrative   within   a   multifunctional   literary   continuum,   particularly   if   we   bear   in   mind   the   material   process   of   creation   and   compo-­‐‑ sition  of  all  narratives  in  Kievan  Rus’.   In  regard  to  the  formal  disposition  of  texts,  the  miscellany  (sbornik,  izbor-­‐‑ nik)  is,  without  any  doubt,  the  privileged  means  for  transmitting  knowledge,   whether   this   be   religious,   profane,   or   encyclopaedic.   Moreover,   within   the   miscellanies   textual   units   were   neither   consistently   limited   nor   respected   in   the   same   way   throughout   the   centuries,   let   alone   in   a   form   recognizable   to   our  eyes.  This  fact  sometimes  prevents  an  accurate  estimate  of  the  number  of   available  copies  of  any  given   work  and,  therefore,  an  adequate  evaluation  of   its  diffusion.  Too  often,  indeed,  a  narrative  (povest’,  skazanie),  a  speech  or  ser-­‐‑ mon  (slovo),  or  a  letter  (poslanie)  was  copied  more   than  once   within  the   same   miscellany,   in   different   variants,   and   sometimes   only   excerpts   of   works,   al-­‐‑ ways  the  same  ones,  were  copied  once  and  again.     Taking   into   account   that   the   majority   of   works   have   been   preserved   in   miscellanies   that,   nevertheless,   as   Chastang   rightly   underlined   “are   in   the   Middle   Ages   primordial   forms   of   cultural   and   knowledge   production   that   cannot   be   reduced   to   simple   procedures   of   conservation   [of   the   original   texts],”35  and  that  the  material  means  of  production  did  not  permit  the  elabo-­‐‑ ration  in  the  majority  of  cases  of  homogenous  volumes  (with  the  exception  of   relevant   religious   and   liturgical   texts),   formal   and   genre   contamination   should  be  expected.36                                                                                                                               35

 P.  Chastang,  “L’archéologie  du  texte  médiéval:  Autour  de  travaux  récents  sur  l’écrit   au  Moyen  Âge,”  Annales  63,  no.  2  (2008):  251.   36  In   this   respect,   the   studies   carried   out   by   R.   P.   Dmitrieva   (“Svetskaia   literatura   v   sostave  monastyrskikh  bibliotek  XV  i  XVI  vv.,”  Trudy  Otdela  drevnerusskoi  literatury 23

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In   the   case   of   the   Life   of   Aleksandr   Nevskii,   D.   Ostrowski’s   attempt   to   reconstruct  a  supposed  pre-­‐‑existent  secular  tale  is  based  on  an  alleged  conflict   of  images  (secular  vs.  religious),  under  the  conviction  that  there  were  at  least   two  authors,  the  second  of  whom  would  have  been  “tacking  on,  sometimes  in   a  rather  gratuitous  way,  religious  comments,”  supported  by  evidence  of  bor-­‐‑ rowing   of   literary   formulas   found   both   in   the   Life   and   in   the   Novgorod   I   Chronicle  of  the  Younger  Redaction.  Firstly,  a  conflict  of  images  based  on  a  no   longer   sustainable   theory   of   genres   could   hardly   be   a   reason   to   attempt   the   reconstruction.  As  Daniel  Rowland  has  shown  in  the  case  of  Muscovite  ideol-­‐‑ ogy,   the   most   plausible   scenario   is   that   there   existed   a   repository   of   images,   conflicting  only  with  our  modern  understanding  of   what   a  ruler  should  be,  from   which  the  so-­‐‑called  author  drew  images  without  changing  ideology.37   Secondly,  there  seems  to  be  a  perceived  problem  of  author,  or  authors,  as   creators   of   the   Life.   Leaving   aside   the   problem   of   authorship   in   the   Middle   Ages,  or  indeed  in  any  pre-­‐‑p rinting  culture,  on  which  much  has  been  written,   the   idea   that   a   monk,   versed   in   literature,   both   religious   and   secular,   could   describe  a  battle,  or  that  a  metropolitan  could  commission  a  heroic  tale  seems   to  be  hard  to  overcome  for  many  specialists.  And,  unfortunately,  the  evidence   of  literary  borrowings  between  the  Life  and  the  Novgorod  Chronicle  is,  to  my   mind,   too   meagre   and   general   not   to   be   the   result   of   normal   processes   of   contamination   in   manuscript   culture,   or   of   the   employment   of   literary   topoi   widespread   in   monastic   culture.   Formulas   such   as   “gave   shoulder   and   they   fought  them  chasing”  or  “with  the  help  of  God”  or  the  naming  of  commemo-­‐‑ ration  days  should  not  lead  us  to  infer  a  whole  construct  on  the  composition   of   nonexistent   literary   pieces.   Even   if   we   were   to   admit   similarities   between   Novg.  I-­‐‑OR  and  the  Life,  this  fact  in  itself  would  not  be  enough  to  substantiate   the   purported   existence   of   a   Tale.   If   we   also   admit   that   the   sentence   “what   I   heard   from   my   father   and   I   am   an   eyewitness   to   [while]   growing   up”   is   historically   true   and   not   a   literary   resource,   which   could   also   be   the   case,   it   has   two   implications:   firstly,   that   a   man   of   arms   could   not   have   ended   his   days  as  a  monk  or  could  not  have  had  any  knowledge  of  religious  literature,   and,   secondly,   that,   as   the   author   says,   “it   is   unlikely   Metropolitan   Kirill   would   have   commissioned   the   writing   of   a   military   tale   about   Alexander.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     [1968]:   143–70;   and   “Chet’i   sborniki   XV   v.   kak   zhanr,” Trudy   Otdela   drevnerusskoi   literatury   27   [1972]:   150–80),   as   well   as   by   R.   Romanchuk   (Byzantine   Hermeneutics   and   Pedagogy   in   the   Russian   North:   Monks   and   Masters   at   the   Kirillo-­‐‑Belozerskii   Monastery,   1397–1501  [Toronto:  University  of  Toronto  Press,  2007])  should  be  taken  into  account  if   any   serious   attempt   is   to   be   made   to   understand   the   reasons   and   the   circumstances   under   which   certain   parts,   such   as   the   Life   or   any   other   military   tale,   were   extracted   from   the   chronicles   in   which   they   were   originally   inserted.   Unfortunately,   this   is   beyond  the  scope  of  the  present  article.     37  D.   Rowland,   “Did   Muscovite   Literary   Ideology   Place   Limits   on   the   Power   of   the   Tsar  (1540s–1660s)?”  Russian  Review  49,  no.  2  (1990):  125–55.  

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None   of   these   statements   seems   to   correspond   to   the   reality   of   literary   and   monastic  cultures  of  Kievan  Rus’  as  we  know  them  now.   So,   at   this   point   I   would   like   to   propose   a   working   hypothesis.   Let’s   suppose  for  a  moment  that  the  Slavs,  including  the  Eastern  Slavs,  were  right.   Let’s   suppose,   for   the   sake   of   argument,   that   they   were   able   to   write   what   they   wanted   in   the   way   they   wanted.   Let’s   suppose   that   they   had   powerful   reasons  to  present  the  texts  in  the  manner  they  were  preserved.  Let’s  suppose,   as   well,   that   they   grasped   Byzantine   literary   conventions   clearly,   and   that   they  were  able  to  modify  them  when  they  felt  they  ought  to  and  according  to   the   needs   of   the   moment   for   more   than   four   centuries.   Let’s   suppose   that   those   responsible  for   maintaining  the  literary  heritage  for  future  generations   had  a  precise  idea  of  the  value  and  use  of  such  heritage  within  the  society  in   which  they  lived.  Which  literary  system  would  we  be  able  to  describe?   Given  the  incomplete  nature   of   the  evidence  at  our   disposal,  applying— or   sometimes   forcing—theories   carries   the   risk   of   creating   some   very   para-­‐‑ doxical   situations.   For   example,   the   argument   that   non-­‐‑liturgical   works   lie   outside  the  system  of  genres,  or  proto-­‐‑genres,  because  they  are  abnormalities   in  medieval  Russian  culture,  is  unsustainable.  To  state  that  Byzantine  culture   did   not   provide   a   framework   for   the   transmission   and   adaptation   of   non-­‐‑ religious  literature  in  the  Russian  medieval  world  is  to  ignore  the  many  trans-­‐‑ lations  of  non-­‐‑liturgical  works  that  did  arrive  in  Kievan  Rus’.  Finally,  the  no-­‐‑ tion  that  a  prince  cannot  be  at   one  and  the  same  time  a  bloodthirsty  warrior   and   a   zealous   defender   of   religion   is   simply   alien   to   the   cultural   and   moral   parameters  of  the  society  that  gave  birth  to  certain  literary  pieces,  forcing  the   elaboration  of  complex  and  inexplicable  theories  about  literary  genres  and  the   uses  of  literature  in  general.  Nothing  should  allow  us  to  think,  five  centuries   later,  that  we  know  better  than  the  copyists  themselves  what  it  was  that  they   wanted  to  say.    

     

For Want of Coin: Some Remarks on the Mongol Tribute and the Problem of the Circulation of Silver   Lawrence N. Langer    

  The  minting  of  coins  and  the  fluctuations  in  the  availability  and  use  of  money   are  often  perceived  as  an  important  barometer  of  wealth  and  of  a  developed   market  economy.  Where  coins  exist  and  are  plentiful  and  available,  and  when   they   retain   their   weight   in   silver   or   gold,   they   often   imply   or   reflect   vibrant   international,  regional,  and  local  commerce  as  well  as  a  manufacturing  sector   closely  attuned  to  markets.  Coinage  is  also  a  means  by  which  to  understand   social  and  political  relationships,  such  as  those  embedded  in  the  practices  of   taxation  and  judicial  fines.  When  coins  are  absent,  uncoined  precious  metals   and   even   valuable   commodities,   such   as   furs,   might   be   employed   but   their   use,  while  efficacious  as  a  medium  of  local  and  even  international  exchange,   nonetheless,   may   denote   a   scarcity   of   precious   metals.   One   of   the   more   per-­‐‑ plexing   issues   concerning   Rus’   in   the   Mongol   era   is   the   degree   to   which   a   money   economy   existed.   Partly   this   is   because   there   has   been   no   consensus   over  the  use  of  silver  as  a  medium  of  monetary  exchange.  Nor  has  there  been   any   agreement   over   the   effects   of   Mongol   rule:   whether   the   Mongols   hin-­‐‑ dered   or   encouraged   markets   and   economic   development.   This   essay   seeks   only  to  raise  some  of  the  problems  associated  with  coinage  and  the  circulation   of  silver  in  Rus’,  but  even  this  limited  exercise  indicates  that  silver  was  scarce   and  the  efforts  to  retain  a  standard  weight  in  silver  coinage  weak.  While  some   silver  did  flow  into  much  of  Rus’,  its  accumulation  would  only  benefit  a  few   towns,  such  as  Novgorod  and  Moscow.   George   Vernadsky   famously   attempted   to   calculate   the   Mongol   tribute.   He   concluded   that   the   yearly   tribute   totaled   145,000   rubles,   to   which   he   added  a  Novgorodian  assessment  of  25,000  rubles.1  As  Michel  Roublev  noted   in  a  seminal  article  on  the  Mongol  tribute,  Vernadsky  did  not  fully  grasp  the   implications   of   his   figures   for   the   tribute.   Given   that   a   silver   ruble   weighed   around  100  grams,  this  meant  that  17  tons  of  silver  were  sent  annually  to  the   Horde.  Vernadsky  was  unable  to  account  for  where  all  this  silver  came  from.   Roublev   concluded   that   the   tribute   was   at   least   5,000   rubles   in   1389–90   and  

                                                                                                                          1

 George  Vernadsky,  A  History  of  Russia,  3:  The  Mongols  and  Russia  (New  Haven:  Yale   University  Press,  1953),  231.     Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 85–101.

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7,000   rubles   between   1401   and   1433.2   At   100   grams   to   a   silver   ruble,   5,000   rubles   would   weigh   1,100   lbs,   while   7,000   rubles   came   in   a   hefty   weight   of   1,540   lbs   of   silver.   To   be   sure,   not   the   astronomical   sums   of   Vernadsky,   but   still   not   an   inconsiderable   amount   of   silver   even   if   the   tribute   was   perhaps   paid  once  every  four  to  six  years.  This  would  mean  there  was  a  constant  and   heavy  drain  of  silver  from  northern  Rus’  to  the  Horde.3   It  was  once  thought  that  Rus’  may  have  had  silver  mines  from  which  to   draw  the  precious  metal.  In  1332  the  Novgorod  chronicler  recorded  that  Ivan   I  obtained  silver  from  beyond  the  Kama  (zakamskoe  serebro),  but  historians  to-­‐‑ day  agree  there  were  no  known  silver  or  gold  mines  in  Russia  before  the  17th   century.4   The   Russian   economy   in   the   Mongol   era,   Roublev   concluded,   re-­‐‑ mains   something   of   an   enigma,   because   it   is   not   at   all   clear   how   an   over-­‐‑ whelmingly  agrarian  society  with  limited  commercial  ties  obtained  sufficient   silver  so  that  it  could  even  seep  down  to  the  local  village  level.  It  may  be  that   Russia  in  the  Mongol  era  had  a  more  developed  monetary  economy  than  has   been  previously  thought.5   Others  have  expressed  similar  puzzlement.  Charles  Halperin  duly  noted   the  economic  depression  of  the  13th  century,  but  from  the  middle  of  the  14th   century  the  economy  began  to  grow  as  new  cities  were  founded  and  old  cities   expanded,   which   he   credited   to   Mongol   fostering   of   international   trade   and   which   allowed   Rus’   to   enjoy   a   favorable   balance   of   trade.   The   puzzle   is   that   economic   recovery   had   to   rest   on   a   demographic   recovery,   which,   he   ad-­‐‑ mitted,   “flies   in   the   face   of   the   well-­‐‑known   fact   that   the   Black   Death   struck   Russia   during   this   period.”   The   rise   of   cities   coupled   with   the   demographic   consequences  of  plague  “remains  a  paradox.”6  Similarly,  for  Donald  Ostrow-­‐‑ ski,  the  appearance  of  some  40  new  towns  in  Northeast  Rus’  in  the  14th  cen-­‐‑ tury  along  with  an  upsurge  in  masonry  construction  “seems  to  indicate  that,   by  the  second  half  of  the  14th  century,  northeastern  Rus’  was  more  prosper-­‐‑ ous  than  it  had  ever  been  before.”  Although  the  initial  Mongol  conquest  had   an   immediate   negative   impact,   Ostrowski   writes,   “the   destructiveness   and   duration   of   the   resulting   economic   depression   is   open   to   evaluation.   By   the                                                                                                                             2

 Ibid.,   341–44;   Michel   Roublev,   “The   Mongol   Tribute   According   to   the   Wills   and   Agreements   of   the   Russian   Princes,”   in   The   Structure   of   Russian   History,   ed.   Michael   Cherniavsky  (New  York:  Random  House,  1970),  31,  56.     3  Ibid.,  58.     4  Novgorodskaia   pervaia   letopis’   starshego   i   mladshego   izvodov   (hereafter,   NPL)   (Moscow-­‐‑ Leningrad:   Izd-­‐‑vo   Akademii   nauk   SSSR,   1950),   344;   A.   L.   Khoroshkevich,   Torgovlia   velikogo  Novgoroda  v  XIV–XV  vekakh  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1963),  269– 70;  Roublev,  “The  Mongol  Tribute,”  59.     5  Roublev,  “The  Mongol  Tribute,”  59.     6  Charles  Halperin,  Russia  and  the  Golden  Horde:  The  Mongol  Impact  on  Medieval  Russian   History  (Bloomington:  Indiana  University  Press,  1985),  78,  83–84.  

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early   14th   century   northeastern   Rus’   was   participating   in   the   economic   re-­‐‑ vival  that  resulted  from  the  Pax  Mongolica.”7     One   of   the   central   problems   to   unlocking   the   paradoxes   of   the   medieval   economy   of   Rus’   has   been   the   absence   of   coinage,   which   can   be   dated   from   the  1140s  with  the  end  of  the  influx  of  West  European  deniers  or  even  further   back  to  the  1030s  and  the  cessation  of  Rus’  minting.  Scholars  have  termed  this   the  “coinless  period,”  which  lasted  some  350  years  until  the  1380s.8   The   absence   of   coinage   in   Rus’   is   all   the   more   remarkable   as   Western   Europe   between   the   1160s   and   1330s   witnessed   a   veritable   explosion   in   the   minting   of   silver.   The   mines   at   Freiberg,   Schwaz   in   the   Tirol,   and   especially   those  at  Kutná  Hora  in  Bohemia  were  each  producing  20  to  25  tons  of  silver   per   year.   Europe   was   literary   awash   with   hundreds   of   millions   of   pfennigs-­‐‑ worth   of   new   silver.9   Much   of   the   silver   was   directed   west   and   northwest   towards   the   Rhineland,   Low   Countries,   France,   and   England   and   south   to-­‐‑ wards  Italy.10   Although   there   were   no   minted   coins   for   almost   350   years,   various   theories  have  been  put  forward  to  suggest  there  were  effective  substitutes  for   coinage,   the   so-­‐‑called   “goods   money.”   These   included   spindle   nozzles   (pria-­‐‑ slitsa),  glass  bracelets,  and  beads,  which,  while  plentiful  in  the  Kievan  era,  de-­‐‑ clined  from  the  middle  of  the  13th  century.  Another  possibility  that  has  been   put   forward   has   been   the   use   of   cowry   shells.11   The   oldest   theory   of   “goods   money,”   as   Elena   Pavlova   noted,   was   the   utilization   of   furs,   which   included   such   monetary   units   as   kuna   (skin   of   a   marten),   belka/veksha   (skin   of   a   squir-­‐‑ rel),  mortka  (head  of  a  mammal),  etc.  These  terms  may  possibly  have  referred   to  pieces  of  leather  rather  than  actual  heads  of  animals,12  but  the  literary  evi-­‐‑ dence   strongly   suggests   that   furs   were   used   for   local   currency.   That   is   cer-­‐‑ tainly  the  testimony  of  William  of  Rubruck  in  the  1250s13  and  of  the  diplomat   Guillebert   de   Lannoy,   who   in   1413   observed   people   in   Novgorod   using   squirrel  and  marten  (de  gris  et  de  martres)  for  their  currency.14  In  1410  the  Nov-­‐‑ gorod  chronicle  further  relates  that  the  city  abandoned  kuna  (furs)  to  trade  in                                                                                                                             7

 Donald   Ostrowski,   Muscovy   and   the   Mongols:   Cross-­‐‑Cultural   Influences   on   the   Steppe   Frontier,  1304–1589  (Cambridge:  Cambridge  University  Press,  1998),  127,  130–31.     8  Elena  Pavlova,  “The  Coinless  Period  in  the  History  of  Northeastern  Rus’:  Historiog-­‐‑ raphy  Study,”  Russian  History  21,  no.  4  (1994):  375–76.     9  Peter  Spufford,  Money  and  its  Use  in  Medieval  Europe  (Cambridge:  Cambridge  Univer-­‐‑ sity  Press,  1988),  110–11.     10  Ibid.,  136  and  137  (map  15),  139,  142.     11  See  the  discussion  in  Pavlova,  “The  Coinless  Period,”  388–90.     12  Ibid.,  385,  388–90.     13  Christopher  Dawson,  ed.,  The  Mongol  Mission  (Narratives  and  Letters  of  the  Franciscan   Missionaries   in   Mongolia   and   China   in   the   Thirteenth   and   Fourteenth   Centuries)   (London:   Sheed  &  Ward,  1955),  113.     14  Ghillebert  de  Lannoy,  Oeuvres  (Louvain:  P.  et  J.  Lefever,  1878),  33.    

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lobki   (part   of   an   animal   skin),   Lithuanian   groschen   (silver   coins),   and   Ger-­‐‑ man/Western   artugs   (Norwegian   copper   coins).15   In   1420   Novgorod   finally   minted  its  own  silver  coinage16  and  four  or  five  years  later  Pskov  did  as  well,   abandoning  mortka  furs.17   The   Mongol   conquest   brought   with   it   demands   for   tribute   in   furs   and   silver,  which  are  amply  reflected  in  the  chronicles  and  observations  of  papal   legates  to  the  Horde  in  the  13th  century.18  For  the  entry  1256  the  Ipat’evskaia   chronicle  described  the  tribute  as  consisting  of  furs  and  silver.19  Janet  Martin   contends   that   at   some   unspecified   time   the   tribute   in   furs   was   converted   to   silver.20  There  is  little  doubt  that  silver  was  a  major  component  of  the  tribute   in  the  13th  century,  which  would  be  in  keeping  with  what  was  exacted  else-­‐‑ where  in  the  Mongol  Empire.21   By   the   reign   of   Möngke   Temür   (r.   1267–80)   the   tributary   system   in   Rus’   had   become   more   systematized   and   included,   at   least   according   to   Tati-­‐‑ shchev,   an   agrarian   tax   of   one-­‐‑half   grivna   per   sokha   as   well   as   the   tamga   (commercial   tax)   and   various   transportation   taxes.22   Several   extant   treaties   between  Tver’  and  Novgorod  from  1264,  1270,  1296–1301  and  the  first  quarter   of   the   14th   century   offer   some   insight   into   the   grand   princely   income   taken   from  Novgorod.  The  1264-­‐‑65  and  1304-­‐‑5  treaties  granted  the  prince  the  privi-­‐‑ lege   to   collect   “gifts”   (sing.   dar)   from   the   Novgorodian   volosts,   which,   in   all   likelihood   meant   furs,   perhaps   replicating   the   princely   “gifts”   given   to   the   Mongol  khans.  Princes  had  hunting  privileges  and  were  allotted  the  right  to   collect  tolls  (myt)  of  2  vekshas  (squirrel  hides)  from  each  cart  and  each  box  of   hops   in   transit   from   Novgorod,   Torzhok,   into   Suzdalia,   which   could   have   easily  added  up  to  a  substantial  inventory  of  squirrel  fur.23  A  1270  treaty  con-­‐‑                                                                                                                           15

 NPL,  402.      Ibid.,  412.     17  Pavlova,  “The  Coinless  Period,”  386;  Polnoe  sobranie  russkikh  letopisei  (PSRL),  42  vols.   to  date  (St.  Petersburg/Petrograd/Leningrad  and  Moscow:  Arkheograficheskaia  komis-­‐‑ siia,  Akademiia  nauk,  1841–),  2:  234.     18  NPL,  74;  PSRL,  7:  139;  Dawson,  The  Mongol  Mission,  39,  80,  113;  Janet  Martin,  Treas-­‐‑ ure   of   the   Land   of   Darkness:   The   Fur   Trade   and   its   Significance   for   Medieval   Russia   (Cam-­‐‑ bridge:  Cambridge  University  Press,  1986),  87–88.     19  PSRL,  2:  835.     20  Martin,Treasure,  90.     21  Lawrence   N.   Langer,   “Muscovite   Taxation   and   the   Problem   of   Mongol   Rule   in   Rus’,”  in  Festschrift  for  Richard  Hellie,  ed.  Lawrence  N.  Langer  and  Peter  Brown,  pt.  1,   Russian  History  34,  nos.  1–4  (2007):  114.     22  Ibid.,  116–17.     23  Gramoty   velikogo   Novgoroda   i   Pskova   (hereafter,   GVNiP)   (Moscow-­‐‑Leningrad:   Izd-­‐‑vo   Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1949),  6  (no.  1),  16  (no.  16);  I.  G.  Spassky,  The  Russian  Monetary   System,   trans.   Z.   I.   Gorishina   and   L.   S.   Forrer   (Amsterdam:   Jacques   Schulman,   1967),   70;  Pavlova,  “The  Coinless  Period,”  385.     16

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ferred  traveling  fees  of  5  kunas  to  paid  to  the  prince  and  2  kunas  to  his  judge   (tiun)  for  adjudicating  court  cases  and  perhaps  also  as  administrative  charges   for  the  collection  of  the  tribute.  The  treaty  affirmed  the  right  of  the  prince  to   trade  in  the  German  (Foreign)  Yard,  giving  him  access  to  the  silver  trade  with   the  Hanseatic  League.24   In   the   second   half   of   the   14th   century   Novgorodian   boyars   collected   squirrel   furs   as   rent   and   as   a   tax   (belka)   that   went   into   the   city’s   treasury,   a   practice   that   must   have   existed   in   the   13th   century,   if   not   earlier.25   Martin   estimates  that  in  the  15th  century  the  rent-­‐‑tax  system  brought  into  Novgorod   over  200,000  squirrel  pelts  per  year,  which  were  then  traded  to  the  Hansa  for   silver.26  The  1304  treaty  between  Novgorod  and  Tver’  contains  an  important   clause   that   permitted   the   prince   to   take   silver   from   beyond   the   Volok,   al-­‐‑ though  the  administration  of  the  territory  remained  under  the  city’s  jurisdic-­‐‑ tion  (“And  beyond  the  Volok,  you  [prince]  cannot  send  your  man,  but  send  a   Novgorodian;   and   you   can   take   silver”).27   The   Novgorodian   tribute   was   something   of   a   closed   economic   system:   peasants   and   others   paid   taxes   and   rents  in  furs,  but  they  could  also  sell  furs  in  the  market,  for  which  they  would   receive  silver,  which  in  turn  might  be  taxed  as  part  of  the  tribute  that  eventu-­‐‑ ally  was  passed  on  to  the  grand  prince  of  Vladimir  and  the  Horde.  In  the  14th   and   15th   centuries   much   of   the   silver   that   made   its   way   to   Novgorod   was   originally  mined  in  the  German,  Czech,  Austrian,  and  Hungarian  territories.28   It  is  not  until  the  first  quarter  of  the  14th  century  that  the  chronicles  and   princely  treaties  begin  to  record  amounts  of  silver  paid  in  tribute  or  given  as   ransoms.   While   far   from   complete,   the   data   does   provide   a   glimpse   of   the   silver  sent  to  the  Horde.  For  the  period  between  1312/13  and  1327  we  have  the   information  presented  in  Table  1  (on  the  following  page).   What  do  these  laconic  entries  tell  us  about  silver  circulation  in  Rus’?  First   they   imply   that   the   chroniclers   now   were   taking   note   of   what   apparently   were   thought   to   be   onerous   payments   of   silver.   References   to   5,000   silver   grivnas  or  rubles  may  reflect  what  was  now  the  standard  Mongol  tribute  for   the  grand  principality  of  Vladimir,  which  included  Novgorod,  while  the  pay-­‐‑ ments  of  2,000  silver  rubles  may  reflect  what  was  the  individual  tribute  owed   by  the  principality  of  Tver’.29  It  is  apparent  that  there  was  great  difficulty  in   meeting   these   payments;   hence,   the   appearance   of   Tatar   creditors   in   1327.   There   seems   also   to   have   been   insufficient   silver   to   warrant   the   minting   of   coins.                                                                                                                             24

 GVNiP,  12–13  (no.  3).      Martin,  Treasure,  152,  156.     26  Ibid.,  162.     27  GVNiP,  16  (no.  6).     28  Khoroshkevich,  Torgovlia,  268,  273–74.     29  See  Langer,  “Muscovite  Taxation,”  124–25.     25

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Table  1.  Silver  Payments,  1312/13–1327

 

Date  

Payments  of  Silver  

Source  

1312/13  

Novgorod  pays  1,500  silver  grivnas  to  Tver’.  

NPL,  94;   PSRL;  25:  159  

1315  

Novgorod  pays  either  50,000  silver  grivnas  or   5,000  grivnas  or  500  grivnas  to  Tver’.  

NPL,  95,  336;   PSRL,  10:  179;  23:  98  

1316  

A  treaty  stipulates  that  Novgorod  pay  an   indemnity  of  12,000  grivnas  in  four   installments  to  Tver’.  The  Tver’  chronicle  puts   the  figure  not  at  12,000  but  5,000  rubles.  

GVNiP,  23,  no.  23;   PSRL,  15:  409  

1315–22  

The  Vaga  territories  pay  a  fine  of  20,000  belki   (squirrel  pelts)  to  Novgorod  and  20  grivnas  in   gold  to  the  posadnik  and  prince.  

GVNiP,  280,  no.  279  

1318  

Tver’  assesses  5,000  rubles  from  the   Novgorodian  peasantry  (smerdy).  

GVNiP,  26,  no.  13  

1321  

Tver’  pays  2,000  silver  rubles  to  Moscow.  

NPL,  96;   PSRL,  15:  414  

1325  

Tatar  troops  and  creditors  and  Tver’  extort  the   population  in  Suzdalia,  perhaps  implying   taking  silver  or  furs.  

NPL,  97  

1327  

Novgorod  pays  2,000  silver  [rubles  or  grivnas]   to  the  Tatars  along  with  many  gifts  (dary),   presumably  furs.  Later  chronicles  put  the  sum   at  5,000  rubles.  

NPL,  341;   PSRL,  25:  168;  7:  201;   10:  194  

    The  Horde,  however,  began  to  mint  silver  coins  as  early  as  the  1240s  and   1250s   in   Bulghar.   By   the   1270s   coins   bearing   the   name   of   Khan   Möngke   Temür   appear,   weighing   between   1.45   and   1.65   grams   and   reflecting   the   increasing   independence   of   Jochi’s   Horde.   In   the   1280s   anonymous   coins   appear   with   weights   of   1.30   to   1.40   grams,   while   the   coins   bearing   Möngke   Temür  were  now  allowed  to  depreciate.30  In  the  same  decade  another  impor-­‐‑ tant  mint  operated  at  Qrim  (near  Kaffa)  in  the  Crimea.  By  the  end  of  the  13th   century  their  coins  were  reduced  from  an  initial  weight  of  2.0  to  2.2  grams  to   1.45   grams.   Thirteenth-­‐‑century   Tatar   hordes   of   coins   have   been   uncovered   along   the   Dniester   River,   Crimea,   upper   Volga,   and   especially   in   Bulghar                                                                                                                             30

 G.   A.   Fedorov-­‐‑Davydov,   Denezhnoe   delo   zolotoi   ordy   (Moscow:   Paleograf,   2003),   10– 12.    

FOR WANT OF COIN

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territory.  The  first  silver  coins  to  appear  in  Sarai  occur  in  the  1270s  and  espe-­‐‑ cially   from   the   1290s   with   maximum   weights   of   2.25–2.3   grams.   Lesser   weights  were  also  minted  in  Bulghar,  Biliar,  Sarai,  and  Khorezm.  These  coins   again  were  designed  primarily  for  local  monetary  exchange  and  not  interna-­‐‑ tional   trade.   Tatar   coinage,   apparently,   did   not   extend   into   Suzdalia;   at   any   rate,  no  hoards  of  Mongol  coins  have  been  found  in  Rus’.31  This  seems  to  im-­‐‑ ply  that  commercial  monetary  exchange  between  Suzdalia  and  the  Horde  was   limited.  Suzdalia  paid  the  tribute  but  beyond  that  it  is  difficult  to  assess  how   much  trade  existed  between  Suzdalia  and  the  Horde.  In  1310–11  Khan  Toqta   centralized   and   standardized   the   minting   of   coins   weighing   1.48   to   1.54   grams,  which  held  until  the  1370s.  During  the  reign  of  Janibeg  (r.  1342–57)  the   local  mints  in  Bulghar  and  the  Crimea  disappeared.32     But  if  Rus’  did  not  have  coins,  it  did  have  ingots.  Major  exchanges  in  sil-­‐‑ ver   throughout   Europe   were   made   in   silver   ingots   rather   than   coin   because   too   many   coins   were   simply   unwieldy.   From   at   least   the   13th   century   four   standard  ingots  were  in  use:  the  Mediterranean  sterling  standard;  the  sommi,   which  were  employed  in  the  Black  Sea  area,  at  Kaffa,  and  also  Tana  on  the  sea   of  Azov,  and  then  taken  across  Asia  to  China,  where  sommi  were  exchanged   for   paper   money;   lötiges   silber,   which   was   widespread   in   northern   Europe,   particularly  within  the  Hanseatic  League;  and  the  Novgorodian  silver  ingot.33   Because  of  the  wide  diversity  of  coinage  throughout  the  Mongol  Empire,  the   standard   medium   of   international   exchange   was   the   silver   ingot.34   Sommi   ranged  in  weight  between  172  and  219  grams,  with  many  closer  to  197  to  205   grams,  apparently  aiming  at  a  standard  weight  of  200  grams,  which  is  strik-­‐‑ ingly   close   to   the   Novgorodian   silver   ingot   that   theoretically   was   pegged   at   206   grams   but   generally   averaged   196.2   grams.   Some   Novgorodian   ingots,   however,  because  of  the  casting  process,  could  be  as  low  as  170.1  grams.35  If   Rus’   traded   silver   for   Mongol   goods,   such   as   horses,   or   sold   furs   for   silver,   silver  ingots  would  have  been  the  preferred  method  of  payment.  We  simply   do   not   know   whether   or   how   much   silver   might   have   circled   back   from   the   Horde  to  Rus’  in  the  form  of  ingots.     It   is   generally   accepted   that   13th-­‐‑century   Rus’   suffered   an   economic   de-­‐‑ pression  that  lasted  into  the  early  decades  of  the  14th  century.  The  economic                                                                                                                             31

 George   Mellinger,   “The   Silver   Coins   of   the   Golden   Horde:   1310–1358,”   Archivum   Eurasiae   Medii   Aevi   7   (1987–91):   163;   G.   A.   Fedorov-­‐‑Davydov,   “Klady   dzhuchidskikh   monet,”  Numizmatika  i  epigrafika  1  (1960):  95,  101–02  (map  1).     32  Fedorov-­‐‑Davydov,  Denezhnoe  delo,  13–15.     33  Spufford,  Money,  219–20.     34  Thomas   Allsen,   Mongol   Imperialism:   The   Policies   of   the   Grand   Qan   Möngke   in   China,   Russia,  and  the  Islamic  Lands,  1251–1259  (Berkeley:  University  of  California  Press,  1987),   180.   35  Spufford,   Money,   220;   V.   L.   Ianin,   “Den’gi   i   denezhnye   sistemy,”   in   Ocherki   russkoi   kul’tury  XIII–XV  vekov,  pt.  1  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Moskovskogo  universiteta,  1969),  324.    

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depression   within   Rus’   also   coincides   with   the   collapse   of   overland   transit   routes   across   Eurasia,   which   remained   largely   blocked   between   the   1260s   to   around  1310.36  The  virtual  collapse  of  major  urban  construction  projects  even   in  Novgorod  testifies  to  the  economic  decline  with  its  attendant  drain  in  man-­‐‑ power  and  silver.37  The  pressure  to  supply  silver  to  the  Horde  by  importing   silver  through  Novgorod  and  then  “exporting”  it  to  the  Horde  was  no  doubt   enormous  and  the  burden  likely  increased  in  the  reigns  of  Özbeg  and  Janibeg   (1313–57)  when  the  Horde  found  itself  in  almost  continuous  warfare  with  the   Ilkhanate  of  Iran.  The  need  to  fulfill  Mongol  demands  probably  explains  the   existence  of  ingots  weighing  175  grams,  rather  than  the  customary  196  to  200   grams.  These  ingots  have  been  dated  to  the  early  14th  century  and  may  even   go  back  to  the  1280s.  Ingots  of  175  grams  could  have  been  the  result  of  a  proc-­‐‑ ess  of  double  casting,  which,  in  effect,  could  have  been  an  effort  to  debase  the   ingot;   this   was   the   conclusion   of   M.   P.   Sotnikova.   V.   L.   Ianin,   on   the   other   hand,  concluded  that  the  175-­‐‑gram  ingot  was  in  fact  a  new  ingot—the  ruble— and   was   not   the   result   of   deliberate   debasement.   The   new   ingot   functioned   along   side   the   old   ingot,   gradually   replacing   the   term   grivna   with   that   of   ruble.38  Nonetheless,  while  the  new  ruble  may  have  been  the  result  of  a  mone-­‐‑ tary   reform,   it   still   begs   the   question   of   why   it   was   introduced   in   the   first   place,  if  not  somehow  as  a  response  to  the  pressures  of  the  silver  tribute.     Following   the   catastrophic   events   in   Tver’   in   1327   the   chronicles   record   the  information  concerning  the  tribute  given  in  Table  2  (opposite).   By  the  1330s  and  1340s  Tver’,  as  well  as  Riazan’,  were  responsible  for  ad-­‐‑ ministrating  the  tribute  within  their  own  principalities  with  each  principality   under  the  jurisdiction  of  a  Tatar  doroga  in  Sarai.39  The  events  of  1346  in  Tver’   occurred   at   a   time   of   plague   in   the   Horde,   which   by   the   1350s   and   1360s      

                                                                                                                          36  A.   P.   Martinez,   “The   Eurasian   Overland   and   Pontic   Trades   in   the   Thirteenth   and   Fourteenth  Centuries  with  Special  Reference  to  their  Impact  on  the  Golden  Horde,  the   West,   and   Russia   and   to   the   Evidence   in   Archival   Material   and   Mint   Outputs,”   Archivum  Eurasiae  medii  aevi  16  (2008–09):  138.   37  See,   for   example,   Halperin,   Russia   and   the   Golden   Horde,   78;   David   Miller,   “Monu-­‐‑ mental   Building   as   an   Indicator   of   Economic   Trends   in   Northern   Rus’   in   the   Late   Kievan   and   Mongol   Periods,   1138–1462,”   American   Historical   Review   94,   no.   2   (1989):   369–70;  N.  A.  Makarov  and  A.  V.  Chernetsov,  eds.,  Rus’  v  XIII  veke:  Drevnosti  temnogo   vremeni  (Moscow:  Nauka,  2003).     38  See  the  discussion  in  Pavlova,  “The  Coinless  Period,”  381;  and  Ianin,  “Den’gi,”  329,   as  well  as  Ianin’s  “K  istorii  Novgorodskoi  denezhnoi  sistemy,”  in  Festschrift  for  Thomas   Noonan,   ed.   Roman   K.   Kovalev   and   Heidi   M.   Sherman,   Russian   History   28,   nos.   1–4   (2001):  185–89.   39  A.  N.  Nasonov,  Mongoly  i  Rus’:  Istoriia  tatarskoi  politika  na  Rusi  (Moscow-­‐‑Leningrad:   Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1940),  103–05;  Halperin,  Russia  and  the  Golden  Horde,  39.    

FOR WANT OF COIN

93

Table  2.  Silver  Payments,  1332–33   Date  

Payments  of  Silver  

Source  

1332  

Ivan  I  returns  from  the  Horde  and  demands  silver   from  beyond  the  Kama.    

NPL,  344;   PSRL,  25:  170  

1333  

The  archbishop  of  Novgorod  offers  Ivan  500   rubles  if  he  would  renounce  his  privileges  in  the   city,  which  Ivan  refuses  to  do.    

NPL,  345  

1339  

Novgorod  pays  the  tribute  (vykhod)  but  Ivan   demands  an  extraordinary  tribute  (zapros’),  which   was  the  khan’s  command.    

NPL,  350  

1340  

Grand  Prince  Semen  levies  a  “forest  tax”  (chernyi   bor)  in  all  the  volosts  in  Novgorod  and  takes  1,000   rubles  from  Torzhok.    

NPL,  353;   PSRL,  10:  212  

1342  

Khan  Janibeg  demands  a  yearly  tribute  from  the   metropolitan  but  instead  settles  for  a  payment  of   600  rubles.    

PSRL,  10:  215  

1346  

Tver’’s  Prince  Konstantine  Mikhailovich  levies   silver  on  the  volosts  of  Prince  Vsevolod   Aleksandrovich  of  Kholm  that  is  said  to  be   beyond  human  endurance.    

PSRL,  5:  217  

    reached  Rus’  and  became  endemic.40  Tatar  demands  for  silver  were  imposed   on  a  Rus’  population  battered  by  plague  and  internecine  civil  wars,  while  the   Horde  itself  slipped  into  a  long  period  of  civil  strife.  By  the  second  decade  of   the   14th   century   the   Pax   Mongolica   was   established   as   trade   routes   between   the   Black   Sea   and   China   remained   open,   but   only   until   the   fall   of   the   Yuan   dynasty   in   1368.   The   Horde’s   volume   of   trade   was   at   its   zenith   between   the   1320s   and   mid-­‐‑1340s,   and   Rus’   no   doubt   may   have   secondarily   prospered   from  the  commercial  exchanges  in  the  Black  Sea  and  at  Sarai.41   From   the   1350s   to   1425   we   have   the   information   summarized   in   Table   3   (on  the  following  page).                                                                                                                             40

 Uli  Schamiloglu,  “Preliminary  Remarks  on  the  Role  of  Disease  in  the  History  of  the   Golden   Horde,”   Central   Asian   Survey   12,   no.   4   (1993):   447–57;   Lawrence   N.   Langer,   “The   Black   Death   in   Russia:   Its   Effects   Upon   Urban   Labor,”   Russian   History   2,   no.   1   (1975):  53–67,  and  Langer,  “Plague  and  the  Russian  Countryside:  Monastic  Estates  in   the  Late  Fourteenth  and  Fifteenth  Centuries,”  Canadian-­‐‑American  Slavic  Studies  10,  no.  3   (1976):  351–68.     41  Martinez,  “The  Eurasian  Overland  and  Pontic  Trades,”  144,  154,  156.  

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Table  3.  Silver  Payments,  1348–1425   Date  

Payments  of  Silver  

Source  

1358  

Tver’  imposes  a  heavy  tribute  on  the  common   people  of  Kholm.  

PSRL,  10:  230  

1372  

Tver’  accumulates  a  debt  of  10,000  rubles  to  be   paid  as  ransom  for  the  release  of  Prince  Ivan   Mikhailovich.  The  ransom  was  paid  by   Moscow  to  the  Horde  but  Dmitrii  Donskoi  now   held  the  prince  until  Tver’  could  repay   Moscow.    

PSRL,  25:  187  

1376  

A  combined  Muscovite  and  Suzdal’-­‐‑Nizhnii   Novgorod  army  exacts  5,000  rubles  from  the   Bulgars:  1,000  rubles  for  ransom,  1,000  rubles   given  to  Grand  Prince  Dmitrii  Konstantinovich   of  Suzdal’-­‐‑Nizhnii  Novgorod  and  3,000  rubles   to  be  distributed  among  the  troops.  Moscow   also  places  its  own  doroga  in  Bulghar  

PSRL,  11:  25  

1376  

Moscow  acquires  a  debt  of  20,000  rubles  owed   to  Frankish  and  Moslem  creditors.  

PSRL,  25:  199  

1384  

After  the  sack  of  Moscow  in  1382  the  Tatars   impose  a  tribute  of  one-­‐‑half  ruble  per  village   and  exact  gold  (likely  taken  from  churches).   Moscow  responds  by  imposing  a  chernyi  bor  in   Novgorod.    

PSRL,  11:  85  

1386  

Moscow  levies  8,000  silver  rubles  from   Novgorod  because  of  the  raids  by  the   ushkuiniki.  The  Cathedral  of  St.  Sophia  pays   3,000  rubles  and  the  town  exacts  5,000  rubles   from  those  beyond  the  Volok.  

PSRL,  11:  89   NPL,  380–81  

1389  

Tributes  (vykhod)  of  1,000  and  5,000  rubles  are   recorded  in  princely  treaties.42  

(See  n.  42)  

                                                                                                                          42

 Dukhovnye   i   dogovornye   gramoty   velikikh   i   udel’nykh   kniazei   XIV–XV   vv.   (hereafter,   DDG)  (Moscow-­‐‑Leningrad:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1950),  31  (no.  11),  35  (no.  12);   Roublev,  “The  Mongol  Tribute,”  57  (table  1).    

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1398  

Novgorod  takes  a  small  ransom  of  60  rubles   from  Beloozero  but  also  seizes  300  rubles  from   Suzdalian  merchants.  Novgorod  also  imposes  a   payment  of  either  2,000  or  3,000  rubles  from  the   Dvina  populace  and  seizes  3,000  horses.  This   was  in  retaliation  for  a  Muscovite/Dvina  raid   into  Novgorodian  territory  that  had  resulted  in   an  unspecified  ransom  per  person.  

PSRL,  11:  170–71;   NPL,  393  

1401/2  

Tribute  (vykhod)  of  7,000  rubles  is  noted  in  a   princely  treaty.43  

(See  n.  43)  

1402  

Riazan’  pays  2,000  or  3,000  rubles  to  Lithuania   for  an  unsuccessful  attack  on  Briansk.    

PSRL,  10:  188;  25:  231  

1408  

Edegei  levies  a  ransom  of  3,000  rubles  in   Moscow.  

NPL,  401  

1425  

Ustiug  pays  Novgorod  a  ransom  of  50,000   squirrel  pelts  and  6  times  40  sables.    

PSRL,  12:  2  

  Here,   at   the   beginning   of   the   reign   of   Vasilii   II,   we   can   ask   what   these   laconic   entries   of   tribute   payments,   ransoms,   raids,   and   borrowings   imply   about   silver   circulation   in   Rus’,   particularly   during   decades   of   plague   and   warfare.  In  the  West  the  Black  Death  ushered  in  an  economic  depression  that   lasted  through  the  15th  century.  Generally,  economic  output  and  the  volume   of  trade  declined.  In  the  countryside  arable  land  was  abandoned,  land  values,   rents,  and  grain  prices  declined,  while  the  price  of  manufactured  goods  rose   steeply.  Survivors  of  plague,  particularly  within  the  towns,  may  have  enjoyed   a  temporary  per  capita  increase  in  wealth,  especially  through  inheritance,  but,   despite   the   increase   in   wages   for   skilled   labor,   particularly   for   luxury   items,   the   trend   was   towards   larger   numbers   of   the   destitute.   Money   flowed   from   the   countryside   to   the   towns   so   that   the   rural   sector   might   be   said   to   have   faced   a   crisis   of   a   balance   of   payments   in   relation   to   the   non-­‐‑agricultural   sector.   In   general,   total   national   income   and   wealth   in   the   West   declined   in   the  15th  century.44   The   era   of   the   Black   Death   in   Europe   was   accompanied   by   what   Peter   Spufford  calls  a  bullion-­‐‑famine  in  silver.  The  great  silver  mines  in  Central  Eu-­‐‑                                                                                                                           43

 DDG,  44  (no.  16);  Roublev,  “The  Mongol  Tribute,”  57  (table  1).      See   Robert   S.   Lopez   and   Harry   A.   Miskimin,   “The   Economic   Depression   of   the   Renaissance,”  The  Economic  History  Review,  2nd  ser.,  14  (1962):  408–26;  see  a  discussion   of  the  ideas  of  M.  M.  Postan  in  D.  M.  Palliser,  “Urban  Decay  Revisited,”  in  Towns  and   Townspeople   in   the   Fifteenth   Century,   ed.   John   A.   F.   Thomson   (Gloucester,   UK:   Alan   Sutton,  1988),  3.     44

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rope   of   the   13th   century,   such   as   those   at   Freiberg,   Iglau,   and,   most   impor-­‐‑ tantly,   Kutná   Hora,   declined   in   the   second   half   of   the   14th   century   and   no   new   major   discoveries   of   silver   were   made   until   the   1460s.   At   Kutná   Hora   silver  production  in  the  second  half  of  the  14th  century  dropped  from  20  tons   to  around  10  tons.  By  1500  the  silver  content  of  many  coins  was  one-­‐‑half  that   of  coins  minted  in  1300.45  The  bullion-­‐‑famine  reached  its  nadir  by  the  1460s.   As  money  and  credit  began  to  dry  up,  Spufford  goes  so  far  as  to  conclude  that   the  “economy  of  Europe  ground  to  a  halt.”46     In  the  West  money  flowed  from  the  countryside  to  the  towns,  but  bullion   also   flowed   out   of   the   towns   to   Italy   and   then   to   Egypt,   the   Ilkhanate   of   Persia,  and  the  Horde,  which  in  turn  led  to  shortages  of  silver  coins  in  Italy.   The  silver  denier  in  Italy  remained  fairly  stable  in  the  second  half  of  the  14th   century  but  then  declined  in  the  15th  century.  Although  wealth  became  con-­‐‑ centrated  in  fewer  hands,  there  was  no  general  increase  in  per  capita  wealth.47   Shortages  of  silver  occurred  in  England,  France,  and  Flanders  and  in  the  Han-­‐‑ seatic  League,  as  the  mines  in  Central  Europe  declined  and  silver  was  drained   to  the  East  via  Italy.48   As  was  noted  earlier  the  Mongol  tribute  ranged  between  5,000  and  7,000   rubles,  but  it  may  in  fact  have  totaled  as  much  as  10,000  rubles.49  Within  Rus’   the   tribute   was   collected   on   an   annual   basis,   but   perhaps   sent   to   the   Horde   every   four   to   six   years.50   Roublev   has   shown   that   there   was   an   enclave   cen-­‐‑ tered   around   Moscow   itself   that   actually   paid   no   tribute   to   the   Horde.   The   burden   of   the   tribute   was   unevenly   distributed,   with   the   central   Muscovite   zone   paying   less   than   the   periphery,   allowing   Muscovite   princes   to   accu-­‐‑ mulate  a  surplus  in  silver.51   Martin   has   estimated   that   Novgorod’s   gross   receipts   of   silver   were   at   a   minimum   2,000   to   perhaps   as   much   as   4,000   to   6,000   rubles   per   year,   suffi-­‐‑ cient   to   pay   a   tribute   of   5,000   rubles   in   the   1380s.   Once   the   tribute   was   paid  

                                                                                                                          45

 Spufford,  Money,  340,  343  and  343  n.  4,  345.      Ibid.,  362;  and  chap.  13,  “The  Scourge  of  Debasement.”     47  Robert   S.   Lopez,   Harry   A.   Miskimin,   and   Abraham   Udovitch,   “England   to   Egypt,   1350–1500:   Long-­‐‑term   Trends   and   Long-­‐‑distance   Trade,”   in   Studies   in   the   Economic   History  of  the  Middle  East,  ed.  M.  A.  Cook  (Oxford:  Oxford  University  Press,  1970),  110– 11;  reprinted  in  Harry  A.  Miskimin,  Cash,  Credit  and  Crisis  in  Europe,  1300–1600  (Lon-­‐‑ don:  Variorum  Reprints).     48  Ibid.,  101–02,  106.     49  Langer,  “Muscovite  Taxation,”  124–25.     50  Michel   Roublev,   “The   Periodicity   of   the   Mongol   Tribute   as   Paid   by   the   Russian   Princes   During   the   Fourteenth   and   Fifteenth   Centuries,”   Forschungen   zur   Osteuro-­‐‑ päischen  Geschichte  15  (1970):  7–13;  and  “The  Mongol  Tribute,”  58.     51  Roublev,  “The  Mongol  Tribute,”  49,  58.     46

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Novgorod  may  have  taken  in  a  net  income  of  600  to  700  rubles  to  perhaps  as   much  as  1,200  to  2,100  rubles  a  year.52   At  the  same  time,  the  Hanseatic  League  sought  to  restrict  silver  exports  to   Novgorod  in  1369,  1373,  and  the  mid-­‐‑1370s.  Such  efforts  were  a  constant  con-­‐‑ cern  of  the  Hansa  in  the  second  half  of  the  14th  century  and  may  explain,  as   Janet   Martin   speculated,   why   Dmitrii   Donskoi   attempted   to   curtail   tribute   payments  to  the  Horde.53  By  1382  the  Hansa  was  lowering  the  silver  content   of  its  exports  and  there  was  a  continual  decline  in  the  purity  of  its  silver  ex-­‐‑ ports   between   1400   and   1426,   while   overall   commercial   exchange   fell   at   the   end  of  the  14th  and  beginning  of  the  15th  centuries.  To  supplement  its  silver,   Novgorod  turned  to  the  Teutonic  Order,  importing  in  the  first  quarter  of  the   15th   century   at   least   200   kilograms   a   year.   The   Hansa   discussed   efforts   to   limit  such  exports  from  the  Teutonic  Order  in  1388,  1392,  and  1394  but  were   unsuccessful.54   Some   silver   came   through   Lithuania,   but   these   imports   were   more   directed   to   Moscow   and   Tver’   and   less   to   Novgorod.55   Silver   exports   from   the   Hansa   to   Novgorod   were   again   curtailed   in   the   1420s   and   1430s,   while  at  the  same  time  the  silver  was  debased,  so  much  so  that  in  1436  Nov-­‐‑ gorod   protested   the   quality   of   the   silver   it   was   receiving.   These   trends   are   reflected  in  the  decline  of  clean  silver  in  the  Hanseatic  witten  from  about  1.12   grams  in  1379  to  0.88  clean  silver  in  1410.56     The   profits   from   the   fur   trade   in   Novgorod   and   Moscow’s   increasingly   expansion  into  what  was  once  Novgorod’s  trading  fur  nexus  did  permit  suf-­‐‑ ficient   silver   to   accumulate   to   begin   minting   in   the   second   half   of   the   14th   century.   The   first   extant   coins   appear   in   Riazan’   from   the   1360s   and   were   simply   Tatar   coins   upon   which   the   Riazan’   prince   imposed   his   own   stamp   (tamga).57   Muscovite   coins   appeared   soon   afterward.   When   Dmitrii   Donskoi   began   to   mint   coins   the   norm   for   the   ruble   of   account   was   200   grams:   each   ruble  in  theory  comprised  200  dengi  (silver  coins),  with  each  denga  weighing   around  1  gram.  Two  monetary  systems  in  Rus’  emerged  in  the  14th  century:  a   Muscovite  system  that  at  first  tried  to  retain  a  weight  close  to  200  grams  (actu-­‐‑ ally  196.2  grams)  for  the  ruble  of  account  and  a  Novgorodian  ruble  ingot  that   Ianin   believes   weighed   170.1   grams,58   but   which   I.   G.   Spassky   contends   still   weighed  200  grams  until  the  1420s.  A  weight  around  200  grams  was  deemed   important   because   it   was   similar   in   weight   to   the   Mongol   ingot   (204.756                                                                                                                             52

 Martin,  Treasure,  157,  159.      Ibid.,  219  n.  19.     54  Khoroshkevich,  Torgovlia,  280–82,  286   55  Ibid.,  285.   56  Ibid.,  292.     57  Fedorov-­‐‑Davydov,   “Klady,”   109;   Ianin,   “Den’gi,”   334;   and   Pavlova,   “The   Coinless   Period,”  391.     58  Ianin,  “Den’gi,”  326–27,  331.     53

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grams).   When   coins   began   to   be   minted   in   the   latter   14th   century   the   ruble   functioned   as   a   money   of   account,   meaning   a   ruble   consisted   of   200   coins   (dengas).  The  first  coins  minted  by  Dmitrii  Donskoi  carried  a  total  weight  of   196.2   grams   for   the   200   coins   that   comprised   a   ruble,   which   was   in   keeping   with   the   weight   of   the   standard   ingot.   The   minting   of   coins,   however,   also   made   possible   the   lowering   of   weights   of   individual   coins,   which   in   turn   would   reduce   the   weight   of   the   ruble.59   Coins   appeared   in   Rus’   at   a   time   of   Tatar  civil  wars  and  Tatar  hoarding  of  silver,  which  may  have  given  the  Rus’   princes  an  incentive  to  mint  their  coins.60  By  the  early  15th  century  more  than   25   towns   were   minting   coins.   Novgorod’s   coinage   occurred   in   1420   and   Pskov’s  in  1425.61   The  appearance  of  coinage  in  Rus’  left  the  distinguished  historian  Michael   Cherniavsky  singularly  unimpressed,  since  he  considered  minting  less  an  eco-­‐‑ nomic   and   more   a   political   imperative.   Coinage   denoted   political   authority   and  suzerainty,  and  since  many  of  the  early  coins  carried  the  name  of  the  Rus’   prince  and  the  reigning  khan,  Cherniavsky  saw  the  new  coins  as  expressions   of   Tatar   sovereignty.62   Thomas   Noonan   has   by   contrast   shown   how   Grand   Prince   Vasilii   I   utilized   Muscovite   coins   to   reflect   Moscow’s   growing   inde-­‐‑ pendence  from  the  Horde.63  Muscovite  princes  also  strove  to  centralize  mint-­‐‑ ing  within  Moscow,  and  Serpukhov’s  mint,  for  example,  was  ended  by  1399.64   Unfortunately,   there   is   no   information   on   how   many   coins   were   minted   in  the  appanage  territories,  but  the  reemergence  of  minting  was  not  simply  an   expression  of  political  authority.  It  reflected  the  accrued  availability  of  silver   acquired   through   Novgorod   as   well   as   princely   accumulation   of   silver   through   the   tribute   and   exports   of   furs   to   the   West   or   to   the   Horde   and   Crimea.   Peasants   and   others   who   trapped   furs   to   be   sold   for   silver   returned   the   silver   to   princely   coffers   through   taxation.   Copper   coins   (puls)   also   ap-­‐‑ peared   in   the   15th   century.   Such   small   denominations   in   copper   as   well   as   new  denominations  of  account  from  the  last  quarter  of  the  14th  century—the   altyn,   perhaps   valued   at   6   dengas—all   helped   facilitate   local   urban   market                                                                                                                             59

 Spassky,  The  Russian  Monetary  System,  74,  101–02;  G.  A.  Fedorov-­‐‑Davydov,  “Osnov-­‐‑ nye   zakonomernosti   razvitiia   denezhno-­‐‑vesovykh   norm   v   zolotoi   orde,”   Arkheografi-­‐‑ cheskii  ezhegodnik  za  1957  (1958):  11;  Ianin,  “Den’gi,”  327.     60  Mellinger,  “The  Silver  Coins,”  189.     61  Spassky,  The  Russian  Monetary  System,  79–94;  NPL,  412;  A.  N.  Nasonov,  ed.,  Pskovskie   letopisi,  2  vols.  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1955),  2:  39.     62  Michael   Cherniavsky,   “Khan   or   Basileus:   An   Aspect   of   Russian   Medieval   Political   Theory,”   in   The   Structure   of   Russian   History,   ed.   Cherniavsky   (New   York:   Random   House,  1970),  69–70.     63  Thomas  Noonan,  “Forging  a  National  Identity:  Monetary  Politics  During  the  Reign   of   Vasilii   I   (1389–1425),”   in   Culture   and   Identity   in   Muscovy,   1359–1584,   ed.   Ann   M.   Kleimola  and  Gail  D.  Lenhoff  (Moscow:  Itz-­‐‑Garant,  1997),  502–04,  523.     64  Noonan,  “Forging,”  508.    

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transactions.65  Silver  was  also  accumulated  through  war  and  plunder,  and  the   taking   of   captives   for   ransom.   Silver   coins   had   become   an   important   com-­‐‑ ponent   of   the   appanage   economy,   and,   as   such,   they   reflect   the   larger   Euro-­‐‑ pean  problems  of  the  bullion-­‐‑famine  and  the  practices  of  debasement.   The  14th-­‐‑century   ruble   was   not   a   minted   coin,   but,   as   has   been   noted,   it   functioned   as   a   ruble   of   account   consisting   of   200   dengas.   The   first   coins   minted  by  Dmitrii  Donskoi  weighed  about  1  gram,  which  meant  that  a  ruble   weight  in  theory  was  200  grams.  The  Novgorodian  ruble  in  the  15th  century   consisted  of  216  dengas.66  But  by  the  end  of  Dmitrii  Donskoi’s  reign  the  Mus-­‐‑ covite  denga  fell  to  0.92  grams,  meaning  a  ruble  now  weighed  184  grams.67  By   1410   the   denga   had   fallen   to   0.79   grams,   with   a   ruble   standing   now   at   158   grams,   which   held   steady   until   1446   and   the   Muscovite   civil   wars.68   In   the   remaining   years   of   Vasilii   II’s   reign   the   denga   was   debased   further   to   0.395   grams,  and  the  ruble  weighed  78.9  grams.69  In  the  1420s  the  denga  weight  of   Moscow,  Novgorod,  and  evidently  Pskov  were  all  similar  around  0.79  grams.   Tver’  and  Nizhnii  Novgorod  had  still  lower  weights,  both  around  0.59  grams,   but   Riazan’   had   a   heavier   weight   of   1.18.70   Riazan’’s   weight   likely   reflects   Tatar   coinage,   which   until   the   1370s   weighed   between   1.48   and   1.54   grams.   But  by  the  1390s  Tatar  coins  from  the  lower  Volga  fell  to  a  maximum  weight   of  1.1  to  1.15  grams.71  By  the  reign  of  Ivan  III  260  rather  than  216  coins  were   minted   from   a   Novgorodian   grivenka   of   silver,   while   in   Moscow   560   coins   were   minted.72   Since   a   Novgorodian   ruble   was   still   counted   as   216   dengas,   this  meant  that  a  ruble  now  contained  substantially  less  silver.   The   debasement   of   appanage   coinage   clearly   reflects   the   general   bullion   shortage   in   Europe.   In   the   course   of   the   15th   century   ingots   slowly   disap-­‐‑ peared   in   Rus’   and   were   replaced   by   debased   silver   and   copper   coins.   Novgorod   in   1447   attempted   to   preserve   the   integrity   of   its   silver   content   when   it   re-­‐‑molded   old   coins   and   issued   new   ones   but   with   a   loss   of   half   a   denga   off   the   new   grivna.   This   happened   at   a   time   when   the   Novgorod   chronicle  records  an  astronomical  sum  of  200,000  rubles  paid  to  the  Horde  for   the  release  of  Vasilii  II.73  Such  payments,  even  with  scribal  exaggeration,  only                                                                                                                             65

 Spassky,  The  Russian  Monetary  System,  95–96,  104–05.      Ianin,   “Den’gi,”   326–27;   E.   I.   Kamentseva,   Russkaia   metrologiia   (Moscow:   Vysshaia   shkola,  1965),  63.     67  Ianin,  “Den’gi,”  336.     68  Ibid.,  339.     69  Ibid.,  341.     70  Ibid.,  339.     71  Fedorov-­‐‑Davydov,  Denezhnoe  delo,  15–16,  18.     72  Spassky,  The  Russian  Monetary  System,  106;  Kamentseva,  Russkaia  metrologiia,  64.     73  NPL,  426–27.     66

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placed  more  pressure  on  the  mints  to  lower  the  silver  content.  By  that  year  the   ingot  had  become  so  debased  that  Novgorod  discontinued  using  them.74   The  emergence  of  coinage  and  its  concomitant  history  of  debasement  cau-­‐‑ tions  one  not  to  overstate  the  degree  of  economic  recovery  in  Rus’  in  the  wake   of  the  Mongol  conquest.  As  we  noted,  both  Halperin  and  Ostrowski  believed   the  appearance  of  new  towns  implied  a  more  robust  and  expanding  economy.   B.  A.  Kuchkin  estimated  there  were  no  fewer  than  fifty  towns  in  the  northeast   by  the  end  of  the  14th  century.  Eight  new  towns  appeared  in  the  principality   of   Tver’   and   four   new   ones   in   Nizhnii   Novgorod,   but   the   number   of   newly   founded  towns  stagnated  in  the  15th  century.75  Moscow  built  a  stone  kremlin,   but   the   other   towns   in   the   northeast   had   wooden   fortifications.   Most   towns   were   small;   and   while   it   may   be   assumed   that   many   towns   had   suburbs   (posady),   implying   a   populace   of   craftsmen,   local   traders,   and   a   market,   the   extant  sources  record  only  one-­‐‑fourth  of  the  known  towns  with  suburbs.  Only   Moscow,  Tver’,  and  Vladimir  had  more  than  one  suburb,  which  would  indi-­‐‑ cate  some  population  growth.76   Rus’,  like  the  rest  of  Europe,  had  a  higher  rate  of  deaths  over  births  in  the   towns   and   depended   on   migration   to   maintain   its   urban   population,   which   was   all   the   more   imperative   in   a   time   of   plague.   Boyar-­‐‑held   villages   were   often   close   to   the   towns   where   villagers   could   have   access   to   local   markets.   Urban  craftsmen,  although  free  men,  often  worked  to  fulfill  princely  demands   for   goods   rather   than   to   produce   for   an   open   market.   Urban   markets   often   had   a   rural   character,   where   salt,   fish,   small   cattle,   poultry,   vegetables,   etc.   were  exchanged.77   There   were,   of   course,   rich   merchants,   such   as   the   gosti-­‐‑surozhane   who   traded  with  the  Horde  and  with  the  Italian  colonies  in  the  Crimea  and  Sea  of   Azov,  but  until  the  middle  of  the  15th  century  they  are  noted  only  in  Moscow   and   Tver’.   There   were   also   the   gosti-­‐‑sukonniki,   who   are   noted   in   Moscow,   Tver’,   and   Pereiaslavl’-­‐‑Zalesskii,   and   who   traded   with   Smolensk,   Lithuania,   and   Novgorod.   Both   merchant   groups   were   able   to   extend   credit   to   princes,   as  when  Grand  Prince  Iurii  Dmitrievich  borrowed  600  rubles  in  1433  in  order   to  pay  the  Horde.  The  surozhane  and  sukonniki  were  wealthy,  owned  land,  and   were   organized   in   some   corporate   fashion,78   but   they   did   not   spark   a   com-­‐‑ mercial   revolution   as   had   occurred   earlier   in   the   West.   There   were   no   mer-­‐‑ chant   and   craft   guilds   in   the   northeast   and   no   struggles   for   urban   political   autonomy.                                                                                                                             74

 Ianin,  “K  istorii,”  186–87;  Spassky,  The  Russian  Monetary  System,  104.      B.  A.  Kuchkin,  “Goroda  severo-­‐‑vostochnoi  Rusi  v  XIII–XV  vekakh  (chislo  i  politiko-­‐‑   geograficheskoe  razmeshchenie),”  Istoriia  SSSR,  no.  6  (1990):  77,  81.     76  B.  A.  Kuchkin,  “Goroda  severo-­‐‑vostochnoi  Rusi  v  XIII–XV  vekakh  (krepost’  i  posad;   gorodskoe  naselenie),”  Istoriia  SSSR,  no.  2  (1991):  74.     77  Ibid.,  76,  79.     78  Ibid.,  80.     75

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David   Miller’s   study   of   monumental   building   in   Rus’   in   the   Mongol   period   demonstrates   an   expansion   of   urban   construction,   but   much   of   the   construction  was  concentrated  in  Novgorod  and  Moscow.  Between  1313  and   1362   Moscow   had   nine   major   constructions   and   Novgorod   had   twenty-­‐‑two,   while   Tver’   had   only   one   and   Nizhnii   Novgorod   two.   In   the   plague   years   1363–1437   there   was   an   upsurge   in   church   construction,   but   Novgorod   and   Moscow   accounted   for   an   astonishing   88   percent   of   all   urban   construction.   The   explosion   of   church   construction   may   have   been   a   religious   response   to   the  plague,  as  wealth,  because  of  the  high  death  rate,  was  likely  concentrated   in   fewer   hands   as   bequests   to   the   church   increased.   The   plague   years   also   resulted   in   the   abandonment   of   arable   land,   which,   when   coupled   with   the   decline   of   church   construction   after   1412,   points   more   towards   an   economic   depression  that  may  not  have  abated  until  the  1440s.79     In   England   the   decades   of   plague   witnessed   both   urban   expansion   and   decay.   Some   towns   prospered   while   others   did   not.   London   expanded,   but   most   towns   did   not.   Larger   towns   might   grow   but   often   at   the   expense   of   smaller   towns.80   This   pattern   loosely   fits   the   situation   in   Moscow.   The   city   and  its  population  grew  but  much  of  the  growth  rested  on  warfare,  territorial   expansion,  greater  control  over  the  fur  trade,  and  the  minting  of  coins.  As  the   political   and   religious   center   of   northern   Rus’,   Moscow   acted   as   a   kind   of   economic  sponge,  absorbing  what  silver  there  was.   Moscow   extended   its   control   over   the   silver   supply,   but   it   was   increas-­‐‑ ingly  a  debased  coinage.  At  the  same  time  Europe  was  slowly  shifting  away   from   silver   ingots   and   coinage   to   gold   coinage.   By   the   1420s   and   1430s   the   circulation   of   silver   marks   had   given   way   in   the   Baltic   to   rhinegulden.81   Already   by   the   second   quarter   of   the   14th   century   silver   ingots   ceased   to   be   used  in  Hungary,  Bohemia,  Austria,  France,  the  Low  Countries,  England,  and   the   Rhineland.   It   is,   therefore,   not   surprising   that   Rus’   also   slowly   moved   away  from  ingots  to  coins.  But  in  the  West  gold  was  now  preferred  for  inter-­‐‑ national  commerce,  and  silver  was  employed  for  local  transactions.  Whereas   the  minting  of  coins  in  Rus’  seems  to  signify  a  major  expansion  of  trade  and   economic  growth,  it  may  in  fact  signal  the  limits  and  relative  isolation  of  the   Rus’  economy.  For  most  of  Rus’  the  decades  of  the  Black  Death  were  a  time  of   economic   stagnation   and   even   depression.   But   not   all   towns   suffered.   The   Muscovite  princes  would  learn  how  to  husband  and  to  expand  their  wealth.    

                                                                                                                          79

 Miller,  “Monumental  Building,”  371–74,  373  (fig.  4),  383.    Palliser,  “Urban  Decay,”  10–11.     81  Spufford,  Money,  282–83.   80

     

Legal Foundations of Novgorod-Hansa Trade in the 12th through 14th Centuries   George G. Weickhardt    

  Novgorod   was   the   queen   of   Rus’   cities   from   the   destruction   of   Kiev   by   the   Mongols   until   the   rise   of   Moscow.   Its   wealth   and   power   were   based   largely   on  the  fur  trade.  From  the  12th  through  the  15th  centuries  Novgorod  enjoyed   a  lively  trade  with  the  German  Hansa,  one  of  the  most  advanced  commercial   institutions   of   the   age.   This   trade   represented   the   most   sustained   and   inten-­‐‑ sive  commercial  and  political  contact  of  Rus’  with  the  West  to  date.  This  trade   was   founded   upon   a   legal   framework   that   was,   for   Rus’,   advanced   for   its   time.   The   present   study   will   consider   that   legal   framework   and   its   signif-­‐‑ icance  for  the  development  of  Russian  law  in  general,  focusing  on  the  resolu-­‐‑ tion  of  commercial  disputes  and  the  penalties  for  what  would  today  be  con-­‐‑ sidered  crimes.   No   one   has   attempted   a   history   of   the   legal   foundations   of   Novgorod-­‐‑ Hansa   trade   relations.   E.   A.   Rybina   has   recently   contributed   good   general   political  and  economic  histories  of  the  German  Yards  in  Novgorod1  and  of  the   Novgorod-­‐‑Hansa   trade   in   general.2   A   good   study   of   the   German   Yards   also   recently   appeared   in   German.3   One   of   the   few   studies   in   English,   by   Ferdi-­‐‑ nand   Feldbrugge,   provides   much   information   on   the   Novgorod-­‐‑Hansa   trea-­‐‑ ties   and   the   origins   of   the   Skra   (the   internal   regulations   of   the   German   mer-­‐‑ chant   community),   but   does   not   provide   any   overall   evaluation   of   dispute   resolution  or  its  subsequent  significance  for  the  history  of  Russian  law.4  Janet   Martin’s  study  of  the  fur  trade  describes  well  the  general  significance  of  that   trade   for   medieval   Russia.5   While   all   of   these   works   touch   upon   the   legal                                                                                                                             1

 E.   A.   Rybina,   Inozemnye   dvory   v   Novgorode,   XII–XVII   vv.   (Moscow:   Izd-­‐‑vo   Moskov-­‐‑ skogo   universiteta,   1986).   Rybina   provides   a   good   survey   of   sources   and   previous   scholarship  (8–14).     2  E.  A.  Rybina,  Torgovlia  srednevekovogo  Novgoroda  (Novgorod:  Velikii  Novgorod,  2001).     3  Norbert   Angermann   and   Klaus   Friedland,   Novgorod:   Markt   und   Kontor   der   Hanse   (Cologne:  Böhlau  Verlag,  2002).   4  Ferdinand  Feldbrugge,  Law  in  Medieval  Russia  (Leiden:  Martinus  Nijhoff,  2009),  261– 90.     5  Janet   Martin,   Treasure   of   the   Land   of   Darkness:   The   Fur   Trade   and   Its   Significance   for   Medieval  Russia  (Cambridge:  Cambridge  University  Press,  1986).     Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 103–16.

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framework  for  crimes  and  dispute  resolution  to  some  extent,  the  subject  could   well  benefit  from  a  specialized  study.   In   order   to   understand   the   legal   framework   for   Novgorod–Hansa   trade   one   must   first   understand   the   legal   nature   of   the   German   Hansa,   one   of   the   most   unique,   fluid,   and   amorphous   institutions   in   medieval   and   early   mod-­‐‑ ern  Europe.  While  there  is  an  immense  body  of  scholarship  on  the  Hansa  in   the  German  language,  scholarship  in  English  is  meager.  The  best  general  his-­‐‑ tory,   by   Philippe   Dollinger   (translated   from   the   French),6   provides   the   basis   for  the  following  summary.   From  its  inception  until  the  mid-­‐‑14th  century  the  Hansa  was  an  associa-­‐‑ tion  of  merchants  from  certain  northern  German  towns  and  Gotland.  Its  pur-­‐‑ pose   was   to   protect   and   promote   the   interests   of   its   members,   generally   by   negotiating   privileges   for   them   in   foreign   cities.   In   approximately   1356   the   Hansa   became   a   federation   of   towns   with   a   diet   (Hansetag),   generally   held   every  one  to  three  years  in  Lübeck.  The  Hansa  of  towns  not  only  negotiated   treaties,   but   imposed   blockades   and   conducted   warfare   to   further   its   mem-­‐‑ bers’  interests.7  Even  at  this  point,  however,  most  of  the  Hansa  cities  were  not   independent   political   entities,   but   cities   located   in   duchies   and   principalities   that   had   received   charters   or   privileges   from   the   local   ruler.   The   Teutonic   Order  was  the  only  “state”  that  was  a  member.   Lübeck   was   from   its   founding   in   1159   the   most   important   Hansa   town.   Soon  after  its  founding  there  was  formed  a  community  of  German  merchants   regularly  visiting  Visby  in  Gotland,  which  is  generally  considered  the  incep-­‐‑ tion   of   the   Hansa.8   Lübeck   had   plainly   eclipsed   Visby   by   the   mid-­‐‑13th   cen-­‐‑ tury.9  Other  cities  that  became  important  were  Cologne,  Dortmund,  Bremen,   Brunswick,   Hamburg,   Danzig,   and   Riga,   but   the   total   number   of   member   cities   varied   between   50   and   200   in   the   12th   through   15th   centuries.10   The   Hansa   reached   the   peak   of   their   power   and   prosperity   in   the   early   15th   century.11   The  Hansa  cities  traded  among  themselves,  but  one  of  the  most  profitable   axes   of   trade   was   the   maritime   carriage   of   goods   to   and   from   the   western   trade  centers,  principally  London  and  Bruges,  and  to  and  from  Novgorod  and   other   eastern   Baltic   towns.   Flemish   and   English   cloth,   as   well   as   salt   and   silver  coins,  were  the  most  important  goods  moving  east,  and  from  Novgorod   the   most   important   goods   moving   west   were   fur   and   wax.   German   ships                                                                                                                             6

 Philippe  Dollinger,  The  German  Hansa,  trans.  D.  S.  Ault  and  S.  H.  Steinberg  (London:   MacMillan  &  Co.,  1970).  For  a  good  bibliography  of  works  on  the  Hansa,  see  441–58.     7  Ibid.,  92–97.   8  Ibid.,  24–25.     9  Ibid.,  43.     10  Ibid.,  88.     11  Ibid.,  91.    

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arriving   at   the   mouth   of   the   Neva   would   transload   their   goods   onto   small   Russian  craft  piloted  by  Russians  for  the  journey  to  Lake  Ladoga.  The  goods   would  then  be  transferred  to  still  other  craft  for  the  ascent  of  the  Volkhov  to   Novgorod.  12     Other  than  the  diet,  the  most  important  common  institution  of  the  Hansa   were   the   Kontore   (offices   or   yards,   referred   to   in   Russian   as   dvor,   yard   or   court),  of  which  there  were  four  on  the  extreme  ends  of  the  main  trade  route:   London  (“the  Steelyard”),  Bruges,  Bergen,  and  Novgorod  (the  Peterhof).  Each   Kontor   was   a   separate   corporation   headed   by   elected   aldermen   (or   elders,   starosta).   Hansa   merchants   arriving   at   these   four   cities   were   required   to   pre-­‐‑ sent  themselves  to  the  Kontor,  lodge  and  conduct  business  under  its  auspices,   and  submit  to  its  regulations.  Each  Kontor  had  its  own  constitution,  although   only   that   of   Novgorod   survives.   As   in   Novgorod,   the   London   and   Bergen   Kontore   each   had   their   own   walled   or   at   least   separate   compound   where   the   Hansa   merchants   stayed   and   conducted   business.   These   two   Kontore   were,   however,  organizationally  divided  into  “thirds”  based  on  the  towns  or  areas   of   origin   within   Germany   of   their   members.   The   Bruges   Kontor,   by   far   the   largest   in   terms   of   volume   of   trade,   had   no   compound,   and   the   merchants   typically  rented  accommodations  from  the  local  populace.13   The   principal   peculiarity   of   the   Novgorod   Kontor   was   alternation,   more   prominent  than  elsewhere,  between  the  winter  merchants,  who  would  gener-­‐‑ ally  arrive  by  land  (Winterfahrer),  and  summer  merchants,  who  would  gener-­‐‑ ally   arrive   by   sea   (Sommerfahrer).   These   were   separate   groups   that   seldom   met,  and  there  were  thus  periods  between  the  summer  and  winter  when  the   Kontor  was  unoccupied.  (The  other  Kontore  were  continuously  in  use.)  At  any   one  time  there  might  be  as  many  as  160  German  merchants  and  their  servants   or   apprentices   staying   in   the   Kontor.14   Another   peculiarity   of   Novgorod   was   that   there   were   two   yards,   the   Gotland   Yard,   associated   with   the   St.   Olaf   Church,  founded  in  the  late  11th  or  early  12th  century,  and  the  German  Yard   (Nemetskii  dvor  or  Peterhof),  founded  in  1192.15     Although  there  was  no  Kontor  in  Pskov  in  any  formal  sense,  there  was  at   least   on   a   seasonal   basis   a   large   settlement   of   Hansa   merchants   who   would   elect   an   alderman   to   oversee   their   activities.   The   activities   of   German   mer-­‐‑ chants  in  Pskov  were  closely  related  to  overland  trade  with  the  Hansa  town  of   Dorpat  (Tartu).16                                                                                                                             12

 Martin,  Treasure,  61–65.    Dollinger,  German  Hansa,  98–106.     14  Ibid.,  98–101.     15  Rybina,  Inozemnye  dvory,  15–24.     16  Dollinger,  German  Hansa,  105,  128.  For  a  recent  study  of  Pskov’s  trade  with  the  Ger-­‐‑ mans,   see   Anna   Leonidovna   Choroskevič,   “Der   Kredit   im   Hansehandel   mit   Pleskau   nach  den  Materialien  des  Gesprachs-­‐‑   und  Worterbuches  von  Tonnies  Fonne,”  in  Nov-­‐‑ gorod,  97–116.     13

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Some  seven  editions  survive  of  the  regulations  of  the  Peterhof,  known  in   Middle   Low   German   as   the   Skra   (Schra   in   modern   German).17   These   regula-­‐‑ tions   were   designed   to   provide   “house   rules”   and   to   minimize   and   resolve   disputes   between   the   visiting   Hansa   merchants   and   their   hosts   and   among   the  merchants  staying  in  the  court.  According  to  Rybina  the  most  noteworthy   editions   were   I   (second   quarter   13th   century),   II   (1295),   III   (1325),   and   IV   (1346–71).18   It   is   not   clear   from   the   literature   what   law   governed   trade   or   commerce   among   Hansa   merchants   in   general   when   dealing   with   each   other   within   Hansa  towns.  Throughout  the  period  in  question  a  body  of  international  com-­‐‑ mercial  law,  the  law  merchant  (lex  mercatoria),  was  developing.  The  law  mer-­‐‑ chant   gave   birth   to   modern   concepts   of   negotiable   instruments   (checks   and   notes),   security   interests,   letters   of   credit,   and   insurance.   Special   merchant   courts  were  set  up  to  administer  this  body  of  law.19  Some  scholars,  however   stress  that  there  was  little  need  for  commercial  law  because  in  most  cases  the   exchange   of   goods   for   value   (specie   or   other   goods)   was   simultaneous   in   “over-­‐‑the-­‐‑counter”   or   “spot”   transactions.   Such   simple   transactions   offered   little  possibility  for  the  type  of  disputes  that  would  arise  when  payment  was   on   credit   or   by   check,   to   which   a   large   part   of   the   law   merchant   was   de-­‐‑ voted.20  Plainly,  moreover,  the  law  merchant  dealt  only  with  commercial  law   and  did  not  deal  with  murder,  battery,  or  other  crimes  that  merchants  might   commit  on  one  another  or  the  local  populace.   The  legal  framework  for  dealing  with  such  crimes  and  for  the  Novgorod-­‐‑ Hansa   trade   in   general   was   provided   by   approximately   15   treaties   between   Novgorod  and  the  Hansa  cities  concluded  between  1191  and  1466.  Those  trea-­‐‑ ties  and  the  Skra  shall  be  the  main  focus  of  the  present  study.                                                                                                                             17

 The   most   complete   edition   is   W.   Schluter,   Die   Nowgoroder   Skra   in   sieben   Fassunger   vom  XIII  bis  XVII  Jahrhundert  (Dorpat:  C.  Mattiesen,  1911).  The  only  copy  of  this  work   available  in  North  America  is  in  the  University  of  Toronto  library,  which  has  made  it   available  online.  A  translation  of  the  IV  Skra  into  modern  Russian  by  I.  E.  Kleinenberg   may  be  found  in  Rybina,  Torgovlia  srednevekovogo  Novgoroda,  338–69.     18  Rybina,  Inozemnye  dvory,  46–54.     19  See  William  Mitchell,  An  Essay  on  the  Early  History  of  the  Law  Merchant  (Cambridge:   Cambridge  University  Press,  1904);  Leon  E.  Trakman,  The  Law  Merchant:  The  Evolution   of   Commercial   Law   (Littleton,   CO:   Fred   B.   Rothman,   1983);   Wyndham   Bewes,   The   Ro-­‐‑ mance  of  the  Law  Merchant  (London:  Sweet  &  Maxwell,  1923).     20  Oliver   Volkart   and   Antje   Mangels,   “Are   the   Roots   of   the   Modern   Lex   Mercatoria   Really   Medieval?”   Southern   Economic   Journal   65,   no.   13   (January   1999):   427–50.   See,   however,   Maria   Salomon   Arel,   “Making   an   Honest   Ruble   in   the   Russian   North:   As-­‐‑ pects   of   Muscovite   Trade   in   the   First   Half   of   the   Seventeenth   Century,”   Forschungen   zur   osteuropäischen   Geschichte,   Band   54   (1998):   7–26,   which   explains   that   many   pur-­‐‑ chases   by   Russians   from   foreigners   at   Archangel   in   the   early   17th   century   were   on   credit.    

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The   earliest   extant   treaty   is   dated   in   the   range   1189–99   and   is   between   Novgorod   and   “all   the   German   sons,   the   Goths   [Gotlanders],   and   the   whole   Latin  tongue.”21  This  treaty  was  negotiated  shortly  after  Novgorodian  goods   were  seized  in  Visby  in  1188.  Its  initial  clause  confirmed  an  older  treaty  which   is   not   extant.   The   treaty   allowed   Gotland   and   German   merchants   access   to   Novgorod   and   Novogorodians   to   Gotland   and   the   German   cities   as   long   as   they  went  in  peace  and  without  trickery  or  evil  deeds  (pakost’).  The  treaty  set  a   bloodwite   or   wergild   for   the   murder   of   various   categories   of   individuals,   including  20  grivna  for  an  ambassador  and  10  grivna  for  a  merchant.  One  of   the   most   important   provisions   was   that   such   murders   could   not   be   used   as   the   basis   for   terminating   trade   or   confiscating   the   goods   of   merchants   not   involved  in  the  crime.  A  suit  could  be  brought  only  against  the  guilty  party.     If  there  were  a  dispute  about  a  debt  or  goods,  twelve  witnesses  were  to  be   called.  The  type  of  witness  referred  to  is  probably  a  poslukh,  who  was  not  so   much   an   eyewitness   as   a   compugator   or   oath   taker.   As   Feldbrugge   points   out,22  this  provision  closely  resembles  Article  15  of  the  Short  Russkaia  Pravda.   There   is   a   further   provision   that   the   Germans   could   not   be   prevented   from   returning  home  because  a  dispute  was  pending.   This   treaty   of   course   suggests   that   crimes   and   violence   between   the   na-­‐‑ tives  and  visiting  merchants  were  a  major  problem.  Indeed  most  of  the  treaty   is  devoted  to  this  problem.  The  provisions  on  limiting  the  remedy  only  to  the   guilty  party  also  suggest  that  in  the  recent  past  all  or  most  of  the  merchants   visiting  at  the  time  of  a  crime  had  been  held  accountable,  including  confisca-­‐‑ tion  of  their  goods.  One  can  of  course  easily  appreciate  that  the  12th  century   was   a   relatively   disorderly   period   by   current   standards   and   that   disputes   could   easily   erupt   between   foreign   merchants   and   the   locals,   who   both   seemed   strange   to   each   other   and   probably   had   difficulty   communicating.   Holding  foreign  merchants  collectively  responsible  for  crimes  or  civil  wrongs   committed   by   one   of   their   members   was   a   widespread   custom   in   medieval   trade  in  Western  Europe.23  It,  however,  had  the  potential  to  amplify  disputes   and  disrupt  trade  for  substantial  periods.   Bloodwite  is  associated  with  the  so-­‐‑called  archaic  or  dyadic  stage  of  legal   evolution,   in   which   there   is   no   established   network   of   judicial   officials   to   adjudicate  disputes.  If  the  victim  and  the  murderer  were  in  the  same  clan  or   village  the  payment  of  the  bloodwite  would  generally  be  negotiated  between   members  of  the  victim’s  and  murderer’s  family.  Such  informal  arrangements   were   probably   more   difficult   to   negotiate   between   Novgorodians   and   Ger-­‐‑ mans,   who   of   course   had   much   less   in   common   than   members   of   the   same                                                                                                                             21

 S.   N.   Valk,   Gramoty   Velikogo   Novgoroda   i   Pskova   (hereafter   GVNP)   (Moscow:   Aka-­‐‑ demiia  nauk  SSSR,  1949),  55–56  (no.  28).   22  Feldbrugge,  Law,  272.     23  Volkhart  and  Mangels,  “Roots,”  445.    

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clan  or  village.  The  Rus’  Law  (Russkaia  Pravda)  contains  similar  provisions  for   bloodwite,  and  is  thus  one  likely  source  for  the  1189–99  treaty.   We   first   see   the   seeds   of   some   permanent   judicial   machinery   to   resolve   disputes  between  the  merchants  and  Novgorodians  in  a  document  dated  1229   that  survives  not  as  a  treaty  but  as  a  description  in  German  of  various  rights   and  privileges  that  German  merchants  had  negotiated  or  at  least  claimed  for   themselves   with   Novgorod.24   There   is   no   Russian   version   of   this   document,   and  it  may  represent  no  more  than  a  German  proposal  or  interpretation  of  the   privileges  enjoyed  by  Germans  in  Novgorod.   According   to   this   document   German   merchants   visiting   Novgorod   are   said   to   be   “under   the   peace   and   protection   of   the   King   and   citizens   of   Nov-­‐‑ gorod;  and  the  citizens  of  Novgorod  will  be  responsible  for  whatever  injury  is   inflicted  upon  them  in  the  dominion  of  Novgorod.”  Provisions  are  made  for   Russian   pilots   for   vessels   on   the   Volkhov   and   the   payment   of   tolls.   From   other   provisions   dealing   with   the   wrecking   of   piloted   vessels,   we   can   pre-­‐‑ sume  that  pilot  fees,  tolls,  and  shipwrecks  were  a  common  source  of  disputes.   The  1229  document  contains  the  first  mention  of  the  Kontor  or  yard,  and   provides   that   the   Germans   and   Gotlanders   in   the   yard   are   to   be   free   of   any   restrictions   or   interference   by   the   Novgorodians,   and   that   if   a   German   who   has  committed  an  offense  flees  to  the  yard,  he  need  not  be  surrendered.  The   only   Russian   allowed   to   enter   the   yard   is   a   messenger   of   the   “duke.”   In   the   event  of  a  complaint  by  a  Russian  against  a  German  the  duke  and  alderman   of   Novgorod   “will   settle   the   case.”   But   no   German   was   to   be   taken   by   force   from  the  yard,  although  the  aldermen  of  the  yard  are  to  attempt  to  bring  the   accused  German  to  reason.  The  following  provision  was  made  for  complaints   by  the  visiting  Germans  against  Novgorodians:     Also   the   pleas   of   the   guests   [the   visiting   merchants]   between   the   guests   and   Ruthenians   must   be   made   in   the   court   of   St.   John   [Ivan]   before  the  duke,  the  alderman,  and  the  citizens  of  Novgorod  and  no   others.     The  court  of  St.  Ivan,  which  was  convened  in  an  eponymous  church,  was   the   court   used   by   Novgorodian   merchants   to   resolve   disputes   between   each   other.  The  court  of  St.  Ivan  is  mentioned  in  the  Novgorod  First  Chronicle25  in   the  so-­‐‑called  “Manuscript  of  Vsevolod,”  which  Ianin  dates  to  the  first  quarter   of  the  13th  century.  The  manuscript  reads:  “And  I  the  Grand  Prince  Vsevolod   place  in  St.  Ivan’s  [church  or  court]  three  elders  from  the  ranking  men  (zhitikh                                                                                                                             24

 G.  F.  Sartorius,  Urkundliche  Geschichte  des  Ursprunges  der  Deutschen  Hanse  (Hamburg,   1830),   2:   29.   An   English   translation   of   this   document   may   be   found   at   http:///www. fordham.edu/hansa/source/1229novgorod-germans.html.     25  Novgorodskaia   pervaia   letopis’   starshego   i   mladshego   izvodov,   ed.   A.   N.   Nasonov   (Mos-­‐‑ cow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademiia  nauk  SSSR,  1950),  508.  

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liudii)  and  from  the  taxpaying  townsmen  (chernykh  tysiachkogo)  and  two  elders   from   the   merchants   to   adjudicate   any   trade   or   merchant   lawsuit   of   the   mer-­‐‑ chant   corporation   of   St.   Ivan.”   In   other   words   the   court   of   St.   Ivan   was   also   the  court  for  resolving  disputes  between  local  merchants.     The  1229  document’s  reference  to  the  court  St.  Ivan  as  a  forum  for  resolv-­‐‑ ing  disputes  has  many  signs  of  authenticity.  The  procedure  to  be  used  in  the   court  of  St.  Ivan  is  described  in  the  1229  document  as  follows:  “Also,  if  a  guest   must   make   an   accusation   against   a   Ruthenian   he   will   have   two   guests   and   two  Ruthenians  (as  witnesses);  likewise  for  a  Ruthenian  making  an  accusation   against  a  German.  If  a  Ruthenian  and  a  guest  disagree  in  their  testimony,  and   neither  wish  to  testify  first,  they  will  draw  lots  to  which  will  testify  first,  and   he   who   does   so   will   show   the   other   to   be   guilty   in   the   case   in   question.”   While  this  passage  is  not  clear,  it  probably  means  that  he  who  drew  the  lot  to   testify  first  would  win  the  suit.   This  procedure  appears  to  be  designed  to  resolve  disputes  in  an  unbiased   manner.  Whether  the  accusation  is  brought  by  a  German  or  Novgorodian,  the   accusing  party  must  have  two  Germans  and  two  Ruthenians  as  witnesses.  In   other  words,  a  Novgorodian  could  not  support  his  claim  with  the  testimony   of  only  Novgorodians.  He  would  have  to  find  two  German  witnesses  to  sup-­‐‑ port  his  claim.  The  provision  about  drawing  lots  is  probably  included  to  take   into   account   that,   in   practice,   it   might   be   difficult   for   a   litigant   to   find   the   requisite  number  of  witnesses.  While  drawing  lots  of  course  leaves  the  resolu-­‐‑ tion  of  the  dispute  to  chance,  it  certainly  removes  the  possibility  of  local  prej-­‐‑ udice   in   favor   of   the   Novgorodian   litigant.   The   1229   document   concludes   with  a  specification  of  various  bloodwites  to  be  paid.   A  treaty  concluded  in  1262–6326  between  Aleksandr  Nevskii,  his  son  Dmi-­‐‑ trii,  the  mayor  (posadnik)  Mikhail,  the  thousandman  (tysiatskii)  Zhiroslav,  and   all  Novgorodians,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  German  ambassador  Shivord,  the   Lübeck  ambassador  Tidrik,  and  the  Gotland  ambassador  Olsten,  on  the  other   other  hand,  is  more  focused  on  trade  itself  than  the  resolution  of  crimes  com-­‐‑ mitted  by  or  against  merchants.  The  routes  to  Novgorod  and  the  use  of  pilots   and  guides  were  again  regulated.  It  adopts  the  German  weights  and  measures   and  requires  German  merchants  to  pay  a  duty  both  on  the  purchase  and  sale   of  goods.  It  also  indicates  that  the  collections  of  bloodwite  was  often  difficult.   It   resolves   a   double   murder   of   merchants   that   had   occurred   in   the   past   by   requiring  a  certain  Ratshin  to  pay  20  grivna.  This  provision  suggests  that  the   setting  of  the  amount  of  bloodwite  in  the  1189–99  treaty  and  the  provision  for   judicial  machinery  in  the  1229  document  did  not  resolve  the  problem  of  mur-­‐‑ ders   and   other   violence   between   the   Novgorodian   and   Hansa   merchants.   Whoever   had   been   entitled   to   receive   the   bloodwite   for   the   double   murder   had   been   unable   to   collect,   and   the   matter   thus   had   to   be   settled   by   treaty.   The   treaty   also   guaranteed   free   access   of   Novgorodians   to   the   Hansa   towns                                                                                                                             26

 GVNP,  56–57  (no.  29).  

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and  Hansa  merchants  to  Novgorod.  It,  however,  admonished  that  if  the  Ger-­‐‑ mans  traded  in  Karelia,  Novgorod  could  not  guarantee  their  safe  passage.     The  provisions  for  dispute  resolution  in  the  1229  document  were  further   developed  in  a  1269  treaty  between  Novgorod,  on  the  one  hand,  and  Gotland   and  Lübeck,  on  the  other.27  There  is  extensive  scholarship  on  the  authenticity   of  this  document  that  is  conveniently  summarized  by  Rybina.28  It  purports  to   be   a   treaty   between   Prince   Iaroslav,   his   son,   the   mayor   Pavel,   and   the   thou-­‐‑ sandman  with  various  named  ambassadors  of  Lübeck  and  Gotland.  As  with   the  1229  document  there  are  questions  as  to  whether  it  is  a  German  proposal   versus  a  signed  treaty.  Based  on  Rybina’s  analysis,  the  present  study  will  as-­‐‑ sume   that   it   at   least   offers   a   useful   guide   to   how   disputes   between   the   Ger-­‐‑ mans  and  Novgorodians  that  arose  in  Novgorod  were  to  be  resolved.     The  1269  treaty  contains  no  provisions  for  asylum  of  German  merchants   in   their   yard,   but   does   provide   penalties   for   intruding   into   it,   seizing   goods   from   it,   or   breaking   the   gate   or   fence   around   the   yard   (Articles   XII–XIII).   It   contains  a  description  similar  to  that  in  the  1229  document  for  resolving  dis-­‐‑ putes  “in  the  court  of  St.  Ivan  before  the  mayor,  thousandman,  and  before  the   merchants”   (Article   XI).   Article   XIX   specifies   that   in   the   event   of   a   dispute   between  a  Novgorodian  and  a  German,  the  dispute  should  be  resolved  by  the   testimony   of   witnesses,   at   least   where   the   litigants   choose   the   same   wit-­‐‑ ness(es).   If   they   do   not,   then   the   dispute   is   to   be   resolved   by   casting   lots.   Article  XXII  contains  provisions  for  bloodwite  similar  to  earlier  treaties.     While   resolving   disputes   by   casting   lots   is   not   rational   in   the   Weberian   sense   and   certainly   more   primitive   than   would   be   used   under   the   sophisti-­‐‑ cated  rules  of  the  law  merchant,  it  at  least  provided  an  expeditious  manner  of   resolving  disputes,  which  would  avoid  the  appearance  of  bias  in  favor  of  the   local,  i.e.,  Novgorodian,  party.     While  the  German  merchants  were  of  course  making  a  huge  concession  in   the  1269  treaty  and  in  the  1229  document  to  submit  themselves  to  the  jurisdic-­‐‑ tion  of  a  Russian  court,  the  treaty  went  on  to  provide  that  disputes  would  be   resolved  where  they  arose  (Article  XVI),  presumably  including  disputes  aris-­‐‑ ing   in   Gotland   and   Lübeck.   It   is   to   be   presumed   that   a   court   in   Gotland   or   Lübeck  would  apply  the  law  merchant  or  other  local  law  to  commercial  dis-­‐‑ putes.  The  law  of  Lübeck,  incidentally,  was  not  particularly  favorable  to  for-­‐‑ eign  merchants.  It  provided  that  a  foreign  merchant  could  not  give  evidence   against   a   Lübeck   burger,   but   that   a   burger   could   give   evidence   against   a   foreigner.29                                                                                                                             27

 Ivan  E.  Andreevskii,  ed.,  O  dogovore  Novgoroda  c  nemetskimi  gorodami  i  Gotlandom  (St.   Petersburg:   Tip.   Iakova   Treia,   1855);   for   an   alternate,   text   see   GVNP,   58–61   (no.   31).   The  Andreevskii  text  inserts  article  numbers,  which  are  used  here  for  the  convenience   of  the  reader.     28  Rybina,  Inozemnye  dvory,  36–39.   29  Volkhart  and  Mangels,  “Roots,”  444.    

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A  dispute  that  erupted  in  1338  demonstrates  both  the  strengths  and  limi-­‐‑ tations  of  the  rules  developed  in  the  treaties  concluded  in  the  13th  century.  In   that   year   a   Novgorod   merchant   named   Volos   was   murdered   and   his   goods   stolen   by   Germans   in   Narva.   To   exact   compensation   from   the   Germans,   the   Novgorodians   detained   German   merchants   and   their   goods   who   were   in   Novgorod  at  the  time  but  not  responsible  for  the  crime.  The  dispute  was  re-­‐‑ solved  by  a  delegation  of  ambassadors  from  various  German  cities.  The  Ger-­‐‑ mans   produced   those   responsible   for   the   crime   so   that   the   heirs   of   Volos   could   sue   them   for   compensation   or   bloodwite,   and   the   German   merchants   and  their  goods  detained  in  Novgorod  were  released.  For  future  conflicts  the   principle  was  reaffirmed  that  matters  should  be  resolved  in  the  venue  where   they  arose.30  While  no  new  principles  were  announced  in  the  agreement  set-­‐‑ tling  this  dispute  and  while  the  Novgorodians  violated  previously  agreed  to   rules  by  detaining  innocent  German  merchants  and  confiscating  their  goods,   the  agreement  reaffirmed  and  hopefully  solidified  these  previous  rules.   Another   treaty   was   concluded   in   1371   affirming   that   future   disputes   would  be  determined  in  accordance  with  the  old  treaties  (po  starym  gramotam)   and  solemnized  by  kissing  the  cross.  It  also  contains  detailed  prohibitions  on   Russians  trespassing  or  damaging  the  fence  around  the  German  yard.31   Before   leaving   the   Novgorod–Hansa   treaties,   it   is   worth   noting   some   of   the   provisions   of   the   treaty   between   the   Hansa   city   of   Riga   and   the   city   of   Smolensk  from  1229.32  Article  10  of  this  treaty  prohibited  duels  between  Rus-­‐‑ sians   and   Germans.   Article   21   provided   that   a   Russian   should   not   accuse   a   German   in   open   court,   but   only   before   the   prince   of   Smolensk.   A   German   could,  however,  have  a  public  court  hearing  if  he  so  desired.  Thus  use  of  Rus-­‐‑ sian   courts   or   officials   to   resolve   disputes   between   Russians   and   Germans   was  not  peculiar  to  Novgorod.   In  sum  the  Novgorod–Hansa  treaties  established  three  simple  rules  for  re-­‐‑ solving  disputes.  First,  the  dispute  had  to  be  litigated  where  it  arose,  and  if  it   arose   in   Novgorod   that   meant   it   would   be   tried   in   the   Court   of   St.   Ivan.   Second,  the  only  remedy  available  was  against  the  guilty  individual  or  indi-­‐‑ viduals,   i.e.,   innocent   foreigners   and   their   goods   could   not   be   seized   or   de-­‐‑ tained.  Third,  disputes  were  resolved  by  using  the  same  witnesses  or  by  lots.   What  we  see  in  these  developments  is  a  fairly  rapid  transition  from  a  dy-­‐‑ adic  to  a  triadic  system  of  dispute  resolution.  In  dyadic  systems,  there  are  no   or   few   judicial   officials.   While   statutes   might   provide   remedies,   typically   bloodwite,   the   two   parties   (the   “dyad”)   must   arrange   for   payment   of   blood-­‐‑ wite   between   each   other,   without   judicial   intervention.   As   indicated   above,   this  type  of  system  had  its  limitations,  particularly  where  the  adversaries  are                                                                                                                             30

 GVNP,  71–72  (no.  40).      GVNP,   74–76   (no.   42);   see   also   numerous   subsequent   Novgorod–Hansa   treaties   in   the  GNVP,  pp.  77  ff.     32  An  English  translation  of  this  treaty  appears  in  Dollinger,  German  Hansa,  381–82.   31

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strangers   or   from   distant   lands.   Under   a   triadic   system,   a   judge   hears   the   evidence  or  directs  the  parties  to  use  some  other  dispute  resolution  procedure   (such  as  casting  lots).  The  13th-­‐‑century  treaties  between  the  Hansa  and  Nov-­‐‑ gorod  provide  for  one  of  the  very  first  secular  triadic  systems  in  Russia.  One   wonders   whether   this   early   triadic   system   in   Russia   owes   its   origin   to   the   Hansa  merchants,  who  were  well  familiar  with  triadic  systems  through  their   use  of  the  law  merchant.  While  there  is  no  direct  evidence  to  support  this  hy-­‐‑ pothesis,  the  circumstantial  evidence  is  strong.   The  principles  incorporated  in  the  Novgorod  Hansa  treaties,  which  gov-­‐‑ erned  relations  between  Russians  and  Germans,  were  supplemented  by  rules   in   the   Skra,   which   of   course   only   applied   to   the   Hansa   merchants   who   were   members  and  residents  of  the  yard.  It  is  not  the  purpose  of  the  present  study   to   present   a   comprehensive   analysis   of   all   editions   of   the   Skra.   For   that   pur-­‐‑ pose,  one  should  refer  to  Rybina,  Feldbrugge,  and  Schluter.33  Here  the  focus   shall  be  on  dispute  resolution  between  Russians  and  Germans  in  the  IV  Skra,   which  dates  from  1371,  i.e.,  the  end  of  the  period  under  study,  and  incorpo-­‐‑ rates  many  provisions  of  the  earlier  Skra.  As  to  earlier  editions  of  the  Skra,  suf-­‐‑ fice   it   to   say   that   they   accorded   greater   independence   and   self-­‐‑regulation   to   the  merchant  members  of  the  yard.   The   IV   Skra   contains   119   articles,   which   fall   into   three   sections.   The   first   section,   which   Schluter   and   Rybina   refer   to   as   the   “church   law,”   deals   with   the  St.  Peter’s  Church  within  the  yard.  Most  of  the  articles  are  to  ensure  that   commercial   activities   do   not   interfere   with   the   operation   of   the   church,   such   as   regulation   of   where   goods   could   be   stored   in   the   vicinity   of   the   church.   Article  21  provided  that  the  church  would  be  kept  open  only  if  there  were  at   least  six  independent  merchants  and  nine  of  their  assistants  in  residence.   The  second  section  sets  forth  the  regulations  for  conduct  and  relations  be-­‐‑ tween   the   members   of   the   yard   and,   to   some   extent,   between   them   and   the   Russians.  Most  of  these  rules,  as  is  true  of  the  remainder  of  the  Skra,  are  nega-­‐‑ tive   injunctions   followed   by   a   monetary   penalty   for   violation.   For   example,   Article  75  provides  that  “[i]f  anyone  disputes  the  decision  of  the  inspectors  of   cloth  or  wax,  he  will  pay  a  fine  of  ten  silver  marks.”  There  are  detailed  rules   relating  to  the  dormitory,  kitchen,  brewery,  and  dining  hall.  Reading  through   the   many   detailed   rules   of   conduct,   one   is   reminded   of   the   “Cider   House   Rules,”  or  at  least  of  the  Germans’  reputed  passion  for  order.   The  rules  that  specifically  refer  to  Russians  include  Article  44,  which  pe-­‐‑ nalizes   letting   a   Russian   into   the   lower   storeroom   (penalty:   one   ferding).   Russians  could  enter  the  yard  to  trade,  but  Article  54  provided  that,  once  the   signal  was  given  for  closing  the  yard,  the  merchants  should  bade  the  Russians                                                                                                                             33

 Rybina,   Inozemnye   dvory,   46–51;   Feldbrugge,   Medieval   Law,   260–91;   Schluter,   Die   Nowgoroder.   For   the   following   discussion   I   rely   on   the   modern   Russian   translation   of   IV  Skra  appearing  in  Rybina,  Torgovlia  srednevekovogo  Novgoroda.  I  must  confess  that  I   am  not  proficient  in  the  Middle  Low  German  of  the  original.  

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farewell   to   avoid   attack   on   them   by   the   guard   dogs.   If   Russians   left   in   the   yard  after  closing  were  attacked  by  the  guard  dogs,  they  could  recover  com-­‐‑ pensation.  Article  61  provides  that  where  merchants  receive  goods  from  Rus-­‐‑ sians  there  shall  be  exchanged  a  full  accounting  of  the  number  of  goods,  and   the  Russians  shall  not  be  paid  until  they  have  first  paid  for  goods  they  have   purchased.   Article   62   provided   that   a   Russian   has   full   responsibility   for   the   goods  (apparently  if  they  are  lost  or  damaged)  once  he  has  passed  the  thresh-­‐‑ old   of   the   yard.   Article   77   provided   that   merchants   were   not   to   play   dice   games  with  Russians  outside  the  yard.   Articles   78   to   85   deal   with   crimes,   which   are   of   course   dealt   with   more   strictly  than  mere  violations  of  house  rules.  Article  78  provided  that  the  alder-­‐‑ man  has  to  right  to  administer  corporal  punishment  and  even  the  death  pen-­‐‑ alty  if  someone  inflicts  a  mortal  wound  on  another  with  a  knife.  The  penalty   for  inflicting  a  non-­‐‑mortal  wound  was  to  have  one’s  hand  cut  off.  If  someone   threatened  another  with  a  knife,  the  penalty,  according  to  Article  79  was  ten   marks.   The   same   article   provided   the   same   penalty   for   a   inflicting   a   bloody   wound  or  bruise.  Article  80  imposed  a  fine  of  five  marks  for  striking  another   on  the  cheek.  Foul  words  were  punished  with  a  fine  of  one  mark  (Article  81).   The   punishment   for   theft   of   another’s   goods   is   said   by   Artricle   83   to   be   the   gallows   (zasluzhivaet   viselitsu),   plus   forfeiture   of   a   greater   number   of   goods   (such  as  ten  furs  if  five  furs  are  stolen,  forty  furs  if  ten  are  stolen,  etc).  The  ex-­‐‑ act   penalty   was   to   be   determined   by   a   general   meeting   of   the   merchants   present.  The  alderman  would  assign  responsibility  for  carrying  out  the  execu-­‐‑ tion  of  the  offender  to  two  merchants.   As   indicated   above,   Russia   had   no   similar   triadic   system   of   justice   or   criminal  penalties  in  the  13th  and  14th  centuries.  Even  in  the  1269  treaty  the   remedy  for  murder  was  to  collect  the  wergild  from  the  murderer  or  his  fam-­‐‑ ily.  We  see,  however,  that  alongside  this  provision,  there  existed  a  system  or   criminal  procedure  and  criminal  penalties  within  the  German  Yard  that  pro-­‐‑ vided   for   the   death   penalty   for   murder.   Although   the   Skra   does   not   specifi-­‐‑ cally  mention  murder  of  Russians,  it  also  does  not  say  that  the  death  penalty   is   limited   to   murder   of   Germans.   This   creates   the   possibility   that   a   German   who  murdered  a  Russian  would  not  only  have  to  pay  the  wergild  to  the  dead   person’s   family,   but   would   be   executed   by   the   decision   of   the   merchants   in   the  yard.     The  Skra  speaks  of  execution  by  the  gallows,  that  is,  by  hanging.  While  no   records  exist  of  a  death  sentence  meted  out  by  the  German  Yard  to  one  of  its   members,  one  imagines  that  if  there  were  a  hanging,  the  Russians  would  be-­‐‑ come  aware  of  it.  The  Novgorodians  could  become  aware  of  it  by  seeing  it,  if   the   gallows   was   outside,   or   they   might   learn   of   it   by   word   of   mouth.   The   Novgorodian  merchants  who  traveled  to  the  Hansa  cities  were  also  likely  to   witness  or  at  least  to  know  of  the  death  penalty.  We  can  only  speculate  about   how  the  Russians  would  regard  an  execution.  Would  they  believe  it  was  cruel   and  barbaric,  or  would  they  understand  that  criminal  penalties  were  a  reason-­‐‑

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able  deterrent  to  the  commission  of  crime  and  thus  the  foundation  of  a  more   modern  system  of  justice?   While   it   is   beyond   the   scope   of   this   study   to   describe   the   legal   founda-­‐‑ tions  of  the  Kontore  at  London,  Bruges,  and  Bergen,  a  few  remarks  would  be   appropriate   on   the   similarities   and   differences   between   those   Kontore   and   Novgorod.   Provisions   for   dispute   resolution   varied   but   bear   some   resem-­‐‑ blances  to  those  for  the  Novgorod  Kontor.  The  London  Steelyard  merchants  at   least  took  the  position  that  they  could  not  be  held  collectively  responsible  for   the   legal   liabilities   of   individual   members.   In   a   letter   to   the   English   Privy   Council  protesting  the  arrest  of  certain  German  merchants  and  confiscation  of   their  property,  the  Hansa  maintained  that  it  was  not  a  collegium,  a  societas,  or  a   universitas,  the  three  forms  of  legal  organization  which  would  involve  collec-­‐‑ tive   responsibility.   It   claimed   that   it   was   rather   a   confederatio   of   individuals   who   could   not   be   held   collectively   responsible.34   For   dispute   resolution,   the   Steelyard  elected  an  English  alderman,  who  was  generally  a  German  who  had   become   an   English   subject   and   who   swore   an   oath   of   loyalty   to   the   London   City   Council.   One   of   his   principal   duties   was   to   mediate   disputes   between   Hanseatic   merchants   and   Englishmen.   In   Bruges,   arbitration   of   commercial   disputes  with  foreigners  was  common,  with  the  arbitrators  chosen  by  mutual   agreement.  Commercial  disputes  between  foreigners  and  between  locals  and   foreigners,   however,   were   customarily   heard   by   the   local   commercial   courts   or  the  council  of  aldermen  in  both  England  and  Bruges.35  In  England,  a  treaty   of  1473  provided  that  Steelyard  merchants  were  not  subject  to  the  jurisdiction   of  the  Admiralty  and  other  royal  courts,  but  that  the  English  king  should  ap-­‐‑ point  two  or  more  special  judges  “to  do  speedy  justice  between  the  parties.”36   For  the  Bergen  Kontor,  it  is  unclear  what  means  of  dispute  resolution  was   employed.  One  of  the  few  studies  in  English  maintains  that  the  German  mem-­‐‑ bers  of  the  Kontor  did  not  submit  themselves  to  the  jurisdiction  of  Norwegian   courts.   There   was,   however,   a   court   within   the   Kontor   which   enforced   rules  

                                                                                                                          34

 The  text  of  this  letter  appears  in  Dollinger,  German  Hansa,  411–13.  For  a  recent  and   thorough   study   of   the   Steelyard   in   the   15th   and   16th   centuries,   see   Nils   Jörn,   With   money   and   bloode:   Der   Londoner   Stahlhof   im   Spannungsfeld   der   englisch-­‐‑hansischen   Berzie-­‐‑ hungen  im  15.  und  16.  Jahrhundert  (Cologne:  Böhlau  Verlag,  2000).     35  Oscar   Gelderblom,   “The   Resolution   of   Commercial   Conflicts   in   Bruges,   Antwerp,   and  Amsterdam  (1250–1650),”  in  Law  and  Long-­‐‑Term  Economic  Change:  A  Eurasian  Per-­‐‑ spective,  ed.  Debin  Ma  and  Jan  Huiten  van  Zanden  (Stanford,  CA:  Stanford  University   Press,  2011),  244–78;  J.  A.  van  Houtte,  “The  Rise  and  Decline  of  the  Market  of  Bruges,”   The  Economic  History  Review  29,  no.  1  (1966):  35–36.     36  Cornelius  Walford,  “An  Outline  History  of  the  Hanseatic  League,  More  Particularly   in   Its   Bearings   Upon   English   Commerce,”   Transactions   of   the   Royal   Historical   Society   9   (1881):  108–09.    

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against   fighting   and   bringing   women   into   the   compound.37   I   have   found   no   reference  to  the  payment  of  bloodwite  in  the  treaties  or  agreements  regulating   the   London,   Bruges,   and   Bergen   Kontore,   so   that   provision   was   probably   peculiar  to  Novgorod.   The  development  in  the  Novgorod–Hansa  treaties  and  the  Skra  of  a  body   of  commercial  law  that  was  quite  advanced  in  comparison  to  Russian  law  at   the   time   raises   the   broader   question   of   what   influence   the   Novgorod–Hansa   treaties   and   Skra   had   on   the   development   of   Russian   law.   There   is   no   direct   evidence  that  either  had  any  influence  at  all.  In  general,  however,  many  mod-­‐‑ ernizing   innovations   were   made   in   the   law   of   Rus’   in   Novgorod   and   Pskov   during  the  period  under  study,  the  12th  through  the  14th  centuries.  The  two   most  important  legal  monuments  during  this  period  were  the  Pskov  Judicial   Charter,  traditionally  dated  1397,38  and  the  Novgorod  Judicial  Charter,39  tra-­‐‑ ditionally  dated  ca.  1470,  but  probably  reflective  of  earlier  practice.  It  is  prob-­‐‑ ably  more  than  coincidental  that  the  two  most  vibrant  commercial  cities  with   the  most  contact  with  the  West  were  in  the  vanguard  of  legal  modernization   during  this  period.  We  see,  for  example,  that  one  of  the  earliest  statutory  pro-­‐‑ visions   for   the   use   of   criminal   penalties   in   Rus’   was   in   the   Pskov   Judicial   Charter,   which   provided   the   death   penalty   for   the   third   offense   of   theft   or   theft   committed   in   the   Pskov   kremlin.   Arsonists,   horse   thieves,   and   spies   were  also  to  be  put  to  death.40  Pskov,  like  Novgorod,  carried  on  a  lively  trade   with   the   Germans,   and   was   thus   subject   to   at   least   some   of   the   same   influences.     It   would   be   incorrect,   however,   to   attribute   the   origins   of   Russian   crim-­‐‑ inal  penalties  solely  to  the  Pskov  Charter.  It  was  but  one  of  many  sources,  not   the  least  being  the  two  Byzantine  law  manuals,  the  Ekloga  and  the  Procheiros   nomos,  imported  into  Russia  in  Slavonic  translation  in  the  13th  century.  Earlier   studies  have  emphasized  how  these  two  manuals  were  incorporated  into  the   canon  law  of  Rus’,  used  in  bishops’  courts,  and  later  gradually  absorbed  into   secular  law.41  It  should  also  be  noted  that  there  were  other  charters  or  statutes   in   the   14th   century   which   contained   criminal   penalties   and   which   cannot   be   traced   to   anything   happening   in   Novgorod,   such   as   the   1397   Charter   to   the  

                                                                                                                          37

 John   A.   Gade,   The   Hanseatic   Control   of   Norwegian   Commerce   during   the   Late   Middle   Ages  (Leiden:  E.  J.  Brill,  1951),  55–56,  69,  79,  81.   38  The   best   edition   is   a   dual   language   edition,   Daniel   H.   Kaiser,   ed.   and   trans.,   The   Laws  of  Rus’–Tenth  to  Fifteenth  Centuries  (Salt  Lake  City:  Charles  Schlacks,  Jr.,  1992),  80– 86.     39  Ibid.,  86–105.     40  Ibid.,  Articles  7  and  8.   41  See,  e.g.,  George  G.  Weickhardt,  “The  Canon  Law  of  Rus’,  1100–1551,”  Russian  His-­‐‑ tory  28,  nos.  1–4  (2001):  411–46.  

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Dvina  Land,  the  Muscovite  Regulation  on  Homicide,  and  the  Muscovite  Reg-­‐‑ ulation  on  Thefts.42   Several  provisions  on  judicial  procedure  in  the  Novgorod  Judicial  Charter   bear  such  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  1269  Novgorod  Hansa  treaty  that  bor-­‐‑ rowing   or   influence   is   likely.   One   prominent   feature   of   Novgorodian   proce-­‐‑ dure  was  the  resolution  of  a  case  according  to  the  testimony  of  a  witness  who   was  designated  by  both  sides.  Several  courts  are  mentioned  in  the  Novgorod   Judicial   Charter,   including   that   of   the   archbishop,   the   thousandman   (tysech-­‐‑ kii),   and   mayor   (posadnik)   (Articles   1,   2,   and   4).   Articles   7–32   specify   the   procedure   for   cases   involving   assault,   robbery,   and   land   disputes.   Article   23   deals  with  the  situation  where  both  parties  have  designated  the  same  witness   (poslukh),   whose   testimony   would   obviously   resolve   the   matter.   The   same   article,   however,   left   a   litigant   free   to   choose   a   different   witness   from   that   designated  by  his  adversary.  Where  there  was  a  conflict  in  testimony,  Article   33   provides   that   the   case   was   to   be   decided   according   to   evidence,   such   as   “red-­‐‑handed”   evidence   (polichnyi).   Cryptically,   however,   Article   22   specifies   that   one   witness   is   not   to   testify   against   another   witness,   and   that   a   witness   had  to  be  a  citizen  of  Novgorod.  The  resolution  of  litigation  by  the  testimony   of   an   agreed-­‐‑upon   witness   became   a   longstanding   tradition   in   Russian   law   and  appears  in  the  Ulozhenie.   The  present  study  has  demonstrated  that  a  fairly  well-­‐‑articulated  and,  for   Rus’,   advanced   system   of   legal   principles   was   developed   to   regulate   Nov-­‐‑ gorod’s  trade  with  the  Hansa.  This  system  of  legal  principles  and,  more  gen-­‐‑ erally,   contact   with   the   Germans   may   have   had   significant   influence   on   the   Pskov  and  Novgorod  Judicial  Charters,  which  were  the  most  significant  legal   monuments   between   the   Russian   Law   and   early   Muscovite   legislation,   and   more  particularly  on  the  introduction  of  criminal  penalties  and  the  resolution   of   litigation   by   the   testimony   of   witnesses.   They   were,   however,   but   one   of   many   influences.   Other   studies   have   emphasized   imported   translations   of   Byzantine  law  manuals  and  their  widespread  use  in  bishops’  courts.  The  pres-­‐‑ ent   study   is   not   intended   to   refute   or   displace   those   earlier   studies.   It   is   in-­‐‑ tended  rather  to  lay  the  foundations  for  a  multicausal  explanation.     The  present  study  of  course  suggests  numerous  areas  for  future  research,   including,   hopefully,   records   of   particular   disputes   between   Novgorodians   and   German   merchants   and   how   they   were   resolved,   the   provisions   for   dis-­‐‑ pute   resolution   in   other   editions   of   the   Skra,   the   resolution   of   disputes   be-­‐‑ tween   merchants   of   Pskov   and   the   Germans,   and   a   more   detailed   compara-­‐‑ tive  study  of  dispute  resolution  among  the  various  Kontore.    

                                                                                                                          42

 For  the  text  of  these  documents,  see  Kaiser,  The  Laws  of  Rus’,  111–14,  117.  

     

The Muslim Tatars of Muscovy and Lithuania: Some Introductory Remarks*   Bulat R. Rakhimzyanov  

From   the   middle   of   the   15th   century   two   states   with   considerable   Slavic   populations—vast   and   powerful   Lithuania1   and   young,   but   ambitious,   Mus-­‐‑ covy—competed  for  the  leading  role  in  territories  that  had  formerly  belonged   to  Kievan  Rus’.  From  the  middle  of  the  16th  century  it  had  become  clear  that   Muscovy   had   emerged   as   the   successor,   not   the   challenger,   of   the   disin-­‐‑ tegrated  Golden  Horde.  Muscovy  entered  its  new,  imperial  era  as  an  expan-­‐‑ sion-­‐‑oriented,   despotic   state.   Lithuania,   on   the   contrary,   after   the   Union   of   Lublin   in   1569,   became   part   of   the   Polish-­‐‑Lithuanian   commonwealth,   a   Europe-­‐‑oriented   state.   Both   Muscovy   and   Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia   had   Muslim   Tatars   as   their   ethnic   components.   But   treatment   of   these   Muslims   differed   substantially  in  the  two  states.  This  article  addresses  the  role  of  the  Tatar  com-­‐‑ ponent   in   the   differing   political   fates   of   Muscovy   and   Lithuania   during   the   15th  and  16th  centuries.     š  ›   Contacts   between   the   Slavic   world   and   the   Steppe2   have   traditionally   been   treated  in  the  context  of  a  kind  of  peculiar  religious  and  national  “cold  war,”   which  intermittently  became  hot.3  Such  portrayals  are  accurate,  but  only  to  a                                                                                                                             This   article   has   been   written   with   financial   support   from   the   Gerda   Henkel   Stiftung   (grant  AZ  09/SR/10).   1  The   terms   “Lithuania,”   “Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia,”   and   “Grand   Principality   (Duchy)   of   Lithuania”  are  synonyms  in  this  article.   2  I   interpret   “Steppe”   as   Desht-­‐‑i-­‐‑Qipchaq—the   Qipchaq   Steppe,   a   part   of   the   East   European   steppe   bounded   roughly   by   the   Oskol   and   Tobol   rivers,   the   steppe/forest   line,  and  the  Caspian  and  Aral  Seas.   3  Edward   L.   Keenan,   “Muscovy   and   Kazan:   Some   Introductory   Remarks   on   the   Pat-­‐‑ terns  of  Steppe  Diplomacy,”  Slavic  Review  24  (1967):  549.  See  the  most  typical  works:  S.   M.   Solov’ev,   Istoriia   Rossii   s   drevneishikh   vremen,   14   vols.   in   7,   ed.   I.   D.   Koval’chenko   and  S.  S.  Dmitrieva  (Moscow:  Mysl’,  1988–91);  K.  V.  Bazilevich,  Vneshniaia  politika  rus-­‐‑ skogo  tsentralizovannogo  gosudarstva:  Vtoraia  polovina  XV  veka  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Moskov-­‐‑ skogo   universiteta,   1952);   V.   V.   Kargalov,   Konets   ordynskogo   iga   (Moscow:   Nauka,   1980);  V.  D.  Nazarov,  Sverzhenie  ordynskogo  iga  na  Rusi  (Moscow:  Znanie,  1983);  Iu.  G.   Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 117–28.

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certain   extent.   To   portray   Slavic4-­‐‑Tatar   relations   of   this   period   in   the   mono-­‐‑ tones   of   conflict   and   retrenchment   is   to   distort   beyond   recognition   the   true   picture   of   things.   This   was   clearly   demonstrated   first   by   Harvard   scholars;5   then  post-­‐‑Soviet  (Tatar  and  Russian)  scholars  continued  working  in  this  con-­‐‑ text.6   Relations   between   the   Slavic   world   and   Steppe   khanates   were   very   pragmatic  and  friendly  by  force;  religious  and  national  antagonism  played  no   significant  role  in  their  diplomacy.7  The  dynasties  which  emerged  in  the  three   most   important   centers   after   the   collapse   of   Sarai   (the   capital   of   the   Golden   Horde8),   i.e.,   Crimea,   Lithuania,   and   Moscow,   often   cooperated   during   the   stage  of  shifting  alliances  and  changing  fortunes.   In   fact,   Slavic-­‐‑Tatar   relations   of   this   period   were   far  from   uniform.   With   the   fracturing   of   the   Golden   Horde   into   successor   polities   in   the   mid-­‐‑15th   century,   numerous   Juchid9   dynasts   dispersed   far   and   wide   across   Central   Eurasia.   Slavic   relations   with   certain   Juchids   and   their   followers   did,   to   be                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Alekseev,   Osvobozhdenie   Rusi   ot   ordynskogo   iga   (Leningrad:   Nauka,   Leningradskoe   ot-­‐‑ delenie,  1989).   4  The  adjective  Slavic  is  used  here  in  an  entirely  geographical—and  not  ethnic—sense.   It  means  here  the  lands  of  Orthodox  belief  of  Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia  and  Muscovy.   5  Edward   L.   Keenan,   “Muscovy   and   Kazan’,   1445–1552:   A   Study   in   Steppe   Politics”   (Ph.D.  diss.,  Harvard  University,  1965);  Keenan,  “Muscovy  and  Kazan,”  548–58;  Craig   G.   Kennedy,   “Fathers,   Sons,   and   Brothers:   Ties   of   Metaphorical   Kinship   Between   the   Muscovite  Grand  Princes  and  the  Tatar  Elite,”  Harvard  Ukrainian  Studies  19  (1995):  292– 301;   Kennedy,   “The   Juchids   of   Muscovy:   A   Study   of   Personal   Ties   between   Emigré   Tatar   Dynasts   and   the   Muscovite   Grand   Princes   in   the   Fifteenth   and   Sixteenth   Cen-­‐‑ turies”  (Ph.D.  diss.,  Harvard  University,  1994).   6  D.   M.   Iskhakov,   Ot   srednevekovykh   tatar   k   tataram   Novogo   vremeni:   Etnologicheskii   vzgliad  na  istoriiu  volgo-­‐‑ural’skikh  tatar  XV–XVII  vv.  (Kazan:  Svod  pamiatnikov,  Master   Lain,   1998);   V.   V.   Trepavlov,   Istoriia   Nogaiskoi   Ordy   (Moscow:   Vostochnaia   literatura   RAN,   2001);   I.   V.   Zaitsev,   Astrakhanskoe   khanstvo   (Moscow:   Vostochnaia   literatura   RAN,  2004,  2006);  I.  V.  Zaitsev,  Mezhdu  Moskvoi  i  Stambulom:  Dzhuchidskie  gosudarstva,   Moskva  i  Osmanskaia  imperiia  (nach.  XV–per.  pol.  XVI  vv.).  Ocherki  (Moscow:  Rudomino,   2004);   B.   R.   Rakhimzianov,   Kasimovskoe   khanstvo   (1445–1552):   Ocherki   istorii   (Kazan:   Tatarskoe  knizhnoe  izd-­‐‑vo,  2009).   7  Keenan,  “Muscovy  and  Kazan,”  549.   8  I  have  used  the  term  Golden  Horde  to  refer  to  the  Juchid  polity  centered  at  Sarai  from   the   mid-­‐‑13th   century   to   the   early   15th.   While   the   term   itself   was   never   used   by   con-­‐‑ temporaries,  it  is  a  well-­‐‑established  convention  among  modern  historians,  and  thus  I   am   using   it   here.   The   alternative   term   the   Ulus   of   Juchi   is   the   original   name   of   this   polity  and  can  be  used  as  synonymous.     9  Juchi—the   elder   son   of   Chingis-­‐‑khan,   first   Mongol   emperor.   Juchi   possessed   vast   lands   and   united   the   Middle   and   Lower   Volga   area,   Northern   Caucasus,   Crimea,   Urals,   Khorezm   and   a   part   of   Western   Siberia,   later   known   as   the   “Ulus   [state]   of   Juchi.”  Part  of  this  ulus  was  later  called  the  “Golden  Horde.”  Juchi’s  royal  descendants   were  called  “Juchids.”  

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sure,   grow   increasingly   strained.10   But   as   the   15th   and   16th   centuries   un-­‐‑ folded,   both   Muscovite   and   Lithuanian   grand   princes   also   formed   increas-­‐‑ ingly  close  ties  with  certain  dynasts  of  the  Juchid  line.   Muscovy   had   been   an   integral   part   of   the   steppe   world,   both   politically   and   economically,   since   its   very   origin.   It   refrained   from   actively   resisting   Mongol-­‐‑Tatar  domination  and  carefully  avoided  challenging  the  political  su-­‐‑ premacy  of  the  Golden  Horde  throughout  most  of  the  14th  and  a  good  part  of   the  15th  centuries.  Its  geographical  position  and  important  economic  ties  with   the   East   made   it   a   full-­‐‑fledged   participant   in   the   Tatar   political   world.   It   re-­‐‑ mained  the  same  in  both  the  15th  and  16th  centuries.     The   Lithuanian   conquest   of   the   Ruthenian   territories   terminated   the   Golden   Horde’s   rule   in   these   lands   approximately   a   century   prior   to   Mus-­‐‑ covy’s  emancipation  from  the  Golden  Horde’s  supremacy.  After  the  Battle  of   the   Blue   Waters   in   1362,   the   Belorussian   and   Ukrainian   Rus’   territories   be-­‐‑ came   part   of   the   “West,”   while   Muscovy   remained   the   “East.”11   Lithuania   was  able  to  expand  into  the  Belorussian  and  Ukrainian  lands,  although  in  the   course   of   this   expansion   its   elite   became   Slavicized;   in   this   respect,   the   con-­‐‑ querors  were  overcome  by  the  conquered.  Lithuania’s  resources  were  too  lim-­‐‑ ited  to  accomplish  the  conquest  of  the  Steppe.     Both   Muscovite   and   Lithuanian   rulers   enticed   members   of   the   Turkic   highest   nobility   from   their   native   states   into   Muscovy   and   Lithuania-­‐‑ Ruthenia.   At   the   same   time,   treatment   of   these   Muslim   nobles   differed   sub-­‐‑ stantially  in  the  two  states.   With   the   first   immigration   wave   of   Tatar   Muslim   dynasts   into   Muscovy   in  the  1440s,  a  steady  influx  of  Tatars  began  that,  by  1600,  had  led  to  the  reset-­‐‑ tlement  of  over  60  male  dynasts  and  many  thousands  of  their  military  retain-­‐‑ ers  and  family  members  into  the  Muscovite  heartland.  In  several  dozen  cases,   Tatar   khans,   along   with   their   retainers,   resettled   in   the   central   lands   of   the   grand   prince,   thereby   establishing   a   special   form   of   relationship   with   the   Muscovite   ruler   and   his   realm.   The   Muscovite   grand   princes   proved   quite   adept  at  offering  relationships  which  would  draw  in  and  satisfy  displaced  Ju-­‐‑ chids.  Without  clear  indications  and  assurances,  a  fugitive  Juchid  might  well   pass   up   Muscovy   in   favor   of   other   more   attractive   offers   from   Istanbul,   Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia,  or  Bukhara.12   The  Lithuanian  case  has  been  investigated  to  a  lesser  extent.  It  varied  and   was  much  more  complicated  than  the  Muscovite  case.  Tatars  began  to  arrive   in   Lithuania   at   the   end   of   the   14th   century.   The   first   Tatar   emigrants   in                                                                                                                             10

 Kennedy,  “The  Juchids  of  Muscovy,”  4.    Jaroslaw   Pelenski,   “The   Contest   between   Lithuania   and   the   Golden   Horde   in   the   Fourteenth  Century  for  Supremacy  over  Eastern  Europe  (Specifically  for  All  the  Lands   of   Rus’),”   in   The   Contest   for   the   Legacy   of   Kievan   Rus’   (Boulder,   CO:   East   European   Monographs;  New  York:  Distributed  by  Columbia  University  Press,  1998),  143.   12  Kennedy,  “The  Juchids  of  Muscovy,”  49.   11

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Lithuania  were  representatives  of  the  Mansur  bek  (princely)  clan  of  the  Ulus   of   Juchi—Mansur   Kiiat   Mamaevich   (1380);   also   an   individual   called   Leksa   Mansur,   who   apparently   was   the   ancestor   of   the   Glinskii   princes13   (famous   both   in   Muscovite   and   Lithuanian   history).   After   the   defeat   of   Tokhtamysh   khan   on   the   Vorskla   River   in   1399   approximately   half   of   his   troops   volun-­‐‑ tarily  stayed  in  Lithuania.  Muslim  Tatar  settlements  within  the  country  were   concentrated   mainly   in   regions   such   as   Volhynia   and   Podolia.   All   the   emi-­‐‑ grants   from   the   Ulus   of   Juchi   had   been   granted   lands   within   the   Lithuania;   their  status  was  comparable  to  that  of  “boyars”—they  had  to  be  ready  to  pro-­‐‑ vide  military  service.  Tatars  continued  to  migrate  to  Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia  until   the   early   16th   century,   playing   a   significant   military   role   within   the   Grand   Duchy.   One   of   the   most   important   consequences   of   this   Tatar   influx   was   the   foundation  of  special  polities  within  the  territory  of  Muscovy.  In  contrast,  the   appearance   of   service   Tatars   in   Lithuania   did   not   lead   to   major   political   consequences.   Muscovite   princes   granted   special   lands   (somewhat   like   independent   principalities;   in   Turkic   tradition—iurts)   in   the   immediate   territory   of   Mus-­‐‑ covy  to  Tatar  dynasts.  There  were  many  iurts  of  this  kind  within  the  territory   of   15th-­‐‑   and   16th-­‐‑century   Muscovy:   in   the   towns   of   Kasimov,   Romanov,   Kashira,   Zvenigorod,   Iur’ev-­‐‑Polskii,   Serpukhov,   Khotun’,   Surozhik,   the   so-­‐‑ called  “Andreev  stone  town,”  etc.  As  contrasted  to  the  Muscovite  case,  Chin-­‐‑ gissids  did  not  find  their  niche  within  the  aristocracy  of  Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia,   and  finally  this  practice  led  to  essential  differences  in  the  external  and  internal   policies  of  Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia  and  Muscovy,  as  well  as  to  their  different  roles   in  the  formation  of  the  political  structure  of  Eastern  Europe.     I  will  try  to  compare  the  status  of  Muslim  Tatars  in  Muscovy  and  Lithu-­‐‑ ania-­‐‑Ruthenia   according   to   the   data   of   relevant   primary   sources,   but   first   I   would  like  to  draw  attention  to  my  general  observations  on  this  matter.     In  existing  Russian  translations  from  Tatar  sources,  the  Juchids’  arrival  in   Muscovy  is  represented  as  the  free  act  of  independent  political  persons;  their   status   while   in   Muscovy   is   unclear.   Diplomatic   records   show   well   into   the   1530s   a   studied   avoidance   of   the   terms   service   and   to   serve   when   charac-­‐‑ terizing   relations   between   émigré   Tatars   and   the   Muscovite   grand   princes.   These  relations  had  been  characterized  through  phrases  expressing  the  grand   prince’s  actions  towards  the  entering  Juchid  such  as:  vziati  k  sebe  (to  take  into   his   presence),   dati   opochiv   v   svoei   zemli   (to   grant   asylum   in   his   land),   and   istomu  podniati  (to  lift  [their]  burden).  Nowhere  was  there  an  invitation  issued   from   the   Muscovite   grand   prince   to   a   Juchid   Tatar   to   come   “to   serve.”   No-­‐‑ where  does  a  Juchid  entreat  the  grand  prince  to  take  him  in  so  that  he  might   “serve”  the  grand  prince.  The  terminology  expressing  the  nature  of  the  Juchid                                                                                                                             13

 J.   Tyszkiewcz,   Tatarzy   na   Litwie   i   w   Polsce:   Studia   z   dziejow   ХIII–ХVIII   w.   (Warsaw:   Państwowe  Wydawnicstwo  Naukowe,  1989),  147.  

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presence  in  Muscovy  was  politically  neutral.14  If  anything,  it  stressed  the  con-­‐‑ tinued  autonomy  a  Juchid  might  expect  to  enjoy  while  allied  with  the  grand   prince.     Indeed,   the   sojourn   of   high-­‐‑ranking   Crimeans   in   Muscovy   should   be   conceived  of  as  voluntary,  according  to  documents  of  the  1470s–80s.  Once  in   Muscovy,  they  were  free  to  return  to  their  home  territory.  Muscovite  officials   promised  them,  “you  are  free  to  enter  Muscovy  as  well  as  to  leave  wherever   you   want”   (dobrovol’no   priedesh,   dobrovol’no   kudy   voskhochesh’   poiti— poidesh’,   a   nam   tebia   ne   derzhati).   Many   émigrés   did   return   home.   For   in-­‐‑ stance,  during  the  fall  of  1489,  an  individual  identified  only  as  “Son  of  Idika”   (Idikin   syn)   was   given   leave   to   go   to   Crimea.15   In   documents   to   the   Crimean   sultans  Izdemir  and  Devlesh  this  paragraph  had  been  dropped.16  Apparently   that   was   the   reason   for   their   preference   of   Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia   instead   of   Muscovy.17   According   to   the   text   of   invitations   to   the   influential   Crimean   prince   (mirza)  of  the  Shirin  karachi  clan,  Dovletek,18  or  to  the  former  Crimean  khan   Mengli-­‐‑Girey,19   they   were   free   to   continue   their   political   careers   whenever   they   wished.   We   observe   the   same   case   during   the   sojourn   of   the   first   Cri-­‐‑ mean  khan,  Khaji-­‐‑Girey,  in  Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia,  where  he  “had  unsaddled  the   sweaty   warhorse”   (konia   potnogo   …   rozsedlal20),   in   the   words   of   the   grand   prince  of  Lithuania  Alexander  Jagiellon  (1492–1506).   By  the  mid-­‐‑16th  century,  however,  the  Muscovite  grand  prince’s  author-­‐‑ ity  was  becoming  so  great  and  his  corresponding  status  so  enhanced  that  the   option   of   forming   “service”   relationships   with   émigré   Juchids   began   to   emerge.21   In   the   final   decades   of   the   century,   this   became   even   more   pronounced.   High-­‐‑ranking   Horde   émigrés   usually   received   various   land   grants   (po-­‐‑ mest’ia)  or  even  whole  towns  (goroda)  for  their  kormlenie  (feeding).  Originally   Crimeans   or   subjects   of   the   Great   Horde   received   towns   located   along   the   southern   border   of   Muscovy—Mescherskii   Gorodok   (Kasimov),22   and   Ka-­‐‑                                                                                                                           14

 Kennedy,  “The  Juchids  of  Muscovy,”  129.    Sbornik  Imperatorskogo  russkogo  istoricheskogo  obshchestva  (hereafter,  SIRIO)  (St.  Peters-­‐‑ burg,  1867–  ),  41:  58.   16  Ibid.,  41:  100.   17  A.   L.   Khoroshkevich,   Rus’   i   Krym   ot   soiuza   k   protivostoianiiu:   Konets   XV   v.   –   nachalo   XVI  v.  (Moscow:  Éditorial  URSS,  2001),  281.   18  SIRIO,  41:  28.   19  Ibid.,  22.   20  Litovskaia  Metrika,  kniga  zapisei  5,  #  4,  p.  56  (cited  by  Horoshkevich,  Rus’  i  Krym,  278   n.  31).   21  Kennedy,  “The  Juchids  of  Muscovy,”  131.   22  See  Rakhimzianov,  Kasimovskoe  khanstvo.   15

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shira.  The  need  for  defense  of  the  southern  border  was  a  possible  reason  for   this   practice,   since   the   Oka   river   was   a   defensive   line   for   this   area   and   all   these  towns  were  located  along  it.  The  towns  of  Kaluga,  Tarusa,  Serpukhov,   Kashira,   Kolomna,   Kasimov,   and   Aleksin   were   the   original   defense   centers   for   Oka   River   bank.23   Refugees   from   the   Horde   who   were   considered   “mis-­‐‑ trustful”  from  the  Muscovite  point  of  view  usually  received  towns  in  the  cen-­‐‑ ter  of  the  country.  So,  Crimean  sultan  and  former  Kazanian  khan  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   received  Iur’ev-­‐‑Pol’skii  in  1508.     The   social   status   accorded   to   high-­‐‑ranking   Crimean   and   Great   Horde   émigrés  in  Lithuania  was  generally  similar  to  the  status  accorded  to  the  same   groups  in  Muscovy.24  They  received  towns  near  the  capitol  or  some  other  big   city.  Huge  land-­‐‑ownerships  were  awarded  to  the  son  of  former  Crimean  khan   Nur-­‐‑Daulet   (name   lost),   who   stayed   in   Lithuania   after   his   father’s   move   to   Muscovy   (after   the   stay   in   Lithuania).   This   son   of   Nur-­‐‑Daulet   became   a   founder  of  the  Punskii  princely  dynasty.  He  owned  lands  in  the  Trotskii  and   Novogrudskii  districts.25   There  are  obvious  differences  in  the  formal  obligations  of  émigré  Juchids   in   Muscovy   and   Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia.   For   instance,   all   émigrés   to   the   Grand   Duchy   of   Lithuania   lost   their   nobility   status   when   leaving   for   the   Grand   Duchy,   as   opposed   to   the   Muscovite   practice.26   In   Muscovy   émigré   Juchids   took   positions   according   to   their   status   in   their   home   territory27—all   late   Golden  Horde  states  (the  Great  Horde,  the  Crimean  khanate  etc.).  Their  status   within  the  system  of  the  grand  prince’s  court  was  higher  than  the  status  of  the   former  appanage  princes.28  High-­‐‑ranking  Crimean  émigrés  in  Muscovy  often   became   close   satellites   of   the   grand   prince’s   dvor   (court).   Thus,   the   situation   was  of  two  kinds.  On  the  one  hand,  Muscovite  grand  princes  became  suzer-­‐‑ ains  for  the  Crimean  Khanate  and  Great  Horde’s  refugees.  On  the  other  hand,   formally  they  still  were  their  vassals  according  to  the  “legal”  ideas  of  the  Pax                                                                                                                             23

 D.  I.  Beliaev,  “O  storozhevoi,  stanichnoi  i  polevoi  sluzhbe  na  pol’skoi  ukraine  Mos-­‐‑ kovskogo   gosudarstva   do   tsaria   Alekseia   Mikhailovicha,”   Chteniia   v   Imperatorskom   obshchestve  istorii  i  drevnostei  rossiiskhikh  pri  Moskovskom  universitete  4  (1846):  5–60;  N.  P.   Pavlov-­‐‑Sil’vanskii,  Gosudarevy  sluzhilye  liudi  (St.  Petersburg,  1909).   24  Khoroshkevich,  Rus’  i  Krym,  299.   25  See   for   details   M.   Kosman,   “Dokumenty   wielkiego   ksiaza   Witolda,”   Studia   źródło-­‐‑ znawcze.   Commentationes   16   (1971):   151.   Cf.   J.   Sobczak,   Położenie   prawne   ludności   tatarskiej   w   Wielkiem   księstwie   Litewskim   (Warsaw:   Państwowe   Wydawnicstwo   Nauk-­‐‑ owe,  1984),  25–26.   26  They  temporarily  maintained  them  only  in  the  middle  of  the  15th  century.   27  A.   A.   Zimin,   “Ivan   Groznyi   i   Simeon   Bekbulatovich   v   1575   g.,”   in   Uchenye   zapiski   Kazanskogo  gosudarstvennogo  pedagogicheskogo  instituta,  vyp.  80:  Iz  istorii  Tatarii,  4  (1970):   143–48.   28  Ibid.  

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Mongolica  (because  they  were  not  Chingissids  by  birth,  as  were  Crimeans  or   Great  Hordians).   Living   in   Muscovy,   some   Crimean   and   Great   Horde   émigrés   remained   Muslims,  others  (a  minority)  converted  to  Christianity.  Those  who  converted   to   Christianity   sometimes   achieved   high   positions   within   the   Muscovite   po-­‐‑ litical  system.  One  impressive  example  of  such  “an  extraordinary  career”29  is   the   social   and   political   ascent   of   the   tsarevich   (sultan)   Khudai-­‐‑Kul—Petr   Ibragimovich.   The  formal  act  of  legal  registration  of  Crimean  and  Great  Horde  refugees’   rules   in   Muscovy   was   called   ustanovlenie   or   osazhdenie   (“establishment”   or   “landing”).   For   example,   the   former   Crimean   khan   Nur-­‐‑Daulet   had   been   “landed”   (osazhden),30   i.e.,   had   been   provided   with   land   grants—with   a   po-­‐‑ mest’e  or  kormlenie.  It  is  clear  that  such  actions  of  the  Muscovite  grand  prince   caused  some  damage  to  the  Muscovite  population.  Muscovite  diplomats  did   not  forget  to  remind  the  Crimean  khan  of  this.  Diplomats  invoked  the  exam-­‐‑ ple  of  the  former  Crimean  khans  Nur-­‐‑Daulet  and  Aidar,  that  Muscovite  grand   price  Ivan  III  “vzial  ikh  k  sobe  i  istomu  …  svoei  zemle  uchinil”  (took  them  to   him  and  caused  damage  to  his  land).31   In  the  Grand  Duchy  of  Lithuania,  all  émigré  Juchids  were  objects  of  law,   not   subjects   (byli   ob”ektami   prava,   a   ne   sub”ektami),   as   evidenced   by   the   uni-­‐‑ lateral   regulation   of   their   status   in   all   relevant   documents   of   the   period.   In   contrast,   Muscovite   rulers   did   not   dare   to   change   the   Tatar   émigré’s   status   from  “subject”  to  “object”  of  law  for  a  long  time.  Here  we  see  the  trace  of  the   “Mongol  yoke.”32     Historians   have   only   one   surviving   document   relating   the   terms   of   “co-­‐‑ operation”  between  the  Muscovite  grand  prince  and  an  émigré  Juchid  Tatar.   It   is   a   treaty   between   Vasilii   III,   grand   prince   of   Muscovy   (1505–33),   and   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif,  khan  of  Kazan’  (1497–1502).  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif  lived  in  Muscovy  from   1502  on.  The  treaty  was  signed  in  December  1508  in  Muscovy.33  A  special  ar-­‐‑ rangement  took  form  between  Vasilii  III  and  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif,  whereby  the  latter   and  his  retinue  resettled  in  Muscovy.  I  propose  that  with  some  restrictions  we   can   extend   the   terms   of   this   particular   agreement   to   most   of   the   treaties   between  the  Muscovite  grand  princes-­‐‑tsars  and  Tatar  residents  in  Muscovite   lands.                                                                                                                             29  Donald   G.   Ostrowski,   “The   Extraordinary   Career   of   Tsarevich   Kudai   Kul/Peter   in   the   Context   of   Relations   between   Muscovy   and   Kazan’,”   in   States,   Societies,   Cultures:   East  and  West:  Essays  in  Honor  of  Jaroslaw  Pelenski,  ed.  Janusz  Duzinkiewicz  (New  York:   Ross  Publishing,  2004),  697–719.   30  SIRIO,  41:  31.   31  Ibid.,  25,  27,  34,  35,  26.   32  Khoroshkevich,  Rus’  i  Krym,  296.   33  This   document   has   been   published   in   Zapiski   Imperatorskogo   Odesskogo   obshchestva   istorii  i  drevnostei  5  (1863):  399–401;  SIRIO,  95:  49–51.  

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The   fact   of   formal   registration   of   Tatar   émigrés’   legal   status   in   Muscovy   (in   the   form   of   bilateral   commitments)   sharply   distinguishes   Muscovy   from   Lithuania.   Unfortunately,   we   do   not   possess   any   document   concerning   rela-­‐‑ tions  between  the  Lithuanian  grand  prince  and  an  émigré  Tatar.  The  status  of   the  émigré  Juchids  in  Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia  was  regulated  only  by  privileis34  of   the   Lithuanian   grand   princes,   beginning   with   the   privilei   of   Vytautas   the   Great   (Witold,   Vitovt)   (1392–1430).   Thus,   we   can   create   our   hypotheses   only   by   employing   analogies.   I   will   compare   the   original   agreement   between   the   Tatar   khan   and   his   Muscovite   suzerain   with   the   agreement   between   the   Lithuanian  grand  prince  (simultaneously  the  Polish  king  from  1447)  Casimir   IV   Jagiellon   (1440–92)   and   his   vassal   Russian   Novosil’skii   and   Odoevskii   princes   (namely   Ivan   Iur’evich,   and   Vasilii   and   Fedor   Mikhailovichi)   (dated   1459).35  Of  course,  these  analogies  are  not  perfect  ones—in  their  political  sta-­‐‑ tus   Juchids   (Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   was   a   real   one)   formally   maintained   much   higher   positions  than  the  Muscovite  dynasty  of  Riurikovichi-­‐‑Danilovichi  (Vasilii  III)   within  the  system  of  Pax  Mongolica.  But,  in  fact,  namely  Vasilii  was  a  suzerain,   and  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif  was  a  kind  of  a  special  vassal  of  the  Muscovite  grand  prince.   Concerning   relations   between   the   Lithuanian   grand   prince   and   the   Russian   Novosil’skii  and  Odoevskii  princes,  there  was  no  such  dilemma  in  their  mu-­‐‑ tual   status.   The   Lithuanian   grand   prince   had,   undoubtedly,   a   higher   status   than  the  Novosil’skii  and  Odoevskii  princes.   The   terms   of   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s   agreement   are   dated   to   1508,   a   rather   late   period   in   terms   of   the   situation   between   the   Muscovites   and   the   Tatar   political  world.  That  is  why  they  give  us  the  opportunity  to  trace  the  outlines   of  the  relationship  between  the  Muscovite  suzerain  and  the  Tatar  vassal.     In   the   deed   written   by   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   he   is   called   a   “tsar”   (khan),   not   a   sultan,   because   previously   he   had   been   a   Kazanian   khan.   Use   of   this   term   stressed   that   according   to   the   traditional   political   correlation   in   the   Steppe36   world,   he,   as   a   Chingissid,   formally   had   a   higher   status   than   a   Muscovite   grand   prince.   In   the   deed   by   the   Novosil’skii   and   Odoevskii   princes,   the   Polish  king  and  Lithuanian  grand  prince  Casimir  is  called  “korol’,”  “gospodar,”   “velikii   kniaz’”   (king,   master,   grand   prince).   In   the   deed   by   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   the   Muscovite   grand   prince   Vasilii   III   is   given   the   title   “velikii   kniaz’”   (grand   prince).   For   the   Novosil’skii   and   Odoevskii   princes,   King   Casimir   was   a   “gospodar”   (master,   lord),   while   for   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   the   Muscovite   grand   prince   was   just   a   “brat”   (brother).   Thus,   King   Casimir   was   indisputably   recognized                                                                                                                             34

 A   privilei   is   an   act   regulating   the   state   system   and   social   estate   privileges   in   Lithuania.     35  This   document   has   been   published   in   Dukhovnye   i   dogovornye   gramoty   velikikh   i   udel’nykh   kniazei   ХIV–ХVI   vv.   (hereafter,   DDG),   ed.   L.V.   Cherepnin   (Moscow   and   Leningrad,  1950),  192–93.   36  I.e.,  Tatar,  or  Mongol.  

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as   a   suzerain,   and   the   Muscovite   grand   prince   was   positioned   as   a   political   figure  equal  to  a  Juchid.     In  the  Novosil’skii  and  Odoevskii  deed  we  read:  “bili  esmo  cholom  …  aby   nas  prinial  v  sluzhbu”  (we  asked  you  humbly…  to  get  us  into  your  service);   in  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s,  “dal  esmi  rotu”  (I  have  given  you  an  oath).  As  for  “chelobit’e”   (“bili  esmo  cholom…”),  the  meaning  of  this  term  is  rather  clear—it  signified  a   humble   request   during   the   Middle   Ages.   The   term   rota   (“dal   esmi   rotu”)   meant   an   oath,   no   more   than   that.   Thus,   according   to   this   terminology   the   status   of   the   Novosil’skii   and   Odoevskii   princes   in   their   relations   with   Casi-­‐‑ mir  was  lower  than  the  status  of  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif  in  his  relations  with  Vasilii.   The   Odoevskii   princes   promised   “sluzhiti   verno   vo   vsem,   bez   vsyakoe   khitrosti,  i  vo  vsem  poslushnym  byti”  (to  serve  faithfully  in  all  matters,  with-­‐‑ out  any  cunning,  and  obey  in  all  things).  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif  promised  “byti  poslush-­‐‑ nu   vo   vsem”   (to   obey   [Vasilii]   in   all   things)   as   well   as   “hoteti   mi   [Abdyl-­‐‑ Latif—B.R.]  dobra  k  Vasiliiu  i  ego  detem  i  ikh  zemliam  v  pravdu  bez  hitrosti”   (to  wish  well  to  Vasilii  and  his  children  and  to  their  lands  truly  and  without   cunning.)   The   expression   hoteti   dobra   (to   wish   well)   was   usually   used   in   relations   between   rulers   whose   status   was   equal.37   Moreover,   the   document   by  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif  shows  avoidance  of  the  terms  “service”  and  “to  serve.”  Service   relations   seem   to   have   been   taken   on   only   when   both   parties   recognized   a   clear  disparity  in  their  relative  status.  Recognition  of  such  a  disparity  does  not   seem   to   have   emerged   in   Muscovite   grand   princely-­‐‑Juchid   relations   before   the   mid-­‐‑1500s.   In   this   situation   a   possible   resolution   was   to   establish   a   rela-­‐‑ tionship   of   “obedience.”   In   contrast   to   “service,”   this   relationship   did   not   involve  any  formal  expressions  of  abject  self-­‐‑abasement,  such  as  the  use  of  the   term   bound   servant   or   the   act   of   kneeling   in   deference.   One   may   suggest,   according   to   this   terminology,   that   a   Juchid   might   expect   some   autonomy   while  within  the  Muscovite  grand  prince’s  realm.   King  Casimir’s  obligation  toward  the  Novosil’skie  and  Odoevskie  princes   was  “vo  chesti,  i  v  zhalovan’i,  i  v  dokonchan’i  derzhati”  (to  keep  with  honor,   and   with   material   support,   and   in   agreement).   In   the   term   zhalovanie   we   see   clearly   the   essence   of   this   paragraph.   Only   a   suzerain   could   zhalovat’   (grant,   provide   material   support).   We   recall   a   later   expression   by   Ivan   IV   the   Ter-­‐‑ rible:   “Russkie   obladateli   zhalovati   i   kazniti   vol’ny   byli   podvlastnykh”   (the   Russian  masters  were  free  to  grant  and  punish  their  dependent  subjects).38  There   is   no   such   paragraph   in   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s   deed,   perhaps   because   he   was   not   a   bound  servant  of  Vasilii  and  Vasilii  was  not  his  unreserved  suzerain?   The  next  part  of  the  deed  by  the  Novosil’skii  and  Odoevskii  princes  con-­‐‑ cerns   financial   affairs   between   the   master   and   his   servants.   The   latter   must   pay   “poletnoe   …   po   starine”   (the   annual   tribute   …   in   accordance   with   past                                                                                                                             37

 DDG,  123,  127,  160,  165,  187,  203,  208,  212.    Poslaniia   Ivana   Groznogo,   ed.   V.   P.   Adrianova-­‐‑Peretts   (Moscow:   Izd-­‐‑vo   Akademii   nauk  SSSR,  1951),  44.  

38

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practice).  There  is  no  such  paragraph  in  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s  deed.  This  may  suggest   that  he  did  not  pay  such  tributes  to  the  Muscovite  grand  prince.   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif  was  not  to  correspond  with  anyone,  in  written  or  oral  form,   without  the  permission  of  the  grand  prince.  If  his  brother,  Muhammad-­‐‑Amin,   or  any  other  Tatar  khan,  or  anyone  sent  him  a  messenger,  he  was  to  report  to   Vasilii   on   this   matter   immediately.   In   the   event   of   the   arrival   of   a   Crimean   envoy  to  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif,  he  was  to  report  to  the  Muscovite  grand  prince  immedi-­‐‑ ately.   He   was   to   live   in   the   place   provided   for   him.   He   was   not   to   leave   the   place   of   his   residence   (the   town   of   Iur’ev-­‐‑Polskii)   without   permission.   The   ban  on  external  political  activity  on  the  part  of  the  Tatar  khan  was  one  of  the   most  important  issues  in  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s  deed.   There   is   no   paragraph   about   the   Muscovite   grand   prince’s   obligation   to   defend   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   from   enemies.   In   contrast,   according   to   the   terms   of   the   Novosil’skii   and   Odoevskii   deed,   the   Lithuanian   grand   prince   had   to   “boro-­‐‑ niti”   (defend)   his   service   princes   from   any   enemy   (“ot   vsiakogo,   kak   i   svoego”).  Again,  we  see  here  signs  of  the  former  Kazanian  khan’s  power  (he   did  not  need  to  be  defended),  as  well  as  evidence  of  his  equality  in  status  with   the  Muscovite  grand  prince.   For   all   that,   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   could   participate   in   military   campaigns   organ-­‐‑ ized  by  the  Muscovite  grand  prince—“poidu  s  toboiu  na  tvoe  delo”  (I  will  go   with  you  on  your  business)—or  could  be  sent  on  a  military  campaign  alone— “kude  odnogo  menia  poshlesh’  na  svoe  delo”  (where  you  will  send  me  alone   for  your  business).  This  chapter  equated  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif  with  any  other  vassal  of   the   Muscovite   grand   prince—their   main   duty   was   participation   in   military   campaigns  of  their  suzerain.39   The   deed   by   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   stated   the   personal   immunity   and   inviolability   of  the  personal  property  of  the  Muscovite  population:  “hodia  po  vashim  zem-­‐‑ liam,  ne  imat’  i  ne  grabit’  svoeiu  rukoiu  nichego,  ni  nad  hrest’ianinom,  ni  nad   kakim  ne  uchinit’  nikakovy  sily”  (passing  through  your  lands,  not  to  pillage   at  all,  and  not  to  violate  on  your  people  at  all).  A  special  paragraph  dedicated   to   religious   tolerance   was   also   added:   “A   kto   uchinit   nad   khrest’ianskim   bogomol’stvom,   nad   Bozhieiu   tserkovi’iu   kakovo   poruganie,   ili   nad   khrest’ianstvom   nad   kem   nibudi   uchinit’   kakovu   silu,   i   mne   za   togo   za   likhago  ne  stoiati,  po  toi  rote  ego  vydati,  a  kto  ego  nad  tem  nasil’stvom  ub’et,   v   tom   viny   net,   togo   dlya   mne   roty   ne   slozhiti”   (And   who   [Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s   Muslim  retinue—B.R.]  abuses  Christian  clergy  and  God’s  Church,  or  outrages   Christianity   in   some   way,   and   I   [Abdyl-­‐‑Latif]   will   not   defend   this   evil   man,   and  will  deliver  him  up  according  to  this  treaty,  and  if  he  is  killed  during  this   abuse,   there   will   be   no   guilt   there,   and   this   treaty   will   not   be   cancelled   be-­‐‑ cause  of  this  [event]).  Here  we  see  some  possible  limitations  for  conflicts  be-­‐‑ tween   different   confessions.   Limitations   for   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s   military   detach-­‐‑                                                                                                                           39

 Khoroshkevich,  Rus’  i  Krym,  291.  

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ment,  while  in  Muscovite  territory,  were  among  the  most  important  issues  of   the  deed  by  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif.   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   guaranteed   personal   immunity   for   envoys   of   the   Muscovite   grand  prince  traveling  to  the  late  Golden  Horde  states  or  elsewhere.  If  a  Rus-­‐‑ sian  who  escaped  from  a  Tatar  khanate  was  passing  through  the  territory  con-­‐‑ trolled  by  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif,  the  latter  had  to  guarantee  personal  immunity  for  this   Russian:   “nashim   kazakam   tekh   ne   imati,   ni   grabiti,   otpushati   dobrovol’no”   (our  kazaks  should  not  rob  these  people  and  should  let  them  go).   It  is  not  clear  who  was  to  solve  the  problems  within  the  dvor  (retinue)  of   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif.   I   suppose   that   it   was   an   internal   affair   of   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   and   his   Muslim  retinue.  In  contrast,  we  find  such  a  paragraph  in  the  Novosil’skii  and   Odoevskii   deed.   The   final   judge   in   such   matters   was   the   Polish   king   and   Lithuanian  grand  prince  Casimir.   The   legal   status   of   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s   land   domain,   the   town   of   Iur’ev,   is   unclear.  We  cannot  determine  either  the  taxes  to  be  collected  by  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   from   the   local   population,   or   the   taxes   to   be   paid   by   him   to   the   Muscovite   grand  prince.  Generally,  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s  document  absolutely  lacks  any  clauses   pertaining  to  legal  proceedings.  On  the  contrary,  the  deed  by  the  Novosil’skie   and  Odoevskie  princes  treats  these  matters  in  detail.  The  superior  judge  in  all   cases  was  the  Polish  king.  We  can  suggest,  by  analogy,  that  in  the  Muscovite   case,  too,  the  superior  judge  was  the  Muscovite  grand  prince.  But  this  is  only   a   suggestion.   An   unspecified   sudebnik40   (code   of   law)   had   been   given   to   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif.  What  was  this  sudebnik?  Possibly,  it  was  the  universal  Sudebnik   of   1497   (the   so-­‐‑called   “Sudebnik   of   Ivan   III”).   In   this   case,   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   func-­‐‑ tioned   as   governor   for   the   entire   population   of   Iur’ev-­‐‑Polskii,   including   the   Orthodox  (!).  If  not,  it  is  unclear  why  this  sudebnik  was  issued  to  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif,   since   he   could   judge   his   Muslim   retinue   only   according   to   the   norms   of   the   Sharia.     Specific   provisions   for   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s   “ulans,   princes,   and   kazaks”   (Mus-­‐‑ lim   retinue)   were   made.   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   agreed   to   maintain   friendly   relations   with  Janai  in  Meshcherskii  Gorodok  (Kasimov)  and  with  Shig-­‐‑Avliar  in  Suro-­‐‑ zhik,  and  with  any  other  Tatar  khans  or  sultans  who  might  come  to  Muscovy,   and   promised   neither   to   accept   in   his   service   any   ulans,   princes,   or   kazaks   from   the   retinues   of   such   Tatar   residents   of   Vasilii,   nor   to   permit   any   of   his   own   retinue   to   be   accepted   into   their   service.   A   similar   restriction   regulated   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s  relations  with  Vasilii:  neither  of  them  could  accept  former  vas-­‐‑ sals   of   the   other   into   his   own   service,   with   the   interesting   exception   that   Vasilii  retained  the  right  to  accept  into  his  service  members  of  the  four  ruling  

                                                                                                                          40

 Gosudarstvennyi   arkhiv   Rossii   XVI   stoletiia:   Opyt   rekonstruktsii,   ed.   A.   A.   Zimin   and     L.  V.  Cherepnin,  3  vols.  (Moscow:  Akademiia  nauk  SSSR,  Institut  istorii  SSSR,  1978),  1:   61.  

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karachi   clans   of   the   late   Golden   Horde   states.41   Thus,   not   only   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   himself   was   presented   as   a   subject   of   law   (sub”ekt   prava),   but   his   Muslim   retinue   also.   In   the   Lithuanian   case,   only   the   Novosil’skie   and   Odoevskie   princes  themselves  were  such  subjects,  not  their  retinues.   The  main  idea  of  Abdyl-­‐‑Latif’s  deed  is  the  ban  on  external  political  activ-­‐‑ ity   by   the   Tatar   khan   and   the   imposition   of   certain   limitations   on   Abdyl-­‐‑ Latif’s   military   detachment   while   in   Muscovite   territory.   Abdyl-­‐‑Latif   was   positioned,  at  least  formally,  as  a  political  figure  equal  to  the  Muscovite  grand   prince   (brat).   He   was   not   a   servant   of   Vasilii   and   Vasilii   was   not   his   unre-­‐‑ served  suzerain.  Though  living  in  Muscovy,  he  continued  to  enjoy  a  degree  of   political   and   social   autonomy.   In   the   Grand   Duchy   of   Lithuania,   all   émigré   Juchids  were  objects  of  law,  not  subjects  (byli  ob”ektami  prava,  a  ne  sub”ektami),   i.e.,   they   were   themselves   subject   to   laws   made   by   others.   In   contrast,   for   a   long   period   of   time,   Muscovite   rulers   did   not   dare   to   change   the   status   of   Tatar  émigrés  from  “subject”  of  law  to  “object.”   š  ›   Muscovy  competed  with  Lithuania-­‐‑Ruthenia  for  the  succession  to  all  of  Rus’.   Although   Vytautas’s   designs   proved   to   be   a   failure,   similar   expansionist   schemes   were   more   successfully   carried   out   by   Russian   grand   princes   and   tsars   (namely,   Vasilii   III   and   his   son   Ivan   IV   the   Terrible)   in   their   struggle   against  the  east.  The  ethnic  and  religious  composition  of  both  the  Muscovite   and  Lithuanian-­‐‑Ruthenian  states  was  more  complex  than  Russian  and  Soviet   historians  would  have  preferred.  Due  possibly  to  close  relations  between  the   Muscovite  grand  princes  and  high-­‐‑ranking  Tatars,  over  the  course  of  the  15th   and  16th  centuries,  the  status  and  roles  of  the  Muscovite  grand  princes  within   the   system   of   Pax   Mongolica   rose   by   degrees,   culminating   in   the   grand   prince’s  assumption  of  the  highest  position  within  the  Steppe  political  system,   that  of  “great  sovereign  khan.”42  The  rapid  rise  of  the  grand  prince  reflected   Muscovy’s  emergence  during  this  period  as  the  ascendant  imperial  power  in   Central   Eurasia,   and   Lithuania’s   failure   to   act   in   this   particular   imperial   expansionist  role.  From  my  point  of  view,  there  was  greater  secular  tolerance   and  political  respect  for  Muslim  Tatar  dynasts  in  Muscovy  than  in  Lithuania.   It   is   possible   that   this   phenomenon   influenced   the   future   political   develop-­‐‑ ment  of  two  states.    

                                                                                                                          41  “a  vam  ot  menia  liudei  ne  prinimati,  oprich  Shirinova  rodu  i  Baarynova  i  Arginova  i   Kipchakova”  (SIRIO,  95:  51).   42  Kennedy,  “The  Juchids  of  Muscovy,”  1.  

     

The Don Interpolation: An Imagined Turning Point in Russian Relations with the Tatar World   Brian J. Boeck  

This   article   will   scrutinize   a   small   cluster   of   shared   characteristics   in   two   texts,  the  History  of  the  Scythians  by  Andrei  Lyzlov  and  the  History  of  the  Grand   Prince   of   Moscow   attributed   to   prince   Andrei   Kurbskii,   in   order   to   provide   glimpses   of   a   lost   source.   In   contrast   to   studies   that   have   tried   to   prove   that   Lyzlov   borrowed   from   Kurbskii,   this   study   proposes   that   both   texts   demon-­‐‑ strate   borrowings   from,   as   well   as   interpolations   to,   a   non-­‐‑extant   common   source.1  I  argue  that  even  small  passages  in  well-­‐‑known  works  can  shed  new   light  on  the  construction  of  historical  narratives  in  17th-­‐‑century  Russia.   I   am   delighted   to   offer   in   Don   Ostrowski’s   honor   an   article   that   touches   upon  several  topics  that  he  has  so  capably  addressed  in  numerous  studies:  the   history   of   relations   between   Russia   and   the   Tatar   world,   the   problem   of   re-­‐‑ constructing  texts,  and  the  value  of  meticulous  technical  analysis  of  multiple   sources.  Moreover,  he  commented  on  both  texts  under  consideration  here  in   an  overview  of  the  scholarly  reception  of  Edward  L.  Keenan’s  textual  work.2   In  that  article  Don  noted  that  the  hypothesis  of  a  common,  non-­‐‑extant  source   had  not  yet  been  supported  with  either  extensive  evidence  or  argumentation.     While  the  dating  of  both  texts  is  problematic,  the  authenticity  of  the  His-­‐‑ tory   of   the   Grand   Prince   of   Moscow   remains   sharply   contested.3   Although   the                                                                                                                             1

 For   an   exposition   of   the   traditional   view   and   additional   bibliography,   see   A.   P.   Bogdanov,   Ot   letopisaniia   k   issledovaniiu:   Russkie   istoriki   poslednei   chetverti   XVII   veka   (Moscow:  RISC,  1995),  431–33.  For  the  most  significant  study  on  Lyzlov  to  date,  con-­‐‑ sult   David   H.   Das,   “History-­‐‑Writing   and   Late   Muscovite   Court   Culture:   A   Study   of   Andrei   Lyzlov’s   History   of   the   Scythians”   (Ph.D.   diss.,   University   of   Washington-­‐‑ Seattle,  1991).  See  especially  Das,  “History-­‐‑Writing,”  223–93,  for  a  significant  consider-­‐‑ ation  of  comparisons  between  Lyzlov  and  Kurbskii.     2  Donald   Ostrowski,   “‘Closed   Circles’:   Edward   L.   Keenan’s   Early   Textual   Work   and   the  Semiotics  of  Response,”  Canadian  Slavonic  Papers  48,  no.  3–4  (2006):  247–68.   3  Due  to  space  limitations,  it  will  not  be  possible  to  discuss  here  Konstantin  Erusalim-­‐‑ skii’s  recent  attempt  to  establish  the  relationship  between  the  two  texts  or  evaluate  his   suggestion  that  Lyzlov  may  have  somehow  been  involved  in  the  production  of  miscel-­‐‑ lanies  containing  the  later  versions  of  the  history  attributed  to  Kurbskii.  I  plan  to  treat   these   topics   in   a   monograph   that   I   am   completing.   See   K.   Iu.   Erusalimskii,   Sbornik   Kurbskogo,  2  vols.  (Moscow:  Znak,  2009),  1:  111–22.     Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 129–38.

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History   of   Scythians   (henceforth   SH)   was   completed   by   Lyzlov   in   1692,   the   dating   of   its   constituent   parts   is   unclear.4   Some   chapters   of   the   book   were   probably  written  as  early  as  the  1670s,  while  others  may  have  been  completed   significantly  later.  Since  there  are  serious  grounds  for  doubting  the  dating  of   the   History   of   the   Grand   Prince   of   Moscow   (henceforth   HI)   to   the   16th   century   and  for  questioning  its  attribution  to  Prince  Andrei  Kurbskii,  I  will  refer  to  its   author   here   as   Pseudo-­‐‑Kurbskii.   Because   it   is   impossible   within   the   limited   confines   of   this   article   to   consider   even   a   few   of   the   technical   features   that   make  a  16th-­‐‑century  dating  of  the  text  improbable,  for  the  sake  of  argument   this  article  will  adopt  Edward  L.  Keenan’s  position  that  the  text  dates  to  the   epoch  of  its  earliest  extant  copies  (around  1670).5     An Introduction or a Conclusion? Because   the   cluster   of   shared   characteristics   includes   elements   of   content,   structure   and   conceptual   representation,   it   provides   crucial   evidence   about   the  common  source  that  I  believe  was  used  by  the  creators  of  both  SH  and  HI.   In  both  texts  the  common  cluster  is  positioned  as  a  boundary  between  distinct   sections  of  a  larger  work.  In  HI  it  serves  as  a  transition  from  the  introductory   section,  which  is  based  upon  other  sources,  to  the  long  section  on  the  Kazan’   campaign  that  it  shares  with  SH.  The  cluster  was  therefore  employed  to  patch   a  seam  between  two  narratives.  In  SH  the  cluster  is  embedded  in  the  conclud-­‐‑ ing   section   of   a   chapter   devoted   to   the   conquests   of   Kazan’   and   Astrakhan’.   Although   compact   in   HI,   occupying   roughly   a   paragraph,   the   cluster   is   dis-­‐‑ tributed  over  four  paragraphs  in  SI.6     Both   texts   emphasize   that   Russia   confronted   three   great   (velikiia)   and   powerful  (sil’nye)  non-­‐‑Christian  tsardoms  (tsarstva).  Both  invoke  Russia’s  his-­‐‑ tory  of  subjugation  to  the  Tatars,  mention  expansion  to  the  Caspian  Sea,  and   refer   to   the   Crimean   Khanate   by   a   designation   that   is   unusual   for   Russian   sources:   the   Perekop   Horde   (Perekopskaia   orda).   Both   note   that   previously   much  of  the  world  had  more  than  trembled  (ne  tokmo  trepetala)  in  fear  in  the   face  of  such  adversaries  and  that  Christian  lands  had  been  devastated  (pusto-­‐‑ sheny).   Both   mention   the   founding   of   towns   in   recovered   lands   and   portray                                                                                                                             4

 Andrei  Lyzlov,  Skifskaia  istoriia,  ed.  E.  V.  Chistiakova,  text  and  commentary  by  A.  P.   Bogdanov   (Moscow:   Nauka,   1990).   Hereafter   references   to   Lyzlov   will   cite   leaves   in   the  Synodal  manuscript  published  by  Chistiakova  and  Bogdanov.     5  Edward  L.  Keenan,  “Putting  Kurbskii  in  His  Place,  or:  Observations  and  Suggestions   Concerning  the  Place  of  the  History  of  the  Grand  Prince  of  Muscovy  in  the  History  of   Muscovite  Literary  Culture,”  Forschungen  zur  osteuropäischen  Geschichte  24  (1978):  131– 61.     6  The  cluster  can  be  found  in  John  L.  I.  Fennell,  ed.  and  trans.,  Prince  A.  M.  Kurbsky’s   History  of  Ivan  IV  (Cambridge:  Cambridge  University  Press,  1965);  24,  and  Lyzlov,  Skif-­‐‑ skaia  istoriia,  ll.  122–23ob.  

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the   change   in   Russia’s   position   as   due   to   the   grace   of   God   (blagodatiiu   Boga)   and   the   help   of   God   (pomoshchiiu   Bozhieiu).   Both   allude   to   a   longer   narrative   (povest’)   in   connection   with   most   glorious   (preslavnye)   events.   The   ending   of   the  section  is  obscure,  because,  as  I  will  suggest  below,  both  witnesses  intro-­‐‑ duced  interpolations  that  reflect  other  sources.     It   is   not   clear   whether   in   the   common   source   the   three   Tatar   kingdoms   were   actually   conquered   or   just   successfully   challenged   in   battle.   Therefore   the   dating   of   the   cluster   is   uncertain.   HI   refers   to   triumphal   expansion   un-­‐‑ folding   over   a   short   period   of   time   (malye   leta).   In   SH   the   cluster   reflects   the   results  of  the  entire  reign  of  Ivan  IV,  including  the  conquest  of  Siberia,  but  it   is  positioned  after  Lyzlov’s  narrative  of  the  unsuccessful  Ottoman  campaign   against  Astrakhan’  of  1569.  Since  SH  and  HI  both  allude  to  military  successes   against  the  Crimean  Khanate,  the  cluster  could  reflect  actual  events  that  took   place  in  either  1559  or  1572.     An   odd   chronological   disjuncture   suggests   that   the   cluster   was   reposi-­‐‑ tioned  from  a  later  section  in  the  common  narrative  to  an  earlier  section  in  HI.   The  cluster  comes  after  a  segment  of  narrative  in  HI  that  is  devoted  to  events   that   took   place   around   1547.   It   is   followed   by   the   start   of   Tsar   Ivan’s   cam-­‐‑ paign   against   Kazan’   in   1553.   The   only   phrase   that   provides   a   transition   be-­‐‑ tween   the   cluster   and   the   start   of   the   Kazan’   campaign   reads:   “Now   having   seen  such  ineffable  bountiful  mercies  of  God  which  came  to  pass  so  quickly,   the   tsar   himself,   burning   with   zeal,   began   in   person   to   take   up   arms   against   his  enemies…”7  Then  it  narrates  the  beginning  of  the  campaign  that  resulted   in  the  conquest  of  Kazan’.  The  phrase  “came  to  pass  so  quickly”  (tak  vskore  by-­‐‑ vaemyia)  corresponds  to  malye  leta  in  HI’s  rendition  of  the  cluster.     The  seam  between  two  passages,  which  were  probably  taken  from  differ-­‐‑ ent  sections  of  the  common  source,  was  patched  awkwardly  in  HI.  It  follows   from  the  structure  of  HI  that  first  Ivan  IV  witnessed  a  series  of  events  that  ac-­‐‑ tually  transpired  only  later  in  his  reign,  such  as  a  series  of  great  victories  over   Tatars   that   expanded   the   boundaries   of   Russia   and   encompassed   the   Don   region,  then  he  was  inspired  to  do  battle  against  Muslims  himself  and  march   to  Kazan’  in  1552.  As  it  is  presented  in  HI,  the  cluster  seems  to  reflect  the  pe-­‐‑ riod  from  1553–59,  when  Russia  conquered  Kazan’  and  Astrakhan’  and  for  a   brief  time  successfully  confronted  the  Crimean  Khanate’s  power  in  southern   Ukraine  and  the  North  Caucasus.     Since  both  SH  and  HI  share  a  few  additional  fragments  of  common  narra-­‐‑ tive   pertaining   to   the   campaigns   against   Crimea   of   1559   led   by   Dmytro   Vishnevets’kyi  and  Danilo  Adashev,  the  cluster  might  have  served  as  a  con-­‐‑ cluding  section  for  a  narrative  about  the  1550s  in  the  common  source.  If  this   was  the  case,  then  Lyzlov  moved  it  to  a  slightly  later  section  in  his  history  due   to  his  decision  to  narrate  the  failed  Ottoman  campaign  to  conquer  Astrakhan’                                                                                                                             7

 Hereafter   English   translations   are   from   Fennell,   History,   24;   Erusalimskii,   Sbornik   Kurbskogo,  2:  20–21.  

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in   1569,   which   he   based   in   part   on   a   Polish   source.   In   HI   the   fragments   devoted   to   1559   actions   against   Crimea   were   displaced   to   the   Livonian   war   section   of   the   larger   narrative.   A   general   reference   to   the   Don   region   in   this   period  could  make  sense,  since  the  region  served  as  a  staging  ground  for  the   1559   campaigns,   but   as   we   will   see   below   HI   advances   much   bolder   claims   about  the  Don.     The Play of Personality: Interpolations vs. Omissions. The   limitations   of   traditional   textual   scholarship   become   apparent   when   scholars   are   confronted   with   ideologically   motivated   changes   to   texts   rather   than   haphazard   scribal   mistakes   or   patterns   of   “corrupt”   copying.   Debates   about   reconstructing   hypothetical   common   sources   can   rage   inconclusively   for   decades,   while   readings   that   some   scholars   classify   as   original   are   sum-­‐‑ marily   dismissed   by   others   as   later   interpolations.8   When   two   witnesses   di-­‐‑ verge,   testimonies   that   are   present   in   only   one   text   present   a   conundrum.   Readings  that  are  absent  in  one  text  might  represent  either  omissions  or  non-­‐‑ interpolations,   i.e.,   more   faithful   renditions   of   the   condition   of   original   in   comparison  with  modified  versions  of  it.  If  these  divergences  can  be  linked  to   consistent   patterns   or   authorial   proclivities,   however,   it   becomes   possible   to   identify,  and  often  explain,  interpolations.     Because  Lyzlov  and  Pseudo-­‐‑Kurbskii  are  our  only  witnesses  to  the  com-­‐‑ mon   source,   we   can   only   identify   the   features   of   the   text   that   both   chose   to   transmit  to  us.  Nonetheless  divergences  are  highly  revealing,  especially  when   they  connect  to  consistent  patterns  in  the  larger  narratives  of  each  author.  In   Housman’s  terminology  this  would  be  a  textual  problem  that  is  “complicated   by  the  play  of  personality.”9     Lyzlov’s  major  interpolations  to  the  common  cluster  are  consistent.  They   reflect  his  fascination  with  Tatar  history  and  his  editorial  decision  to  position   the   cluster   between   the   sections   of   his   history   devoted   to   the   Khanate   of   Kazan’  and  the  Crimean  Khanate.  In  accordance  with  his  expansive  overview   of  interaction  between  Russia  and  the  steppe,  he  added  a  statement  about  the   former  prowess  of  Batu,  Mamai,  and  Temur.  He  also  directed  readers’  atten-­‐‑ tion  to  the  link  between  this  interpolation  and  previous  sections  of  his  text  (by   using   the   phrase   “iako   o   tom   vyshe”   to   indicate   this   relationship).   He   also                                                                                                                             8

 See,   for   example,   the   debate   that   has   raged   for   decades   in   New   Testament   scholar-­‐‑ ship  over  how  to  interpret  a  cluster  of  divergent  readings.  Michael  Wade  Martin,  “De-­‐‑ fending  the  ‘Western  Non-­‐‑Interpolations’:  The  Case  for  Anti-­‐‑Separationist  Tendenz  in   the  Longer  Alexandrian  Readings,”  Journal  of  Biblical  Literature  124,  no.  2  (2005):  269– 94.   9  A.   E.   Housman,   “The   Application   of   Thought   to   Textual   Criticism,”   in   Houseman,   Collected  Poems  and  Selected  Prose,  ed.  and  intro.  Christopher  Rickes  (London:  Penguin,   1988),  326.  

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framed   the   burning   geopolitical   issue   of   the   late   17th   century,   the   struggle   with  the  Crimean  Khanate,  in  terms  of  the  larger  struggle  between  Russia  and   the   Tatar   world.   Although   the   task   of   subjugating   all   Tatars   to   Russian   rule   was  still  incomplete,  he  reminded  readers  that  there  was  a  time  when  Crimea   was  one  of  the  lesser  threats  that  Russia  faced.     In  three  places  Lyzlov  added  the  term  “Golden  Horde.”  These  interpola-­‐‑ tions   are   consistent   with   his   use   of   the   term   in   other   parts   of   his   text.   They   also  reflect  one  of  his  known  sources:  Kazanskii  letopisets.  He  also  invoked  the   term   to   draw   attention   to   the   ignominious   origins   of   the   Crimean   Khanate,   stating:  “When  the  Golden  Horde  was  a  horde  and  Kazan’  a  tsardom,  Crimea   was   just   a   village   of   theirs.”10   This   fascination   with   the   notion   of   a   Golden   Horde  appears  to  be  particularly  common  in  Russian  belles  lettres  of  the  mid-­‐‑ dle  decades  of  the  17th  century  and  shows  up  in  a  variety  of  literary  and  dip-­‐‑ lomatic  texts.11     In   contrast   to   Lyzlov’s   Tatarological   interpolations,   Pseudo-­‐‑Kurbskii   in-­‐‑ troduces  a  Don  interpolation.  He  concludes  the  section  linked  to  the  common   cluster  by  adding  an  enigmatic  declaration  about  the  Don  region:  “Where  pre-­‐‑ viously,  in  devastated  Russian  districts,  there  had  been  Tatar  winter-­‐‑quarters,   there  fortresses  and  towns  were  built.  And  not  only  did  the  horses  of  the  sons   of   Russia   drink   from   the   flowing   rivers   in   Asia,   from   the   Tanais   and   Kuala   and  others,  but  even  fortresses  [grady]  were  built  there.”12  This  interpolation   amplifies   themes   in   the   common   cluster   such   as   Russian   expansion   and   the   reversal  of  fortune  between  Russia  and  Tatar  world.  Its  reference  to  “sons  of   Russia”   and   allusion   to   drinking   from   the   Don   might   also   be   construed   to   represent  vague  echoes  of  tales  of  Dmitrii  Donskoi’s  epic  battle  of  the  Don.   Curiously,  this  statement  is  not  connected  to  any  events  that  are  narrated   in  the  rest  of  HI  or  clearly  identifiable  in  other  sources.  The  ambiguity  of  the   first  sentence  of  the  interpolation  makes  it  difficult  to  pin  down  any  specifics.                                                                                                                             10

 “Egda   biashe   Zolotaia   orda   Ordoiu   i   Kazan’   tsarstvom,   togda   Krym   derevneiu   ikh   biashe.”   11  For  examples,  see  V.  V.  Iakovlev,  Ironichnye  “poslaniia”  Posol’skogo  prikaza  turetskomu   sultanu:  Tiurkologicheskii  sbornik  2002  Rossiia  i  tiurkskii  mir  (Moscow:  Vostochnaia  litera-­‐‑ tura,  2003),  405;  S.  Belokurov,  “Posol’stvo  d’iaka  Fedota  Elchina  i  sviashchennika  Pavla   Zakhar’eva  v  Dadianskuiu  zemliu  (1639–40),”  Chteniia  v  Imperatorskom  obshchestve  isto-­‐‑ rii  i  drevnostei  rossiiskikh  pri  Moskovskom  universitete,  bk.  2  (1887):  369;  S.  K.  Rosovetskii,   “Povest’  o  zhenit’be  Ivana  Groznogo  na  Marii  Temriukovne,”  Pamiatniki  kul’tury:  Nov-­‐‑ ye  otkrytiia.  Ezhegodnik  1975  (Moscow:  Nauka,  1976),  31–34;  Andrei  Popov,  Izbornik  sla-­‐‑ vianskikh  i  russkikh  sochinenii  i  statei  vnesennykh  v  khronografy  russkoi  redaktsii  (Moscow,   1879),  465,  517.   On   the   Juchid   Ulus,   see   Uli   Schamiloglu,   “The   Golden   Horde,”   in   The   Turks,   2:   Middle   Ages,   ed.   Hasan   Celâl   Güzel,   Cem   Oğuz,   and   Osman   Karatay   (Ankara:   Yeni   Türkiye,  2002),  819–34;  Donald  Ostrowski,  “Golden  Horde,”  in  Encyclopedia  of  Russian   History  (New  York:  Macmillan  Reference,  2004),  2:  571–73.     12  Erusalimskii,  Sbornik  Kurbskogo,  2:  20–21.  

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Precisely  which  “devastated  Russian  districts”  does  Pseudo-­‐‑Kurbskii  have  in   mind?  When  were  those  districts  devastated?  Which  towns  were  founded  in   areas   recovered   from   Tatars?   The   addition   of   “mesta,”   this   author’s   term   for   posad  spaces,  urban  civilian  and  merchant  quarters,  is  consistent  with  his  ad-­‐‑ ditions  in  other  parts  of  HI.13  The  reference  to  “zimovishche,”  winter  quarters,   is   quite   peculiar.   Why   would   Tatars   decide   to   winter   in   formerly   Russian   areas   that   were   no   warmer   or   more   hospitable   than   their   traditional   grazing   grounds?   Since   the   addition   of   winter   quarters   doesn’t   make   a   whole   lot   of   sense,   it   could   indicate   a   garbled   transmission   or   an   author   unfamiliar   with   the  geography  of  the  steppe.     While  the  second  sentence  of  the  interpolation  is  more  specific,  referring   to  forts  founded  in  the  Don  region  (see  below  for  deciphering  of  Tanais  and   Kuala),  it  is  no  less  problematic.  If  the  common  source  talked  about  Russian   forts   or   garrisons   in   the   Don   region,   it   is   unusual   that   Lyzlov   would   have   omitted   such   information.   Elsewhere   in   his   narrative   he   displayed   a   keen   interest  in  very  similar  themes.14  The  thread  of  devastated  Russian  lands  oc-­‐‑ curs  in  numerous  places  in  his  history.  Unlike  HI,  SH  actually  mentioned  the   existence  of  the  Don  Cossacks.  Moreover,  Lyzlov  particularly  highlighted  the   founding  of  towns  in  the  steppe  during  the  reign  of  Fedor  Ivanovich  as  a  ma-­‐‑ jor  event  in  Russian  history.  Why  then  would  he  decide  to  omit  a  reference  to   even  earlier  towns  in  the  Don  region?     Highlighting a Non-Turning Point The  most  peculiar  feature  of  the  Don  interpolation  is  its  allusion  to  a  historical   turning  point  that  cannot  otherwise  be  documented.  It  celebrates  events  that   were  never  mentioned  in  the  chronicles.  It  emphasizes  the  building  of  multi-­‐‑ ple,  otherwise  unknown,  forts  in  the  Don  region.  It  stresses  that  Russian  sons   drank  from  rivers  in  Asia,  but  it  ignores  the  conquest  of  Astrakhan’.  In  many   ways  it  reflects  a  17th-­‐‑century  understanding  of  Russia’s  southern  frontier.     It  is  impossible  to  identify  any  permanent  military  garrisons  or  fortifica-­‐‑ tions   established   in   the   Don   region   during   Ivan’s   reign.   Any   hypothetical   fortifications  that  might  have  existed  were  unknown  to  the  steppe  patrols  that   operated  in  the  area  and  would  have  had  occasion  to  visit  them.15  They  were   unknown   to   Ottoman   diplomats   who   were   usually   hyper-­‐‑sensitive   to   the                                                                                                                             13

 A.   L.   Khoroshkevich,   “‘Grad’   i   ‘mesto’   v   ‘Istorii   o   velikom   kniaze   Moskovskom’     A.  M.  Kurbskogo,”  in  Stolichnye  i  pereferiinye  goroda  Rusi  i  Rossii  v  srednie  veka  i  rannee   novoe  vremia:  XI–XVIII  vv.  Doklady  Vtoroi  nauchnoi  konferentsii,  Moskva,  7–8  dekabria  1999   g.  (Moscow:  Institut  rossiiskoi  istorii  RAN,  2001),  288–96.     14  Lyzlov,  Skifskaia  istoriia,  ll.  129ob,  167ob–68.   15  On   patrols,   see   I.   D.   Beliaev,   O   storozhevoi,   stanichnoi   i   polevoi   sluzhbe   na   pol’skoi   ukraine  Moskovskago  gosudarstva  do  tsaria  Alekseia  Mikhailovicha  (Moscow,  1846).  

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construction   of   Russian   forts   in   areas   adjacent   to   their   sphere   of   geopolitical   interest.16  The  court  chronicles  never  mentioned  them.17   The  statement  in  HI  could  perhaps  refer  to  Cossack  settlements  that  were   constructed  in  a  few  places  along  the  Don  in  Ivan’s  age.  While  they  are  first   attested   in   1549   in   the   correspondence   with   the   Nogai   horde,   by   1570   there   were  Cossack  settlements  (gorodki)  and  atamans’  winter  quarters  (zimovishche)   which   were   used   occasionally   as   way   stations   by   Russian   diplomats.18   By   1575  Ottoman  officials  noted  the  existence  of  “several  palankas  along  the  Don   river,”   but   in   Ottoman   parlance   palanka   refers   to   elevated   camps   fortified   by   wooden   palisades.19   None   of   these   makeshift   forts   or   temporary   camps   should  be  classified  as  Russian  forts  and  they  could  hardly  be  worthy  of  the   Slavonic  name  grad.     While   the   building   of   forts   in   the   Don   region   does   not   appear   to   have   been  a  domestic  or  foreign  policy  concern  in  the  1570s,  it  was  a  major  issue  in   the  1660s  and  1670s,  when  the  earliest  miscellanies  containing  HI  were  being   completed   and   copied.   For   the   first   time   since   the   reign   of   Ivan   IV   the   Don   region   was   serving   as   an   important   staging   ground   for   forward   actions   against   Crimea.   For   example,   in   summer   1662   a   joint   Muscovite-­‐‑Cossack   ex-­‐‑ peditionary  force  of  26  boats  managed  to  navigate  past  the  Ottoman  forts  into   the   Black   Sea,   attacked   Kerch’   on   the   Crimean   peninsula,   held   it   for   a   short   time,   devastated   its   nearby   suburbs,   and   returned   to   the   Don   region   unscathed.20     As  I  have  argued  elsewhere,  one  of  major  sources  of  tension  in  relations   between  Moscow  and  the  Don  Cossacks  between  1672  and  1676  centered  on   whether  or  not  the  tsar  could  mandate  the  construction  of  Russian  forts  in  the   Don   region.21   An   order   to   build   a   permanent   fort   in   September   1675   faced                                                                                                                             16

 On  Ottoman  opposition  to  Russian  forts,  see  Murat  Yasar,  “The  North  Caucasus  in   the   Second   Half   of   the   Sixteenth   Century:   Imperial   Entanglements   and   Shifting   Loy-­‐‑ alties”  (Ph.D.  diss.,  University  of  Toronto,  2011).     17  For   passages   with   content   related   to   the   southern   frontier,   see   Polnoe   sobranie   rus-­‐‑ skikh  letopisei,  41  vols.  to  date  (Moscow:  Nauka,  1965),  13,  pt.  2,  256,  271–72,  281,  288,   296,  315–20,  339,  341.     18  For  Cossack  settlements,  see  N.  A.  Mininkov,  Donskoe  kazachestvo  v  epokhu  pozdnego   srednevekov’ia   (do   1671   g.)   (Rostov-­‐‑on-­‐‑Don:   Rostovskii   gosudarstvennyi   universitet,   1998),  78–82.   19  The  quote  is  from  Yasar,  “The  North  Caucasus  in  the  Second  Half  of  the  Sixteenth   Century,”  108.  On  palanka,  see  David  Nicolle,  Ottoman  fortifications,  1300–1710  (Oxford:   Osprey,  2010),  27.   20  S.  I.  Riabov,  Donskaia  zemlia  v  XVII  veke  (Volgograd:  Peremena,  1992),  186.   21  Brian   J.   Boeck   “Capitulation   or   Negotiation:   Relations   Between   the   Don   Host   and   Moscow  in  the  Aftermath  of  the  Razin  Uprising,”  in  Die  Geschichte  Russlands  im  16.  und   17.  Jahrhundert  aus  der  Perspektive  seiner  Regionen,  ed.  Andreas  Kappeler  (Berlin:  Haras-­‐‑ sowitz,  2004),  386–89.  

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fierce   opposition   from   rank-­‐‑and-­‐‑file   Cossacks   and   led   to   a   transfer   of   power   to  Cossack  leaders  who  were  less  willing  to  accommodate  Moscow.  Officials   of   the   Posol’skii   prikaz   even   threatened   a   trade   boycott   of   the   Don   region   if   the   forts   were   not   built.   Upon   staunch   Cossack   opposition,   the   government   eventually  abjured  its  plan  to  build  permanent  forts.  Thus,  the  Don  interpola-­‐‑ tion   invents   and   draws   attention   to   a   peculiar   “fact.”   During   his   “good”   pe-­‐‑ riod  Ivan  IV  and  his  wise  advisors  were  allegedly  able  to  achieve  results  that   neither   Tsar   Aleksei   Mikhailovich   nor   Tsar   Fedor   Alekseevich   were   able   to   replicate  in  the  17th  century.   An Additional Source for the Don Interpolation In   keeping   with   Pseudo-­‐‑Kurbskii’s   amplification   of   the   significance   of   Rus-­‐‑ sian  expansion  into  the  Don  region,  HI  features  a  marginal  note  that  clarifies   its   reference   to   the   Tanais   and   a   second   river   in   the   Don   interpolation.   The   note   reads:   “Tanais   in   Roman[Latin],   but   in   Russian   Don,   which   divides   Europe   from   Asia,   so   the   cosmographers   write   in   their   geographical   book.   Suala   [in   most   manuscripts   Kuala,   as   explained   below]   is   called   thus   in   the   Ishmaelite  tongue,  but  in  Slavonic  it  is  the  Medveditsa.”22  Curiously,  there  is   no  hint  of  this  note  in  Lyzlov’s  rendition  of  the  cluster,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that   in   many   places   his   history   displays   an   interest   in   similar   geographic   designations.23     The   marginal   note   in   HI   displays   a   level   of   geographic   curiosity   that   is   highly  unusual  for  Muscovite  texts  of  the  16th  century,  but  common  in  texts   of  the  late  17th  century.  According  to  the  compilers  of  an  influential  diction-­‐‑ ary,  Slovar’  russkogo  iazyka  XI–XVII  vv.,  the  use  of  the  terms  kosmograf  and  zem-­‐‑ lemeritel’nyi  are  among  the  very  first  examples  in  Russian  texts,  if  one  accepts   the  traditional  dating  of  HI.24  Subsequent  examples,  however,  date  to  the  17th   century.   The   statement   about   the   Tanais   (Don)   as   the   boundary   between   Europe  and  Asia  reflects  a  geographic  “fact”  that  17th-­‐‑century  Russians  prob-­‐‑ ably  learned  from  reading  translations  of  European  geographic  treatises.     The  reference  to  the  Medveditsa  River  has  occasionally  piqued  the  atten-­‐‑ tion  of  Russian  scholars  because  the  reading  “Kuala”  in  most  manuscripts  of                                                                                                                             22

 “Tanais  po  Rimski,  a  po  Rusku  Don,  iazhe  Evropu  delit  so  Asieiu,  iako  kosmografi   opisuiut   v   zemlemeritel’noi   knize.   Kuala   zhe   ismailtskim   iazykom   glagoletsia,   a   Slo-­‐‑ venski  Medveditsa”  (Fennell,  History,  24;  Erusalimskii,  Sbornik  Kurbskogo,  2:  20–22).     23  He  clearly  indicated  on  l.  163  that  the  Taman’  straits  “divide  Europe  and  Asia”  and   he  was  aware  that  “Latinizers  [latinniki]  call  the  river  Don  Tanais”  (l.  125).  He  also  dis-­‐‑ played  interest  in  the  Turkic  names  of  rivers  in  another  section  of  his  history  (l.  127ob).   24  S.  G.  Barkhudarov,  ed.,  Slovar’  russkogo  iazyka  XI–XVII  vv.  (Moscow:  Nauka,  1975–  ),   entry  “Kosmograf”  in  vyp.  7,  K–Kraguiar'ʹ,  361;  entry  “Zemlemeritel’nyi”  in  vyp.  5,  E– Zinutie,  374.  

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HI   seems   to   evoke   the   mysterious   Kayala   River   of   the   Igor   Tale.25   But,   alas,   the   parallel   is   no   more   than   a   copying   mistake   in   the   second   version   of   HI   that   was   perpetuated   in   later   manuscripts   linked   to   that   version.   Early   ver-­‐‑ sions  of  HI  contain  the  reading  “Suala.”26  The  Turkic  name  of  the  Medveditsa   River,  which  is  a  major  tributary  of  the  Don,  is  unknown.     The   note   might   have   remained   a   matter   of   casual   curiosity,   save   for   the   fact  that  it  is  so  remarkably  similar  to  marginal  notations  in  two  other  manu-­‐‑ scripts  that  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  notes  are  somehow  linked  or  con-­‐‑ nected   to   the   same   milieu.   Marginal   notes   in   a   late   17th-­‐‑century   copy   of   a   Muscovite   compilation   on   geography   and   travel   distances   called   the   Book   of   the   Great   Sketch   Map   [Kniga   bol’shomu   chertezhu]   are   virtually   identical   to   the   note  in  HI.27  The  crucial  difference  is  that  the  marginal  notations  to  Book  of  the   Great  Sketch  Map  provide  the  toponym  “Sulla”  as  the  Ishmaelite  name  of  the   Medveditsa  River.   A  note  in  one  of  the  manuscripts  indicates  that  it  was  made  for  Afanasii,   Archbishop   of   Kholmogory   and   Vaga.28   This   could   indicate   that   the   manu-­‐‑ script  was  copied  some  time  around  or  after  1682,  the  date  that  Afanasii  took   office   as   Archbishop.   According   to   Serbina,   however,   similar   notes   were   made  in  another  manuscript  of  the  Book  of  the  Great  Sketch  Map  in  the  hand  of   Afanasii.   It   is   pertinent   to   note   that   before   he   became   a   major   figure   in   the   Russian  north,  Afanasii  was  very  close  to  one  of  the  circles  in  Moscow  where   early  copies  of  HI  emerged.     Afanasii’s  rendering  of  the  toponym  “Sulla”  comes  closer  to  producing  an   actual  Ishmaelite,  in  this  case  Turkic,  toponym  than  HI.  There  is  no  river  cur-­‐‑ rently  called  Suala  or  Kuala  near  the  Don,  but  Sula  is  a  common  steppe  river   name   derived   from   the   Turkic   stem   su   =   (“water”)   and   the   suffix   ly   or   lyk   which   indicates   instrumentality,   in   this   case   a   place   having   water   or   being                                                                                                                             25

 “Kaiala,”   in   Slovar’-­‐‑spravochnik   “Slova   o   polku   Igoreve,”   ed.   V.   L.   Vinogradova   (Moscow-­‐‑Leningrad:  Nauka,  1967),  179–80.   26  Erusalimskii,   Sbornik   Kurbskogo,   2:   20–21.   The   paleography   of   Tikhonravov   no.   639   suggests   that   Suala   could   have   been   read   as   Kuala   and   perpetuated   as   such   in   later   copies.   27  One   note   reads   “Reka   Don   po   russki,   a   po   rimski   Tanais,   iazhe   Evropu   delit   so   Aziei,  iako  kosmografy  opisuiut  v  zemlemerii,”  while  another  on  a  separate  leaf  reads   “Reka  Medveditsa,  imia  sie  po  slovenski,  a  izmailteskim  iazykom  Sulla  glagoletsia.”  K.   N.  Serbina,  ed.,  Kniga  bol’shomu  chertezhu  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1950),   29–30.   28  For   a   recent   biography   and   bibliography,   see   B.   N.   Bulatov,   Muzh   slova   i   razuma:   Afanasii—pervyi   arkhiepiskop   Kholmogorskii   i   Vazhskii   (Arkhangel’sk:   Pomorskii   gosu-­‐‑ darstvennyi   universitet   im.   M.   V.   Lomonosova,   2002).   On   Afanasii’s   activities   in   the   Russian   north,   see   Georg   Michels,   “Rescuing   the   Orthodox:   The   Church   Politics   of   Archbishop   Afanasii   of   Kholmogory   1682–1702,”   in   Of   Religion   and   Empire:   Missions,   Conversion  and  Tolerance  in  Tsarist  Russia,  ed.  Robert  P.  Geraci  and  Michael  Khodarkov-­‐‑ sky  (Ithaca,  NY:  Cornell  University  Press,  2001),  19–37.  

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filled  with  water.29  It  is  curious  that  Afanasii’s  version  of  the  notation  to  the   Don   interpolation   provides   a   superior   reading   to   all   versions   of   HI   and   all   extent   manuscripts   of   its   text.   Future   studies   will   therefore   need   to   carefully   examine  his  links  to  the  Moscow  milieu  in  which  HI  first  emerged.   Because   the   transformation   of   Sulla   into   Suala   occurs   both   in   the   Don   interpolation  to  the  common  cluster  and  the  marginal  note  that  explains  it,  it   is  now  possible  to  suggest  that  the  Don  interpolation  was  created  by  Pseudo-­‐‑ Kurbskii   on   the   basis   of   a   yet-­‐‑to-­‐‑be-­‐‑identified   geographical   source.   This   would   be   consistent   with   patterns   elsewhere   in   HI.   Whether   talking   about   Balts,   Bashkirs,   or   Lapps,   pseudo-­‐‑Kurbskii   inserts   parenthetical   geographic   information   that   is   not   reflected   in   any   of   his   known   sources.   While   only   a   systematic   study   of   all   extant   geographical   treatises   circulating   in   17th-­‐‑ century   Russia   could   explain   the   origins   of   the   Don   interpolation,   it   is   sig-­‐‑ nificant   that   no   16th-­‐‑century   Russian   source   speculates   about   such   cosmo-­‐‑ graphical  and  geographical  minutiae.   Conclusion While  believers  in  the  authenticity  of  HI  will  dismiss  the  fragments  analyzed   here  as  unconvincing  figments  of  my  skeptical  imagination,  proponents  of  the   traditional   framework   must   now   account   for   a   curious   set   of   circumstances.   Why  do  all  manuscripts  of  HI  produce  a  defective  reading  of  a  Turkic  topo-­‐‑ nym?  How  did  Lyzlov  manage  to  avoid  both  treacherous  toponyms  and  du-­‐‑ bious   claims   about   the   Don   region   in   the   16th   century?   Did   Afanasii   play   a   role   in   the   creation,   copying,   or   dissemination   of   the   so-­‐‑called   Kurbskii   mis-­‐‑ cellanies?   In   order   to   explain   intriguing   anomalies   in   this   relatively   small   cluster   of   shared   characteristics,   scholars   still   need   to   answer   some   very   big   questions  about  the  state  of  the  sources.    

                                                                                                                          29

 See   Max   Vasmer   ed.,   Wörterbuch   der   russischen   Gewässer   Namen   (Berlin-­‐‑Wiesbaden:   Harrassowitz,  1965),  3:  234–35,  4:  435–36,  11:  25–38.  

     

“Thus We Shall Have Their Loyalty and They Our Favor”: Diplomatic Hostage-Taking (amanatstvo) and Russian Empire in Caucasia   Sean Pollock     And   we   claimed   the   whole   realm   anew.   And   whoever  came  to  Our  Court  himself  or  [sent?]  an   envoy  and  presents  and  letters  [and]  hostages  (as)   promises  (of  loyalty)  [?]  to  [Our]  Court,  he  would   have  fame  (?)  and  other  things  (?).   —  Narseh,  king  of  Persia,  The  Sassanian  Inscription   of  Paikuli  (AD  293–96)       For   many   years   I   used   to   receive   remuneration   from   the   Turkish   sultan   and   the   Crimean   khan;   but   now,   having   forgotten   all   about   their   favor,   I   placed  myself  under  the  [Russian]  sovereign’s  au-­‐‑ thority.   I   wish   to   serve   the   sovereign   exclusively,   together  with  my  children  and  my  entire  clan  and   all   the   land,   until   I   die,   and   as   soon   as   you   [Rus-­‐‑ sian]   emissaries   return   from   Georgia,   I   will   send   my  son  to  the  sovereign  with  you.   —  Prince  Sholokh  of  Kabarda,  ca.  1589    

This   essay   examines   one   of   the   key   institutions   for   regulating   political   rela-­‐‑ tions   between   Russia   and   the   native   groups   of   Caucasia   from   the   middle   of   the  16th  to  the  19th  century.  In  the  Russian  sources,  the  institution  is  usually   referred  to  as  amanatstvo,  which  I  define  as  diplomatic  hostage-­‐‑taking,  and  the   hostages,  as  amanaty.  Beginning  in  the  16th  century,  the  Russian  government   demanded   diplomatic   hostages   from   the   non-­‐‑Christian   peoples   of   northern   Caucasia   in   an   attempt   to   guarantee   their   allegiance.   Evidence   suggests   that   the  institution  touched  the  lives  of  thousands  of  Russians  and  non-­‐‑Russians,   in  the  capitals  and  at  the  edges  of  Russia’s  empire.  Yet  despite  its  importance   as  a  means  of  projecting  Russian  power  in  Caucasia  and  across  the  Eurasian   steppe,  the  institution  has  received  scant  attention  from  historians  of  Russia.1                                                                                                                             1

 An   exception   is   Michael   Khodarkovsky,   Russia’s   Steppe   Frontier:   The   Making   of   a   Colonial  Empire,  1500–1800  (Bloomington:  Indiana  University  Press,  2002),  56–60.  Kho-­‐‑

Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 139–63.

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As   a   result,   relatively   little   is   known   about   its   salient   features   or   the   expe-­‐‑ riences  of  the  hostages  themselves.   Diplomatic  hostage-­‐‑taking  has  a  long  history  that  transcends  the  Russian   context  altogether.  I  trace  this  history  in  the  early  part  of  the  essay  in  order  to   gain  perspective  on  the  Russian  case.  Given  the  enormous  heterogeneity  and   complexity  of  the  Russian  imperial  experience,  it  is  important  to  delineate  and   analyze  Russian  imperial  policies,  institutions,  and  practices  in  a  particular  re-­‐‑ gion.  My  main  goal  is  to  explain  how  the  institution  functioned  in  the  context   of   Russian-­‐‑Caucasian   relations,   and   to   analyze   efforts   by   political   entrepre-­‐‑ neurs  on  both  sides  of  the  cultural  divide  to  have  it  serve  their  own  interests.   In  addition,  I  attempt  to  distinguish  between  Russian  and  Caucasian  perspec-­‐‑ tives  on  the  institution,  although  I  do  not  assume  that  these  perspectives  took   shape  in  isolation  from  each  other.  Finally,  I  sketch  the  life  of  one  diplomatic   hostage,  a  certain  Kazbulat  Murza,  also  known  as  Dmitrii  Taganov.  In  exam-­‐‑ ining  his  life,  I  argue  that  diplomatic  hostages  could  transcend  their  original   calling   as   human   sureties   and   aspire   to   play   crucial,   independent   roles   in   Russia’s  efforts  to  build  its  empire  in  Caucasia.  Their  stories  can  open  a  fasci-­‐‑ nating  window  onto  the  problem  of  assimilating  non-­‐‑Russians  into  the  social   fabric  of  the  Russian  Empire.     Diplomatic   hostage-­‐‑taking   was   not   an   innovation   of   the   Russian   diplo-­‐‑ matic   corps,   but   rather   thrived   wherever   imperial   pretensions   were   strong   and   imperial   power   was   relatively   weak.   Historically,   diplomatic   hostages   were  often  creatures  of  imperial  frontiers,  spaces  where  multiple,  previously   distinct   societies—some   indigenous,   others   intrusive—interacted.2   In   Cauca-­‐‑ sia,  hostage-­‐‑taking  was,  like  empire  itself,  a  negotiated  process  requiring  the   active  participation  of  Russians  and  Caucasians  alike.  Both  Russians  and  Cau-­‐‑ casians   recognized   the   institution   as   characteristic   of   politics   in   the   region,   and  both  attempted  to  exploit  it  in  self-­‐‑serving  ways.  Hostage-­‐‑taking  demon-­‐‑ strated   their   commitment   to   building   a   mutually   beneficial   cross-­‐‑cultural   partnership.  At  the  same  time,  it  underscored  the  fundamentally  unequal  na-­‐‑ ture  of  the  partnership.  Part  of  Russia’s  strategy  to  lord  over  Caucasia  (among   other   places),   hostage-­‐‑taking,   as   the   case   of   Dmitrii   Taganov   shows,   could   also  serve  as  a  conduit  for  transmitting  Russian  imperial  ways.  In  doing  so,  it   provided  ambitious  indigenous  elites  with  opportunities  to  excel  at  their  Rus-­‐‑ sian  master’s  game.  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  darkovsky  tells  the  story  of  a  former  hostage  in  Bitter  Choices:  Loyalty  and  Betrayal  in  the   Russian  Conquest  of  the  North  Caucasus  (Ithaca,  NY:  Cornell  University  Press,  2011).   2  This   definition   of   frontiers   draws   on   H.   Lamar   and   L.   Thompson,   “Comparative   Frontier   History,”   in   The   Frontier   in   History:   North   America   and   Southern   Africa   Com-­‐‑ pared,  ed.  H.  Lamar  and  L.  Thompson  (New  Haven:  Yale  University  Press,  1981),  3–14.    

DIPLOMATIC HOSTAGE-TAKING (AMANATSTVO) AND RUSSIAN EMPIRE IN CAUCASIA

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The Patterns of Steppe Diplomacy The  term  amanat  is  not  Russian  in  origin.  There  is  no  entry  for  amanat  in  Srez-­‐‑ nevskii’s  dictionary  of  early  Russian.3  The  etymology  of  the  term  is  revealing.   Of  Arabic  derivation,  amanat  apparently  came  into  the  Russian  lexicon  via  the   steppe,  where  Qipchaq  Tatar  was  the  lingua  franca.4  In  modern  Turkish  emanet   means   “a   trust,   anything   entrusted   to   another   for   safekeeping.”   As   part   of   a   compound  verb,  it  means  to  entrust  or  to  commit  something  to  another  per-­‐‑ son   or   authority.5   For   example,   when   the   Ottomans,   at   war   with   Russia   in   1773,   took   measures   to   improve   the   fighting   capacity   of   their   troops   in   Cau-­‐‑ casia,   religious   outlook   and   chancery   form   required   that   they   ascribe   any   outcome  to  the  intervention  of  a  higher  power:  “We  entrust  [these  affairs]  to   God”  (Cenâb-­‐‑ı  hayru’l-­‐‑hâfızına  emânet  ederiz).6   In   the   context   of   Eurasian   steppe   diplomacy,   the   term   amanat   also   de-­‐‑ noted   an   individual   surrendered   or   taken   as   a   human   surety.   In   the   early   sources   concerning   Russian–Caucasian   relations,   the   so-­‐‑called   posol’skie   dela,   the  Russian  term  for  diplomatic  hostage  is   zaklad.7  Sreznevskii  defines   zaklad   as  something  taken  or  given  in  trust,  like  a  surety:  “More  than  a  ruble  is  not  to   be  given  without  a  promissory  note”  (Bolshi  rubli  ne  davati  bez  zaklada).  All  his   examples   are   taken   from   the   commercial   sphere;   nowhere   does   he   suggest   that   an   individual   himself   could   serve   as   a   trust.   Diplomatic   hostage-­‐‑taking   was  also  known  to  the  princes  of  Rus’:  the  hostage  (tal’)  was  a  prominent  fea-­‐‑ ture   of   Rus’ian   steppe   diplomacy,   as   the   chronicles   amply   attest.8   The   clerks   of  the  Muscovite  foreign  chancery,  however,  demonstrated  little  if  any  aware-­‐‑ ness  of  the  old  Rus’ian  tal’;  instead,  they  consistently  chose  zaklad  to  denote  a   diplomatic   hostage.   By   the   middle   of   the   17th   century,   if   not   earlier,   amanat   had  come  to  replace  zaklad  in  this  sense.  The  first  edition  of  the  Dictionary  of   the  Russian  Academy  (1789–94)  defines  amanat  as  “zalozhnik”  or  “hostage.”9                                                                                                                             3

 Izmail   I.   Sreznevskii,   Materialy   dlia   slovaria   drevnerusskogo   iazyka,   3   vols.   (St.   Peters-­‐‑ burg:  Tipografiia  Imp.  akademii  nauk,  1893–1912;  repr.,  Moscow:  Gos.  izd-­‐‑vo  inostran-­‐‑ nykh  i  natsional’nykh  slovarei,  1958);  the  same  is  true  of  Rubin  I.  Avanesov,  ed.,  Slo-­‐‑ var’  drevnerusskogo  iazyka  (XI–XIV  vv.),  8  vols.  to  date  (Moscow:  Russkii  iazyk,  1988–  ).     4  Max   Vasmer,   Russisches   Etymologisches   Wörterbuch   (Heidelberg:   C.   Winter   Universi-­‐‑ tätsverlag,  1976–80),  s.v.  “amanat.”   5  New  Redhouse  Turkish-­‐‑English  Dictionary,  12th  ed.,  s.v.  “emanet”;  cf.  The  New  Persian-­‐‑ English  Dictionary  (1997),  s.v.  “amânat.”     6  Mehmet  Saray,  Kafkas  Araştırmaları  ([Turkey]:  Acar  Yayınları,  1988),  1:  151  (doc.  1).     7  See,  for  example,  Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom  (1578–1613  gg.),  comp.  and  intro.  S.  A.   Belokurov  (Moscow:  Universitetskaia  tipografiia,  1889).     8  Sreznevskii,   Materialy,   s.v.   “zaklad”   and   “tal’”;   tal’   most   frequently   appears   in   texts   pertaining  to  Rus’ian  relations  with  the  Pechenegs  of  the  steppe.     9  Slovar’   Akademii   Rossiiskoi   1789–1794   (St.   Petersburg:   Pri   Imperatorskoi   Akademii   Nauk,  1789–94;  repr.,  Moscow:  MGI  im.  E.  R.  Dashkovoi,  2001–  ),  s.v.  “amanat.”    

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It  is  well  known  that  the  Muscovite  diplomatic  corps  was  utterly  conver-­‐‑ sant   in   steppe   politics.10   According   to   Sergei   V.   Bakhrushin,   in   taking   hos-­‐‑ tages   from   steppe   peoples,   “the   Russians   were   only   utilizing   a   practice   that   had   long   since   been   invented   by   Mongol   and   Turkic   conquerors.”11   In   fact,   neither   “conqueror”   invented   the   practice,   which   was   worthy   of   ancient   Rome  and  Byzantium.  Still,  the  decision  to  adopt  the  institution  and  its  local   name  was  surely  informed  more  by  Muscovy’s  involvement  in  steppe  politics   than   by   any   acquaintance   with   the   armamentarium   of   Classical   diplomacy.   Thus  the  Russian  zaklad  was  likely  a  calque  of  the  Turkic  amanat/emānet.     A   literary   illustration   of   the   fact   that   Russian   diplomatic   hostage-­‐‑taking   was   intimately   connected   to   the   world   of   the   steppe   can   be   found   in   Alex-­‐‑ ander   Pushkin’s   A   History   of   the   Pugachev   Rebellion.   Pushkin   understood   that   there  was  a  distinction  to  be  made  between  a  prisoner  or  captive  (plennik),  on   one  hand,  and  a  diplomatic  hostage  (amanat  or  zalozhnik),  on  the  other.     As  events  unfold  in  the  early  pages  of  A  History  of  the  Pugachev  Rebellion,   the  governor  of  Orenburg  receives  a  letter  from  the  khan  of  the  Kazakh  horde,   who   had   already   been   approached   by   a   Pugachev   desperate   for   allies.   The   Cossack-­‐‑Kazakh  alliance  would  be  consecrated  in  the  imperial  manner:  Puga-­‐‑ chev  was  demanding  the  khan’s  son  as  a  hostage  (here,  zalozhnik)  and  a  hun-­‐‑ dred   auxiliary   troops.   But   Pushkin’s   khan   is   Janus-­‐‑like:   he   negotiates   with   both  sides.  Confident  his  letter  will  be  regarded  by  the  governor  as  evidence   of  loyalty  and  zealous  service  to  the  Russian  sovereign,  the  khan  decides  the   moment   is   ripe   to   renegotiate   the   terms   of   his   relationship   with   Russian   au-­‐‑ thorities.   “The   khan   demanded   that   the   governor   return   hostages   [amanaty],   rustled  cattle  and  sheep,  and  slaves  that  had  fled  the  horde.”12  This  is  a  color-­‐‑ ful   passage,   to   be   sure,   but   it   would   be   a   mistake   to   view   it   as   mere   fancy.   Pushkin  manages  in  a  single  sentence  to  capture  all  that  was  at  stake  in  fron-­‐‑ tier   diplomacy:   political   power   (hostages   symbolized   a   khan’s   subordinate   status  vis-­‐‑à-­‐‑vis  the  Russian  sovereign,  at  least  in  Russian  eyes);  the  wealth  of   the  land  (here  symbolized  by  livestock);  and  competition  for  valuable  human   resources   (one   man’s   slave   was   another   man’s   serf).   That   the   governor   ulti-­‐‑ mately   acquiesces   to   the   khan’s   requests   underscores   two   other   crucial   as-­‐‑ pects  of  the  relationship:  the  dependence  of  Russian  authorities  on  local  men   of   power   for   vital   information   and   the   brokered   nature   of   the   Russian   pres-­‐‑ ence  in  the  steppe.  Though  the  account  presented  here  is  likely  fictional,  the                                                                                                                             10

 Edward   Louis   Keenan,   Jr.,   “Muscovy   and   Kazan:   Some   Introductory   Remarks   on   the   Patterns   of   Steppe   Diplomacy,”   Slavic   Review   27,   no.   4   (December   1967):   548–58;   Donald   G.   Ostrowski,   Muscovy   and   the   Mongols:   Cross-­‐‑Cultural   Influences   on   the   Steppe   Frontier,  1304–1589  (Cambridge:  Cambridge  University  Press,  1998).     11  S.  V.  Bakhrushin,  “Ocherki  po  istorii  Krasnoiarskogo  uezda  v  XVII  v.,”  in  Nauchnye   trudy,  4  vols.  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1959),  1:  47.     12  Aleksandr   S.   Pushkin,   Polnoe   sobranie   sochinenii,   10   vols.,   ed.   B.   V.   Tomashevskii   (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1950),  8:  17.  

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reality  it  captures  is  nonetheless  profound:  the  limits  of  Russia’s  imperial  pre-­‐‑ tensions  were  nowhere  more  evident  than  at  its  peripheries.   The Imperial Dimension of Frontier Diplomacy The  practice  of  hostage-­‐‑taking  has  a  long  history  in  Eurasia.  As  David  Braund   has   shown,   Roman   imperial   strategy   embraced   the   institution   as   a   means   of   projecting  power  across  its  far-­‐‑flung  frontiers.  He  helpfully  points  out  that  the   words  used  to  describe  the  individuals  sent  to  Rome  by  frontier  kings  “need   not  bear  the  modern  connotations  of  force  and  threat  borne  by  the  translation   ‘hostage.’”   Indeed,   the   examples   he   gives   demonstrate   that   the   king   himself   could   sometimes   choose   which   members   of   his   family—a   troublesome   son,   for   instance—to   send   to   the   metropolis.   Once   in   Rome,   the   hostage   would   undergo   a   process   of   acculturation,   the   result   of   gaining   access   to   Roman   education,   mores,   and   society.   Hostages   were   not   always   closely   supervised   and  could  be  free  to  move  about  the  capital  and  even  well  beyond  its  limits.  A   hostage   might   come   to   regard   Rome   as   his   “homeland   and   nurse,”   while   a   Roman  emperor  might  make  a  public  display  of  honoring  a  hostage  in  an  at-­‐‑ tempt  to  glorify  himself.  Interestingly,  Braund  compares  the  imperial  attitude   toward   hostages   to   the   reception   of   embassies.   All   this   seems   far   removed   from   the   modern   notion   of   hostage,   and   this   is   important   to   bear   in   mind   when  considering  the  Russian  case.  Still,  the  hostage  sent  as  a  pledge  of  good   faith  in  a  bid  for  imperial  friendship  was  also  inevitably  the  emperor’s  pawn,   a  means  to  obtain  both  assurances  from  the  sender  and  a  measure  of  control   over   his   lands.   Yesterday’s   hostage   could   become   the   acculturated   frontier   king   of   tomorrow.   This   lesson   was   not   lost   on   Byzantium.   By   cultivating   friendly  relations  with  the  kings  on  its  frontiers,  and  by  honoring  members  of   their   family   serving   as   hostages   in   the   capital,   Constantinople   could   reason-­‐‑ ably  expect  to  exert  influence  in  distant  lands:  “There  could  be  no  firmer  con-­‐‑ trol  of  the  royal  succession.”13   Nor   were   Rome   and   Byzantium   alone   in   embracing   the   institution.   The   inscription   at   Paikuli   quoted   above   suggests   that   Sassanian   emperors   ex-­‐‑ pected  the  kings  of  Iberia  and  Albania,  in  southern  Caucasia,  to  send  hostages   to  the  imperial  court  as  a  sign  of  loyalty.14  Across  Eurasia  hostages  were  taken   in   order   to   assure   a   rival’s   peaceful   conduct,   adherence   to   the   terms   of   a   treaty,  or  to  guarantee  the  payment  of  tribute.  In  the  Volga-­‐‑Kama  region,  the   son  of  the  Bulghar  king  lived  at  the  court  of  the  Khazar  khakan  as  a  hostage,  a   token   of   his   father’s   promise   to   pay   tribute   to   their   Khazar   overlord.   The                                                                                                                             13

 David   C.   Braund,   Rome   and   the   Friendly   King:   The   Character   of   the   Client   Kingship   (London:  Croom  Helm;  New  York:  St.  Martin’s  Press,  1984),  13,  14,  15;  Braund,  Georgia   in  Antiquity:  A  History  of  Colchis  and  Transcaucasian  Iberia  550  BC–AD  562  (Oxford:  Clar-­‐‑ endon  Press,  1994),  284.     14  Braund,  Georgia  in  Antiquity,  240–41.  

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Timurids,   Qaraquyunlu,   and   Aqquyunlu   all   demanded   hostages   from   van-­‐‑ quished  enemies  to  insure  friendly  relations  in  the  future.15  In  The  Arathashas-­‐‑ tra,   an   ancient   Sanskrit   text   on   statecraft,   Kautilya   devoted   an   entire   chapter   to  the  institution,  suggesting  that  the  practice  of  exchanging  diplomatic  hos-­‐‑ tages   was   widespread   in   his   native   northern   India.16   More   recently,   when   Maksud   Shah,   the   ruler   of   the   last   autonomous   khanate   in   Central   Asia,   at   Qomul,  died  in  1930,  he  left  behind  his  son  and  heir-­‐‑apparent,  who  had  been   a  hostage  in  Urumchi,  the  provincial  capital  of  Xinjiang.17  It  may  well  be  that   Eurasian  warlords  today  continue  to  demand  hostages  wherever  their  author-­‐‑ ity  is  shaky  and  political  future  seems  uncertain.   Perhaps  even  more  germane  to  the  Russian  case  is  the  Ottoman  example.   As  Ottoman  power  increased  in  the  15th  century,  the  sultan  was  no  longer  a   sender   of   hostages   but   their   host.   According   to   one   student   of   Ottoman-­‐‑Cri-­‐‑ mean  relations,  the  only  manifestations  of  Crimean  vassalage  to  the  Sublime   Porte  were,  first,  the  expectation  that  the  khan  and  his  troops  would  take  part   in  Ottoman  campaigns,  and,  second,  that  the  sultan  had  the  right  to  confirm   new   khans   on   the   Crimean   throne.18   To   these   two   signs   of   Ottoman   suze-­‐‑ rainty   must   be   added   a   third,   however.   In   the   16th   century   it   became   cus-­‐‑ tomary  for  the  Crimean  khan  to  send  one  or  more  of  his  bothers  to  Istanbul  as   a   hostage.   As   the   Byzantines   had   done   before   them,   the   Ottomans   used   this   strategy   as   a   means   of   attempting   to   control   succession   to   a   vassal   throne:   many   a   Crimean   khan   began   his   career   as   a   hostage   living   among   the   large   and  vocal  Tatar  exile  community  in  Istanbul.19  In  the  18th  century,  the  Otto-­‐‑ mans   attempted   to   take   diplomatic   hostages   from   the   Russians   as   well.   Fol-­‐‑ lowing   the   debacle   on   the   River   Pruth   in   1711,   for   instance,   “the   Turkish   Vezir,   for   the   purpose   of   affirming   the   establishment   of   peace,   requested   [to   take]   as   a   hostage   [amanat]   the   Field   Marshal’s   son,   Mikhail   Sheremet’ev.”20   More   outrageous   in   European   eyes   was   the   Ottoman   habit   of   making   hos-­‐‑ tages   of   foreign   ambassadors   heading   permanent   legations   in   Istanbul.   The   Ottoman  government  treated  foreign  ambassadors  as  “guests”  whom  it  “held                                                                                                                             15

 Encyclopaedia   of   Islam   (Leiden:   Brill,   1999–   ),   CD-­‐‑ROM,   s.v.   “Bulghar”;   ibid.,   s.v.   “Marashis.”     16  Kautilya,   The   Arthashastra,   ed.   and   trans.   L.   N.   Rangarajan   (New   Dehli:   Penguin   Books  India,  1992),  598–603.  Interestingly,  Kautilya  viewed  the  hostage  as  the  least  sat-­‐‑ isfactory  way  of  guaranteeing  a  treaty.     17  Encyclopaedia  of  Islam,  CD-­‐‑ROM,  s.v.  “Ma  Chung-­‐‑Ying.”     18  Alan   W.   Fisher,   The   Russian   Annexation   of   the   Crimea   1772–1783   (Cambridge:   Cam-­‐‑ bridge  University  Press,  1970),  6.     19  Encyclopaedia  of  Islam,  CD-­‐‑ROM,  s.v.  “Giray”;  on  the  costs  and  dangers  to  the  Otto-­‐‑ mans  of  harboring  the  exiled  Tatars,  see  Virginia  H.  Aksan,   An  Ottoman  Statesman  in   War  and  Peace:  Ahmed  Resmi  Efendi  1700–1783  (Leiden:  E.  J.  Brill,  1995),  160–61.     20  S.  G.  Barkhudarov  et  al.,  eds.,  Slovar’  russkogo  iazyka  XVIII  veka  (Leningrad:  Nauka,   1984),  s.v.  “amanat.”    

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responsible  for  their  sovereign’s  behavior.”21  As  tokens  of  peaceful  relations,   they  were  in  a  precarious  position.  When  those  relations  ruptured,  as  they  did   with  Russia  in  1768,  the  Russian  emissary,  Aleksei  M.  Obreskov,  was  locked   up  in  the  Seven  Towers.22  The  circumstances  of  Obreskov’s  “imprisonment,”   however,   resembled   in   some   respects   those   of   hostages   in   ancient   Rome:   he   received  guests,  read  and  wrote  what  he  pleased,  and  even  managed  to  dis-­‐‑ charge   some   of   his   duties.23   Since   the   Ottomans   did   not   send   their   own   am-­‐‑ bassadors  to  reside  permanently  at  foreign  courts  before  the  reign  of  Selim  III   (1789–1807),  there  was  no  possibility  of  suffering  reciprocity.  With  the  estab-­‐‑ lishment   of   the   permanent   Ottoman   embassy   abroad,   however,   the   practice   logically  had  to  be  disavowed.24   Clearly,  hostage-­‐‑taking  has  a  long  history  in  Eurasian  diplomacy.  For  cen-­‐‑ turies  the  practice  was  part  of  a  strategy  for  managing  imperial  clients  in  dis-­‐‑ tant   frontiers.   Diplomatic   hostages   could   take   many   forms   and   serve   many   purposes.  A  king  on  the  frontier  might  send  a  son  to  Rome  as  a  symbol  of  his   allegiance   to   the   emperor.   When   Rome   gained   a   client,   the   frontier   king   gained  as  well:  a  powerful  friend  for  himself,  and  honor  and  education  for  his   heir.  This  explains  why  the  application  of  force  or  even  the  threat  of  force  was   not   necessarily   required   to   compel   compliance.   The   king   especially   stood   to   benefit  from  the  exchange,  as  Kautilya  advised,  were  he  able  to  send  as  a  hos-­‐‑ tage  a  traitorous  minister  or  daughter,  whose  loss  would  do  little  to  circum-­‐‑ scribe  the  king’s  actions.25  The  hostage  could  be,  as  we  have  seen,  a  token  of   peaceful   relations   between   erstwhile   antagonists   and   current   rivals.   Finally,                                                                                                                             21

 Donald  Quataert,  The  Ottoman  Empire,  1700–1922  (New  York:  Cambridge  University   Press,  2000),  76–77,  79.   22  As  the  Ottomans  themselves  put  it,  once  the  decision  had  been  made  to  go  to  war,   “par   conséquent   il   a   été   nécessaire   de   faire   arrêter   la   personne   du   résident,   selon   l’ancienne   coutume   de   la   sublime   Porte,   &   l’enfermer   aux   Sept-­‐‑Tours”;   quoted   in   Louis  Felix  Keralio,  Histoire  de  la  dernière  guerre  entre  les  russes  et  les  turcs,  2  vols.  (Paris:   Desaint,  1777),  2:  15.     23  See  E.  I.  Druzhinina,  “Russkii  diplomat  A.  M.  Obreskov,”  Istoricheskie  zapiski,  no.  40   (1952):  267–78,  for  a  brief,  if  partisan,  review  of  the  diplomat’s  career.  A  contemporary   description   of   Obreskov’s   experience   in   the   Seven   Towers   is   “Extrait   d’une   lettre   de   Péra,  du  Décembre  1768,”  in  Keralio,  Histoire  de  la  dernière  guerre,  2:  72–73.     24  Understanding   why   the   Ottomans   took   diplomatic   hostages   from   hostile   govern-­‐‑ ments  as  insurance  can  go  a  long  way  toward  explaining  what  Warren  Bass  has  called   the  “baffling  decision  to  take  American  hostages  in  1979”  in  Iran.  Bass  is  quoted  from   his  review  of  All  the  Shah’s  Men:  An  American  Coup  and  the  Roots  of  Middle  East  Terror,   by  Stephen  Kinzer,  New  York  Times  Book  Review,  10  August  2003,  13.     25  Kautilya,  The  Arthashastra,  599:  “He  who  gives  a  treacherous  minister  or  a  treacher-­‐‑ ous  son  or  daughter  as  a  hostage  outmanoeuvers  the  other  [the  receiver].  The  receiver   is   outmanoeuvred   because   the   giver   will   strike   without   compunction   at   the   weak   point—i.e.,  the  trust  that  the  receiver  has  that  the  giver  will  not  let  the  hostage  come  to   harm.”  

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hostages  were  taken  in  order  to  obtain  assurances  of  one  kind  or  another  from   the  hostage-­‐‑sender:  the  payment  of  tribute  or  of  a  debt,  for  instance.  In  each   case  the  institution  served  to  underscore  the  fundamentally  political  nature  of   the  relationship  between  contracting  parties.  But  hostages  were  not  the  mere   pawns  of  their  former  and  current  masters.  As  Braund  has  suggested,  the  hos-­‐‑ tage  in  Rome  might  one  day  become  king  at  home.  Thus  it  is  fair  to  say  that   all   parties   to   hostage-­‐‑taking   had   reason   to   hope   to   gain   something   from   the   institution.     Sources for the Study of Amanatstvo in the Context of Russian-Caucasian Relations By   far   the   most   reliable   information   concerning   the   institution   of   diplomatic   hostage-­‐‑taking  in  Caucasia  is  found  in  the  records  of  diplomatic  relations  be-­‐‑ tween   the   Russian   government   and   Caucasian   men   of   power,   the   so-­‐‑called   posol’skie   dela.   Russia   had   no   native   Kautilya,   no   Bartolus   of   Sassoferato   or   Bernard  du  Rosier  to  turn  to  for  a  rational  body  of  doctrine  to  guide  it  in  its   relations  with  the  outside  world.  As  a  result  historians  today  do  not  have  the   benefit  of  a  Russian  “A  Short  Treatise  About  Ambassadors,”  much  less  a  trea-­‐‑ tise   on   amanats,   which   might   have   thrown   light   on   the   peculiarities   of   the   institution.26  In  the  absence  of  learned  disquisition  on  theories  of  ideal  diplo-­‐‑ matic  behavior,  historians  must  rely  on  documents  reflecting  actual  diplomat-­‐‑ ic  practice.   These  rich  sources  are  of  two  types.  The  first  group  comprises  the  docu-­‐‑ ments  generated  by  the  Foreign  Chancery  in  Moscow  (and  later,  the  College   of  Foreign  Affairs  in  St.  Petersburg)  and  its  agents  in  the  field.27  They  include   the   chancery’s   record   of   the   events   surrounding   the   activities   of   Caucasian   embassies  in  Russia.  The  results  of  negotiations  conducted  in  the  capital  were   registered   in   royal   charters   (zhalovalnye   or   zhalovannye   gramoty)   that   were   given  to  foreign  ambassadors  on  taking  leave  of  Moscow,  and  in  instructions   to  voevodas,  governors,  and,  later,  governors-­‐‑general  serving  in  Russian  fron-­‐‑ tier   towns.   These   latter   officials,   in   turn,   sent   to   central   authorities   detailed   reports  (otpiski,  doneseniia,  raporty)  concerning  relations  with  Caucasian  pow-­‐‑ erbrokers.  Further,  Russia’s  ambassadors  to  Caucasia  were  supplied  with  let-­‐‑ ters   of   accreditation   (veruiushchie   gramoty);   official   correspondence   (gramoty)                                                                                                                             26

 On  the  contributions  of  Bartolus  and  Rosier  to  the  study  and  practice  of  Renaissance   diplomacy,   see   Garrett   Mattingly,   Renaissance   Diplomacy   (New   York:   Dover   Publica-­‐‑ tions,   1988),   21–38.   Marshall   Poe   has   pointed   out   the   “relative   dearth   of   [political]   treatises   and   manifestoes”   in   “What   Did   Russians   Mean   When   They   Called   Them-­‐‑ selves  ‘Slaves  of  the  Tsar’?”  Slavic  Review  57,  no.  3  (Fall  1998):  585,  586.     27  Helpful   introductions   to   the   Russian   foreign   chancery   are   Sergei   A.   Belokurov,   O   Posol’skom   prikaze   (n.p.,   [1906]),   and   Vladimir   I.   Savva,   O   Posol’skom   prikaze   v   XVI   v.   (Kharkov,  1917).    

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addressed   to   one   or   more   of   the   region’s   leaders;   and,   most   important,   de-­‐‑ tailed   instructions   (nakazy,   pamiati)   which   the   ambassadors   were   sworn   to   follow   to   the   letter.   These   instructions   explained   the   embassy’s   purpose   and   goals,   discussed   protocol   to   be   followed,   provided   answers   to   anticipated   questions,  and  circumscribed  ambassadorial  behavior  in  other  ways.  On  their   return,   ambassadors   were   required   to   submit   detailed   accounts   (stateinye   spiski)  of  “how  the  sovereign’s  business  was  conducted”  (kak  delalos’  gosudar-­‐‑ evo  delo).28   The  second  group  consists  of  documents  of  non-­‐‑Russian,  Caucasian  prov-­‐‑ enance.   It   is   reasonable   to   assume   that   Caucasian   ambassadors   also   carried   with   them   detailed   instructions—some   written,   others   confided   orally;   con-­‐‑ veyed   official   charters   addressed   to   Russian   authorities;   and,   on   returning,   submitted  reports  to  their  governments.  Unfortunately,  relatively  little  of  this   material   has   survived.   Of   the   three   genres   mentioned,   the   second—official   correspondence  addressed  to  the  Russian  sovereign—not  surprisingly,  is  en-­‐‑ countered  most  frequently  because  it  was  delivered  into  the  hands  of  Russian   diplomats  and  preserved  in  the  archives  of  the  institutions  charged  with  con-­‐‑ ducting  the  country’s  foreign  affairs.  For  the  16th  and  17th  centuries,  many  of   the  original  documents  have  been  preserved  only  in  Russian  translation.  For-­‐‑ tunately,   the   translators   at   the   foreign   chancery   and   interpreters   working   in   the   field—themselves   often   of   steppe   or   Caucasian   extraction—appear   to   have   been   usually   competent.   This   evidentiary   state   of   affairs   means   that   Caucasian   perspectives   on   relations   with   Russia   are   underrepresented   rela-­‐‑ tive  to  those  of  Russian  officials.  This  is  important  because  in  Caucasia,  Russia   was  cast  in  the  role  of  demanding  hostages,  while  the  native  peoples  of  Cau-­‐‑ casia  were  obliged  to  surrender  them.  That  dynamic  never  changed.  Yet  care-­‐‑ ful   reading   of   the   sources   can   yield   valuable   insights   into   perspectives   on   both  sides  of  the  cultural  divide.29   The Main Features of Diplomatic Hostage-taking in Caucasia Diplomatic  relations  between  the  Russian  government  and  the  native  groups   of  Caucasia  commenced  in  the  second  half  of  the  16th  century.  They  emerged   out   of   the   complex   web   of   alliances   that   constituted   steppe   politics.   Speci-­‐‑ fically,  significant  Russian-­‐‑Caucasian  cross-­‐‑cultural  contact  dates  to  the  Mus-­‐‑                                                                                                                           28

 There  are  apparently  no  Ottoman  or  Iranian  analogues  to  the  reports  submitted  by   Russian  ambassadors  on  their  return,  making  them  especially  valuable  sources  for  the   reconstruction  of  Caucasian  history.  Nor,  alas,  has  the  archive  of  the  Crimean  khanate   survived;   see   E.   N.   Kusheva,   Narody   Severnogo   Kavkaza   i   ikh   sviazi   s   Rossii:   Vtoraia   polovina  XVI  –  30  gody  XVII  veka  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1963),  13  n.  29.   29  For   discussion   of   the   sources   for   the   study   of   early   Russian-­‐‑Caucasian   diplomatic   relations,   see   Snosheniia   Rossii   s   Kavkazom,   cxviii–cxxix;   Kusheva,   Narody   Severnogo   Kavkaza,  11–21.    

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covite  conquests  of  Kazan  and  Astrakhan.  Historically,  conquests  have  served   to  invite  neighboring  peoples  to  seek  the  favor  of  the  conquerors.30  Following   the   conquests   of   the   Volga   khanates,   Moscow   began   receiving   a   growing   number  of  deputations  from  its  steppe  and  Caucasian  frontiers.   Russian-­‐‑Caucasian   relations   at   this   stage   amounted   to   mutual   efforts   to   forge   political-­‐‑military   alliances.   In   establishing   formal   relations,   the   sides   had   first   to   decide   whether   such   an   alliance   would   be   mutually   rewarding,   and  then  to  determine  the  exact  duties  and  obligations  of  each  side  before  the   other.   Would   the   alliance   join   two   forces   of   equal   status   and   strength?   Or   would   the   partnership   include   senior   and   junior   members?   In   other   words,   who   owed   fealty   to   whom?   A   threshold   question   in   the   context   of   frontier   diplomacy:  which  party  would  be  required  to  surrender  diplomatic  hostages?   Both   sides   would   have   understood   that   men   of   equal   power   could   agree   to   exchange   hostages   as   a   gesture   of   mutual   good   will.   Where   the   balance   of   power   was   unequal,   however,   only   the   weaker   partner   would   be   obliged   to   yield  hostages.  In  conducting  diplomacy  with  the  native  groups  of  Caucasia,   the  Russian  government  left  little  doubt  in  whose  favor  the  balance  of  power   tilted.   As   for   the   lords   of   Caucasia,   in   quitting   the   native   hearth,   taking   up   residence   in   Russian-­‐‑administered   towns,   and   surrendering   sons,   cousins,   and   nephews   into   Russian   custody   as   hostages,   they   were   acknowledging   their  junior,  and  thus  the  tsar’s  senior,  position  in  the  partnership.  Although   negotiations  rarely  if  ever  touched  on  abstractions  such  as  suzerainty  or  sov-­‐‑ ereignty,   to   acquiesce   to   the   junior   role,   to   become   the   tsar’s   “servant”   (kho-­‐‑ lop),  was  to  be  considered  his  subject  as  well.  At  least  that  is  how  the  Russian   government  chose  to  structure  and  interpret  the  relationship.     Before  discussing  the  main  features  of  diplomatic  hostage-­‐‑taking  in  Cau-­‐‑ casia,  it  is  important  to  remember  that  it  was  one  among  a  suite  of  practices   aimed   at   formalizing   relations   between   the   Russian   government   and   Cauca-­‐‑ sian   elites.   Those   relations   were   highly   personal   affairs.   Embassies   repre-­‐‑ sented  the  interests  of  specific  individuals,  not  abstractions  such  as  “states”  or   “governments.”  And  neither  side  had  much  use  for  ideologies  of  any  sort.  On   one  hand,  there  was  the  Russian  tsar;  on  the  other,  a  Caucasian  powerbroker,   usually   referred   to   in   the   Russian   sources   as   a   “prince”   (kniaz’,   murza)   or   “warlord”  (vladelets).31  Theirs  was,  at  the  most  basic  level,  a  patron-­‐‑client  rela-­‐‑ tionship.  This  comes  out  very  clearly  in  the  sources,  where  the  notion  of  “pa-­‐‑ tronage”  (pokrovitel’stvo)  is  omnipresent.  Potential  clients  were  allowed,  even   encouraged,   to   submit   petitions   seeking   the   tsar’s   favor.   In   such   petitions                                                                                                                             30

 Consider   the   Roman   victory   at   Pydna   (168   BC),   which   attracted   “a   flood   of   em-­‐‑ bassies  to  Rome”  (Braund,  Rome  and  the  Friendly  King,  55).   31  Although   vladelets   can   also   mean   “master,”   a   definition   that   is   suitable   to   the   Caucasian   context,   the   Russians   were   interested   in   these   individuals   primarily   for   their  warrior  qualities,  which  is  why  I  use  “warlord”  and  “master”  interchangeably  to   translate  the  term.    

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(chelobitnye   gramoty),   as   a   rule,   the   client   requested   to   be   placed   under   the   tsar’s  authority  (pod  tsarskuiu  ruku)  and  protected  from  his  local  and  regional   enemies.  In  return  for  royal  patronage,  the  client  pledged  exclusive  allegiance   to  the  tsar  and  promised  to  serve  in  military  campaigns  against  the  tsar’s  ene-­‐‑ mies.  For  his  part,  the  tsar  was  to  “hear  out”  (vyshlushat’)  the  client’s  petition   before   deigning   to   bestow   royal   favor   (pozhalovat’)   on   him.   The   client   was   then   made   to   swear   an   “oath   of   allegiance”   (shertnaia   zapis’,   also   zapis’   tselo-­‐‑ val’naia)  to  the  tsar.  The  shert’  stipulated  the  client’s  obligations  before  his  pa-­‐‑ tron,   which   included,   in   the   case   of   non-­‐‑Christian   Caucasian   highlanders,   a   pledge   to   send   representatives—i.e.,   hostages—to   reside   in   Russia’s   frontier   outposts:   “And   Prince   Kanbulat   and   I,   Prince   Mamstriuk,   and   Prince   Ochi-­‐‑ kan,   Kudenet   Murza,   my   brother   Damanuk,   Prince   Izbulduk,   Princes   Anza-­‐‑ ruk  and  Singalei  Kanglychev,  Prince  Bitemriuk,  and  all  our  cousins  and  neph-­‐‑ ews  and  best  people  shall  reside,  in  alternating  sequence  (peremeniaias’),  in  the   sovereign’s   town   of   Tersk.”32   The   shert’   also   typically   enjoined   the   client   to   take   military   action   against   the   tsar’s   enemies   and   envisioned   further   con-­‐‑ quests.   In   such   cases   diplomatic   hostages   were   to   be   taken   from   the   van-­‐‑ quished  and  entrusted  to  Russian  authorities  in  Astrakhan  and  Tersk,  in  the   17th  century,  and  Sviatoi  Krest,  Kizliar,  and  Mozdok,  in  the  18th.  During  the   final  stage  of  the  Moscow  round  of  negotiations,  Caucasian  deputations  were   presented  with  a  royal  charter  (tsarskaia  zhalovalaia  gramota  s  zolotoiu  pechat’iu)   that  served  both  to  recapitulate  and  codify  the  results  of  the  negotiations.  In   the   charter,   the   tsar   claimed   suzerainty   over   the   client,   his   people,   and   his   lands;   promised   to   protect   the   client   from   enemies;   and   to   reward   him   with   cash  and  other  signs  of  royal  favor  (collectively,  zhalovan’e).  Like  the  shert’,  the   royal  charter  also  obliged  its  addressee  and  his  supporters  to  live  under  Rus-­‐‑ sian  supervision.  Thus  both  the  client’s  shert’  and  the  patron’s  charter  touched   on  this  requirement.  In  sum,  many  of  the  principal  questions  concerning  the   newly   contracted   alliance   were   addressed   and   agreed   to   in   the   Russian   capital.33   As  should  be  clear  from  this  brief  discussion,  the  question  of  political  alle-­‐‑ giance  and  military  alliance,  on  one  hand,  and  the  promise  of  tsarist  largesse,   on   the   other,   was   at   the   heart   of   Russian-­‐‑Caucasian   relations.   The   Russian   government  was  prepared  to  offer  patronage  and  protection  to  its  Caucasian                                                                                                                             32

 Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom,  47  (doc.  5).    This  summary  is  based  on  an  analysis  of  documents  in  Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom;   Perepiska  na  inostrannykh  iazykakh  gruzinskikh  tsarei  s  rossiiskimi  gosudariami,  ot  1639  g.  po   1770  g.,  ed.  M.  F.  Brosset  (St.  Petersburg:  Prodaetsia  u  kommissionerov  Imp.  Akademii   nauk,  1861);  Kabardino-­‐‑russkie  otnosheniia  v  XVI—XVIII  vv.:  Dokumenty  i  materialy  k  400   letiiu  prisoedinenii  Kabardy  k  Rossii,  ed.  T.  Kh.  Kumykov  et  al.,  2  vols.  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo   Akademii   nauk   SSSR,   1957);   Russko-­‐‑dagestanskie   otnosheniia   XVII–pervoi   chetverti   XVIII   vv.:  Dokumenty  i  materialy,  ed.  M.  M.  Ikhilov  et  al.  (Makhachkala:  Dagestanskoe  knizh-­‐‑ noe  izdatel’stvo,  1958).     33

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clients  in  return  for  their  pledge  to  serve  the  tsar  loyally  and  exclusively.  This   meant   fighting   in   Russia’s   wars,   in   Caucasia   and   elsewhere.34   For   their   part,   Caucasian   warlords   sought   Russian   military   assistance   to   defeat   their   ene-­‐‑ mies,  and  royal  largesse  to  distribute  among  themselves  and  their  clients.  But   while  most  of  the  formal  aspects  of  the  relationship  had  been  worked  out  in   the  Russian  capital,  both  the  client’s  shert’  and  the  patron’s  charter  addressed   the  hostage  issue  in  only  general  terms.  Whether  either  side  intended  to  make   good   on   its   pledges   would   become   clear   only   in   Caucasia,   where   the   real   business   and   messy   work   of   frontier   diplomacy   and   empire-­‐‑building   un-­‐‑ folded.   Thus,   further   negotiations,   this   time   on   native   ground   in   Caucasia,   were  required  to  work  out  the  details  of  delivering,  maintaining,  and  rotating   the  hostages.   By  the  end  of  the  16th  century,  the  government  in  Moscow  had  managed   to   establish   a   toehold   in   Caucasia   on   the   Terek   River,   where   a   Russian   voe-­‐‑ voda   was   stationed   in   Tersk.   As   a   relative   newcomer   to   Caucasian   politics,   Moscow   was   understandably   anxious   about   the   loyalties   of   its   local   clients.   Caucasia   was   becoming,   again,   the   site   of   a   great   contest   for   empire   that   engaged  Ottoman,  Crimean,  and  Russian  agents  north  of  the  Caucasus  Moun-­‐‑ tains,   while   a   fierce   Ottoman-­‐‑Safavid   rivalry   raged   in   southern   Caucasia.35   Russia’s  foreign  chancery  at  the  time  was  negotiating  with  leaders  from  both   regions.   In   1588,   it   announced   the   results   of   talks   between   Moscow   and   two   Kabardian   princes   in   instructions   to   Russian   voevodas   in   Astrakhan   and   Tersk.   Tersk   voevoda   Prince   Andrei   Khvorostinin   was   informed   that   the   princes   had   pledged   to   send   representatives   to   reside   in   Tersk   as   hostages.   Should   Moscow’s   Kabardian   clients   request   military   assistance   against   com-­‐‑ mon   enemies,   defined   as   anyone   in   league   with   the   Crimeans   and   the   Ku-­‐‑ myks   (the   Ottomans   are   indicated   as   enemies   in   other   contemporary   docu-­‐‑ ments),   Khvorostinin   was   instructed   to   provide   it   and   to   persuade   any   defeated  foes  to  enter  tsarist  service  and  send  hostages  to  reside  in  Tersk.  The   fort-­‐‑town   was   meant   to   serve   as   a   base   for   conducting   joint   Russian-­‐‑ Caucasian  military  operations  and  a  place  where  clients’  loyalty,  measured  in   terms   of   services   rendered   and   conditions   met,   could   be   recorded   and   re-­‐‑ warded   accordingly.   As   Khvorostinin’s   instructions   made   clear,   the   purpose   of   taking   hostages   was   to   ensure   the   loyalty   of   the   tsar’s   local   clients.   By   maintaining  Caucasian  headmen  and  their  relatives  as  hostages  in  Tersk,  and  

                                                                                                                          34

 Caucasian   warlords   were   even   expected   to   contribute   troops   to   a   “German   campaign  against  the  Swedish  king”  See  Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom,  48  (doc.  5)  and   66–72  (doc.  9),  respectively.     35  See,   for   example,   Carl   Max   Kortepeter,   Ottoman   Imperialism   during   the   Reformation:   Europe  and  the  Caucasus  (New  York:  New  York  University  Press,  1972).    

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by   remunerating   them,   the   Russian   government   hoped   to   guarantee   their   loyalty:  “Thus  their  we  shall  have  their  allegiance  and  they  our  favor.”36   Despite   Moscow’s   efforts   to   dictate   the   terms   of   the   relationship,   the   question  of  who  was  to  serve  as  a  hostage,  and  for  how  long,  was  decided  in   the  course  of  talks  that  took  place  in  Caucasia.  Following  negotiations  in  Mos-­‐‑ cow,   the   Kabardian   princes   arrived   in   Tersk   and   met   with   its   voevoda.   Al-­‐‑ though   they   had   already   pledged   in   Moscow   to   serve   the   tsar   and   live   in   Tersk,   and   were   reminded   by   Khvorostinin   of   the   tsar’s   instructions   regard-­‐‑ ing  the  matter,  they  had  their  own  ideas  about  what  it  meant  to  serve  the  tsar.   First  they  set  out  for  Kabarda,  saying  “we  and  all  Kabardian  Circassians  who   wish  to  serve  the  sovereign  will  talk  over  what  it  means  for  us  to  be  under  the   sovereign’s  authority  and  to  serve  the  sovereign.  And  as  soon  as  we  have  dis-­‐‑ cussed   [these   matters]   we   will   come   to   you   at   Tersk   and   will   negotiate  with   you  about  everything.”  Khvorostinin  and  his  colleagues  apparently  had  little   choice  but  to  take  them  at  their  word  and  watch  them  leave.  Due  to  gaps  in   the  evidence  it  is  difficult  to  establish  a  precise  chronology  of  the  arrivals  and   departures   of   Kabardians   to   and   from   Tersk,   but   it   appears   that   months   passed   without   word   from   Moscow’s   new   clients.   As   a   result,   the   voevoda   sent  a  courier  to  Kabarda  to  enquire  about  the  princes’  intentions.  Three  more   months   passed   before   Mamstriuk   and   the   other   princes   finally   appeared   in   Tersk,   explaining   their   delay   with   reference   to   the   “great   troubles”   that   had   arisen  among  them  following  the  death  of  one  of  their  number.37  Now  nego-­‐‑ tiations  could  commence.   Prominently  featured  in  the  negotiations  was  the  question  of  hostages.  In   a  report  to  central  authorities,  Khvorostinin  explained  that  he  and  the  Kabar-­‐‑ dian  princes  had  agreed  on  a  number  of  issues,  including  details  concerning   the  surrender  of  hostages.  “And  having  caused  them  to  swear  an  oath  of  alle-­‐‑ giance,”  he  wrote,  “we  took  Kanbulatov’s  son,  Aisiaga,  as  a  hostage;  and  he  is   to  stay  with  us  until  autumn;  and  Mamstriuk  will  spend  autumn  and  winter   in   Tersk;   and   Mamstriuk   left   his   best   retainer   (uzden’),   Atalyk   Eltiuka.   And   Khotov  will  send  his  son  Adaruk.  And  we,  your  servants,  gave  them  the  sov-­‐‑ ereign’s   grant,   and   having   remunerated   them,   gave   them   leave   to   return   to   their   hearths.”   Following   these   talks,   most   of   the   princes   disappeared   again   into   the   forested   hills.   The   cloth   and   cash   that   they   carried   with   them   were   intended  to  attract  others  to  Russian  service:  “And  we  gave  them  your  sover-­‐‑ eign’s  grant  so  that  other  lands,  looking  at  their  example,  would  attach  them-­‐‑ selves   to   the   sovereign’s   town   of   Tersk.”38   There   all   newcomers   would   be   required  to  pledge  allegiance  to  the  tsar  and  surrender  hostages.  It  must  have                                                                                                                             36

 “To  ikh  i  pravda  bolshaia  budet  pered  nami  i  nashe  zhalovan’e  k  nim  budet.”  The   instructions  to  the  voevodas  are  in  Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom,  52–53  (doc.  5).   37  Ibid.,  75  (doc.  10).   38  Ibid.,  76,  77  (doc.  10).  

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seemed   a   winning   strategy—relatively   straightforward   and   mutually   rewarding.     What  did  the  Kabardians  think  of  Russia’s  demand  for  hostages?  This  is  a   difficult   question   to   answer   because   we   must   rely   on   the   documents   gener-­‐‑ ated  by  the  Russian  foreign  chancery  and  on  Khvorostinin’s  reports.  In  these   documents   there   is   no   indication   that   the   Kabardians   who   took   part   in   the   first   rounds   of   negotiations   ever   voiced   objections   to   the   idea   of   giving   hos-­‐‑ tages   as   a   requirement   of   their   service.   Had   the   legitimacy   of   the   institution   been   challenged,   Moscow   or   its   agents   in   Caucasia   would   likely   have   re-­‐‑ corded  it,  as  they  did  in  other  instances.  Nor  does  it  appear  that  force  or  the   threat   of   force   was   required   to   compel   the   surrender   of   either   Aisiaga   or   Mamstriuk,  who  appear  to  have  served  out  their  terms  in  Tersk,  as  stipulated   in  the  original  agreement.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  every  indication  that  both   sides  viewed  the  institution  as  a  familiar,  legitimate  tool  for  ordering  political   relations   in   the   region.   But   if   Khvorostinin   believed   that   all   highland   chiefs   found   the   allure   of   tsarist   largesse   irresistible,   or   that   oaths,   gifts,   and   hos-­‐‑ tages,   taken   together,   were   sufficient   to   guarantee   a   client’s   loyal   service,   he   was  mistaken.   Not   every   Caucasian   warlord   was   eager   to   enter   tsarist   service   on   such   terms.   This   became   increasingly   clear   during   a   Russian   embassy   to   eastern   Georgia  led  by  Prince  Semen  Zvenigorodskii  and  Torkh  Antonov,  in  1589–90.   Longstanding  ties  of  kinship  and  friendship  connected  some  Circassian  elites   to   neighboring   powers   that   Russia   considered   hostile   rivals:   the   Kumyks   in   the   east   and   Crimea   in   the   west.   Understanding   this   fact   goes   a   long   way   toward   explaining   the   behavior   of   two   allied   Kabardian   princes,   Alkas   and   Sholokh   (also   Solokh),   who   initially   refused   to   surrender   hostages   to   Tersk   despite   being   pressured   to   do   so   by   Kabardians   in   Russian   service.   Sholokh   explained   his   dilemma   thus:   “How   am   I   to   break   with   the   Crimean   [khan],   shamkhal  and  Kumyks?  I  have  two  daughters  and  many  kinsman  and  tribes-­‐‑ men   in   Crimea.   The   same   goes   for   the   lands   of   the   shamkhal   and   Kumyks.”   Was   Sholokh   telling   the   truth?   According   to   Russia’s   Kabardian   informants,   Sholokh   had   recently   hosted   a   Crimean   prince   who   was   in   the   region   in   search  of  brides  for  the  Crimean  khan;  the  guest  returned  to  Crimea  with  one   of  Sholokh’s  daughters,  who  was  subsequently  married  to  the  khan.  The  fugi-­‐‑ tive  Crimean  prince  Murad  Giray,  who  at  the  time  was  living  under  Russian   protection  in  Astrakhan,  was  also  in  a  position  to  confirm  Sholokh’s  Crimean   connections.   Interestingly,   Sholokh   himself   had   invoked   Murad   Giray   in   ex-­‐‑ plaining  his  refusal  to  go  to  Tersk,  claiming  that  he  took  his  orders  not  from   Russia’s   voevodas,   but   from   the   Crimean   prince.39   Sholokh   and   Alkas   were   also  allied  to  the  shamkhal  and  had  exchanged  hostages  with  him.  Sholokh,  for   example,  kept  a  son  of  the  shamkhal  as  a  token  of  peaceful  relations.40  Thus  it                                                                                                                             39

 Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom,  137  (doc.  12).    Ibid.,  136  (doc.  12).  

40

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is   clear   that   Sholokh’s   power   rested   to   a   considerable   degree   on   a   system   of   alliances   that   stretched   across   northern   Caucasia   from   Crimea   to   Daghestan.   He   had   already   given   to   others   what   the   Russians   were   now   demanding   of   him—diplomatic   hostages.   What   would   become   of   them,   and   of   his   power,   were  he  to  switch  alliances?  It  must  not  have  been  an  easy  decision  to  make,   since  amity  with  Russia  would  likely  win  the  enmity  of  its  rivals.   Clearly,  some  highland  chiefs  had  compelling  reasons  to  look  askance  at   Russian   attempts   to   place   them   under   tsarist   authority.   Yet   many   tried   to   walk  the  fine  line  between  rendering  specific  services  to  the  Russians,  on  one   hand,  and  contracting  formal  alliances  with  them,  on  the  other.  Prince  Alkas,   for  instance,  had  provided  critical  logistical  support  to  Russian  emissaries  on   their  way  to  eastern  Georgia,  in  1587–88.  In  return  for  granting  them  safe  pas-­‐‑ sage  through  his  lands,  Alkas  was  given  a  royal  charter  and  a  fur  coat.  There   were   early   indications   that   Alkas   might   be   an   unpredictable   and   dangerous   ally:  he  was  at  war  with  other  Kabardian  princes,  and  had  strained  relations   with  the  governor  of  Svanetia,  whose  lands  straddled  the  strategically  impor-­‐‑ tant  mountain  pass  leading  to  eastern  Georgia.  Tellingly,  Alkas  did  not  offer   to  accompany  the  Russians  himself,  but  sent  a  retainer  instead.  In  the  moun-­‐‑ tains  this  was  an  ominous  sign—the  host  was  keeping  his  distance  from  these   suspicious,  though  gift-­‐‑bearing,  guests.41   The  following  year  Alkas  encountered  another  Russian  embassy  en  route   to  eastern  Georgia.  Accompanying  the  ambassadors  were  the  representatives   Alkas  had  sent  to  Moscow  to  negotiate  the  terms  of  his  relationship  with  the   Russian   government.   In   the   interim,   Alkas   had   repeatedly   ignored   Khvoro-­‐‑ stinin’s  requests  to  appear  in  Tersk.  “What  kind  of  loyalty  and  service  to  the   tsar  is  this?”  the  ambassadors  asked  rhetorically.  They  explained  to  him  that  if   he   desired   the   tsar’s   patronage   and   protection,   he   must   first   formally   place   himself  and  his  people  under  the  tsar’s  authority  and  agree  to  serve  the  tsar   as  stipulated  in  a  shert’,  and  also  to  “give  as  a  hostage  your  brother  or  cousin   or  son  or  nephew,  whoever  can  be  trusted,  so  that  in  the  future  you  may  be   maintained   reliably   in   the   sovereign’s   favor   under   his   tsarist   authority   and   protected   against   [your]   enemies;   in   return   you   may   count   on   [receiving]   royal  remuneration.”  They  also  expected  Alkas  to  accompany  them  as  far  as   the  Georgian  lands,  and  to  await  their  return  in  Tersk.  Alkas  had  other  ideas,   however.  He  was  prepared  to  accompany  them  himself,  and  to  send  his  own   son  to  Moscow  to  petition  the  tsar  concerning  his  affairs.  “Is  not  the  fact  that  I   myself   will   go   with   you   to   Georgia   equivalent   to   a   hostage   and   a   pledge   of   allegiance?”   It  was  not.  The  envoys  cited  the  example  of  “all  the  Kabardian  highland   princes”  and  other  local  powerbrokers  who  had  already  acquiesced  to  similar   demands.  “As  for  you,  Alkas,  there  is  no  other  way.”  But  the  prince  persisted:   “If  you  do  not  trust  me  without  a  pledge  and  a  hostage,  then  take  me,  bound                                                                                                                             41

 Ibid.,  34  (doc.  4).  

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and  tied,  with  you,  not  letting  me  out  of  your  sight…  But  I  can  neither  swear   an  oath  nor  give  a  hostage.”  When  his  interlocutors  inquired  into  his  reasons   for  refusing  to  comply  with  their  demands,  Alkas  replied:  “I  have  lived  to  an   old   age   and   previously   my   word   was   believed   in   everything,   and   I   have   never  given  an  oath  or  a  hostage  to  anyone.”  But  the  Russian  called  his  bluff,   saying:   “We   know   how   affairs   are   conducted   among   Circassians:   in   every   matter  you  consecrate  your  agreements  by  taking  oaths  and  giving  hostages;   and  without  this  it  is  impossible  to  survive  among  you.”  Yet  Alkas  refused  to   yield,  especially  on  the  question  of  hostages.  So  it  was  put  to  him  in  no  uncer-­‐‑ tain  terms:  were  he  not  to  comply  voluntarily,  a  combined  Russian-­‐‑Kabardian   force  would  be  used  to  wrest  him  from  his  lands.  Alkas  requested  permission   to   talk   it   over   with   his   retainers,   then   asked   to   be   granted   all   the   privileges   enjoyed   by   other   Kabardians   under   Russian   authority:   free   access   to   the   re-­‐‑ sources  of  the  region’s  rivers  and  lands;  the  assistance  of  the  sovereign’s  mus-­‐‑ keteers   and   “free   Cossacks”   (volnye   kazaki)   in   fording   the   Terek   and   Sunzha   rivers;   and   tsarist   troops   to   fight   his   enemies.   Were   the   Russians   willing   to   satisfy  these  demands,  Alkas  was  prepared  to  accept  their  terms.42   What   is   one   to   make   of   Alkas’s   claim   never   to   have   surrendered   hos-­‐‑ tages?  Russia’s  ambassadors  certainly  did  not  lend  credence  to  his  story,  nor   should   we.   As   Alkas   and   other   highland   chiefs   would   have   understood,   the   question  was  not  whether  to  surrender  hostages,  but  to  whom  and  under  what   conditions.   His   Crimean   patron,   Murad   Giray,   had   told   the   Russians   that   Alkas   was   prepared   to   send   his   son   as   a   hostage   to   Astrakhan,   that   is,   to   Murad  Giray,  who  happened  to  be  related  to  the  shamkhal  by  marriage.43  Al-­‐‑ though  the  sources  are  ambiguous  on  the  question  of  the  exact  nature  of  the   relationship   between   Alkas   and   the   shamkhal,   it   is   likely   that   they   too   were   bound  by  kinship  ties.  And  there  is  no  question  that  Alkas  was  related  to  the   king   of   eastern   Georgia,   Alexander,   whom   the   Russians   were   now   courting.   During   talks   with   the   Georgians,   the   Russian   ambassadors   were   informed   that   Alkas   had   recently   arrived   in   Alexander’s   lands   to   request   the   king’s   favor  and  to  surrender  his  son  as  a  hostage.  This  surprised  the  Russians,  who   explained   that   Alkas   had   already   declared   his   loyalty   to   the   Russian   sover-­‐‑ eign   and   given   hostages,   but   that   a   mere   three   days   later   he   had   been   inter-­‐‑ cepted  at  the  Sunzha  River  ford  in  the  company  of  Kumyks.  This  betrayal  of   his  oath  meant,  for  the  Russians,  that  “the  prince’s  loyalty  was  suspect.”  As  a   result,  Alkas  would  have  to  give  more  hostages,  including  his  son.  The  Geor-­‐‑ gians   concurred,   saying   their   king   had   no   intention   of   letting   Alkas   return   home  without  demanding  his  son  as  collateral.  In  the  end,  Alkas  sent  the  one                                                                                                                             42

 This   fascinating   exchange   is   in   ibid.,   141–44   (doc.   12);   cf.   Khodarkovsky,   Russia’s   Steppe  Frontier,  58.     43  Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom,  65  (doc.  7);  Murad  Giray  was  a  son-­‐‑in-­‐‑law  of  the  sham-­‐‑ khal,  ibid.,  174  (doc.  12).  

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son  he  claimed  to  have  to  Alexander  and  not  the  Russians.44  Like  the  khan  of   Pushkin’s   history   of   the   Pugachev   rebellion,   Alkas   was   a   pragmatist,   skilled   at  using  the  institutions  of  frontier  diplomacy  to  achieve  his  ends.   The  exchange  of  hostages  was  a  characteristic  feature  of  Caucasian  diplo-­‐‑ macy   in   the   early   modern   period.   In   the   17th   century,   the   Kumyk   chieftain   Surkhai   sent   one   of   his   sons   to   a   certain   Prince   Sholokh,   and   another   to   the   Kabardian   Prince   Kazii,   as   a   sign   of   his   friendship.45   In   the   18th   century,   Johann  Anton  Güldenstädt  recorded  instances  of  the  same  practice  in  south-­‐‑ ern   Caucasia,   where   Georgia’s   fractious   leaders   exchanged   hostages   among   themselves  and  with  other  regional  powers  for  the  very  reasons  that  had  in-­‐‑ spired   Surkhai   to   do   the   same.46   When   the   Georgians   feigned   incredulity   at   the  Russian  strategy  of  demanding  hostages  from  the  shamkhal,  saying  that  he   could  not  be  trusted  since  he  “has  as  many  sons  as  dogs,”  it  was  not  a  rejec-­‐‑ tion  of  the  institution.47  On  the  contrary,  the  diplomatic  hostage  was  a  famil-­‐‑ iar   figure   throughout   Caucasia.   King   Alexander,   after   all,   had   been   only   too   eager  to  keep  a  son  of  Alkas  as  a  hostage;  and  he  had  once  played  host  to  a   daughter  and  son  of  the  shamkhal  as  well,  though  his  possession  of  them  did   nothing  to  restrain  their  father’s  voracious  appetites.48     The   question   of   who   was   deemed   a   suitable   hostage   was   also   subject   to   negotiation.   The   Russian   government   demanded   hostages   from   Caucasian   headmen   who   were   believed   to   wield   considerable   power   and   influence   in   the   region;   it   did   not   condescend   to   give   them,   however.   In   northern   Cau-­‐‑ casia,   non-­‐‑Christian   chiefs   who   wished   to   work   with   the   Russians,   or   were   compelled  to  do  so,  were  required,  as  a  condition  of  their  service,  to  give  hos-­‐‑ tages.   When   Sholokh   requested   that   the   hostage   given   by   his   “great   friend”   Alkas   be   allowed   to   serve   as   a   token   of   both   princes’   good   will,   his   Russian   counterparts   explained   that   “it   is   not   acceptable   that   [the   loyalty   of]   two   princes   [be   ensured   by]   one   hostage.”49   Instead,   each   chief   was   expected   to   surrender  at  least  one  hostage.  The  Russians  consistently  instructed  their  Cau-­‐‑                                                                                                                           44

 Ibid.,  166,  167,  177,  193  (doc.  12).      G.  Kh.  Mambetov,  “Vzaimootnosheniia  kabardintsev  i  balkartsev  s  narodami  Dage-­‐‑ stana  v  XVI–XVIII  vv.,”  in  Vzaimootnosheniia  Dagestana  s  narodami  Kavkaza  (dooktiabr’skii   period),  ed.  V.  G.  Gadzhiev  (Makhachkala:  n.p.,  1977),  132.     46  Iogann   Anton   Gil’denshtedt,   Puteshestvie   po   Kavkazu   v   1770–1773   gg.,   ed.   Iu.   Iu.   Karpov,   trans.   T.   K.   Shafranovskaia   (St.   Petersburg:   Peterburgskoe   Vostokovedenie,   2002),   122,   records   that   negotiations   between   the   king   of   Imereti   and   the   prince   of   Guria,  conducted  in  the  1770s,  included  the  surrender  of  hostages  by  the  latter  to  the   former;   elsewhere,   Güldenstädt   depicts   the   institution   as   traditional   among   highland   Ossetians  (ibid.,  140).   47  Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom,  58  (doc.  6).     48  As  the  king  himself  put  it,  “I  receive  no  benefit  against  him  in  [maintaining  his]  son”   (a  v  syne  mne  v  ego  nikakie  pomochi  net),  in  ibid.,  214  (doc.  12).     49  Ibid.,  145  (doc.  12).     45

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casian  clients  to  “give  a  son,  a  brother,  a  cousin,  or  a  nephew,  whoever  can  be   trusted.”50  They  did  not  consider  women  to  be  suitable  hostages.  In  conduct-­‐‑ ing  diplomacy  with  Caucasian  ruling  elites,  the  Russian  government  placed  a   premium  on  the  men  of  the  ruling  clan:  after  the  “prince”  in  status  came  the   eldest  son  of  his  first  or  senior  wife,  then  other  sons  of  that  wife;  then  the  sons   of  other  wives;  next  were  the  prince’s  brothers,  cousins,  and  their  sons.  But  a   chief   could   have   a   say   in   deciding   whom   to   send   as   hostage.   Alkas,   for   in-­‐‑ stance,   surrendered   a   retainer   who   had   previously   represented   him   in   Moscow.51     The  system  became  more  rigid,  and  the  Russians  less  flexible,  when  rela-­‐‑ tions  soured.  For  example,  when  Alkas  “betrayed”  the  tsar  by  keeping  com-­‐‑ pany   with   Kumyks,   the   Russians   demanded   that   Alkas   surrender   his   son   as   hostage.   Alkas,   for   his   part,   went   to   great   lengths   to   avoid   giving   his   son   to   the   Russians,   even   enlisting   Murad   Giray   and   King   Alexander   in   the   effort.   He  would  rather  have  given  himself  over  to  the  Russians,  bound  and  gagged,   than   to   yield   his   only   son,   much   as   Kautilya   had   advised   his   audience.52   Prince   Sholokh   also   took   pains   to   avoid   giving   a   son   or   nephew;   instead   he   gave  a  retainer  whom  he  had  instructed  to  escape  from  Russian  custody  once   the   opportunity   presented   itself.53   It   was   as   if   the   Russians   and   the   Kabar-­‐‑ dians   were   taking   a   page   from   Roman   practice   or   Kautilya’s   Arthashastra:   both   sides   valued   the   sons   of   hostage-­‐‑givers   above   all   other   potential   hos-­‐‑ tages.   To   refuse   to   give   hostages,   especially   one’s   son   or   close   relatives,   was   one  of  the  subtler  arts  of  resistance.  It  was  also  a  winning  diplomatic  strategy.   The   longer   a   prince   held   out,   the   more   he   stood   to   gain   at   the   negotiating   table.   In   most   cases   the   patient   and   persistent   prince   appears   to   have   been   able  to  determine  whom  to  surrender  as  hostage.   Unfortunately,   very   little   is   known   about   the   conditions   in   which   hos-­‐‑ tages  lived  while  in  Russian  custody.  This  is  partly  because,  being  unlettered,   they   could   not   themselves   write   about   their   experiences.   As   one   emissary   from  Kabarda  told  his  interlocutors  in  the  Russian  foreign  chancery,  in  1640,   “there   is   no   literacy   among   the   Circassians   and   they   are   not   able   to   write.”   Fortunately   for   historians,   some   Nogai   could   and   did,   and   Kabardians   used   their  services  to  communicate  in  writing  with  the  Russian  authorities.54  Cau-­‐‑ casian   headmen   and   hostages   alike   also   lodged   complaints   with   the   author-­‐‑                                                                                                                           50

 Ibid.      Ibid.,  144  (doc.  12).   52  Snosheniia   Rossii   s   Kavkazom,   143   (doc.   12);   Kautilya,   The   Arthashastra,   600:   “A   king   shall   offer   himself   rather   than   an   only   son   as   a   hostage   if   he   himself   can   no   longer   beget  children,”  for  “all  expectations  [for  the  continuance  of  the  royal  line]  are  concen-­‐‑ trated  on  an  only  son.”     53  Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom,  82  (doc.  10).     54  Kabardino-­‐‑russkie   otnosheniia   v   XVI—XVIII   vv   (KRO),   ed.   T.   Kh.   Kumykov   et   al.,   2   vols.  (Moscow:  Izdatel’stvo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1957),  1:  186  (doc.  124).   51

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ities  in  Russia’s  frontier  towns,  and  did  the  same  through  the  emissaries  they   sent   to   the   Russian   capital.   There   was   an   obvious   disincentive   for   a   Russian   voevoda  to  report  on  his  own  misdeeds,  but  other  avenues  were  available  to   clients  who  wished  to  express  their  dissatisfaction  with  Russian  officials  serv-­‐‑ ing  in  Caucasia.55  As  a  rule,  neither  Caucasians  nor  Russians  took  the  trouble   to   record   the   facts   of   the   hostage   experience   when   the   institution   was   func-­‐‑ tioning  properly.  It  was  only  when  relations  between  the  sides  were  strained   that  the  institution’s  features  became  apparent.  As  a  result,  the  evidence  tends   to   cast   a   dark   shadow   over   the   institution   by   highlighting   the   exceptional   cases,  and  is  less  revealing  about  the  mundane  experiences  of  hostages.     In  the  16th  and  17th  centuries,  Caucasian  hostages  fell  under  the  jurisdic-­‐‑ tion  of  the  voevodas  of  Astrakhan  and  Tersk.  But  most  appear  to  have  lived   in  Tersk  or,  in  the  18th  century,  in  forts  built  along  the  Terek.  Their  lodgings   were  called  the  “hostage  quarters”  (amanatnyi  dvor),  which  was  located  within   the  walls  of  the  fortress.56  The  hostage  quarters  were  not  a  prison,  though  the   hostage   could   himself   become   a   prisoner.   Consider   the   case   of   Telgizbei   Murza,  one  of  the  sons  of  Prince  Aleguka  of  “Kazyeva  Kabarda,”  who  entered   Russian   custody   as   a   hostage   in   1640.   When   relations   between   Aleguka   and   the  Russian  government  deteriorated,  Moscow  instructed  officials  in  Tersk  to   “remove   Aleguka’s   son   from   the   hostage   quarters   and   to   place   him   under   armed   guard   until   [you   receive]   our   decree,   so   that   they   will   not   be   able   to   spirit  him  away  from  the  hostage  quarters.”  Next  the  officials  were  instructed   to  limit  his  rations:  where  he  had  formerly  been  provided  with  5  rubles  worth   of   food   per   month,   and   25   cups   of   wine   per   week,   his   food   allowance   was   now   reduced   by   more   than   half   and   the   wine   taken   away   altogether.   These   hardships,  while  endured  by  the  hostage,  were  designed  to  have  an  impact  on   the   hostage-­‐‑giver   as   well.   Moscow   reasoned   that   “Aleguka   Murza,   having   learned  of  them  and  taken  pity  on  his  son,  would  admit  his  guilt  [before  us]   and  petition  us”  for  mercy  and  forgiveness.  So  a  “special,  strong  prison”  was   prepared   for   his   son,   so   that   “he   would   not   be   able   to   dig   his   way   out   from   under   or   cut   his   way   through   the   prison.”57   This   suggests   that   before   his   imprisonment  the  hostage  had  not  been  supervised  by  armed  guards.  Indeed,   it  is  difficult  to  determine  how  closely  supervised  hostages  actually  were.  But   in   cases   when   the   hostage   was   imprisoned   and   kept   in   confinement   with   reduced  rations,  captivity  was  probably  a  trying  ordeal.  Some  four  years  later                                                                                                                             55

 Kabardian  Princes  Pshimakh  Kambulatovich  Cherkasskii  and  Aleguka  Sheganukov,   for  example,  lodged  complaints  against  the  Tersk  voevodas  in  1627  and  1640,  respec-­‐‑ tively;  KRO,  1:  docs.  80  and  123.   56  The  exact  location  of  the  amanatnyi  dvor  in  Kizliar  is  indicated  on  an  engraving  of  the   plan  of  that  town  included  in  Johann  Anton  Güldenstädt,  Reisen  durch  Russland  und  im   Caucasischen   Gebürge,   ed.   P.   S.   Pallas,   2   vols.   (St.   Petersburg,   1787,   1791).   See   Gil’denshtedt,  Puteshestvie  po  Kavkazu,  26.   57  KRO,  1:  201,  202  (doc.  129).    

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Telgizbei   was   released   when   a   relative   arrived   to   take   his   place.   We   do   not   know  whether  his  conditions  had  improved  in  the  interim,  only  that  on  leav-­‐‑ ing  Tersk  he  and  his  retainers  received  grants  and  provisions  for  the  trip  back   to  Kabarda.58   Besides  food  and  drink,  the  Russian  government  provided  the  hostages  in   its  custody  with  clothing.  Those  who  gave  hostages  came  to  expect  that  Rus-­‐‑ sian  officials  would  cover  the  cost  of  providing  the  hostages  with  all  necessi-­‐‑ ties—shelter,  clothing,  food—as  well  as  “honor”  (chest’).  As  Aleguka’s  envoy   complained   to   authorities   in   Moscow,   “they   take   hostages   from   them   in   Tersk,   and   the   Tersk   voevodas   treat   those   hostages   worse   than   dogs   and   starve   them.   As   for   the   emissaries   they   send   to   Tersk,   the   voevodas   neither   revere  them  nor  give  them  food  or  clothing,  while  other  Circassian  emissaries   are  honored  and  protected  and  shown  the  sovereign’s  favor.”59  Moscow  was   probably  guilty  of  wishful  thinking  when  it  insisted  that  its  voevodas  would   not   act   in   ways   that   were   inconsistent   with   the   sovereign’s   decrees.60   But   it   did  not  deny  that  the  treatment  of  hostages  depended  on  the  behavior  of  the   hostages   and   the   hostage-­‐‑givers   alike.   Aleguka’s   emissary   admitted   that   a   great   “friendship   and   love”   existed   between   his   master   and   the   Crimean   khan,  Russia’s  enemy.61  In  trying  to  serve  two  masters  at  once,  Aleguka  chose   to  make  life  difficult  for  those  he  entrusted  to  the  Russians  as  hostages.    Russia’s  frontier  administrators  kept  careful  records  concerning  the  costs   of   maintaining   hostages.   In   a   world   where   Russian   forces   were   surrounded   by   hostile   elements—both   human   and   natural—resources   were   often   scarce.   Resource   allocation,   therefore,   was   one   of   the   principal   concerns   of   the   Rus-­‐‑ sian   voevoda;   he   could   not   afford   to   squander   his   limited   resources.   Thus,   when  it  became  apparent  to  Tersk  voevoda  Prince  Venedikt  Andreevich  Obo-­‐‑ lenskii,  in  1646,  that  he  was  holding  three  hostages  whose  masters  had  either   died  or  whose  whereabouts  were  unknown,  the  prince  told  the  foreign  chan-­‐‑ cery,  “Tersk  is  no  stronger  for  these  hostages,  and  by  feeding  these  hostages   your   sovereign’s   treasury   suffers   expense   in   vain.”   This   was   language   that   any  Muscovite  official  would  have  understood.  Obolenskii  was  instructed  to   send  for  more  valuable  hostages  and  to  release  the  others.62   The   hostage   was   rarely,   if   ever,   delivered   into   Russian   custody   alone.   Accompanying  the  sons  of  Aleguka  and  his  Nogai  allies  into  Russian  custody   were  16  Kabardian  retainers  and  20  of  their  Nogai  counterparts.63  It  is  likely                                                                                                                             58

 Ibid.,  251  (doc.  152).    Ibid.,  184  (doc.  123).   60  As  Sergei  Bakhrushin  has  shown,  the  central  authorities  were  well  aware  of  cases  of   hostage  maltreatment  at  the  hands  of  its  officials  serving  in  the  steppe  frontier;  see  his   “Ocherki,”  4:  48;  he  discusses  amanatstvo  in  passing  on  47–49.     61  KRO,  1:  186  (doc.  124).     62  KRO,  1:  277  (doc.  171).   63  Ibid.,  250  (doc.  152).   59

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that  hostages  surrendered  by  other  highland  princes,  including  the  represen-­‐‑ tatives   of   other   native   groups,   the   Kumyks   for   instance,   were   maintained   in   Tersk  at  the  same  time.  Where  did  they  all  live?  Were  provisions  provided  to   both   the   princes   and   their   myriad   retainers?   Unfortunately,   the   published   sources  offer  few  answers  to  these  questions.64   That   Russian   empire-­‐‑building   in   Caucasia   was   a   negotiated   process   comes   into   focus   in   the   process   of   exchanging   one   hostage   for   another.   This   essay   has   demonstrated   that   Russian   authorities   preferred   as   hostages   the   sons  of  major  princes  and  their  senior  wives,  while  the  princes  tried  desper-­‐‑ ately   to   avoid   having   to   surrender   them.   It   took   a   Kabardian   prince   in   Rus-­‐‑ sian  service  at  least  five  months  to  negotiate  the  surrender  of  Aleguka’s  eldest   son   from   his   first   wife.65   But   no   sooner   had   the   prince   surrendered   his   son   than  he  petitioned  the  Russians  for  his  release.  The  prince  was  probably  con-­‐‑ cerned  that  his  son  would  be  held  for  an  indefinite  period.     One   of   the   most   common   complaints   lodged   by   Caucasian   highlanders   concerned   the   question   of   the   hostage’s   “term”   (srok)   in   Russian   custody.   In   practice,  the  duration  of  the  hostage’s  stay  was  finite  but  not  fixed.  When  rela-­‐‑ tions   between   Russia   and   its   Caucasian   clients   were   harmonious,   the   sides   negotiated  who  would  serve  as  a  hostage  and  for  how  long,  as  the  example  of   Khvorostinin   and   Mamstriuk,   discussed   above,   illustrates.66   But   when   rela-­‐‑ tions   were   strained,   the   Russian   government   allowed   its   decisions   to   be   informed  by  “conditions  on  the  ground”  (smotria  po  tamoshnemu  delu)  and  re-­‐‑ served   the   right   to   ignore   precedent.67   Once   Aleguka   had   admitted   his   guilt   before   the   Russian   sovereign,   opining   wryly   that   “there   are   no   guiltless   ser-­‐‑ vants,  and  it  is  for  sovereigns  to  show  their  servants  mercy,”  and  had  sworn   an  oath  of  loyalty,  the  Russian  authorities  were  prepared  to  act  favorably  on   his   request   to   exchange   one   of   his   cousin’s   sons   for   his   own   son,   who   was   then  serving  out  his  term  in  Tersk.  The  Russians  pledged  to  “take  and  rotate   hostages   in   the   same   way   they   are   taken   from   his   cousins,   depending   on   current   conditions   and   so   that   there   would   be   something   to   trust   in.”68   But   neither  he  nor  the  Russians  would  have  known  at  the  time  when  exactly  the   next  exchange  might  occur.                                                                                                                               64

 I  am  currently  in  the  process  of  analyzing  the  results  of  research  I  conducted  in  the   Central  State  Archive  of  the  Republic  of  Dagestan  (TsGARD),  where  substantial  infor-­‐‑ mation   pertaining   to   diplomatic   hostages   is   preserved   in   the   records   of   the   Kizliar   commandant’s   chancery   (f.   379,   “Kizliarskaia   komendantskaia   kantseliariia   gor.   Kiz-­‐‑ liar,”   op.   1,   1720–84   gg.).   The   research   was   supported   by   grants   from   Wright   State   University  and  the  National  Council  for  Eurasian  and  East  European  Research.   65  KRO,  1:  250  (doc.  152).   66  Snosheniia  Rossii  s  Kavkazom,  76  (doc.  10).   67  KRO,  1:  295  (doc.  186).   68  Ibid.,  286,  296,  297  (docs.  178,  186).  

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The   issue   remained   a   source   of   conflict   between   the   sides   into   the   18th   century.  In  a  1731  petition  addressed  to  Empress  Anna  Ioannovna,  Kabardian   emissary   Magomet   Atazhukin   noted,   “Previously   we   gave   one   person   as   a   hostage,  and  these  hostages  were  exchanged  annually,  but  now  our  hostages   have   increased   in   number   and   live   continuously   [in   Russian   custody].”   He   therefore   requested   the   empress   decree   a   return   to   previous   practice.69   How   much   had   things   changed   since   the   17th   century?   Kabardians   seem   to   have   felt   that   the   system   had   broken   down   substantially,   and   not   to   their   advan-­‐‑ tage.   When   asked   by   the   head   of   the   College   of   Foreign   Affairs,   Andrei   I.   Osterman,   whether   any   Kabardians   had   entrusted   hostages   to   the   Russian   fortress  on  the  Sulak  River,  Atazhukin  explained  that  two  hostages  and  seven   of  their  retainers  had  been  in  custody  there  for  seven  years.  He  then  requested   that   the   Russian   government   release   the   current   hostages   and   demand   only   one   in   the   future,   to   be   exchanged   yearly   as   before.   Osterman   promised   to   bring  the  matter  to  the  empress’s  attention.70   The Frontier Go-between: The Case of Dmitrii Taganov The   discussion   so   far   has   focused   on   the   negotiations   surrounding   hostage-­‐‑ taking  and  the  experiences  of  hostages  in  Russian  custody.  Clearly,  both  sides   brought   their   own   expectations   concerning   the   institution   to   the   negotiating   table,  but  all  parties  appear  to  have  recognized  its  legitimacy  (notwithstand-­‐‑ ing   Prince   Alkas’s   dissembling)   as   a   means   of   regulating   political   relations   within  the  region.  The  treatment  of  hostages  varied,  depending  on  Russian  of-­‐‑ ficials’  perception  of  the  behavior  of  the  hostage-­‐‑giver  and  conditions  on  the   ground,  particularly  with  regard  to  the  resources  at  the  disposal  of  those  re-­‐‑ sponsible   for   supervising   the   hostages   at   the   local   level.   Thus,   the   broad   outlines   of   hostage-­‐‑taking   have   been   established:   following   (sometimes   con-­‐‑ tentious)   talks   in   the   Russian   capital   and   in   Caucasia,   non-­‐‑Christian   steppe   and  highland  powerbrokers  delivered  hostages  to  officials  serving  in  Russian   fort-­‐‑towns,   where   the   hostages   were   maintained   for   a   period   of   time.   It   ap-­‐‑ pears   that   once   released,   most   hostages   returned   to   native   hearths.   It   would   be  a  mistake,  however,  to  view  hostage-­‐‑taking  as  a  “two  worlds”  affair,  with   Russian  officials  on  one  side,  and  Caucasian  headmen  on  the  other.  Hostages   had  options.  Some  traded  on  their  expert  knowledge  of  local  conditions  and   cultures   and   took   advantage   of   the   opportunities   available   to   them   as   hos-­‐‑ tages,  becoming  Russian  empire  builders  in  their  own  right.     Out  of  the  overlapping  worlds  of  the  Caucasian  frontier  stepped  one  Kaz-­‐‑ bulat  Murza.  According  to  the  military  historian  Petr  Butkov,  who  served  in   Caucasia   toward   the   end   of   the   18th   century,   Kazbulat   was   a   grandson   of   a                                                                                                                             69

 Ibid.,  2:  46  (doc.  43).      Ibid.,  55  (doc.  49);  see  also  ibid.,  104  (doc.  82),  where  another  Kabardian  prince  re-­‐‑ turns,  in  1742,  to  the  same  issue  in  a  petition  addressed  to  Empress  Elizabeth  Petrovna.    

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certain   Musa   Murza,   a   feisty   Nogai   headman   revered   among   Kuban   Tatars.   Kazbulat  was  serving  as  a  hostage  in  Kizliar  when,  in  the  early  1740s,  his  il-­‐‑ lustrious  grandfather  escaped  a  joint  Russian-­‐‑Kalmyk  effort  to  settle  his  peo-­‐‑ ple   along   the   Volga   River   among   the   Kalmyks.   As   a   result,   Kazbulat,   who   could   apparently   read   and   write   a   local   Turkic   language,   was   sent   to   St.   Petersburg.  In  1746,  the  St.  Petersburg  News  announced  his  conversion  from  Is-­‐‑ lam   to   Russian   Orthodoxy.   Kazbulat   Murza   was   henceforth   to   be   known   as   Dmitrii  Vasil’evich  Taganov.  Unfortunately,  Butkov,  following  the  convention   of  his  day,  usually  did  not  cite  his  sources,  leaving  historians  today  to  wonder   where   he   got   his   information   and   eager   to   learn   more   about   this   erstwhile   hostage-­‐‑cum-­‐‑Russian  empire  builder.71   Taganov  was  afforded  a  precious  education  by  the  Russian  government.   Specifically,  the  College  of  Foreign  Affairs  assumed  responsibility  for  impart-­‐‑ ing  Russian  imperial  values  to  its  new  charge.  All  of  16  years  old,  Taganov,  in   1748,   was   showing   promise   as   a   student   of   Russian,   German,   and   Ottoman   Turkish,  could  already  read  and  write  Tatar,  and  demonstrated  a  capacity  for   learning  “other  sciences.”  In  order  to  prepare  him  for  a  career  in  foreign  ser-­‐‑ vice,  however,  the  College  petitioned  to  have  him  enrolled  in  the  elite  Cadet   Corps.72   There   he   would   have   mingled   with   other   cadets—the   children   of   Russian   elites—and   been   exposed   to   Russian   ways.   During   his   time   in   the   capital,  he  would  have  learned  what  it  took  to  succeed  in  imperial  service.  It   helped   that   members   of   the   College   had   taken   a   special   interest   in   his   train-­‐‑ ing.  Perhaps  not  surprisingly,  given  his  background,  talents,  and  training,  he   made  his  career  in  Russia’s  steppe  and  Caucasian  frontiers.   After  serving  with  garrison  troops  in  Astrakhan,  he  was  transferred  to  a   unit   attached   to   the   Kalmyks,   where   he   appears   to   have   spent   most   of   the   1760s.   Having   served   as   a   bailiff   (pristav)   among   the   Kalmyks,   he   was   pro-­‐‑ moted   and   transferred,   in   1770,   to   serve   in   the   same   capacity   among   the   Kabardians.   At   the   time   Russia’s   southern   frontier,   always   turbulent,   was   perilous  in  the  extreme.  Russia  was  at  war  with  the  Ottomans,  and  there  were   significant   clashes   between   Russian   troops   and   local   tribes   in   the   Kuban-­‐‑ Terek   basin.73   Taganov   was   charged   with   announcing   the   end   of   the   war   to   the   Kabardians74   and,   more   important,   explaining   Russia’s   interpretation   of                                                                                                                             71

 Butkov,  Materialy,  1:  176–77  n.  1.      “Decree   of   Her   Imperial   Majesty   and   the   Senate   to   the   Chancery   of   the   Cadet   Corps,”   1748,   in   Rossiiskii   gosudarstvennyi   voenno-­‐‑istoricheskii   arkhiv   (RGVIA)   f.   314,  op.  1,  d.  2197,  ll.  121–21  ob.   73  For   Russian-­‐‑Kalmyk   relations   in   this   period,   see   Khodarkovsky,  Where   Two   Worlds   Met:   The   Russian   State   and   the   Kalmyk   Nomads,   1600–1771   (Ithaca,   NY:   Cornell   University  Press,  1992),  228–35;  on  Russian-­‐‑Kabardian  relations  at  the  same  time,  see   Sean  Pollock,  “Empire  by  Invitation?  Russian  Empire-­‐‑Building  in  the  Caucasus  in  the   Reign  of  Catherine  II”  (Ph.D.  diss.,  Harvard  University,  2006),  chap.  3.   74  S.  N.  Beituganov,  Kabarda  v  familiiakh  (Nal’chik:  El’brus,  1998),  27.   72

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the   peace   treaty:   Kabarda   was   now   part   of   the   Russian   Empire,   and   Kabar-­‐‑ dians   were   Russian   subjects.   As   a   result   of   Russian   claims   in   Kabarda   and   fort-­‐‑building   activities   in   the   Terek-­‐‑Kuban   basin,   hostilities   between   Russia   and  an  array  of  Caucasian  groups  ensued.75   It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  more  demanding  and  dangerous  job  in  Russian   imperial   service   than   that   of   bailiff   among   Russia’s   nominal   subjects   at   the   edges  of  its  empire.  As  relations  between  Russia  and  its  new  Caucasian  sub-­‐‑ jects  worsened  in  the  second  half  of  the  1770s,  Taganov  petitioned  his  superi-­‐‑ ors   for   reassignment.   He   wrote   first,   in   1779,   to   the   governor   of   Astrakhan,   and  then,  two  years  later,  to  the  College  of  Foreign  Affairs.  Citing  a  “long  and   difficult   service”   record   devoted   to   Kalmyk   and   Kabardian   affairs,   he   re-­‐‑ quested  to  be  assigned  as  a  fort  commandant  “so  that  I  can  at  least  live  out  the   rest   of   my   days   in   tranquility.”   As   imperial   go-­‐‑between,   he   was   in   the   van-­‐‑ gard   of   Russia’s   efforts   to   build   its   empire   in   the   steppe   and   northern   Cau-­‐‑ casia.  His  existence  was  imperiled,  thanks  to  endemic  intra-­‐‑Kabardian  strife,  a   condition   exacerbated   by   Russian-­‐‑highlander   antagonism.   He   was   often   an   unwelcome   presence   at   the   Kabardian   assemblies   he   was   charged   with   at-­‐‑ tending,  and  he  was  forced  to  spend  the  winters  and  summer  “in  the  field”  in   pursuit   of   Russia’s   elusive   subjects.   Finally,   he   went   into   debt   as   a   result   of   the  cost  of  paying  for  valuable  reconnaissance  and  the  friendship  of  his  hosts.   But  he  could  not  afford  simply  to  retire,  since  he  had  a  wife  and  four  children   to  support,  lacked  property,  and  remained  in  some  sense  a  foreigner  (po  ino-­‐‑ stranstvu   svoemu)   within   the   empire.76   Taganov   completed   his   service   as   commandant  of  Mozdok,  where  he  died  in  the  rank  of  major-­‐‑general,  leaving   behind   a   fascinating   legacy,   including   children   who   would   follow   their   fa-­‐‑ ther’s   path   into   Russian   service.77   Taganov   died   there   in   the   rank   of   major-­‐‑ general,  leaving  a  fascinating  legacy  and  children  who  continued  to  serve  in   Russia.   The   life   and   service   record   of   Dmitrii   Taganov   opens   a   fascinating   vista   on   the   experience   of   at   least   one   former   diplomatic   hostage   in   the   Russian   empire.  Was  his  case  unique?  It  is  probable  that  Aleksandr  Bekovich  Cherka-­‐‑ skii,   a   close   adviser   to   Peter   I   who   died   famously   near   Khiva   in   1717,   had   begun   his   career   in   Russian   service   as   a   hostage   as   well.78   It   is   even   more                                                                                                                             75

 I  discuss  the  Russian  interpretation  of  the  treaty  and  its  implications  for  Kabarda  in   Pollock,  “Empire  by  Invitation?”  107–19.   76  AVPRI  f.  Kabardinskie  dela,  op.  115/4,  1781,  d.  1,  ll.  2–3  ob.     77  Ian  Pototskii,  “Stranitsy  iz  Kavkazskogo  dnevnika,”  trans.  E.  L.  Sosnina,  in   Sbornik   russkogo  istoricheskogo  obshchestva,  no.  2  (150):  48;  Butkov,  Materialy,  1:  219  n.  3.   78  There   are   many   Caucasian   witnesses   to   this   fact.   In   1720   a   Kabardian   emissary   to   Russia   informed   the   College   of   Foreign   Affairs   that   among   the   Kabardian   hostages   held   by   the   Russians   on   the   Terek   was   a   certain   “Devlet   Girey   Bekov,   named   on   his   christening  Prince  Aleksandr  Bekovich.”  Similarly,  in  recounting  the  recent  history  of   Kabardians,   in   1732,   the   hostages   held   in   Russian   custody   at   the   fortress   of   Sviatoi  

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likely   that   hundreds   of   hostages   served   Russia   in   ways   that   remain   largely   unknown   to   historians.   To   build   an   empire   in   Caucasia,   Russia   required   the   services  of  individuals  who  wielded  authority  in  the  region,  knew  its  condi-­‐‑ tions,  and  were  conversant  in  its  languages.  The  Russian  government  had  im-­‐‑ mediate   access   to   such   individuals   in   the   hostages   that   were   placed   in   the   custody  of  its  agents  on  the  frontier.  It  committed  scarce  valuable  resources  to   providing   for   these   charges.   It   makes   sense   that   the   government   expected   some   return   on   that   investment.   In   Taganov   the   investment   clearly   paid   off.   Did  Taganov,  like  some  hostages  of  Rome,  come  to  view  his  adopted  country   as  a  “homeland  and  nurse”?  The  evidence  does  not  permit  us  to  say  for  cer-­‐‑ tain.  In  the  end  the  government  provided  for  his  education,  gave  him  a  career,   and   awarded   him   with   rank   and   status,   yet   he   still   felt   like   a   stranger   in   a   foreign   land.   Perhaps   this   is   because   he   lived   and   worked   in   two   worlds   simultaneously,  and  therefore  felt  at  home  in  neither.  One  thing  is  certain.  His   story  did  not  end  with  the  conclusion  of  his  tenure  as  a  diplomatic  hostage  in   Russian   custody,   but   in   some   sense   began   there.   By   attending   to   such   beginnings   it   becomes   possible   to   see   an   important   but   often   overlooked   aspect  of  Russian  empire  in  Caucasia.  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Krest  apparently  referred  to  the  same  “Devlet  Giray  (who  was  given  the  name  Alek-­‐‑ sandr  following  his  baptism),  the  son  of  Bek  Murza,  [who]  was  among  the  Circassian   hostages   on   the   Terek,”   probably   in   the   last   decade   of   the   17th   or   first   decade   of   the   18th   century.   Serving   at   Sviatoi   Krest   at   the   time   was   another   son   of   Bek   Murza,   El’murza  Bekovich,  who  may  have  been  one  of  the  sources  of  this  information.  Finally,   on   learning   of   the   death   of   Prince   Aleksandr   Bekovich   Cherkasskii,   the   prince’s   “younger  brother  …  El’murza”  was  prepared  to  set  out  for  Khiva  “in  order  to  avenge   the  death  of  his  brother.”  All  this  leaves  little  doubt  that  the  prince  and  Devlet  Giray   are  the  same  person;  that  he  had  at  one  time  been  a  hostage  on  the  Terek;  and  that  he   was  the  brother  of  El’Murza  Cherkasskii,  another  great  and  unsung  go-­‐‑between  who   had  done  more  than  most  men  to  build  Russia’s  empire  in  Caucasia.  see  KRO,  2:  docs.   19,  27,  51,  and  52.  

Rulers and Rulership

     

Believing is Seeing: Princess Spotting in St. Sophia of Kiev   Elena N. Boeck  

The  St.  Sophia  cathedral  in  Kiev  holds  a  key  place  in  imperial  Russian,  Soviet,   and  post-­‐‑Soviet  scholarship  as  the  starting  point  for  a  Rus’  artistic  tradition.1   This  monument,  not  unjustly,  has  been  viewed  as  a  material  embodiment  of   the   Rus’   principality’s   entrance   into   the   broader   Christian   and   European   world.  The  “secular”  frescoes  of  St.  Sophia  are  unique,  fascinating,  and  frus-­‐‑ tratingly  incomplete.  The  monument’s  keystone  position  in  foundational  dis-­‐‑ courses  has  led  scholars  to  creatively  interpret  limited  evidence  and  to  build   grand  structures  on  fragmentary  and  fragile  foundations.  This  brief  study  ex-­‐‑ plores   the   fertile   terrain   of   scholarly   ingenuity.   It   focuses   on   two   failed   at-­‐‑ tempts  to  find  Rus’  princesses  on  the  walls  of  St.  Sophia  in  order  to  provide  a   cautionary   tale   about   the   futility   of   basing   grand   conclusions   on   ambiguous   and  poorly  preserved  evidence.  I  very  much  hope  that  this  article  will  honor   Don’s  sharp  mind  and  passion  for  fontological  precision.   The Cathedral and Its Frescoes It  is  safe  to  say  that  every  aspect  of  St.  Sophia,  from  its  date  of  foundation,  the   sequence  of  its  construction,  and  the  meaning  of  its  decoration  has  been  con-­‐‑ tested  due  to  the  limited  and  contradictory  nature  of  the  surviving  evidence.   Contemporary   textual   sources   are   terse   and   convoluted,   while   the   material   evidence  can  be  interpreted  in  multiple  ways.  Because  of  dating  discrepancies   among  the  Russian  Primary  chronicle,  the  Novgorod  chronicle,  and  Thietmar   of  Merseburg,  the  foundation  of  St.  Sophia  has  been  variously  dated  to  1017,                                                                                                                             1

 In  the  Imperial  period  St.  Sophia  came  to  prominence  during  the  revival  of  interest  in   the   Byzantine   past,   when   a   search   for   a   distinct   historical   identity   was   actively   pur-­‐‑ sued  at  the  highest  level  of  government.  Academician  Fedor  Solntsev  carried  out  the   first  “scientific”  cleaning  and  restoration  of  the  cathedral  in  1844–53  under  the  patron-­‐‑ age   and   in   direct   consultation   with   Tsar   Nicholas   I.   Olenka   Pevny,   “In   Fedor   Soln-­‐‑ tsev’s   Footsteps,”   in   Visualizing   Russia:   Fedor   Solntsev   and   Crafting   a   National   Past,   ed.   Cynthia   Hyla   Whittaker   (Leiden:   Brill,   2010),   93–94.   In   Soviet   historiography,   for   in-­‐‑ stance,  Viktor  Lazarev,  in  his  monumental  work  Istoriia  Vizantiiskoi  zhivopisi,  linked  the   style   of   St.   Sophia’s   decorations   to   those   in   Russia   (Nereditsa)   by   claiming   that   “al-­‐‑ ready   in   the   11th   century   crystallization   of   the   Russian   national   school   began.”   Lazarev,  Istoriia  Vizantiiskoi  zhivopisi  (Moscow:  Iskusstvo,  1986),  79.   Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 167–79.

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1018,   or   1037.   In   recent   decades   the   sport   of   spotting   princesses   has   contrib-­‐‑ uted  to  the  contested  founding  dates  of  the  cathedral.  By  identifying  historical   personages   in   the   frescoes   of   the   church,   scholars   have   proposed   to   firmly   date  the  building  and  its  parts.     The  frescoes  of  the  turrets  have  been  a  particular  focus  of  scholarly  inter-­‐‑ pretation   for   over   a   century.   The   southwest   turret   is   dominated   by   a   14-­‐‑ meter-­‐‑long  scene  of  horse-­‐‑racing  in  the  hippodrome  of  Constantinople.  Fedor   Solntsev  recognized  the  importance  of  these  frescoes  during  the  first  attempt   at  restoration  and  preservation  of  the  building  in  the  1840s  and  1850s,  when   Emperor  Nicholas  I  was  searching  for  the  great  Russian  past.2  Nikodim  Kon-­‐‑ dakov   and   D.   V.   Ainalov,   notable   Byzantinists   of   the   late   imperial   period,   returned  to  the  subject  in  1888  and  1890.3  The  two  scholars  mapped  divergent   paths   for   interpreting   the   frescos:   while   Kondakov   perceived   the   images   as   Byzantine  in  subject  and  aspiration,  Ainalov  declared:  “If  the  painting  [subject   matter]  does  not  have  direct  relation  to  the  Russian  experience  [byt],  how  can   one   explain   its   presence   among   us,   in   the   decoration   of   the   turret?”4   Viktor   Lazarev,  a  prominent  Soviet  art  historian,  tried  to  chart  a  middle  path,  argu-­‐‑ ing   that   images   that   are   Byzantine   in   appearance   could   have   been   executed   with   the   participation   of   local   artists,   but   the   dichotomy   between   nativist   (centered   on   Rus’)   and   cosmopolitan   (Byzantine,   imperial)   readings   of   the   imagery  was  never  fully  bridged.5  This  dichotomy  still  shapes  interpretations   of  the  monument.  While  I  argued  in  2009  for  their  deliberately  Byzantine  con-­‐‑ tent   and   princely   display   of   foreign   knowledge,   as   we   will   see   below   others   have  endorsed  the  nativist  interpretation.6     It   is   generally   agreed   that   that   turrets   were   restricted   spaces   that   led   to   the  princely  balcony.  Originally  they  could  be  entered  only  from  outside,  and   thus  would  have  remained  inaccessible  from  the  main  floor  of  the  church.     The   chariot-­‐‑racing   scene   in   the   southwest   turret   accurately   conveys   the   architectural   uniqueness   of   the   Constantinopolitan   hippodrome   (especially   the  starting  gates  [carceres]  and  the  imperial  lodge  [kathisma]),  the  costumes  of   charioteers,  the  management  of  imperial  and  hippic  spectacle,  and  its  central                                                                                                                             2

 For  bibliography  and  references,  see  Pevny,  “In  Fedor  Solntsev’s  Footsteps,”  93–94.    N.   P.   Kondakov,   “O   freskakh   lestnits   Kievo-­‐‑Sofiiskogo   sobora,”   Zapiski   Imperator-­‐‑ skogo  Russkogo  Arkheologicheskogo  Obshchestva  3  (1888):  287–306;  D.  V.  Ainalov  and  E.  K.   Redin,   “Kievskii   Sofiiskii   Sobor,”   Zapiski   Imperatorskogo   Russkogo   Arkheologicheskogo   Obshchestva  4  (1890):  231–381.   4  Ainalov  and  Redin,”Kievskii  Sofiiskii  Sobor,”  333.   5  Lazarev,   Vizantiiskaia   zhivopis’,   77.   For   a   brief   but   excellent   discussion   of   the   Soviet   studies   of   St.   Sophia   between   1949   and   1952,   see   Ihor   Sevcenko,   “Byzantine   Cultural   Influences,”   in   Byzantium   and   the   Slavs:   In   Letters   and   Culture   (Cambridge,   MA:   Har-­‐‑ vard  Ukrainian  Research  Institute,  1991),  137–39.   6  See   Elena   Boeck,   “Simulating   the   Hippodrome:   Expertise,   Appropriation   and   the   Performance  of  Power  in  St.  Sophia  of  Kiev,”  The  Art  Bulletin  91,  no.  3  (2009):  283–301.   3

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importance  as  a  stage  of  imperial  power.7  The  hippodrome  fresco  begins  with   the   frontal   view   of   the   starting   gates,   and   four   teams   ready   for   action.   The   scene   culminates   with   a   view   of   the   kathisma   right   before   the   prince   would   have   entered   his   balcony.   Since   Kondakov   first   identified   this   scene   as   the   races   at   the   Constantinopolitan   hippodrome,   this   attribution   has   been   uni-­‐‑ formly  accepted.8       The  learned  consensus  has  ruptured,  however,  when  scholars  fixed  their   gaze  on  the  occupants  of  the  kathisma.  Inside  the  kathisma  a  seated,  haloed  em-­‐‑ peror   looks   towards   a   standing   figure.   The   recipient   of   the   imperial   gaze   displays  folded  arms  and  a  lack  of  facial  hair.  The  emperor  and  the  standing   figure  cannot  be  securely  identified  for  they  were  either  not  identified  by  in-­‐‑ scriptions  or  inscriptions  have  not  survived.  As  I  will  demonstrate  below,  the   two   participants   of   this   mute   dialogue   have   become   entangled   in   a   heated   academic  debate.       Uncovering an Inscription, Recovering a Rus’ Princess Two  curious  epigraphic  discoveries  in  the  1980s  promised  to  firmly  establish   the   identities   of   the   occupants   of   the   kathisma.   In   a   book   dedicated   to   recent   archaeological  discoveries  in  Kiev  published  in  1981  by  the  Ukrainian  Acad-­‐‑ emy  of  Sciences,  P.  P.  Tolochko,  S.  A.  Vysotskii,  and  I.  E.  Borovskii  advanced   a  new  interpretation  of  the  image  described  above.  Since  Sergei  Vysotskii  ap-­‐‑ pears   to   be   the   major   contributor   to   the   section   of   the   book   relevant   for   this   article,  I  will  refer  to  it  here  as  Vysotskii  et.  al.  The  book  featured  a  dark,  ob-­‐‑ scure  photograph  and  a  drawing  of  what  was  purported  to  be  an  inscription   on  the  arch  of  the  kathisma,  above  the  head  of  the  emperor.  The  Greek  inscrip-­‐‑ tion  was  deciphered  as:  ΚΩΝΣ[ΤΑΝΤΙΝΟ].9     The  evidence  presented  for  this  claim  is  at  best  highly  problematic  and  at   the   worst   imaginary.   First   of   all,   not   a   single   scholar   had   previously   noticed   any   traces   of   a   Greek   inscription   in   this   particular   space,   even   through   this   fresco  had  been  drawn  and  keenly  studied  by  the  likes  of  Kondakov,  whose   iconographic  analysis  of  the  hippodrome  fresco  remains  unsurpassed.  Work-­‐‑ ing   during   the   imperial   period,   he   could   have   also   seen   the   fresco   in   a   sig-­‐‑ nificantly  better  condition.  In  isolation,  however,  this  is  not  sufficient  grounds   to   reject   Vysotskii’s   hypothesis,   for   one   can   overlook   evidence   that   is   frag-­‐‑                                                                                                                           7

 See  further  Boeck,  “Simulating  the  Hippodrome”;  V.  N.  Lazarev,  Drevnerusskie  moza-­‐‑ iki   i   freski   XI–XV   vv.   (Moscow:   Iskusstvo,   1973),   27;   Kondakov,   “O   freskakh   lestnits   Kievo-­‐‑Sofiiskogo  sobora,”  287–306.   8  Kondakov,  “O  freskakh  lestnits  Kievo-­‐‑Sofiiskogo  sobora.”   9  S.  A.  Vysotskii,  “Zhivopis’  bashen  Sofiiskogo  sobora  v  Kieve,”  in  Novoe  v  arkheologii   Kieva,  ed.  P.  P.  Tolochko,  S.  A.  Vysotskii,  and  I.  E.  Borovskii  (Kiev:  Naukova  Dumka,   1981),   259.   On   the   same   page   in   a   footnote   they   wondered   how   Ainalov   and   Redin   could  have  possibly  missed  this  inscription.    

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mentary   and   obscure,   but   there   are   even   more   compelling   reasons   to   doubt   the  identification.     The   visual   evidence   published   by   Vysotskii   et.   al.   substantiates   neither   the  presence  of  an  inscription  nor  their  deciphering  of  it.  If,  in  fact,  there  had   originally  been  an  inscription  on  the  arch,  it  cannot  be  reconstructed  from  the   disjointed  surviving  fragments  of  paint.  Another  problem  is  the  orientation  of   the   purported   inscription.   In   order   to   read   any   letters,   the   beholder   would   have  had  to  tilt  his  head  nearly  90  degrees.10     Even   if   we   dismiss   the   problem   of   orientation,   there   still   remains   the   problem  of  ambiguous  evidence.  Despite  their  clever  deciphering  of  indistinct   fragments,  the  authors  conceded  that  the  only  “letter”  that  they  claim  as  fully   legible  is  the  capital  Σ,  while  they  also  propose  to  see  cursive  Ω  and  Ν.  Had   there   been   an   inscription   above   the   emperor’s   head,   the   result   would   have   been  most  peculiar:  it  would  have  possibly  read  from  right  to  left  and  would   have  sloppily  included  cursive  and  uncial  elements.  The  authors  also  concede   that  the  inscription  would  have  been  originally  abbreviated  as  ΚΩΝΣ,  for  “it   is   likely   that   a   column   capital   prevented   the   full   inscription   of   the   name   ‘Constantine.’”11     Undeterred   by   ambiguity,   the   authors   treated   the   implications   of   this   discovery  as  dramatic.  If  the  imperial  figure  was  Constantine  VII  (ruled  945– 59),   then   the   standing   figure   “could   only   be   princess   Ol’ga,   for   the   tradition   for   representing   her   reception   by   this   emperor   existed   in   Byzantine   minia-­‐‑ tures.…”12   The   asserted   “tradition”   consists   of   an   illustration   in   the   12th-­‐‑ century   Sicilian   Skylitzes   manuscript   now   housed   in   Madrid   (Madrid,   B.N.   Vitr.  26-­‐‑2,  fol.  135b).  Unless  one  abstracts  a  generic  iconographic  grouping  of   a  seated  emperor  and  a  standing  figure  with  folded  arms  as  proof  of  an  inter-­‐‑ national   tradition,   there   is   no   compelling   iconographic   connection   between   the  two  representations.13     Vysotskii   et   al.   also   proposed   the   following   explanation   for   Ol’ga’s   ap-­‐‑ pearance   in   the   turret:   “Initiative   [for   such   representation]   could   have   come   most   likely   from   the   patron   [of   the   building].   He   was   Iaroslav   the   Wise.…   Most  probably  he  was  the  initiator  of  the  idea  of  representing  on  the  walls  of                                                                                                                             10

 Such  an  arrangement  of  an  inscription  would  have  been  unprecedented  in  a  build-­‐‑ ing  which  is  filled  with  orderly  Greek  inscriptions.     11  Vysotskii,  “Zhivopis’  bashen,”  261.   12  Ibid.,  259.   13  For   the   peculiarities   and   ideological   orientations   of   this   manuscript,   see   Elena   Boeck,   “Engaging   the   Byzantine   Past:   Strategies   of   Visualizing   History   in   Sicily   and   Bulgaria,”  in  Byzantine  History  as  Literature:  Papers  from  the  Fortieth  Spring  Symposium  of   Byzantine  Studies,  University  of  Birmingham,  April  2007,  ed.  Ruth  J.  Macrides  (Farnham,   UK:   Ashgate,   2010),   215–35;   Boeck,   “The   Politics   of   Visualizing   an   Imperial   Demise:   Transforming   a   Byzantine   Chronicle   into   a   Sicilian   Visual   Narrative,”   Word   &   Image   25,  no.  3  (2009):  243–57.  

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the   turrets   the   stay   in   Constantinople   of   his   famous   great-­‐‑grandmother— Princess   Ol’ga.”14   Furthermore,   they   believe   that   another   fresco   with   Ol’ga   would  have  been  painted  in  the  turrets,  that  of  her  baptism.15  Since  this  is  the   most   famous   surviving   memory   of   her   visit   from   a   contemporary   point   of   view  (disregarding  the  fact  that  memory  can  be  manipulated,  created,  and  re-­‐‑ interpreted),   it   naturally   should   have   been   represented.   Thus   a   phantom   in-­‐‑ scription   was   supplemented   with   a   phantom   historical   scene   in   the   visual   program.   Eight  years  later  Vysotskii  published  a  monograph  that  was  dedicated  to   the   “secular”   frescoes   of   St.   Sophia,   Svetskie   freski   Sofiiskogo   sobora   v   Kieve.16   Vysotskii’s   monograph   still   stands   as   the   most   comprehensive,   though   flawed,  exploration  of  the  subject.  This  new  study  aimed  to  elevate  the  non-­‐‑ religious  elements  of  the  building  into  a  coherent  framework  and  to  position   St.  Sophia  in  relation  to  the  broad  corpus  of  Byzantine  art  and  history.  By  its   scope   and   breadth   of   comparisons   to   Byzantine   images,   this   study   meant   to   move  St.  Sophia  from  the  margins  of  the  medieval  art  discourse  to  its  center.   It  appears  to  have  also  intended  to  capitalize  on  the  success  and  importance   of  an  earlier,  groundbreaking  study  of  Byzantine  secular  art  by  another  Soviet   scholar—Svetskoe  iskusstvo  Vizantii  by  V.  P.  Darkevich.17  In  addition  to  segre-­‐‑ gating  Byzantine  and  related  medieval  art  from  its  religious  context,  this  vol-­‐‑ ume  ably  perpetuated  the  Soviet  school  of  secular  studies.   Vysotskii  republished  the  inscription  in  his  monograph,  but  now  showed   more   hesitation   in   interpreting   it.   He   tried   to   distance   himself   from   the   evi-­‐‑ dence,  but  not  from  the  identification  of  the  emperor:     We  suppose,  that  these  are  remains  of  an  abbreviated  inscribed  name   ΚΩΝΣ  [ΤΑΝΤΙΝΟ],  since  it  included  clearly  legible  omega  and  worse   preserved  letters  Κ,  Ν,  Σ.  We  do  not  insist  on  the  suggested  reading  of   the  inscription,  especially  since  there  is  absence  of  confidence  that  the   inscription   was   written   in   Greek   language,   and   the   preservation   of   the  inscription,  except  for  the  letter  omega,  is  unsatisfactory.  Further-­‐‑ more,   attribution   of   participants   on   the   fresco   is   clear   regardless.   However,   the   fact   that   there   were   identifying   inscriptions   in   this   space  is  beyond  doubt.18  

  The   reason   for   such   optimism   was   a   second,   even   more   fortuitous,   epi-­‐‑ graphic  discovery  which  appeared  to  perfectly  confirm  (and  in  some  respects                                                                                                                             14

 Vysotskii,  “Zhivopis’  bashen,”  261.    Ibid.   16  The  volume  was  published  in  Kiev  by  Naukova  Dumka  in  1989.   17  V.   P.   Darkevich,   Svetskoe   iskusstvo   Vizantii:   Proizvedeniia   vizantiiskogo   khudozhestven-­‐‑ nogo  remesla  v  Vostochnoi  Evrope  X–XIII  veka  (Moscow:  Iskusstvo,  1975).   18  Vysotskii,  Svetskie  freski,  186–87.   15

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supersede)  the  first  one.  In  Svetskie  freski  Vysotskii  claimed  to  have  discovered   another  inscription  on  the  very  same  arch  of  the  kathisma.  This  inscription  was   much  more  important  in  the  local  context,  for  it  was  now  said  to  definitively   identify  the  standing,  beardless  personage  as  Ol’ga.  The  inscription  was  said   to   be   in   Greek   and   to   read   “Elga.”19   In   the   publication   a   forcefully   rendered   drawing   of   an   apparently   cursive   [!]   inscription   was   superimposed   over   a   sketchy   photograph   of   a   section   of   the   arch.   Even   if   the   drawing   had   been   presented  separately,  in  order  not  to  obscure  the  actual  image,  the  poor  state   of  paint  preservation  and  the  grainy  quality  of  the  black  and  white  image  per-­‐‑ mit  no  secure  conclusions  about  what  Vysotskii  actually  saw.   The   epigraphic   “discoveries”   carried   major   consequences.   They   enabled   Vysotskii   to   draw   authoritative   conclusions   about   the   nature   of   the   visual   program   in   the   turrets.   It   also   meant   that   various   other   strands   of   evidence   could   now   be   brought   into   compliance   with   his   framework:   1)   Constantine   VII   and   Ol’ga   had   to   be   identified   in   other   parts   of   the   fresco   program;   2)   Emperor   Constantine’s   extensive   body   of   writing   had   to   be   correlated   with   the  discovery  of  Ol’ga’s  reception  in  the  hippodrome.   Constantine   VII   Porphyrogennetos   left   behind   an   extensive   corpus   of   writings   (on   court   ritual,   governance   of   empire)   that   has   been   well   known   and  actively  used  by  Byzantinists  for  centuries.  The  emperor  even  had  men-­‐‑ tioned  Ol’ga’s  visit  to  Constantinople.  He  referred  to  two  receptions  that  were   held   in   her   honor,   but,   alas,   neither   of   them   was   at   the   hippodrome,   which   was  the  most  important  and  visible  public  imperial  space.20  Because  the  sur-­‐‑ viving   textual   evidence   does   not   corroborate   Ol’ga’s   reception   in   the   hippo-­‐‑ drome,  the  newly  reattributed  fresco  became  an  even  more  valuable  piece  of   evidence.  Vysotskii  et  al.  explained:       The   chapter   with   discussion   of   the   reception   of   Ol’ga   in   the   work   of   Constantine   Porphyrogenitus   is   entitled   “Regarding   what   is   needed   to  observe  during  receptions  which  take  place  in  the  large  triclinium   of  Magnaura,  when  the  rulers  are  seated  on  the  throne  of  Solomon.”   With  such  a  title  it  was  impossible  to  expect  mention  of  festive  recep-­‐‑ tion  of  Ol’ga  in  the  hippodrome.21       This   was   an   ingenious   solution.   Not   only   the   image   and   text   were   now   reconciled,  but  in  the  process  Ol’ga  was  elevated  from  a  minor  barbarian  to  a   major   international   figure,   since   by   the   rules   of   the   Byzantine   protocol   she   would  not  have  otherwise  merited  a  reception  at  the  hippodrome.                                                                                                                               19

 Vysotskii,  Svetskie  freski,  187,  figure  on  151.    Constantine   VII   had   mentioned   two   receptions   of   Ol’ga   at   court   (in   the   Magnaura   and  in  the  Hall  of  Justinian)  (Vysotskii,  “Zhivopis’  bashen,”  259).   21  Ibid.,  n.  2.   20

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In  his  monograph  Vysotskii  advanced  an  even  more  ambitious  argument   for  the  authenticity  of  Ol’ga’s  likeness:     Her   face   appears   rather   stern:   large   eye,   thin   dark,   slightly   arching   brows,   straight   …   nose.   From   under   the   maphorion   [head   cover]   one   can   see   auburn   hair   that   is   parted   in   the   middle.   The   tightly   closed   mouth   with   slightly   lowered   corners   of   lips   is   very   expressive.   It   gives   the   face   powerful,   forceful   expression.   Ol’ga   appears   to   be   around  50.22  

  Ol’ga’s   likeness   and   psychological   profile   appear   to   correlate   with   her   stature  as  a  foundational  Rus’  figure.  But  how  can  the  viewer  be  assured  that   he   or   she   is   beholding   an   authentic   likeness?   In   order   to   assuage   potential   anxiety   Vysotskii   compared   the   countenance   of   “Constantine   VII”   in   St.   Sophia   with   some   of   his   other   known   images   (ivory   plaque   and   coins).   He   arrived  at  a  reassuring  conclusion:  “The  face  of  the  emperor  has  the  same  dis-­‐‑ tinctive   features   …   elongated   oval   of   the   face,   large   eyes   and   nose,   semicir-­‐‑ cular   superciliary   arches,   small   mustache,   beard   and   curly   hair.”23  Although   this   statement   comes   across   as   convincing,   it   conceals   a   loose,   selective,   and   inconclusive  treatment  of  the  visual  evidence.  As  we  will  see  below,  a  divina-­‐‑ tion  of  another  imperial  portrait  likeness  in  the  arch  of  a  brow  and  the  shape   of   a   nose   will   lead   another   author   to   a   divergent   result.   However,   since   the   imperial  portrait  seemed  to  be  true,  there  was  truth  in  Ol’ga’s  likeness  also.     For  finders  of  phantom  inscriptions  the  work  of  reinterpreting  imagery  is   never  quite  finished.  After  the  two  figures  in  the  kathisma  had  lost  their  ano-­‐‑ nymity,   their   newly   found   identities   needed   to   be   broadly   contextualized.   Thus,   other   frescoes,   like   the   “Acrobats,”   could   be   connected   to   Ol’ga   too.   They  became  the  entertainments  that  Ol’ga’s  embassy  would  have  surely  wit-­‐‑ nessed  during  their  stay  in  Constantinople.24  The  entire  visual  program  of  the   turrets   was   thus   felicitously   reconciled   with   Vysotskii’s   interpretation   of   the   fresco.   Take-Over and Make-Over: How a Princess Became a Eunuch After   Vysotskii   retired,   a   new   interpreter   of   the   frescoes   staked   her   own   claims  to  academic  fame  on  deposing  Ol’ga.  Nadia  Nikitenko  started  working   in  the  museum  complex  of  St.  Sophia  in  1977  and  published  a  series  of  brief   articles  on  St.  Sophia  in  the  late  1980s  and  early  1990s.  In  2004  she  attempted   to  demolish  Vysotskii’s  legacy  and  propel  her  own  claims  to  academic  fame.                                                                                                                             22

 Vysotskii,  Svetskie  freski,  186.    Ibid.   24  Ibid.,  187.   23

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She   published   a   monograph   entitled   Rus’   and   Byzantium   in   the   Monumental   Complex  of  Sofia  of  Kiev  (Rus’  i  Vizantiia  v  monumental’nom  komplekse  Sofii  Kiev-­‐‑ skoi).25   Although   she   disagreed   with   Vysotskii   about   various   aspects   of   the   turrets’  decoration,  she  shared  with  him  the  assumption  that  the  images  were   created   to   represent   unvarnished   Rus’   reality.   In   her   own   flirtation   with   art   history   she,   too,   treated   images   as   authentic   likenesses   of   historical   figures,   employing  such  problematic  terms  as  “realism”  and  “portrait  features,”26  and   methods  such  as  “portrait  comparison.”27     Nikitenko   challenged   the   recovered   identities   and   reconciliations   of   the   textual  sources  that  were  advanced  by  Vysotskii.  She  rejected  the  two  inscrip-­‐‑ tions   (“Constantine”   and   “Elga”)   as   inauthentic,   and   did   not   mince   words   about  the  working  methods  of  her  predecessor:       S.   A.   Vysotskii   asserts,   that   a   painted   inscription   survives   near   this   personage—name  “Elga”  (Ol’ga),  which  supposedly  one  can  read  on   a  color  enlargement  [makrofoto],  but  he  does  not  include  such  a  photo   (or  its  fragment)  in  his  monograph.  The  book  is  lacking  description  of   methodology  used  to  reveal  the  inscription.…28   Following   this   destruction   of   Ol’ga’s   identity,   Nikitenko   turned   to   Emperor   Constantine:     We  also  do  not  see  any  possibility  of  associating  some  unclear  squig-­‐‑ gle  made  with  a  paintbrush  on  the  arch,  represented  above  the  head   of  the  basileios,  with  the  first  letters  of  his  name—“Kons,”  especially   since  these  characters  [znaki]  are  applied  to  the  curvature  of  the  arch,   that   is,   if   we   were   to   believe   Vysotskii,   the   inscription   was   written   from  right  to  left,  which,  of  course,  is  impossible.29   Following   her   devastation   of   the   Constantine   VII—Ol’ga   theory   and   infliction   of   collateral   damage   to   Vysotskii’s   academic   reputation,   Nikitenko   offered  her  own  answers.  Despite  her  harsh  words  about  Vysotskii,  her  own   methods  proved  to  be  substantially  similar.     She   began   with   an   assertion   that   it   would   have   been   impossible   for   the   Rus’   princess   to   ever   appear   in   the   kathisma:   “The   very   attempt   to   see   in   the   imperial  lodge  the  Russian  princess  contradicts  Byzantine  court  etiquette,  and                                                                                                                             25

 The  monograph  was  published  in  Kiev  by  Slovo.    Nikitenko,  Rus’  i  Vizantiia,  111.   27  Ibid.,  113.   28  Ibid.,  119.   29  Ibid.   26

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the  medieval  standards  of  morality.”30  The  reader,  alas,  does  not  learn  which   Byzantine   sources   were   utilized   to   reach   such   a   categorical   (and   erroneous)   proclamation.     The   figure   formerly   identified   as   Princess   Ol’ga   was   now   due   for   an   iconographic   and   psychological   makeover.   Nikitenko   wrote:   “The   beardless,   puffy  face  of  the  personage  in  the  imperial  lodge  and  the  emphatic  fat  roll  on   his  chin  reveals  him  to  be  a  prominent  eunuch,  not  Princess  Ol’ga.…”31  This   was   a   dramatic   reversal   of   iconographic   fortune   and   departure   from   the   “powerful,  forceful  expression”  that  was  attributed  to  the  very  same  person-­‐‑ age  by  Vysotskii.   The  re-­‐‑gendering  of  Ol’ga  became  a  prelude  to  a  new  identification  of  the   image.  It  also  revolved  around  a  princess,  but  she  remained  for  the  purposes   of   this   image   central,   though   temporarily   off   stage.   Nikitenko   described   the   figure   formerly   known   as   Ol’ga   standing   in   “a   static   pose,”   with   “an   indif-­‐‑ ferent  facial  expression.”32  This,  according  to  Nikitenko  means  that  the  person   represented   could   not   be   a   servant   displaying   deferential   body-­‐‑language.33   Though  not  fully  verbalized,  the  implications  were  that  such  an  august  figure   as  Ol’ga  would  not  have  assumed  such  a  servile  position  in  front  of  a  Byzan-­‐‑ tine  emperor.     Having   thus   eliminated   Ol’ga   from   the   imperial   presence,   Nikitenko   shifted   attention   to   a   different   personage   in   the   kathisma:   a   previously   over-­‐‑ looked  bearded  man  behind  the  figure  formerly  identified  as  Ol’ga.  This  indi-­‐‑ vidual   now   became   the   second   most   important   figure,   second   only   to   the   emperor,  for  she  reasoned:  “in  his  pose  and  facial  expression  one  can  observe   similarity  with  the  representation  of  the  emperor.  Just  like  the  emperor,  he  is   slightly   leaning   forward,   the   eyes   of   both   personages   are   directed   to   each   other.”34   This   personage   is   “most   likely,   the   head   of   the   Russian   embassy,   who  received  the  particular  honor  to  be  present  in  the  imperial  lodge.”35  Fol-­‐‑ lowing   this   deduction   a   further   series   of   suppositions   and   assumptions   lead   her   to   987   and   the   betrothal   of   the   Byzantine   princess   Anna   to   Vladimir   of   Rus’   (died   in   1015).   In   her   view   the   full   title   of   the   composition   should   be:   “Ambassadors  of  Vladimir  Sviatoslavich  and  Emperor  Basil  II  at  the  Constan-­‐‑ tinopolitan  hippodrome.”36     Nikitenko’s   methods   for   substituting   Basil   II   (ruled   976–1025)   for   Con-­‐‑ stantine  VII  were  surprisingly  similar  to  those  employed  by  Vysotskii.  She  too                                                                                                                             30

 Ibid.    Ibid.,  120.   32  Ibid.   33  Ibid.,  120–21.   34  Ibid.,  121.   35  Ibid.,  120.   36  Ibid.,  128.   31

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resorted  to  creative  interpretation  of  Byzantine  imperial  images.  The  reader  at   this  point  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  the  emperor  in  the  fresco  suppos-­‐‑ edly   matched   perfectly   with   Byzantine   representations   of   Basil   II,   as   de-­‐‑ scribed  by  Nikitenko:  “oval  face,  which  is  framed  by  a  short  curly  beard,  wide   arching   eyebrows,   large,   slightly   buggy   eyes   with   an   expressive   lively   gaze,   prominent   aquiline   nose,   clearly   articulated   nostrils,   short   hair.”37   Nikitenko   claimed   that   she   based   her   iconographic   musings   on   an   11th-­‐‑century   mini-­‐‑ ature  of  Basil  II  from  his  Psalter  now  in  Venice  (Biblioteca  Marciana  gr.  17,  fol.   1r).   However,   the   comparison   provided   in   her   book   is   drawn   from   a   19th-­‐‑ century,  less-­‐‑than-­‐‑precise  engraving  of  the  miniature.  Reliance  on  a  late  copy   by  a  cultural  outsider  completely  compromised  her  argument.38     In   order   to   locate   the   princess   who   was   missing   in   the   southwest   turret   Nikitenko  turned  her  attention  to  the  northwest  turret.  The  large  composition   in  the  northwest  tower,  previously  identified  as  a  reception  in  the  Byzantine   imperial  palace,  includes  a  seated  emperor  with  a  halo,  his  attendants,  and  a   number   of   female   figures.   The   scene   also   has   a   complex   architectural   back-­‐‑ drop   which   appears   to   include   an   extensive   loge   and   a   domed   church.   The   poor  state  of  preservation  of  the  fresco  does  not  facilitate  a  clear  identification   of  the  female  figures,  but  the  second  female  figure  from  the  left  appears  to  be   wearing  a  crown  and  (perhaps)  a  purple  mantle.     Nikitenko  pronounced  this  prominent,  female  figure  to  be  a  young  impe-­‐‑ rial   woman.39   In   contrast   to   Kondakov   who   considered   this   figure   to   be   the   Byzantine   empress,   Nikitenko   asserted   that   this   “young”   woman   was   wear-­‐‑ ing   a   particular,   bridal   maphorion.   The   highly   problematic   nature   of   this   assertion   from   the   perspective   of   Byzantine   iconography   is   too   technical   to   engage  in  this  brief  article,  but  it  is  undeniable  that  the  assertion  was  poorly   supported  with  Byzantine  evidence.  Nonetheless  it  became  the  foundation  for   a   new   interpretation:   “Therefore,   the   fresco   of   the   north   tower   of   the   St.   Sophia   cathedral   presents   to   us   the   ritual   of   coronation   of   an   imperial   bride.…”40   The   “young”   woman   must   therefore   be   Princess   Anna,   who   was   crowned  before  her  marriage  to  “the  great  Kievan  prince.”41       Subsequently   “portrait”   analysis   was   brought   in   to   confirm   that   a   Rus’   princess   had   indeed   been   spotted   in   the   cathedral’s   other   tower.   This   figure   has  to  be  Anna,  according  to  Nikitenko  because  her  arched  right  brow  looks   like   that   of   Anna   in   the   15th-­‐‑century   Radzivill   chronicle,   which   purportedly                                                                                                                             37

 Ibid.,  113.    For   a   discussion   of   Byzantine   and   post-­‐‑Byzantine   images   of   Basil   II,   see   Paul   Stephenson,   The   Legend   of   Basil   the   Bulgarslayer   (Cambridge:   Cambridge   University   Press,  2003),  97–112;  and  Stephenson,  “Images  of  the  Bulgar-­‐‑Slayer:  Three  Art  Histori-­‐‑ cal  Notes,”  Byzantine  and  Modern  Greek  Studies  25  (2001):  44–66.   39  Nikitenko,  Rus’  i  Vizantiia,  139.   40  Ibid.,  147.   41  Ibid.,  150.   38

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represents  her  with  an  arched  right  brow.  The  critical  reader  is  left  to  ponder   why   a   stylized   representation   in   a   source   produced   hundreds   of   years   after   Anna’s  death  should  accurately  represent  her.     All   of   the   conclusions   that   inevitably   guided   Nikitenko   to   spot   a   new   princess  in  the  northwest  turret  seem  specious.  While  a  careful  evaluation  of   the  image  reveals  it  to  be  yet  another  example  of  a  Constantinopolitan  specta-­‐‑ cle,  imperial  spectacles  of  power  have  little  to  offer  those  who  seek  to  confirm   national  narratives.  Identifying  Anna  in  the  imagery,  however,  was  not  suffi-­‐‑ cient.  Nikitenko  also  proposed  a  new  reattribution  of  the  church’s  foundation   narrative.  Since  Anna  is  central  to  the  visual  program,  the  church  had  to  have   been  constructed  by  Vladimir.     While  in  2004  Nikitenko’s  arguments  for  a  visual  program  centered  on  a   new  princess  were  primarily  based  on  spurious  comparisons  and  stylistic  ap-­‐‑ praisals   of   the   frescoes,   in   subsequent   publications   she   championed   new   epigraphic  evidence.  She  and  a  colleague  had  discovered  and  deciphered  new   inscriptions  on  the  walls  of  the  cathedral.42  A  number  of  Cyrillic  graffiti  were   presented  as  clues  that  supported  her  iconographic  identifications.  The  early   graffiti   primarily   consist   of   dates   or   numbers   rather   than   complete   inscrip-­‐‑ tions:  1018  (or  1021  depending  upon  deciphering),  1019,  1022,  1028,  1033,  and   1036.43  For  each  case  it  was  assumed  that  the  date  deciphered  in  the  inscrip-­‐‑ tion  must  correlate  with  the  date  of  the  inscription.     These   new   epigraphic   discoveries   supposedly   reinforced   Nikitenko’s   2004  reattribution  of  the  cathedral  to  Vladimir.  Her  innovative  interpretation   was  broadly  publicized  in  a  32-­‐‑page  brochure  released  in  thousands  of  copies   in  Ukrainian  and  English  that  was  “intended  for  the  general  public”  and  pub-­‐‑ lished   under   the   aegis   of   her   employer,   National   Conservation   Area   “St.   So-­‐‑ phia  of  Kyiv.”44  In  this  publication  she  neither  mentioned  Vysotskii  nor  cited                                                                                                                             42

Nadia   Nikitenko,   The   Millenary   of   St.   Sophia   of   Kyiv   (Kyiv:   National   Conservation   Area  “St.  Sophia  of  Kyiv,”  2011).  Though  the  Millenary  is  presented  as  a  single-­‐‑author   publication,  the  epigraphic  evidence  that  is  discussed  below  had  first  been  published   as   a   co-­‐‑authored   article—N.   N.   Nikitenko   and   V.   V.   Kornienko,   “Naidavnishi   grafiti   Sofii   Kyivs’koi   ta   datuvannia   soboru,”   in   Pam’iatki   Natsional’nogo   zapovidnika   “Sofiia   Kyivs’ka”:   Kul’turnii   dialog   pokolin’.   Materiali   IV   mizhnarodnoi   naukovoi   konferentsii   “Sofiis’ki   chitannia.”   Kyiv,   25–26   zhovtnia   2007   (Kyiv:   National   Conservation   Area   “St.   Sophia  of  Kyiv,”  2009).  See  also  Viacheslav  Korniienko,  “The  Latest  Studies  of  Graffiti   of  St.  Sophia  of  Kyiv,”  Proceedings  of  the  22nd  International  Congress  of  Byzantine  Studies,   Sofia,  22–27  August  2011,  3:  Abstracts  of  Free  Communications  (Sofia:  Bulgarian  Historical   Heritage  Foundation,  2011),  404. 43  The   author’s   methodologies   in   deciphering   dates   do   not   inspire   much   confidence:   “Therefore,  the  year  6529  since  the  creation  of  the  world  can  be  regarded  as  the  upper   chronological   boundary   of   graffiti   appearance   (i.e.,   1021   A.D),   but   the   most   probable   date  is  1018”  (Nikitenko,  Millenary,  13).   44  Ibid.,  34.  

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him  in  the  bibliography.  Like  Ol’ga,  he  too  had  been  dropped  from  the  monu-­‐‑ ment’s  official  narrative.   But  how  did  our  ambitious  author  arrive  at  1011,  rather  than  some  other   date  (such  as  988)  as  the  foundation  of  the  cathedral?  Because  she  claims  that   an   inscription   containing   the   date   1018   or   1019   must   have   been   created   in   1018   or   1019,   the   church   must   have   been   already   completed   by   that   point.45   Since   the   church   was   already   completed   in   1018   or   1019,   it   could   not   have   been  started  in  1017  (let  alone  1037),  therefore  an  earlier  foundation  date  must   be  found.   She  bolsters  this  line  of  assertion  by  employing  an  even  more  problematic   inscription,  Peter  Mohyla’s  monumental  17th-­‐‑century  inscription.  It  dates  the   church  to  1011,  but  (less  conveniently)  credits  Iaroslav  as  the  patron.46  The  in-­‐‑ scription  reads:  “By  the  will  of  God  this  temple  of  the  Holy  Wisdom  started  to   be  built  in  1011  by  the  pious  Prince  and  autocrat  of  all  Rus  Yaroslav-­‐‑Georgiy   Volodymyrovych.”47   In   the   words   of   Ihor   Sevcenko,   Mohyla   and   his   milieu   “rediscovered  Kiev’s  early  past,”48  therefore  this  artifact  of  17th-­‐‑century  spec-­‐‑ ulation  (discovery)  does  nothing  to  bolster  21st-­‐‑century  assertions.   Although  the  present  author  remains  unmoved  by  the  new  evidence  and   the   ingenious   arguments   presented   by   Nikitenko,   Ukraine’s   president   was   persuaded   to   endorse   St.   Sofia’s   new   birth-­‐‑date.   In   the   introduction   to   the   slim   Millenary   the   reader   learns   that   “On   11   June   2010   Viktor   Yanukovych,   President   of   Ukraine,   signed   a   decree   No.   682/2010   ‘On   Celebration   of   the   1000th   Anniversary   of   Foundation   of   St.   Sophia   Cathedral.’”49   Thus   with   a   decree  Ukraine’s  president  simultaneously  endorsed  the  accomplishments  of   the  nation’s  founding  father  Volodymyr  and  his  champion  Nikitenko.  All  this   was  made  possible  by  an  eager  scholar,  who  employed  art  historical  sleight  of   hand  and  epigraphic  contrivance.  

                                                                                                                          45

 Ibid.,   12.   Witness   the   following   statement:   “The   earliest   of   them   [the   graffiti   in-­‐‑ scriptions  of  her  evidence]  also  refute  the  year  1017,  because  they  convincingly  testify   to   the   fact   that   by   1018/21–1019   the   cathedral   had   been   erected   and   decorated   with   paintings.”   46  Textual   evidence   from   Mohyla’s   own   time   also   stands   in   the   way   of   Nikitenko’s   argument,  for,  as  noted  by  Ihor  Sevcenko,  “in  the  laudatory  poems  that  the  students  of   Mohyla’s   school   and   the   printers   of   Kiev   composed   on   the   occasion   of   his   enthrone-­‐‑ ment  in  1633,  the  Cathedral  of  Saint  Sophia  (later  restored  by  him)  commended  to  the   newly   installed   metropolitan   the   walls   that   it   had   received   from   Jaroslav   the   Wise.”   Sevcenko,  “The  Many  Worlds  of  Peter  Mohyla,”  in  Byzantium  and  the  Slavs,  680.   47  Nikitenko,  Millenary,  27.   48  Sevcenko,  “The  Many  Worlds  of  Peter  Mohyla,”  679.   49  Iryna  Margolina,  “Introduction,”  in  Millenary,  2.  

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Conclusion While   these   two   attempts   to   recover   representations   of   Rus’   princesses   have   shown   remarkable   ingenuity,   they   have   also   displayed   rigid   and   dogmatic   approaches  to  medieval  imagery.  The  imagery  confirms  Giles  Constable’s  re-­‐‑ mark   that   “[s]cenes   of   historical   events   often   conveyed   a   figurative   rather   than   literal   reality.”50   The   identity   of   the   personages   remained   purposefully   open  to  interpretation  and  narration.  This  made  multiple  narrative  itineraries   of   the   frescoes   possible.   Some   visitors   may   have   been   treated   to   an   itinerary   centered  around  Rus’,  while  others  may  have  been  guided  through  the  intri-­‐‑ cacies  of  Byzantine  spectacle.       In   proposing   that   imagery   must   conform   to   the   textual   evidence   or   should   confirm   existing   historical   narratives,   both   Vysotskii   and   Nikitenko   ultimately   deprived   Rus’   patrons   of   imagination   and   creativity.   Although   they   disagreed   about   which   princess   to   place   in   the   spotlight,   their   methods   were  remarkably  similar.  Both  identified  painted  personages  of  historical  stat-­‐‑ ure,  provided  psychological  portraits,  and  completed  the  partially-­‐‑preserved   visual  cycle  by  supplying  subject-­‐‑matter  for  missing  scenes.  More  importantly   both  succumbed  to  the  seduction  of  confirming  existing  narratives.  Believing   is  indeed  seeing,  whether  one  is  looking  for  Ol’ga’s  embassy  to  Constantino-­‐‑ ple  or  Anna’s  betrothal  to  Vladimir.  As  this  cautionary  tale  has  suggested,  the   power   of   mythology   should   never   be   permitted   to   override   the   rigors   of   fontology.    

                                                                                                                          50

 Giles   Constable,   “A   Living   Past:   The   Historical   Environment   of   the   Middle   Ages,”   Harvard  Library  Bulletin  1,  no.  3  (1990):  53.  

     

Envisioning the Ruler in Medieval Rus’: The Iconography of Intercession and Architecture Michael S. Flier    

  Sometime  in  the  mid-­‐‑15th  century  an  icon  painter,  presumably  Novgorodian,   painted  an  image  depicting  a  historical  battle  between  the  Novgorodians  and   the   Suzdalians   in   1169.   Although   the   Suzdalians   devastated   the   environs   of   the   city   and   demanded   tribute,   their   failure   to   take   Novgorod   itself   was   shown   to   result   from   the   protective   power   of   the   12th-­‐‑century   icon   of   the   Mother  of  God  of  the  Sign  and  the  intervention  of  Saints  Boris  and  Gleb,  Saint   George,  and  the  anachronistic  Saint  Aleksandr  Nevskii.  Given  the  time  of  its   production,   this   most   unusual   artifact   can   be   understood   as   expressing   a   strong   desire   to   repeat   past   glory   as   Novgorod   succumbed   to   ever   greater   depredations   at   the   hands   of   the   Muscovites,   the   contemporary   descendants   of  the  Suzdalians,  and  their  allies.  Novgorod  was  ultimately  forced  to  surren-­‐‑ der   its   independence   to   Grand   Prince   Ivan   III   in   1478,   a   fact   rendered   sym-­‐‑ bolically  by  the  removal  of  the  veche  bell  to  Moscow.   Despite   the   apparent   enmity   between   these   northern   rivals,   Novgorod   remained  for  the  Muscovites  a  cultural  and  religious  center  worthy  of  respect   and  attention.  The  Gennadii  Bible,  completed  in  Novgorod  in  1499,  was  a  pri-­‐‑ mary   source   of   inspiration   for   other   biblical   translations   into   Slavonic   in   the   16th   century,   including   the   text   of   the   inscriptions   on   the   renovated   Golden   Hall   throne   room   frescoes,   carried   out   by   Novgorodian   icon   painters   in   the   Moscow   Kremlin   in   the   early   1550s.1   The   Novgorod   Great   Menology   (Velikie   minei  chet’i)  served  as  the  basis  for  the  extended  Muscovite  version  completed   under   the   supervision   of   Metropolitan   Makarii,   the   former   archbishop   of   Novgorod.2  Makarii  was  apparently  also  responsible  for  extending  the  exclu-­‐‑ sive   privilege   of   the   Novgorodian   archbishop   to   wear   a   white   cowl   to   the   metropolitan   of   Moscow   when   he   assumed   that   position   in   1542,   an   act   re-­‐‑ cently  cited  by  our  honoree,  Donald  Ostrowski,  as  having  triggered  a  written   response  from  the  Novgorod  church  in  the  form  of  the  Tale  of  the  White  Cowl                                                                                                                             1

 Michael  S.  Flier,  “Handwriting  on  the  Wall:  Traces  of  Novgorod  in  the  Golden  Hall   Mural  Inscriptions,”  Russian  History  35,  no.  3–4  (2008):  267–74.   2  E.  V.  Barsov,  “Opisanie  Velikikh  Chet´ikh-­‐‑Minei  Makariia  mitropolita  vserossiiskogo   A.  V.  Gorskogo  i  K.  I.  Nevostrueva,”  Chteniia  v  Imperatorskom  Obshchestve  istorii  i  drev-­‐‑ nostei  rossiiskikh  pri  Moskovskom  universitete  (ChIOIDR),  bk.  1  (1884),  ix.     Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 181–91.

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immediately   following   Makarii’s   death.3   Likewise,   the   elaborate   Muscovite   Palm  Sunday  ritual  described  by  foreigners  from  the  mid-­‐‑16th  century  on  can   be  ascribed  a  Novgorodian  source.4  Such  high  regard  for  Novgorod  should  be   recalled  when  we  examine  the  large  and  impressive  icon  of  the  Intercession  of   the  Mother  of  God,  currently  housed  in  the  Russian  Museum  in  St.  Petersburg   (hereafter   Intercession-­‐‑RM,   see   fig.   1   in   the   gallery   of   images   following   p.   242).   To   appreciate   fully   the   way   that   Novgorod   tradition   is   used   and   elabo-­‐‑ rated  in  this  most  extensive  and  complex  exemplar  of  the  Intercession  iconog-­‐‑ raphy,  we  should  review  in  brief  the  history  of  the  emergence  of  the  Interces-­‐‑ sion  on  East  Slavic  territory.  In  point  of  fact,  we  know  virtually  nothing  about   when   this   uniquely   East   Slavic   feastday   came   about,   nor   do   we   know   any-­‐‑ thing  about  the  person  or  persons  behind  its  creation.  Maria  Pliukhanova  has   convincingly   challenged   the   validity   of   received   Russian   tradition   that   links   the   Intercession   to   Prince   Andrei   Bogoliubskii.5   His   extraordinary   limestone   church  built  sometime  between  1158  and  1165  on  the  River  Nerl’  in  his  royal   settlement  at  Bogoliubovo  is  often  cited  as  the  earliest  tangible  evidence  of  an   Intercession   cult,   and   yet   it   is   difficult   to   imagine   the   dedication   of   a   royal   church   to   the   Intercession   without   an   accompanying   liturgical   office.   So   far,   the  oldest  liturgical  office  dedicated  to  the  Intercession  dates  to  the  14th  cen-­‐‑ tury.6  Given  Andrei’s  vaunted  devotion  to  the  Mother  of  God,  it  is  likely  that   the  church  was  named  in  her  honor,  but  that  is  all  we  know.  Analogously,  the   Novgorodian   churches   now   dedicated   to   the   Intercession   and   identified   as   such  in  the  indices  of  the  Novgorod  I  Chronicle  are  devoid  of  any  textual  as-­‐‑ sociation   with   Intercession   until   the   early   14th   century,   being   called   instead   churches   of   the   Holy   Mother   of   God.7   For   the   time   being   the   question   of   origin  of  the  holiday  and  its  creator  must  remain  unanswered.       The  event  that  constitutes  the  Intercession,  however,  is  traceable  to  a  spe-­‐‑ cific   narrative   in   the   Life   of   Saint   Andrew   the   Fool   (d.   936   C.E.).   The   earliest   translation  of  the  Life  into  Rusian  Church  Slavonic  has  been  dated  to  the  11th   or   early   12th   centuries   because   of   excerpts   included   in   the   earliest   Prolog                                                                                                                             3

 Donald  Ostrowski,  “Images  of  the  White  Cowl,”  in  The  New  Muscovite  Cultural  His-­‐‑ tory:   A   Collection   in   Honor   of   Daniel   B.   Rowland,   ed.   Valerie   Kivelson,   Karen   Petrone,   Nancy   Shields   Kollmann,   and   Michael   S.   Flier   (Bloomington,   IN:   Slavica,   2009),   282– 84.   4  The  relevant  literature  is  cited  in  Michael  S.  Flier,  “Breaking  the  Code:  The  Image  of   the   Tsar   in   the   Muscovite   Palm   Sunday   Ritual,”   Medieval   Russian   Culture,   2,   ed.   Flier   and  Daniel  B.  Rowland  (Berkeley:  University  of  California  Press,  1994),  220–24.   5  M.   B.   Pliukhanova,   Siuzhety   i   simvoly   Moskovskogo   tsarstva   (St.   Petersburg:   Akropol’,   1995),  52–62.     6  N.  P.  Kondakov,  Ikonografiia  Bogomateri,  2  vols.  (St.  Petersburg,  1914–15),  2:  93.   7  A.   N.   Nasonov,   ed.,   Novgorodskaia   pervaia   letopis’   starshego   i   mladshego   izvodov   (Mos-­‐‑ cow-­‐‑Leningrad:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Akademii  nauk  SSSR,  1950),  619.  

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from  the  12th  century.8  The  Life  relates  a  story  about  Andrew  that  secures  his   place  in  Orthodox  piety.9  As  was  his  wont,  he  spent  hours  standing  in  church   in  private  prayer.  One  evening  he  attended  an  all-­‐‑night  vigil  at  the  Blachernai   Church  of  the  Mother  of  God  adjacent  to  the  Blachernai  Palace  in  the  north-­‐‑ east  corner  of  Constantinople.  The  church  was  justifiably  famous  for  housing   Mary’s  robe  (riza)  and  her  maphorion  or  veil  (pokrov).  Around  four  o’clock  in   the  morning,  Andrew  suddenly  had  a  vision  in  which  he  saw  a  tall,  majestic   woman   entering   through   the   western   doors   into   the   church.   She   was   sup-­‐‑ ported   under   one   arm   by   John   the   Forerunner   and   under   the   other   by   Saint   John   the   Divine.   A   large   contingent   of   saints   dressed   in   white   preceded   her,   and  others  followed  her  singing  hymns.  When  she  neared  the  ambo,  Andrew   turned   to   his   noble   young   companion   and   disciple   Epiphanius   and   asked,   “Do   you   see   Our   Lady,   Queen   of   the   whole   world?”   (Vidishi   li   gospozhiu   vsego   mira   i   tsesaritsiu?)10   and   Epiphanius   answered,   “I   do,   my   father”   (Vizhiu,   otche   moi).11   On   bended   knees   Mary   prayed   for   a   long   time,   shed-­‐‑ ding   many   tears.   Then   she   arose   and   walked   to   the   altar,   where   she   prayed   again   for   the   people   standing   before   her.   After   finishing   her   prayer,   she   re-­‐‑ moved  her  maphorion,  great  and  awesome,  flashing  like  lightning,  and  hold-­‐‑ ing  it  up  with  her  hands  in  great  solemnity,  she  spread  it  over  all  the  people   standing  there.  So  long  as  she  was  present  in  the  church,  her  veil  was  visible   to  Andrew  and  Epiphanius.  After  she  departed,  the  veil  was  no  longer  visible,   but   they   understood   that   her   blessing   remained   upon   those   standing   in   the   church.  The  Church  Slavonic  word  pokrov,  which  has  both  the  concrete  mean-­‐‑ ing   of   veil   and   the   metaphorical   meaning   of   protection   is   conventionally   translated   into   English   as   “intercession.”   The   vision   described   is   understood   in   Orthodox   thought   to   represent   the   special   protection   and   intercession   of   the  Mother  of  God  over  those  in  the  church  at  the  time,  including  Andrew  the   Fool.  The  mythological  narrative  that  developed  with  high  intensity  in  Mos-­‐‑ cow  from  the  16th  century  on  made  the  connection  of  this  event  with  Andrei   Bogoliubskii  through  the  claim  that  Andrew  the  Fool  was  the  prince’s  patron   saint.  Pliukhanova  has  noted,  however,  that  in  some  sources  Andrei  is  linked   to  the  Apostle  Andrew  and  in  others  to  Andrew  of  Crete.12   The  earliest  image  of  the  Intercession  extant  is  commonly  taken  to  be  that   on   the   western   doors   of   the   so-­‐‑called   Golden   Gates,   the   highly   decorated   entryway   doors   on   the   west,   north,   and   south   sides   of   the   Cathedral   of   the   Nativity  of  the  Mother  of  God  in  the  city  of  Suzdal’,  some  30  miles  northwest                                                                                                                             8

 A.   M.   Moldovan,   ed.,   Zhitie   Andreia   Iurodivogo   v   slavianskoi   pis’mennosti   (Moscow:   Azbukovnik,  2000),  16–17.  See  also  E.  Hansack’s  review  of  Moldovan,  Zhitie,  in  Russian   Linguistics  26  (2002):  127–32.   9  For  the  full  text,  see  Moldovan,  Zhitie,  398–400,  ll.  5012–41.   10  Ibid.,  399,  ll.  5026–27.     11  Ibid.,  399,  l.  5028.     12  Pliukhanova,  Siuzhety  i  simvoly,  54.  

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of   Bogoliubovo   (see   fig.   2).   The   doors   were   produced   around   1233.   From   a   semiotic  perspective,  the  image  has  reduced  the  story  of  the  Intercession  to  its   bare  essentials.  Mary  is  depicted  in  near  profile  with  arms  raised  in  the  mode   of  the  Oranta  in  a  pose  of  ancient  prayer  or  of  the  Blacherniotissa  image  from   Constantinople.   Her   maphorion   is   unfurled   in   the   air   above   her,   while   four   figures,   apparently   all   angels,   witness   the   scene   with   wonder,   signaled   by   upraised   arms.   Christ   looks   down   from   above,   conferring   his   blessing   with   outstretched   hands.13   This   image   is   so   reductive,   however,   that   Pliukhanova   dismisses  the  notion  that  it  actually  represents  the  event,  which  is  defined  by   the  notion  of  the  protection  of  those  present.  Because  none  of  the  witnesses  to   Mary’s   appearance   here   are   depicted,   Pliukhanova   follows   a   skeptical   aca-­‐‑ demic   interpretation   in   seeing   this   Intercession   not   as   referring   to   St.   Andrew’s   vision,   but   as   a   generalized   image   of   Mary’s   protection,   a   notion   present  in  numerous  liturgical  contexts.14   Therefore   we   are   left   with   the   earliest   images   otherwise   recognized   as   definitively   those   of   Intercession,   both   from   the   14th   century,   the   same   time   period   as   the   earliest   liturgical   offices   for   the   holiday.   We   can   identify   two   fairly   clear   traditions   in   the   realization   of   Intercession   iconography,   the  Suz-­‐‑ dalian  and  the  Novgorodian.  At  first  blush,  the  differences  are  striking.  In  the   Suzdalian   type   (fig.   3),   the   Mother   of   God   holds   the   maphorion   in   her   own   hands.  It  is  she  who  commands  attention  without  a  benevolent  Christ  looking   down  from  on  high.  And  in  the  ambo,  there  is  a  male  figure  holding  a  scroll.   In  the  Novgorodian  type  (fig.  4),  the  maphorion  is  stretched  out  above  Mary   and   held   aloft   by   angels.   A   half-­‐‑length   Christ   blesses   the   scene   from   above.   And  on  ground  level  in  the  center  is  a  set  of  doors  with  no  ambo  and  no  male   figure  with  scroll.  We  need  to  analyze  each  type  more  closely.     In   the   14th-­‐‑century   Suzdalian   icon,   the   angels   simply   assist   Mary   in   spreading  her  veil.  In  the  later  development  of  a  late  15th-­‐‑century  Suzdalian   type  (fig.  5),  the  angels  are  incorporated  into  the  groups  of  saints  included  in   the   vision.   This   new   condensed   treatment   combined   with   the   absence   of   Christ  serves  to  frame  Mary  as  the  central,  glorified  figure,  offering  her  pro-­‐‑ tection   directly   and   forcefully.   The   billowing   canopy   behind   her   recalls   the   spreading   of   her   own   veil.   There   is   a   compelling   theory   that   this   particular   iconography  reflects  the  miraculous  behavior  of  the  Blacherniotissa,  the  icon   of  the  Mother  of  God  in  the  Blachernai  cathedral  itself.15  According  to  legend,   that   icon   was   covered   by   a   curtain   that   miraculously   lifted   up   to   reveal   Mary’s   image   at   six   o’clock   in   the   evening   on   Fridays   during   the   all-­‐‑night   vesper  service  and  then  descended  to  cover  the  image  at  the  end  of  the  service                                                                                                                             13

 Apparently,   a   similar   image   is   found   in   a   fragmented   fresco   from   1234   from   the   Church   of   St.   George   in   nearby   Iur’ev-­‐‑Pol’skoi.   See   V.   N.   Lazarev,   Russkaia   sredne-­‐‑ vekovaia  zhivopis’:  Stat’i  i  issledovaniia  (Moscow,  1970),  160–61  nn.  27  and  28.   14  Pliukhanova,  Siuzhety  i  simvoly,  53.   15  Kondakov,  Ikonografiia  Bogomateri,  v.  2,  97–99.  

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on   Saturday   morning.   The   image   remained   covered   by   the   curtain   until   the   following  Friday  evening.     The  figure  standing  on  the  ambo,  scroll  in  hand,  is  anachronistic,  but  it  is   no  accident  that  he  is  present,  since  his  feast  day  falls  on  1  October,  the  very   day   on   which   the   Intercession   is   celebrated.   He   is   Saint   Romanus   the   Melo-­‐‑ dist,   who   is   credited   in   Byzantine   Orthodox   tradition   with   composing   hun-­‐‑ dreds  of  kontakia  hymns  in  honor  of  the  Mother  of  God.  This  unlettered  sex-­‐‑ ton,  working  in  the  Cathedral  of  Hagia  Sophia   in  Constantinople,  saw  Mary   in   a   vision   as   well.   She   handed   him   a   scroll   and   commanded   him   to   eat   it.   Once  he  did,  he  was  suddenly  gifted  with  the  art  of  musical  composition  and   wrote   the   Christmas   kontakion   “Today   the   Virgin   gives   birth   to   him   who   is   above   all   being….”   Since   Romanus   died   in   556   and   Saint   Andrew   in   936,   Romanus   is   better   understood   here   as   part   of   Andrew’s   vision,   an   index   to   the  hymns  sung  by  the  saints  that  accompanied  Mary  into  the  building  dur-­‐‑ ing   the   evening   service.   He   further   glorifies   the   Mother   of   God   through   his   music.   In   the   later,   15th-­‐‑century   icon,   in   addition   to   numerous   saints   on   both   sides   of   the   Blachernai   church,   there   are   prelates,   including   bishops   in   front   stage  right,  whereas  Andrew  the  Fool  and  Epiphanius  are  in  front  stage  left.   Furthermore   there   is   a   large   contingent   of   figures   behind   the   ambo   who   are   without   nimbuses,   but   all   dressed   alike.   These   are   the   singers   performing   Romanus’s  hymns  during  the  service.       One  additional  figure  important  to  indicate  is  that  of  an  emperor,  stand-­‐‑ ing  at  stage  right  and  marked  with  a  nimbus.  This  is  commonly  understood  to   be   Emperor   Constantine,   who   was   both   founder   and   first   Christian   ruler   of   the  Byzantine  Empire.  The  clear  implication  is  that  Mary’s  protection  as  wit-­‐‑ nessed   by   the   angels,   saints,   prelates,   and   courtiers   present   is   strongly   asso-­‐‑ ciated  with  the  ruler  and  his  court,  the  Blachernai  cathedral  being  adjacent  to   the  royal  Blachernai  palace  in  the  capital.   John  the  Forerunner  appears  in  both  icons,  once  on  stage  right  and  once   on   stage   left.   This   switch   is   explicable   if   one   takes   context   into   account.   The   architecture,   however   conventionally   or   accurately   it   depicts   the   Blachernai   cathedral,   organizes   the   figures   in   space,   immediately   setting   up   tension   be-­‐‑ tween   right   and   left.   In   the   14th-­‐‑century   icon,   John   the   Forerunner   is   out   in   front   and   on   stage   right,   both   favored   positions.   He   is   juxtaposed   to   high-­‐‑ ranking   prelates.   Saint   Andrew   the   Fool   and   Epiphanius   are   depicted   on   stage   left   for   two   reasons.   First,   they   must   be   understood   as   hierarchically   lower   than   John.   Second,   if   we   underscore   their   roles   as   observers   of   the   events   taking   place,   their   perspective   is   reversed.   They   stand   on   the   hierar-­‐‑ chically   more   valued   right,   south   side   of   the   nave.   The   Byzantine   emperor   used   to   stand   on   the   south   side   during   services,   as   did   Muscovite   grand   princes  and  tsars.  In  the  later  icon,  John  is  at  Mary’s  left,  apparently  because   he  stands  opposite  the  angels,  perhaps  even  the  four  archangels,  on  her  right.  

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The   basic   iconography   of   the   Suzdalian   type   is   continued   into   the   16th   century,  as  seen  in  the  brilliant  frescoes  of  Dionisii  in  the  Ferapont  monastery   in  1500,16  the  Trinity-­‐‑Sergii  Lavra  icon  in  the  beginning  of  the  16th  century,17   and  the  Moscow  icon  from  the  end  of  the  16th  century.18  The  ruler  remains  a   standard   figure   included   among   the   saints,   more   often   than   not   on   the   favored,  stage  right  side.   In  the  spring  of  2010,  Princeton  University  hosted  an  exhibition  on  East-­‐‑ ern   Orthodox   art,   entitled   “Architecture   as   Icon,”   dedicated   to   the   ways   in   which  architecture  is  used  in  Byzantine  representation  to  deepen  and  clarify   spiritual  understanding.  As  always  in  the  case  of  Byzantine  art,  a  traditional   Western   emphasis   on   realistic   depiction,   accurate   proportions,   perspective,   location  in  space,  etc.  misses  the  intentional  distortion  that  Byzantine  art  pur-­‐‑ sues  to  reveal  a  deeper  reality  beyond  the  superficial  plane  that  human  beings   can   actually   perceive.   In   the   introductory   essay,   Professor   Slobodan   Čurčić   states  the  following:     Historians   of   Byzantine   art,   and   others   who   have   written   about   it,   have   long   noted   that   pictorial   compositions   in   Byzantine   art   often   contain   representations   of   architecture   in   the   background.   But   the   scrutiny   of   these   representations   has   usually   gone   no   further   than   noticing   their   existence.…   The   most   common,   if   noncommittal   ob-­‐‑ servation   has   been   that   they   are   just   background,   almost   arbitrarily   chosen,   space   fillers   of   little   significance—one   might   say,   not   unlike   decorative  wall  paper.19     There   is   no   doubt   that   the   introduction   of   architectural   background   no   later   than   the   14th   century   was   intentional   and   not   simply   decorative.   The   very  fact  of  its  presence  indicates  the  creation  of  tension  between  outside  and   inside,   between   revealed   and   hidden.   In   the   Suzdalian   tradition   (fig.   3),   the   sense  of  inside  is  enhanced  by  the  presence  of  the  ambo  and  the  adroit  use  of   drapery   and   curtains   to   underscore   connectedness:   how   the   truth   of   vision   can  be  hidden  from  those  not  yet  spiritually  prepared  to  see.  In  the  later  15th-­‐‑ century   icon   (fig.   5),   Mary   stands   before   a   low   wall,   which   likely   represents                                                                                                                             16

 See   color   reproduction   in   I.   E.   Danilova,   “Freski   Ferapontova   monastyria,”   in   Dio-­‐‑ nisii:  Ikony  i  freski  Drevnei  Rusi,  ed.  V.  N.  Lazarev  and  N.  E.  Danilova  (Moscow:  Teza,   2000),  60.   17  See  black-­‐‑and-­‐‑white  reproduction  in  V.  E.  Antonova  and  N.  E.  Mneva,  Katalog  drev-­‐‑ nerusskoi  zhivopisi:  Opyt  istoriko-­‐‑khudozhestvennoi  klassifikatsii,  vol.  2:  XVI  –  nachalo  XVIII   veka  (Moscow:  Iskusstvo,  1963),  plate  62.   18  See  black-­‐‑and-­‐‑white  reproduction  in  ibid.,  plate  29.   19  Slobodan  Ćurčić,  “Architecture  as  Icon,”  in  Architecture  as  Icon:  Perception  and  Repre-­‐‑ sentation   of   Architecture   in   Byzantine   Art,   ed.   Ćurčić   and   Evangelia   Hadjitryphonos   (New  Haven:  Yale  University  Press,  2010),  3.  

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the  low  templon  separating  the  nave,  where  the  congregation  is  permitted  to   be,  from  the  sanctuary,  indicated  by  the  ciborium  behind.  These  elements  pro-­‐‑ vide   directional,   eastern   orientation   in   space   otherwise   not   so   demarcated.   Beyond  them,  it  is  the  typological  groupings  that  give  spatial  substance  to  the   sweep  of  the  vision,  with  holy  figures  of  all  types  represented,  and  in  keeping   with  Orthodox  spirituality,  carefully  hierarchized  and  positioned.  The  looser   spatial   arrangement   in   the   interior   is   perhaps   more   reflective   of   an   older,   Byzantine   tradition   in   which   the   very   shape   of   the   church   interior   itself   was   changing  to  better  meet  the  needs  of  the  evolving  services.   The   Novgorodian   use   of   architecture   is   remarkably   different   and   at   the   same   time   more   uniform,   probably   representative   of   the   post-­‐‑Iconoclastic   Middle  Byzantine  system.  The  Blachernai  church  is  consistently  presented  on   the   outside   as   a   typical   quincunx   edifice,   its   five   domes   symmetrically   ar-­‐‑ rayed   across   the   top   of   the   image   (figs.   4,   6).   The   remarkable   shift   takes   the   very   pilasters   that   articulate   the   outside   façade   and   projects   them   into   the   interior   as   the   piers   or   columns   that   create   the   easily   recognizable   triple   arcade  of  the  three  bays  in  the  nave  as  one  faces  the  altar,  with  the  Mother  of   God  high  in  the  center  where  the  conch  of  the  apse  would  be,  standing  firm   with   the   upraised   arms   of   the   Oranta,   interceding   with   a   half-­‐‑length   Christ   above,   where   the   Pantocrator   would   be   located.   Appropriately,   the   arch-­‐‑ angels  in  holding  up  the  maphorion  flank  Christ,  just  as  they  do  in  the  upper   reaches   of   the   main   cupola   above   the   crossing.   The   prelates,   typically   repre-­‐‑ sented  behind  altar  tables  as  three  of  the  Fathers  of  the  early  church  (Basil  the   Great,   Gregory   Nazianzus,   and   John   Chrysostom),   are   juxtaposed   across   the   church  from  angels  who  are  often  depicted  as  deacons  for  Christ  in  the  repre-­‐‑ sentations   of   the   Eucharist.   The   array   of   saints   on   the   ground   is   usually   headed   by   John   the   Forerunner   and   frequently   includes   other   Apostles   or   Evangelists.  Saint  Andrew  the  Fool  occupies  his  usual  place  with  Epiphanius   to   his   left   along   with   military   saints,   such   as   George   and   Demetrius.   In   leg-­‐‑ end,   the   Blachernai   icon   of   the   Mother   of   God   is   a   palladium   for   the   city   of   Constantinople,  warding  off  attacking  enemy  forces.20   The   same   patterns   described   above   are   continued   in   the   Novgorodian   icons   from   the   16th   century   as   well.   In   no   uncertain   terms,   the   architectural   matrix  imprinted  on  the  inside  serves  the  very  purposes  of  spiritual  hierarchy   demanded   by   the   Byzantine   doctrine   of   images   on   the   inside   walls   of   the   church   and   on   the   iconostasis.   The   bifurcated   door   is   iconic   of   the   Royal   Gates,  which  typically  block  the  view  of  the  sanctuary  from  the  nave,  so  that   the   holiest   site   remains   completely   or   largely   hidden.   It   is   possible   that   it   is   present  there  through  mistaken  translation.  In  the  Life  of  Andrew  the  Fool,  the   Mother  of  God  is  said  to  proceed  through  the  Royal  Gates  and  then  move  to   the   ambo   before   praying   at   the   altar.   In   Greek   terminology,   the   Royal   Gates                                                                                                                             20

 Lennart   Rydén,   “The   Vision   of   the   Virgin   at   Blachernae   and   the   Feast   of   Pokrov,”   Analecta  Bollandiana  94  (1976):  81.  

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were  the  central  western  doors  in  cathedrals  leading  from  the  narthex  into  the   nave.   They   were   to   be   used   only   by   the   emperor,   who   was   required   to   re-­‐‑ move  his  headgear,  genuflect,  and  enter  into  the  cathedral  alone,  leaving  his   bodyguards   behind.   In   Rus’,   the   term   Royal   Gates   (Tsarskie   vrata)   came   to   be   used   for   the   so-­‐‑called   Gates   of   Paradise,   the   central   doors   in   the   iconostasis   that   block   a   direct   view   of   the   altar.   In   Greek   usage,   those   are   referred   to   as   Holy  Doors.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  bifurcated  door  works  well  within  the  Nov-­‐‑ gorodian   architectural   context   to   underline   interior   space   and   orientation   to   the  east.   By  the  end  of  the  15th  century,  at  a  period  in  history  when  Novgorod  was   under  the  complete  dominance  of  Moscow,  we  begin  to  see  an  intermingling   of  the  two  traditions.  In  the  late  15th–early  16th-­‐‑century  Novgorod  icon  (fig.   7),  the  clearly  Suzdalian  composition  of  architecture  with  the  presence  of  Ro-­‐‑ manus   the   Melodist   and   the   ruler   is   overlaid   with   the   Novgorodian   archan-­‐‑ gels  stretching  out  the  maphorion.  The  tower  and  palace  remain  a  part  of  the   outside   setting,   with   the   cathedral’s   rotunda   in   the   center.   In   the   late-­‐‑15th-­‐‑ century  Novgorod  icon  (fig.  8),  the  clearly  Novgorodian  composition  of  archi-­‐‑ tecture  with  the  five  cupolas  has  been  supplemented  with  rounded  towering   structures  at  either  end.  The  archangels  continue  to  carry  the  maphorion,  but   Christ  is  missing  along  with  the  altar  tables  and  honored  priests  and  deacons,   and  Romanus  and  the  ruler  are  introduced.  The  strongly  demarcating  piers  of   the  interior  are  gone,  but  the  strict  grouping  of  the  middle  and  lower  levels  of   saints  is  an  attempt  to  preserve  hierarchy  and  position.   Turning  now  to  the  Intercession-­‐‑RM  icon  at  the  center  of  our  inquiry  (fig.   1),  we  can  see  much  that  is  familiar  and  much  that  is  new.  In  basic  design,  it   appears  closer  to  the  Novgorodian  tradition,  but  with  a  Suzdalian  admixture.   It  clearly  divides  into  three  zones—lower,  middle,  and  upper—characteristic   of  Novgorod.  And  there  is  a  conscious  effort  to  connect  visually  the  engaged   columns  from  the  outside  walls  seen  in  the  upper  and  middle  zones  and  the   piers  and  arcades  of  the  interior  in  the  lower  zone.  The  greater  complexity  of   the  icon  together  with  its  impressive  size  leads  ineluctably  to  the  influence  of   the  Metropolitan  Makarii  in  developing  through  artifacts  of  culture  the  means   to   express   his   new   ideology   for   Moscow   and   its   esteemed   ruler,   the   grand   prince,  and  after  1547,  the  tsar.  In  text  and  ritual,  if  we  have  in  mind  only  the   Great  Menology  and  the  Palm  Sunday  ritual,  both  elevate  the  ruler’s  status  in   an  eschatological  context  that  rises  to  the  apocalyptic  by  the  mid-­‐‑1550s.21  This   impressive  icon  of  the  Intercession  represents  the  same  impulses.   A  closer  look  at  the  lower  zone  shows  that  Romanus  holds  stage  center  on   the   ambo,   a   Suzdalian   feature   matched   by   the   presence   behind   him   of   the   bifurcated  Novgorodian  doors.  He  is  flanked  by  the  choir  on  his  right  and  the                                                                                                                             21

 See  David  B.  Miller,  “The  Velikie  Minei  Chetii  and  the  Stepennaia  Kniga  of  Metro-­‐‑ politan  Makarii  and  the  Origins  of  Russian  National  Consciousness,”  Forschungen  zur   osteuropäischen  Geschichte  26  (1979):  262–382,  and  Flier,  “Breaking  the  Code,”  213–42.  

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serving   clergy   on   his   left.   Andrew   and   Epiphanius   occupy   their   usual   posi-­‐‑ tions  at  stage  left,  but  the  ruler  has  been  elevated  to  his  own  ambo  stage  right,   and  a  high-­‐‑ranking  prelate  to  his  own  on  stage  left.  The  ruler’s  wife  is  lower   on  stage  right,  together  with  her  ladies-­‐‑in-­‐‑waiting.  In  this  case  the  ruler  is  not   Constantine   the   Great   but   is   identified   by   inscription   as   the   Byzantine   emperor   Leo   VI,   the   Wise   (866–912),   whose   reign   (886–912)   was   contempo-­‐‑ rary   with   Andrew   the   Fool.   Thus,   the   ruler   and   his   wife   Theophano   are   not   only   included   as   witnesses   but   as   honored   participants.   The   prelate,   on   the   contrary,   is   the   anachronistic   patriarch   of   Constantinople,   Tarasios   (c.   730– 806),  who  presided  over  the  Seventh  Ecumenical  Council  in  Nicaea  (787),  the   synod  that  condemned  iconoclasm  and  officially  approved  the  veneration  of   icons.  His  inclusion  would  offer  support  for  Makarii’s  own  vision  of  the  role   of  images  in  the  promulgation  of  Muscovite  ideology,  particularly  in  the  mid-­‐‑ 1550s  in  light  of  the  metropolitan’s  role  in  the  Stoglav  Council  of  1551  and  the   Viskovatyi   affair   in   1554.   Likewise,   the   striking   presentation   of   the   emperor   and  his  empress  offers  cogent  models  for  the  first  Muscovite  tsar  and  tsaritsa,   Ivan   IV   and   Anastasia,   his   young   and   pious   helpmate,   whose   own   cult   of   honor  and  intercession  was  being  promulgated  by  Makarii  during  these  very   times   and   subsequently   elaborated   over   the   course   of   the   second   half   of   the   16th  century.22   The   equestrian   statue   of   Byzantine   emperor   Justinian   at   the   top   left   was   apparently  intended  to  remind  the  beholder  that  the  miraculous  vision  of  St.   Andrew   the   Fool   occurred   in   the   royal   Church   of   the   Mother   of   God   in   Blachernai,   adjacent   to   the   Blachernai   Palace   in   Constantinople,   although   in   fact,   the   actual   statue   was   adjacent   to   Hagia   Sophia   in   Constantinople.   It   serves  as  yet  another  reminder  of  the  importance  of  the  emperor  in  the  devel-­‐‑ opment  of  the  cult  of  the  intercession.   The  middle  zone  is  organized  by  the  column-­‐‑piers  into  typological  group-­‐‑ ings   of   saints,   all   standing   on   wavelike   clouds   of   alternating   red   and   green:   from   beholder   left-­‐‑to-­‐‑right,   martyrs,   prelates,   prophets,   apostles,   confessors,   and  female  saints.  These  many  figures  are  understood  to  be  part  of  the  holy   contingent  that  accompanies  the  Mother  of  God  into  the  church.  Mary  stands   in  the  center  in  the  pose  of  the  Oranta  interceding  with  Christ  directly  above.   The   Mary-­‐‑Christ   dyad   with   the   archangels   holding   the   maphorion   is   still   from  the  Novgorodian  tradition.  But  it  is  the  upper  zone  that  commands  es-­‐‑ pecial  attention.   There   we   see   not   the   usual   five   Novgorod   cupolas   but   three   over   five   bays,  all  topped  with  rounded  gables.  They  are  positioned  behind  seven  bays,   and   that   division   into   seven   is   mirrored   in   the   middle   and   lower   levels,   a                                                                                                                             22

 See  Isolde  Thyrêt,  Between  God  and  Tsar:  Religious  Symbolism  and  the  Royal  Women  of   Muscovite  Russia  (Dekalb:  Northern  Illinois  University  Press,  2001),  47–64.  I  am  grate-­‐‑ ful   to   Daniel   Rowland   for   his   helpful   references   to   this   cult   in   his   comments   on   an   earlier  version  of  this  study.  

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feature   we   have   not   seen   previously.   Although   meant   to   represent   the   Bla-­‐‑ chernai  church,  scholarly  tradition  links  this  architectural  composition  none-­‐‑ theless  to  that  of  Novgorod’s  Cathedral  of  Holy  Sophia,  with  its  five  bays  (the   nave   and   two   double   aisles),   flanked   by   two   covered   galleries   (fig.   9).23   Be   that   as   it   may,   we   cannot   simply   accept   this   reading   and   ignore   the   several   other  features  of  the  architectural  composition  that  are  routinely  ignored.   We   must   ask   first   of   all,   why   only   three   cupolas   appear   when   the   Nov-­‐‑ gorod   tradition   is   so   consistent   in   rendering   five,   the   exact   number   for   the   Novgorod  Sophia,  sans  the  asymmetric  stairtower  at  the  southwest  end?  And   then  there  is  the  matter  of  the  seven  forward  gables,  which  are  not  round  but   ogival  in  shape.  A  further  oddity  is  the  presence  of  round  windows,  a  feature   rarely  if  ever  encountered  in  the  architecture  depicted  in  Russian  icons  before   the  1540s.  This  Intercession  icon  has  been  variously  dated  to  the  16th  century,   to   its   beginning,   its   first   half,   or   its   second   half.   Recent   scholarship   has   fa-­‐‑ vored  a  more  precise  dating,  specifically  to  the  1540s  in  light  of  the  inclusion   in  the  group  of  confessors  of  a  saint  such  as  Aleskandr  Svirskii,  newly  canon-­‐‑ ized  in  the  Moscow  synod  of  1547.24  With  respect  to  the  ideology  that  springs   from  the  Makarii-­‐‑Ivan  IV  partnership,  this  reassessment  makes  perfect  sense.   From  this  perspective,  the  icon-­‐‑painter  used  the  Novgorod  Sophia  as  a  foun-­‐‑ dational  edifice,  but  introduced  several  innovations  to  create  the  Intercession   iconography  in  a  new,  Muscovite  key.   Given   the   strong   Novgorodian   tradition   of   five   cupolas,   the   use   of   only   three  begs  for  a  different  interpretation.  In  view  of  the  ogival  gables  and  the   round   windows,   we   can   advance   the   hypothesis   that   the   Blachernai   church   was   reimagined   as   a   composite   of   two   of   the   most   important   Muscovite   churches  in  Ivan  III’s  refashioned  Kremlin,  both  linked  to  the  ruling  dynasty:   the   Cathedral   of   the   Annunciation,   the   palace   church;   and   the   Cathedral   of   Archangel  Michael,  the  royal  necropolis.    The   Annunciation   was   rebuilt   by   architects   from   Pskov   on   the   stone   foundation  of  its  predecessor  from  1484  to  1489  and  was  originally  topped  by   three   cupolas   (fig.   10).   Damaged   by   the   Kremlin   fire   of   1547,   the   cathedral   was   renovated   and   supplemented   with   two   additional   cupolas   only   in   1564.   The  remaining  four  were  added  along  with  supplemental  galleries  later  in  the   century.  The  cathedral  featured  a  typical  Suzdalian  articulation,  with  a  corbel   table  frieze  bisecting  the  façade,  and  ogival  gables  and  kokoshniki  above  the   vaults  (fig.  11).   The   Archangel   Michael   was   constructed   on   the   site   of   its   14th-­‐‑century   predecessor  by  the  Italian  architect  Alevisio  (Aloisio)  the  Younger  to  serve  as   the  burial  church  for  the  Muscovite  Danilovichi  dynasty  (fig.  12).  The  striking                                                                                                                             23

 George   Heard   Hamilton,   The   Art   and   Architecture   of   Russia,   3rd   ed.   (New   Haven:   Yale  University  Press,  1983,  146–47.   24  Tatiana  Vilibakhova,  “The  Protecting  Veil  (Pokrov),”  Gates  of  Mystery:  The  Art  of  Holy   Russia,  ed.  Roderick  Grierson  (Fort  Worth:  Intercultura,  [1992?]),  186–88.  

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feature   important   for   the   icon   under   discussion   is   the   rounded   Venetian   windows,   the   3   +   1   pattern   being   reduced   in   the   icon   to   2   +   1   or   to   a   single   rounded  window.  They  punctuate  each  of  the  church’s  gables  in  Intercession-­‐‑ RM,   and   together   with   the   ogival   arches,   put   a   definitive   Muscovite   royal   stamp  onto  the  primarily  Novgorodian  façade.   The  elaboration  of  the  usual  internal  triple  arcade  into  seven  is  a  striking   innovation,   one   that   must   go   beyond   the   mere   summation   of   bays   in   the   Novgorod   Sophia.   The   motif   of   the   arcades   in   the   lower   zone   themselves   recalls  the  blind  arcades  of  Alevisio’s  Archangel  cathedral,  and  in  the  numer-­‐‑ ology   of   seven   the   icon   echoes   one   of   the   fundamental   themes   used   in   the   renovation  of  the  Kremlin’s  Golden  Hall  Throne  Room  and  Vestibule  after  the   1547   Moscow   fire:   Wisdom   hath   builded   her   house;   she   hath   hewn   out   her   seven  pillars  (Prov.  9:  1).  In  addition  to  the  seven  scenes  in  the  Vestibule  ceil-­‐‑ ing   that   define   the   good   ruler,   the   seven   churches   of   the   Book   of   Revelation   are  represented  in  the  fresco  that  directly  dominates  the  space  over  the  tsar’s   throne   in   the   adjacent   room.   And   the   Throne   Room   ceiling   fresco,   an   en-­‐‑ throned   Christ   Emmanuel   sitting   as   the   Final   Judge   at   the   End   Times,   reso-­‐‑ nates  with  the  depiction  of  the  Redeemer  in  the  Intercession–RM.     In  the  icon  we  see  a  full-­‐‑length  enthroned  Christ  above  Mary,  unlike  the   neutral  half-­‐‑length  Christ  so  characteristic  of  the  earlier  Novgorodian  icons  of   the   Intercession.   Set   against   a   mandorla   with   flaming   red-­‐‑orange   seraphim   beneath   his   throne,   this   image   can   be   fruitfully   compared   with   the   vision   of   Christ  Emmanuel  described  by  Ezekiel  (Ezek.  1,  see  fig.  13),  an  apocalyptic  al-­‐‑ lusion  that  conforms  to  Moscow’s  understanding  of  its  place  in  history  and  its   salvific  mission  at  the  End  Times,  originally  expected  in  the  year  7000  (1492),   but   now   a   central   tenet   of   the   ruling   elite   as   it   adjusts   to   the   reforms   of   the   ruler  under  an  emperor  crowned  as  tsar.      In  the  last  analysis,  there  is  no  question  that  in  the  sweep  of  time  when   the  Intercession  and  its  iconography  came  into  being  in  Rus’,  the  special  con-­‐‑ nection  it  came  to  represent  between  the  Mother  of  God  and  the  ruler  made  it   an   appealing   emblem   of   centralized   Muscovite   authority   originally   cham-­‐‑ pioned   by   Ivan   III   and   brutally   effected   by   his   grandson   Ivan   IV   and   his   advisers  a  half-­‐‑century  later.  This  icon  of  the  Intercession  would  appear  to  be   a   primary   exemplar   of   the   extraordinary   expectations   for   the   new   age   envi-­‐‑ sioned   as   honored   grand   prince   became   sacralized   tsar   and   the   Muscovite   elite  expended  considerable  effort  to  construct  a  tradition  that  justified  its  role   and  the  place  of  its  ruler  in  the  salvation  of  mankind.    

     

Ruslan Skrynnikov on Ivan IV   Charles J. Halperin    

  Ruslan  Grigor’evich  Skrynnikov  (1931–2009)  probably  published  more  pages   about   Ivan   IV   (Ivan   the   Terrible,   1533–84)   than   any   other   historian.   His   first   book,   The   Beginning   of   the   Oprichnina,   appeared   in   1966,1   inaugurating   a   tril-­‐‑ ogy   that   continued   with   The   Oprichnina   Terror   in   19692   and   concluded   with   Russia  after  the  Oprichnina:  Studies  in  Political  and  Social  History  in  1975.3  These   volumes  soon  became  bibliographic  rarities,  so  in  1991  Skrynnikov  “summa-­‐‑ rized”  them  in  the  572-­‐‑page  volume  Realm  of  Terror,4  written  before  but  pub-­‐‑ lished  after  the  fall  of  the  Soviet  Union,  easily  his  most  frequently  cited  book.   Realm  of  Terror  deserved  to  become  a  classic  if  only  because  its  title  brilliantly   encapsulated  the  one  fact  about  Ivan  the  Terrible  upon  which  virtually  all  his-­‐‑ torians  agree,  that  Ivan  was  the  first  Russian  ruler  to  employ  mass  terror  for   political   purposes.   In   1996,   Skrynnikov   published   what   was   in   effect   a   two-­‐‑ volume   popularization   of   Realm   of   Terror   entitled   The   Great   Sovereign   Ivan   Vasil’evich  the  Terrible.5  In  2008,  over  30  years  after  the  appearance  of  his  first   book   on   Ivan,   he   published   yet   another   lengthy   “popular”   monograph,   to-­‐‑ gether   with   a   study   of   Ivan’s   father,   Vasilii   III.6   Along   the   way,   in   1973,   Skrynnikov   published   a   short   book,   The   Correspondence   of   The   Terrible   and  

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 R.   G.   Skrynnikov,   Nachalo   oprichniny,   Uchenye   zapiski   Leningradskogo   gosudarst-­‐‑ vennogo   pedagogicheskogo   instituta   imeni   A.   I.   Gertsena   294   (Leningrad:   Izd-­‐‑vo   Leningradskogo   universiteta,   1966).   In   1565,   Ivan   set   up   a   separate   appanage,   the   oprichnina,  which  led  to  a  reign  of  terror.   2  R.   G.   Skrynnikov,   Oprichnyi   terror,   Uchenye   zapiski   Leningradskogo   ordena   Trudo-­‐‑ vogo   Krasnogo   Znameni   gosudarstvennogo   pedagogicheskogo   instituta   imeni   A.   I.   Gertsena  374  (Leningrad:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Leningradskogo  universiteta,  1969).   3  R.   G.   Skrynnikov,   Rossiia   posle   oprichniny:   Ocherki   politicheskoi   i   sotsial’noi   istoriii   (Leningrad:  Izd-­‐‑vo  Leningradskogo  universiteta,  1975).   4  R.   G.   Skrynnikov,   Tsarstvo   terrora   (St.   Petersburg:   Nauka,   Sankt-­‐‑Peterburgskoe   ot-­‐‑ delenie,  1992).   5  R.  G.  Skrynnikov,  Velikii  gosudar’  Ioann  Vasil’evich  Groznyi,  2  vols.  (Smolensk:  Rusich,   1996).   6  R.   G.   Skrynnikov,   Vasilii   III.   Ivan   Groznyi   (Moscow:   Izd-­‐‑vo   ACT   MOSKVA,   2008),   145–636.   Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 193–207.

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Kurbskii:  The  Paradoxes  of  Edward  Keenan,7  addressing  the  controversy  over  the   authenticity  of  that  correspondence,  as  well  as  a  short  popular  study  of  Ivan,   Ivan   the   Terrible   (1975),   which   sold   over   a   million   and   a   half   copies   and   was   translated   into   English   in   1981.8   Skrynnikov   also   published   scores   of   articles   and   brochures,   as   well   as   segments   of   other   monographs   and   textbooks,   de-­‐‑ voted   to   the   subject   of   Ivan.9   Gyula   Szvák   counts   53   works   by   Skrynnikov   which   concern   Ivan   IV.10   It   is   no   wonder   that   in   1977   Robert   Crummey   had   already  written  that  Skrynnikov  “occupies  a  special  place  among  historians  of   the   1960s”11   or   that   Dmitrii   Volodikhin   wrote   in   2006   that   “Ruslan   Grigor’-­‐‑ evich   Skrynnikov,   to   all   appearances,   must   be   considered   the   most   experi-­‐‑ enced  and  most  authoritative  investigator  of  Ivan’s  [grozenskaia]  epoch  among   contemporary  Russian  [otechestvennye]  historians.”12  Every  historian  studying   the  reign  of  Ivan  IV  must  deal  with  Skrynnikov’s  prolific  publications.   Szvák   observes   that   Skrynnikov’s   historical   interpretation   of   Ivan   re-­‐‑ mained   unchanged   from   his   trilogy   until   after   the   fall   of   the   Soviet   Union.   Skrynnikov   did   fine-­‐‑tune   his   emphasis   on   broader   questions.13   But,   for                                                                                                                             7

 R.   G.   Skrynnikov,   Perepiska   Groznogo   i   Kurbskogo:   Paradoksy   Edvarda   Kinana   (Lenin-­‐‑ grad:  Nauka,  Leningradskoe  otdelenie,  1973).   8  R.   G.   Skrynnikov,   Ivan   Groznyi   (Moscow:   Nauka,   1975),   translated   into   English   by   Hugh  F.  Graham  as  Ruslan  G.  Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible  (Gulf  Breeze,  FL:  Academic   International   Press,   1981).   On   sales   of   the   Russian   edition,   see   Hugh   F.   Graham,   “Introduction,”   Soviet   Studies   in   History   24,   no.   1–2   (Summer–Fall   1985):   3–10,   here   5.   Graham  was  a  superb  translator,  so  it  is  surprising  to  find  any  translation  errors  in  his   work.  However,  “old”  Rus’  Land  (Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  72)  should  be  “Holy”   Rus’  Land,  as  in  Skrynnikov,  Ivan  Groznyi,  87.   9  R.  G.  Skrynnikov,  Sviatiteli  i  vlasti  (Leningrad:  Lenizdat,  1990),  163–260;  Skrynnikov,   Ivan  Groznyi  i  ego  vremia,  Novoe  v  zhizni,  nauke,  tekhnike.  Seriia  “Istoriia”  7  (Moscow:   Izd-­‐‑vo  Znanie,  1991);  Skrynnikov,  Tragediia  Novgoroda  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  imeni  Sabash-­‐‑ nikovykh,  1994),  43–154;  Skrynnikov,  Istoriia  rossiiskaia  IX–XVII  vv.  (Moscow:  Ves’  Mir   Izdatel’stvo,  1997),  253–365;  Skrynnikov,  Russkaia  istoriia  IX–XVII  vekov  (St.  Petersburg:   Izd-­‐‑vo  Sankt-­‐‑Peterburgskogo  universiteta,  2006),  265–384.   10  Diula  Svak  [Gyula  Szvák],  “Ruslan  Grigor’evich  i  Ivan  Vasil’evich,”  in  his  Russkaia   paradigma:   Russofobskie   zametki   rusofila   (St.   Petersburg:   Aleteia,   2010),   49–62,   here   49,   originally  published  in  Trudy  kafedry  istorii  Rossii  s  drevneishikh  vremen  do  XX  v.,  ed.  A.   Iu.   Dvornichenko   (St.   Petersburg:   Sankt-­‐‑Peterburgskii   gosudarstvennyi   universitet,   Kafedra  istorii  Rossii,  2007),  25–38.  I  wish  to  thank  Professor  Szvák  for  calling  my  at-­‐‑ tention  to  this  article.   11  Robert   O.   Crummey,   “Ivan   the   Terrible,”   in   Windows   on   the   Russian   Past:   Soviet   Historiography  since  Stalin,  ed.  Samuel  H.  Baron  and  Nancy  W.  Heer  (Columbus,  OH:   American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Slavic  Studies,  1977),  57–74,  here  68.   12  D.  M.  Volodikhin,  Ivan  Groznyi:  Bich  Bozhii  (Moscow:  Veche,  2006),  142.   13  Diula   Svak   [Gyula   Szvák],   “Eshche   raz   ob   istoriografii   tsarstvovaniia   Ivana   Groz-­‐‑ nogo,”   in   Moskovskaia   Rus’:   Spetsifika   razvitiia/Muscovy:   Peculiarities   of   Its   Development,   ed.  Szvák  (Budapest:  Magyar  Ruszisztika  Intézet,  2003),  39–75,  here  71.  Szvák  skillfully  

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example,  even  as  he  adjusted  how  much  influence  to  attribute  to  Ivan’s  per-­‐‑ sonality,   he   never   abandoned   his   original   rigorously   rational   approach   to   Ivan’s  policies.  Skrynnikov  integrated  new  scholarship  and  newly  discovered   sources  into  his  evolving  expositions,  but  his  basic  conclusions  were  set  in  the   late   1960s   to   mid-­‐‑1970s.14   The   result   was   an   enormous   amount   of   often   ver-­‐‑ batim  repetition.  It  is  very  suggestive  that  Skrynnikov  did  not  need  to  change   his   views   on   Ivan   after   the   demise   of   Soviet   Marxism,   unlike   the   case   of   the   Time   of   Troubles   (Smutnoe   vremia),   where   he   gradually   distanced   himself   from  the  Soviet  “peasant  war”  paradigm.15  Skrynnikov  had  never  been  exces-­‐‑ sive   in   his   quotations   from   Marxist   “classics,”16   but   more   importantly,   his   focus  was  never  on  “class  warfare,”  a  phrase  almost  entirely  absent  from  his   studies   of   Ivan’s   reign.   Rather,   he   concentrated   on   the   relationship   of   the   monarch  and  the  elite,  for  which  he  did  not  particularly  need  Marxist  termi-­‐‑ nology.   This   is   not   to   question   how   Marxist   Skrynnikov   was,   a   question   be-­‐‑ yond  the  scope  of  the  present  essay.   Crummey  observes  that  “the  greatest  strength  of  Skrynnikov’s  work  lies   in  the  minute  combing  of  the  sources  to  extract  every  scrap  of  pertinent  infor-­‐‑ mation”   but   that   Skrynnikov’s   conclusions   remain   “elusive”:   “The   problem   lies  in  the  very  number  of  conclusions.”17  Skrynnikov  amassed  an  enormous   base  of  “facts,”  but  unfortunately,  reading  his  far  from  terse  exposition  gives   the   impression   that   far   too   often   the   material   dominates   the   author   rather   than  the  preferred  other  way  around.  It  is  not  so  much  that  Skrynnikov  liked   to  pose  ideas  and  then  reject  them;  clear  writing  would  have  obviated  the  dis-­‐‑ advantages   of   such   a   Socratic   method.   But   Skrynnikov   at   times   seems   to                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     traces   these   shifts   in   Skrynnikov’s   major   publications   (“Ruslan   Grigor’evich   i   Ivan   Vasil’evich,”  49–62).   14  Skrynnikov  could,  without  acknowledgment,  let  alone  explanation,  revise  his  inter-­‐‑ pretations  of  questions  of  detail  from  one  book  to  the  next,  and  even  repeatedly  flip-­‐‑ flops   on   issues.   See   Igor’   Froianov,   Groznaia   oprichnina   (Moscow:   Algoritm-­‐‑EKSMO,   2009),  8–12,  77  n.  2,  157–58,  174  n.  2,  179–80,  185–87,  195–98,  264  n.  4,  275,  290  n.  5.  Even   as  late  as  2008  he  introduced  some  novel  analysis  (Skrynnikov,  Vasilii  III.  Ivan  Groznyi,   188–89,  289–90,  446–53).   15  Chester  S.  L.  Dunning,  “R.  G.  Skrynnikov,  the  Time  of  Troubles,  and  the  First  ‘Peas-­‐‑ ant’  War  in  Russia,”  Russian  Review  50,  no.  1  (January  1991):  71–81,  esp.  71–75.   16  He  was  fond  of  two  quotations,  one  from  Engels  on  the  social  effects  of  terror  and   the  other  from  Lenin  on  the  conflict  of  autocracy  and  aristocracy  in  Russia  through  the   17th   century.   On   Engels,   see   Skrynnikov,   Tsarstvo   terrora,   501;   Oprichnyi   terror,   160;   Velikii  Gosudar’,  2:  246;  Ivan  the  Terrible,  148;  Vasilii  III.  Ivan  Groznyi,  466.  On  Lenin,  see   Skrynnikov,  Oprichnyi  terror,  228;  “Samoderzhavie  i  oprichnina  (Nekotorye  itogi  politi-­‐‑ cheskogo   razvitiia   Rossii   v   period   oprichniny),”   in   Vnutrenniaia   politika   tsarizma   (sere-­‐‑ dina  XVI–nachalo  XX  v.),  ed.  N.  E.  Nosov,  Trudy  Instituta  Istorii  SSSR,  Leningradskoe   otdelenie   8   (Leningrad:   Nauka,   Leningradskoe   otdelenie,   1967),   90;   Skrynnikov,   Ivan   the  Terrible,  46,  159.   17  Crummey,  “Ivan  the  Terrible,”  68  n.  57.  

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degenerate   into   stream   of   consciousness.   Not   only   do   his   conclusions   have   qualifications,   but   his   qualifications   seem   to   have   qualifications,   producing   apparent  contradictions.  To  be  fair,  the  refractory  sources  for  the  reign  of  Ivan   IV  have  had  this  effect  on  other  historians  too.   There  is  no  ambiguity,  however,  about  Skrynnikov’s  vehement  denial  of   what  he  called  the  “myth”  that  the  oprichnina  had  a  single  consistent,  uniform   policy.  In  his  schema  the  oprichnina  had  four  phases.  Phase  1  (approximately   1565)  was  directed  against  the  princely  aristocracy  of  Suzdal’.  To  break  their   power   base,   the   Suzdal’   princes   were   deported   to   Kazan’   and   Sviiazhsk   and   their  estates  confiscated.  This  policy  could  not  be  carried  to  its  logical  conclu-­‐‑ sion  because  of  the  political  opposition  it  engendered,  so  in  phase  2  (roughly   1566)  Ivan  and  his  government  pursued  a  policy  of  compromise  manifested  in   a  partial  amnesty  of  deportees  and  return  of  their  estates.  However,  the  oppo-­‐‑ sition   to   the   oprichnina   expressed   at   the   1566   Council   of   the   Land   (Zemskii   sobor)  summoned  to  mobilize  public  support  for  the  Livonian  War  convinced   Ivan  to  return  to  a  policy  of  repression.  Demoting  the  princely  aristocracy  of   Suzdal’  had  increased  the  political  weight  of  the  non-­‐‑titled  old  Moscow  boy-­‐‑ ars.  Terror  was  now  directed  against  them,  the  gentry,  the  urban  lower  classes   (posadskie   liudi),   the   bureaucrats   in   the   Muscovite   administration   (prikaznye   liudi),   and   the   Church,   led   by   Metropolitan   Filipp.   The   oprichnina   had   now   turned   against   the   very   classes   who   constituted   the   social   base   of   the   auto-­‐‑ cratic   regime.   At   this   point   the   oprichnina   admitted   representatives   precisely   from   the   Suzdal’   princely   aristocracy,18   but   only   young   and   uninfluential   ones.  The  oprichnina  had  by  now  degenerated  into  total  lawlessness,  a  band  of   marauders  lacking  any  social  support.  Finally  Ivan  had  no  choice  but  to  turn   the  machinery  of  repression  against  those  who  had  created  it.  The  last  victims   of  the  oprichnina  were  oprichniki,  in  part  to  rein  in  their  pretensions  to  power,   in  part  to  placate  zemshchina  opposition.19   It  is  Skrynnikov’s  multi-­‐‑phase  conception  of  the  oprichnina  that  has  drawn   the   most   criticism   in   scholarship.   Crummey   questions   whether   Skrynnikov   has   demonstrated   that   the   princely   aristocracy   of   Suzdal’,   which   included   both  boyars  and  gentry  (deti  boiarskie),  constituted  a  coherent  political  faction   that   owned   land   in   that   region   and   exercised   political   power.   Articulating   a   response   to   Skrynnikov’s   theory   undoubtedly   shared   by   other   historians,                                                                                                                             18

 In  one  of  his  last  publications,  Vasilii  III.  Ivan  Groznyi,  Skrynnikov  suggested  for  the   first   time   a   brief   return   to   the   initial   anti-­‐‑princely   policy   of   the   oprichnina   in   1568–69,   after   the   decimation   of   Cheliadnin’s   estates   and   before   the   Novgorod   pogrom   (393– 94).  (Skrynnikov  and  other  authors  use  the  word  pogrom  to  describe  the  sack  of  Nov-­‐‑ gorod;  it  is  not,  of  course,  found  in  the  sources.)   19  Skynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  203–466;  R.  G.  Skrynnikov,  “An  Overview  of  the  Reign   of   Ivan   IV:   What   Was   the   Oprichnina?”   trans.   Jean   Hellie,   Soviet   Studies   in   History   24,   no.   1–2   (Summer–Fall   1985):   62–82.   The   zemshchina   was   that   territory   not   included   in   the  oprichnina.  

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Crummey  sarcastically  poses  the  rhetorical  question:  “Is  a  social  and  political   policy  that  radically  changes  its  goal  every  few  months  really  a  rational  policy   at  all?”20   Crummey’s  points  are  only  partially  well-­‐‑taken.  It  is  true  that  Skrynnikov   assumed   rather   than   proved   that   the   Suzdal’   princes   constituted   a   coherent   social  and  political  group.  Such  sources  as  the  Dvorovaia  tetrad’  (Composition   of   the   Royal   Household)   did   list   Suzdal’,   Rostov,   and   Starodub   princes   to-­‐‑ gether   and   identified   them   as   groups,   as   does   some   legislation.   But   this   for-­‐‑ mat   might   well   reflect   no   more   than   bureaucratic   convenience   and   cannot   prove  that  these  groups  functioned  as  a  unified  and  coordinated  social  force.   Skrynnikov  merely  declared  that  the  Suzdal’  princes  were  patrons  of  the  Suz-­‐‑ dal’   gentry   (deti   boiarskie).   Crummey   does   not   deal   with   Skrynnikov’s   argu-­‐‑ ment  that  the  princely  elite  of  Suzdal’  were  disproportionately  represented  in   the   Boyar   Duma   and   Sovereign’s   Court   (Gosudarev   dvor),   and   therefore   constituted  the  most  numerous  cohort  within  the  elite.  Nevertheless,  despite   Crummey,   Skrynnikov   did   not   propose   that   the   policy   of   the   oprichnina   changed   “every   few   months.”   Phase   1   lasted   about   a   year,   phase   2   perhaps   less,   phase   3   upwards   of   four   years,   phase   4   probably   under   a   year.   Three   shifts  in  policy  over  seven  years  in  the  midst  of  a  very  volatile  political  situa-­‐‑ tion  do  not  seem  excessive.   While  Skrynnikov’s  conception  of  individual  phases  might  be  questioned,   his   schema   performs   the   valuable   service   of   solving   the   conundrum   created   by   the   summoning   of   an   Assembly   of   the   Land   (the   “land”   here   was   the   zemshchina),  in  the  middle  of  the  division  of  the  realm.  Skrynnikov’s  concep-­‐‑ tion   correlates   domestic   and   foreign   policy.   The   Assembly   of   the   Land   was   not  just  about  popular  support  for  the  Livonian  War  but  also  about  trying  to   mend  fences  with  domestic  opposition  to  the  oprichnina.  Aside  from  that  point   of  detail,  every  student  of  the  reign  of  Ivan  IV  knows  that  no  matter  against   whom  Ivan  intended  to  direct  the  oprichnina  when  he  created  it,  the  oprichnina   aroused   significant   new   opposition.   Therefore   of   necessity   Ivan   would   have   had   to   redirect   the   oprichnina   against   its   additional   antagonists.   Finally,   it   is   the   logic   of   terror,   and   not   only   in   16th-­‐‑century   Muscovy,   that   it   eventually   devours  its  own  children.21  Therefore  all  students  of  the  oprichnina  subscribe,   even  if  unconsciously,  to  at  least  a  three-­‐‑phase  conception  of  its  development:   initial  terror,  reaction  to  the  opposition  created  by  the  terror,  and  inexorable   self-­‐‑liquidation.   Skrynnikov   did   carry   that   conception   to   an   extreme,   but   his   concept  is,  in  Graham’s  word,  “developmental.”22                                                                                                                             20

 Robert  O.  Crummey,  The  Formation  of  Muscovy  1304–1613  (London:  Longman,  1987),   164;  Crummey,  “Ivan  the  Terrible,”  69  (including  the  quotation).   21  Crummey  writes  that  “the  reign  of  terror  took  on  a  momentum  and  logic  of  its  own”   (“Ivan  the  Terrible,”  166).   22  Graham,  “Introduction,”  7.  

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Skrynnikov’s   overly   subtle   analysis   of   the   oprichnina   foregrounds   one   of   his  two  most  original  and  significant  contributions  to  the  study  of  Ivan’s  reign   for  which  he  deserves  all  due  credit.  Skrynnikov  performed  yeoman  archival   research  on  the  land  cadastres  from  Kazan’  and  Sviiazhsk  in  order  to  identify   who  was  deported  there  in  1565.23  In  addition,  Skrynnikov  accomplished  the   daunting   task   of   performing   a   comprehensive   textual   analysis   of   the   memo-­‐‑ rial   lists   of   Ivan’s   victims   that   Ivan   sent   to   monasteries   with   donations   to   cover  the  expense  of  prayers  in  their  memory.  By  identifying  stable  blocks  of   names   Skrynnikov   was   able   to   establish   that   the   lists   were   in   large   measure   systematic   and   in   chronological   sequence.   This   enabled   him   to   establish   the   identities  of  many  more  of  Ivan’s  victims  than  had  ever  previously  been  pos-­‐‑ sible.24   These   two   accomplishments,   regardless   of   the   use   to   which   Skryn-­‐‑ nikov   put   his   analyses,   constitute   a   lasting   scholarly   legacy   of   inestimable   value.25   Skrynnikov’s   treatment   of   the   partial   amnesty   for   the   Kazan’   deportees   illustrates   another   of   his   abiding   axioms.   To   Crummey   the   partial   amnesty   demonstrates   the   inconsistency   of   Ivan’s   policies.   To   Skrynnikov   the   partial   amnesty  reflected  the  imperviousness  of  Russia’s  political  and  social  structure   to  Ivan’s  autocratic  aspirations,  Ivan’s  inability  to  sustain  his  policies.  Skryn-­‐‑ nikov   insisted   that   historians   have   been   fooled   by   Ivan’s   assertions   of   abso-­‐‑ lute,  unlimited  authority  in  his  First  Epistle  to  Kurbskii.  Ivan  was  claiming  a   degree   of   authority   that   in   reality   he   did   not   possess.26   The   archaic   feeding   (kormlenie)   system   of   local   government   was   not   abolished   in   a   single   blow,   continuing   in   some   cities   until   the   1580s,   because   of   opposition   from   the   aristocracy   and   upper   gentry.27   Ivan   was   compelled   to   terminate   his   repres-­‐‑ sion  of  various  boyars  during  August–September  1564  because  of  political  op-­‐‑ position.28  Ivan  had  to  abandon  the  first  wave  of  oprichnina  coercion  because   his  regime  lacked  the  apparatus  (police,  prisons,  a  regular  army)  that  would   have   enabled   Ivan   to   disregard   the   interests   of   the   ruling   class,   to   overcome   the  dissatisfaction  of  the  elite.29  Because  of  political  opposition  Ivan  could  not                                                                                                                             23

 R.   G.   Skrynnikov,   “Oprichnaia   zemel’naia   reforma   Groznogo   1565   g.,”   Istoricheskie   zapiski  70  (1961):  223–50.  See  Skrynnikov’s  description  of  his  reaction  to  his  discovery   of  the  manuscripts  of  the  cadastre  in  Skrynnikov,  Vasilii  III.  Ivan  Groznyi,  342.   24  Skrynnikov,   Tsarstvo   terrora,   10–18;   R.   G.   Skrynnikov,   “The   Synodikon   of   Those   Who   Fell   into   Disgrace   under   Tsar   Ivan   the   Terrible   (An   Attempt   at   a   Textological   Reconstruction   of   the   Lost   Oprichnina   Archive),”   trans.   Jean   Hellie,   Soviet   Studies   in   History  24:  1–2  (Summer–Fall  1985):  45–61.   25  Both  Crummey  and  Szvák  give  priority  to  this  research  as  Skrynnikov’s  most  lasting   contribution  to  the  scholarship  on  Ivan.   26  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  199.   27  Skrynnikov,  Nachalo  oprichniny,  121,  125.   28  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  204.   29  Ibid.,  274.  

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put  his  cousin,  the  appanage  Prince  Vladimir  Staritskii,  on  trial  for  treason.30   Even   with   all   his   oprichniki   Ivan   could   not   save   his   printer,   Ivan   Fedorov,   from  exile  as  a  result  of  opposition  by  the  zemshchina  aristocracy  and  clergy.31   Ivan   knew   that   the   members   of   the   Assembly   of   the   Land   opposition   to   the   oprichnina   could   not   be   held   in   prison   indefinitely;   most   had   to   be   released,   action   could   be   taken   only   against   some   of   them.32   Ivan   could   not   possibly   have  tried  to  abolish  all  fiscal  immunities  because  he  could  never  have  taken   on  the  entire  aristocracy  and  the  Russian  Orthodox  Church  at  the  same  time.33   Despite  Skrynnikov’s  cleverness  in  analyzing  the  changing  social  base  of   the  oprichnina,  until  it  had  none,  his  treatment  of  Muscovite  society  lacks  clar-­‐‑ ity.  Skrynnikov  claimed  to  have  rejected  the  myth  of  the  antagonistic  relation-­‐‑ ship   of   aristocracy   and   gentry.34   Skrynnikov   asserted   that   the   monarchy   needed  the  aristocracy  and  the  gentry  estates  as  a  whole.35  Indeed  the  autoc-­‐‑ racy  was  limited  not  just  by  the  aristocracy,  or  the  aristocracy  with  the  gentry,   but  by  the  entirety  of  the  elite,  which  included  the  upper  artisanry  and  mer-­‐‑ chants,  and  the  Church.36  Skrynnikov  described  Ivan  as  suspicious  of  the  very   members  of  the  Sovereign’s  Court  whom  he  had  appointed,37  but  he  did  not   infer   that   because   the   entire   elite   limited   Ivan’s   authority,   such   suspicion   would  have  been  justified.  At  the  same  time  Skrynnikov  claimed  that  to  op-­‐‑ pose   the   feudal   aristocracy   Ivan   could   have   relied   upon   the   gentry,   but   that   would   have   required   acknowledging   and   enhancing   gentry   estate   rights,   which  Ivan  feared  as  a  diminution  of  his  authority.  Instead  Ivan  coopted  into   the  oprichnina  a  select  segment  of  the  gentry  as  a  personal  guard,  thus  check-­‐‑ mating  the  gentry  estate  while  forging  a  tool  with  which  to  attack  the  aristoc-­‐‑ racy.38   These   arguments   presuppose   precisely   the   distinction   and   potential   animosity  between  the  aristocracy  and  the  gentry  which  Skrynnikov  allegedly   rejected.   Skrynnikov  also  impugned  his  estimate  of  the  state’s  resources  in  its  bat-­‐‑ tle   against   the   aristocracy   and   the   gentry.   He   argued   that   the   dominance   of   state   ownership   of   land   put   unlimited   resources   at   the   state’s   disposal   and   gave  it  a  decisive  advantage  in  restraining  all  estates,  thus  facilitating  autoc-­‐‑ racy.   Despite   this   domination   of   Muscovy’s   most   important   economic   asset,                                                                                                                             30

 Skrynnikov,  Velikii  gosudar’,  1:  282.    Skrynnikov,  Nachalo  oprichniny,  333.   32  Skrynnikov,  Velikii  gosudar’,  1:  430–31.   33  R.  G.  Skrynnikov,  “‘Kniazhenie’  Simeona  Bekbulatovicha  i  vozrozhdenie  oprichniny   v  1575–1576,”  Istoricheskiie  zapiski  87  (1971):  174–218,  here  213–17.   34  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  224.   35  Ibid.,  79–80.   36  Ibid.,  8.   37  Ibid.,  127.   38  Skrynnikov,  “Samoderzhavie  i  oprichnina,”  78.   31

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land,  Skrynnikov  went  on,  the  state  could  still  not  compel  the  gentry  to  obey   its   will.39   Skrynnikov   could   assert   within   the   same   article   that   “Ivan   IV   was   forced   to   concede   the   failure   of   his   policy   on   land”   when   he   aborted   his   de-­‐‑ portation  of  the  Suzdal’  elite,  yet  the  inclusion  of  Yaroslavl’  and  Rostov  in  the   oprichnina  “completed  the  demolition  of  local  hereditary  princely  land-­‐‑owner-­‐‑ ship”   and   in   Yaroslavl’,   Suzdal’,   Shuia,   and   Rostov   “the   largest   number   of   princely   patrimonies   survived   down   to   the   end   of   the   16th   century   and   the   stock  of  conditionally-­‐‑owned  (pomest’e)  land  was  limited.”40  Or  he  could  write   that   despite   the   abandonment   of   the   anti-­‐‑Suzdal’   elite   policy,   it   had   partially   [my   emphasis—CJH]   achieved   its   goal   of   undermining   the   Suzdal’   elite.41   Despite  posing  the  possibility  that  Ivan  could  have,  if  he  were  willing,  relied   upon   the   gentry   class   to   oppose   the   aristocracy,   Skrynnikov   nevertheless   in-­‐‑ sisted  that  the  gentry  lacked  the  moral  and  political  potential,  education  and   influence,   to   replace   the   boyar   aristocracy,42   meaning   Ivan   could   not   have   relied  upon  that  estate  as  a  substitute  for  the  aristocracy.  Such  contradictions   fatally  obscure  his  analysis.43   From   a   different   perspective   Skrynnikov   concluded   that   the   God-­‐‑ crowned   autocrat   Ivan   accurately   thought   he   lacked   the   power   and   the   authority  to  compel  the  assent  of  the  Boyar  Duma  and  the  Church  to  his  pro-­‐‑ posed   Suzdal’   deportations.   Ivan’s   abdication   in   1564   was   not   mere   political   theater;  its  purpose  was  to  gain  the  “permission”  of  the  aristocracy  to  execute   that   policy   by   creating   in   Russia   a   state   of   emergency,   an   extraordinary   re-­‐‑ gime,  granting  him  the  political  leeway  to  pursue  terror.44  The  purpose  of  the   oprichnina   was   to   make   the   Suzdal’   deportations   possible.   With   the   abolition   of  the  oprichnina  Ivan’s  policy  of  terror  lost  its  authorization.  To  return  to  ter-­‐‑ ror   in   1575   Ivan   staged   another   abdication,   resulting   in   the   installation   of   Simeon   Bekbulatovich   as   Grand   Prince   of   Moscow.   As   ruler   Simeon   could   then   grant   Ivan,   once   again,   the   authority   to   resume   terror,   the   “second   edi-­‐‑ tion”   (vtoroe   izdanie)   of   the   oprichnina.45   Here   a   mini-­‐‑contradiction   creeps   in:   Skrynnikov  first  declares  that  the  Simeon  Bekbulatovich  era  was  a  “miniature   mass   terror,”   but   then   concludes   that   during   Simeon’s   “reign”   there   was   no   mass  terror.46  Miniature  mass  terror  is  mass  terror.  In  Skrynnikov’s  analysis,                                                                                                                             39

 R.  G.  Skrynnikov,  “State  Ownership  of  Land  and  Its  Influence  on  the  Formation  of   the   Noble   Estate,”   in   Moskovskaia   Rus’:   Spetsifika   razvitiia,   9–19,   here   10;   Skrynnikov,   Velikii  gosudar’,  1:  110.   40  Skrynnikov,  “State  Ownership,”  9–19,  quotations  on  11,  19.   41  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  277.   42  Skrynnikov,  “Samoderzhavie  i  oprichnina,”  95.   43  See,  e.g.,  Froianov,  Groznaia  oprichnina,  180.   44  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  207.   45  Skrynnikov,  “‘Kniazhenie’  Simeona  Bekbulatovicha,”  174–218.     46  Ibid.,  212,  218.  

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under   ordinary   conditions   Ivan   lacked   not   only   the   political   power   but   ade-­‐‑ quate  ideological  authorization  to  get  his  way.   Skrynnikov’s   portrayal   of   an   Ivan   who   refused   to   pursue   a   pro-­‐‑gentry   policy   wholeheartedly   because   it   would   have   impaired   his   self-­‐‑proclaimed   absolute   authority   might   lead   the   reader   to   expect   Skrynnikov   to   emphasize   Ivan’s  personality  as  the  key  to  understanding  his  reign.  Skrynnikov,  writing   in   the   late   1960s   it   must   be   remembered,   was   unstinting   in   his   criticism   of   Ivan’s  character  and  competence  as  ruler.  Ivan  was  unprepared  to  rule  when   he   assumed   his   maturity.   His   incompetent   interference   in   Russian   foreign   policy  was  disastrous  because  he  set  policy  based  upon  his  intolerance,  impa-­‐‑ tience,  and  arrogance,  not  common  sense.  In  the  end  he  wound  up  a  prisoner   of  his  own  fear,  unleashing  unjustified  terror  against  the  innocent  population   of   Novgorod   and   living   in   self-­‐‑imposed   isolation   at   Aleksandrovskaia   slo-­‐‑ boda   (the   initial   “capital”   of   the   oprichnina).47   Given   his   personal   limitations   Ivan   could   respond   to   Prince   Andrei   Kurbskii’s   critique   only   as   an   Oriental   Despot.48  The  oprichnina  wound  up  attacking  the  gentry,  the  bureaucracy,  and   the   Church,   the   mainstays   of   the   monarchy,   a   self-­‐‑destructive   and   dysfunc-­‐‑ tional  policy.49  Ivan  only  knew  how  to  rule  the  Duma  through  fear.50  He  had   no   idea   how   to   manage   men.51   Ivan   despotically   interfered   with   the   marital   life   of   his   son,   Tsarevich   Ivan,   and   physically   abused   him.52   Ivan   thought   himself  an  autocrat  yet  his  entourage  manipulated  him  by  exploiting  his  sus-­‐‑ piciousness.  Ivan  became  little  more  than  a  toy  in  the  hands  of  unprincipled   and  immoral  adventurers  such  as  Maliuta  Skuratov  and  the  Basmanovs.53  He   did   not   exemplify   the   Russian   political   system,   in   which,   for   example,   the   ruler  could  not  punish  boyars  without  a  fair  trial  by  the  Boyar  Duma  and  the   church   had   the   moral   authority   to   intercede   for   clemency.   To   the   contrary,   Ivan   perverted   the   Russian   political   system   because   of   his   character   flaws,   personal  failings,  and  unjustified  pretensions.   Given  the  consistency  of  Skrynnikov’s  evaluation  of  Ivan’s  incompetence   and   cowardice,   it   comes   as   a   surprise   when   Skrynnikov   actually   praises   Ivan’s  courage  in  sending  his  then  wife  Mariia  Nagaia  and  Tsarevich  Dmitrii   to   safety   and   personally   taking   charge   of   the   defense   of   Staritsa,   which   proved   unnecessary,   from   Stefan   Batory’s   forces   besieging   Pskov   in   1582,   as   well   as   Ivan’s   political   acumen   in   trying   to   ensure   the   accession   of   his   son                                                                                                                             47

 Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  126,  163,  352,  398,  497.    Ibid.,  200.   49  Ibid.,  526.   50  Skrynnikov,  Velikii  gosudar’,  2:  215.   51  Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  146.   52  Skrynnikov,  Rossiia  posle  oprichniny,  92;  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  460.     53  Skrynnikov,  Oprichnyi  terror,  160.   48

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Tsarevich  Fedor.54  Skrynnikov  did  not  explain  how  Ivan  went  from  being  an   incompetent  coward  to  a  competent,  brave  leader  so  late  in  his  life.   Skrynnikov  never  crossed  the  line  separating  personality  from  pathology   as  an  explanation  of  Ivan’s  behavior.  Yes,  Skrynnikov  admitted,  Ivan  suffered   from   a   nervous   disorder,   but   that   disorder   was   worst   when   Ivan   practiced   terror   least,   at   the   end   of   his   life.55   Yes,   some   of   Ivan’s   actions   were   patho-­‐‑ logical,   but   that   is   not   the   entire   explanation   of   his   behavior;   Ivan   lived   in   a   cruel  age.56  Skrynnikov  never  stigmatized  Ivan  as  insane.   Skrynnikov   often   blurred   his   focus   on   Ivan’s   personality   as   the   driving   force   in   motivating   his   actions.   The   attack   on   Novgorod   is   a   case   in   point.   Skrynnikov  denied  that  Novgorod  had  separatist  political  aspirations.  He  at-­‐‑ tributed  Ivan’s  suspicions  of  Novgorod  to  Polish  disinformation  designed  to   goad  Ivan  into  self-­‐‑destructive  actions  that  would  weaken  Russia.  Yet  Skryn-­‐‑ nikov   insisted,   without   evidence,   that   while   on   the   one   hand,   the   Novgorod   archbishopric  and  pomeshchiki,  victims  of  Ivan’s  repression,  were  loyal  to  Mos-­‐‑ cow,  the  artisan  and  merchant  classes,  on  the  other  hand,  retained  the  demo-­‐‑ cratic  traditions  of  independent  Novgorod,  and  Novgorod  and  Moscow  were   economic  and  cultural  rivals.  Anti-­‐‑Muscovite  animus  was  a  fundamental  ele-­‐‑ ment  of  Novgorod  mentality,  to  which  Ivan  could  only  respond  with  savage   massacres   and   terror.   The   tensions   in   Novgorod,   however,   were   social,   not   political.57  But  social  tensions  have  political  ramifications,  so  Skrynnikov  has   almost   provided   a   “rational”   political   rationale   for   Ivan’s   sack   of   Novgorod.   “Almost”  because  hypothetically  his  analysis  might  still  have  been  consistent   if  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to  explain  that  these  features  of  Novgorod  life  in   the  16th  century  did  not  and  could  not  justify  Ivan’s  over-­‐‑reaction,  that  Nov-­‐‑ gorod  dissent  did  not  constitute  a  political  threat.  Unfortunately  Skrynnikov   did  not  reconcile  his  disparate  assertions,  and  the  reader  is  the  poorer  for  it.   Similarly,   Skrynnikov   never   clearly   articulated   the   assertion   that   Ivan’s   suspicion   of   conspiracies   against   the   throne   was   a   self-­‐‑fulfilling   prophesy.   Skrynnikov  concluded  that  it  is  impossible  to  find  the  dividing  line  between   dissident  talk  and  conspiracy,  that  the  danger  of  conspiracies  was  real.  He  did   not  rule  out  the  possibility  that  there  were  conspiracies  against  Ivan,  such  as   the  Staritskii-­‐‑Ivan  Fedorov  conspiracy,  which  animated  the  oprichnina  repres-­‐‑ sion  of  both.58  But  neither  did  he  unambiguously  assert  that  such  conspiracies   were  real  rather  than  figments  of  Ivan’s  perverted  imagination.   Skrynnikov’s  failure  to  structure  his  dense  narrative  around  coherent  con-­‐‑ cepts   in   relation   to   Novgorod   applies   pretty   much   to   his   entire   corpus.   The                                                                                                                             54

 Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  189,  197.    Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  500–01.   56  Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  147.   57  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  348–63;  Skrynnikov,  Tragediia  Novgoroda,  152–53.   58  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  313,  318.   55

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shifts  in  Ivan’s  policies,  even  as  adaptations  to  opposition,  would  not  confuse   the   reader   nearly   as   much   if   Skrynnikov   had   expressed   the   simple   and   con-­‐‑ vincing  axiom  that  Graham  perceptively  extracted  from  Skrynnikov’s  exposi-­‐‑ tion:   Skrynnikov   shows   that   the   forces   striving   to   achieve   or   retard   central-­‐‑ ized   autocracy   were   equal   in   strength.59   Therefore   Ivan   found   himself   in   a   stalemate,   which   he   refused   to   accept.   The   result   was   senseless,   futile   vio-­‐‑ lence.  Indeed,  Skrynnikov  interprets  Ivan’s  memorial  lists  of  his  victims  as  his   tacit  acknowledgment  of  the  failure  of  his  assault  on  the  aristocracy,60  in  yet   another   contradictory   assessment   of   even   phase   one   of   the   oprichnina.   Note   here   too   the   sheer   sloppiness   of   Skrynnikov’s   conclusion,   given   that   by   his   own   narrative   Ivan   set   up   the   oprichnina   not   to   attack   the   aristocracy   as   a   whole   but   rather   what   he   saw   as   its   most   salient   and   disproportionately   influential  segment,  the  princely  clans  of  Suzdal’.   While  Skrynnikov’s  negative  assessment  of  the  effect  of  the  oprichnina  on   Russian   history   was   unrestrained,   nevertheless   it   is   impossible   to   extract   a   judgment   from   Skrynnikov   as   to   whether   the   oprichnina   had   any   effect   on   Russia’s   political   structure.   On   the   one   hand,   the   oprichnina   bloody   terror   demoralized   societal   life   but   could   not   undermine   the   political   development   of   the   reforms   of   the   Chosen   Council.61  The   terror   left   a   deep   impression   on   the   consciousness   of   the   ruling   estate   but   did   not   weaken   or   eliminate   the   aristocracy  or  the  Boyar  Duma,  did  not  change  the  political  structure  of  Rus-­‐‑ sia  as  a  monarchy  with  an  aristocracy,  did  not  terminate  precedence  (mestni-­‐‑ chestvo).   Duma   members   executed   by   the   oprichnina   were   replaced   by   other   members   of   the   same   aristocratic   families   after   the   demise   of   the   oprichnina.   On  the  other  hand,  the  oprichnina  (temporarily?-­‐‑CJH)  limited  the  competence   of   the   Boyar   Duma   by   excluding   boyars   from   the   “regency   councils”   which   were  in  charge  of  Moscow  when  Ivan  was  out  of  town  and  (permanently?— CJH)   weakened   the   aristocratic   element   in   the   Duma   by   the   inclusion   of   Duma   gentry   (dumnye   dvoriane)   and   secretaries   (dumnye   d’iaki).62   Overall   the   oprichnina   strengthened   the   gentry   by   increasing   its   role   in   the   serving   bu-­‐‑ reaucracy  and  by  highlighting  its  participation  in  the  Assembly  of  the  Land.   By  decreasing  the  political  influence  of  the  aristocracy  and  increasing  that  of   the   gentry,   the   oprichnina   strengthened   the   centralized   monarchy,   thus  

                                                                                                                          59

 Graham,  “Editor’s  Introduction,”  xviii.    Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  196.   61  Skrynnikov  accepted  the  existence  of  a  “Chosen  Council”  (izbrannaia  rada)  of  reform-­‐‑ ers  led  by  Aleksei  Adashev  and  the  priest  Sylvester  which  guided  the  “reforms”  of  the   1550s.   62  Skrynnikov  uniformly  treated  the  bureaucrats  (d’iaki)  as  an  extension  of  the  gentry   class,  only  rarely  grounding  this  assertion  in  the  demonstrable  gentry  origins  of  many   bureaucrats  and  bureaucratic  clans.   60

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facilitating   the   growth   of   absolutism.   These   contradictory   evaluations   of   the   political  legacy  of  the  oprichnina  occur  on  the  same  page.63   It   is   far   too   easy   to   demonstrate   Skrynnikov’s   inability   to   integrate   his   conclusions.  Skrynnikov  wrote  that  in  1546  Ivan  forced  Novgorod  to  pay  him   3000  pieces  of  gold  as  penalty  for  the  assault  on  his  person  by  Novgorod  fusi-­‐‑ liers  (pishchal’niki)   in   Kolomna   but   also   that   the   defector   Kurbskii   must   have   been   paid   off   to   betray   Russia   by   the   King   of   Poland   since   after   he   skipped   the  border  he  was  robbed  of  gold  coins  which  did  not  circulate  in  Muscovy.64   In  1567  Muscovite  chronicles  “fell  silent,”  the  oprichnina  destroyed  the  institu-­‐‑ tion   of   chronicle-­‐‑writing   in   Russia,   but   Novgorod   chronicles   attest   to   Ivan’s   feud   with   Filipp,   the   assault   on   Novgorod,   and   the   Novgorod   plague,   and   “chronicles”   list   the   executions   which   took   place   after   Ivan’s   abdication   to   Simeon   Bekbulatovich   in   1575.65   After   Novgorod   was   sacked   its   trade   with   Europe  was  suspended  for  many  years,  but  once  much  of  the  city  was  incor-­‐‑ porated   into   the   oprichnina,   which   took   place   almost   immediately   after   the   pogrom,   the   oprichniki   exploited   Novgorod   trade.66   Graham   lauds   Skryn-­‐‑ nikov’s  “deceptively  straightforward  narrative”  for  successfully  masking  the   erudition   underlying   Skrynnikov’s   exposition.67   Skrynnikov’s   narrative   was   never  straightforward,  and  the  “deception”  would  be  in  creating  the  illusion   that  his  narrative  was  consistent.68   Another  element  of  what  Graham  deems  Skrynnikov’s  “felicitous  literary   style”69  was  the  ubiquitous  presentation  of  inference  as  fact.  For  example,  at   the   societal   level   Skrynnikov   asserted   as   fact   that   the   Muscovite   aristocracy,   because  Muscovite  defectors  emigrated  to  Poland-­‐‑Lithuania,  was  attracted  to   the   Polish   political   model,   that   in   the   eyes   of   the   Muscovite   elite   Poland’s   szlachta   republic   was   superior   to   Russian   autocracy.   In   addition   through   trade   with   England   the   Russian   elite   became   familiar   with   English   political                                                                                                                             63

 Skrynnikov,  “Samoderzhavie  i  oprichnina,”  99.    Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  19,  76.   65  Ibid.,   108,   112,   113,   128,   168–69.   Of   course   Skrynnikov   meant   that   the   Nikon   Chronicle   “all-­‐‑Rus’”   chronicle   tradition   composed   in   the   city   of   Moscow,   what   Skrynnikov  called  “official”  chronicle-­‐‑writing,  ceased  in  1567.  On  the  concept  of  “offi-­‐‑ cial”  chronicle-­‐‑writing,  see  Charles  J.  Halperin,  “What  Was  an  ‘Official’  Source  During   the  Reign  of  Ivan  IV?”  in  “The  Book  of  Royal  Degrees”  and  the  Genesis  of  Russian  Historical   Consciousness/“Stepennaia   kniga   tsarskogo   rodosloviia”   i   genezis   russkogo   istoricheskogo   so-­‐‑ znaniia,   ed.   Ann   M.   Kleimola   and   Gail   Lenhoff   (Bloomington,   IN:   Slavica   Publishers,   2011),  81–93.   66  Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  129,  140.   67  Graham,  “Editor’s  Introduction,”  xviii.   68  For  examples,  see  A.  A.  Zimin,  Oprichnina  (Moscow:  Izd-­‐‑vo  “Territoriia,”  2001),  10,   49,  71  n.  27,  75  n.  70,  77  n.  90,  79  n.  110,  81  n.  121,  140  n.  317,  147  n.  47,  180  n.  104a,  204   n.  122,  208  n.  168,  219  n.  275,  266,  369  n.  88,  278  n.  176.   69  Graham,  “Introduction,”  4.   64

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institutions.70  Actually,  Russians  fled  where  they  could,  including  Sweden.  As   Muscovy’s   greatest   enemy   Poland-­‐‑Lithuania   of   course   welcomed   Russian   emigres   warmly   but   there   is   not   a   shred   of   written   evidence   that   it   was   the   Sejm  system  which  attracted  Russian  immigrants  rather  than  Polish  royal  lar-­‐‑ gesse.  At  least  Muscovite  embassies  were  indifferent  to  European  “parliamen-­‐‑ tary”   institutions.71   Nor   is   there   any   confirmation   that   aristocratic   sympathy   for   the   Polish   form   of   government   infuriated   Ivan.72   At   the   personal   level,   Skrynnikov  presented  as  fact  that  the  priest  Sylvester  nominated  a  rich  Greek,   Khariton  Tiutin,  to  be  treasurer  because  he  was  a  long-­‐‑term  commercial  part-­‐‑ ner  of  Sylvester’s  son  Anfim.73  It  cannot  be  demonstrated  that  Sylvester  even   knew  Tiutin.  Skrynnikov  declared  as  fact  that  Ivan  disliked  and  “was  some-­‐‑ what  afraid  of  his  aunt,  the  energetic  and  ambitious  Princess  Evfronsiniia.”74   That   Ivan   ordered   her   forcibly   shorn   might   show   a   healthy   respect   for   her   capacity   for   intrigue,   but   Ivan   also   sent   politically   impotent   wives   of   dis-­‐‑ graced  aristocrats  to  convents  or  worse.  Where  is  the  evidence  that  Ivan  was   personally   “afraid”   of   his   aunt?   Some   of   Skrynnikov’s   inferences   might   in-­‐‑ deed   be   persuasive   and   it   is   impossible   to   avoid   inference   in   constructing   a   narrative  of  Ivan’s  reign,  but  inference  should  labeled  as  inference.   Except   in   discussing   historiography,75   Skrynnikov   eschewed   any   serious   comparative  analysis  of  Ivan’s  reign.  However  Skrynnikov  did  employ  Euro-­‐‑ pean   historical   terminology   to   adorn   his   prose.   Unfortunately   these   terms   were   not   always   well   selected.   Skrynnikov   was   very   fond   of   the   word   “Fronde,”  referring  not  only  to  a  gentry  Fronde76  but  also  a  princely  Fronde,   an  appanage  Fronde,  and  an  appanage-­‐‑princely  Fronde.77  At  no  point  did  he   ever   define   the   term   or   examine   the   assumed   parallel   between   16th-­‐‑century   Muscovy  and  the  civil  wars  in  France  from  1648  to  1657,  at  first  by  Parlements   on  behalf  of  feudal  rights,  then  by  nobles  seeking  patronage.  Muscovy  under   Ivan   had   no   civil   wars.   By   referring   to   elite   groups   as   Frondes   Skrynnikov   imputed   modes   of   behavior,   organization,   and   mentality   to   Russia’s   elite   classes   which   cannot   be   attested.   The   same   holds   true   for   Skrynnikov’s   de-­‐‑

                                                                                                                          70

 Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  197,  241,  523–24.    Charles  J.  Halperin,  ”Russia  Between  East  and  West:  Diplomatic  Reports  during  the   Reign   of   Ivan   IV,”   in   Saluting   Aaron   Gurevich:   Essays   in   History,   Literature   and   Other   Subjects,  ed.  Yelena  Mazour-­‐‑Matusevich  and  Alexandra  S.  Korros  (Leiden:  Koninklijke   Brill  NV,  2010),  81–103.   72  Skrynnikov,  Velikii  gosudar’,  2:  343.   73  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  118.   74  Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  64.   75  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  70–80.   76  Ibid.,  156,  293.   77  Skrynnikov,  Nachalo  oprichniny,  159,  162,  196.   71

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scription  of  the  oprichniki  as  Ivan’s  Praetorian  Guard  (pretoriantsy).78  The  Prae-­‐‑ torian  Guards  were  formed  to  protect  the  Roman  emperor  from  assassination   and  wound  up  assassinating  not  a  few  emperors  themselves.  Eventually  they   were  disbanded  because  of  their  political  unreliability.  It  is  unclear  if  Skryn-­‐‑ nikov’s   analogy   was   intended   to   associate   the   oprichniki   with   protecting   or   threatening   Ivan,   since   in   his   estimation   they   eventually   did   both.   What   is   clear   is   that   the   oprichniki   did   not   assassinate   Ivan.   Skrynnikov   tended   to   describe   the   most   influential   members   of   Russia’s   elite   as   vassals.79   Soviet   scholarship  defined  feudalism  as  the  economic  system  which  Western  schol-­‐‑ ars  called  manorialism,  but  Skrynnikov  seemed  to  be  using  the  political  defi-­‐‑ nition  of  feudalism.  Russian  boyars  did  not  do  homage  to  Ivan,  nor  did  Ivan   and   his   boyars   swear   mutual   oaths.   Skrynnikov   referred   to   bishops,   arch-­‐‑ bishops,  and  the  metropolitan  of  the  Russian  Orthodox  Church  as  “princes  of   the   church.”80   This   is   medieval   Catholic   terminology,   where   ecclesiastical   hierarchs  were  of  noble  birth  and  often  possessed  sovereign  political  author-­‐‑ ity.  It  is  true  that  Russian  bishops  had  lands,  an  administrative  apparatus,  and   military   servitors,   but   hardly   the   same   political   aspirations,   arrogance   or   power   implicit   in   the   depiction   of   Catholic   bishops   as   “princes   of   the   Church.”81   Skrynnikov   made   no   attempt   to   compare   Ivan   to   other   early   modern  European  rulers  with  sometimes  unsavory  reputations.  Skrynnikov’s   colorful  but  misleading  vocabulary  suggests  parallels  with  the  Roman  Empire   and  medieval  Europe  that  distort  rather  than  illuminate  16th-­‐‑century  Russian   history.   Another   “medieval”   element   of   16th-­‐‑century   Russia   protrudes   into   Skrynnikov’s   treatment   of   the   priest   Sylvester   of   the   Kremlin   Annunciation   Cathedral,   supposedly   Ivan’s   moral   mentor.   Skrynnikov   describes   Sylvester   as   a   religious   fanatic,   a   devotee   of   religious   exultation,   someone   who   heard   heavenly  voices.  Sylvester  imparted  this  attitude  to  his  pupil  Ivan;  Ivan  heard   the  sound  of  the  bells  of  the  Simonov  Monastery  while  on  campaign  against   Kazan’.82  Ivan  became  a  religious  bigot,  capable  of  ordering  the  forcible  con-­‐‑ version  to  Christianity  of  captured  Tatar  Muslims  or  the  massacre  of  Polotsk   (Polatsk)   Jews.   Ivan   personally   (?)   murdered   the   Jewish   children.83   Skryn-­‐‑ nikov  accepts  a  connection,  at  least  as  redactor,  of  Sylvester  to  the  Muscovite   book  of  household  management  the  Domostroi,  hardly  a  work  of  “religious  ex-­‐‑ altation,”   an   anomaly   in   his   depiction   of   Sylvester’s   mentality   that   Skryn-­‐‑                                                                                                                           78

 Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  287,  314,  352,  460,  512.    Ibid.,   352;   Skrynnikov,   Nachalo   oprichniny,   234;   Skrynnikov,   Oprichnyi   terror,   151   (Prince  Vladimir  Staritskii’s  vassals);  Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  79,  166.   80  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  325,  335,  317.   81  Skrynnikov  (Ivan  the  Terrible,  49)  more  appropriately  referred  to  Livonian  bishops  as   “princes  of  the  Church.”   82  Skrynnikov,  Tsarstvo  terrora,  125;  Skrynnikov,  Nachalo  oprichniny,  117.     83  Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  148.   79

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nikov  did  not  address.  Skrynnikov  was  hardly  the  first  to  call  Ivan  supersti-­‐‑ tious,  especially  in  connection  with  the  Nikola  of  Pskov  incident,84  but  Skryn-­‐‑ nikov  goes  further  in  profiling  Ivan  as  a  religious  fanatic,  especially  since  he   presents   substantial   evidence   that   Ivan   could   be   very   tolerant   of   Catholics,   Protestants,   and   even   Muslims.85   Finally,   Skrynnikov   took   a   cynical   attitude   toward   religion   and   the   Church.   He   wrote   that   the   Church   enjoyed   great   authority  in  government  and  with  the  “turbulent  lower  classes.”  “By  stirring   up  fanatical  monks  and  holy  fools,”  Skrynnikov  claims,  “the  Church  astutely   played   upon   popular   sentiment”   to   garner   support   for   Metropolitan   Filipp   against  the  oprichnina.  Skrynnikov’s  elitist  approach  to  popular  religious  cre-­‐‑ dulity  has  self-­‐‑evident  antecedents  in  vulgar  Marxist  thought.  His  critique  of   Church   demagoguery   contains   a   distinct   whiff   of   the   late   and   unlamented   journal  Voprosy  istorii  religii  i  ateizma.   Worse  yet,  Skrynnikov  carried  his  animus  against  religious  devotion  even   further  by  connecting  religion  to  the  tyranny  and  contempt  for  human  life  he   ascribes   to   Ivan.   In   an   obiter   dictum   Skrynnikov   connects   religious   supersti-­‐‑ tiousness,   violence,   and   tyranny   as   “medieval”   phenomena:   “The   dark   gloomy   atmosphere   of   the   Middle   Ages,   when   men   were   prone   to   crude   superstition,   was   impregnated   with   a   cult   of   violence   and   contempt   for   life   and   the   worth   of   the   individual.   Ivan   was   merely   one   of   many   medieval   ruler-­‐‑tyrants.”86  It  is  unclear  if  Skrynnikov  intended  “medieval”  here  to  apply   to  early  modern  Western  Europe,  the  age  of  the  Renaissance,  but  at  the  very   least   he   failed   to   note   that   Machiavellian   Renaissance   rulers,   impervious   to   superstition,  manifested  the  same  “cult  of  violence  and  contempt  for  life”  as   anyone  Skrynnikov  might  have  characterized  as  a  “medieval”  tyrant.   Skrynnikov’s   approach   to   the   reign   of   Ivan   the   Terrible   had   salient   vir-­‐‑ tues.   Skrynnikov   addressed   the   interplay   of   Ivan’s   personality   with   the   broader  society  of  which  he  was  an  integral  part.  Thus  Ivan  is  neither  isolated   from   the   times   in   which   he   lived   nor   marginalized   from   Muscovite   history.   Skrynnikov   was   hardly   exaggerating   when   he   noted   that   16th-­‐‑century   Mus-­‐‑ covite  history  was  fraught  with  contradictions.87  However,  Skrynnikov’s  exe-­‐‑ cution  of  this  holistic  approach,  his  excessively  detailed  narrative,  his  minute   disputes   with   fellow   historians,   his   inadequately   integrated   conclusions   and   qualifications,   his   tortuous   logic   and   his   infuriating   contradictions   together   make  it  very  frustrating  to  read  his  outstanding  studies  of  Ivan  and  inhibit  the   reader  from  benefitting  fully  from  his  vast  erudition.                                                                                                                             84  Ibid.,  125.  The  holy  fool  (iurodivyi)  Nikola  supposedly  dissuaded  Ivan  from  sacking   Pskov  as  he  had  Novgorod  by  prophesying  the  death  of  Ivan’s  favorite  horse.   85  Skrynnikov,  Vasilii  III.  Ivan  Groznyi,  548–51.   86  Skrynnikov,  Oprichnyi  terror,  161;  Skrynnikov,  Ivan  the  Terrible,  147;  Skrynnikov,  Ivan   Groznyi   i   ego   vremia,   59;   Skrynnikov,   Russkaia   istoriia   IX–XVII   vekov,   371;   Skrynnikov,   Istoriia  rossiiskaia  IX–XVII  vv.,  352;  Skrynnikov,  Vasilii  III.  Ivan  Groznyi,  465.   87  Skrynnikov,  “Author’s  Introduction,”  xiv.  

     

The Tale of the Death of Vasilii Ivanovich and the Evolution of the Muscovite Tsaritsa’s Role in 16th-Century Russia   Isolde Thyrêt

Recent   scholarly   efforts   to   study   Muscovite   tsardom   from   a   cultural   history   perspective  have  benefited  our  understanding  of  the  significant  role  of  Mus-­‐‑ covite  wives  and  mothers  in  the  socio-­‐‑religious  and  even  political  fabric  of  the   Muscovite   state.   In   the   16th   century,   Muscovite   royal   women   were   instru-­‐‑ mental   in   defining   the   notion   of   the   blessed   womb   of   the   tsaritsa   and   thus   helped   lay   the   foundation   of   the   notion   of   tsardom   by   divine   grace.1   My   studies  of  Irina  Godunova  and,  more  recently,  Marfa  Ivanovna  Shestova,  the   mother   of   the   first   Romanov   tsar,   have   demonstrated   that   the   wives   and   mothers   of   Muscovite   tsars   could   function   as   rulers   and   advocates   of   the   Muscovite  realm  in  times  of  dynastic  crisis.2  Although  the  sources  show  that   the   Muscovite   court   approved   of   these   roles,   we   have   yet   to   determine   the   exact   timing   of   the   expansion   of   the   role   of   the   Muscovite   tsars’   wives   and   mothers.   An   examination   of   the   evolution   of   the   role   of   Vasilii   III’s   second   wife,  Elena  Vasil’evna  Glinskaia,  in  the  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich  in   the   Muscovite   chronicles   of   the   16th   century   suggests   that,   starting   in   the   1550s,   the   traditional   role   of   the   Muscovite   grand   princess   received   a   more   wide-­‐‑ranging  connotation,  which  shaped  the  tsaritsa’s  role  for  the  rest  of  the   Muscovite  period.                                                                                                                             1

 For  examples  of  a  cultural  approach  to  tsardom,  see  Michael  S.  Flier,  “Breaking  the   Code:  The  Image  of  the  Tsar  in  the  Muscovite  Palm  Sunday  Ritual,”  in  Medieval  Rus-­‐‑ sian   Culture,   2,   ed.   Flier   and   Daniel   B.   Rowland   (Berkeley:   University   of   California   Press,   1994),   213–42;   Flier,   “The   Iconography   of   Royal   Procession:   Ivan   the   Terrible   and  the  Muscovite  Palm  Sunday  Ritual,”  in  European  Monarchy:  Its  Evolution  and  Prac-­‐‑ tice   from   Roman   Antiquity   to   Modern   Times,   ed.   Heinz   Duchhardt,   Richard   A.   Jackson,   and  David  Sturdy  (Stuttgart:  Franz  Steiner  Verlag,  1992),  109–225;  Daniel  B.  Rowland,   “Biblical  Military  Imagery  in  the  Political  Culture  of  Early  Modern  Russia,”  in  Medieval   Russian  Culture,  2:  182–212.  On  the  tsaritsa’s  blessed  womb,  see  Isolde  Thyrêt,  Between   God   and   Tsar:   Religious   Symbolism   and   the   Royal   Women   of   Muscovite   Russia   (DeKalb:   Northern  Illinois  University  Press,  2001),  21–45.     2  Thyrêt,  Between  God  and  Tsar,  81–103;  Thyrêt,  “Marfa  Ivanovna  and  the  Expansion  of   the   Role   of   the   Tsar’s   Mother   in   the   17th   Century,”   in   Rude   &   Barbarous   Kingdom   Re-­‐‑ visited:  Essays  in  Russian  History  and  Culture  in  Honor  of  Robert  O.  Crummey,  ed.  Chester   S.  L.  Dunning,  Russell  E.  Martin,  and  Daniel  Rowland  (Bloomington,  IN:  Slavica  Pub-­‐‑ lishers,  2008),  109–29.   Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 209–24.

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When   Ivan   IV   (1530–84)   acceded   to   the   throne   of   Muscovite   Russia   in   1547,  the  clarification  of  the  status  of  his  late  mother,  Elena  Glinskaia,  became   crucial   to   the   definition   of   the   young   ruler’s   position.   Due   to   his   minority,   Ivan  had  not  succeeded  his  father,  Vasilii  III,  directly.  After  his  father’s  death   in  1533,  Ivan’s  mother  had  ruled  in  his  name  until  her  death  in  1538.  As  Hart-­‐‑ mut  Rüß  has  pointed  out,  in  spite  of  the  temporary  nature  of  her  rule,  Elena   Glinskaia’s  regency  on  the  whole  was  a  successful  one.  Elena  had  launched  a   domestic   program   dedicated   to   the   founding   of   new   towns   and   to   currency   reform.   Her   foreign   policy   ensured   that   Muscovy   held   its   own   against   its   major   enemies—Kazan’,   Crimea,   and   Lithuania—and   avoided   a   three-­‐‑front   war.  After  Elena’s  death  in  1538,  however,  the  political  power  in  Muscovy  fell   into   the   hands   of   an   influential   boyar   clique   that   ruled   until   Ivan   came   of   age.3  In  their  efforts  to  curb  the  boyars’  influence,  the  handlers  of  the  young   tsar   sought   to   assert   his   right   to   the   throne   by   enhancing   the   prestige   of   his   late  mother.  A  careful  study  of  the  perception  of  Elena  in  the  Tale  of  the  Death   of  Vasilii  Ivanovich  (Povest’  o  smerti  Vasiliia  Ivanovicha)  in  the  various  stages  of   16th-­‐‑century   Muscovite   chronicle   writing   shows   that   after   Ivan’s   coronation   in  1547,  the  Muscovite  court  increasingly  emphasized  his  mother’s  perceived   contribution  to  the  Muscovite  realm.     The   earliest   version   of   the   Tale   of   the   Death   of   Vasilii   Ivanovich   appears   in   the  Novgorod  Chronicle  Compilation  of  1539  and,  in  a  slightly  different  form,  in   the   Sofiia   II   Chronicle   and   the   Postnikov   Chronicle.4   According   to   this   version,   Vasilii   III   wrote   Mikhail   L’vovich   Glinskii,   his   wife’s   uncle,   into   his   will   shortly  before  his  death  because  of  Glinskii’s  blood  ties  to  Elena.5  In  his  final   instructions   to   his   boyars,   Vasilii   put   Glinskii   personally   in   charge   of   Elena                                                                                                                             3

 Hartmut   Rüß,   “Elena   Vasiljevna   Glinskaja,”   Jahrbücher   für   Geschichte   Osteuropas   19,   no.  4  (December  1971):  492–97.     4  Polnoe  sobranie  russkikh  letopisei  (PSRL),  41  vols.  to  date  (St.  Petersburg-­‐‑Moscow,  1846– 1995),  4,  pt.  2:  552–64;  6:  267–76;  and  34:  18–24,  respectively.  For  the  manuscript  history   of   the   tale,   see   N.   S.   Demkova,   “Povest’   o   bolezni   i   smerti   Vasiliia   III,”   in   Biblioteka   literatury   Drevnei   Rusi,   ed.   D.   S.   Likhachev   et   al.,   16   vols.   to   date   (St.   Petersburg:   Nauka,   1997–2010),   10:   564.   All   references   to   this   version   will   be   cited   from   the  Nov-­‐‑ gorod  Chronicle  version  published  in  Demkova,  “Povest’,”  20–47.  For  the  general  evolu-­‐‑ tion   of   the   tale   in   the   Muscovite   chronicles,   see   S.   A.   Morozov,   “Povest’   o   smerti   Vasiliia  III  i  russkie  letopisi,”  in  Teoriia  i  praktika  istochnikovedeniia  i  arkheografii  otechest-­‐‑ vennoi  istorii:  Sbornik  statei,  ed.  V.  T.  Pashuto  et  al.  (Moscow:  Institut  istorii  SSSR,  1978),   61–77;  Ia.  S.  Lur’e,  “Povest’  o  smerti  Vasiliia  III,”  in  Slovar’  knizhnikov  i  knizhnosti  drev-­‐‑ nei   Rusi,   ed.   D.   S.   Likhachev,   3   vols.   (Leningrad:   Izd-­‐‑vo   Nauka,   Leningradskoe   ot-­‐‑ delenie;   St.   Petersburg:   Dmitrii   Bulanin,   1987–2004),   2,   pt.   2:   277–79;   A.   A.   Zimin,   Rossiia   na   poroge   novogo   vremeni:   Ocherki   politicheskoi   istorii   Rossii   pervoi   treti   XVI   v.   (Moscow:   Mysl’,   1972),   390,   and   Zimin,   I.   S.   Peresvetov   i   ego   sovremenniki:   Ocherki   po   istorii   russkoi   obshchestvenno-­‐‑politicheskoi   mysli   (Moscow:   Izd-­‐‑vo   Akademii   nauk   SSSR,   1958),  32–33.     5  Demkova,  “Povest’,”  30  (original),  31  (modern  Russian  translation).    

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and  his  infant  sons  Ivan  (b.  1530)  and  Iurii  (b.  1531)  while  expressing  his  ex-­‐‑ pectation  that  Glinskii  would  be  ready  to  give  his  life  for  them.6  Vasilii’s  con-­‐‑ cern  for  his  succession  and  the  future  of  his  wife  and  children  is  also  evident   in  his  request  that  Hegumen  Ioasaf  of  the  Trinity-­‐‑Sergius  Monastery  pray  for   Elena   and   little   Ivan,   who   had   been   placed   under   the   special   protection   of   Saint  Sergius  and  thus  was  a  spiritual  ward  of  Ioasaf:     Pray,   father,   for   the   earthly   state   and   for   my   son   Ivan   and   for   my   transgression.  God  and  the  great  miracle-­‐‑worker  Sergius  gave  me  my   son  Ivan  through  your  prayer  and  petitioning  to  God.  I  baptized  him   at   the   miracle-­‐‑worker’s   shrine   and   gave   him   to   the   miracle-­‐‑worker   and   put   him   on   his   shrine.   I   placed   my   son   into   your   arms,   father.   And   you   [had   better]   pray   to   God   and   his   pure   mother   and   to   the   great   miracle-­‐‑workers   for   Ivan,   my   son,   and   for   my   grieving   wife.   And  you  had  better  not  leave,  hegumen,  nor  travel  out  of  the  city.7   Vasilii’s  appeal  for  help  to  his  kin  and  religious  intercessors  points  to  the   precariousness  of  the  political  situation  in  1533.  Without  a  mature  male  heir,   the  succession  to  the  throne  was  endangered  since  Muscovy  did  not  have  an   established   tradition   of   recognizing   the   principle   of   primogeniture.   For   this   reason  the  dying  grand  prince  made  sure  to  designate  his  son  Ivan  as  his  suc-­‐‑ cessor.  He  tried  to  defend  his  son’s  claim  to  the  throne  by  invoking  his  direct   descent  from  the  first  grand  prince  of  Moscow,  Ivan  Danilovich.  According  to   the   first   version   of   the   Tale   of   the   Death   of   Vasilii   Ivanovich,   Vasilii   III   took   off   the  cross  of  the  Muscovite  miracle-­‐‑worker  Peter  he  was  wearing,  which  since   Vasilii   II’s   reign   (d.   1462)   had   been   passed   down   in   the   line   of   Muscovite   rulers.  Vasilii  III  pressed  his  son  to  this  cross  and  blessed  him  with  it  while  ut-­‐‑ tering  the  words:  “May  the  grace  of  God  and  the  pure  Mother  of  God  be  upon   you,  and  the  blessing  of  the  miracle-­‐‑worker  Peter,  just  as  the  miracle-­‐‑worker   Peter  blessed  our  ancestor,  Grand  Prince  Ivan  Danilovich.”8     Although   dynastic   ties   and   supernatural   protection   for   his   heir   were   important   to   the   Grand   Prince,   he   also   relied   on   personal   loyalties   to   assure   that  his  wish  would  be  carried  out.  This  is  evident  in  Vasilii’s  instructions  to                                                                                                                             6

 Demkova,  “Povest’,”  34  (original),  35  (modern  Russian  translation).      Demkova,  “Povest’,”  36  (original),  37  (modern  Russian  translation).  Unless  otherwise   stated,  all  English  translations  are  my  own.     8  Demkova,   “Povest’,”   38   (original),   39   (modern   Russian   translation).   Saint   Peter,   Metropolitan  of  Moscow  (1308–26),  moved  the  metropolitanate  from  Vladimir  to  Mos-­‐‑ cow   and   helped   Grand   Prince   Ivan   Kalita   lay   the   foundation   for   a   strong   Muscovite   principality.  For  references  to  the  cross  of  Peter  in  the  wills  of  Vasilii  II  and  Ivan  III,  see   Robert   Craig   Howes,   trans.   and   ed.,   The   Testaments   of   the   Grand   Princes   of   Moscow   (Ithaca,  NY:  Cornell  University  Press,  1967),  141  and  152  (original),  259  and  295  (Eng-­‐‑ lish  translation  by  Howes).     7

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his  close  boyars  concerning  the  future  order  of  the  realm,  and  in  his  command   to  Ivan’s  nanny,  Agrafena  Cheliadnina,  to  watch  the  child  closely.9   The  unsettled  issue  of  the  dynastic  succession  is  also  reflected  in  the  def-­‐‑ inition   of   Elena   Glinskaia’s   role   in   the   first   version   of   the   Tale   of   the   Death   of   Vasilii  Ivanovich.  This  version  notes  that  after  the  grand  prince  had  blessed  his   son   Ivan,   his   wife   approached   his   deathbed   but   was   so   overcome   with   grief   that  Vasilii  was  forced  to  console  her:     Then   Grand   Princess   Elena   came   to   him.   Her   brother   Andrei   Ivano-­‐‑ vich  and,  on  the  other  side,  the  boyar  woman  Elena,  the  wife  of  Ivan   Andreevich  Cheliadnin,  were  barely  holding  her  up.  Beating  herself,   the   grand   princess   cried   bitterly,   and   her   tears   flowed   continuously   from   her   eyes   like   a   great   spring.   There   were   many   tears,   laments,   and  sobs  among  all  the  people.  The  grand  prince  tried  to  console  her,   saying:   “My   wife,   stop   crying,   my   illness   is   bearable,   and   nothing   is   hurting  me,  thank  God.”10     The   passage   presents   Elena   Glinskaia   primarily   as   a   devoted,   grief-­‐‑stricken   wife,  who  was  in  need  of  care.  This  impression  is  strengthened  by  the  almost   incidental   question   Elena   then   posed   to   her   husband   as   to   what   was   to   be-­‐‑ come  of  her  and  her  children.11     Vasilii’s  answer  to  Elena’s  question  about  her  future  suggests  that  he  had   not   made   special   provisions   for   her   to   assume   the   regency   during   Ivan’s   minority.  Although  Vasilii  stressed  that  his  eldest  son  should  succeed  him,  he   also  stated  that  Elena  Glinskaia  was  to  be  treated  according  to  the  stipulations   in  his  will,  which  reflected  the  grand  princes’  customary  dispositions  for  their   wives.12  Since  the  reign  of  Dmitrii  Donskoi  (d.  1389),  when  the  first  Muscovite   ruler   sought   to   transfer   the   Grand   Principality   of   Vladimir   undivided   to   his   eldest   son,   the   grand   princes   of   Moscow   had   stipulated   in   their   testaments   that  their  widows  should  aid  the  consolidation  of  the  realm  by  functioning  as   guardians   of   all   their   children   and   overseeing   their   sons’   inheritances   and   possible  property  transfers.13  Vasilii’s  reference  to  this  traditional  role  of  royal                                                                                                                             9

 Demkova,  “Povest’,”  38  (original),  39  (modern  Russian  translation).    Demkova,  “Povest’,”  38  (original),  39  (modern  Russian  translation).     11  Demkova,  “Povest’,”  38  (original),  39  (modern  Russian  translation).     12  Demkova,  “Povest’,”  38  (original),  39  (modern  Russian  translation).     13  On  the  arrangements  of  the  Muscovite  Grand  Princes  for  their  wives  in  the  14th  and   15th   centuries,   see   Thyrêt,   Between   God   and   Tsar,   17–19.   Since   Vasilii   III   had   his   will   burned  shortly  before  his  death,  Rüß’s  distinction  between  the  grand  prince’s  disposi-­‐‑ tion  in  his  will  concerning  his  wife  and  his  oral  arrangements  about  her  future  status   as  regent  is  rather  tentative;  see  Rüß,  “Elena,”  489–90.  On  the  reasons  for  Vasilii’s  or-­‐‑ ders  to  burn  his  will,  see  A.  E.  Presniakov,  “Zaveshchanie  Vasiliia  III,”  in  Sbornik  statei   po  russkoi  istorii  posviashchennykh  S.  F.  Platonovu  (St.  Petersburg:  Ogni,  1922),  72–73.     10

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widows  in  the  first  version  of  the  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich  suggests   that  he  did  not  intend  his  wife  to  play  a  larger  political  role  after  his  death.     On   the   whole,   the   first   version   of   the   Tale   of   the   Death   of   Vasilii   Ivanovich   treats  Elena  Glinskaia  as  a  bereaved  wife  respected  for  her  conjugal  ties  with   the  grand  prince  rather  than  a  regent  in  her  own  right.  The  description  of  the   circumstances  of  her  final  parting  with  her  husband  further  suggests  that  her   qualities  as  a  ruler  were  not  considered  important.  The  first  version  notes  that   the  grand  prince  wanted  to  give  Elena  instructions  but  was  forced  to  abandon   his  intention  because  his  wife  was  too  distraught  to  listen.  The  grand  prince   eventually  sent  her  away  against  her  will.14     In  spite  of  her  portrayal  as  a  weak  woman,  Elena’s  prolonged  presence  at   her  husband’s  deathbed  signified  her  honorable  and  prestigious  position  as  a   grand  prince’s  wife  on  which  she  could  base  her  future  regency.  Since  the  first   version  of  the  tale  was  composed  during  Elena  Glinskaia’s  reign,  it  is  unlikely   that  its  authors  expressed  a  negative  interpretation  of  her  position.15   If  Elena’s  legitimacy  as  a  regent  was  primarily  based  on  her  key  position   as  the  wife  of  a  grand  prince  and  the  mother  of  the  future  ruler,  her  prestige   suffered   after   her   death   under   the   influence   of   the   ruling   boyar   clique   that   took  over  the  reins  of  government.  The  second  version  of  the  Tale  of  the  Death   of  Vasilii  Ivanovich—found  in  the  Voskresensk  Chronicle,  which  was  compiled  in   1542—completely  omitted  the  farewell  scene  between  Elena  and  Vasilii  on  his   deathbed.16   Instead,   the   Voskresensk   Chronicle   emphasized   Ivan   IV’s   designa-­‐‑ tion   to   the   throne   by   his   father.   By   adding   a   reference   to   Vasilii   III’s   own   blessing  by  his  father,  Ivan  III,  the  boyar  clique  upheld  the  principle  of  dynas-­‐‑ tic   succession   exclusively   through   the   male   line,   thus   downplaying   Elena’s   dynastic   significance.   According   to   the   Voskresensk   Chronicle,   Vasilii   “blessed   his  son  with  the  cross  and  put  it  on  his  neck  and  said:  ‘With  this  sacred  and   life-­‐‑giving  cross  the  holy  miracle-­‐‑worker  Peter  blessed  our  forefather,  Grand   Prince   Ivan   Danilovich,   and   our   ancestors,   the   grand   princes,   blessed   their   eldest   children,   who   were   to   govern.   I   was   blessed   by   my   father,   Grand   Prince   Ivan,   and   in   the   same   way   I   also   bless   you,   my   eldest   son   with   this   holy  cross…’”17   Although  the  second  version  of  the  tale  summarily  acknowledged  Elena’s   regency  for  her  son  Ivan,  it  stressed  the  dependence  of  the  grand  prince’s  or-­‐‑ phaned  family  on  the  good  will  of  the  boyars.  This  is  evident  in  the  manner   the  Voskresensk  Chronicle  reworked  Vasilii’s  final  disposition  for  his  family:                                                                                                                               14

 Demkova,  “Povest’,”  38  (original),  39  (modern  Russian  translation).      See  Zimin,  Rossiia  na  poroge,  390.     16  For   Elena   Glinskaia’s   curtailed   role   in   the   Voskresensk   Chronicle   version,   also   see   Lur’e,  “Povest’,”  277–78.     17  PSRL,  8:  285.     15

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[A]nd   he   [i.e.,   Vasilii   III]   entrusted   the   grand   princess   and   his   chil-­‐‑ dren   to   his   father,   Metropolitan   Daniil,   but   he   ordered   Grand   Prin-­‐‑ cess   Elena   to   rule   under   his   son   [pod”   synom”   svoim”]   until   his   son   came  of  age.  And  looking  up  to  his  boyars,  he  told  them:  “You  are  my   boyars.   I   ruled   the   Russian   land   with   you   …   I   entrust   my   princess   and  children  to  you  [prikazyvaiu  vam”  kniaginiu  i  deti  svoia].  Obey  my   princess   and   my   son,   Grand   Prince   Ivan,   and   under   him   protect   his   government  of  the  Russian  land…”18     Whereas  the  conscious  effort  to  downplay  Elena’s  political  role  in  the  Vos-­‐‑ kresensk  Chronicle’s  version  of  the  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich  expressed   the  ruling  boyars’  agenda  after  Elena’s  death,  the  tale’s  treatment  in  the  offi-­‐‑ cial  chronicles  compiled  after  Ivan  IV’s  coronation  as  tsar  reveals  a  dramatic   shift  in  the  image  of  the  Muscovite  ruler’s  mother.  An  examination  of  the  ver-­‐‑ sion  of  the  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich  in  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva,   which  was  composed  shortly  after  Ivan  IV’s  accession  to  the  throne,  attests  to   the  efforts  in  the  1550s  to  heighten  the  Muscovite  ruler’s  power.19  The  earliest   version  of  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva  reworks  the  Voskresensk  Chronicle  ver-­‐‑ sion   of   the   tale   in   such   a   way   that   any   hint   of   the   Muscovite   dynasty’s   de-­‐‑ pendence  on  secular  or  ecclesiastical  powers  is  excluded.20  This  is  evident  in   the  omission  of  the  passage  in  which  Vasilii  III  commits  his  wife  and  children   into  the  care  of  Metropolitan  Daniil  and  appeals  to  his  boyars  to  serve  them.21   Instead,  the  compilers  of  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva  strengthened  Ivan  IV’s   rightful   claim   to   the   throne   by   introducing   a   theory   of   translatio   imperii   that   derived  the  tsar’s  power  to  rule  from  a  Byzantine  emperor:     We   are   blessing   him   with   the   life-­‐‑giving   cross   that   was   sent   from   Constantinople   by   Emperor   Konstantin   Monomakh   to   the   Grand                                                                                                                             18

 PSRL,  8:  285.      Many   scholars   subscribe   to   Zimin’s   view   that   this   chronicle   was   produced   by   the   secular  court  circle  around  Aleksei  Fedorovich  Adashev;  see  Zimin,  I.  S.  Peresvetov,  30– 31;  B.  M.  Kloss,  “Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva,”  in  Slovar’  knizhnikov  2,  pt.  2:  20–21.  Since   the   Letopisets   nachala   tsarstva   contains   a   good   deal   of   religious   language,   Zimin’s   distinction   between   secular   and   ecclesiastical   compilations   in   16th-­‐‑century   Muscovy   appears   overstated.   On   the   construction   of   Ivan   IV’s   image   in   the   1550s,   see   Isolde   Thyrêt,   “The   Katapetasma   of   1555   and   the   Image   of   the   Orthodox   Ruler   in   the   Early   Reign  of  Ivan  IV,”  in  The  New  Muscovite  Cultural  History:  A  Collection  in  Honor  of  Daniel   B.   Rowland,   ed.   Valerie   Kivelson,   Karen   Petrone,   Nancy   Shields   Kollmann,   and   Michael  S.  Flier  (Bloomington,  IN:  Slavica  Publishers,  2009),  43–62.     20  For  a  discussion  of  this  compilation,  see  B.  M.  Kloss,  Nikonovskii  svod  i  russkie  letopisi   XVI–XVII   vekov   (Moscow:   Nauka,   1980),   195–96.   Lur’e   briefly   hints   at   the   changes   in   the  tale  of  Vasilii  III’s  death  in  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva;  see  Lur’e,  “Povest’,”  278.     21  PSRL,  8:  285  (Voskresensk  Chronicle);  29:  9–10  (Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva).     19

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Prince   Vladimir   Monomakh,   together   with   the   imperial   crown   and   the   imperial   regalia   with   which   Emperor   Monomakh   had   been   crowned.22     This  tale  of  the  transfer  of  the  Byzantine  imperial  regalia  was  part  of  the   Skazanie   o   kniaziakh   vladimirskikh,   which   dates   from   the   late   15th/early   16th   century.   In   order   to   raise   the   prestige   of   the   Russian   tsar,   it   was   included   in   Ivan  IV’s  coronation  protocol  in  1547.23  The  significance  of  the  Byzantine  com-­‐‑ ponent   in   the   new   Muscovite   ideology   of   the   tsar   is   further   evident   in   the   depiction  of  the  transfer  of  the  regalia  by  the  Byzantine  emperor  to  Vladimir   Monomakh   in   the   frescoes   of   the   tsar’s   Golden   Palace,   which   were   commis-­‐‑ sioned  by  Ivan  IV  between  1547  and  1554.24   The  efforts  of  the  compilers  of  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva  to  enhance  the   prestige  of  the  first  crowned  Muscovite  tsar  also  led  to  a  thorough  reinterpre-­‐‑ tation  of  the  role  of  Ivan’s  mother.  Not  only  was  Elena’s  depiction  as  an  insig-­‐‑ nificant  stand-­‐‑in  for  the  young  Ivan  IV  in  the  Voskresensk  Chronicle  no  longer   acceptable,  but  the  court  chroniclers  of  the  1550s  also  found  the  notion  of  the   grand   princess   as   a   weak,   though   legitimate,   regent   unappealing.   In   their   revision   of   the   Tale   of   the   Death   of   Vasilii   Ivanovich,   they   therefore   not   only   stressed   Elena’s   God-­‐‑given   right   to   rule   but   also   presented   her   as   an   able   ruler:     And  he  [i.e.,  Vasilii  III]  entrusts  to  the  Grand  Princess  Elena  his  chil-­‐‑ dren,  and  the  throne  to  rule  the  lands,  and  the  scepter  of  Great  Russia   until   his   son   came   of   age,   for   the   Grand   Prince   knew   that   she   was   God-­‐‑loving  and  kind,  quiet  and  just,  wise  and  manly,  and  [that]  her   heart  [was]  filled  with  every  sort  of  royal  wit  [bogoliubivu  i  milostivu,   tikhu   i   pravedlivu,   mudru   i   muzhestvenu,   i   vsiakogo   tsar’skogo   razuma   is-­‐‑ polneno  serdtse  eia].  But  she  was  given  such  a  gift  by  God  that  in  every-­‐‑ thing   she   imitated   the   great   and   pious   empress   Helena,   the   ancestor   of   the   Russian   grand   princess   Ol’ga,   who   was   named   Elena   in   holy   baptism.   And   the   grand   prince   entrusts   to   her   the   complete   rule   of   the  great  state  [vse  prav”lenie  velikogo  gosudarstva]  because  of  her  great   amount   of   wit,   as   it   is   proper,   and   according   to   her   merit,   and   be-­‐‑ cause  she  has  been  chosen  by  God  for  the  royal  government  [bogom”   izbrannu  tsar’skogo  pravleniia].25                                                                                                                               22

 PSRL,  29:  9.    For  the  evolution  of  the  myth  of  the  Monomakh  regalia,  see  R.  P.  Dmitrieva,  Skazanie   o   kniaziakh   vladimirskikh   (Moscow:   Izd-­‐‑vo   Akademii   nauk   SSSR,   1955),   73–151;   Dmi-­‐‑ trieva,  “Skazanie  o  kniaziakh  vladimirskikh,”  in  Slovar’  knizhnikov  2,  pt.  2:  371.     24  See  Rowland,  “Biblical  Military  Imagery,”  194.     25  PSRL,  29:  9–10.     23

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In   contrast   to   the   Voskresensk   Chronicle,   the   Letopisets   nachala   tsarstva   as-­‐‑ cribes  to  Elena  Glinskaia  the  guardianship  over  her  children  and  the  outright   power  to  rule.  The  absence  of  the  phrase  “under  his  son”  (pod”  synom”  svoim”)   found  in  the  Voskresensk  Chronicle  is  noteworthy  since  it  gives  Elena  authority   to  govern  without  her  son’s  permission  or  approval.     In  order  to  justify  the  inclusion  of  a  woman  in  the  scheme  of  dynastic  suc-­‐‑ cession,   the   chronicle   compilers   endowed   Elena’s   position   with   a   religious   connotation  by  attributing  to  her  qualities  that  were  associated  with  Russia’s   most  famous  native  female  saint,  the  Kievan  grand  princess  Ol’ga.  The  qual-­‐‑ ities   in   question   combine   the   various   aspects   of   the   Kievan   ruler:   Ol’ga   the   Ruler   (“just,”   “brave,”   or   “manly,”   “full   of   royal   wit”),   Ol’ga   the   Wise   (“wise”),  and  Ol’ga  the  Saint  (“God-­‐‑loving,”  “generous,”  “quiet”).  These  vir-­‐‑ tues   of   the   Kievan   princess   were   proclaimed   in   the   chronicle   literature,   the   Encomium   for   Princess   Ol’ga,   and—even   more   pointedly—in   the   vita   of   Saint   Ol’ga,  which  Kloss  dates  to  the  mid-­‐‑16th  century  and  thus  likely  was  known   to  the  compilers  of  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva.26   The   notion   of   Ol’ga   as   a   model   pious   royal   woman   goes   back   to   the   Kievan   Russian   Primary   Chronicle,   which   describes   her   as   an   able   ruler   who   displayed   cleverness   as   a   pagan   and,   after   her   conversion,   was   endowed   by   God  with  wisdom.27  The  Kievan  chronicler  further  stresses  Ol’ga’s  dedication   to   converting   her   son   Sviatoslav   to   the   Christian   faith.28   The   Encomium   for   Princess  Ol’ga,  which  survives  in  a  late  15th-­‐‑century  manuscript,  goes  further   by  celebrating  the  Kievan  princess  for  her  ability  to  overcome  the  limitations   placed  on  her  sex  by  adopting  the  Christian  faith.  The  Kievan  princess  is  de-­‐‑ scribed  as  “a  woman  in  body,”  but  with  “a  man’s  courage,”  a  person  who  was   “enlightened   by   the   Holy   Spirit”   and   excelled   in   good   works   and   charity.29   The  final  fusion  of  the  notion  that  Ol’ga  was  both  an  able  ruler  and  a  model   religious   woman   occurred   in   her   16th-­‐‑century   vita   where   the   virtues   attrib-­‐‑ uted  to  Ol’ga  represent  both  political  and  religious  values.30  For  example,  her                                                                                                                             26

 Kloss,  Nikonovskii  svod,  262.  For  the  various  aspects  of  Ol’ga’s  figure  in  the  Russian   chronicle  tradition,  see  Omeljan  Pritsak,  “When  and  Where  Was  Ol’ga  Baptized?”  Har-­‐‑ vard   Ukrainian   Studies   9,   no.   1/2   (June   1985):   10–11.   The   Laurentian   and   Hypathian   versions  of  the  Russian  Primary  Chronicle  both  describe  Ol’ga’s  life  as  a  pagan  and  her   conversion  in  Constantinople;  see  PSRL,  1:  55–64  (Laurentian);  2:  43–52  (Hypathian).     27  PSRL,   1:   59–60,   2:   48–49   (able   ruler);   1:   55–60,   2:   43–48   (pagan);   1:   60–62,   2:   49–51   (Christian).   On   Ol’ga’s   pagan   background,   see   Francis   Butler,   “A   Woman   of   Words:   Olga’s  Pagan  Period  in  Comparative  Context,”  Slavic  Review  64  (2004):  771–93.     28  PSRL,  1:  63–64;  2:  51–52.     29  Paul   Hollingsworth,   trans.,   The   Hagiography   of   Kievan   Rus’   (Cambridge,   MA:   Har-­‐‑ vard  University  Press,  1994),  169–70  (quotations);  165  n.  438  (date).     30  For   the   connection   between   the   embellishment   of   the   Ol’ga   figure   and   Muscovite   ruler  ideology  in  the  mid-­‐‑16th  century,  see  I.  V.  Kurukin,  “Sil’vestr  i  sostavlenie  zhitiia   Ol’gi  Stepennoi  knigi,”  in  Teoriia  i  praktika  istochnikovedeniia,  53.    

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manliness  refers  to  her  ability  to  function  as  a  head  of  state  and  to  her  role  as   a  defender  of  Russia  in  the  cosmological  struggle  of  good  and  evil:     Rejoice,   you,   who   with   God-­‐‑given   wisdom   [premudrostiiu]   struggled   against   your   enemies   in   a   manly   way   [muzhestveno]   and   judiciously   [razumno],  and  who  kept  your  realm  unharmed  from  the  enemy  with   your  sensible  government  [dobroumnym”  pravleniem”].31     The  peculiar  function  of  Ol’ga’s  virtues  in  her  vita  explains  the  attribution   of   the   epithets   “God-­‐‑loving,”   “generous,”   and   “quiet”   by   the   Muscovite   chroniclers  of  the  1550s  to  Elena  Glinskaia.  While  these  epithets  express  com-­‐‑ mon  Christian  values,  Saint  Ol’ga’s  vita  proclaims  them  as  the  qualities  of  the   ideal  Christian  ruler:     [S]he   worked   much   good   in   the   name   of   God   and   sanctified   herself   through   all   the   good   deeds.   She   enriched   herself   through   charity   [milostyneiu].  She  clothed  the  naked  and  fed  the  hungry,  gave  drink  to   the   thirsty   and   provided   the   homeless   with   all   the   necessary   means.   She  had  extraordinary  mercy  [miluia]  on  the  poor,  the  widows  and  or-­‐‑ phans,  and  the  sick,  and  satisfied  all  their  needs.  And  whatever  was   gratifying   to   Him   she   treated   herself   to   it   in   silence   [tikhostiiu]   and   love  [liuboviiu],  from  a  pure  heart.  For  it  is  said:  “God  loves  a  person   who  gives  quietly”…32     The   juxtaposition   of   Elena   Glinskaia   with   Saint   Ol’ga   in   the   Letopisets   nachala   tsarstva’s   version   of   the   Tale   of   the   Death   of   Vasilii   Ivanovich   shows   a   drastic  reinterpretation  of  the  perceived  role  of  Ivan  IV’s  mother  in  the  Mus-­‐‑ covite  dynasty.  Elena  no  longer  appeared  as  a  weak  female  ruler  or  a  regent   by   default   but   rather   as   a   legitimate   link   in   the   Muscovite   scheme   of   royal   succession.  The  vita  of  the  Kievan  grand  princess  credited  Ol’ga  with  being  a   reliable  regent  for  her  son  Sviatoslav,  a  regent  who  “was  concerned  with  cor-­‐‑ recting   [ispraviti]   and   establishing   [ustroiti]   the   government   over   the   Russian   land  according  to  custom…”33  The  attribution  of  all  of  Saint  Ol’ga’s  accepted   virtues   to   Elena   legitimized   and   strengthened   the   dynastic   status   of   Ivan’s   mother.   At   the   same   time   the   role   of   the   tsar   mother   gained   a   religious   dimension.     The  heightening  of  the  tsar  mother’s  role  is  further  evident  in  the  skillful   insertion  in  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva  of  the  comparison  of  Elena  Glinskaia   with   her   namesake,   Saint   Helena,   the   mother   of   Constantine   the   Great.   The   Byzantine   empress   Helena,   who   according   to   Christian   tradition   found                                                                                                                             31

 PSRL,  21,  pt.  1:  29.      Ibid.,  22.     33  Ibid.,  11.     32

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Christ’s  cross  in  Jerusalem,  became  a  model  of  royal  womanhood  both  in  the   Orthodox  East  and  the  Latin  West.34  According  to  the  Russian  Primary  Chron-­‐‑ icle,  the  Kievan  princess  Ol’ga  took  the  baptismal  name  Elena  in  honor  of  the   virtuous   imperial   mother.35   In   the   16th   century,   the   vita   of   Saint   Ol’ga   ex-­‐‑ panded  the  Ol’ga-­‐‑Helena  connection  by  proclaiming  that  Ol’ga  imitated  Em-­‐‑ press  Helena’s  pious  life  by  devoting  herself  to  the  spreading  of  the  Christian   faith,   following   in   Christ’s   footsteps,   and   erecting   churches.36   The   theme   of   conversion  clearly  inspired  Ol’ga’s  hagiographer(s),  who  sought  to  draw  par-­‐‑ allels  between  the  Christian  origin  of  the  Byzantine  Empire  and  the  Christian   origin   of   Rus’.   Just   as   Helena   had   brought   the   True   Cross   of   Christ   to   Con-­‐‑ stantinople,   Ol’ga   later   brought   it   to   Kiev   and   thus   imparted   the   promise   of   salvation  to  the  Russian  realm.37     Considering  the  significance  of  the  Saint  Helena  typology  and  the  evolu-­‐‑ tion   of   Ol’ga’s   image   in   medieval   Russia,   the   comparison   of   Elena   Glinskaia   with  these  two  women  in  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva  was  clearly  not  a  mere   play   of   words.   By   crediting   Elena   Glinskaia   with   the   attributes   of   Saints   Helena   and   Ol’ga,   the   chroniclers   of   the   1550s   created   the   basis   for   a   new   image   of   the   Muscovite   tsar   mother.   Both   women   saints   had   been   rulers   in   their  own  right  that  had  carried  out  political  tasks  in  their  sons’  interest  and   thus  could  serve  as  models  for  Elena  Glinskaia’s  regency.  Yet,  the  proclaimed   imitation  of  the  pious  Byzantine  empress  by  the  first  Christian  ruler  of  Russia   suggests  that  the  intention  behind  the  analogy  of  all  three  figures  in  question   goes   even   further.   Ol’ga’s   portrayal   as   a   second   Helena   implied   that   the   Christianized  Kievan  realm  under  the  Rurikide  dynasty  followed  in  the  foot-­‐‑ steps  of  the  Byzantine  Empire.  Linking  Elena  Glinskaia  to  both  Saints  Helena   and   Ol’ga   thus   not   only   increased   the   notion   of   Elena’s   personal   power   as   a   ruler  but  also  supplied  her  reign  with  a  new,  religiously  constructed,  dynastic   dimension.  If  the  dynastic  succession  through  the  male  line  had  been  endan-­‐‑ gered  as  a  result  of  Ivan  IV’s  minority,  the  weakness  of  Ivan’s  position  could   be   overcome   by   describing   his   mother   as   a   legitimate   spiritual   successor   to   the  illustrious  realms  of  Byzantium  and  Kiev.  The  1550s  thus  witnessed  a  ma-­‐‑ jor  ideological  expansion  of  the  role  of  the  Muscovite  ruler’s  mother.                                                                                                                             34

 For   the   story   of   the   discovery   of   the   True   Cross   of   Christ,   see   Thyrêt,  Between   God   and  Tsar,  84–85.  The  story  was  included  in  ecclesiastical  miscellanies  (sborniki),  which   were   widely   disseminated   in   medieval   Russia.   For   an   example,   see   Rossiiskii   gosu-­‐‑ darstvennyi  arkhiv  drevnikh  aktov  (RGADA)  f.  181,  d.  639,  ll.  59–64.     35  PSRL  1:  61;  2:  49.  Ol’ga  most  likely  chose  her  new  name  in  honor  of  the  wife  of  the   contemporary   Byzantine   emperor,   Constantine   VII.   But   the   correlation   of   Ol’ga   and   Constantine  the  Great’s  mother  was  established  already  in  Ilarion’s  Sermon  about  Law   and  Grace  (Slovo  o  zakone  i  o  blagodati)  in  1050;  see  Pritsak,  “When  and  Where  Was  Ol’ga   Baptized?”  9,  19.     36  PSRL,  21,  pt.  1:  21–22.     37  Ibid.,  18.    

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Conceivably   this   shift   in   the   attitude   toward   Ivan   IV’s   mother   was   con-­‐‑ nected   with   the   crisis   of   succession   at   the   Muscovite   court   in   1553.38   Ivan’s   sudden  illness  that  year,  his  son  Dmitrii’s  infancy,  and  the  boyars’  reluctance   to   pledge   their   allegiance   to   little   Dmitrii   created   a   dynastic   problem   that   echoed  the  scenario  20  years  earlier  at  Vasilii  III’s  death.  Whereas  Vasilii  was   unable   to   prevent   the   eventual   rule   of   the   boyar   clique,   his   son   Ivan,   after   recovering   from   his   illness,   sought   to   forestall   similar   lapses   of   centralized   power.   A   series   of   loyalty   oaths   Ivan   required   from   his   cousin   Vladimir   Andreevich   Staritskii   in   1553   and   1554   gave   Ivan’s   wife,   Tsaritsa   Anastasiia   Romanovna,   a   prominent   position   should   the   tsar   die   and   leave   a   minor   on   the   throne.39   These   circumstances   explain   the   general   preoccupation   with   raising  the  tsaritsa’s  prestige  in  contemporary  chronicle  writing  as  well  as  the   sudden   enhancement   of   Elena   Glinskaia’s   image   in   the   Tale   of   the   Death   of   Vasilii  Ivanovich  in  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva.   This   expansion   of   Elena’s   role   continued   in   the   later   1550s   and   1560s   in   the  Muscovite  chronicle  compilations  following  Ivan  IV’s  conquest  of  Kazan’   in  1552/3.  One  of  the  redactions  of  the  Nikon  Chronicle  found  in  the  Obolenskii   copy   (referred   to   as   O)   still   included   the   Voskresensk   Chronicle   version   of   the   Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich,  but  the  contemporary  redaction  found  in   the  Patriarshii  copy  (referred  to  as  P)  presents  the  tale  according  to  the  earliest   version  of  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva.40  The  fact  that  both  interpretations  of   Elena’s  status  coexisted  in  the  later  1550s  suggests  that  the  new  image  of  the   tsaritsa  was  not  yet  well  established.  The  situation,  however,  changed  in  the                                                                                                                             38

 For   details,   see   Hartmut   Rüß,   “Adel   und   Nachfolgefrage   im   Jahre   1553:   Betracht-­‐‑ ungen   zur   Glaubwürdigkeit   einer   umstrittenen   Quelle,”   in   Essays   in   Honor   of   A.   A.   Zimin,  ed.  Daniel  C.  Waugh  (Columbus,  OH:  Slavica  Publishers,  1985),  345–78;  and  D.   N.   Al’shits,   “Proiskhozhdenie   i   osobennosti   istochnikov,   povestvuiushchikh   o   boiar-­‐‑ skom  miatezhe  1553  goda,”  Istoricheskie  zapiski  25  (1948):  266–92.     39  See  A.  Malinovskii,  ed.,  Sobranie  gosudarstvennykh  gramot  i  dogovorov  khraniashchikhsia   v   Gosudarstvennoi   kollegii   inostrannykh   del,   5   vols.   (Moscow:   Tip.   N.   S.   Vsevolozhskii,   1813–94),  1:  460–61  (no.  167),  463-­‐‑64  (no.  168),  467  (no.  169).     40  For   the   Obolenskii   redaction   of   the   tale,   see   PSRL,   13,   pt.   1:   75–77   (right   column).   The  version  of  the  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich  in  P  (see  PSRL,  13,  pt.  1:  75–77,   left   column)   is   identical   with   the   version   found   in   PSRL,   29:   9–10.   O   describes   the   events   up   to   1558.   As   Kloss   points   out,   O   copied   the   Voskresensk   Chronicle   for   the   events  from  1521–41;  see  Kloss,  Nikonovskii  svod,  190–99.  The  textological  studies  of  the   Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva  by  Kloss  and  Zimin  make  a  convincing  argument  for  the  con-­‐‑ temporary  composition  of  copies  O  and  P.  Kloss  in  particular  shows  how  the  compil-­‐‑ ers  of  O  and  P  independently  used  the  Voskresensk  Chronicle  for  different  segments  of   their  compilations.  The  argument  for  the  simultaneous  composition  of  P  (which  covers   the  events  up  to  1556)  and  O  in  the  second  half  of  the  1550s  is  not  disturbed  by  the  fact   that   O   mentions   events   up   to   1558,   since   the   section   covering   the   years   1556–58   was   added   later;   see   Kloss,   Nikonovskii   svod,   194–96.   Zimin   ascribes   both   P   and   O   to   the   Adashev  circle;  see  Zimin,  I.  S.  Peresvetov,  38.    

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early  1560s  when  the  version  of  the  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich  found   in  P  was  also  included  in  the  L’vov  Chronicle.41  Strikingly,  the  L’vov  Chronicle,   which   copies   the   rendition   of   the   tale   in   the   earliest   version   of   the   Letopisets   nachala  tsarstva,  omits  Elena  Glinskaia’s  name  in  Vasilii’s  final  address  to  his   wife,  noting  that  Vasilii  III  entrusted  his  children  and  the  government  of  his   realm  “to  his  grand  princess”  (velikoi  kniagine  svoei).42   The   omission   of   Elena   Glinskaia’s   name   suggests   that   the   chroniclers   were  no  longer  concerned  specifically  with  the  portrayal  of  Ivan’s  mother  but   rather   sought   to   widen   the   meaning   of   the   passage   by   referring   to   the   royal   mother’s  role  in  general.  The  omission  of  Elena’s  name  in  the  L’vov  Chronicle   may  be  explained  by  the  fact  that  Elena  was  no  longer  the  sole  royal  mother   in  recent  memory.  Moreover,  the  recent  death  of  Ivan’s  first  wife,  Anastasiia   Romanovna,  and  the  tsar’s  second  marriage  to  a  Cherkassian  princess,  Mariia   Temriukovna,  may  have  spurred  new  efforts  to  define  the  tsaritsa’s  role  in  the   Russian  realm.   The   intense   concern   with   the   tsaritsa’s   role   is   particularly   visible   in   the   Stepennaia  kniga,  an  ecclesiastical  chronicle  compilation  of  the  1560s.  In  order   to  create  a  religious-­‐‑dynastic  framework  for  the  Muscovite  tsar,  this  compila-­‐‑ tion  included  stories  of  the  Muscovite  rulers’  miraculous  births.43  It  also  relied   heavily  on  copy  P  of  the  Nikon  Chronicle,  which  included  dynastic  myths,  such   as   the   one   pertaining   to   the   regalia   of   Monomakh.44   The   trend   towards   strengthening   the   dynastic   concept   is   also   evident   in   the   Stepennaia   kniga’s   rendition   of   the   Tale   of   the   Death   of   Vasilii   Ivanovich,   which   includes   the   ref-­‐‑ erence   to   Vasilii’s   transfer   of   the   crown   and   cross   of   Monomakh   to   his   son   Ivan.45   While   they   maintained   Ivan   IV’s   glorious   descent   through   the   male   line,  the  compilers  of  the  Stepennaia  kniga  sought  to  strengthen  the  tsar’s  im-­‐‑ age  even  more  by  presenting  his  mother  not  only  as  a  prestigious  but  also  as  a   powerful   ruler.   By   selectively   using   the   earliest   version   of   the   tale,   the   com-­‐‑ pilers   of   the   Stepennaia   kniga   portrayed   Elena   as   a   person   who   commanded   respect.   As   in   the   original   version,   the   Stepennaia   kniga   depicts   Elena   as   a   grieving  and  loving  wife,  who  remains  at  the  deathbed  of  her  husband  in  the   final   hours.46   On   the   other   hand,   the   Stepennaia   kniga   omits   the   statement   found  in  the  earliest  version  that  Elena  was  to  be  treated  like  previous  grand                                                                                                                             41

 The   L’vov   Chronicle,   which   covers   the   events   up   to   1560,   was   composed   after   Ada-­‐‑ shev’s  fall  from  grace  in  1560.  See  Lur’e,  “Povest’,”  278;  and  Zimin,  I.  S.  Peresvetov,  38.     42  PSRL,  20,  pt.  2:  420.     43  Thyrêt,  Between  God  and  Tsar,  27–28.     44  Kloss,  Nikonovskii  svod,  192.     45  PSRL,   21,   pt.   2:   613.   On   the   importance   of   the   dynastic   concept,   see   Sergei   Boga-­‐‑ tyrev,  “Reinventing  the  Russian  Monarchy  in  the  1550s:  Ivan  the  Terrible,  the  Dynasty,   and  the  Church,”  Slavonic  and  East  European  Review  85,  no.  2  (April  2007):  271–93.     46  PSRL,  21,  pt.  2:  613.    

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princesses.47   Instead,   the   Stepennaia   kniga   replaced   it   with   a   passage   that   shows  the  compilers’  familiarity  with  copy  P  of  the  Nikon  Chronicle:     [H]e  wills  to  his  [i.e.,  Ivan’s]  mother  and  his  [own]  princess  Elena  the   complete  government  of  the  Russian  realm,  [the  power]  to  rule  and  to   set  it  up  [ustroiti]  according  to  God,  and  to  deliberate  with  his  son  [s”   synom”   svoim”],   Tsar   and   Grand   Prince   Ivan,   until   he   gathered   enough  strength  in  his  youth  [don’dezhe  ot”  mladosti  ustrabitsia];  for  he   knew  that  she  was  God-­‐‑loving  [bogoliubivu]  and  kind  [milostivu],  wise   [mudru]   and   manly   [muzhestvenu],   and   that   her   heart   was   filled   with   any  kind  of  royal  wit  [tsar’skago  razuma].48     The  Stepennaia  kniga  does  not  leave  a  single  doubt  concerning  Elena’s  gov-­‐‑ erning  capabilities  and  ascribes  to  her  the  complete  power  to  rule  the  Russian   realm.   There   is   no   hint   at   Elena’s   dependence,   either   perceived   or   real,   on   other  political  forces  in  the  realm  that  are  mentioned  in  the  earliest  versions  of   the  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich.  As  a  ruler  Elena  was  solely  responsible   to  God,  whom  she  was  to  consider  in  her  organization  of  the  affairs  of  state.   Elena’s  freedom  is  also  apparent  in  the  Stepennaia  kniga’s  interpretation  of  her   status   as   a   regent.   The   chronicle’s   reference   to   Elena   deliberating   with   the   grand   prince’s   son   in   matters   of   state   is   a   clear   rebuttal   of   the   view   pro-­‐‑ pounded   in   the   Voskresensk   Chronicle   that   Vasilii   III’s   widow   was   to   rule   “under   his   son.”49   While   all   the   versions   limit   Elena’s   reign   to   the   years   of   Ivan’s  minority,  the  Stepennaia  kniga’s  rendition  is  the  only  one  that  does  not   associate   this   time   limit   strictly   with   Ivan’s   coming   of   age.   The   relevant   phrase   in   the   Stepennaia   kniga—“until   he   gathered   enough   strength   in   his   youth”—carries   a   moral   connotation.   Elena   thus   is   assigned   not   only   a   regency   function   but   also   the   task   of   looking   after   the   future   tsar’s   moral   development.   The  expansion  of  the  tsar  mother’s  power  in  the  Stepennaia  kniga  raises  the   question  how  this  power  was  constructed.  While  the  court  chroniclers  respon-­‐‑ sible  for  the  earliest  version  of  the  Letopisets  nachala  tsarstva  and  P  compared   Glinskaia  to  Saints  Ol’ga  and  Helena,  whom  they  praised  for  their  male  qual-­‐‑ ities,  the  compilers  of  the  Stepennaia  kniga  selectively  mentioned  the  virtues  in   question   without   referring   to   the   saintly   women   at   all.   The   careful   observer   notes   the   absence   of   the   adjective   “quiet”   in   the   list   of   attributes   applied   to   Elena   Glinskaia.   The   medieval   Russian   didactic   literature   makes   numerous   references  to  the  Pauline  command  that  women  be  silent.50  Clearly  the  com-­‐‑                                                                                                                           47

 Demkova,  “Povest’,”  38  (original);  39  (modern  Russian  translation).      PSRL,  21,  pt.  2:  613.   49  PSRL,  21,  pt.  2:  613  (Stepennaia  kniga);  8:  285  (Voskresensk  Chronicle).     50  1  Cor.  15:  34.  See  for  example  the  Pchela  (“The  woman  must  learn  silently  and  with   obedience.  I  do  not  order  a  woman  to  teach,”  in  RGADA  f.  181,  d.  658,  l.  140);  and  the   48

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pilers  of  the  Stepennaia  kniga  felt  that  a  reference  to  the  Christian  tradition  of   silent  women  might  compromise  the  image  of  a  strong  tsar  mother.  This  con-­‐‑ cern  also  explains  the  compilers’  omission  of  the  reference  to  Saints  Ol’ga  and   Helena  in  the  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich.  As  a  result  of  the  omission,   Elena  Glinskaia  appears  as  a  royal  woman  who  possesses  all  necessary  quali-­‐‑ ties  to  rule  in  her  own  right.  No  further  justification,  whether  political  or  re-­‐‑ ligious,  was  deemed  necessary.   A   number   of   factors   may   explain   the   reason   why   the   Muscovite   church   supported  such  a  positive  image  of  a  royal  woman  in  the  1560s.  The  religious   connotation   of   the   tsardom   upheld   by   the   Muscovite   church   may   have   been   one   reason.   The   ideology   of   the   Makarii   circle   stipulated   that   both   Ivan   and   his  wife  must  love  justness  and  kindness  towards  their  subjects.51  Moreover,   Anastasiia,  who  seemingly  was  well-­‐‑liked  by  the  Muscovite  populace  and  en-­‐‑ joyed   the   reputation   of   a   pious   tsaritsa   during   her   lifetime,   may   have   influ-­‐‑ enced  the  image  of  the  tsar  mother  in  the  Stepennaia  kniga.  In  its  description  of   Anastasiia’s   funeral   in   1560,   the   Nikon   Chronicle   states   that   “there   was   much   lamenting  about  her,  because  she  was  kind  and  well-­‐‑disposed  towards  all.”52     The  positive  image  of  the  tsaritsa  laid  out  in  the  Stepennaia  kniga  became  a   determining  factor  in  the  definition  of  the  tsaritsa’s  status  for  the  rest  of  Ivan’s   reign  and  beyond.  Its  influence  is  visible  in  the  last  of  the  chronicle  compila-­‐‑ tions   issued   at   Ivan’s   court,   the   Tsarstvennaia   kniga.   By   drawing   selectively   from  previous  versions  of  the  Tale  of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich,  this  chroni-­‐‑ cle  constructs  its  own,  even  more  complex  interpretation  of  Elena  Glinskaia’s   role   in   Muscovite   government,   which   both   reflects   the   crisis   of   the   tsaritsa’s   position  in  the  1570s  and  foreshadows  Irina  Godunova’s  role  in  the  transfer  of   the  royal  throne  in  1598.     The  variant  of  the  tale  in  the  Tsarstvennaia  kniga  represents  a  conflation  of   the   first   version   and   the   later   versions   found   in   P   and   the   Stepennaia   kniga.53   From  the  first  version  the  Tsarstvennaia  kniga  borrowed  the  sections  concern-­‐‑ ing  Vasilii’s  order  to  Hegumen  Ioasaf  to  pray  for  his  wife  and  his  son  Ivan,  his   conversation   with   the   boyars   concerning   Elena’s   future,   and   his   admonition                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Izmaragd  (“Women  should  be  silent  in  church,”  in  RGADA  f.  381,  d.  199,  l.  53ob).  The   command  is  also  included  in  the  Domostroi  (“A  good,  industrious  and  silent  wife  is  the   crown  of  her  husband”);  see  chap.  20  of  V.  V.  Kolesov,  ed.  and  trans.,  “Domostroi,”  in   Pamiatniki  literatury  Drevnei  Rusi:  Seredina  XVI  veka,  ed.  L.  A.  Dmitriev  and  D.  S.  Likha-­‐‑ chev   (Moscow:   Khudozhestvennaia   literatura,   1985),   92;   Carolyn   Pouncy,   ed.   and   trans.,   The   “Domostroi”:   Rules   for   Russian   Households   in   the   Time   of   Ivan   the   Terrible   (Ithaca,  NY:  Cornell  University  Press,  1994),  103.     51  Zimin,  I.  S.  Peresvetov,  78;  also  see  Thyrêt,  Between  God  and  Tsar,  48–50.     52  PSRL,  13,  pt.  2:  328.     53  Lur’e  mentions  the  Tsarstvennaia  kniga’s  return  to  the  original  long  version  but  dis-­‐‑ regards  the  chronicle’s  dependence  on  P  and  the  Stepennaia  kniga;  see  Lur’e,  “Povest’,”   278.    

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to   the   boyar   woman   Agrafena   to   remain   with   Ivan.54   Moreover,   Elena   Glin-­‐‑ skaia  appears  as  a  wife  in  despair,  in  need  of  physical  and  psychological  sup-­‐‑ port.   The   Tsarstvennaia   kniga   states   that   the   Grand   Princess   was   beating   her   chest   and   shedding   hot   tears,   while   her   brother   Andrei   Ivanovich   and   the   wife  of  Ivan  Andreevich  Cheliadnin  were  holding  her  upright  with  much  ef-­‐‑ fort.55   The   Tsarstvennaia   kniga   also   borrows   from   the   original   version   the   no-­‐‑ tion  that  Elena  was  to  be  treated  as  previous  grand  princesses:     And  the  grand  princess  stopped  crying  and  said:  “Lord  Grand  Prince!   To  whom  do  you  leave  me,  and  to  whom,  [my]  lord,  do  you  entrust   the   children?”   The   grand   prince   answered:   “I   blessed   my   son   Ivan   with  the  government  of  the  grand  principality,  but  I  provided  for  you   in  my  will  as  the  previous  grand  princesses  [were  provided  for]  [kak   prezhnim”   velikim”   kniagin’iam”]   in   the   previous   wills   of   our   fathers   and  forefathers,  as  it  is  befitting.”56     With   regard   to   its   dynastic   concept,   the   Tsarstvennaia   kniga   borrowed   from  P  the  translatio  imperii  theory  and  Elena  Glinskaia’s  participation  in  Mus-­‐‑ covite   government   because   of   her   likeness   to   Saints   Ol’ga   and   Helena.   The   same   passage,   however,   is   also   laced   with   references   taken   from   the   Stepen-­‐‑ naia   kniga,   which   allude   to   the   ability   of   Ivan’s   mother   to   rule   in   her   own   right:     He   [i.e.,   Vasilii   III]   wills   the   complete   government   of   the   whole   Russian   realm   [vsia   zhe   pravlenia   vsego   Russkago   tsarstvia]   to   his   [i.e.,   Ivan’s]  mother  and  his  own  grand  princess,  Elena,  and  the  scepter  of   Great  Russia  to  rule  and  to  set  it  up  according  to  God,  and  to  delib-­‐‑ erate  with  his  son  [s”  synom”  svoim”],  Tsar  and  Grand  Prince  Ivan,  un-­‐‑ til  he  gathered  strength  in  his  youth  [dondezhe  ot”  mladenstva  ustrabit-­‐‑ sia],   to   his   majority;   for   the   grand   prince   knew   that   she   was   God-­‐‑ loving   and   kind,   quiet   and   just,   wise   and   manly,   and   that   her   heart   was   filled   with   any   kind   of   royal   wit   [bogoliubivu   i   milostivu,   tikhu   i   pravdivu,  mudru  i  muzhestvenu,  i  sertse  eia  vsiakago  tsarskago  razuma  is-­‐‑ polneno].  But  she  had  received  from  God  such  a  gift  that  in  everything   she  imitated  the  great  and  pious  empress  Helena  and  her  Russian  an-­‐‑ cestor,  Grand  Princess  Ol’ga,  who  was  named  Elena  in  the  holy  bap-­‐‑ tism.   And   the   grand   prince   entrusts   her   with   the   complete   govern-­‐‑ ment   of   the   great   state   [vse   pravlenie   velikago   gosudar’stva]   because   of   her  great  wit,  as  it  is  proper  and  according  to  her  merit,  and  because                                                                                                                             54

 PSRL,  13,  pt.  2:  414–15.      Ibid.,  415–16.     56  Ibid.,  416.     55

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she  was  chosen  by  God  for  the  royal  government  [Bogom”  izbrannomu   tsarskago  pravleniia].57     The  Tsarstvennaia  kniga’s  seeming  inconsistency  in  defining  Elena’s  status   can  be  ascribed  to  the  fact  that  in  the  1570s,  the  Muscovite  tsaritsa’s  position   had  become  a  subject  of  debate.  Ivan  IV’s  numerous  marriages  following  his   first  two  stable  unions  with  Anastasiia  Romanovna  and  Mariia  Temriukovna   clearly  affected  the  Tsarstvennaia  kniga’s  rendition  of  Elena’s  status  in  the  Tale   of  the  Death  of  Vasilii  Ivanovich.  In  the  1570s,  Muscovite  Russia  no  longer  had   one  single  tsaritsa  who  could  perform  the  role  the  chronicles  of  the  1550s  and   1560s  had  ascribed  to  Elena.  The  Tsarstvennaia  kniga,  however,  did  not  reverse   the   Stepennaia   kniga’s   view   of   Elena   as   an   independent   female   ruler.   More-­‐‑ over,   it   proclaimed   her   saint-­‐‑like   qualities.   This   shows   that   in   the   1570s,   the   myth  of  Elena  Glinskaia’s  likeness  to  Saints  Ol’ga  and  Helena  had  taken  root   and  had  become  an  important  building  block  for  a  new  ideology  of  the  Mus-­‐‑ covite  tsaritsa,  which  in  the  future  would  be  applied  to  other  royal  women.   The   examination   of   the   Tale   of   the   Death   of   Vasilii   Ivanovich   in   the   official   Muscovite   chronicle   compilations   from   the   1530s   through   the   1570s   shows   that  after  the  establishment  of  tsardom  in  Russia  in  1547,  the  perceived  role  of   Ivan’s   late   mother   in   the   Muscovite   government—and   by   extension,   that   of   the   Muscovite   tsaritsa   in   general—received   a   fundamental   reinterpretation.   The  instability  of  Elena  Glinskaia’s  position  after  Vasilii  III’s  premature  death   led  to  the  formulation  of  a  new  concept  of  the  royal  mother.  The  compilers  of   the   Russian   chronicles   at   Ivan   IV’s   court   contributed   to   the   enhancement   of   Elena’s   image   by   emphasizing   her   religiously   constructed   dynastic   signifi-­‐‑ cance.  In  the  1550s,  the  compilers,  who  sought  to  embellish  the  newly  created   position  of  the  Muscovite  tsar  with  myths  of  a  prestigious  ancestry,  stressed   Elena   Glinskaia’s   likeness   to   outstanding   historical   royal   women   with   a   saintly   reputation,   such   as   Saints   Ol’ga   and   Helena.   In   the   1560s,   they   es-­‐‑ poused   this   connection   primarily   because   it   enhanced   the   royal   mother’s   moral   authority.   All   the   chronicles   of   the   1550s   and   1560s   attributed   male   qualities   to   the   royal   widow,   a   tendency   that   culminates   in   the   Stepennaia   kniga’s  proclamation  that  the  royal  mother  could  rule  in  her  own  right.  Even   though  in  the  1570s  the  turbulent  private  life  of  Ivan  IV  gave  rise  to  efforts  to   return   to   the   traditional   model   of   the   Russian   ruler’s   wife   as   defined   in   the   wills   of   the   tsar’s   ancestors,   ultimately   the   chronicles   of   Ivan   IV’s   reign   proved  crucial  in  inspiring  a  new  view  of  the  tsaritsa.  This  new  model,  which   presented   the   tsaritsa   as   a   potential   dynastic   link   and   capable   ruler   not   only   proved   crucial   in   future   Muscovite   succession   crises   but   also   enlarged   the   social  and  spiritual  clout  of  the  wives  of  ruling  tsars  in  the  17th  century.                                                                                                                               57

 Ibid.    

     

Law, Succession, and the Eighteenth-Century Refounding of the Romanov Dynasty   Russell E. Martin    

  On  5  February  1722,  Peter  I  “the  Great”  (ruled  1682–1725)  issued  a  new  Law   of   Succession   (Ukaz   o   nasledii   prestola),   the   first   such   law   in   the   history   of   modern  Russia.  It  replaced  the  fairly  stable,  though  never  legally  formulated,   system   of   succession   in   Muscovy   that   provided   that   sons   succeeded   fathers   on  the  throne—a  system  of  male  primogeniture  that,  though  violated  in  some   instances,  functioned  successfully  from  the  time  of  the  Muscovite  civil  wars  of   the  second  quarter  of  the  15th  century  down  to  the  end  of  the  Daniilovich  dy-­‐‑ nasty   in   1598   (and   was   picked   up   again   under   the   Romanovs   in   1613).   As   laws  of  succession  go,  Peter  I’s  was  not  a  success.  It  authorized  and  required   the   ruler   to   nominate   as   his   or   her   successor   anyone   he   or   she   so   desired,   whether   that   person   was   a   member   or   relative   of   the   Romanov   dynasty   or   not.  It  placed  no  limitations  on  the  choice  of  successor,  and  it  essentially  cre-­‐‑ ated  for  the  first  time  a  true  autocratic  regime  in  Russia,  where  even  the  suc-­‐‑ cession   was   in   the   hands   of   the   ruler—“a   prerogative,”   in   Anthony   Lentin’s   words,  “claimed  by  no  other  contemporary  monarch.”1                                                                                                                               1  A.   Lentin,   ed.   and   trans.,   Peter   the   Great:   His   Law   on   the   Imperial   Succession   in   Russia   1722—The   Official   Commentary   (Pravda   Voli   Monarshei)   (Oxford:   Plantagenet   Press,   1996),   22.   For   Peter   I’s   law   of   succession,   see   Polnoe   sobranie   zakonov   Rossiiskoi   imperii   (PSZ),   series   1,   vol.   6,   496–97   (no.   3593)   (5   February   1722).   On   succession   systems   before  Peter’s  law,  see  Peter  Nitsche,  Grossfürst  und  Thronfolger:  Die  Nachfolgepolitik  der   Moskauer   Herrscher   bis   zum   Ende   des   Rjurikidenhauses   (Cologne:   Böhlau   Verlag,   1979);   Nancy   Shields   Kollmann,   “Collateral   Succession   in   Kievan   Rus’,”   Harvard   Ukrainian   Studies  14,  no.  3–4  (1990):  377–87;  Sergei  Bogatyrev,  “Reinventing  the  Russian  Monar-­‐‑ chy   in   the   1550s:   Ivan   the   Terrible,   the   Dynasty,   and   the   Church,”   Slavonic   and   East   European   Review   85,   no.   2   (April   2007):   271–93;   Russell   E.   Martin,   A   Bride   for   the   Tsar:   Bride-­‐‑Shows  and  Marriage  Politics  in  Early  Modern  Russia  (DeKalb:  Northern  Illinois  Uni-­‐‑ versity   Press,   2012),   esp.   chap.   3;   and   Donald   Ostrowski,   “Systems   of   Succession   in   Rus’   and   Steppe   Societies”   (unpublished   manuscript).   See   also,   more   generally,  Janet   Martin,   Medieval   Russia,   980–1584,   2nd   ed.   (Cambridge:   Cambridge   University   Press,   2008).   On   the   problem   of   laws   of   succession   generally,   see,   for   a   start,   the   following:   Andrew  W.  Lewis,  Royal  Succession  in  Capetian  France:  Studies  on  Familial  Order  and  the   State  (Cambridge,  MA:  Harvard  University  Press,  1982);  Lewis,  “Anticipatory  Associa-­‐‑ tion  of  the  Heir  in  Early  Capetian  France,”  American  Historical  Review  83,  no.  4  (October   1978):   906–27;   Ralph   E.   Giesey,   “The   Juristic   Basis   of   Dynastic   Right   to   the   French  

Dubitando: Studies in History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski. Brian J. Boeck, Russell E. Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds. Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2012, 225–42.

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Seventy-­‐‑five  years  later,  on  5  April  1797,  Peter  I’s  great-­‐‑grandson,  Paul  I   (1796–1801)  issued  a  new  law  of  succession.  It  provided  a  clear  system  of  male   primogeniture,   but   also   contained   provisions   for   succession   to   and   through   female  dynasts  in  the  event  of  the  extinction  of  the  male  line,  as  well  as  other   provisions   necessary   to   any   stable   dynastic   regime:   provisions   for   regencies;   for  an  official  age  of  majority  of  junior  members  of  the  dynasty;  for  the  distri-­‐‑ bution  of  titles,  ranks,  and  pensions;  and  provisions  for  the  regulation  of  mar-­‐‑ riages  among  Paul  I’s  descendants.  Most  importantly,  it  stated  that  “the  heir   should   be   determined   by   the   law   itself,”   not   the   current   occupant   of   the   throne.2  Thus,  the  Pauline  law  was  in  a  very  real  sense  the  first  formal,  legal   limitation   of   monarchical   power   in   modern   Russian   history,   taking   the   suc-­‐‑ cession   out   of   the   ruler’s   hands   and   putting   it   firmly   and   irrevocably   in   the   “law   itself.”   The   Pauline  Law  of  Succession  (Zakon  o  prestolonasledii)—and   its   accompanying   Statute   on   the   Imperial   Family   (Uchrezhdenie   ob   Impera-­‐‑ torskoi   familii),   issued   on   the   same   day   as   the   Law   of   Succession—replaced   and   improved   the   Petrine   law,   which   had   only   created   confusion   over   the   succession,   not   clarity   and   stability.3   Paul   I’s   Law   and   Statute   provided   that   clarity  and  stability—both  edicts  remaining  in  force  until  the  end  of  the  Rus-­‐‑ sian  Empire,  and  even  today  regulating  the  titles  and  relationships  among  the   remnant  members  and  descendants  of  the  House  of  Romanov.4   The   shortcomings   in   Peter   I’s   law   of   succession   were   clear   to   many   well   before   Paul   I   came   along   and   fixed   things.   In   1727,   Catherine   I   (1725–1727),                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Throne,”  Transactions  of  the  American  Philosophical  Society  60,  pt.  5  (1961):  1–47;  Howard   Nenner,  The  Right  to  Be  King:  The  Succession  to  the  Crown  of  England,  1603–1714  (Chapel   Hill,  University  of  North  Carolina  Press,  1995);  and  François  R.  Velde’s  useful  website   on  royal  succession  (and  other  related  topics):  http://www.heraldica.org/topics/ royalty/.   2  PSZ,  series  1,  vol.  6,  588  (no.  17.910)  (5  April  1797).     3  The   Pauline   Law   of   Succession:   PSZ,   series   1,   vol.   24,   587–89   (no.   17.910)   (5   April   1797).  The  Statute  on  the  Imperial  Family:  PSZ,  series  1,  vol.  24,  525–69  (no.  17.906)  (5   April  1797).  On  how  these  two  legal  acts  worked  together  to  produce  a  coherent  law  of   succession  and  regulation  of  the  House  of  Romanov  in  the  19th  and  20th  centuries,  see   Russell   Е.   Martin,   “‘For   the   Firm   Maintenance   of   the   Dignity   and   Tranquility   of   the   Imperial  Family’:  Law  and  Familial  Order  in  the  Romanov  Dynasty,”  Russian  History   37,   no.   4   (2010):   389–411;   and   Richard   S.   Wortman,   “The   Russian   Imperial   Family   as   Symbol,”  in  Imperial  Russia:  New  Histories  for  the  Empire,  ed.  Jane  Burbank  and  David  L.   Ransel  (Bloomington:  Indiana  University  Press,  1998),  60–86.   4  See  Stanislav  Vladimirovich  Dumin,  Romanovy:  Imperatorskii  dom  v  izgnanii  (Moscow:   Zakharov   AST,   1998);   Archbishop   John   (Maksimovich),   Proiskhozhdenie   zakona   o   pres-­‐‑ tolonasledii  v  Rossii  (Shanghai:  Izd.  Russkogo  Prosvetitel’nogo  Komiteta  v  g.  Shankhae,   1936;   repr.,   Podol’sk:   n.p.,   1994);   B.   Nol’de,   “Zakony   osnovnye   v   russkom   prave,”   Pravo,  no.  8  (1913):  447–61,  and  no.  9  (1913):  524–41.  On  the  Pauline  Law  of  Succession   and   Statute   on   the   Imperial   Family   today,   see   Brien   Horan,   “The   Russian   Imperial   Succession,”   http://www.chivalricorders.org/royalty/gotha/russuclw.htm   (accessed   20   October   2011).  For  a  competent  but  contrasting  view,  see  Mikhail  Nazarov,  Kto  naslednik  Rossii-­‐‑ skogo  Prestola  (Moscow:  Russkaia  ideia,  1998).  

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Peter  I’s  wife  and  successor,  wrote  (or,  more  likely,  had  written  for  her)  a  will   that  plotted  out  the  succession  after  her  death  in  a  regularized  way,  tracing  a   course   for   the   succession   that   generally   matched   the   course   the   succession   would   follow   according   to   a   primogeniturial   system.5   The   will   limited   the   succession  to  the  line  of  the  Romanov  dynasty  descending  from  Tsar  Aleksei   Mikhailovich  (1645–76)  and  his  second  wife,  Natal’ia  Naryshkina,  the  mother   of  Peter  the  Great.  Later,  on  2–4  November  1741,  Andrei  Ivanovich  Osterman,   Count   Gavriil   Ivanovich   Golovkin,   Prince   Aleksei   Mikhailovich   Cherkasskii,   and  Archbishop  Amvrosii  (Iushkevych)  of  Novgorod  held  a  series  of  discus-­‐‑ sions  aimed  at  more  concretely  specifying  the  system  of  succession,  especially   in  the  female  line  descending  from  Ivan  V  (1682–96),  and  drawing  on  exam-­‐‑ ples   in   the   ruling   dynasties   of   Denmark,   England,   Spain,   and   Portugal.6   In   both  1725  and  1741,  the  goal  was  to  alter  Peter  I’s  law  into  a  predictable  and   stable   rubric   that   would   limit   the   succession   to   one   or   the   other   of   the   two   branches  of  the  dynasty—the  Miloslavskii  or  Naryshkin  lines.  Both  attempts,   however,  came  to  nothing.   The   most   important   and   most   promising   (albeit   also   failed)   attempt   to   create   a   new   and   viable   system   of   succession   was   undertaken   by   Empress   Catherine   II   the   Great   (1762–96).   On   three   occasions—in   1766–67,   1785,   and   1787—Catherine   II   wrote   draft   laws   of   succession,   each   more   expanded   and   detailed  than  the  one  before.  Like  the  attempts  to  establish  a  system  of  succes-­‐‑ sion   in   1727   and   1741,   none   of   these   plans   would   ever   be   promulgated,   but   they   are   enormously   important   in   the   history   of   the   Russian   monarchy’s   at-­‐‑ tempt  in  the  18th  century  to  root  itself  firmly  in  law,  displaying  what  Richard   Wortman   has   described   as   Russian   “legal   consciousness.”7   The   three   draft   laws  identified  and  defined  many  of  the  key  requirements  for  any  law  of  suc-­‐‑ cession,  such  as  the  rules  for  the  transference  of  the  imperial  title  (in  this  case,   by  primogeniture),  regencies,  age  of  majority,  honors  and  titles,  and  dynastic   marriage.   The   projects   thus   became   a   space   for   discourse   not   only   on   the   problem  of  the  Russian  succession,  but  for  legality  and  the  rule  of  law,  gener-­‐‑ ally.  Finally,  Catherine  II’s  draft  laws  of  succession  constitute  a  moment  in  the   struggle   between   the   Miloslavskii   and   Naryshkin   branches   of   the   Romanov                                                                                                                             5  See   Russkii   gosudarstvennyi   arkhiv   drevnikh   aktov   (RGADA),   f.   2,   d.   21;   and   PSZ,   series   1,   vol.   8,   790   (no.   5070)   (7   May   1727).   On   this   will,   see   O.   A.   Omel’chenko,   “Stanovlenie  zakonodatel’nogo  regulirovaniia  prestolonaslediia  v  Rossiiskoi  imperii,”   Themis:  Yearbook  of  the  History  of  Law  and  Jurisprudence  7  (2006):  15–54,  esp.  36–38;  Gary   Marker,   Imperial   Saint:   The   Cult   of   St.   Catherine   and   the   Dawn   of   Female   Rule   in   Russia   (DeKalb:   Northern   Illinois   University   Press,   2007),   218–19;   and   Evgenii   Viktorovich   Anisimov,  Elizaveta  Petrovna  (Moscow:  Molodaia  gvardiia,  1999),  97.   6  RGADA  f.  2,  d.  55.   7  Richard  Wortman,  “Russian  Monarchy  and  the  Rule  of  Law:  New  Considerations  of   the   Court   Reform   of   1864,”   Kritika   6,   no.   1   (Winter   2005):   145–70;   and   Wortman,   The   Development   of   a   Russian   Legal   Consciousness   (Chicago:   University   of   Chicago   Press,   1976).  

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dynasty   in   that   they   grappled   with   the   concept   of   an   “emperor-­‐‑progenitor”   (imperator-­‐‑rodonachal’nik)   and,   consequently,   a   concept   of   an   imperial   family   itself—concepts   that   would   be   strongly   emphasized   later   in   Paul   I’s   Law   of   Succession   and   Statute   on   the   Imperial   Family   in   1797.   In   other   words,   the   feud  between  the  two  branches  of  the  family  became,  in  essence,  a  feud  over   who  was  to  be  reckoned  as  the  emperor-­‐‑progenitor—Ivan  V,  Peter  I,  or  Cath-­‐‑ erine  II.  Thus  the  various  legal  projects  in  the  18th  century—from  Peter  I’s  ill-­‐‑ conceived   non-­‐‑law   of   succession   (in   1722),   to   the   last   of   Catherine   II’s   three   projects   (in   1787)—were   drafted,   discussed,   and   ultimately   dismissed   in   the   context   of   a   family   rift   that   went   back   more   than   a   century   and   that   conse-­‐‑ quently   transcends   the   so-­‐‑called   Petrine   divide.8   Placing   Catherine   II’s   draft   laws   of   succession   in   the   context   of   this   family   feud—a   longer,   Muscovite   context—helps   to   identify   the   ways   that   general   European   notions   of   lawful   monarchical  government  emerged  in,  and  blended  with,  an  indigenous  Mus-­‐‑ covite  political  culture  that  was  rooted  in  kinship  and  marriage  politics.   A Tale of Two Families In   his   important   study   of   the   marriages   of   the   first   three   generations   of   Ro-­‐‑ manov  tsars,  John  LeDonne  showed  that  “the  families  of  the  first  two  wives  of   Tsars   Mikhail,   Aleksei   and   Peter   on   the   one   hand,   and   those   of   the   second   wives   of   Tsar   Mikhail   and   Aleksei   on   the   other,   formed   the   core   of   two   ex-­‐‑ tended  political  families.”9  These  two  “extended  political  families”—the  Dol-­‐‑ gorukovs,  Miloslavskiis,  and  Lopukhins,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  Streshnevs   and  Naryshkins,  on  the  other—formed  in  the  17th  century,  but  their  influence   and   favored   positions   in   the   central   and   provincial   administrations   only   in-­‐‑ creased   as   the   rulers   in   the   18th   century   abjured   marriage   for   the   most   part,   leaving   the   members   of   these   families   as   the   only   royal   in-­‐‑laws   around,   and   therefore  the  only  Russian  elite  families  with  any  kinship  ties  to  the  dynasty.   The   enmity   between   these   two   branches   of   the   Romanov   extended   family   came  to  a  boiling  point  on  the  death  of  Tsar  Fedor  Alekseevich  in  1682,  when   candidates   for   the   throne   from   both   factions—Ivan   V   (of   the   Dolgorukov-­‐‑ Miloslavskii-­‐‑Lopukhin   faction)   and   Peter   I   (of   the   Streshnev-­‐‑Naryshkin   fac-­‐‑ tion)—were,  after  a  moment  of  hesitancy,  placed  on  the  throne  together  as  co-­‐‑ tsars,  with  their  elder  sibling,  Sofiia  Alekseevna,  serving  as  regent  (see  Table   1,  opposite).10                                                                                                                             8

 On  the  Petrine  Divide,  see  Russell  E.  Martin,  “The  Petrine  Divide  and  the  Periodiza-­‐‑ tion  of  Early  Modern  Russian  History,”  Slavic  Review  69,  no.  2  (Summer  2010):  410–25.   9  John  P.  LeDonne,  “Ruling  Families  in  the  Russian  Political  Order,  1689–1825.  Part  I:   The  Petrine  Leadership,  1689–1724;  Part  II:  The  Ruling  Families,  1725–1825,”  Cahiers  du   Monde  russe  et  soviétique  28,  no.  3–4  (July–December  1987):  233–322,  here  234.   10  The   best   treatments   of   this   period   and   these   issues   are   the   most   recent   ones:   Paul   Bushkovitch,  Peter  the  Great:  The  Struggle  for  Power,  1671–1725  (Cambridge:  Cambridge  

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Peter  I’s  1722  Law  of  Succession  should  be  evaluated  in  the  context  of  this   Romanov  family  feud.  Traditionally,  the  1722  law  has  often  been  understood   as  a  moment  in  the  story  of  the  fitful  relationship  between  Peter  the  Great  and   his   son   from   his   first   marriage,   Aleksei   Petrovich.   And   for   good   reason:   In   1718,   Peter   the   Great   found   ample   cause   to   disinherit,   try   and   convict,   and   then  cause  the  death  of  his  son  and  heir  presumptive.  The  betrayal  of  Tsare-­‐‑ vich   Aleksei   is   prominently   mentioned   in   Peter’s   Law—his   “wickedness”   is   likened   to   that   of   Absalom,   the   treasonous   son   of   the   biblical   King   David   (2   Sam.   13–18)—and   the   tsarevich’s   inadequacies   are   enumerated   at   length   in   Feofan  Prokopovich’s  pæan  to  the  Law,  the  Pravda  voli  monarshei,  as  a  justifi-­‐‑ cation  for  adopting  the  new  Petrine  rule  of  succession.11  Still,  James  Cracraft   is   probably   right   in   suggesting   that   the   Petrine   Law   is   better   thought   of   as   relating  to  the  feud  between  the  two  branches  of  the  Romanov  dynasty,  Milo-­‐‑ slavskii  and  Naryshkin,  than  to  the  Tsarevich  Aleksei  affair.12  As  Cracraft  put   it,       In   the   absence   of   a   succession   law,   a   dynastic   feud   broke   out   in   the   1680s  between  the  relatives  and  supporters  of  the  late  Tsar  Aleksei’s   two   wives.…   Peter’s   solution   to   the   dynastic   crisis,   and   to   the   per-­‐‑ ceived  shortcomings  more  generally  of  the  political  system  that  he  in-­‐‑ herited  in  stages  (death  of  his  elder  half-­‐‑brother,  Tsar  Fedor,  in  1682;   deposition   of   his   half-­‐‑sister,   the   regent   Sofia,   in   1689;   death   of   his   other   half-­‐‑brother   and   co-­‐‑tsar,   Ivan   V,   in   1694;   death   of   his   mother,   Tsaritsa  Natalia,  in  1696),  was  to  lay  down  a  succession  law.13     In  other  words,  the  feud  between  the  two  branches  of  the  Romanov  dynasty   was   fueled   by   the   lack   of   clarity   about   who   the   next   ruler   was   to   be   after   Peter.     Peter’s  Law  eliminated  the  need  for  an  emperor-­‐‑progenitor  and,  in  effect,   abolished   the   notion   of   the   dynasty.   The   relevant   portion   of   the   Law   reads   that  “we  have  thought  fit  to  lay  down  this  statue,  whereby  it  should  always   be  in  the  power  of  the  reigning  monarch  to  appoint  whomsoever  he  wishes  as   his  successor;  and  if  he  sees  any  fault  in  him  whom  he  has  appointed,  to  re-­‐‑ voke  the  succession.”14  In  fact,  Peter  I  believed  that  it  was  “the  old  custom  of                                                                                                                             11

 See   Lentin,   Peter   the   Great;   and   James   Cracraft,   “Did   Feofan   Prokopovitch   Really   Write  Pravda  voli  monarshei?”  Slavic  Review  40,  no.  2  (Summer  1991):  173–93.   12  The  best  treatment  of  the  affair  remains  Paul  Bushkovitch,  “Aristocratic  Faction  and   the   Opposition   to   Peter   the   Great:   The   1690’s,”   Forschungen   zur   osteuropäischen   Ge-­‐‑ schichte  50  (1995):  80–120.  See  also  his  Peter  the  Great,  339–425.   13  James  Cracraft,  The  Petrine  Revolution  in  Russian  Culture  (Cambridge,  MA:  The  Belk-­‐‑ nap  Press  of  Harvard  University  Press,  2004),  157.   14  PSZ,  series  1,  vol.  6,  496  (no.  3593)  (5  February  1722).  This  translation  is  taken  from   Lentin,  Peter  the  Great,  131.  

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granting  the  succession  to  the  eldest  son”  that  was  at  heart  to  blame  for  Alek-­‐‑ sei’s  treachery  because,  as  history  had  shown,  this  “old  custom”  served  only   to   foster   a   lackadaisical   attitude   toward   duty   and   a   penchant   for   rebellion   among  royal  heirs,  like  his  son.15     But   then,   there   is   law   and   there   is   the   application   of   law.   Of   the   seven   sovereigns   between   Peter   I’s   death   in   1725   and   Paul   I’s   promulgation   of   his   new  Law  of  Succession  on  5  April  1797  (the  day  of  his  coronation),  only  three   Russian  rulers  actually  named  their  heirs  in  accordance  with  the  Petrine  Law:   Anna  Ioannovna  (1730–40),  who  selected  her  grand-­‐‑nephew,  Ivan  VI  Antono-­‐‑ vich   (1740–41);   Elizabeth   Petrovna   (1741–62),   who   selected   her   nephew   Karl   Pieter   Ulrich,   or   Peter   III;   and   Catherine   II   the   Great,   who   selected   her   son,   Paul  I.16  The  other  four  transitions  of  power  came  after  coups  (Elizabeth  suc-­‐‑ ceeding  Ivan  VI,  Catherine  II  succeeding  Peter  III)  or  at  the  whim  of  the  court   elite   (Catherine   I   succeeding   Peter   I,   Peter   II   succeeding   Catherine   I).   Thus,   the  Petrine  Law  never  took  the  crown  outside  the  lineage  of  the  Romanov  dy-­‐‑ nasty,  but  it  did  permit  the  contest  between  the  two  branches  of  the  dynasty,   Miloslavskii   and   Naryshkin   (represented   by   Anna   Ioannovna   and   Ivan   VI,   and   by   Catherine   I,   Peter   II,   Peter   III,   and   Catherine   II,   respectively)   to   con-­‐‑ tinue  (see  again  Table  1,  p.