The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland: History versus Geography 9780228013068

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Acknowledgments

the ukrainian-russian borderland

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Intoxicating Histories Series Editors: Virginia Berridge and Erika Dyck Whether on the street, off the shelf, or over the pharmacy counter, interactions with drugs and alcohol are shaped by contested ideas about addiction, healing, pleasure, and vice and their social dimensions. Books in this series explore how people around the world have consumed, created, traded, and regulated psychoactive substances throughout history. The series connects research on legal and illegal drugs and alcohol with diverse areas of historical inquiry, including the histories of medicine, pharmacy, consumption, trade, law, social policy, and popular culture. Its reach is global and includes scholarship on all periods. Intoxicating Histories aims to link these different pasts as well as to inform the present by providing a firmer grasp on contemporary debates and policy issues. We welcome books, whether scholarly monographs or shorter texts for a broad audience focusing on a particular phenomenon or substance, that alter the state of knowledge.

1 Taming Cannabis Drugs and Empire in Nineteenth-Century France David A. Guba, Jr 2 Cigarette Nation Business, Health, and Canadian Smokers, 1930–1975 Daniel J. Robinson 3 Remedicalising Cannabis Science, Industry, and Drug Policy Suzanne Taylor 4 Mixing Medicines The Global Drug Trade and Early Modern Russia Clare Griffin

preface

The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland History versus Geography

volodymyr V. kravchenko

McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston • London • Chicago

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preface

© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2022 ISBN 978-0-2280-1199-6 (cloth) ISBN 978-0-2280-1306-8 (epdf) ISBN 978-0-2280-1307-5 (epub) Legal deposit third quarter 2022 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: The Ukrainian-Russian borderland : history versus geography / Volodymyr Kravchenko. Names: Kravchenko, V. V. (Vladimir Vasilʹevich), 1957– author. Description: Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220201021 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220201064 | isbn 9780228011996 (cloth) | isbn 9780228013068 (epdf) | isbn 9780228013075 (epub) Subjects: lcsh: Ukraine—Historical geography. | lcsh: Russia (Federation)— Historical geography. | lcsh: Ukraine—Boundaries—Russia (Federation) | lcsh: Russia (Federation)—Boundaries—Ukraine. Classification: lcc dk508.157 .k73 2022 | ddc 947.7—dc23

This book was typeset by True to Type in 11.5/14 Arno Pro

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Contents

Contents

Figures vii Acknowledgments ix Note on Transliteration xi Introduction 3 part one: Ukraine in the Symbolic Space of the Russian Empire 1

In Search of “Ukraine”: Words and Meanings 17 2 “Malorossiia”: A Missing Link in Ukrainian National Development? 47 3 Nikolai/Mykola Markevych: A Historiographer of Little Russia (1804–1860) 79

part two: Sloboda Ukraine: A Regional Dimension of Ukrainian Nation-Building 4

Sloboda Ukraine: A Borderland Region 113 5 Kharkiv as a Borderland City 141 6 A University for Ukraine 170 Conclusion 205 Notes 211 Bibliography 251 Index 303

Acknowledgments

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Acknowledgments

Figures

1.1 2.1 3.1 4.1 5.1 6.1

Ukraine 1740 Cossack map 37 Map of Dnieper Ukraine, circa 1850 59 Mykola Markevych (1804–1860) 84 Sloboda Ukraine map 118 Kharkiv Derzhprom building 155 Kharkiv University 173

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Acknowledgments

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Acknowledgments

Acknowledgments

I am deeply grateful to those individuals and institutions whose assistance and support allowed me to bring this project to completion. Marta Olynyk began the translation of the manuscript, which went through several subsequent changes. Ksenia Lena Maryniak translated the essay on Nikolai/ Mykola Markevych and helped me to handle all notes and the bibliography. The translation and editing of the book before it went to the press was done mainly by Myroslav Yurkevich, whose help was crucial to its publication. Richard Ratzlaff patiently assisted me in the long process of improving the manuscript. He initiated a discussion on its preliminary version that brought together distinguished scholars: Maciej Janowski, Krzysztof Łazarski, Tomasz Hen-Konarski, and Yaroslav Hrytsak. Their criticism reminded me that the way back from my protracted sojourn in the administrative “cold” to the world of ideas and texts could be long indeed. Frank Sysyn read part of the manuscript and accepted one of its chapters for initial publication. I am also grateful to both my reviewers, whose comments were taken into account in the final version of the manuscript. Needless to say, I am solely responsible for all remaining errors and shortcomings. I owe special thanks to Mr Andrii Mokrousov, director of the Krytyka Press publishing house, for permission to use some of my earlier essays and to the University of Toronto Press and Professor Paul Robert Magocsi for granting permission to reprint three published maps. I also owe a debt of gratitude to those institutions and people whose generous support covered expenses related to the preparation of the manuscript for publication: the Kowalsky Program of the Canadian Institute of Ukrainian Studies and Ms Maria Diakonow. My special thanks go to the Alberta Society for the Advancement of Ukrainian Studies (ASAUS) and its president, Oleksandr Pankieiev.

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Acknowledgments

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Notes on Transliteration

In the text of this book, a modified form of the Library of Congress system is used to transliterate Ukrainian and Russian personal names and place-names. This system seeks to ease reading by avoiding non-English vowel combinations, diacritics, and word endings. Consequently, initial iotated vowels are rendered with a “y” (e.g., Yaroslav, Yurii, not Iaroslav, Iurii); the soft sign (ь) is omitted; and, in masculine personal surnames, the final “й” is not transliterated (e.g., Khmelnytsky, not Khmelnytskyi). Bibliographic references, however, are rendered in the full Library of Congress system (ligatures omitted) in order to make possible the accurate reconstruction of the Cyrillic original. The ALA-ALAC Romanization Tables detailing the Library of Congress transliteration of various languages are available online at www.loc.gov./catdir/cpso/roman.html.

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the ukrainian-russian borderland

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On the House

The Backstory

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Introduction

The idea for this book came to me around 2012, when I accepted an offer to become director of the Canadian Institute of Ukrainian Studies and professor in the Department of History and Classics at the University of Alberta in Edmonton. I came to Edmonton from Kharkiv with the intention of updating and translating Ukrainian-language articles published by the Kyiv-based Krytyka Press.1 That plan was suggested and supported by my Canadian and American colleagues and friends. The collection was not published during my time in office for two main reasons. First, a “Ukrainian turn” took place in the field of Russian, post-Soviet, and East European studies.2 The Russian annexation of the Crimea and the ensuing military conflict over the Donbas in 2014 not only dramatically changed Russo-Ukrainian relations but also affected the entire system of professional knowledge about them. The ongoing Russo-Ukrainian conflict ignited a veritable information explosion concerning the two countries’ relations in time and space. Thousands of new texts and competing interpretations produced by analysts involved in post-2014 developments to a greater or lesser degree required time to comprehend. Second, I realized the need to rewrite texts written previously in Ukrainian and addressed to a Ukrainian readership. Had I become “lost in translation,” I would have continued rethinking and rewriting my texts after the example of Balzac’s Master Frenhofer, but the need for formal reporting about my accomplishments to those who kindly and generously invested in this project made that impossible. Consequently, what was planned as a collection of articles began to resemble a monograph, each chapter of which was substantially reworked or written anew.

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

In this book, I concentrate on topics related to entangled Ukrainian-Russian history and shared geography.3 Accordingly, the book consists of two parts, with the first concentrating on history and the second on geography. In the first part, I discuss problems of historical terminology, as well as the Little Russian discourse of identity in the context of modern nation-building. In the second part, I deal with the history of the border region of Sloboda Ukraine in the context of imperial modernization and mental re-mapping of its space by focusing on the city of Kharkiv and Kharkiv University. Chronologically, the book covers a period from the late eighteenth century to the beginning of the twenty-first, with the main part focused on the Russian imperial period. The problem of Ukrainian-Russian relations is not purely academic: in many cases, those who study it are deeply involved observers. The author of this book is no exception. As William Edgerton put it more than forty years ago, the so-called “Ukrainian Question” is the most perplexing of the many controversies and conflicts among the Slavic peoples: “On this question, among scholars of Russian and Ukrainian background alike, and even among scholars who have no Slavic ethnic heritage at all, dispassionate objectivity is almost as scarce as hens’ teeth. Almost, but not quite.”4 Nowadays, when the ongoing Ukrainian-Russian conflict has brought the world to the brink of a new “Cold” or even “hot” War, this somewhat sarcastic conclusion is more than relevant. Formally, Ukraine and Russia are two independent and equal states with all the attributes and national institutions pertaining thereto. Yet their relations are particularly asymmetrical in character: it is Russia that plays the dominant role in the Russo-Ukrainian dialogue. On the one hand, positioning vis-à-vis Russia might be considered the most important component of modern Ukrainian nation-state–building. On the other hand, Ukraine is important for Russia to maintain its imperial status. In fact, both peoples used to identify themselves in opposition to each other while “nationalizing” a common historical legacy and nested symbolic geography. Both of them have contributed to the process of shaping and re-shaping the post-communist European landscape. The title of the book suggests the centrality of the concept of a borderland in Ukrainian history. The name “Ukraine” was originally applied to a “borderland.” Despite the fact that “Ukraine” gradually acquired additional (ethnic, national, and political) meanings, the original name left its imprint on Ukrainian history as a whole. Until the twentieth century, Ukrainian space

Introduction

5

was not consolidated. It existed in the form of a conglomerate of historical regions incorporated in the neighbouring Romanov and Habsburg empires. Every Ukrainian region became “the peripheries of several nations, which themselves were civilizational peripheries of the West.”5 After the integration of the principal Ukrainian lands into the Russian Empire, there emerged a huge contact zone of Russo-Ukrainian socio-cultural interaction. It became a space of intense inter-national dialogue that crossed the geographic borders of historical regions and extended into the next two centuries. This space can serve as a perfect model for studying the concept of a cultural borderland.6 Attempts to consolidate the fragmented Ukrainian borderland turned it into an object of rivalry between imperial and national projects of modernization. As Johann Arnason has stressed, “the reemergence of Ukraine on the map of Europe is a major event, significant enough to prompt rethinking of some broader issues concerning Europe, its internal divisions and its boundaries.”7 The eastern edge of Europe has always been in a state of flux, involved in a process of permanent re-identification and renaming. It has therefore been difficult to find a stable designation for that territory.8 “Eastern Europe,” “Slavic,” “Russia,” “Soviet,” or just “New” are some of the terms that have been applied to it over the centuries. Such a changing geopolitical and geocultural environment has long been denominated by and divided between supranational imperial powers, among which Russia remained the most important.9

Part One: Ukraine in the Symbolic Space of the Russian Empire In the Ukrainian grand narrative, the Russian Empire is most often cast in a negative light through a dual optic of victimization and heroization: in the first instance, it is accompanied by the metaphor of “lost time” (Mykhailo Drahomanov); in the second, by that of “national renaissance” (Mykhailo Hrushevsky), which was often presented in terms of national resistance. These interpretations have become dominant in post-Soviet Ukrainian discourse.10 Contrary to this, in the post-Soviet Russian narrative, the Russian Empire has been re-imagined as the “Golden Age” of national history and the only viable alternative to the Soviet model.11 In current Western historiography, Ukrainian-Russian relations during the “long” nineteenth century are explored more often in terms of the “imperial” and “national” dichotomy.12

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

In this book, I approach the Russian imperial phenomenon through the prism of modernization as being implemented and conducted by multi-ethnic imperial elites under the influence of the European Enlightenment. That model became attractive to the local elites of the newly incorporated lands. For many of them, it opened up new opportunities to make a successful carreer and re-establish their privileged social status. Thus, many of the former Cossack Ukrainian elites became enthusiastic co-builders of empire rather than fighters for sovereignty. Roman Szporluk identified two camps in Russian politics and culture during the last years of the USSR, which he called “empire-savers” and “nationbuilders.”13 I believe his observation may be applied not only to the “sovereign” but also to the “stateless” peoples on the eastern periphery of Europe, including the Ukrainians. Ukrainian elites were divided in their attitude toward imperial integration.14 However, in the Ukrainian case, the imperial loyalists and the “nation-builders” did not oppose each other. The imperial patriotism of Ukrainian elites did not contradict their early modern national identity based on social and territorial principles. The contradictory and sometimes paradoxical nature of modern Ukrainian nation-building could hardly escape the notice of historians, but they found it hard to conceptualize this distinguishing feature. Hugh SetonWatson concluded that the Ukrainians had “all the conditions for a separate nation” but found it puzzling that “the consciousness of being a nation was not yet developed, and has only been retrospectively attributed to them by the Ukrainian nationalists of a later age.”15 According to him, “many students of Russian history have expressed, and some even still express, doubt as to whether the Ukrainians are a nation or not.”16 The process of modern nation-building in the Slavic Orthodox world reflected the process of selective and shallow Westernization of the lands and peoples east of the Elbe River. It affected the upper part of their social hierarchy but hardly touched the main foundation of the Old Regime with its social, legal, and political institutions. Various scenarios of the “construction, deconstruction, and reformulation of identities” have come to the fore in different parts of this space, leading scholars to examine “all the ambiguities of national, international, transnational, and subnational issues” that developed in the course of interaction between neighbouring peoples, Ukrainians and Russians in particular.17 I subscribe to the notion that the process of making a new nation is an aspect of the remaking of the old

Introduction

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nation.18 The latter, however, does not disappear without a trace; it can successfully adapt to the new political and cultural environment, often hiding behind terminological camouflage.

Terminology and Identity “For anyone writing about Ukraine, language is always a problem. Not the Ukrainian that is favoured in the west of the country, nor the Russian that is still spoken in the east, but the language used to describe the country’s politics. The usual terms simply do not apply.”19 “Ukrainian-Russian” terminology sometimes imposes anachronistic notions of nationhood on periods in which modern Russian and Ukrainian national identities did not yet exist. It does not reflect the composite, highly heterogeneous, and changing nature of their transitional and hybrid identities. I shall use the terms Slavic-Rus'/Russian/all-Russian interchangeably with reference to what is considered the overarching imperial discourse of identity and the terms Little Russian/Malorossian as well as Great Russian/Velikorossian with reference to modern ethnocultural, secular components of identity discourse. However, the retrospective “nationalization” of Ukrainian-Russian historical relations cannot be avoided entirely. It sometimes compels me to use “Russian” and “Great Russian” interchangeably. “Ukrainian” terminology is used with reference to modern national discourse, which emerged in the 1840s. Parallel to this, I use “Ukrainian” to include both “Little Russian/Malorossian” and early “Ukrainian” discourses, which obviously reveals my own identity as a Ukrainian scholar. In this book, I consider Ukrainian-Russian relations of the imperial era mainly through the prism of the formation and interaction of various identity discourses, including “all-Russian” or “Slavic-Rus'”; “Great Russian,” “Little Russian,” and “Ukrainian.” I use “identity” as a discursive construct that takes “different shapes according to the context and to the public in which they emerge.”20 Identities are “constructed according to audience, setting, topic and substantive content.”21 In this case, I prefer the rhetoric of “reinvention” to that of “revival” or “birth of a nation,” following Andreas Suter, who suggests that the “invention of tradition” (Eric Hobsbawm) must always be seen within a “tradition of invention.”22 Such a tradition requires a reshuffling of previously “invented” components of collective identity into a new combination acceptable to society.

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

The composite and ambiguous nature of “all-Russian” religious/imperial identity discourse based on the Kyivan Synopsis of 1674 has played a fundamental role in the modern nation-building process of the East Slavic peoples.23 It has survived not only the Russian Empire but the Soviet Union as well. To describe it, I will use “Slavic-Rus'/all-Russian” definitions interchangeably. It combined religious and secular components, which makes it difficult to escape complex terminology. Some scholars, instead, employ the “family” metaphor in translating the specific character of relations within the “Slavic-Rus'-Russian-Little Russian-Great Russian” conglomerate.24 I also shall permit myself recourse to a metaphor and compare the “SlavicRus'/all-Russian” pre-modern identity with an iceberg gradually melting under the impact of Westernization. In characterizing this “iceberg,” I think it feasible to use a definition of “imperial nationalism” that avoids contrasting “imperial” and “national” identities.25 The gradual secularization and further “nationalization” of the “Slavic-Rus'” discourse gave new life to the local discourses of “Russianness.” 26 Of these, the Great Russian and Little Russian regional discourses became the main contenders for the “Slavic-Rus'” historical legacy. Great Russian/Velikorossian ethnocultural discourse has often been confused with Rossiia, and the two designations have been used interchangeably. In this book, the ethnocultural designation Velikorossiia (Great Russia) is treated as a modern phenomenon as opposed to the religiously based Rus' and/or the imperial-dynastic Rossiia.27 When imperial Russian nationalism began to yield to Great Russian (Velikorusskii) discourse, it led to a cultural “divorce” between modern Ukrainian and Russian intellectuals. But that process has never been completed. Under the pressure of both Orthodox Rus' and imperial Rossiia, Velikorossiia never fully developed as a modern national designation.

“Little Russia” vs “Ukraine” The Little Russian phenomenon, contrary to its Great Russian counterpart, looks much more controversial. Passionate debates over the meaning of “Little Russia” reflected the vagaries of modern Ukrainian nation-building during and after the breakup of the Russian Empire.28 At best it was considered a hidden, disguised, or dormant identity; at worst it was treated as a deviation, a complex of national and cultural inferiority imposed on Ukrainians by imperial Russia. Many historians have been reluctant to dwell on it, whether for reasons of political correctness or out of a conviction that Little Russian

Introduction

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identity was a thoroughly antiquated and obsolete product of imperial Russian policy toward Ukraine. Only gradually, the Little Russian discourse became an object of scholarly studies whose authors tried to discern its nature instead of condemning it.29 The Harvard school of Ukrainian studies made a substantial contribution to the notion that there was no interruption in the Ukrainian historical process after the incorporation of the former Cossack lands into the Russian Empire in the second half of the eighteenth century. The Little Russian identity, which took shape in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries under the influence of the Polish szlachta nation (i.e., a privileged corporate estate on a given territory),30 survived the dissolution of the Cossack Hetmanate.31 For some historians, the Little Russian discourse of identity was nothing more than a tactical device for Ukrainian opportunists, who used it for purposes of social advancement and integration into imperial Russian society.32 However, it remained unclear whether Little Russian identity is considered an alternative to or an earlier version of Ukrainian identity.33 A consensus developed to the effect that Little Russian identity had been superseded by modern Ukrainian identity sometime in the mid-nineteenth century.34 Only recently, Ukrainian historians have begun to reconsider Little Russian identity as part of modern Ukrainian nation-building.35 I do not consider Little Russian identity discourse of the nineteenth century a mere remnant of the bygone historical era. I believe that during the process of imperial integration, the Little Russian early modern identity was reimagined in terms of ethnicity under the influence of the Enlightenment and Romanticism.36 The new ethnocultural discourse of Little Russian identity crossed regional and social boundaries, gradually embracing other historical regions and social strata of what would become modern “Ukraine” in the twentieth century. But it never crossed the boundaries of Slavic-Rus' or “all-Russian” symbolic space. The new Little Russian discourse gained fullest expression in the historical narrative created by the “national historiographer” Mykola Markevych, the author of The History of Little Russia (Istoria Malorossii) (1842–45), written on the basis of the anonymous History of the Rus' People. The question of whether the rhetoric and language of these texts reflect variability in the national development of the Orthodox Slavic peoples or the lack of precise terminology to describe them remains open. In this book, I follow Zenon Kohut’s consideration that the Little Russian identity discourse was an ambivalent phenomenon that belongs both

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

to Russian and to Ukrainian national development. 37 The modern Ukrainian identity discourse, which began to take shape in the late 1840s, challenged the Little Russian (Malorossian) discourse in socio-political and linguistic terms. The differences between modern Ukrainian and Little Russian/Malorossian identity discourses were based on their respective attitudes toward “all-Russian” imperial/religious discourse. While the Little Russian identity never crossed the symbolic and linguistic boundaries of the “Slavic-Rus'” imagined space,38 the Ukrainian one did. The latter, contrary to the former, has been never compatible with the “Slavic-Rus'”/Russian one. From my point of view, the “Little Russian/Ukrainian” dichotomy reflects not two historical stages but two overlapping versions of modern Ukrainian national development. The symbolic and political rivalry between the identity discourses of “Little Russia” and “Ukraine” was rooted in the age of imperial Russia but extended well into Soviet and post-Soviet history. The phenomenon of coexistence and interconnection of Little Russian and Ukrainian identity discourses may be considered one of the principal features of modern Ukrainian history. In times of trouble, the two could change places but always remained intertwined.

Part Two: Sloboda Ukraine: A Regional Dimension of Ukrainian Nation-Building The second part of the book consists of three chapters devoted to the historical region known as Sloboda Ukraine, located on both sides of the Ukrainian-Russian border. The Ukrainian-Russian border is the most problematic and challenging component of the Ukrainian nation-state-building, owing to the long-shared history and nested geography of the two peoples. It has neither an uninterrupted history nor visible geographic markers, nor even a stable symbolic foundation. No wonder it has been perceived differently from each side of the border. From the Russian side, the border looks like a temporary and redundant construction, since Russian elites still consider Ukrainians merely a subset of the Russian people. Viewed from the Ukrainian side, it is supposed to be a central element of nation-building designed to delineate national space and secure it with strong institutions. Since it was breached unilaterally by Russia in 2014, the Ukrainian-Russian border has become de facto fragmented and politically

Introduction

11

unstable. It is subject to opposing interpretations from the Russian side and the Ukrainian side, the latter being supported by the international community. The regional approach is useful for developing the conceptualization of the Ukrainian-Russian borderland as a locus of intensive modernization and cultural interaction up to the present. However, the distinction between a border region and a borderland is not clear. On the one hand, as Julian V. Minghi writes, “The boundary creates its own distinctive region, making an element of division also the vehicle for regional definition.”39 On the other hand, a border region created by a boundary is not the same as a historical region divided by a border, especially when the latter constitutes a historically new and institutionally and symbolically weak phenomenon. Anssi Paasi describes the region as a structure that has taken shape in the course of history; its integrity is secured in the process of its institutionalization, which includes the formation of its territory, symbolism, and institutions.40 This in turn entails the establishment of its boundaries; the symbolic definition of its territory; the emergence and assignment of a particular name; the region’s institutional definition, affirming local territorial and symbolic features; and, finally, the emergence of the region’s identity, which finds its reflection in narratives, social landscapes, and practices. A historical region, as a rule, has a unique image and mythology based on its historical experience.41 A regional mythology may become part of the national mythology or be constructed in opposition to it. Regional identities and discourses show surprising persistence in changeable geopolitical and socio-cultural contexts.42 As such, they are directly connected to the imperial phenomenon, which is deeply rooted in the eastern periphery of Europe.43 Local elites remained influential actors during periods of political stability, even if they continued to be recipients, not producers, of new agendas, senses, and symbols imposed on them by different imperial centres. Both imperial and regional phenomena have created a framework for the development of modern nationalism since the second half of the eighteenth century under the influence of modernization on the Western model. In the Ukrainian case, as in the Jewish one, “the ideas of region, nation and empire form a powerful historiographical triumvirate.”44 It has become obvious that historical regions continue to play an important role in Ukrainian political life, but the very idea of region and regionalism in the Ukrainian context seems no less elusive than the meaning of “Ukraine” itself.45 The fact that most Ukrainian historical regions are borderlands located along or straddling current Ukrainian borders with Russia, Belarus, Moldova, Romania, Poland,

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

and Hungary makes the interplay between regional and national discourses even more complicated.46 Ukraine’s border regions, especially those adjacent to Russia, usually resist symbolic reconfiguration by finding ways to make their ethnic and political boundaries coincide. The role of particular regions in modern Ukrainian nation-building is debatable.47 Traditionally, Ukrainian scholars dealing with the issue of nation-building have focused on the regions of the former Hetmanate, which is considered the cradle of the Ukrainian national revival. Many years ago, Omeljan Pritsak, a distinguished Ukrainian historian and founding director of the Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute, challenged this stereotype by pointing out that the eastern region known as Sloboda Ukraine was more modern than that of Little Russia.48 The first modern Ukrainian university and secular intellectual centre was established in Kharkiv (the capital of Sloboda Ukraine), and the modern Ukrainian literary language also developed there. In fact, the role of the Sloboda Ukraine region in Ukrainian nationbuilding seems to be more complicated. It has accumulated practically all the basic features of a borderland, with its characteristic dialectics of unity and regional variety, ambivalence and polycentrism, hybrid cultural identities, shifting boundaries, and special relations with the imperial centre on the one side and the neighbouring Cossack and imperial regions on the other. I analyze the formation and historical development of Sloboda Ukraine from the perspective of imperial, regional, and border studies, focusing on its intellectual mapping and what might be called “internal geopolitics.”49 Kharkiv, the second-largest city of Ukraine and its former capital, has so far attracted less scholarly attention than Kyiv, Lviv, Odesa, and Chernivtsi. Accordingly, its place and role in modern Ukrainian history have been somewhat underestimated. I focus on three main issues: the role of Kharkiv in the symbolic reconfiguration of the Ukrainian-Russian borderland; the changes wrought by modernization and “nationalization” in Kharkiv’s cultural landscape; and the development of myths and images of Kharkiv in Ukrainian, Russian, and Soviet historical narratives. The founding of Kharkiv University has been represented in Ukrainian historiography by a national myth that focuses excessive attention on the local Ukrainian nobility, which allegedly managed to develop and implement the first university project on Ukrainian soil. I provide a different perspective by adopting a regional approach to the issue and focussing on intercultural communication associated with the huge colony of foreign specialists

Introduction

13

brought to Kharkiv by the Russian imperial government. I am also trying to reconsider the role of the newly established university in the process of Ukrainian nation-building during the first half of the nineteenth century. The Ukrainian-Russian borderland is a complex phenomenon that includes various, sometimes opposing discourses of imperial, national, and regional identities. Among them, the “Ukrainian,” “Little-Russian,” and “Russian” discourses of identity may be considered the most influential. Each of them was associated with different scenarios of future development. Their interaction shapes and reshapes the symbolic landscape of the borderland, which extended far beyond the administrative boundaries. This book is an attempt to describe at least some aspects of the complexity of this space in historical perspective.

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

PART ONE

Ukraine in the Symbolic Space of the Russian Empire

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On the House

The Backstory

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1

In Search of “Ukraine”: Words and Meanings

Introduction “Nomen est omen,” or “The name is a sign,” goes the Roman proverb. What exactly is meant by “sign”: destiny, identity, or occupation? And what if a person or thing is known under many names? This is exactly what Ukrainian history presents. Every historian dealing with Ukraine encounters a terminological hodgepodge. Ukraine’s position at the crossroads of various cultural, civilizational, and political influences has led to a multiplicity of nomenclature used to describe its territory and people. Some of these denominators were produced by dominant imperial discourses. Others were used by the local inhabitants themselves as part of their adaptation and survival strategy in this unstable space. Since the regional dimension of Ukrainian history generally prevailed over the national one, there were several relevant names and selfdesignations in parallel circulation that did not always have common roots. They reflected different levels of (self-)identification – geographic, religious, ethnocultural, political, and social. In the “long” nineteenth century, which is considered an epoch of Ukrainian national revival, a diverse nomenclature was used to describe Ukraine and its inhabitants: “qualitative” (“Great” and “Little” Russia), “coloured” (“Red,” “Black,” and “White” Russia), and geographic (“South,” “North,” “West,” and “East”). All of them, in addition to “Rus',” “Ukrainian,” and “Cossack” terminology, applied in various contexts – ethnic, political, geographic, and social. At times, different names were used for one and the same region, and by no means did the authors of pertinent texts always bother to explain to readers why they had used one historical and geographic term or another.

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

There are hundreds of articles devoted to the problem of historical terminology pertaining to Ukraine. Many of their authors tried to approach the issue in chronological fashion by tracing the gradual replacement of the initial medieval “Rus'” by early modern “Malorossiia” (Little Russia), which in turn supposedly gave way to modern “Ukraine.” But almost all these studies have been written in the context of modern nation-building, with the active involvement of many Ukrainian and Russian scholars. Dealing with a shared historical legacy and geography, they have often identified themselves in opposition to one another. Not surprisingly, then, many attempts to comprehend and describe the peculiar East Slavic terminological labyrinth from the modern nation-building perspective have foundered in a sea of epistemological uncertainty. Aleksei Miller observes that “In the nineteenth century, the space and population of the western province [of the Russian Empire] became targets of a raging war of words in which, it seems, there was no place name or ethnic group name that would be ideologically neutral. Each one of them either reaffirmed or rejected a particular nation-building project.”1 In fact, the terminological struggle between the ancestors of present-day Ukrainians and Russians goes back to the Cossack wars of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, when the two peoples established a direct dialogue between themselves. The wars triggered a process of fundamental change of geopolitical landscape, which became a battlefield between the competing multiethnic states of Muscovy, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the Ottoman Empire, and Sweden. This was accompanied by symbolic battles over the contested territory, which centred on the Ukrainian lands. Subsequently, Ukrainian-Russian polemics over the “correct” names for the disputed territory and its people proceeded without interruption in the course of the “long” nineteenth century. The polemics are known by a variety of terms, mostly as a dialogue between “Little Russia” and “Great Russia” (according to Semen Divovych and the anonymous author of The History of the Rus' People), between the “two Rus'ian nationalities” (“Southerners” vs “Northerners”), according to Yurii Venelin, or “Malorossians” vs “Velikorossians,” according to Mykhailo Maksymovych and Mykola (Nikolai) Kostomarov, between the defenders of the Cossacks and their opponents.2 But the polemics produced no stable national nomenclature for the Ukrainians and their ethnic lands. Polemics on this issue between Russian and Ukrainian intellectuals continued throughout the “short” twentieth century. They exploded during and

In Search of “Ukraine”

19

after World War I and the dissolution of the Russian Empire, which was accompanied by new geopolitical and administrative re-arrangements of the Ukrainian lands.3 The “Ukrainian” nomenclature ostensibly prevailed. In the Soviet Union, discussion of national historical terminology became taboo, but it was conducted abroad, mostly by émigrés and a few Western scholars.4 In many cases, the discussion was initiated by Ukrainian rather than Russian intellectuals. The former would point out the phenomenon of “Russian” heterogeneity and different meanings of “Russianness,” while the latter preferred to focus on the difference between “Malorossiia” and “Ukraine.” After the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the Russian imperial legacy became an object of intensive study that underwent several methodological changes or “turns”: imperial, national, geographic, and linguistic. Since Ukraine belonged to the Slavic-Orthodox core of the former Soviet Union and the Russian Empire, Ukrainian topics have been actively investigated in the process of rethinking and rewriting the imperial phenomenon. Not surprisingly, such investigation produced explosive scholarly debates about Russian and Ukrainian historical terminology, which has now become a subject of public discussion and acquired a vivid political dimension. 5 The very fact that since the dissolution of the Soviet Union the seemingly obsolete “Little Russian” rhetoric has made an effective comeback in the socio-political life of both post-Soviet countries tells us something important about modern Ukrainian nation-building. It may suggest that the “Little Russian” identity discourse either survived the official prohibition of “Little Russian” rhetoric during Soviet times or has recently been rediscovered.6 The disintegration of the USSR revived the old legacy of Ukrainian-Russian debates over national identity (or identities).7 Simultaneously, it revealed the uneasy and quarrelsome nature of the marriage between “Ukraine” and “Little Russia,” which defined the character of modern Ukrainian nation-state–building in the twentieth century. As noted, Russian and Ukrainian historians are deeply involved in the nation-state–building of their respective countries, which has been unfolding on the symbolic basis of shared history and nested geography. For them, such words as “Russia,” “Ukraine,” and their derivatives are not just scholarly abstractions. That became clear when a “raging war of words” flared up with renewed intensity after the dissolution of the Soviet Union.8 The polemic turned into a shooting war in 2014, when Russia annexed Crimea and stirred up separatist movements in eastern and southern Ukrainian border territories. Naturally, those involved in the conflict turned to history for legitima-

20

The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

tion, affecting the community of scholars directly. It should also be noted that neither Western scholars nor the author of this text are immune to sentiments inflamed by the ongoing post-Soviet reidentification. In what follows, I shall attempt to describe and analyze the use of toponymic and ethnonymic terminology in various texts produced in the Russian Empire in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, an epoch that remains somewhat under-represented in modern imperial studies. The intellectual “domestication” of the Ukrainian lands recently incorporated into the empire proceeded most often by way of discourses involving the terms “Russia,” “Great Russia,” “Little Russia,” “Ukraine,” and “South Russia.” I am interested first and foremost in the meanings attributed to such terms, which may be seen as markers of identity. Was there any logic and consistency in their usage? Looking back, how should one account for the multiplicity of terms used to describe the Ukrainian people? What were their national, cultural, political, and regional characteristics? Did they reflect various identities or different stages in the development of modern Ukrainian national identity? Finally, how can one choose proper terms to describe ethnic Ukrainians from different regions at this initial stage of their modern national reidentification without retrospectively “nationalizing” them? Initially, I intended to limit my source base to works dealing with the history of Ukraine. In the end, however, I decided to broaden the scope of my sources for several reasons. First, because there are many substantial gaps in this set of texts. Important works on Ukrainian history by Arkhyp Khudorba, Opanas Lobysevych, Hryhorii Poletyka, Maksym Berlynsky, Oleksii Martos, and some of their contemporaries are still considered lost. Others, including works by Yakiv Markovych, Dmitrii Bantysh-Kamensky, Mykola Markevych (Nikolai Markevich), and even the famous Istoriia Rusov (History of the Rus' People) have yet to appear in critical editions. The latter example is telling indeed. The Istoriia Rusov is often compared to the Kobzar of Taras Shevchenko as one of the first manifestations of modern Ukrainian nationalism, and yet we do not know by whom, when, and where this text was created and for what particular reasons.9 Second, it took almost eighty years for the main mass of the Little Russian historiographic legacy to make its way from manuscript to print after the dissolution of the semi-autonomous Cossack polity, the Hetmanate, in the 1760s. In the course of the 1840s, the major historical texts of the previous era were made available to a broad audience by Osyp Bodiansʹkyi, the secre-

In Search of “Ukraine”

21

tary of the Moscow Society of History and Antiquities.10 Before that, the development of Ukrainian historical writing had remained half-hidden from the observer.11 In retrospect, it is not easy to trace its intellectual evolution and public reception. Many manuscripts retained their compilative character, since any anonymous readers could add their own interpolations to the initial text, whose true author, along with that author’s motives and sources of information, cannot now be identified. Third, many of the new texts on Ukrainian topics published in the Russian Empire between the 1760s and the 1840s are marked by generic syncretism, which makes it difficult to separate historiography from geography, ethnography, or even travelogue and belles-lettres. Rather, those works are combinations of various genres. From any standpoint, practically every historical narrative resembles a kaleidoscope in which ever-new combinations of the geographic and ethnic mosaic emerge. It changes shape whenever the observer shifts his or her own point of view. *** Before addressing terminology, it is necessary to give at least a general description of the broad imperial context in which the search for new collective identities among the Russian subjects took place. In the second half of the eighteenth century, significant changes in the political geography of the empire were witnessed by a single generation. Suffice it to say that during the reign of Catherine II its external borders were reconfigured no fewer than six times.12 Ongoing imperial expansion to the south and west was accompanied by constant redrawing of administrative boundaries and intellectual reimagining of the whole territory of the empire according to Enlightenment principles of cultural unification. The newly incorporated regions had to be located within the imperial cultural and national symbolic space. Those regions were “Sloboda Ukraine,” formed on the basis of the local Cossack social stratum; “New Russia,” formed as a result of Russia’s annexation of the southern steppe borderland, where the Zaporozhian Cossacks and Crimean Tatars operated – a territory that eventually became one of the most polyethnic and urbanized regions of the Russian Empire;13 and the “Right Bank” of the Dnipro (Dnieper) River (historical “Volyn,” “Podilia,” and “Ukraine,” which remained under the control of the local Polish nobility until the early nineteenth century, that is, until the Polish Uprising of 1830).14 This in turn obliged contemporaries to keep

22

The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

correcting the traditional nomenclature of the historical regions of Rus'/Russia and their respective toponyms and ethnonyms by using the new secular language for their description. The development of secular language, scholarship, and education in Russia was accompanied by the massive intrusion of Western terminology into the empire’s public space.15 By adopting it, contemporaries sought to describe and comprehend both the unity and the ethnocultural diversity of the Russian Empire.16 But those modern ideas and the terminology used to express them were subject to substantial modification as they travelled from Europe to the east. Very often, the adoption of Western ideas and terminology was “fraught with complications and internal contradictions.”17 The transformation of the Latin natio into Polish naród and Ukrainian and Russian narod through Polish mediation is a good example.18 The rapid influx of Western borrowings into the Russian cultural space produced cultural change. It stimulated growing interest in the native historical and cultural legacy, including both written (Church Slavonic) and oral (folkloric) cultural traditions.19 Associated with this was the practice of compiling universal dictionaries and encyclopedias. Little Russian intellectuals actively participated in this process. They made a substantial contribution to the development of modern literary Russian by compiling concise dictionaries of the Ukrainian language to help Russian readers understand Ukrainian history and contemporary life. During the process of cultural translation and adaptation, the old symbols of identity sometimes acquired a new, additional meaning in the new intellectual and linguistic environment. However, the language in use at the time had not yet worked out a common standard for the description of the Ukrainian and Russian lands and their inhabitants. Contemporaries used a variety of historical toponyms and ethnonyms that did not always distinguish ethnocultural and administrative criteria for delineating various regions of the empire and its inhabitants.

“Rus'-Russia” Few literary languages of the period under discussion managed to convey all the requisite nuances of the term rus'kost' (Rus'ness), mainly because they did not clearly distinguish its religious, political, geographic, historical, and cultural components. For a long time, the problem of “Russian” terminology and its different meanings in imperial and national contexts remained

In Search of “Ukraine”

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obscure. It became an object of growing scholarly attention after the breakup of the Soviet Union, when the idea of the historical, cultural, and ethnic heterogeneity of the former “one and indivisible Russia” appeared to become more acceptable to the international scholarly community (including Russian scholars) than it had been previously.20 It is now usually discussed in terms of national/imperial dichotomy. I believe that the religious or semireligious dimension of the adjective “Russian” was no less important, as the Slavophile intellectual heritage vividly demonstrates.21 In the early nineteenth century, the term “Russia” (Rossiia) was still considered relatively new or, as Ivan Orlai put it, newfangled compared to the name “Rus',” from which it originated.22 The latter was usually associated with the more traditional designation of the “Slavic-Rus'” (slavenorusskii narod) or “Slavic-Russian” (slavenorossiiskii) nation, as the author(s) of the Kyivan Synopsis (1674) insisted. The Synopsis is a historical overview composed by Orthodox monks on the basis of the Kyivan Rus' chronicles under the influence of Polish Renaissance historiography.23 It established the new, overarching discourse of “Slavic-Rus'/Russian” identity for the ambitious Muscovite Tsardom, which dreamt of becoming the centre of an imagined “Slavic” world.24 The Synopsis discourse of identity survived until the first third of the nineteenth century, to be updated by the modern secular triad (Orthodoxy, autocracy, nationality) of Count Sergei Uvarov.25 Uvarov’s formula of “Russian” identity established itself as another means of imperial/religious identification parallel to the “Slavic-Rus'” descriptor. As a combination of confessional and secular components, it might be presented differently as a “pan-Russian” or “all-Russian” discourse of identity suggesting the existence of a “Slavic-Rus' Commonwealth” or an “Orthodox East Slavic” imperial/religious community. Serhiy Bilenky has aptly described the imperial “all-Russian” idea as a “scholarly abstraction” similar to the Soviet one.26 In all these cases, one can find a peculiar combination of pre-modern and modern markers of identification that remained potent well into the modern era. The “Rus'/Russian” discourse in both versions, confessional and secular, retained its composite, multi-layered character, which covered a great variety of local communities known under different ethnonyms and toponyms. Searches for and “discoveries” of those communities in the imagined space of “Slavdom” were accompanied by historico-etymological flights of fancy, which became a favorite pastime of many educated amateurs. The anonymous author of The History of the Rus' People, and especially its admirer Iurii

24

The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

Venelin, demonstrated the attractiveness of that sort of enterprise. They were followed by many other “Columbuses” into the uncharted waters of the Slavic-Rus' ocean, which extended well beyond the Russian imperial borders. Geoffrey Hosking distinguished “two Russias,” ethnic Rus' and imperial Russia,27 but his interpretation cannot be accepted without substantial reservations. Rus' was usually associated with the old Kyivan Rus' and “Russia” with the modern Russian Empire. The adjective russkii, derived from the noun Rus', cannot be reduced to an ethnic designation. It was used interchangeably in ethnic, linguistic, political, and confessional meanings. Even those Little Russian intellectuals who openly distinguished ethnic “Little Russians” from “Great Russians” adopted the word russkii as both an ethnonym and a politonym for self-description. In other words, russkii retained the same overarching and composite meaning in the Russian Empire as the old Rus' borrowed from the medieval Kyivan chronicles. In terms of geography, historical “Russia” looks like an entity only at first glance, from a distance of several centuries, and even then, it takes considerable predisposition to see it that way. When we draw closer, it fragments like a kaleidoscopic image whose interconnected pieces are not fused together. The official historiographer of the Russian Empire, the academician Gerhard Müller, noted that historical Russia was comprised of Great, Little, White, and Red Rus', whose inhabitants were distinguished from one another by various ethnographic features and dialects. 28 This characterization of “Russia” was well established in the imperial and Western historical and geographic literature of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.29 But the hierarchy of historical regions and the borders, periphery, and centre of Rus'/Russia remained indeterminate inasmuch as none of the criteria for defining the Russian national heartland were used consistently enough at the time to give the historic “nucleus” of the Russian Empire the appearance of wholeness.

“Great Russia/Velikorossiia” The process of secular rebranding and reimagining of the “Slavic-Rus'” intellectual legacy was in its initial stage during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. It proceeded in various directions. The Velikorossian (Great Russian) discourse and its respective terminology, which I consider fundamental for the purposes of modern Russian reidentification, was one of them.

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That discourse, often confused with the “all-Russian” (“pan-Russian”) descriptor and lost somewhere between the imperial and national contexts, has only recently become an object of special study.30 Velikorossiia resurfaced in public space only sporadically, mostly in times of geopolitical and cultural “times of trouble,” only to be sacrificed again on the altar of yet another empire-building project. An article on “Velikorossiia” written in 1745 was included in the Leksikon (Lexicon) of Vasilii Tatishchev. The term was used there to denote the Russian historical and national heartland, as well as the core of the Russian Empire.31 But neither Fedor Polunin’s Geograficheskii leksikon (Geographical Lexicon), issued in 1773,32 nor the multivolume Novyi i polnyi geograficheskii slovarʹ Rossiiskogo Gosudarstva (New and Comprehensive Geographic Lexicon) compiled by Lev Maksimovich in 1788,33 nor the Survey of the Russian Empire by Sergei Pleshcheev (English edition, 1792),34 nor even the Opisanie vsekh, obitaiushchikh v Rossiiskom Gosudarstve narodov (Description of All Peoples Inhabiting the Russian Empire), compiled by Johann Georgi (1799)35 contains a separate article devoted to Velikorossiia. The term resurfaced only in the Ėntsiklopedicheskii leksikon (Encyclopedic Lexicon, 1837) of Adolphe Pluchart, thanks to Nikolai Nadezhdin. 36 Nadezhdin concluded that Velikorossiia was a term introduced by Bohdan Khmelnytsky in order to distinguish it from Little Russia.37 Although Nadezhdin admitted that Velikaia Rossiia has no strictly defined borders, he associated it geographically with the former Grand Duchy of Moscow, which in his view was to be considered the “heart of the empire.”38 Moscow was thus designated as the true national capital of ethnic Russians (russkie), as distinct from cosmopolitan St Petersburg, the official capital of imperial Russia, on the one hand, and Kyiv, the ancient historical capital of Orthodox Slavic Rus', on the other. According to the author, the main characteristics distinguishing Velikorossiia from all other historical regions of the empire were not historical or geographic but ethnocultural, giving the Velikorossians the advantage over Little Russians and White Russians.39 Nadezhdin was not alone. His ideas were shared, one way or another, by his contemporaries Nikolai Polevoi, Mikhail Pogodin, and some other Moscow-based intellectuals who could no longer ignore the ethnocultural differences among the “children of Rus'” (Faith Hillis). But all the efforts of their intellectual heirs and followers to transform imperial Russian discourse into a national one produced no results. Beyond elite intellectual circles, people continued to use the Velikorossian and Russian ethnonyms interchange-

26

The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

ably. Velikorossiia lost its battle for the “all-Russian” legacy and never fully developed as a modern national designation of the Russian people. The intellectual misadventure of Velikorossiia continued after the dissolution of the Russian Empire. Its Soviet incarnation, the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, was the only Soviet republic that lacked its own capital and Communist Party organization. Although the idea of the Velikorossiian heartland of the Russian Empire never disappeared completely, it seems to have been eclipsed by the opposing concepts of religious Orthodox Rus' and secular imperial Rossiia. The growing present-day attention to the Velikorossiian discourse, facilitated by the ongoing UkrainianRussian/Soviet “divorce,” also has obvious limitations. It is hardly considered a stimulus to Russian nation-state–building that might compete successfully with the imperial one.

“South Russia” The “South Russian” discourse and its corresponding terminology may be considered the most widespread and least controversial means of identifying the Ukrainian lands not only within the Russian Empire but also beyond its borders. It was deeply rooted in the Enlightenment historical and geographical imagination, in which “Russia” was usually associated with the “North.” In the second half of the eighteenth century, however, as the empire expanded southward, its symbolic geography began to take on a new dimension. Catherine II’s southern geopolitical project appeared to be at once an alternative to Peter I’s northern project and its continuation.40 To that end, the latest contemporary perceptions of territory, based on climatic and ethnocultural features, were implemented. Catherine II’s symbolic division of the empire into three climatic zones is noteworthy in that regard: the northern zone, with its centre in St Petersburg; the middle zone, centred in Moscow; and the southern zone.41 This geographic model became a standard description in Sergei Pleshcheev’s Survey of the Russian Empire (1787).42 It was most probably associated with Montesquieu’s well-known theory of three climatic zones – northern, central, and southern – each having a particular and substantial impact on the inhabitants and the laws by which they were governed.43 The three climatic zones of the Russian Empire, as outlined by Catherine II, symbolically underpinned the new design of uniforms worn by the Russian nobility and were featured in gubernia (provincial) emblems.44 Accordingly, Ukrainian lands

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were divided between the middle and the southern zones: the Kharkiv and Novhorod-Siverskyi administrative units were assigned to the former, Kyiv and Katerynoslav to the latter. The recently acquired lands were incorporated into the new Russian imperial narrative under the southern name. Thus, in Russian historiography of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the Russian Empire was presented as a fusion of Southern and Northern Rus'.45 The symbolism of Greek antiquity and the Slavic-Rus' legacy was used to legitimize the new acquisitions. The Greek element was particularly apparent in the names of new cities in the Black Sea region and in the titulature of the Russian empress, to which the names “Kherson” and “Taurida” were added. The Slavic-Rus' reference was borrowed from the ancient Rus' chronicle tradition, as well as from sensational and most convenient discoveries such as the “Stone of Tmutarakan” or the Slovo o polku Igoreve (The Tale of Ihor’s Campaign), which were designed to bolster the claim that this land had belonged to Rus' since time immemorial. The newly incorporated southern lands were renamed “New Russia” (Novorossiia). The new appellation envisioned a brand new regional identity capable of overcoming the old historical regionalism of that part of the empire. Not surprisingly, the New Russian discourse acquired a southern geographic dimension. And yet the New Russia came to be regarded as part of “Southern Russia,” not as its territorial equivalent. The latter was much older and broader than the former. At the same time, the southward direction of Russian expansion included a newer “southwestern” vector articulated by Catherine II during the partitions of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.46 The new geographic optic, assisted by “South Russian” rhetoric, allowed for the intellectual rediscovery of the western Ukrainian lands on an ethnic basis. The Topograficheskoe opisanie Kharʹkovskogo namestnichestva (Topographic Description of the Kharkiv Vicegerency, 1788) may serve as an example.47 The Russian author of this work, Ivan Pereverzev, created an original, innovative, and comprehensive image of “Southern Russia” on a new ethnocultural basis that included western Ukrainian territory, even though it was divided at the time by administrative, political, and religious barriers.48 According to the author, “The inhabitants of Southern Russia, separated from one another by the distance of places, foreign rule, variety of bureaucratic administrations, civic customs, language, [and] some even by religion (the Union) ... regard one another not as foreign-speaking but seemingly as fellow natives; ... to this

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

day, all these scattered fellow countrymen maintain filial respect for the mother of their ancient cities, the city of Kyiv.”49 That observation in turn paved the way for the merging of historical “Little Russian” and geographical “South Russian” nomenclature. The author of the Topograficheskoe opisanie was followed by some of his contemporaries, including Afanasii Shafonsky and Ivan Stritter: both used the terms “Kyivan Rus',” “Little Russia,” and “Southern Russia” as synonyms.50 A similar orientation is apparent in the Istoriia Rusov, whose anonymous author identified as “southern” not only New Russia but even western-located Halychyna (Galicia), calling the latter, a bit awkwardly, the “southern part of Rus', or Little Russia.”51 “South Russian” terminology as a main marker of historical Rus' identity was accepted by two Transcarpathian intellectuals, Ivan Orlai and Iurii Venelin (Hutsa), who immigrated to Russia. Orlai gave concrete expression to the southwestern dimension of “South Russia” in his article “Istoriia o Karpato-Rossakh” (A Story about the Carpathian Russes), published in 1804. It was most probably written as a reply to the Austrian historian Johann Christian von Engel, the author of Geschichte der Ukraine u. der ukrainischen Kosaken (The History of Ukraine and the Ukrainian Cossacks 1796).52 In another article published in 1826 under the title “O IugoZapadnoi Rossii” (About Southwestern Russia), the author focused on the territory on both sides of the Carpathian Mountains in order to prove that it belonged to old “Rus',” not to any other historical or geographical area. Although Orlai did not venture beyond the framework of SlavicRus' discourse, he substantiated the ethnic and linguistic kinship between the local Carpathian population and the ethnic Little Russians, not the Great Russians.53 Venelin, an ardent Slavophile, also had recourse to the “South-North” system of symbolic coordinates in order to demonstrate, on the one hand, the commonality of “South Rus'” from the Carpathians to the Don and, on the other, to convince his readers that the differences between “South” and “North” were not significant enough to warrant dividing their common Rus' historical legacy. It is telling that Venelin sought to replace “Little Russian” terminology with “South Russian” designations. Ironically enough, in ridiculing those who sought to establish the difference between Great and Little Russians on the basis of ostensibly secondary details, Venelin himself contributed to the deepening of those differences when comparing the folk songs and different daily habits of the “northerners” and “southerners.”

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The use of the “South-North” paradigm and the identification of Little Russia with South Russia in ethnocultural terms was already well established by the early 1830s. The second edition of Bantysh-Kamensky’s Istoriia Maloi Rossii (History of Little Russia 1830) demonstrates the close reciprocal association between the toponym “South Russia” (sometimes “Southwestern Russia”) and the ethnonyms “Little Russians” and “Ukrainians.”54 The same is apparent in the sketches of Nikolai Gogol (Mykola Hohol) for a history of Little Russia,55 Mykhailo Maksymovych’s respective texts, and Mykola Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii (History of Little Russia),56 as well as the linguistic works of Pavlo Biletsky-Nosenko57 and Osyp Bodiansky.58 The Kharkiv Romantics not only did not renounce the tradition of identifying “Little Russia” with “Southern Russia” but actually popularized it: at least, this can be said of Izmail Sreznevsky, Mykola Kostomarov, and Amvrosii Metlynsky.59 The dominance of “South Russian” terminology in the mid-nineteenth century may perhaps be understood as a consequence of the censorship policy adopted after the affair of the Cyrillo-Methodian Society.60 Panteleimon Kulish used the “South Russian” designation to describe Ukraine.61 It is telling that he included the cities of Kharkiv and Odesa in the “South Russian” symbolic space.62 The same can be said about the editors of the St Petersburg–based Ukrainian journal Osnova (Foundation), published in 1861–62, and other texts in which the “southern” designation is used as a toponym to describe what was also known as “Little Russia,” “Ukraine,” and its native population.63 This suggests that the “South Russian” terminology had already taken on an ethnic meaning. As an ethnonym, the term “South Russian” (iuzhnorusskii) was adopted by leading Ukrainian intellectuals to describe the Ukrainian language. Taras Shevchenko published his Ukrainian primer in 1861 under a “southern” title.64 The “dispute between the southerners and northerners about their Russianness” first articulated by Iurii Venelin continued well into the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.65 However, the “southern” designation of the territory and its people was restricted mostly to official usage. It did not replace the “Little Russian” and “Ukrainian” terminology altogether but was used interchangeably with them.

“Little Russia”/“Malorossiia” Throughout the second half of the seventeenth century and most of the eighteenth, the Cossack elite elaborated an idea of the Little Russian fatherland

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

and its specific identity based on territorial autonomy, the Cossack social and legal system, and the Orthodox religion.66 After the Cossack military administrative system was replaced by the imperial one during the reign of Catherine II, the territory of Little Russia consisted of the Kyiv, Chernihiv, and Novhorod-Siverskyi viceregencies.67 As a result of the administrative reform of 1796, historical Little Russia became the Little Russian gubernia.68 After its division in 1802 into the Poltava and Chernihiv gubernias, the historical name of “Little Russia” was transferred to them.69 The “Little Russian” terminology of the first half of the nineteenth century was inherited from previous centuries as the basic marker of the main part of Ukrainian ethnic territory that entered the Russian/Muscovite state with particular rights in 1654 and was associated with the Cossack state formation – the Hetmanate.70 It was not imposed on Ukrainians by the Russian imperial authorities in order to diminish their political autonomy and erase their ethnocultural distinctiveness from “proper” Russians.71 Rather, it was used by the Ukrainian secular elites to protect their rights and privileges under the “all-Russian” tsar. The “Little Russian” designation was the only one associated with the term “nation” represented by the former Cossack officers, now landed gentry, on the territory of the former Hetmanate.72 While gradually losing its official politico-administrative, social, and legal meaning, “Little Russia” retained its integrity in historical and ethnocultural discourse. The ethnic and historical rebranding of historical “Little Russia” did not stop with the Istoriia Rusov, as has usually been assumed. It continued, reaching its climax in the grand narrative created by the “Little Russian historiographer,” Mykola Markevych, in the 1830s–50s. Historically, the concept of “Little Russia” reached far back into the past, to the times of Kyivan Rus', and in geographic terms its reference exceeded the boundaries of the former Hetmanate. It was described in administrative and political, geographic, historical, and ethnocultural terms interchangeably, with “Rus'/Russian,” “South Russian,” and “Ukrainian” references often serving as equivalents. Bearers of Little Russian identity were concerned not with emancipating themselves from the historical, cultural, religious, and political space of “Rus'”/”Russia” but with their search for proof of “their” region’s primacy in it. The main counterpart of “Little Russia” was not the (all-)Russian Empire but the latter’s historical region, Great Russia, which also laid claim to the status of Russian heartland. Until the mid-nineteenth century, the “two Rus'es” contended for their place under the sun of imperial “Russia.” Up to that point, the fate of the dispute remained in doubt. “I know that you are Russia,

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and that is my name, too,” replies Little Russia to Great Russia in Semen Divovych’s famous historico-political dialogue of 1762.73 The “two Russias” cohabited peacefully under the overarching “Russian” or, better, “all-Russian” discourse. Hryhorii Poletyka, the distinguished champion of the Hetmanate’s political rights, called his fatherland “Russia,”74 as did his contemporary and fellow thinker Petro Symonovsky (Petr Simonovskii).75 The idea of “two Russias” was publicly substantiated in the Brief Annals of Little Russia, published by Vasyl Ruban in 1777.76 It was fully accepted by Lev Maksimovich, the author and editor of the Novyi i polnyi geograficheskii slovarʹ Rossiiskogo gosudarstva (New and Complete Geographic Dictionary of the Russian State), published in 1788.77 Andrian Chepa, an ardent Little Russian patriot and collector of Cossack historical documents, proudly called the history of his homeland “a glorious branch of Russian [rossiiskoi] history.”78 In the 1830s–40s, Mykola Markevych followed this tradition as well. Some of Chepa’s contemporaries associated the emergence of the term “Little Russia” with the so-called transfer of the grand-princely throne from Kyiv to Vladimir in the twelfth century, which they believed Andrei Bogoliubsky to have done.79 Most writers, however, maintained that the term had appeared later, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.80 In the footnotes to the fourth volume of Nikolai Karamzin’s twelve-volume Istoriia gosudarstva Rossiiskogo (History of the Russian State 1818), written on the basis of primary sources, including the charter of Yurii, prince of Volodymyr-Volynsky, the Russian historian opined that the term “Little Russia” had first appeared in 1335. Bantysh-Kamensky, the author of Istoriia Maloi Rossii, was inclined to agree with him. Other historians associated the emergence of the term “Little Russia” with a later period. For example, Afanasii Shafonsky surmised that it had appeared only in the times of Bohdan Khmelnytsky and the annexation of the Hetman state to Muscovy/Russia, that is, in the mid-seventeenth century.81 His opinion was shared to one degree or another by Maksym Berlynsky, Gavriil Uspensky, and the unknown author of the Novyi slovotolkovatel′ (New Dictionary), published by Mykola (Nikolai) Yanovsky in 1803–04.82 Mikhail Markov, an early nineteenth-century historian from Chernihiv, maintained that the name “Little Russia” had become established in historiographic tradition thanks to Hetman Bohdan Khmelnytsky, who was the first to introduce it. It is worth noting that even the author of the Istoriia Rusov, whose views on Ukrainian history were conspicuously eccentric, concurred

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

with all these authors in stressing that the term “Little Russia” had emerged simultaneously with “Russia” and “Great Russia” after 1654 and had been included thereafter in the tsar’s official titulature.83 Perceptions of the territory of Little Russia changed with successive historical periods. Little Russia was usually associated with the Pereiaslav84 or Kyivan principalities, the latter sometimes believed to have included the lands of the Chernihiv85 and Siversk regions86 or Volyn and Podilia.87 A similar narrower conception of Little Russian territory limited it to the lands that had been transferred from Kyivan Rus' to Poland between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries and annexed to the Muscovite state in the midseventeenth century, owing to Hetman Bohdan Khmelnytsky. Despite the tendency to contract the extent of Little Russia in the works of late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century writers, perceptions of its territorial nucleus remained relatively stable. That nucleus was the Little Russian fatherland along both banks of the Dnipro River and the Middle Dnipro region.88 As such, it continued to be seen in a broad territorial framework as the heart of a more extensive Little Russia. Such a broad territorial definition of Little Russia was accepted by Russian authors. According to the historian Aleksei Musin-Pushkin, the borders of Little Russia were defined by the upper reaches of the Oka and Donets rivers in the east, the Horyn River in the west, Chersonesos in the south, and the Ugra River in the north.89 This is in fact the main territory of contemporary Ukraine, excluding the western oblasts and including Russian border regions. We find a similar perception in Afanasii Shchekatov’s seven-volume Geograficheskii slovar′ rossiiskogo gosudarstva (Geographic Dictionary of the Russian State), published in 1801–09. Khariton Chebotarev, a professor at the University of Moscow, included in Little Russia not only Hetmanate Ukraine but also the Sloboda region, New Russia, and part of the Belgorod gubernia.90 Similarly, a broad definition of Little Russian territory based on ethnicity is to be found in the works of the Russian geographers and statisticians Karl German and Konstantin Arseniev.91 Historical texts allow us to gain an impression of their authors’ gradual reorientation from social and legal criteria to ethnographic ones in defining the territory of Little Russia. Thus, for Vasyl Ruban, who wrote in the second half of the eighteenth century, Little Russia was defined on the basis of contemporary administrative divisions as the territory lying between Sloboda Ukraine, the gubernias of Belgorod and New Russia, and Poland and Lithuania.92 The author of the Istoriia Rusov, writing in the early nineteenth centu-

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33

ry, included in historical Little Russia not only the left and right banks of the Dnipro but also the southern and western parts of present-day Ukraine and even of Belarus.93 In doing so, he employed the Cossack, Rus', and South Rus' markers. A contemporary of the author of the Istoriia Rusov, Yakiv Markovych, generally operated with the geographic terms “South” and “steppe.” Mykhailo Antonovsky hesitated over the selection of criteria – historical, administrative, or ethnic – to be used in defining the territory of Little Russia: “considering the Little Russian people inhabiting the gubernias of Sloboda Ukraine, New Russia, and almost all the gubernias of Kyiv, Volyn, and Podilia, one might think that these lands should be called Little Russia as well, but that would be at variance with historical truth.”94 The next generation of Little Russian intellectuals would no longer entertain such doubts. The “Little Russian” designation would become the established term for denoting all that pertained to the ethnic sphere, primarily language and folklore. The border between the new “Little Russia” and “Great Russia” was reconceptualized on the basis of ethnocultural criteria. Besides the aforementioned Ivan Pereverzev, Russian travellers passing through the Ukrainian lands from north to south contributed to this conceptualization. Practically all nineteenth-century Russian and foreign travellers defined the symbolic border between Little Russia and Great Russia as lying somewhere between Kursk and Belgorod, which indicates that they did not differentiate inhabitants of the historical Little Russia of the Hetmanate from those of Sloboda Ukraine.95 Ethnocultural criteria were also the basis for the growth of what became an established notion that the lands on both sides of the Austro-Russian border were inhabited by “Little Russians.” A dictionary of foreign words published in 1803–06 by a contemporary of Pereverzev’s, Yanovsky, includes an article about “Rusyns” (Rusyny) living in Hungary and Austria and maintains that they were in fact Little Russians (Malorossians) who spoke the Little Russian language, which was close to Russian.96 Mikhail (Mykhailo) Kachenovsky, the editor of Vestnik Evropy (European Herald), introducing a “Little Russian Ballad” to his readers in 1827, pointed out that “in our western provinces beyond the Dnipro, in Galicia, in Bukovyna, in part of the northern counties of Hungary, the great mass of the people and the most numerous class of inhabitants is made up of Rusyns, Rusniaks, a people closer than any other in origin, language, and customs to our Little Russians or, to put it more precisely, one and the same.”97

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

Mykola Markevych did likewise when introducing his poetic collection of Ukrainian Melodies to a broad audience in 1831: “Judging by customs, clothing, and speech, Little Russia may be defined as the whole territory extending from the borders of Hungarian Galicia, including only the Kamenets-Podolsky and Kiev gubernia on that side of the Dnepr, to the borders of the Voronezh gubernia, counting on this side of the Dnepr, the Poltava, Chernigov, and Kharkov gubernias, with some localities in the Kursk gubernia. In the south it ends beyond the Dnepr Rapids, where the possessions of the Turkish Sultan once began.”98 In his other works as well, Markevych was consistent in his view of Ukrainian ethnic territory past and present.99 “Little Russia,” he wrote, “is where the Little Russian language is spoken.”100 If Orlai and Venelin preferred “South Russian” to “Little Russian” nomenclature, their fellow Habsburg subject Denys Zubrytsky, a Galician, who studied the Galician-Volhynian principality in which Little Rus' terminology had been used, favoured the latter in arguing that Little Russians on both sides of the Russo-Austrian border were the same people.101 “Little Russia” now came to include not only the lands close to Russia but also the western Ukrainian lands. “Little Russian” terminology was used to denote this territory in parallel with “Rus'” and “South Russian” designations not only by subjects of the Russian Empire but also by natives of the Habsburg monarchy before and during the 1848 revolution.102 From the 1840s to the early twentieth century, the ethnonym maloros or malorossianin (Little Russian) became the self-designation of choice among educated “Ukrainians” in the Russian Empire; it also took on supra-regional connotations.103 At the individual level, practically all educated representatives of Ukrainian society identified themselves as Little Russians, their fatherland as Little Russia, and their mother tongue as Little Russian. It was possible to combine “Little Russian” and “Russian” identities, but a hybrid of “Little Russian”/“Velikorossian” was unthinkable. The “Little Russian” terminology carried no suggestion of inferiority and simply reflected the historical and cultural belonging of the local population to the broader symbolic space of the “Slavic-Rus' world.” This terminology gave its users the right to the ancient Slavic-Rus' heritage, which in turn served as the designation of a historical Little Russian (Malorossian) nation with a glorious past. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Malaia Rus', malorusskii, and malorossiiskii (Little Russian) became established terms of ethnic self-identification in the Russian Empire and to a

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degree in the western Ukrainian lands, though here the ancient term “Ruthenian” (rusyn) long held sway.104 Not until the late nineteenth century did “Little Russian” terminology begin to yield to its “Ukrainian” counterpart. At that time, the term malorosy (“Little Russians”) “became a negative designation by nationally conscious Ukrainians for those compatriots who were loyal to the Tsarist state and integrated themselves into the Russian culture and language.”105 It was only the Soviet project that dealt the hardest blow to “Little Russian” terminology as a marker of identity. And yet that project merely preserved the Little Russian identity intact under the “Soviet Ukrainian” designation, as would become apparent at the beginning of the twenty-first century.

“Ukraine” The tradition of consistent usage of “Ukrainian” terminology originated in the times of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and was appropriated by the Cossack polity in the seventeenth century. In international circles, the term was popularized by the seventeenth-century Description d’Ukranie compiled by Guillaume Levasseur de Beauplan, a French engineer in the Polish service. Beauplan’s maps influenced European usage, as did many cartographers of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries such as Johann Baptiste Homann, who called Ukraine “terra Cossacorum.” The traditional use of the term “Ukraine” as a Cossack territory had a notable influence on Western and Russian authors in the Age of Enlightenment. The Austro-German scholar Johann Christian von Engel used it in the title of his synthetic work on Ukrainian history. Some Russian and Ukrainian historians of the late eighteenth century (Müller, Shafonsky, Rigelman) found no problem in accepting the Polish origins of the word.106 In the early nineteenth century it was used not only by Polish authors but by some Russian ones as well.107 One of the first Russian historians to challenge the Polish origin of the term “Ukraine” was Mikhail Markov.108 The use of “Ukraine” to designate the right bank of the Dnipro River may be regarded as an echo of the aforementioned Polish tradition, while “Little Russia” appears as a designation of the left bank.109 This approach is maintained more consistently in Stanislav Zarulsky’s Opisanie o Maloi Rosii i Ukraine (A Description of Little Russia and Ukraine), written in the late eighteenth century, and in the work of his contemporary Tadeusz Czacki. For

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

some time, Russian authors also found no difficulty in referring to “Polish Ukraine” in order to denote the territory of the right bank.110 It should be stressed, however, that the “Ukraine–Little Russia” territorial division was never fixed. The Cossack elite used it both officially and unofficially during and after the Cossack revolution of 1648.111 The usage of the term “Ukraine” was never confined to the folkloric tradition. It long remained a wandering term localized in various regions and fragmented into discrete parts. Until approximately the mid-nineteenth century it was used almost exclusively in the sense of “borderland” (okraïna). Markevych noted that the term “Ukraine” initially denoted a borderland and specified several historical “ukraines”: those of Kyiv, Moscow, Riazan, and Galicia, as well as Polish and Russian “ukraines.”112 Besides geographic meanings, socio-political ones could accrue to this term, which had previously been used to refer to the Cossack lands. While “Ukraine” could be “Polish,” “Lithuanian,” or “Russian,” it could also refer to a specific part of historical “Little Russia,” namely, its “steppe” territory, as Afanasii Shafonsky and Yakiv Markovych suggested.113 There is a dominant view in the scholarly literature that in the early nineteenth century the anonymous author of the Istoriia Rusov rejected the term Ukraïna in favour of “Little Russia.”114 In the introduction to that work, the author rails against “shameless and spiteful Polish and Lithuanian storytellers,” whom he does not identify by name, who deftly introduced all kinds of “nonsense and slander” into the Little Russian chronicles.115 For example, the anonymous author alludes to an “instructive anecdote” in which some kind of new land near the Dnipro River, here called “Ukraine,” was brought onto the scene from ancient Rus' or contemporary Little Russia; new settlements were established there by Polish kings, and Ukrainian Cossackdom was founded.116 He mocks the esteemed “author of such a timid, pretty story,” who “never set foot anywhere but his school and did not see Rus' cities in the country that he calls Ukraine.”117 The target of the author’s criticism is not known. Perhaps it was the Kyivan historian Maksym Berlynsky, a teacher at the Main Public School (later gymnasium), who wrote a brief history of Russia for young people titled Kratkaia Rossiiskaia istoriia dlia upotrebleniia iunoshestvu, published in St Petersburg in 1800. At the time, this was arguably the only such textbook with content related to Ukraine. Berlynsky often called Little Russia “Ukraine,” but so did his contemporaries and many of his predecessors. Even

Figure 1.1 Zaporozhia and New Russia, 18th century. Paul-Robert Magocsi, Ukraine: An Illustrated History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007, 118; reprinted with permission of the publisher.

In Search of “Ukraine” 37

38

The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

the author of the Istoriia Rusov reveals that he was not hostile in principle to the term “Ukraine” as such. It appears in the main body of his manuscript many times, most often in documents or quotations, sometimes wilfully edited or quoted from memory. For example, he included the text of Hetman Bohdan Khmelʹnytsʹkyi’s apocryphal Bila Tserkva proclamation of 1648, in which “Ukraine” is usually paired with “Malorossiia” (Little Russia) as “Ukraina nasha Malorossiiskaia” (Our Little Russian Ukraine).118 Elsewhere he refers to Voltaire’s description of the Russo-Swedish war of 1709, in which “Ukraine” is presented as the land of the Cossacks.119 In parallel with this, the anonymous author himself uses the term “Ukraine.” For example, when he describes Ivan Sirko’s military actions in Moldavia, he writes that the Cossack chieftain, retreating from the enemy, crossed the Dnister River and “returned to his Ukraine.”120 Elsewhere in the book, the author recounts how Turkish armies advanced toward the fortress of Kamianets-Podilsky in 1672, passing “through Ukraine, loyal to Khanenko, all the way to the Sluch River.”121 All these examples actually refer to the right bank of the Dnipro River, that is, to the same contested territory whose “Ukrainian” name the author held to have been invented by “shameless” Polish and Lithuanian authors. At the same time, it was highly unusual and hardly explicable that the author would not apply the name “Ukraine” to the territory of the Sloboda Cossack regiments, known officially during his lifetime as the “Sloboda Ukraine gubernia” (1765–80; 1797–1835). It was the only region whose official name included the “Ukrainian” denomination.122 It would appear that the author of the Istoriia Rusov decided to challenge obvious historical fact when he coined the adjective bulavyns’kyi (“of the mace”) for the Sloboda historical region so as to emphasize its subjection to the “mace” (possessions) of the Little Russian hetman. In this he was indeed unique. Most other authors, presumably his contemporaries, tended to assign the name “Ukraine” to the Sloboda Ukraine (later Kharkiv) gubernia exclusively. The Statistical Description of the Russian Empire, compiled by Yevdokim Ziablovsky in the early nineteenth century, says of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia that “the land constituting this gubernia is called Ukraine to this day and this because it lay on the very borders, limits, or edge of Russia.”123 In the strictly geographic sense, the Kharkiv region is called ukraïna in the works of the philosopher Hryhorii Skovoroda and in the programmatic documents of the Russian Decembrists.124 We encounter it in the same sense in the notes

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39

of the nineteenth-century German travel writer Johann Georg Kohl.125 It was no accident that their contemporaries bestowed on Kharkiv the title of “capital of Ukraine.” Curiously, Vasilii Karazin, the founder of Kharkiv University, whom some enthusiasts consider an “architect of the Ukrainian Renaissance,” dreamt of the time when his native Sloboda Ukraine would get rid of its “Ukrainian” designation and become just the “Kharkovian” gubernia. Apparently, both the author of The History of the Rus' People and his contemporary Karazin considered the “Ukrainian” adjective undesirable for their respective little fatherland, although for opposite reasons. Contrary to both his contemporaries, Hryhorii Kvitka continued to use the Ukrainian name for the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia and its inhabitants even after it was renamed the Kharkiv gubernia. In the course of subsequent developments, “Ukrainian” nomenclature never became a monopoly of the Kharkiv historical region or any other. In the absolute majority of historical texts produced during this period, the term “Ukraine” was a synonym of “Little Russia,” its second name denoting the territorial nucleus on both sides of the Dnipro River discussed earlier.126 For evidence of this, it suffices to refer to the works of such reputable Russian historians as Gerhard Müller, Ivan Boltin, Dmitrii Bantysh-Kamensky, and Aleksandr Rigelman and the Ukrainian authors Petro Symonovsky, Opanas Shafonsky, and Oleksandr Bezborodko.127 In the Cossack memorial literature of the eighteenth century, “Ukraine” was used primarily in the private sphere as a synonym of the more official “Little Russia”: both names identified the authors’ common fatherland (vitchyzna).128 In the early nineteenth century, the aforementioned Russian geographer Yevdokim Ziablovsky extended the name “Ukraine” to the whole left bank of the Dnipro, that is, the former Hetmanate and the Sloboda region regiments, once again in the geographic sense.129 His contemporary Karl German went even further, applying the name “Ukraine” to the whole territory embracing Little Russia, the Sloboda Ukraine region, parts of the Katerynoslav and Kursk gubernias, and the land of the Don Cossacks on the grounds that it bordered on the Tatars and Turks.130 Pavlo Biletsky-Nosenko, an ardent Little Russian patriot, wrote to the editorial board of the Kharkiv-based Ukrainskii zhurnal in the early 1820s about a “Ukraine from the Carpathians to the Don, inhabited by a Ukrainian population of many millions.”131 A similar view was expressed in 1827 by Mykhailo Kachenovsky of Kharkiv, professor and rector of Moscow University.

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

Historians concur that in the era of Romanticism, both “Little Russian” and “Ukrainian” designations became imbued with ethnocultural content, with a notable rise in the intensity with which “Ukrainian” terminology was used. But does this mean that “Little Russia” was being “forced out” by “Ukraine,” as Brian Boeck suggests? He associates the beginning of that process with the publication of a Russian translation of Guillaume Le Vasseur de Beauplan’s seventeenth-century description of Ukraine in St Petersburg in 1832, which “may have contributed more to the revival of the term ukraïnetsʹ than any other single event.”132 In Boeck’s words, “After the translation of Beauplan, intellectuals inherited a term that was associated with a glorious period in the national past, but whose contents could still be actively shaped by contemporaries.”133 Indeed, on turning to the text of that publication, we see that the introduction by the Russian translator, probably Fedor Ustrialov, contains rousing words about “Ukrainian Cossacks” and “Ukraine, native to us by faith, and by language, and by the origin of its inhabitants.”134 But for some reason Boeck does not mention that by then “Ukrainian” ethnic terminology, as noted earlier, was already commonly accepted as synonymous with “Little Russian” designations. Thus, Andrei Aleinikov, a deputy to the Catherinian Committee for the compilation of a new law code in 1767, spoke of one “Little Russian people in Little Russia and the Sloboda regiments.”135 His contemporary Hryhorii Kalinovsky described “Ukrainian marriage rituals of the common people” as common to inhabitants of Little Russia and the Sloboda region.136 Ivan Pereverzev, the author of the Topographic Description of the Kharkiv Vicegerency, used “Ukrainian” terminology when discussing the Kharkiv region not only in the geographic but also in the ethnic sense, especially with reference to the “Ukrainian dialect” of the local Little Russians. The second edition of Bantysh-Kamensky’s Istoriia Maloi Rossii, which appeared in 1830, contains “Ukrainian” terminology, used in parallel to “South Russian” and “Little Russian” terminology, inter alia for describing the Ukrainian population (“sons of Ukraine,” “Ukrainians”).137 It might appear that Hryhorii Kvitka, who also used “Ukraine” and “Ukrainians” in the ethnic sense, intended to narrow the reference of the name “Ukrainians” to inhabitants of the Kharkiv region when he sought to substantiate the cultural differences between Ukrainians of the Sloboda region and those of neighbouring Little Russia.138 Elsewhere he identified “Ukrainians” with the inhabitants of historical Little Russia, but in the final analysis he limited the reference of that ethnonym to the Zaporozhian Cos-

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sacks alone, who were described as “pure Ukrainians.” 139 In general, even the regional Sloboda-Ukrainian patriot Hryhorii Kvitka clearly understood that all his compatriots, even those who had moved to Siberia or the Caucasus, to say nothing of those in the Carpathian Mountains, shared a common origin and ethnic particularities. In 1829, the journal Moskovskii telegraf began to publish the poems of a student of Biletsky-Nosenko, Mykola Markevych, which were issued separately in 1831 under the title Ukrainskie melodii. This work is literally replete with “Ukrainian” terminology in a variety of contexts, from the lyrical to the grandiose: “a glorious period in the national past.”140 The same year saw the publication in the imperial capital of a devotedly loyal pamphlet by Orest Somov, written on behalf of “a Ukrainian,”141 аnd in Kharkiv of a Ukrainian Almanac produced by local Romantics. Would it not be more accurate to attribute the sudden revitalization of “Ukrainian” terminology in the early 1830s not to one of the publications devoted to that subject but to the general situation in the country after the Polish uprising? The Russian government and society responded to it with a mighty wave of imperial nationalism directed toward the lands that had become the arena of a successive Polish-Russian conflict. Until then, those lands had been almost officially named “Polish Ukraine.” From that time forward, they would become “Russian,” at times through “South Russian” and “Little Russian” mediation. It is also worth noting that once the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia was renamed the Kharkiv gubernia in 1835, the notion of “Russian Ukraine” lost its narrowly regional character and could “travel” westward and southward along with “South Russian” and “Little Russian” terminology. Indeed, the Kharkiv Romantics took advantage of that fact in their writings.142 The works of Levko Borovykovsky, Mykola Kostomarov, and Opanas Shpyhotsky are replete with “Ukrainian” terminology.143 But these authors also make broadly concomitant use of “Little Russian” nomenclature, whether in the form of a subtitle to a “Ukrainian” title or interchangeably in the texts of their works as a synonym for “Ukrainian.”144 The Kharkiv Romantics were not the only writers to use “Ukrainian” terminology in an ethnocultural sense not unlike that of the present day. Gogol, Maksymovych, and Markevych did likewise. The first two used Ukraina and russkaia zemlia interchangeably.145 The latter consistently employed “Ukraine” and “Little Russia” as synonyms,146 imbuing both with geographic and ethnic content.147 In Maksymovych’s Skazanie o Koliivshchine (An

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

Account of the Koliivshchyna Rebellion), “Ukraine” is the territory on the right bank of the Dnipro, where the haidamaka rebels were active; they in turn became associated with the Cossacks and were incorporated into the Little Russian historical narrative. Panteleimon Kulish, who played the leading role in the systematic use of the term Ukraïna,148 could draw on the works of his contemporaries and predecessors. This did not mean, however, that Ukraïna became established as a national symbol in the course of the nineteenth century. Along with its broad Little Russian counterpart, it could also be used in a narrower sense to denote particular regions of ethnic territory.149 It should be noted in this regard that “Ukrainian” terminology, more than “South Russian” and “Little Russian,” was associated with the phenomenon of Cossackdom, both Little Russian and Zaporozhian. “Ukraine” completely eclipses “Little Russia,” for example, in Fr Ioann’s Heroïchni stykhi o slavnykh voiennykh diistviiakh vois′k zaporoz′kykh (Heroic Verses about the Military Deeds of the Zaporozhian Armies), published in 1784.150 The inclusion of the haidamaka theme in the national narrative in the mid-nineteenth century not only expanded the territory covered by “Ukraine” but also endowed it with a distinct social dimension. The significant difference between “Ukrainians” and “Little Russians” was by no means the fact that they wrote in Ukrainian, researched and described folk life, or allegedly preferred “Ukrainian” to “Little Russian” terminology. In fact, there was no interruption in terms of ethnic terminology used for purposes of self-identification. Andreas Kappeler was generally right to observe that switching from “Little Russian” to “Ukrainian” terminology very often indicated a change from a loyal pro-Russian orientation to a “subversive” anti-Russian one and vice versa,151 but that was not the rule for the first half of the nineteenth century. On the personal level, “Little Russian,” or rather “Malorossian,” terminology was also used as an expression of modern nationalist sentiments. None other than the young Mykhailo Hrushevsky called himself a “proud Little Russian (Malorossian),” writing in his personal diary in 1883.152 Skillful manipulation of the two designations was a common survival tactic for many ethnic Ukrainians determined to make a career in the Russian Empire.153 Another example is that of Dmytro Ivanovych Bahalii, one of the leading representatives of Ukrainian historiography and civil society in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. During and after the dissolution of the Russian Empire, many “Little Russians” promptly turned into

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“Ukrainians.” In the long run, however, it was not hard for many of them to make a U-turn.

Ethnonyms Corresponding to the geographic taxonomies of the period, there were several related ethnonyms to describe the population of Ukraine.154 Most often, the names “Russes,” “Slavic-Rus'/Russians,” Ruthenians (rusyny), “Rusnaks,” “South Russians,” “Little Russians,” and “Ukrainians” were used interchangeably. One can find such a mosaic of ethnonyms in practically all the texts described above, as well as in many other sources of both official and private origin. In almost all cases, there was no clear difference between ethnonyms and toponyms. In not a few instances, the ethnonyms “Ukrainian” and “Little Russian” continued to be understood as regionally limited. Venelin, for instance, considered “Ukrainian” equal in status to “South Russian,” while ignoring the ethnonym “Little Russian.”155 In other cases, “Ukrainians” and “Little Russians” served as synonyms. In Boeck’s opinion, the symbolic change in relations between the “Little Russian” and “Ukrainian” designations took place in the latter half of the nineteenth century, when in official discourse maloross remained neutral but ukrainets became negative for political reasons.156 Another ethnonym widely used as a designation for Ukrainian inhabitants of the Russian Empire, along with “Little Russian” and “Ukrainian,” was khokhol.157 In the literary Russian of the day, it was perhaps the only general ethnonym applicable to ethnic Ukrainians regardless of their place of residence or even social status. Khokhol was the quintessence of ethnicity, the indivisible atom, the basic and universal designation that defined a particular individual’s origin by birth, special characteristics, and tastes pertaining to national character. To be sure, the name was used most often as an informal designation with different meanings, depending on context. It could have a derogatory meaning to fit the “prototypes of uncivilized peasants” designation, reflecting an inferiority complex.158 At the same time, the name and selfdesignation khokhol could be half-joking or folksy. Vasilii Karazin did not hesitate to call inhabitants of the Sloboda region khokhly, with no negative connotation, since he was emphasizing their aptitude for study.159 The khokhol designation was adopted by ethnic Ukrainians for purposes of informal self-identification.160 The minister of internal affairs, Viktor Kochubei, could refer to himself in a letter to the Little Russian governor gen-

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

eral, Prince Nikolai Repnin, as “a khokhol by birth.” Stepan Burachek, a Russian general and a Little Russian patriot, referred to his landowning countrymen as “pure, original khokhly, only without an oseledets [Cossack haircut].”161 The example of Gogol is especially interesting. In a well-known letter to his friend Aleksandra Smirnova-Rossett, written in 1844, Gogol, a deeply religious man, even gave an ethnic dimension to the immortal soul, using derivatives of khokhol and “Little Russian” interchangeably in contradistinction to “Russian.”162 It is worth noting that Gogol’s correspondent identified herself as a khokhlachka. It was precisely on the basis of the term khokhol that Russian stereotypes of Ukrainians (“cunning,” “stubborn,” “dim-witted”) and of the differences between the two peoples were generated and cultivated. Passing through the Sloboda region in 1774, Johann Güldenstädt left the following comment on local Ukrainians and Russians: “one can hardly expect the merger of moskali with khokhly, as they call each other in jest, that is, of the Russians with the Cherkasians, or Rusnaks.”52 Half a century later, Opanas Shpyhotsky would complain from Moscow in a letter to Izmail Sreznevsky that the local publishers had behaved with him “like moskali with a khokhol.”163 The list of examples could be extended. Khokhol and its derivatives have survived to the present day and even reasserted their place in the Russian ethnographic literature.164 Khokhol was perhaps the only ethnonym that lent itself to the formation of a toponym, albeit an imaginary one – Khokhlandiia, that is, a land inhabited by khokhly. It was the reverse in all other instances: the toponym gave rise to the ethnonym (Ukrainians, South Russians, Little Russians). In 1817, Prince Ivan Dolgoruky, a Russian traveller, found himself in the khokhol region (oblast' khokhlov) somewhere between Hlukhiv and Sevsk.165 Later on, another Russian traveller, Ivan Aksakov, identified Khokhlandiia as the territory between Kharkiv and Poltava.166 Evidently, the geography of this ethnically imagined space was not precise. It is curious that even heavily Russified Kharkiv and its university were perceived by Polish and Russian contemporaries as khokhliatskie, based, it would seem, on the ethnic composition of the local population.167

Conclusions The material cited in this chapter shows that in the first half of the nineteenth century there were no established rules or norms governing the use of the names “South Russia,” “Little Russia,” and “Ukraine,” just as there was no

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consensus among historians with regard to the origins of those terms and the way they were understood. Each of those designations had acquired multiple functions, and they were used as toponyms and ethnonyms interchangeably, with no strict rules or order. Under such conditions, almost the whole spectrum of “Ukrainian” designations maintained a certain ambivalence and offered grounds for a variety of interpretations. This may have left some room for alternative scenarios of modern nation-building. It does not imply, however, that local identities were not compatible or even intertwined with the idea of the integrity of the “Ukrainian” land and people. Some historians, including Oleksandr Ohloblyn, tend to exaggerate Ukrainian regional fragmentation. The idea that “Ukraine, Little Russia, and South-Western gubernias till the middle of the [nineteenth] century ... were conceived as different units”168 begs for limitation. My research suggests that the historical commonality of the Ukrainian lands never disappeared from the radar of contemporary observers and that their ethnic unity was established long before the nineteenth century. It would appear that the profusion of toponyms and ethnonyms for the designation of the Ukrainian lands and people presented no particular difficulty to contemporaries of the period under discussion. They realized that while names were changing, the population itself had not changed much. 169 I believe that the multiplicity and ambiguity of these respective designations can be better understood by taking account of the gradual secularization of the medieval discourse of the “Rus'/Slavic-Rus' people” established by the Kyivan Synopsis. The reimagination and rearticulation of that discourse in terms of modern geography and ethnicity led to a gradual erosion and fragmentation of the historical and religio-linguistic community and its territory described in the Synopsis. However, a language for the description of that process and the emerging new meanings had yet to be developed. Of the various names in existence, “Ukrainian” was the least bound up with the Rus' religious tradition; hence its triumph over the more traditional projects depended on the success of secularization. The formula “Ukraine-Rus',” adopted by Mykhailo Hrushevsky, represented a compromise between tradition and innovation.170 Consequently, it left space for other, more traditional definitions. I have no basis to speak of a gradual displacement of “Little Russian” or “South Russian” terminology by “Ukrainian” terminology or of their differentiation before the mid-nineteenth century. The differentiation of Ukraine from Little Russia and the increasing significance of the former term became apparent only in the second half of the

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

nineteenth century.171 Brian Boeck dates the culmination of that process to the early 1920s.172 Andreas Kappeler considers it to have been completed only after the Second World War.173 And yet the revival of the old “Little Russian” nomenclature at the beginning of the twenty-first century demonstrates that conditions for its preservation survived even the Soviet experiment. For Serhii Plokhy, “the terms ‘Ukraine’ and ‘Little Russia’ represent very different East Slavic identities.”174 It seems, however, that the line between the two is often blurred, while their relationship remains situational and motivated by political circumstances rather than cultural differences. The variety of names (ethnonyms and toponyms) used for the description of Slavic peoples and their lands in the Russian Empire (and beyond) raises a question about the contemporary language of their description. Even today, attempts to find an alternative term for those who find themselves somewhere between the “Ukrainian” and “Russian” poles still remain futile for the obvious reason that they do not constitute a coherent group.175 How, then, is one retrospectively to identify all those who understood their distinctiveness but, instead of articulating it clearly, juggled designations such as “Little Russians,” “South Russians,” “Ukrainians,” and the rest?176 I would describe all of them as “Ukrainians” from a contemporary perspective and, if need be, clarify their identity orientation more precisely in a particular socio-cultural or political context. In the latter case, one cannot help but accept the practice of using a variety of unstable and arbitrarily articulated definitions (Little Russian, Ukrainian, Ukrainian/Russian, Slavic-Rus', local, etc.). The same approach is relevant, I believe, when it comes to “Russians,” who might be identified as “Velikorossy,” “Rossiiane,” “Slavic-Rus',” “Orthodox,” etc. But the process of Ukrainian and Russian reidentification is far from complete. Its further development may affect our understanding of the past.

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2

“Malorossiia”: A Missing Link in Ukrainian National Development?

Introduction On 18 July 2017, a certain Aleksandr Zakharchenko, the puppet leader of the self-proclaimed “Donetsk People’s Republic,” solemnly proclaimed a new “federal state,” “Little Russia” (Malorossiia), intended to replace the “discredited” Ukraine and become its “legitimate” successor.1 Donetsk was to become the capital of the republic of “Little Russia.” In the opinion of Russian analysts, the idea of “Little Russia” could be used by Kremlin politicians to create an alternate state formation on Ukrainian territory that would be subordinate to Moscow and allow it to present developments in Ukraine as a civil war.2 For tactical reasons, this project was set aside. Strategically, however, the very idea of a “Little Russia” opposed to Ukrainian nation-state–building was not abandoned because it has broad support in Russian society. President Vladimir Putin and his closest circle deny the very existence of Ukrainians as a separate nation (narod) and consider them Russians. Russian nationalists from the Liberal-Democratic Party have even suggested renaming Ukraine Little Russia.3 Part of the Russian intelligentsia actively supports the authorities in their Manichean struggle with the spectre of Ukrainian nationalism.4 From the Russian perspective, it is as if the former Soviet Ukraine were splitting into two uneven parts: one is the Gogol-like, cozy, and familiar “Little Russia,” which has been seen as a branch of the Russian nation in tandem with “Great Russia” (Velikorossiia) and “White Russia” (Belorussiia), and the other is the Mazepa/Bandera-like nationalist “Ukraine” considered to have been created artificially by foreign adversaries of “Mother Russia.” That double image has taken on vivid geographic dimensions: “Little

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

Russia” has become associated with the territories once included in the Russian Empire, while “Ukraine” has become synonymous with the western regions once ruled by the Austro-Hungarian Empire and its successor states. From the Ukrainian national perspective, the “Little Russian” phenomenon is considered a national and cultural inferiority complex imposed on Ukrainians by imperial Russia. The rhetoric of Ukrainian national discourse against it is as uncompromising as Russian anti-Ukrainian rhetoric. It is presented as a distortion of genuine national tradition, a moral illness or spiritual disease.5 For example, since 2019, when Volodymyr Zelensky, a popular comic actor born in the city of Kryvyi Rih in the Donbas, was elected president of Ukraine, his political opponents have not tired of accusing him of being a “Little Russian” (in Ukrainian, maloros) while presenting themselves as “true Ukrainians.”6 On the mental map of post-Soviet Ukraine, “Little Russia” and “Ukraine” are depicted as “two Ukraines” represented, respectively, by the “two towers” opposing each other: Donetsk in the east and Lviv in the west.7 It should be noted that “Little Russian” discourse has some support in Ukraine, as evidenced by the rhetoric of the pro-Russian parties and communist activists, as well as by the writings of such journalists as the late Oles Buzyna, who vigorously opposed Ukrainian nationalism by invoking “Little Russian” doctrine.8 The very fact that the “Little Russian” historical and cultural phenomenon has re-emerged as the central issue in post-Soviet debates about Russian and Ukrainian identity is no accident. It tells us something important about the ongoing process of national reidentification in both countries, which is rooted in their shared historical legacy and geography. It shows, first, the persistence of the Russian imperial legacy in the post-Soviet space;9 it demonstrates, second, how differently this shared historical legacy can be instrumentalized for the purposes of present-day nation-building; it reveals, third, that there may be various possible scenarios of identity-building processes among the East Slavic peoples. It seems that the idea of the “national revival” of the “small” peoples of Europe, elaborated by Miroslav Hroch and accommodated by Ukrainian scholars of the second half of the last century, now dominates Ukrainian historical narrative. According to this view, Ukrainians belonged to the so-called “stateless” peoples that lacked “their own” nobility, political unit, or continuous literary tradition.10 The Ukrainian national movement arose in the latter half of the eighteenth century and culminated in the twentieth. It developed in a form of a “national revival” in three successive phases: (a) the “period of

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scholarly interest”; (b) the “period of patriotic agitation”; and (c) the “rise of a mass national movement.”11 My understanding of the initial stage of modern Ukrainian nation-building suggests that Hroch’s schema does not reflect properly the complexity of this process. If we agreed that “Little Russian” and “Ukrainian” identity discourses are different indeed, I believe it would change our perception of the initial stage of the Ukrainian national “revival.”12 Instead of focusing on the phenomenon of modern nationalism, we might consider the process of “updating” and transformation of the Little Russian identity discourse. In what follows, I will focus on the period from the full incorporation of the former Cossack lands (the Little Russian Hetmanate and the Sloboda Ukraine regiments) into imperial Russian space in the 1760s to the midnineteenth century, when the Little Russian identity discourse was reinvented as a Ukrainian national discourse by a new generation of intellectuals under the leadership of Taras Shevchenko.

A “Stateless Nation”? The stereotype of Ukrainians reduced to an “ethnographic mass” bereft of an elite stratum, high culture, and literary language appears to be shared by many Ukrainian historians. Even one of the most original historians of modern Ukraine, Ivan Lysiak-Rudnytsky, who strove to demystify the national historiographic canon, did not avoid it.13 Hence the alleged “interruption” of Ukrainian national development after the dissolution of the Cossack polities and the even more widespread notion of the “incomplete” socio-cultural structure of Ukrainian society, which automatically put Ukrainians into the category of “non-historic” or “plebeian” nations.14 In fact, Ukrainian society was neither “reduced to an ethnographic mass” nor “politically amorphous.” The early modern Little Russian nation was a cohesive community of nobles associated with a particular territory, protected by a specific legal system (the Lithuanian Statute), loyal to the Russian Empire and the Orthodox Church, and united by corporate solidarity. It had an extensive network of family ties, a collective consciousness, and a deeply rooted historical memory. The members of the Ukrainian (Little Russian) landed gentry considered themselves the only legitimate representatives of the lands and people in their possession. Importantly, they perceived themselves as a “nation,” a status reflected in their respective “national” rhetoric. As such, the Little Russian gentry pos-

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

sessed a clearly perceived identity articulated as “national” before the era of modern nationalism.15 It seems clear that many scions of the former Cossack elite retained their local patriotism and common estate identity, as well as feelings of cultural and historical distinctiveness, long after they joined the imperial Russian gentry. The early modern Little Russian national elite elaborated the concept of their country and fatherland (otchyzna) long “before the concept of a Ukrainian linguistic and cultural nation was disseminated.”16 That concept was effectively combined with the idea of a broader imperial Russian otechestvo. The two notions did not contradict each other. The idea of “two homelands” was expressed by two well-known gentry representatives from two neighbouring former Cossack regions, Sloboda Ukraine (Vasilii Karazin) and Mykola Markevych.17 Both were ardent patriots of their respective “small homelands” and of the Russian Empire. They were not alone. All Little Russian patriots and civil activists known to me shared a common characteristic: they were “obshcherusy na malorusskoi osnove [all-Russians on a Little Russian basis],” as George Grabowicz reminded us by quoting Dmitrii Ovsianiko-Kulikovsky.18 They sought to merge the interests of their fatherland with those of the empire to the benefit of both. Educated Little Russians became co-builders of the modernized Russian Empire and its new secular identity. The dual (regional/imperial) identity of the Ukrainian landed gentry found expression in Ukrainian-Russian (vernacular/literary) bilingualism. The imperial elites “did not necessarily insist on monolingualism but rather on bilingualism, where the dominant language of the imperial core would supplement local languages and vernaculars rather than fully suppress them.”19 Moreover, the modern Russian language was at the initial stage of its development, which allowed Ukrainian (Little Russian) intellectuals to take an active part in its formation. That was sufficient justification for George Grabowicz to include Russian-language texts written by “Little Russians” as contributions to the development of Ukrainian literature.20 It should be noted, however, that the codification of the Ukrainian literary language was not completed until the beginning of the twentieth century. Before that, more than a century ago, many contemporaries were uncertain whether to classify Ukrainian as a language or a local dialect. Aleksei/Oleksii Pavlovsky, the author of the first grammar of the Ukrainian language, point-

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ed out as early as in 1822 that there were no rules governing the usage of the “Little Russian dialect” (malorossiiskoe narechie).21 They would be established only in the twentieth century. In parallel with linguistic bilingualism, the social environment of the Little Russian landed gentry effectively combined local ethnic traditions with Westernized imperial Russian culture. In the words of Stepan Burachek, a Little Russian patriot, imperial Russian general, and man of letters of the mid-nineteenth century, “What is the most surprising is that Little Russia preserved and multiplied a national upper estate – (Cossack) nobles – who are Europeans among Europeans while at home are mostly pure, original khokhly [often a derogatory term for stereotypical Ukrainians], only without an oseledets [forelock]. Travelling Muscovites mock their love for and their passionate devotion to their patriarchal life, language, and the state of things.”22 In Russian (Great Russian) perception, the khokhol was cunning, obsequious, and stubborn but dull-witted. Ukrainians retaliated by depicting typical Russians (Great Russians) as ignorant, boorish, and estranged from authentic “Rus'ianness.” Mutual, sometimes even negative ethnic stereotypes run like a red thread through the observations of educated contemporaries, both Great Russian and Little Russian. They had been clearly articulated since the second half of the eighteenth century by commentators ranging from Semen Divovych to Hryhorii Vinsky, from Ivan Kotliarevsky to Petro Hulak-Artemovsky, from Hryhorii Kvitka to Mykola Markevych. In the words of Filipp Vigel, even those Ukrainians who seemed thoroughly Russified, such as Vasilii/Vasyl Kapnist and Nikolai Gnedich/Mykola Hnidych, “despite unity of faith, blood, and rank, as well as the two centuries of their fatherland’s union with Russia, secretly hated it along with Russians, Muscovites, and katsapy [derogatory Ukrainian term for Russians].”23 If one seeks an analogue to the early modern Little Russian nation, it is to be found among those European local elites who were successfully integrated into their respective imperial systems but maintained personal ties with the homeland and cherished local traditions. A case that comes to mind is that of the Scottish elites of the Age of Enlightenment who justified the union of Scotland with England as progressive for their country.24 Part of the Polish nobility (szlachta) on the right bank of the Dnipro River, known as the pro-Russian Coterie Peterburska, also managed to combine their regional/ borderland identity with political loyalty to the imperial Russian crown.25 Another instance is that of the local Bohemian nobles (Landespatrioten) who

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

opposed the imperial bureaucracy on the basis of traditional regional and estate privileges.26 The very existence of the early modern Little Russian nation suggests that any of its cultural activities could take on certain political overtones.27 Political aspects of the Ukrainian question were never ignored by the imperial Russian authorities. Mazepinstvo, or latent/alleged political separatism associated with the memory of Hetman Ivan Mazepa, was central but not unique in that regard. Such issues as the Polish presence in the Ukrainian lands, the existence of the Greek Catholic Church, and growing pan-Slavic national aspirations also kept the imperial authorities on the alert. But dissent in whatever form was expressed predominantly in the cultural sphere. Attempts to characterize the Little Russian patriots’ activities in terms of either “national resistance” or “restoration” remain debatable. Members of the Ukrainian (Little Russian) gentry might be dissatisfied with their status or even harbour anti-Russian ethnic stereotypes, but there were no open revolts of the kind that marked Polish history of the same period. There were reasons indeed for the Ukrainian elite’s political opportunism. No Cossack Hetmanate would have provided the former Cossack elites with social status comparable to that granted them by the Russian monarchy. The Cossack elite, having attained the rights and privileges of the landed gentry, became formally equal to the Polish and Great Russian nobilities. That elite consolidated itself as a Little Russian political nation, that is, “the privileged corporate orders that embodied the national idea.”28 Those belonging to the Little Russian nation created a ramified network of corporate solidarity and patronage ties that reached into the imperial court and the higher echelons of the Russian bureaucracy. Such a system allowed the Little Russian gentry to protect or promote their personal or group interests whenever they were threatened or blocked by the imperial centre. Why, then, would they respond with uprisings or conspiratorial separatism to a system that effectively served their needs and wishes? At the same time, the Little Russian nation was not monolithic in its political, cultural, and social orientations. Zenon Kohut identifies two sociopolitical groupings among the Little Russian elites of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in response to the dissolution of the Hetmanate: “assimilators” and “traditionalists.”29 The former were prepared for unconditional integration of their homeland into imperial Russian structures; the latter were opposed because of their attachment to the traditional socio-

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political order. As usual, any binary opposition sometimes requires more nuanced interpretation. I would add to Kohut’s classification a third group of those Little Russians who accepted the modernizing or, rather, Westernizing agenda of the imperial Russian regime. They were educated in Russian universities or lyceums; many of them entered the imperial service and made good, sometimes sensational careers. Although they opted for participation in the grand project of imperial modernization instead of continuing a vegetative existence on the periphery, some did not cut ties with their homeland. Should we call them “modernizers”? The administrative incorporation of the Cossack regions into imperial Russian space in the second half of the eighteenth century went smoothly because the political and social ground for it was already prepared. By no means did all Ukrainians regard the liquidation of Cossack autonomy, already a distant memory, as a national catastrophe.30 Many contemporaries understood the obsolescence and inefficiency of the Cossack administrative system, which had proved incapable of responding to the challenges of modernity. Sharp criticism of the Cossack administration is to be found in the works of many contemporaries, including such intellectuals as Opanas Shafonsky and Maksym Berlynsky, and the reader will find it depicted satirically in the works of Vasilii Narezhny/Vasyl Narizhny, Nikolai Gogol/Mykola Hohol, and Hryhorii Kvitka-Osnovianenko. Social antagonism was much stronger than national solidarity in Ukrainian society of the day.31 Those who considered themselves descendants of a “true” nobility, with legitimate pedigrees, as well as Orthodox clerics and townsmen, to say nothing of the peasants, were by no means happy with Cossack political leadership. As they saw it, all Cossack hetmans were alike: “from Bohdan to Ivan” they were usurpers or even tyrants. Hryhorii Poletyka, the most eloquent representative of the Little Russian szlachta, expressed such feelings quite openly.32 Andrian Chepa, a well-known collector of the Cossack historical legacy, was of the same opinion.33 Maksym Berlynsky, a historian and educator, may also be included among the Enlightenment critics of the Hetmanate, in his case on behalf of townsmen. Old social hostilities were heightened by conflicts of interest between the hereditary szlachta, traditional Cossack elites, and the new imperial service nobility: the conflict between the first two groups is vividly presented in the anonymous Istoriia Rusov and between the second two in Vasyl Narizhny’s satirical story “The Overseas Prince.”

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

“Gathering a Legacy” What motivated Ukrainian enthusiasts to collect their historical and cultural heritage after the dissolution of the Cossack administrative system? Starting with Dmitrii/Dmytro Miller, historians used to think that the main motive behind the historiographic and archeographic activities of local patriots was their search for evidence to legitimize their newly acquired noble status, questioned by the imperial Russian authorities.34 That motive was indeed very important in the second half of the eighteenth century, when the Cossack socio-administrative system was being replaced by the imperial one. In the early nineteenth century, however, the “emotional mobilization”35 played a no less important role in the activities of early enthusiasts of the Little Russian historical legacy than socio-political motives. This is sometimes characterized as nostalgia for or a “dying echo” of glorious Cossack times,36 but it was not initially a romantic lamentation about the fate of Little Russia. I would rather emphasize “the need for dignity, which had been damaged for various reasons,” which seems closer to the noble value system than romantic melancholy.37 The intellectual production of the proud heirs of ancient Kyivan Orthodoxy and recent Cossack military glory was shot through with vigorous polemics against Western “slanderers,” “Northern” (i.e., Russian) “ignoramuses,” and native “scoffers.”38 It is a widespread stereotype that modern Ukrainian nationalism was inspired directly by Johann Gottfried Herder and Western Romanticism.39 Liah Greenfeld stresses that “It was the West and the encounter with the West that ushered Russia into the new era in which it became aware of itself as a nation.”40 Nevertheless, admiration of the West went hand in hand with opposition to it and was accompanied by pride and xenophobia. Greenfeld approaches this phenomenon by way of the concept of ressentiment, which “refers to a psychological state resulting from suppressed feelings of envy and hatred (existential envy) and the impossibility to satisfy these feelings (to get revenge or act them out).”41 I would subscribe to these observations if the Russian nationalism described by Greenfeld were in fact imperial and not ethnic. In fact, it often manifested itself in the old-fashioned Slavic-Rus' or “pan-Russian” identity discourse, which made room for a Little Russian “contribution” to (all-)Russian ressentiment. If the modernization of the Russian Empire took the form of Westernization, then we must admit that the “Little Russian (Malorossian)” phenomenon may be seen as a conservative reaction to Western

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modernity rather than a direct product of it.42 From this perspective, the Little Russian (Malorossian) identity discourse had much in common with Russian Slavophilism. They shared opposition to the West, strong anti-Polish sentiments, and elements of anti-Semitism. Little Russian topics came to the forefront of imperial identity policy every time Russia turned back to the West and vice versa. At times of geopolitical upheaval, the government exploited the potential of imperial Orthodox nationalism and its local Great and Little Russian ethnic versions to mobilize the populace for confrontation with western Europe. The Napoleonic Wars and the Polish uprisings played a particular role in that regard. Little Russia’s alleged position at the centre of the “Slavic-Rus' world” placed it in ideological opposition to the West. As a province “unspoiled” by modern civilization, Little Russia became a source of inspiration for authors who sought alternatives to Western modernity. As such, Little Russian patriotism took on the form of political conservatism. It should be noted that Ukrainian topics attracted the attention not only of Little Russian “traditionalists,” “assimilators,” and “modernizers” but also of imperial Russian officials – representatives of the imperial service stratum who were not always, so to speak, genetically associated with Ukraine but chanced to live in Ukraine or contacted Ukrainians. Notable representatives of this numerous but exceptionally variegated group of authors were Aleksandr Rigelman, Nikolai Repnin, Nikolai Tsertelev, Mikhail Markov, Dmitrii Bantysh-Kamensky, Aleksei Levshin, Izmail Sreznevsky, and Kondratii Ryleev, to name just a few. They were guided by a variety of motives in their attitudes toward Ukrainian subjects: political conjuncture, administrative tasks, national (Russian) sentiment, sheer curiosity, and so on.

Institutions Two basic social strata, the landed gentry and the imperial service nobility, took on the task of producing and disseminating knowledge about Ukraine in the Russian Empire, and both contributed to the ethnic reidentification of Ukraine and its inhabitants. “On the one hand, the state produced (or excluded) ethnic identities by classifying them, whether for purposes of administration, education, political representation or statistics. On the other hand, the ethnicity of minorities was crystallized by the construction of a corpus of preexisting practices, values and beliefs claimed by their members as proof of their authenticity and continuity.”43

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The Little Russian landed gentry organized various informal groups, gatherings, and salons; they might join Masonic lodges and set up private and public educational institutions in the form of boarding schools. Many other representatives of the former Cossack elite filled the ranks of the imperial Russian service bureaucracy and army.44 Some of them became “men of letters” who formed the social basis of the imperial intelligentsia. Both social strata produced enthusiasts who were actively involved in collecting and consolidating the Little Russian historical and cultural legacy, but their enthusiasm was limited to their personal activities. It is well known how difficult it was for the enlightened Little Russian “modernizers” to introduce new secular institutions and knowledge in their fatherland. One may recall in that case unsuccessful efforts of Fedir Tumansky to establish a local branch of the St Petersburg Academy of Sciences in Hlukhiv or the local nobility’s failure to found a university on the territory of the former Hetmanate. The Little Russian “lords” did not set up, at least formally, anything similar to the Royal Bohemian Society of the Sciences (dating in its original form from 1775) or the National Museum (founded in Prague in 1818) or the Finnish Literary Society (1831), intended to disseminate knowledge and love for the “little” fatherland. There was neither a Little Russian archive nor a museum nor a public library. The new secular system of education in Ukraine was also a product of enlightened absolutism rather than of local initiatives. The role of imperial Russian universities in promoting Ukrainian studies was limited. The role of Kharkiv and its university in the Ukrainian national “revival” is sometimes exaggerated because of their “Ukrainian” geographical location and consequent nomenclature, which is often misleading.45 The role of imperial Russian universities in promoting Ukrainian studies was limited. There were neither chairs nor academic courses directly concerned with Little Russian/Ukrainian topics until the next century, even though Ukraine-based imperial universities were headed at various times by ethnic Ukrainians (Petro Hulak-Artemovsky in Kharkiv and Mykhailo Maksymovych in Kyiv). Instead, Ukrainian topics found fertile ground in the new intellectual environment created by the imperial universities to fulfill their “civilizing mission.” That is how new, locally oriented scholarly and literary societies and periodical journals and almanacs came into existence. They encouraged cooperation between academics and local intellectuals and civil activists. Kharkiv is a good example of such activity, even though it was tailored to the needs of

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the imperial educational district, not those of Ukrainian historical regions and their traditional elites. Local topics were also central to various governmentsponsored institutions such as high schools, statistical committees, and archeographic commissions. Instead of creating their own regional or national institutions, the Little Russians simply infiltrated imperial ones. Little Russian patriots, considering themselves members of the pre-modern “big Slavic-Rus'” nation, operated easily within the imperial institutional framework. In a sense, some of the modern imperial institutions both at the centre and on the periphery served as substitutes for national ones.46 It is therefore no surprise that emerging Ukrainian studies found fertile ground in both imperial capitals. Thus, when considering the early development of Ukrainian studies, one should not limit their geography to Ukrainian historical territory: both imperial Russian capitals played no less a role, if not a greater one, than Kharkiv or Kyiv. Moscow and St Petersburg had a modern educational and cultural infrastructure open to ambitious provincials. Moscow University was especially important because it became a destination for many educated Ukrainians from the beginning of its existence.47 Two of them (Anton ProkopovychAntonsky and Mykhailo Kachenovsky) even became rectors of the university. Some imperial institutions, such as the Moscow Society of History and Antiquities, could thus develop a Ukraine-oriented profile when headed by the Little Russian patriot and scholar, a graduate and professor of Moscow University, Osyp Bodiansky.

The Little Russian (Malorossian) Master Narrative The loss of Cossack autonomy and the inception of modernizing Russian reforms facilitated the reimagination of the newly incorporated Ukrainian provinces and their inhabitants in ethnocultural terms. A new Little Russian master narrative48 as an expression of the new ethnocultural identity was created through the efforts of intellectuals working in various disciplines: historians, philologists, folklorists, geographers, artists, and so on. For all this variety, its generic structure was based on a complex encyclopedic description of the territory and its population.49 The origins of that genre may be traced back to the historical, geographic, and statistical description of Little Russia issued by Vasyl Ruban in 1773 and 1777 and developed as part of the

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description of all the provinces of the Russian Empire.50 Аs a rule, such texts were written by educated officials of Ukrainian and Russian origin. The second half of the eighteenth century saw the dynamic development of imperial geography, history, ethnography, and folklore studies in which Ukrainian authors and subjects were prominent. In Vera Tolz’s view, “In the late eighteenth century most educated Ukrainians were busy inventing a common pan-Russian identity rather than forging a separate Little Russian identity.”51 In my interpretation, the two were deeply intertwined. Most of the Little Russian intellectuals and community activists known to me firmly believed that they could make a better contribution to the “common pan-Russian identity” by promoting and articulating local Little Russian tradition.

Territory According to Zenon Kohut, the idea of a Little Russian fatherland spanning the Dnipro River survived the geopolitical upheavals of the late seventeenth century and even the dissolution of the Hetmanate a century later.52 My reading of the new Little Russian historical narrative confirms Kohut’s conclusions. Despite numerous administrative perturbations, as well as multiple toponyms and ethnonyms, the absolute majority of authors writing at the time conceived the territory of Ukraine as encompassing not only both banks of the Dnipro, the lands of the Zaporozhians, and the Sloboda region but also the western lands then under Habsburg rule.53 The idea of the integrity of Little Russian territory was partly inherited from the previous era and partly reimagined in terms of ethnicity. The scions of Cossack officers, now members of the landed gentry, maintained the traditions of their predecessors. They continually laid claim to the neighbouring lands of the Sloboda region, the right bank of the Dnipro River, the Zaporozhian Sich, and New Russia, employing the historical “Rus'” and “Cossack” markers to that end. Not surprisingly, then, imperial Russia’s acquisition of the southern lands was met by the Little Russian landed gentry with barely concealed dissatisfaction. Even in the early nineteenth century, Little Russian patriots demanded that the newly formed New Russian administrative units be included in the Little Russian realm.54

Figure 2.1 Ukrainian Lands, circa 1850. Paul-Robert Magocsi, Ukraine: An Illustrated History (Toronto: University of Toronto Press), 2007, 136; reprinted with permission of the publisher.

“Malorossiia 59

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

The western lands, including Galicia, were also recognized as part of historical Little Russia, as the History of the Rus' People clearly demonstrates. In that work, the integrity of Ukrainian territory is justified by means of historical legitimism, that is, with the help of arguments based on the extension of the hetman’s political rule to all the aforementioned regions. In contrast with this, the author of the Topographic Description of the Kharkiv Vicegerency (1788) based the idea of the integrity of western and eastern Ukrainian (“South-Russian”) lands on ethnicity when he noted that the inhabitants of those regions, divided by borders, customs, and even religion, “look at one another not as someone foreign-speaking but as though at a fellow native.”55 Yet both these authors were in fact referring to the same territory. If Vasyl Ruban focused on contemporary administrative boundaries in his description of Little Russia in the 1770s, Mykola Markevych, writing about fifty years later, saw “Little Russia” (Malorossiia), where the people speak Little Russian (“Malorossian”),56 as encompassing the territory from the Carpathian Mountains to the Voronezh gubernia of Russia, including the former Sloboda Ukraine region. Thus, after the autonomy of Little Russia was abolished, its symbolic space was extended well beyond the boundaries of the former Hetmanate.57

Little Russia as Pysanka 5 8 The identification of a national territory with strictly defined borders is followed by its emotional “appropriation.” “The homeland becomes a repository of historic memories and associations, the place where ‘our’ sages, saints and heroes lived, worked, prayed and fought. All this makes the homeland unique. Its rivers, coasts, lakes, mountains and cities become ‘sacred’ – places of veneration and exaltation whose inner meanings can be fathomed only by the initiated, that is, the self-aware members of the nation.”59 The cliché of Ukraine as the “land of Canaan” flowing with milk and honey, rich in landscapes and plentiful resources, had been known since the Renaissance. Enlightenment-era historiography slightly modified this image with analogues drawn from antiquity: Johann Gottfried Herder recorded his prediction about Ukraine as a future “New Hellas.”60 Citing Linnaeus, Jean-Benoît Scherer described it as the proto-ancestor of practically all European “tribes and nations,” simultaneously perpetuating the stereotype of it as “one of the most beautiful, although least cultivated, regions of Europe.”61 The nationalization of the reimagined Little Russia is exemplified by Yakiv Markovych’s small book

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published in 1798 under the title Notes on Little Russia, Its Inhabitants and Products (Zapiski о Malorossii, eia zhiteliakh і proizvedeniiakh).62 It took no time at all for this image of the “Little Russian jewel” in the crown of the Russian Empire or “Ukraine-pysanka,” so far removed from the sphere of militant Cossackdom, to be assimilated into both the Ukrainian and the Russian historico-literary traditions.63 This new vision was often accompanied by comparisons of “Little Russia” with Italy, Switzerland, or Scotland. The myth of Little Russia as a “small-scale Eden” became a calling card of the land and its inhabitants. “A blessed realm! An enchanting land!” exclaimed Aleksandr Churovsky in his novel Zaporozhskie naezdy (Zaporozhian Raids). “Who would not recognize in you our native land, Orthodox Rus'? О! ... Аh! Give me the strength of a titan! ... I would firmly clasp my native land to my heart!”64 For some time, the image of the “Little Russian pysanka” could serve as a counterweight to Enlightenment-era criticism of the Hetmanate as a neglected civilizational periphery, bereft of good governance, which was also reflected in some travelogues.

Ethnicity Ukrainian folk culture attracted even more attention than geography and history. In the words of Miroslav Hroch, “The weaker the inherited literary tradition was, the more emphasis there was on folk culture.”65 It was the landed gentry, not a newly formed intelligentsia, that “discovered” the Ukrainian folk legacy before the era of Romanticism.66 Its members did not need to go to the village and look under a thatched roof in order to understand the life of the common people: they communicated with their serfs directly on an everyday basis. In the Russian Empire, Ukrainian folk music and songs became the visiting card of the Cossack lands and even an effective way of making a career for their ambitious natives. Ukrainian songs were included in all collections of “(all-)Russian songs” published in the eighteenth century.67 Starting in the early nineteenth century, they were issued separately by Nikolai Tsertelev, Mykhailo Maksymovych, Amvrosii Metlynsky, and many other Ukrainian and Russian amateurs. At that time, they were considered authentic expressions of the Little Russian “national spirit (natsional'nogo dukha).”68 The Ukrainian vernacular attracted growing attention among educated authors both as a means of communication and as a symbolic resource for Slavic-Rus' nativists. For practical reasons, many publications on Ukrainian

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topics were supplemented with Ukrainian-Russian dictionaries starting, probably, with Fedir Tumansky’s work of that type at the end of the eighteenth century. While the Ukrainian upper class was bilingual, even those who preferred to speak and write in Russian referred to their mother tongue as a marker of cultural identity. The Russian Slavophiles, in turn, praised the Ukrainian language as evidence of the richness and creativity of the Slavic cultures compared with those of the Western world. Aleksei Pavlovsky issued the first grammar of the Ukrainian language (1818), while Nikolai Gnedich/Mykola Hnidych, Pavlo Biletsky-Nosenko, and his disciple Mykola Markevych invested in the compilation of a general Ukrainian dictionary.69 The first attempts to use the Ukrainian vernacular for literary purposes (Ivan Kotliarevsky, Petro Hulak-Artemovsky, Hryhorii Kvitka, and others) are also well known. But such experiments can hardly be recognized as early manifestations of modern Ukrainian nationalism or as attempts to create a language community. Most of the first Ukrainian-language texts were written in the genre of travesty. Some were inspired by patriotic motives and showed loyalty to the Russian Empire. All of them belonged to all-Russian imperial literature.

National Character In the second half of the eighteenth century, Ukrainians had already acquired a recognizable ethnic profile that became a subject of public debate. Many historical and geographical texts, as well as numerous travelogues of the period, are full of ethnic characterizations of Ukrainians, their way of life, language, and features of their national character. The entire history of Ukrainian studies in the Russian Empire developed on the basis of comparative ethnocultural characterizations of Little Russians (Malorossians) and Russians (Great Russians). The Topographic Description of the Kharkiv Vicegerency contains a true panegyric to local Ukrainians, emphasizing their free spirit and “European humanity” as opposed to “Asiatic savagery” and servile mentality.70 Both Ukrainian and Russian authors operated with ethnic stereotypes in contrasting Ukrainians to their neighbours (Russians, Poles, and Jews). Very often, Ukrainians in such works took on the aspect of “children of nature,” idealized paysans, closer than anyone else to the pristine sources of primeval (and equally imaginary) “Russianism,” who had preserved intact the finest features of idealized Slavdom, untainted by Western civilization. It is worth noting that even authors who could be considered “assimilationists,” such as

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Afanasii Shafonsky/Opanas Shafonsky, idealized their compatriots, describing their lofty moral character, profound religiosity, and martial valour in contrast to ethnic Russians.71 Positive self-images were intended to prove that Little Russians were valuable subjects of the Russian Empire and deserved to be considered civilized people. There were also, of course, much more sober self-characterizations of the Ukrainian “national character” offered by contemporaries. Petro Symonovsky, the author of a “Brief Description of the Cossack Little Russian People,” noted melancholically that “a spark of hate smolders in hearts of the Little Russians.”72 Some of his compatriots pointed to Little Russians’ alleged inertia and lack of initiative. The anonymous “Observations Pertaining to Little Russia” is full of negative characterizations of Ukrainians who, according to the author, are lazy and unfriendly squabblers who respect neither orders nor law and are unaccustomed to urban life.73 The same motif appears in a letter from Semen Kochubei to Prince Nikolai Repnin dating from 1832: the former depicted his compatriots as lazy, careless, and ignorant people devoid of civic responsibility.74 An anonymous St Petersburg author, allegedly one of those Ukrainians who made an official career in the imperial capital, wrote to Pavlo BiletskyNosenko (an ardent patriot and enlightener of his “little homeland”) in 1804, offering an interesting characterization of so-called “Little Russianism,” which the author described as an ethnocultural phenomenon. “Try,” wrote the author, “to banish and root out Little Russianism – that intolerant provincialism, that inclination toward intrigues – slyness and malicious talk. Such are our faults, insofar as I managed to observe them.”75 Here the writer hastens to assure Biletsky-Nosenko that by no means does he have him in mind, since his letters “are not redolent of the spirit of Little Russianism, which I loathe.” For all that, the writer well knows and in some measure shares all the stereotypes with which patriots of Little Russia were wont to praise their fatherland, often in polemics with Great Russians. “I do not condemn the traits of the nation as a whole; I know what Great Russia owes to Little Russia; I know that that is where our first faith became firmly established; it is there that our first book-learning proliferated, the first patriots appeared, the first instances of martial and agricultural arts – I remember all that, but all that does not diminish the corruption of the greater mass of the people – that spirit of migration, entailing unruliness and disobedience – that innate choleric temper in disputes, which entails lawsuits, disputes, and sometimes even murders; that ignorant simplicity, part Zaporozhian, part Pol-

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ish and Lithuanian – all that former greatness and thundering glory of history do not, I say, diminish that incongruous mixture of characters produced by the confluence of various tribes, that rural isolation known as rusticité, and the slyness, rudesse that one notes in Little Russians, who outdo all other provincials in that regard. Nature has given the Little Russians everything: intellect, imagination, the Greek inclination toward all that is elegant – literature, jurisprudence, and so on ... But so far enlightenment has granted little of its salutary balsam to that land – the system of education there is little developed ... The Little Russian is fine, but not at home: he is the kind of plant that flourishes better in foreign soil than in his own ...” At home he still remains “a Cossack, enveloped in ignorance and superstition.”76

Historical mythology “History writing ... has been crucial to the forging of nationalities and nationstates in modern Europe.”77 The discourse of history, like the mythology based on it, became another foundation of the new Little Russian (Malorossian) identity, along with the ethnocultural ones. Despite the many gaps in the development of Ukrainian historical writing that cannot yet be filled in, we can discern the main contours of the collective representation of historical Little Russia.78 The dotted line that traces the evolution of Little Russian historical thought connects such historico-political texts as Semen Divovych’s “Conversation between Little Russia and Great Russia” (1762), the anonymous Istoriia Rusov (first quarter of the nineteenth century), and the culminating work of the genre, Nikolai Markevich/Mykola Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii (History of Little Russia, 1842–45). It was the latter who first conveyed the Little Russian nobility’s vision of the past and future of their fatherland to a broad audience.

little russian Historical Mythology The Little Russian master narrative was presented to readers in the form of historical mythology. “By ‘myth’ we often mean a narrative that legitimizes a community.”79 The Little Russian historical mythology was designed to legitimize the early modern Little Russian nation represented by the landed gentry, descendants of the Cossack officers of the Hetmanate. It was firmly based on two main pillars: a myth of origin (Slavic-Rus' mythology) and a creation myth (Cossack mythology). The myth of origin was meant to establish Little

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Russia’s centrality in the symbolic space of the “Slavic-Rus' world.” The creation myth presented Cossack military history in terms of nationhood, seeking to make the nascent Little Russian gentry equal to other local elites with established genealogies. The formula “More Russian than the Russians themselves” conveys the essence of the myth of origin and reflects the idea of authenticity, which is central to any nationalist ideology.80 “Little Russia” was depicted in the image of the one “true” Rus', its historical and geographic nucleus, even though the city of Kyiv, the spiritual symbol of the Slavic-Rus' world, was in fact located on the Ukrainian-Polish borderland. The “cradle of Rus'” mythology facilitated the symbolic “transfer” of Little Russia from the periphery to the centre of the “Slavic-Rus' world.” In the mid-eighteenth century, Semen Divovych maintained the equality of the “two Russias” before the imperial throne. The unknown author of the Istoriia Rusov went further, asserting that his fatherland had a better claim than Great Russia to the Kyivan Rus' legacy, along with its name. Mykola Markevych elevated his compatriots to the status of “elder brother” in the Slavic-Rus' family.81 The myth of “Rus' primogeniture” coexisted with that of Cossack mythology in its two main versions: Cossackdom as an independent state and the Cossacks as defenders of Orthodoxy.82 According to the former, the Cossack hetman (military and political leader) was depicted as someone on the order of an “elective monarch,” the Cossacks as a national army, and their officers as “Little Russian grandees,” an elite whose members served as national representatives of the local population. In all likelihood, such rhetoric developed in the course of the Hetmanate’s integration into imperial structures, when Russian analogues had to be found for Cossack military ranks in order to establish the noble status of those who had held them. This rhetoric should not be confused with actual intentions of restoring Cossack privileges. By the second quarter of the nineteenth century that idea had already lost its political meaning and become a historical myth.83 Contrary to the “Rus' primogeniture” mythology, Cossack mythology seemed highly ambivalent and debatable.84 The Ukrainian Cossack phenomenon inspired different, sometimes contending interpretations that emphasized either the ethnicity or the social nature of Cossackdom. As noted earlier in this chapter, at least some representatives of the hereditary Ukrainian szlachta (Hryhorii Poletyka) and townsmen (Maksym Berlynsky) strongly criticized the Cossack Hetmanate. In the first half of the nineteenth century, Hryhorii Rakovych, a member of the landed Little Russian gentry and a rela-

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tive of Mykola Markevych, objected to the notion that the Cossacks could be considered the main representatives of Little Russia and its inhabitants. 85 He drew a line between those historical phenomena, as did his Russian contemporaries Nikolai Polevoi and Osip Senkovsky. But Russian perceptions of the Cossacks also remained ambivalent and contradictory. The Zaporozhians, branded as brigands by the imperial manifesto of 1775, were subsequently rehabilitated by the rise of anti-Western and especially anti-Polish nationalist sentiments. They came to be seen as the very embodiment of the Orthodox Rus' spirit. A noteworthy detail: in the 1840s, the tsarist censorship forbade the printing of a publication by the Little Russian historian Maksym Berlynsky, written in the early nineteenth century, that included a critical assessment of Cossackdom. Moreover, the recommendation to keep Berlynsky’s manuscript out of print came from none other than Nikolai Ustrialov, the official imperial historiographer. That is to say, in various discourses the historical phenomenon of Cossackdom retained the basic feature of its collective identity – the ambivalence intrinsic to a cultural borderland. It could be useful for the construction even of opposing national narratives. As for those who, like the author of the Istoriia Rusov and Mykola Markevych, stoically defended the contrary view, their opinions also remained contradictory. Paradoxically, the notion of historical Cossack statehood coexisted with the conviction that the military order could not survive in a geopolitical environment of strong and aggressive neighbours. Little Russian “geopolitical fatalism” is clearly apparent in the historical works of the early nineteenth century.86 The author of the Istoriia Rusov created a vivid image of a suffering country surrounded by hostile and aggressive nations whose “very position, open from all sides and inconvenient to reinforce,” made it “a playground of unknown destiny and a matter of luck,” leading inevitably to a foreign protectorate.87 This motif was repeated in several variations by Gogol and presented most expressively by Markevych in his Istoriia Malorossii. In this case, “geopolitical fatalism” was closely associated with the “historical fatalism” that we find in the writings of Oleksii Martos. In other words, Little Russia was reconstructed as a fully authentic country with a glorious past but no independent future, more or less along the lines of the Ukrainian SSR in the Soviet state.

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“Little Russia” vs “Rossia” Russian nationalism manifested itself in various forms. Both “Westernizers” and “Slavophiles” emphasized the composite nature of imperial identity versus the abstract “West.” Both these two main trends of Russian thought contained civic and ethnic components: the former was more pronounced in “Westernizing” discourse, while the latter appeared to be better represented by the “Slavophiles.” The imperial centre navigated between those two trends depending on the zigzags of its internal and foreign policy. Thus, “Russian” policy toward “Ukraine” contained contradictory elements: one of them aimed at centralization and unification, while the others encouraged local ethnicity as a valuable manifestation of the Slavic-Rus' world. Russian “Westernizing” discourse, shaped under the influence of the European Enlightenment, cherished the idea of the gradual civilizational convergence of Russia and Europe, which required the political unification and cultural consolidation of the empire. Consequently, all things Little Russian gradually came to be seen as archaic and obsolete remains of local history. The most consistent Russian “Westernizers” rejected any further concessions to local Little Russian needs and projected the region’s complete sociocultural assimilation according to the French model of nation-building. The nascent nationalistic “Slavophile’” discourse may be considered a form of collective identity in transition from a religious basis to an ethnocultural one. It articulated the idea of a Russian Sonderweg, encouraging Little Russian cultural distinctiveness to some degree as a manifestation of “(all-) Russianness.” Russian Slavophilism remained the main channel through which the idea of ethnocultural nationalism influenced Russian society, or at least its educated cohort. Russian Slavophiles thus became the most devoted allies of their Little Russian compatriots. They accepted Little Russian historical mythology and celebrated the oeuvre of Nikolai Gogol. The imperial (pan-Russian) centre closely monitored any manifestation of real or alleged Little Russian political separatism (mazepinstvo) but tolerated or even encouraged Little Russian cultural activities, especially when its attitude toward Europe changed. The famous stereotype of Ukrainians as a “singing and dancing tribe” (plemeni poiushchego i pliashushchego) had been created in the times of Catherine the Great, probably not without the influence of Jacob von Stählin (1709–1785), a German-Russian court scholar who authored the highly influential “Notes about the Arts in Russia” (1767). It is also telling that Catherine II herself spoke of Russian national identity more

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in civic and communal terms than in ethnic ones.88 This was probably the germ of the opinion, later widespread in Russian intellectual discourse, that Little Russians and Russians each supplied characteristics lacking in the other party. The official historiographer of Little Russia, Dmitrii Bantysh-Kamensky, prized Little Russians for their ethnic and civic qualities. His sponsor and supervisor, Prince Nikolai Repnin, the governor general of Little Russia, was fairly certain that Little Russians “indeed are Russians: [their] dialect, customs, and dress are somewhat different but faith, Tsar, and Rus' for them are sacred, indivisible, and untouchable.”89 This formula, expressed by Repnin in 1831, was close both to the Little Russian “cradle of Rus'” myth and to Sergei Uvarov’s well-known doctrine of imperial identity, enunciated in the early 1830s.90 It was based on the three ideological pillars of “Autocracy, Orthodoxy, and Narodnost'.” The third component of this triad might be interpreted as combining ethnic and social aspects of “nationality.” As such, it can be understood either as a concession to modern nationalism or as an attempt to slow down the modern “nationalization” of imperial identity. As Alexei Miller has expressed it, “The ruling dynasty had resisted ‘nationalization’ longer than in the majority of the European states.”91 Count Yegor Frantsevich Kankrin, minister of finance during the reign of Nicholas I, was referring to the overarching, nonethnic meaning of “identity” when he stressed that “In justice, we must be called not Russians but Petrovians ... Russia should be called Petrovia, and we Petrovians.”92 It seems that the ideologists of an overarching Soviet identity did not greatly distance themselves from their imperial predecessors. At the same time, the overarching doctrine of “Russianness,” based on dynasty and Orthodoxy, yielded to gradual “nationalization” by modern ethnocultural discourse. Ukrainian intellectuals contributed to the growing awareness of Slavic and Little Russian ethnography in educated Russian society.93 By the early 1830s, Little Russians (Malorossians) had acquired a more prominent national profile than Great Russians, among whom “elements of a strictly Russian character still remain evanescent.”94 It is interesting to note that when Aleksandr Pushkin mocked the genealogy of the top imperial families, he pointed out their low social origin, but when it came to Ukrainians, he employed the ethnic designation (khokhly).95 Apparent here once again is the dichotomy of social and ethnic components in the description of Russians and Little Russians, respectively, that revealed itself in the times of Catherine II.

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The Polish Challenge The Polish uprising of 1830 may be considered the second event, after the Napoleonic invasion of 1812, that provoked an outburst of imperial Russian nationalism. The Little Russian gentry immediately formed Cossack volunteer regiments, which were dispatched to fight the Polish insurgents. Symbolically, it was Ivan Paskevich, the Poltava-born scion of an old Ukrainian Cossack family and an imperial Russian field marshal, who led the Russian armies to crush the Polish uprising, taking Warsaw in 1831. That event inspired great enthusiasm in the Ukrainian Romantic writer Orest Somov.96 Many Little Russian intellectuals and officers actively promoted the further Russification of the Polish provinces of the empire. Educated Russian society demonstrated its patriotism and support for government policy by turning to Little Russian/Ukrainian topics, which were still considered an important component of official “Russianness.” The phenomenon of Russian “Ukrainophilism,” which might more accurately be termed “Malorossomania,” may be seen as a striking manifestation of (pan-) Russian patriotism. Among the enthusiasts of this new and fashionable subject one sees almost the whole flower of the contemporary Russian intelligentsia, from Dmitrii Bantysh-Kamensky to Aleksandr Pushkin, from Izmail Sreznevsky to Mikhail Pogodin, from Faddei Bulgarin to Mikhail Glinka, as well as many other all-Russians on a Great Russian basis (obshcherusy na velikorusskoi osnove). At the same time, the best-known Little Russian intellectuals also gathered under the banner of the minister of education, Sergei Uvarov, to fend off the Polish threat. Among them were Mykhailo Maksymovych, Nikolai Gogol, Osyp Bodiansky, and Amvrosii Metlynsky, to name just a few. Pavlo BiletskyNosenko, the owner of a boarding house and an enthusiast of Ukrainian studies, even dedicated his dictionary of the Ukrainian language to Sergei Uvarov’s father. These “all-Russians on a Little Russian basis” (obshcherusy na malorusskoi osnove) manifested their “all-Russian” patriotism and loyalty from the Little Russian perspective. For political reasons, the imperial centre not only allowed this new intellectual fashion to emerge but even encouraged it to advance. But the imperial “Malorossomania” that emerged hard on the heels of the Polish uprising of 1830 proved short-lived.97 It was attacked from two sides. One of them was directly associated with the “nationalization” of the official identity doctrine from the Great Russian (Velikorossian) perspective, which was partly inspired

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by the Little Russian example of ethnocultural transformation. The more the Great and Little “children of Rus'” (as Faith Hillis calls them) emphasized their “Russianness,” the more they revealed their historical and ethnocultural differences, which gradually came to the fore in public debates about their past and future. The other challenge to the traditional Little Russian identity discourse came from the imperial centre itself in the form of increasing centralization and unification. The imperial government was determined to eradicate the last vestiges of social and legal particularism in the western provinces – a policy that targeted not only Polish but also Ukrainian lands. In the long run, both the Polish uprising of 1830 and the Russian reaction to it greatly contributed to the growing feeling of Ukrainian ethnocultural and historical particularity.

The Russian Challenge The first alarm bell for the Little Russians, proud of their Rus' primogeniture and Cossack glory, was a review written in 1830 by the popular Russian writer and publisher Nikolai Polevoi of the second edition of Dmitrii BantyshKamensky’s Istoriia Maloi Rossii.98 Polevoi was born into the family of a Russian merchant and spent his formative years in Siberia. He came to Moscow in 1820 to become the first “real” Russian journalist and editor of the popular journal Moskovskii telegraf. Polevoi was well informed about Ukrainian matters and open to Western intellectual trends and ideas of nationality, which he applied to Ukraine and Ukrainians. Polevoi became the first modern Russian author to assert publicly that the Little Russians were not Russians but an entirely different people with their own history, language, and culture.99 “To the present day the Little Russians merely profess the Greek faith, speak a particular dialect of the Russian language, and belong to the political structure of Russia, but by nationality they are not Russian at all.”100 The Little Russians were “a people completely different from us, pure Russes. Their language, clothing, facial structure, everyday life, dwellings, opinions, and popular beliefs are not ours at all!”101 In actuality, Polevoi attacked the Little Russian discourse of identity from the position of Great Russian ethnocultural nationalism. Thus, he targeted both the Little Russian foundational myths, that of the “cradle of Rus'” and of the Cossack nation-state. Polevoi considered the Great Russians the sole heirs of the ancient Slavic-Rus' legacy. 102 “If Little Russia has not become Rus' by now, it cannot ever have been a part of ancient Rus' – just as Siberia

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was not, nor Crimea.”103 Polevoi emphasized that the “birthplace” of Little Russia “in ancient times was not the Rus' provinces” and that Kyiv “was never its centre, as they think.”104 These words struck at the heart of a foundational element of Little Russian historical mythology – the claim of the Little Russians/Ukrainians to “Rus' primogeniture.” None of Polevoi’s works contains any trace of the mystical theory of a “reunited” or “triune” Rus'. Instead, he adheres to an entirely secular idea of conquest, downgrading Little Russia to the status of other conquered territories that also were never Russian: the Baltic lands, Finland, the Caucasus, and so on.105 The heroic Cossack mythology and its champions were also subject to Polevoi’s withering criticism: for him, Cossackdom was “merely a brilliant and touching episode; their time came, and it went when they were no longer needed.”106 Moreover, he alleged that the Cossacks were motivated by their own interests, which frequently did not dovetail with those of the Russian Empire.107 Polevoi’s verdict about the Little Russians stood in striking contrast to popular confidence in their “true Russianness.” He was ahead of their time, although I find it difficult to recognize his “pro-Ukrainian” stance.108 It is no wonder that Polevoi’s ideas were almost unanimously opposed by the premodern national “old believers,” Little Russians and Great Russian Slavophiles alike, as well as by representatives of the imperial bureaucracy, whose official policy was based on the idea of Slavic-Rus' commonality. The Russian Slavophiles had been quite tolerant of the Little Russian myth of “Rus' primogeniture” until the 1840s. As for the imperial bureaucracy, it stuck to the official doctrine of all-Russian identity while trying to pursue a more or less balanced policy in the Russian-Little Russian-Polish triangle. It is not clear whether the scandal concerning Polevoi’s article influenced the imperial bureaucracy when it decided to close his journal, Moskovskii telegraf, and punish its editor and publisher. The founder of the imperial doctrine of “official nationality,” Sergei Uvarov, concluded that Polevoi “does not love Russia.”109 His opinion was reflected later by Mikhail Koialovich, who went even further, opining that Polevoi was “abasing himself before the West” and thereby forsaking his own nationality.110 At the same time, Polevoi’s anti-Cossack invective ultimately suited the imperial government’s policy of centralization, whose aim was to eliminate the remnants of regional and corporative autonomy in its western provinces. The Little Russian gubernias underwent deep transformation in the new wave of imperial centralization. All segments of Little Russian society were

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affected. The reform of the Cossack estate in 1834; the abolition of Magdeburg Law in the city of Kyiv in 1834; the forced “unification” of the Greek Catholic Church in 1839; and, finally, the abolition of the Lithuanian Statute in 1840 – all these actions suggested that the old Little Russia was coming to an end. Prince Nikolai Repnin, the last governor general of Little Russia, was forced to resign in 1834. In the following year, the Little Russian governorate-general was abolished altogether.111 After that, the very name of Little Russia was removed from the administrative map of the empire. Symbolically enough, Prince Viktor Kochubei, the last influential courtier of Ukrainian origin in the imperial government, died in 1834 while holding the rank of state chancellor.

The Little Russian Response The response of the Little Russian elite to the abolition of their traditional rights was highly fatalistic. Arkadii Rodzianko, one of the wealthy Little Russian “lords,” came up with verses devoted “to the memory of Little Russian grandees” in which, following the example of his Cossack predecessors, he registered all the services of the loyal Little Russian subjects to the Russian monarchy and deplored the “destruction of the glorious name of Little Russians.”112 But he had to admit: “Why hide? We understand / That the return of our rights is closed to us.”113 Rodzianko’s poem may be considered the most concise expression of the political credo of the entire “Little Russian nation” in its twilight years. The abolition of the Magdeburg Law in Kyiv also produced nothing more than satirical verses in which the city council was ridiculed for its corruption.114 Contrary to the “traditionalists,” the Little Russian “assimilationists” had nothing against the ongoing merger of Little Russia with Great Russia. Count Semen Kochubei, the formal leader of the Poltava gubernia’s landed gentry, took up arms against his compatriots’ “political and civic nationalism” and argued in favour of the assimilation of Little Russia with the rest of the Russian Empire.115 Hryhorii Rakovych, a relative of Mykola Markevych, went even further by denying the very idea of any ethnic and cultural distinction between Ukrainians and Russians. It would be fair to assume that the entire Little Russian nation was simply unable to find any alternative to its imminent decline other than poetic, ethnographic, and historical attachment to its little rodina. Nevertheless, strong opposition to Polevoi was expressed by a variety of authors who favoured the idea of regional, cultural, and ethnic diversity in the

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“Slavic-Rus'” world. Among them one can find Stepan Russov and Stepan Burachek along with the well-known Slavophile Yurii Venelin, who tried to find a “golden mean” in the “dispute of the southerners and northerners.” Nikolai Markevich/Mykola Markevych also hastened to counter his former friend’s “godless” statements, for which he could not forgive him to the end of his life.116 Actually, Markevych’s magnum opus, the History of Little Russia, was inspired by Polevoi’s article. Hryhorii Kvitka wrote a satire about an illiterate Russian soldier, putting a tirade into his mouth to the effect that Little Russians “are the same as Turks and Tatars, a different people, with a language of their own”; they are “not ours,” not Russians, and “only pretend to be Orthodox out of cunning and fear of Russia.”117 For the time being, the policy of the imperial centre on the nationality question remained much more balanced and pragmatic than the sentiments of nascent Little Russian and Great Russian nationalists, who were evolving toward a deepening of the ethnocultural differences between them. The imperial centre sought to keep both under control, although it occasionally made concessions to one party or the other. When the question arose of nominating a historiographer capable of creating a new historical narrative to reflect the official doctrine on nationality, Minister Uvarov favoured the more moderate Nikolai Ustrialov over the Russian (Great Russian) nationalist Mikhail Pogodin, who was aggressively hostile toward the Poles. Uvarov clearly expressed his policy in an official report of 1843, stating that the government should find a middle way between the Polish and Russian extremes, which he considered equally biased and dangerous.118 And so Ustrialov became the new imperial historiographer. As mentioned earlier, he even “corrected” critics of Cossackdom by integrating Little Russian subjects into the new imperial narrative. Yet the imperial Russian bureaucracy did not work out a consolidated position on the Little Russian question. The task of complete assimilation of Little Russians was hindered by the need to employ them against the Polish borderland nobility (szlachta kresowa) on the right bank of the Dnipro River. Contrary to Uvarov’s policy, Governor General Dmitrii Bibikov of Kyiv openly supported the Little Russian landed gentry and never hesitated to stimulate their traditional hostility to the Poles. He took the side of Mykola Markevych and his compatriots when the former’s History of Little Russia was attacked by Osip Senkovsky, a popular Russian journalist of Polish origin.119 The imperial censorship banned both Polish and Little Russian editions of the history of the Koliivshchyna, the Ukrainian Cossack and peasant move-

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ment against the Polish nobility on the right bank, written, respectively, by Michał Grabowski and Mykhailo Maksymovych. But the latter’s Skazanіе o Koliіvshchіnе (An Account of the Koliivshchyna Rebellion) found its way to the reader in Markevych’s historical grand narrative, published in 1843. Russian civil society was less preoccupied with political tasks and more open to national ideas than those in power. The changing attitude of Russian society toward the Little Russian question became apparent about twenty years before the outbreak of the Crimean War in 1853 and ten years before the affair of the Cyrillo-Methodian Society (1847). The growing Great Russian ethnic nationalism is evident in Nikolai Nadezhdin’s writings of the late 1830s. Nadezhdin, following Nikolai Polevoi, openly challenged the Little Russian myth of “Rus' primogeniture.”120 Although Nadezhdin was still devoted to the idea of a tripartite Russian narod, he placed the Great Russians at the top of the hierarchy and stressed that they were more likely to evolve toward civilization than the “stubbornly wilful,” “religiously fanatical” Little Russians and the “coldly indifferent” White Russians.121 The Cossack myth, which was the other foundational Little Russian identity myth, also came under fire at the beginning of the 1840s when Nikolai Markevich/Mykola Markevych published his History of Little Russia. For all their political differences, popular literary figures who followed in the footsteps of Polevoi and Nadezhdin – the writer and publisher Osip Senkovsky and especially the highly influential critic Vissarion Belinsky – came together in their aversion to Little Russian history in general and the Cossack role in it in particular.122 For the first time in imperial Russian history, both critics expressed an openly colonial attitude toward Ukrainian culture, predicting its impending disappearance and dissolution in the Russian-language cultural milieu. Interestingly enough, the Senkovsky-Belinsky criticism was directed against a perfectly loyal author who himself saw no prospect of Little Russian political existence in the Russian Empire and publicly justified the imperial policy of centralization and unification. No less important is the fact that the imperial censors, who were favourably inclined toward the Little Russians, basically took the side of the two critics in their negative evaluation of Ukrainian history in toto from the civilizational perspective of the “Westernizers.” Even leading Russian Slavophiles, including Mikhail Pogodin, who had earlier enthusiastically popularized Little Russian topics as an exemplary manifestation of Russianness, gradually changed their minds and began promoting Great Russian discourse at the expense of its Little Russian counter-

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part.123 The affair of the Cyrillo-Methodian Society (1847) might be seen as decisive in the re-evaluation of Little Russian discourse by Russian intellectuals. For the first time, not only Russian Slavophiles and Westernizers but also the imperial centre showed unanimity in the view that the Little Russians were destined to dissolve in the “Russian sea.” In this attitude, they found active support among the Little Russian elites.

“little russia” vs “Ukraine” Perhaps the estate, regional, and ethnic patriotism of the Little Russian landed gentry contained some potential of developing into a modern Ukrainian national movement, but that potential was never fully realized during the time of crisis (late 1830s to early 1840s). “When we feel confident about who we are, we do not talk about it, and it is generally only in periods of identity crisis that we look for new identity and social community.”124 The crisis of social values and symbols characterizing a previous era usually produces new symbols that are used to bridge the transition and restore the image of historical continuity.125 At the same time, I believe, the old symbols very often acquire new meanings in order to make them compatible with the new ones. Thus, the new generation of Little Russian/Ukrainian intellectuals represented by Nikolai/Mykola Kostomarov, Panteleimon Kulish, and Taras Shevchenko began creating a new, modern Ukrainian identity discourse in response to the new challenges. All of them belonged to the democratic intelligentsia, “men of letters” who raised questions about the unjust social and political order as well as moral responsibility for it. They openly challenged the dominant Little Russian discourse from political, ideological, and social perspectives. In scholarship on this period, however, the relation between “Little Russia” and “Ukraine” remains obscure. On the one hand, that relation is described in terms of discontinuity and bifurcation.126 On the other hand, the borderline between them was blurred for a long time.127 There were several points of discontinuity between the newborn Ukrainian and updated Little Russian discourses. First, the “Ukrainians” refused to accept the “end of history” paradigm articulated by their intellectual predecessors and reoriented their focus from the past to the future. Taras Shevchenko addressed himself to his countrymen “dead, living, and not yet born.” Second, they directly opposed both the Little Russian and the imperial Russian discourses, searching instead for political and social alternatives.128 Third, their vision of a new identity and community was based on the Ukrain-

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ian vernacular and an idealized image of democratic society. Thus, from the outset the new Ukrainian discourse had a political dimension. Some scholars suggest that the “Ukrainian” cultural activists inherited a “legacy” of political tradition in the form of regional autonomy or even national independence from their Little Russian predecessors.129 I find this difficult to accept, since none of the Little Russian (Malorossian) patriots ever articulated such ideas. The pre-modern Little Russian national discourse was based on a privileged social estate and Landespatriotismus, not on the concept of independent statehood. Far from idealizing the past, the History of Little Russia written by the Little Russian patriot Mykola Markevych contains many examples of the Cossack Hetmanate’s corruption and the moral degradation of its elites. Accordingly, it should be emphasized that Taras Shevchenko, considered the founding father of Ukrainian national identity, drew his ideas about the Ukrainian past from Markevych’s historical narrative.130 His poetic verdict on the Little Russian Hetmanate, “Slaves, lackeys, Moscow filth / Warsaw refuse – these are your lords, / The grandee hetmans,”131 clearly demonstrates that he renounced the Little Russian political and historical mythology altogether. Shevchenko’s contemporaries Panteleimon Kulish and Mykola Kostomarov also discarded the political goal of nation-state–building for the sake of a future Slavic federation, community self-rule, and social justice.132 Their successors, from Mykhailo Drahomanov to Mykhailo Hrushevsky, simply followed in their footsteps. From their Little Russian forebears, the new generation of Ukrainians appears to have inherited not political but cultural capital along with its traditional mythology. They accepted the image of Ukraine as a pysanka, that is, the vision of a territory whose coherence was based on the spoken language, ethnicity, and history, as well as a wealth of ethnic anti-Polish, anti-Jewish, and anti-(Great)Russian stereotypes. They rethought the principal myths of the Little Russian historical narrative in terms of democratic values, modernizing the old Kyivan Rus' mythology in the form of democratic federalism – a task carried out primarily by Mykola Kostomarov. The same may be said about the Cossack mythology: the Zaporozhian Cossacks and haidamakas were reimagined as authentic representatives of the people, supplanting the former fighters for estate privileges and loyal defenders of the Orthodox Slavic-Rus' world.133

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Conclusions The Ukrainian “national revival” began in the form of cultural and historiographic activity undertaken by the landed gentry and imperial service elites of Little Russia to reformulate the pre-modern regional and estate identity discourse on the basis of ethnicity. As such, it might be seen as a modern phenomenon and local contribution to the process of reimagining the premodern Slavic-Rus' or “all-Russian” identity discourse along secular and ethnic lines. The bearers of this updated Little Russian (Malorossian) identity discourse retained their sense of cultural distinctiveness within the allRussian framework. That updated discourse took shape in opposition to the West, remaining politically conservative and loyal to the Russian Empire. In my view, the “long” nineteenth century in Ukrainian history was wholly dominated by the new “Little Russian” (Malorossian) identity discourse, which survived the Russian Empire and even the Soviet Union. In its present-day form, Little Russian identity looks like a political challenge to modern Ukrainian identity, which remained a minority faith all the way up to the twenty-first century.134 Little Russian identity retained its dual nature, belonging simultaneously to the Russian and Ukrainian national discourses. It therefore played “a paradoxical role in the Ukrainian nation-building process.”135 On the one hand, it was “indisputably a prelude to modern Ukrainian nation-building”; on the other, it hampered that very same development.136 No less paradoxical was the role of Little Russian identity in modern Russian nation-building. If it provided the latter with anti-Western Slavic and ethnic symbols, it also substantially hindered modern Russian national development on the basis of the Great Russian (Velikorossian) ethnic and historical legacy. That legacy was sacrificed to Russian empire-building. The coexistence or even symbiosis of the Little Russian and Ukrainian identities can be explained from both the geographic and the historical perspective. Geographically, it was the product of a frontier or, to be more precise, a strategy of survival on an unstable borderland with its characteristic unpredictability, multiple choices, and contradictory political development. Historically, Little Russian identity resulted from the “melting” of the Orthodox Slavic-Rus' “iceberg” of pre-modern identity, although its “nationalization” has never been completed. The Little Russian and Ukrainian identities remain in conflict to the present day, with the adherents of both “churches”

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excommunicating each other instead of seeking an aggiornamento. The two identities have sometimes traded places, depending on the (geo)political situation, which in turn has been affected by the vagaries of imperial integration/disintegration. I believe that recognition of the Little Russian (Malorossian)/Ukrainian duality of modern Ukrainian nation-building can suggest certain corrections of prevailing notions about the stages, dynamics of development, and typology of that project as presented in Miroslav Hroch’s schema of the evolution of small European nations. The structure of Ukrainian society in the “long” nineteenth century cannot be considered “incomplete,” since it was well represented by the upper class of the Little Russian landed and service nobility, which in fact took over many functions of the “antiquarian” or heritagegathering stage of national development. Organizationally, the cultural activities of the Little Russian gentry developed in imperial rather than local or regional forms until the second half of the nineteenth century. Politically, they were meant to strengthen the empire rather than weaken it. Generally speaking, Hroch’s schema might offer a space for dialogue in search of a typology of the Ukrainian national movement, but it is by no means a complete account of the specifics of that movement.

The Backstory

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3

Nikolai/Mykola Markevych: A Historiographer of Little Russia (1804–1860)

Introduction Music lovers attending symphony concerts in Montreal, Stockholm, and Boston conducted by Igor Markevitch (1912–1983) probably had no idea of the intriguing lineage of the maestro wielding the baton.1 Distinguished as one of the great conductors and original composers of the twentieth century – a “citizen of the world” with ties to Russian, Italian, and French artistic elites – Markevitch belonged to a famous family of Ukrainian Cossack nobility. The patriarch of the clan, Yakiv Markevych, was of either Serbian or Jewish extraction and made his career thanks to a timely defection from Hetman Ivan Mazepa’s camp to Tsar Peter I. Markevych’s descendants managed to climb to the highest rungs of power, first in the Cossack Hetmanate and then the imperial Russian elites, including senators, diplomats, professors, and lawyers. Many of them were notable for their extraordinarily broad range of interests and musical talent. Mykola Markevych/Nikolai Markevich (1804–1860), Maestro Igor Markevitch’s great-great-grandfather, was a famous Ukrainian historian, composer, and poet who is considered one of the leading representatives of the early Ukrainian national movement in the Russian Empire.2 He himself described his own personality as “musician, poet, historian, and amateur orchardist.”3 He was also a prosperous landowner, possessing one of those manorial “cultural nests” that accumulated cultural memory and historical legacy over many generations of Ukrainian Cossack elites that had been converted to the landed Russian nobility. The Markevych family had extensive ties with the influential Myklashevsky, Hudovych, Horlenko, Kochubei, Polubotok, and Skoropadsky

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families. The latter clan gave Ukraine two hetmans: one of them, Ivan Skoropadsky, replaced the “separatist” Ivan Mazepa in 1708 and proved to be exceptionally loyal to Russia; two centuries later the other, Pavlo Skoropadsky, took command of the independent Ukrainian state in 1918 and was branded a “Mazepist separatist” by Russian imperial nationalists. Mykola Markevych himself had no political ambitions, noting with his characteristic irony that “in my veins flows the combined blood of two enemies – Mazepa and Kochubei.”4 Indeed, most of the Ukrainian nobility could say the same. Behind the façade of loyalty to Russia (personified by Vasyl Kochubei) there was always the shadow of separatism, symbolized by Mazepa.5 Educated at the renowned lyceum at Tsarskoe Selo, Markevych was a frequent guest at literary salons in both St Petersburg and Moscow. His pedigree, influential connections, and stellar education, combined with his exceptional abilities, would have ensured a meteoric rise in his career had he decided to stay in the imperial capital. Nevertheless, Markevych spent most of his life in Ukraine. Acceding to his father’s wishes, Markevych served obediently and without any great enthusiasm in an imperial dragoon regiment, which travelled throughout practically all the Russian-controlled part of Ukraine. After four years of easy service, he was discharged and settled on the family estate, called Turivka, in the Pryluky district of Poltava gubernia. This was the heartland of the “rich and unpretentious” historical Little Russia. Markevych became the owner of several hundred serfs, a sprawling farming enterprise, а splendid orchard, and the family library, guaranteeing him material comfort and personal liberties that imperial service could not provide. He was full of vitality, а clever and gallant gentleman who evinced hospitality and aesthetic good taste. His estate played host to a constant stream of interesting and lively company, with Markevych himself the centre of attention. He devoted his time to guests and farm, to literature and music, to science and his unbridled passion for antiquities. From time to time, he would quit his estate in order to seek out new archival documents or to visit acquaintances in the worldly imperial capitals. Markevych had the good fortune of being friends with people of vastly differing persuasions and tastes among both the landed gentry and the younger imperial intelligentsia: Aleksandr Pushkin and Mikhail Glinka, Vasilii Zhukovsky, Nikolai Polevoi, and Mikhail Pogodin at one end to Osyp Bodiansky, Mykhailo Maksymovych, and Taras Shevchenko at the other. The patriotically inclined Little Russian gentry that Markevych was part of comprehended itself as being a nation but nevertheless adhered to the princi-

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ple of two patrimonies – the lesser (Malorossiia “Little Russia” or Ukraine) and the greater (Rossiia “Russia”). The first category applied, as a rule, to one’s birthplace, while the other applied to everything associated with the dynasty, the empire, and one’s duties as their subject.6 The birthplace could be considered one’s noble estate, a nearby village or town, or all of Ukraine – that is, Little Russia within its administrative and/or historical boundaries. In the same way that the identity of the Little Russian nobility fused two patriotisms, in everyday life it combined vernacular Ukrainian with literary Russian. And in these cases, the arguable superiority of one over the other was not as important as the awareness that they were different. In Markevych’s interpretation, Little Russia as one patrimony – rodina “motherland” – and Russia as another – otechestvo “fatherland” – did not contradict one another, but neither did they merge: “One’s otechestvo is above the Rodina, [the latter] only part of it; but for that soul which does not have a Rodina there is no Otechestvo, either.”7 Apparently in an effort to enlighten Hryhorii Rakovych, a distant relative on his wife’s side who was likely not a fervent Ukrainian patriot, Markevych opined: “At first a man is familiar only with his rodina, аnd then he learns about his otechestvo; whosoever does not love his motherland does not deserve a fatherland and would be incapable of loving it.”8 Markevych, as well as many of his contemporaries, was careless with the adjective russkii since he was wont to apply it to both his patrimoines. Nonetheless, he always distinguished between the two shades of “Russianness,” using the “Great Russian” (velikorusskii) in one case and “Ukrainian” (ukrainskii) denominators in the other. If he wanted to be precise, he used the adjective “ours” (nash). Anything nash was naturally perceived by Markevych on an emotional level, in contrast to his more rational approach to everything “Russian.” According to Miroslav Hroch, the “fight for the nation’s recognition” and “the need for dignity, which had been damaged for various reasons, would have been another source of nationalism.”9 A vivid example confirming this thought is found in Markevych’s brief correspondence in 1825 with Kondratii Ryleev, a Russian poet and one of the leaders of the Decembrist movement. Undoubtedly inspired by the enigmatic Istoriia Rusov (“History of the Rus' People”), Ryleev had published the poems “Voinarovsky” and “Nalivaiko” devoted to Ukrainian history. They deeply affected the young and patriotic Markevych. He wrote an ardent letter to Ryleev, presenting himself “as a citizen” and “a good Little Russian” and thanking him for “glorifying our ancestors” and “uplifting the whole nation.”10 He also assured Ryleev that “the

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deeds of the great men [of Little Russia] are not yet lost to our sight; in many hearts the former strength of feeling and dedication to our homeland remain undiminished. You will find the spirit of [Hetman Pavlo] Polubotok still living among us.”11 It is important to note that in this same letter Markevych contrasts Ryleev to an unknown person who allegedly “seeks to [humiliate] entire countries; who attempts to cover whole nations with contempt,” and “whose name does not deserve even to be mentioned.”12 It is difficult to conjecture whom Markevych is stigmatizing so vehemently, but he seems to assume that this person is known to Ryleev as well. Indeed, the name is not mentioned in Ryleev’s reply to Markevych either; meanwhile, he expresses gratitude to all the “descendants of Khmelnitsky and Nalivaiko” on behalf of whom Markevych was acting.13 In this role, the latter demonstrates the two main aspects of Little Russian patriotism of that time: apologia for the motherland and defence against her “slanderers.” Markevych is proud of not only the military glories but also the civic mindedness of his ancestors. He does not hesitate to be frank with his correspondent, alluding to the spirit of opposition among his fellow noble countrymen while being confident of Ryleev’s understanding and discretion. One might well ask, though, why did historical poems by the Russian Ryleev have such a profound effect on the Little Russian patriot Markevych? Let us recall that Ukrainian topics, including historical events, were becoming increasingly popular in the imperial Russian culture of that time. This was helped by the diaries of Russian travellers, especially Vladimir Izmailov and Aleksei Lеvshin, by historical novels about the Cossacks by Fedor Glinka and Vasyl Narizhny (Vasilii Narezhny), and by Nikolai Tsertelev’s publication of Ukrainian historical songs. Furthermore, in 1822 Dmitrii Bantysh-Kamensky’s comprehensive Istoriia Maloi Rossii (History of Little Russia) was published. Ukrainian history was also recognized beyond the borders of the Russian Empire – for example, in the historical works of Jean-Benoı̂t Scherer and Johann Christian von Engel, as well as in the popularity of Hetman Mazepa in English and French Romantic literature. Practically all the above-mentioned authors had a sympathetic attitude toward Ukraine. Nevertheless, only Ryleev speaks the same language and uses the same symbolic system as the patriotic Little Russian nobility, both referring to the same source – the anonymous Istoriia Rusov.14 At that time, this “History of the Rus' People” had been circulating for at least six years and had noticeably affected the educated public with its free-

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thinking spirit and emotionally vivid style. The reaction to it was certainly different in Russian and Ukrainian circles. While the Russian Decembrists were attracted to its themes of political opposition to the existing regime, for the Little Russian gentry the Istoriia Rusov was a quintessential example of dual loyalty. The latter was based on the idea of the territorial, societal, and ethnic integrity of Ukraine under the “roof” of the Russian Empire. Despite widespread stereotypes, nowhere in the Istoriia Rusov does the author proclaim the idea of political independence for his “little” rodina. Nevertheless, his work would become practically the main source of inspiration for several generations of Ukrainian nationalists in the modern era. The Decembrist revolt – which included descendants of the Little Russian gentry and Markevych’s countrymen – had no effect on Markevych’s destiny. The twain paths of the Russian revolutionaries and the Little Russian patriots did not meet, but Ukrainians were able to find allies in the conservative camp of Russian Slavophiles, who were folklore and antiquities enthusiasts and ideologues of Slavic-Rus' separation from the West.15 Markevych was often seen in Moscow, the main centre of Russian conservatism, where passionate discussions took place on topics of national identity. Among the other highprofile intellectuals in this milieu were Aleksandr Pushkin, Mykhailo Kachenovsky, the Aksakov family, Mikhail Pogodin, Mykhailo Maksymovych, and the Polevoi brothers. This circle of Romantics in Moscow had no less influence on the formation of a new Little Russian grand narrative than did the Kharkiv Romantic School headed by Izmail Sreznevsky.16 In the former, Markevych became well known as a poet and translator, and it may be conjectured that it was he who was instrumental in bringing the attention of his Russian friends to the Istoriia Rusov. This work had a noticeable effect on Russian Malorossomania, with Moscow magazines occasionally publishing articles on Ukrainian folkloric and historical topics. After returning from the Caucasus in 1829, for a time Pushkin even considered writing a history of Ukraine. Although this plan was never realized, Pushkin completed his famous poem “Poltava” that same year.17 For the Romantics, poetry was considered a more effective means of recreating national history than “cold” prose. Markevych’s contemporaries Pushkin and Gogol, as well as the Kharkiv Romantics, were all interested in Ukrainian history but preferred to express this interest in poetic rather than academic form. Markevych followed the same route. He became successful as a poet with his literary verses on Ukrainian subjects inspired by the Istoriia Rusov; first published in Nikolai Polevoi’s journal Moskovskii telegraf, they

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Figure 3.1 Mykola Markevych (1804–1860). YushkevychStakhovsky, K.F, Portrait of M.A. Markevych. Canvas, oil.

were later issued as a separate collection titled Ukrainskie melodii (1831).18 For Markevych’s part, his poems, composed in Russian, carried a clear national message – aimed, on the one hand, as an apologia for the author’s lesser patrimoine and, on the other, at protecting it from “slanderers” and ignoramuses, no matter where they came from. Markevych began writing in order to “glorify my forefathers and the places they hallowed with their presence” and to earn the approval of his fellow

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citizens.19 He expressed a passionate desire “to give a detailed description of historic [attractions], the charms of nature, customs, rituals, clothes, and ancient Little Russian government. It would be pleasant to recall what Baturyn, Chyhyryn, or Hlukhiv was like in the days of our forefathers, what were their manners and language. It would be pleasant to reconstruct our native land in its past.”20 Here Markevych plays the role not only of a poet but also of an ethnographer, geographer, and historian. In fact, he continues the tradition of encyclopedic land-people description of Ukraine that had started just before he was born in the works of Vasyl Ruban, Opanas Shafonsky, Mykhailo Antonovsky, and especially Yakiv Markovych, a distant relative. Yakiv Markovych (1776–1804) commenced his brief career as the semiofficial historiographer of Little Russia with the active support of Adriian Chepa, who was a devoted Little Russian patriot and antiquarian, and with the patronage of such influential high officials as Imperial Chancellor Oleksander Bezborodko and Minister Dmytro Troshchynsky. Markovych published his pioneering Zapiski о Malorossii, eia zhiteliakh і proizvedeniiakh (Notes on Little Russia, Its Inhabitants and Products) in 1798, testifying equally to his talent and patriotic devotion to his homeland. “Up to now,” he wrote, “Little Russia has not been described in detail by anyone. I have attempted to portray it not as a historian or scientist but as a young son of hers who devoted his first recollection of feeling and understanding to his mother country.”21 He was a collector of materials on the geography, geology, hydrography, ethnography, and history of Ukraine until his premature death. Mykola Markevych followed in the footsteps of his predecessor. As a poet, he may be considered a co-creator of the Ukrainian Romantic canon along with his contemporaries Nikolai Gogol (Mykola Hohol) and the Kharkiv Romantics.22 In his Ukrainskie melodii poems, readers could discern а complete picture of Little Russia/Ukraine in its broadest geographic boundaries, which crossed the border between the Russian and Austrian empires and spanned a territory from Galicia in the west to the Voronezh and Kursk gubernias in the east. The ethnographic emphasis featured in Markevych’s poetry collection was closely interwoven with a nostalgia for the heroic and glorious days of Ukraine’s Cossack past. An image common to all the subjects of the collection is that of the minstrel-kobzar – a role played by the author himself.23 But the Ukrainskie melodii were far from a literary anachronism; they completely reflected the public tastes at the time.24 As the author said himself, he was imitating the poems of Byron and Moore. Obviously, for political reasons he was not able to mention Ryleev, the one to whom he had

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just recently confided his patriotism. Nevertheless, the civic – namely, imperial – loyalty in Markevych’s creative output is irrefutable. David Saunders has noted that Markevych was strongly critical of JeanBenoı̂t Scherer, an eighteenth-century French historian of Ukraine.25 At first glance, this may seem strange, given that Scherer was among the greatest sympathizers of Ukraine and Ukrainians; indeed, he may well even have encouraged the unknown author of the Istoriia Rusov. But we shall agree with Saunders that in this case Markevych was giving his Russian otechestvo its due, recognizing its striving to counter Western support for the Poles, especially from France. However, this practice of criticizing “Western falsifiers” (later continued by Soviet propaganda) did not prevent Markevych from copiously citing Scherer in the annotations to his monograph. Sаunders does not mention that in this work, along with the philippics against Scherer we find a criticism of the eighteenth-century official imperial Russian historian Ivan Golikov, who had stigmatized the Ukrainian Hetman Petro Konashevych Sahaidachny as a “villain” and transgressor because he fought with the Poles against the Russians.26 In particular, Markevych reproaches Golikov: “Is it not sinful to thus carelessly destroy the reputation of a great man, to deprive this independent hetman of his freedom to act?” Then he immediately explains to the Russian readers that “Konashevych’s attack was not on his own countrymen. He was not a subject going against his rulers – he was a warrior, a prince elected by the people, a hetman or a roi, a king, a rex. The hetman governs as an elected monarch.”27 Not even the anonymous author of the Istoriia Rusov had the courage to endow the Cossack hetman with the status of a sovereign European monarch. But the pathos in this situation entailed something else: Markevych was defending Sahaidachny’s right as a national leader to wage war against anyone, even his Russian “brothers in the faith.” It is interesting to note that Markevych utilizes religious rhetoric when he addresses Golikov and secular rhetoric when pointing out Scherer’s factual errors and blunders. Markevych did not consider the Ukrainian hetman to be a transgressor; instead, in his interpretation the transgressor was Golikov, whom he regarded as being governed by religious rather than civic categories. Somewhat later, another Russian – Nikolai Polevoi – would also be targeted by Markevych for his “godless” statements about the Cossacks. Markevych’s Ukrainskie melodii represented an auspicious beginning to his literary and antiquarian activities. He would later expand the range of his interests to include collecting manuscripts and musical and poetic folklore,

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as well as studying the ethnography, geography, lexicography, social structure, and statistics of Ukraine. As he described it, he “appraised our Rodina from all sides,”28 which he had earlier seen up close during his imperial military service. For Markevych, collecting Ukrainian historical and cultural artifacts was not only a pleasure but also a patriotic duty. In his own words, “preserving [our] heritage, tripling and quadrupling and organizing it ... was the preoccupation of my life.”29 In corresponding with his friend and fellow “lover of scholarship and motherland,”30 Osyp Bodiansky, Markevych repeatedly asked him, “What are you doing or planning to do for the benefit of our Rodina?”31 We cannot know the direction that Markevych’s further poetical creativity would have taken if not for the Polish insurrection of 1830–31, which radically changed the political and intellectual climate in the Russian Empire.32 Ukraine again found itself at the very heart of the Russo-Polish struggle, on the Russian side. The explosion of anti-Polish sentiments in the imperial Russian nobility prompted a renewed interest in Ukraine’s history and traditions. However, as two centuries previously, the Polish revolt aggravated the nationalistic feelings of Russians. Modern nationalism heightened the sensitivity of the educated public to the ethnocultural dimension of identity. This resulted not only in growing Slavophilism and “Little Russianism” but also in an increased interest in Great Russian history and culture, drawing the historico-cultural differences between Great Russians and Little Russians/ Ukrainians into sharper focus. These differences became part of the public discourse in the early 1830s. The polemics were prompted by Nikolai Polevoi’s critique of the second edition of Dmitrii Bantysh-Kamensky’s Istoriia Maloi Rossii, published in 1830.33 Polevoi’s main idea was that Ukrainians were not Russians but a completely separate people with its own history and culture: “They are ours but not us.”34 Polevoi used the latter word in the same sense that Markevych did with “ours” or nashi. For Polevoi, us meant the Great Russians, who he maintained had the exclusive right to call themselves “pure Rus'” and thus to be considered the sole heirs of the ancient Slavic-Rus' legacy.35 He also downgraded Cossackdom to the level of the short-lived and dubious historical episode. Markevych was one of the first to put pen to paper in order to defend the Little Russian motherland and his countrymen from the “godless” accusations of his former friend.36 He produced several brief essays aiming to prove Little Russia/Ukraine’s primordial Rus' connection and show that historical Cossackdom deserved recognition, not condemnation and ridicule.37 In sum,

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all these essays demonstrated Markevych’s potential as a Little Russian national historiographer – at a time when the very existence of the early modern Little Russian nation was threatened, as its core values became a target for the imperial Russian bureaucracy and civil society. The Little Russian nobility was disenchanted with the Russian Empire’s policy of centralization and unification, which led to the disappearance of even the name “Little Russia” from the administrative map of the Russian Empire as well as the gradual departure of the Little Russian “lobby” from the imperial court. They were even more dissatisfied with the way their homeland was portrayed in Russian literature. The Little Russian patriot Andrii Storozhenko, a “lover of his homeland” and its historical legends, songs, and stories,” was therefore strongly critical of Pushkin and his poem “Poltava.”38 From other sources it is known that for the same reasons, Storozhenko was not pleased with Nikolai Karamzin either.39 This displeasure among Ukrainian circles was even directed at Karamzin’s follower Dmitrii Bantysh-Kamensky, whose fundamental Istoriia Maloi Rossii was published in a second edition in 1830 and received the official approval of the Russian emperor. Bantysh-Kamensky was a typical representative of the imperial Russian historiographers, who were obliged to incorporate the province of Little Russia into the new imperial Russian narrative.40 The closest analogue to his history might be the Ukrainian studies done by his older contemporary Engel, the official historian of the Habsburg Empire.41 Bantysh-Kamensky wanted to emphasize the common origins of Ukrainians and Russians, and he was not interested in the bewildering tangle of labyrinthine Ukrainian ethnogenetic charts or issues of Slavic-Rus' primogeniture or historical continuity, which were taken so seriously by the Little Russian Cossack historians. The problem of social status of the Cossacks did not have any particular significance for Bantysh-Kamensky either, and his contemporaries reproached him for not giving Cossack military victories their proper due. Bantysh-Kamensky felt an affinity for Ukraine and Ukrainians, but his approach to their history was objective and critical rather than mythologizing. He considered the Istoriia Rusov a murky source, to be used with great caution.42 For their part, the Little Russian gentry found everything in the Istoriia Rusov that they perceived was lacking in Bantysh-Kamensky’s work. The mysterious author of the anonymous history – likely an older contemporary and compatriot of Markevych – had created a unique historical narrative for its time, reminiscent of a ceremonial collective portrait of a historical nation that strove to preserve the cherished ark of Slavic-Rus' origins and the laurels

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of past military victories.43 The Istoriia Rusov included all the basic elements of a national mythology, centred on the myth of its ancient Slavic-Rus' heritage and the heroic exploits of the Cossack nation – “equal among equals and free among the free.” In this chronicle, Ukrainian history acquired a patina of fully fledged nation-statehood. As mentioned above, the Istoriia Rusov did not contain any calls for political independence; instead, the idea was put forth that Ukrainians should voluntarily concede political subordination and loyalty to their overlords – primarily the Russian tsars. In contrast to Bantysh-Kamensky’s Istoriia Maloi Rossii, the author of the Istoriia Rusov appeals to national feelings rather than to academic scholarship; the writing is unusually emotional and vivid literary Russian. And in contrast to the Cossack chronicles with their monotonous registers of military achievements, the Istoriia Rusov conveys a clear slant of Ukrainian ethnic nationalism. The work is replete with ethnic stereotypes, which the author uses in an attempt to more clearly present the national character of the Ukrainians compared to the Poles (the chief “other”), the Great Russians, and the Jews. However, the Istoriia Rusov is not an integral work, containing as it does a variety of historiographic styles and not a few inconsistencies. The work ends abruptly, virtually mid-word during a description of the 1760s. Overall, for outside readers the Istoriia Rusov might have appeared to be either incomplete or a poorly edited compilation. Regardless, its popularity increased in times when the Little Russian community of landed gentry faced an existential crisis while its core values were threatened.44 Besides Markevych, another representative of the Little Russian nobility who was interested in Ukrainian history was Gogol, but his plans did not come to fruition.45 It may be surmised that one of the reasons for Gogol’s failure in this regard was that the Little Russian gentry did not like his early works. They included the above-mentioned Storozhenko, who criticized not only Russian but also Ukrainian historians and writers whom he considered ne nashi – “not one of us.” He particularly criticized Gogol’s early works, pointing out numerous trivial inaccuracies and even mocking Gogol’s nom de plume Rudyi Panko by twisting it into a classist anti-Polish slur (panek).46 Interestingly, Storozhenko also labelled another Ukrainian writer “not nash” – Yevhen Hrebinka, who translated Pushkin’s poem “Poltava” into Ukrainian (!) – and called him a moskal’ (Muscovite) because he signed with the Russian version of his surname, Grebenkin.47 One may recall that even the Russian Nikolai Polevoi accused Gogol (as Panko) of being an urban Muscovite impostor, criticizing his early novels without bothering to verify his real identity.48

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Compared to Gogol, Markevych was dyed-in-the-wool nash. The careful reader will observe that in Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii this word is among the most frequently used. Appearing in the very first pages of his work,49 nash is repeated throughout in various contexts, leaving no doubt as to the author’s motivations and identity. Storozhenko invited Markevych into his home and undoubtedly helped him with advice and materials. Another Little Russian patriot, Nikolai Rigelman, encouraged Markevych by saying that such a history would be of service to “the whole Fatherland” and that he would “deliver us Little Russians from the ridiculous slander with which travellers abuse us in their magazine articles.”50 Markevych was also encouraged to write his history of Little Russia–Ukraine by another representative of the Little Russian nobility, Mykola Khanenko, who said: “There is no one among us more ‘respectable’ than you.”51 While recognizing the ambiguity of the compliment, we note the significance of the phrase “among us”: for the Little Russian gentry, the best candidate for a historian of Little Russia could only be selected from their own. During those times, the practice of inviting a historian to write an official narrative for a state, region, or corporation of some kind was fairly widespread. The official historians of the Russian Empire included, at various times, Gerhard Müller, Mikhail Shcherbatov, Nikolai Karamzin, and Nikolai Ustrialov. Regional historiographers include Bantysh-Kamensky, the author of the Istoriia Maloi Rossii, and Apollon Skalkovsky, who created the first historical narrative of New Russia (Novorossiia) and the New Sich. Meanwhile, regional historians also included Johann Christian von Engel, who documented the history of Galicia under the rule of the Habsburg Empire. A contemporary of Mykola Markevych was the Bohemian-Czech historian František Palacký, the author of a five-volume history of the Czech nation in Bohemia and Moravia (1836–76). In the same year that Markevych published his Ukrainskie melodii and started polemicizing with Nikolai Polevoi about Ukrainian history, Palacký became the official historiographer of the Bohemian estates, which commissioned him to produce a history of Bohemia in the German language.52 Markevych, similarly to Palacký, could also have said about himself: “I alone have been burdened with work which in other countries is shared by governments, academies, and educational institutions ... I must be hod-carrier and master builder in one person.”53 However, contrary to Palacký, who came from a poor family, the well-to-do and well-connected Markevych was better positioned for the role of historiographer of the Little Russian nation

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and its homeland. Even at a time when he was just ruminating on his plans to write a historical work, he already possessed rich collections of Ukraine’s manuscript heritage – including the family archives of the Kochubei and Hudovych families as well as some manuscripts of Petr Rumiantsev and the Rozumovsky family.54 To be sure, Markevych had no professional training. He was a gentlemanhistorian for whom history was both a hobby and a patriotic obligation. Markevych could moreover be considered an exemplar of the widespread kind of intellectual of those times whose activities must be evaluated in the context of nation-building. “They did not act just as historians in the narrow sense but were engaged in the promotion of a unified vision of national culture.”55 Especially concerning Little Russian history-writing, it was wideranging interests rather than professional specialization that were indispensable to creating a holistic concept of the Ukrainian nation in that space-time, while ethnicizing and folklorizing it – “the fostering of ‘national’ music, costumes, and dances” – led to the articulation of this nation’s unique profile.56 As a Romantic poet and musician, Markevych was also preoccupied with the aesthetic form of his narrative, which assuredly could be expressed in Russian in the same way as in French or any other developed literary language. Ultimately, however, his Istoriia Malorossii is valuable not so much for its scholarly or literary qualities as for its quintessential narrative of Little Russian identity.

The Little Russian Grand Narrative Markevych’s “History of Malorossiia” became the “apogee of Ukrainian patriotic gentry historiography.”57 It brought the tradition of eighteenthcentury Cossack military-political historiography to its logical conclusion and simultaneously reformulated it in response to the new socio-political conditions and cultural standards of the Russian Empire. There was only one lifetime edition of the Istoriia Malorossii, published in five volumes during 1842–43; there is no academic publication of this work, nor has its censorship history been studied. We only know that imperial censors at the time were particularly focused on topics of Ukrainian political separatism – mazepinstvo and Uniatism.58 The Russian bureaucracy was alarmed by the first excerpts from Markevych’s history, which were written about Mazepa.59 At first glance, the author showed unquestionable political loyalty in these texts, condemning

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Mazepa in the spirit of official Russian propaganda. Nevertheless, the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Own Chancellery issued a warning to the censor who had permitted the publication, Petr Korsakov, that he should “beware of the passion of Little Russian historians for their history and not forget that Little Russia only began to prosper since it joined Great Russia.”60 After this, Korsakov “worked hard to tone down anything that could contravene censorship policy,”61 although we do not know exactly which fragments of the original text were changed as a result. The “History of Malorossiia” clearly belongs to the genre of national historical grand narrative.62 Monika Baár notes that “there existed a general blueprint of national history writing in this period, one which emphasized the ancient, continuous, unified, and unique nature of national history.”63 According to John Coakley, that genre “will fill one or more of five types of function: definition of the conceptual boundaries of the nation; reinforcement of a sense of pride in national achievements; capacity to promote commiseration over unjust suffering that justifies compensation; legitimization of the current national struggle by reference to its roots in the past; and inspiration regarding the bright future of the nation.”64 Each of these functions is associated with corresponding myths – those of origin, the “golden age,” the “dark age,” the “age of struggle,” and national destiny. Some of those components are found in Markevych’s grand narrative, while others are not. Without a doubt, the main source of inspiration for Markevych and the ideological foundation of his history was the Istoriia Rusov (History of the Rus' People).65 It is, however, surprising that even though Markevych came from the same milieu as the author of this source, he never knew his real name. Quite probably, Markevych did try to pursue an inquiry, especially given that the official authorship of Archbishop Heorhii Konysky was a reliable indicator of the authenticity and political credibility of the work being ascribed to him. Markevych’s cleaving to the Istoriia Rusov reflected the prevalent trend of mythologizing national history. For example, concerning the Rukopis Zelenohorský and Rukopis královédvorský, which in reality were forgeries, Palacký “stubbornly defended the authenticity of these allegedly medieval documents,”66 which resonated with the sentiments and expectations of patriotically inclined Czechs. In all the disputable episodes of Ukrainian history, Markevych deferred to the version given in the Istoriia Rusov despite the skepticism regarding its authenticity expressed by his predecessors, including Bantysh-Kamensky. Markevych did everything possible to dispel such doubts and bolster the

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authority of the Istoriia Rusov, aided by numerous documents, patriotic declarations, and his own eloquence. In some cases he corrected many contradictions in the history and applied its ethno-geographic terminology more consistently, aiming to present a more consolidated picture of Ukraine to the Ukrainian public that was free of regional and class limitations. While the anonymous Istoriia Rusov might at times look like a sketch or draft, Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii is a fully developed, completed literaryhistorical narrative, albeit a profoundly dualistic one. Bantysh-Kamensky’s opinion of it must have appeared rather dismissive to Markevych, who occasionally even criticizes his senior colleague or senior fellow historian – for example, concerning his assessment of the role of the Cossack Hetman Petro Konashevych Sahaidachny in the Polish wars against Muscovy in the early seventeenth century. But in the most important matter – justifying the inevitability and the necessity of Ukraine’s socio-political integration into the Russian Empire – Markevych agrees with Bantysh-Kamensky. The dualism of Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii is a consequence of the intersecting ideological-political influence on it of both the Istoriia Rusov and Bantysh-Kamensky’s Istoriia Maloi Rossii. The voices of the Little Russian patriot and the Russian nobleman are heard in the Istoriia Malorossii like a duet, not interrupting but complementing one another; as a result, this work is a brilliant illustration of the dual, overlapping cultural affiliations and loyalties of the landed Little Russian gentry. However, Markevych is not quite a typical representative of the latter; he was a living link between the “old-world gentry” and the new imperial intelligentsia. Thus, it is no coincidence that his history combines two cultural styles – the Enlightenment and Romanticism – with the moralization of the former enhanced by the folkloric-ethnographic vivacity of the latter. The Istoriia Malorossii is an eloquent example of the ethnic nationalism characteristic of the Romantic era, with Little Russian history and geography presented by Markevych in terms of a distinct Ukrainian ethnicity.67 His imagined community of Little Russia extended geographically beyond the regional boundaries of the historical Hetmanate and Left-bank Ukraine, encompassing a territory from the Carpathian Mountains to the Siverskyi Dinets River and Voronezh gubernia, where the population had the same language, traditions, and clothing.68 Similar delineations of ethnic Ukrainian territory can be found in works by Markevych’s predecessors and contemporaries such as Pavlo Biletsky-Nosenko, Mykhailo Kachenovsky, and Nikolai Gogol (Mykola Hohol). Markevych’s Ukrainian geography is deeply emo-

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tional, saturated with ethnic symbolism and comparisons with Italy, which is reminiscent of the rhetoric of his predecessor, Yakiv Markovych.69 The people in the Istoriia Malorossii are depicted in terms of ethnocultural community. The “Ukrainian” characteristics pertained only to those born into the community and having the right to be called “pure” or “natural” Ukrainians.70 They were considered closest to the Slavic “primary source.”71 For that reason, any notes on the imprint of “Asiatic” features in their appearance or customs were considered unacceptable.72 In this view, Markevych differed radically from his contemporary, Gogol.73 For Markevych, language is the main marker of ethnic identity.74 He declares, “We never spoke Russian, neither a pure nor a creole version; we always spoke pure Ukrainian, while the Muscovites and those from Vladimir and Novgorod spoke pure Great Russian and the Galicians spoke a pure Ruthenian. Meanwhile, we [Ukrainians have always been labelled as] speaking ‘dialects originating from Slovenian.’”75 When referring to his native language, Markevych used the adjectives “Little Russian” and “Ukrainian” interchangeably, and he was scornful about it being officially called a “South Russian tongue.”76 Along with other features denoting ethnic uniqueness, Markevych broadly applied ethnic self-stereotypes. In his imagery, Ukrainians are endowed with characteristics such as “nobility,” “bravery,” “dignity,” “loyalty,” and “obedience.”77 All these characteristics belong to the ethos of the gentry, and it is hardly a wonder that Markevych calls his countrymen a “military” people.78 On the other hand, the Poles, who remained the main “other” for the Ukrainians, are represented not just as a political nation that is fiercely condemned by the author but also as an ethnic nation with a specific national character. Following the Istoriia Rusov, Markevych depicts the Poles as treacherous, nasty, arrogant, and cruel people. Notably, any Cossacks whom he did not like were unceremoniously declared to be Poles and contrasted with the “natural Ukrainians” – who of course could not be traitors to their nation. In such instances, even the language becomes subordinated to the categories of blood and faith; for example, in one episode the Cossack colonels – “Polish by birth” – speak in Ukrainian, but this does not save them from being branded as Poles.79 The Little Russians in Markevych’s history were not yet a modern nation; rather, they could be called a biblical kind of nation that acted as a collective, sometimes even disregarding social estates. Thus, we may observe that Markevych’s concept of the Little Russian nation sometimes encompassed

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all the social classes, including the peasantry. For example, when describing the dire straits of the peasants in eighteenth-century right-bank Ukraine (the Rzeczpospolita, or Polish Commonwealth), he quoted an excerpt from the seventeenth-century French engineer Guillaume Le Vasseur de Beauplan’s Description d’Ukranie, then commented: “And they were a free people, equal among equals and free among the free.”80 Nevertheless, as with the unnamed author of the Istoriia Rusov, Markevych generally stayed within the boundaries of the estate-based concept of nation, although he eschewed the latter’s contempt for the lower classes.81 Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii has no mention of women or townsfolk or ethnic minorities. His main national identity markers are religious affiliation and language: “Faith and tongue are the two main proofs of ethnic origin.”82 Markevych approached the concept of modern nationalism more closely than did the au-thor of the Istoriia Rusov, but he never became a modern type of nationalist. Following in the footsteps of most patriotic Little Russian historians, including the author of the Istoriia Rusov, Markevych declared Ukraine’s priority entitlement to the Slavic-Rus' historical legacy; he considered ethnic Russians to be the younger brethren of the Rus'-Ukrainians.83 In his opinion, the Rus' name belonged only to Ukrainians. In contrast to the author of the Istoriia Rusov, Markevych refrained from wandering in the etymological labyrinths of Slavic ethnogenesis and, without any malice, endorsed the Normanist theory of Rus' origins.84 However, he was convinced that only the ancient Kyivan (i.e., Ukrainian) lands retained the right to the name – not any northern cities, including Moscow.85 It is somewhat difficult to explain why Markevych devotes comparatively little space in his work to the subject of Kyivan Rus'. Perhaps the problem of inheritance of the ancient Rus' legacy did not exist for him, or perhaps he wished to avoid a polemical joust with the imperial historiographer Karamzin. Markevych seemed to be much more concerned with the issue of the continuity of Ukrainian history since ancient Rus' times. He asserted that “the Little Russians never left their native or indigenous land ... our language and faith have remained primordial.”86 He also rejected the idea that the ancient Rus' lands were completely destroyed by invaders and believed that “the common folk survived under the yoke of the conquerors.”87 The bulk of Markevych’s history is devoted to the Cossacks as the chief representative estate of Ukrainian society, playing a symbolic role for the Little Russian nation and its statehood. In studying his views concerning the origins of the Ukrainian Cossacks and their historical role, I did not find any

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differences in principle with those expressed by his predecessors. Thus, similar to the author of the Istoriia Rusov and the compiler of the 1808 Slovar’ malorusskoi stariny (Dictionary of Little Russian Antiquity), Markevych considered the Cossacks to be not a separate ethnos but the military wing of the Little Russian nation that had simply adopted the name kozak and frontier lifestyle from the former Turkic and Tatar rulers of the steppes.88 Markevych called the Cossacks “our excellent army” and emphasized that the Little Russians were not their descendants, but rather “we are the nation, and the Cossacks were formerly our army.”89 Moreover, unlike his predecessors Markevych did not juxtapose the Little Russian, Sloboda Ukraine, and Zaporozhian Cossacks; in fact, he regarded the latter two as outpost units of the Ukrainian Cossack army. Generally, attitudes toward the Cossacks were a reliable indicator of Little Russian patriotism,90 and Markevych interpreted any criticism of them as an affront to Little Russia and Little Russians overall. He passionately engaged in public defences of Ukrainian Cossack history against the polemics of “slanderers” – be they Russians like Polevoi or Little Russians like Rakovych. Markevych’s own Little Russian identity included a distinct Cossack component. In his private correspondence with Bodiansky, he called himself a Cossack and a Zaporozhian, as he also did his correspondent and friend (“a good, clever, and educated Cossack”).91 I have no information as to whether Markevych donned vintage Cossack garb in the privacy of his home – as the Zaporozhian Cossack historian Dmytro Yavornytsky later did – but I have no doubt that if not the sword, then other Cossack accessories such as the pipe and the bandura were constantly at hand. Markevych represented Ukrainian national history as that of fully fledged statehood with all its proper institutions, adhering to the classical historiographic approach of sequencing the history by hetman, thereby demonstrating the existence of Ukraine’s independent political tradition. Most of the chapters in his book are titled with the name of a given hetman; where such names are not used, the chapters also lack specific headings. It would be fair to assume that Markevych was aware of the idea of the connection between nation and state, with statehood to be recognized as the highest form of civic life; this view was expressed, for example, by his Russian contemporaries Nikolai Nadezhdin and Vissarion Belinsky.92 However, in this case it was not necessary for Markevych to turn to Hegel, since he was following in the footsteps of his Ukrainian predecessors.

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The language used to describe Ukrainian history in terms of nation-statehood was developed during the process of integrating the Hetmanate into the Russian Empire, when it became necessary for the Cossack military formations and institutions to learn the Russian military-bureaucratic terminology. Thereafter, the chronicle-style documentation of the military victories of Cossack units became transformed into a history of Cossack statehood in the new narrative created by the author of the Istoriia Rusov. Gogol was among those who followed suit, writing about “Southern Rus'” as a state under Lithuanian protection, completely separate from “Northern Rus'.” Interestingly, his vignette about Ukrainian history was published in the official journal of the imperial Ministry of Education.93 The idea of Cossack nation-statehood was clearly presented in Markevych’s work, more so than in the Istoriia Rusov. This becomes particularly obvious when one reads both authors’ accounts of the Treaty of Hadiach (1658), signed between the Ukrainian Cossack Hetman Ivan Vyhovsky and the government of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. According to the treaty, which was formulated in the European political-legal tradition, the Cossack state was to constitute a full-fledged member of the commonwealth. While in the Istoriia Rusov this agreement is described rather vaguely, in his history Markevych accurately lists its main clauses and draws the following conclusion: “It is not just a protectorate, it is an independent state, a separate state within a different state!”94 The very thought of independence so enthuses the author that he cannot resist making this ingenuous remark: “If the Cossacks had not become disillusioned with the King and the Commonwealth, how could they not have been seduced by those promises?”95 Nevertheless, Markevych did not consider the Treaty of Hadiach realistic, and in this he was no different from the great majority of his predecessors. Monika Baár rightly noted that “historians frequently seem to take for granted that the ultimate aim of each national political movement was the independent nation-state. They tend to forget that many scholars and politicians in the nineteenth century would have been satisfied with a limited degree of independence, for example, autonomy within the confines of an empire or a multinational federation.”96 The example of the Istoriia Rusov confirms such a conclusion, since its author argued for the necessity of political protection for Ukraine. He believed that the main reason for this was Ukraine’s precarious geopolitical situation, which made it a bone of contention between its mighty neighbours, primarily Poland and Russia.

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As stated in the Istoriia Rusov, “the location itself of our land, open to all sides and difficult to fortify, makes us a plaything for fickle destiny and blind chance.”97 One could also find here a confirmation of these very thoughts in the words of the Crimean khan spoken to the Ukrainian hetman: “Given its situation, Little Russia is the primary and ever-present gathering place, or open field, convenient for enemy invasions, for their slaughter and destruction of this people.”98 Gogol was also echoing the Istoriia Rusov when he wrote, “If there is at least one side with an actual border of mountains or sea, the people settled there could withstand any political onslaught and establish a sovereign state. But that defenseless open land was a land of devastation and attacks – a place where three warring nations clashed, awash in bones, soaked in blood.”99 That the absence of natural borders proved independent existence to be impossible was considered an axiom of geopolitical thinking in those times; for example, it bolstered the justification for Poland to be partitioned and incorporated into the Russian Empire.100 However, it did not prevent historians from contemplating alternative scenarios regarding the course of a number of events in Ukrainian history. Johann Christian von Engel pondered the possible outcomes of history in this region had the Cossack wars of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries been successful. In his words, if circumstances had been different, then “today we might possibly have had a Ukrainian Highness from the Mazepa dynasty, a Grand Duchy of Sweden in the north, and no Suvorov occupying Warsaw in 1795.”101 Engel’s work was well known to Ukrainian and Russian historians and even earned him an honorary doctorate from Kharkiv University; however, most of them rejected the possibility of the “Mazepa option” that he described. In complete agreement with the geopolitical fatalism of his predecessors and contemporaries, Markevych did not see any possibility for Ukraine to remain an independent state: We were surrounded by Warsaw, Constantinople, and Moscow. Our borders were not reinforced with any natural barriers; we had neither gold for money nor copper for cannons, nor iron for weapons and harness, not even salt for bread. Just a broad steppe with plentiful grain and hay, but the more of them, the less of money. We were fated to live either pastorally, if our grain exports were banned, or as brigands, which our neighbours would not countenance. In this situation, what choice did we have ... ? Poland would badger Little Russia from the west, Moscow from the

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east and the north, and Turkey and Crimea from the south. We would have not a single peaceful day in our separate life.102 Of all the possible geopolitical choices that were analyzed in Little Russian historical thought, the first was always the Russian option. The idea of Russia being “less evil” for Ukraine had a solid foundation owing to realpolitik and their common religious and historical legacy. The author of the Istoriia Rusov presented a long list of Ukrainian complaints about Russia but ultimately reached the conclusion that his people must choose the Russian option. Taking the same path, Markevych also describes the international situation that the Cossack state was facing in the mid-seventeenth century, then mentions the principle of international balance of power and comments, sarcastically, “as if wherever Russia exists there can be any balance.”103 According to Markevych, Hetman Bohdan Khmelnytsky and his entourage could not have foreseen that all the neighbouring countries competing with Russia “would be engulfed by it” within a century and a half.”104 Along with geopolitical fatalism, Markevych identified internal reasons that he thought were imperative to Ukraine’s Russian option. They included a divide in Ukrainian society itself: “The Dnieper bisected Ukraine; it seemed to actually divide the hearts and minds of Ukrainians as well. In the East they still fought for Moscow, while in the West the people were already vacillating toward the Poles, and like the schisms that set religious flocks against one another, those who sought the mace armed Little Russians against Little Russians.”105 At the same time, Markevych pointed out that Ukrainians had no legal security anywhere, neither in the Commonwealth nor in the Hetmanate. Ultimately, Markevych the apologist and loyal patriot of two patrimoines became a critic of Cossack statehood. None of the retrospective Ukrainian histories published at the time presented justifications supporting the necessity to liquidate Cossack autonomy that were as developed, detailed, or consistently argued as those in Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii. One could say that the author’s divided loyalty was never so obvious as in his description of the history of Ukraine after Khmelnytsky. He was in favour of the past Muscovite tsars, starting with Aleksei Mikhailovich, gradually restricting the political and socio-legal autonomy of the Hetmanate. Markevych considered its sporadic revival to have been a mistake in one case and necessary only to enable a final incorporation of Ukraine into Russia in another.106 He moreover condemned the attempt to establish a hereditary hetmancy during the time of Kyrylo Rozumovsky and defended the Russian Empire’s liquidation

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of the Zaporozhian Sich in 1775.107 This should certainly suffice to refute any attempts by Markevych’s critics to ascribe separatist beliefs to him.108 Hetman Ivan Mazepa, having sided with Sweden’s King Charles XII against Tsar Peter І, remained a powerful symbol of Ukrainian statehood and independence from Russia. Engel was not the only one to contemplate how Ukraine’s destiny could have changed if Mazepa had won.109 Here again, as in many other instances, opinions on this question differed among Ukrainians. The unidentified author of the Istoriia Rusov demonstrated the vividness and yet ambivalence with which they perceived Mazepa’s persona and his legacy. Given the commentaries voiced by Ryleev, Pushkin, and BantyshKamensky, Markevych’s contemporaries in Russia were equally ambiguous on this topic. As a historian and as a poet, Markevych could not help but be fascinated by Mazepa. The very prospect of the Ukrainian hetman being crowned a monarch was breathtaking to him, and in Engel’s wake he exclaims, “And then what changes [there would have been] in the fates of the Poles, the Swedes, and the Russians!” However, as a patriot of two patrimoines, Markevych cuts his fantasy short with the melancholic phrase, “But Ukraine would not have won, either.”110 In what could be taken as a response to Engel, Markevych surmises: “Let us suppose that we established a separate state, with Mazepa as the tsar. What would we gain from changing one dynasty for another? The risk of seeing our daughters sharing the same fate as Kochubei’s daughter did; and of being in poverty at old age because the Hetman would covet our wealth as he did the gold of Polubotok.”111 In Markevych’s eyes, as also judged by the author of the Istoriia Rusov, the antipode to Mazepa was the “righteous hetman” Pavlo Polubotok, who died at the hand of Peter I. While the author of the Istoriia Rusov reviewed and considered arguments both pro and contra Ukraine’s Russian orientation, Markevych bolstered the former and criticized the latter. He believed, or wished to, that the Russian Empire was capable of doing what neither the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth nor the Cossack Hetmanate had done – namely, safeguard the equality of all subjects under the law. “The valiant and proud [Little Russian] people would rather see themselves under the sceptre of a single tsar, equal subjects with all his people, than under the hydra rule of anarchy”112 – in this sense Markevych is reminiscent of his Czech contemporary Palacký, who wrote, “If the Austrian state had not existed for ages, in the interests of Europe and indeed of humanity itself we would have to endeavour to create it as soon as possible.”113

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Markevych tried to persuade his readers that all the classes of Ukrainian society that had been free remained so after Hetman Khmelnytsky accepted the protection of Muscovy. The Cossack nobility became equal in rights to the Muscovite boyars and Baltic barons, bestowed with eligibility for the highest offices in the Russian state and the Orthodox Church. This had not been possible in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. As for the peasantry, one wealthy and benign owner of hundreds of serfs could not conceive that for them it was anything but a joy to be passed on in servitude from one generation to the next.114 It appears that this opinion was even shared by Markevych’s contemporary Hryhorii Kvitka-Osnovianenko, a loyal member of the imperial Russian nobility and one of the first writers of serious prose in the Ukrainian language. Markevych tried to justify the increasingly repressive Russian policy of centralization that was aimed at “merging the two nations.”115 To his understanding, the “merging” meant primarily a legal unification in the framework of laws applicable throughout the empire. In the spirit of the official state ideology, Markevych praised the Russia of the day, writing that now there were “no longer Great Russians nor Little Russians nor White Russians; today we are all Russians, today Rusˊ is one, undivided.”116 Clearly, in this sentence “Russians” means a political-legal entity, not an ethnic one; otherwise, the censors would not have permitted any implication that denied the existence not only of Little Russians but above all of the Great Russians. This kind of interpretation of “Russians” is best conveyed by the more recent concept of “Soviet people” – both invoked in order to ensure the priority of imperial identity over national identity. In either case, however, they were heavily influenced by Great Russian ethnic nationalism.

Reception of the Book Markevych expected that his Istoriia Malorossii would be able to revive his literary and scholarly renown, but he miscalculated. During the time that he stayed at his estate creating a historical apologia for his native land, the national historiographer of Little Russia missed significant changes that occurred in the political and intellectual climate of the Russian Empire. His loyal declarations about the necessity and desirability of merging the Hetmanate fully with the Russian state undoubtedly smoothed the way for his book’s passage through the imperial censorship toward its readers. However, Markevych’s presentation of Little Russia in the role of the “true Rusˊ” was no

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longer acceptable to the Russian intelligentsia, who had already started to shake off their medieval ideas about “Slavism” and “all-Russianism” and were focusing on the establishment of a wholly (Great) Russian national narrative. Meanwhile, although Nikolai Polevoi broke down and joined the official camp of imperial subjects, his ideas about Ukraine nevertheless had a profound effect on his contemporaries – sometimes direct, sometimes indirect. Traces of his influence can be found in the writings of West-leaning literary critics such as Nikolai Nadezhdin and Vissarion Belinsky, as well as one of the leading Slavophiles, Mikhail Pogodin. The publication of Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii triggered an intense polemic in Russian society, which marked a turning point in the further development of the Russian and Ukrainian national identities. In actuality, this polemic fell on already fertile soil. During the early 1840s, a public debate was sparked in Russia around the works of Nikolai Gogol (Mykola Hohol), particularly his famous Dead Souls – a book that was criticized by some of the author’s contemporaries (Polevoi, Osip Senkovsky [Józef Sękowski], Filipp Vigel) as “Little Russian slander against (Great) Russia and Russians.”117 Vigel’s memoirs include portraits of Vasilii (Vasyl) Kapnist and Nikolai Gnedich (Mykola Hnidych), whom he transformed from well-known Russian poets into Ukrainian nationalists and Russiahaters as Gogol’s predecessors. At the same time, the Russian reading public was increasingly starting to question the desirability of developing Ukrainian-language literature – as shown in Kvitka-Osnovianenko’s correspondence with Andrei Kraevsky, the editor-publisher of the journal Otechestvennye zapiski (Fatherland Notes). It is worth noting that the intellectual vanquishment of “Malorossomania” was simultaneously also taking place in the Polish intellectual milieu.118 These two nations were flexing their imperial muscles, casting off the historical attributes of the “alien” ethnic Ukrainian culture. Understandably, the most sensitive reactions concerning ethnic identity issues actually came from prominent Russian journalists who were well acquainted with Western intellectual trends: Osip Senkovsky, a popular literary critic and publisher of one of the foremost Russian periodicals, Biblioteka dlia chteniia (Library for Reading), and the pundit Vissarion Belinsky, one of the intellectual leaders of West-leaning Russians associated with the influential journal Otechestvennye zapiski.119 Taking their cue from Polevoi, they strongly criticized the Little Russian historical narrative. Moreover, their hostility toward Little Russian history took on a distinct ethnocultural dimension, encompassing the Ukrainian language and assump-tions about their national character.

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Senkovsky was among the first to follow in Polevoi’s footsteps.120 According to Serhy Bilenky, “Senkovsky was perhaps the first to argue that Ukrainians were not the original inhabitants of the Dnieper basin at the time of Kyivan Rusˊ but were later migrants from northwestern Ukraine – from Volhynia and Galicia.”121 This idea would subsequently be taken up by the historian Mikhail Pogodin. Senkovsky rewrote the Cossacks from being the main representative symbol of the history of Ukraine and defenders of Orthodoxy in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth to being Lithuanian and Polish fugitives, a “horde of foolhardy cutthroats and professional robbers” – a destructive, anarchic force that was inimical not only to Poland and Russia but even to Little Russia itself. Senkovsky’s criticism was condemned by many in ad hominem attacks, with his Polish origin proving to be a target for his opponents more than his arguments – which in themselves were not helped by the deliberately mocking, ironic manner in which Senkovsky expressed them. It was mostly writers who were conservative nationalists in state employ who hastened to defend Markevych.122 They included Petr Pletnev, a Russian writer, academician, and editor-in-chief of the literary journal Sovremennik (The Contemporary); being closely tied to official policy-makers, he explained his public defence of Markevych against Senkovsky very frankly: “It does not behoove Russians to stay silent if any kind of poliachishka has the effrontery to brazenly insult us.”123 Markevych’s own reaction was similar: in a letter to Bodiansky he said, “Not to mention Senkovsky’s slander and his hatred of Little Russia. The Lithuanians have no love lost for us, nor do the Poles – and that is the truth.”124 Markevych attempted to respond publicly to Senkovsky in an ironic essay titled “Pranks and Farce from Lord Merquaich,” but for unknown reasons it was not published.125 Judging from extant archival materials, the Little Russian landed nobility were pleased with Markevych’s work and shared the opinions he expressed.126 Naturally, they perceived Senkovsky’s position as an insult to the estate as a whole, especially in the context of their typical Polonophobia. Several dozen patriotic countrymen and followers of Markevych made an official complaint to Dimitrii Bibikov, the governor general of Kyiv, Podilia, and Volhynia gubernias, who was responsible for integrating right-bank Ukraine into the Russian Empire and countering Polish influence in his territory. According to the Russian liberal Aleksandr Herzen, the moral underpinnings of this appeal seemed dubious,127 but it was completely in keeping with the mentality of the loyal Little Russian patriots,

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who continued to see the Poles as their worst enemies and the Russians as their best friends. Bibikov immediately took the offended Little Russian gentry under his protection. The literary discussion around Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii began to acquire an overtly political tone when Bibikov sent an official memo to the minister of internal affairs, Lev Perovsky, and the minister of education, Sergei Uvarov, demanding an end to the Polish “intrigue” that supposedly threatened Russian interests in the empire’s “southwestern territories.” But there was no resonant political outcome from this affair, since the authority of the governor did not extend beyond his jurisdiction and the real interests of the empire were considerably broader. In an earlier similar situation, the imperial interior minister and ethnic Ukrainian Viktor Kochubei would explain to the imperial governor of Little Russia and ethnic Russian Nikolai Repnin, that its affairs were quite “microscopic” when observed from St Petersburg.128 Kochubei’s countrymen and descendants evidently failed to heed this lesson. While it might have been possible to attempt to disavow Senkovsky as a “Pole,” dismissing the criticisms of the influential Russian journalist Belinsky, who was popular among liberals, proved to be much harder.129 His extensive review of Markevych’s history, published in Otechestvennye zapiski in 1843,130 reflected two comparatively new trends in the development of Russian historical thought. One was that historical development requires philosophical and scholarly justification, and the other was that Russian national discourse needed to be further emancipated from the concept of the “Slavic-Rus' nation” set forth in the 1674 Synopsis. “Little Russia,” wrote Belinsky, “was never a state, and therefore it never had a history in the strict sense of the word. The history of Little Russia is no more than an episode in the reign of Tsar Aleksei Mikhailovich ... a tributary flowing into the great river of Russian history.” He considered the Hetmanate merely “a parody of a republic, or in other words a Slavic republic,” which looked more like “a strange commune in the Asiatic manner,” like that of the Crimean Tatars. Furthermore, Belinsky not only criticized the Cossack state but extended his contempt to the whole Ukrainian nation, which he considered simply incapable of developing or even aspiring to the higher forms of civilization: “Little Russians were always a tribe, never a people, even less a state.”131 “This people was cast and tempered in such a solid iron mold that it would never have allowed civilization to get any closer to it than a gunshot.”132

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Scholars have attempted to explain such epithets by Belinsky’s Russian nationalism or by his views on nationality in general.133 I believe that both these motives are behind his cutting and outspoken words, which were unprecedented at the time. It is surprising, however, that most scholars have drawn their conclusions based on Belinsky’s words only, without considering the texts in Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii that provoked the polemic in the first place. Having done so, they would see that factual materials found right in Markevych’s work indeed justify Belinsky’s criticism of the Hetmanate. The weakness of sovereign political and legal traditions, the autocracy of the hetmans, the imperative to liquidate Cossack autonomy – all these are vividly presented in Markevych’s book and even in the texts of some of his predecessors and contemporaries who were unsentimental critics of the Hetmanate.134 Belinsky is original only in the harshness of his deprecation of the national character of the Ukrainian people. The stereotype of the exquisite and decorative “Little Russian pysanka” is unequivocally displaced by other stereotypes, those of salt pork and spitefulness.135 We should remember that the criticism of Markevych, Little Russia’s “national historiographer,” was conducted in a journalistic field that was subject to imperial censorship. Its arrows were aimed at an author who represented the Little Russian landed nobility and who himself was well connected among the influential imperial aristocracy. In spite of this, Belinsky went much further and expressed himself much more boldly in criticizing Little Russia than all his predecessors combined. Thus, we may surmise that in the highest echelons of imperial power at the time, the opinion had already coalesced that Ukraine must become fully assimilated at all levels, including Russian culture and language. Otherwise, it would be difficult to explain why Belinsky’s criticism did not provoke the same kind of response in mainstream society as Senkovsky’s had done. This supposition is confirmed to a certain extent by archival materials concerning the central imperial censorial administration. Governor general Bibikov’s query concerning Senkovsky’s criticism aimed at Markevych, described above, simply could not be ignored. Two censors were obliged to explain what had motivated them to permit Senkovsky’s essay to be published – the above-mentioned Petr Korsakov and his colleague Andrei Freigang.136 Both noted in their reports that Ukrainian historians were wont to indulge in provincial patriotism (“forgetting or failing to defend the overall good of their country”) and a tendentiousness that prompted them to cover up the violence of the Cossacks. In these reports, the Zaporozhian Sich

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was labelled as lawless, an anti-imperial formation of out-of-control Cossacks, and likened to the Crimean Khanate. Furthermore, Little Russia and Poland were placed at the same level as examples of “oligarchic or, rather, anarchic states.”137 Both censors declared that Senkovsky’s views corresponded fully to the official policy of the imperial Russian government, starting with Peter І. Other colleagues at the agency were of the same opinion; Aleksandr Nikitenko wrote, “The chief defence of the censors was built upon the following main idea in essays published in the Biblioteka dlia chteniia: Little Russia never constituted a separate political entity, and it did many stupid and evil things to its neighbours – all of which ended only after it united with Russia.”138 Notably, Korsakov was known to be a Ukrainophile; he issued permission for publications not only by Markevych but also by Taras Shevchenko;139 meanwhile, his colleague Nikitenko, also with a liberal reputation, was a native of Sloboda Ukraine. And then it just ended. As the main perpetrator of the scandal, Senkovsky was not sanctioned administratively and was able to continue mocking Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii, to the delight of readers, up until the publication of its final volumes in 1843. The imperial minister of education, Uvarov, meted out only a mild rebuke of the censors and reminded the superintendents of educational districts to carefully examine any publications that focused on the history of Ukrainian lands under Polish rule. Markevych himself was convinced that under these new conditions he would no longer receive permission from the imperial censors to republish his poetry collection of the early 1830s, Ukrainskie melodii.140 The idea of equal rights for Great Russia and Little Russia would henceforth elicit only sarcasm from the imperial bureaucracy, and the particular customs, songs, and language of the Little Russians would be reacted to with slight disdain and derision on the part of the Russian intelligentsia.141 In the eyes of the Westernized intellectuals of the Russian Empire, Ukraine was increasingly being transformed into a mere archaic symbol.

Conclusions As long as Markevych’s full creative legacy remains inaccessible to scholars, the conclusions to this chapter can only be preliminary in nature. A significant part of the materials is in personal archives divided up between Kyiv,

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Moscow, and St Petersburg, and his written works have never been published in a scholarly edition. As a historian and civic activist, Markevych fits into the first phase of the schema of national revival developed by Miroslav Hroch. He took every opportunity to collect ancient chronicles, family crests and memoirs, and manuscript records and official documents of the Cossack Hetmanate. Thanks to Markevych, thousands of Ukrainian historical sources were rescued from a mouldering fate in iron-clad ancestral chests, crumbling government premises, and noble estate attics and storerooms. Markevych intended to publish the materials he had collected (which he measured in poods) in a multi-volume series along the lines of Nikolai Novikov’s Drevniaia rossiiskaia vivliofika, but unfortunately these intentions never came to fruition. Markevych also collected contemporary Ukrainian folk-ethnographic artifacts and materials in order to illustrate geographic and socio-economic descriptions of his native land. He planned to document them in a fourvolume series “About Little Russia”142 but managed to publish only a small book titled Obychai, pover’ia, kukhnia i napitki malorossiian, which included descriptions of the customs, food, traditional medicine, demonology, and folk theatre (vertep) of the Ukrainians.143 Markevych even commissioned the construction of replicas of a Ukrainian peasant household and its furniture, tools, and clothing, designating them to be gifted to the museum of the Imperial Agricultural Society in Moscow.144 Although Markevych was neither a Ukrainian nor a professional historian, his main objective was fulfilled – to create an apologia for the national history of Ukraine and a response to the “slanderers” and ignoramuses. He synthesized the Little Russian military-political historiographic tradition and presented it for the first time in terms befitting a fully fledged history of the Little Russian nation and its statehood. Markevych’s achievement is that he took the old discourse of Little Russian identity based on regionality and class culture and gave it an ethnocultural dimension. As a result, Little Russia– Ukraine was conceived in its ethnic boundaries and historico-cultural integrity. This is not to say, however, that the modern Ukrainian nation was truly formed at the time.145 In fact, for a Ukrainian or even a Little Russian history Markevych did not venture beyond the boundaries of “Russianness,” either in the imperial or in the ethnocultural understanding of this concept. The Little Russia he imagined remained in the symbolic milieu of the Slavic-Rus' community – as

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opposed to that of Poland and the Poles, who remained the main “other” in the process of intellectual construction of modern Russianness. I am not certain whether Markevych’s synthesis of Little Russian history can be considered a proper alternative to Bantysh-Kamensky’s history of Little Russia;146 it only supplements and occasionally corrects it. But both authors saw Little Russia as part of Russia and strove to fully integrate it into the empire. Neither does Markevych fit into the constructivist model of the “plebeian nation.”147 Interpreting the Ukrainian national movement as a strictly democratic initiative is only possible if one ignores the extensive network of the landed Little Russian aristocracy, owners of serfs and real property – of whom Markevych himself was a typical representative. Another example of this social milieu would be Stepan Burachek, lieutenant-general of the imperial shipbuilding engineers and a Little Russian patriot, recently described by Serhiy Bilenky as “more Russian than the Russians themselves” and “somewhere between Uvarov’s ‘official nationality’ and pre-national imperial loyalty.”148 Markevych was exactly the same kind of “Little Russian [malorus] on a common Russian foundation,” or perhaps a “common Russian [obshcheruss] on a Little Russian foundation,” as was Gogol and the great majority of the Little Russian elite of that time. As a historian of the ennobled Little Russians, he treated them as a subcategory of the imperial nation – and Little Russia as a region of the Russian Empire. Markevych did not become the Ukrainian Palacký, who was in his time a German historian of Bohemia before he discovered Czech language and history, leading inevitably to a crossroads of national awareness and choice between German and Czech languages and identities. Forced to delineate between national and imperial identity, Palacký declared, “We existed before Austria, we shall still exist when it is gone.”149 But Markevych did not choose in favour of the Ukrainian language and remained a person of “not mutually exclusive” identities and a patriot of two patrimoines. Recalling John Coakley’s description of the national narrative genre, one realizes that Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii lacks two important components: “legitimization of the current national struggle and inspiration regarding the bright future of the nation.”150 Indeed, Markevych legitimized the contemporary conditions of Little Russia as part of the Russian Empire and practically denied it any kind of separate future. For him, the “golden age” of Ukrainian history was the present, not the past. This fact demonstrates that Markevych does not fit the category of those “historical legitimists” whose

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aim, according to Ivan Lysiak-Rudnytsky, “was the restoration of the nation’s old state within its ancient boundaries.”151 Today’s scholars of Ukraine agree that Markevych contributed to the development of the modern Ukrainian national movement, but they do not always specify what exactly this contribution consisted of. I would highlight two main aspects of his influence on the Ukrainian national movement – ethnic and social. The first entails the image of Little Russia–Ukraine as an integral historical, cultural, and geographical entity. The second is his enlightened critical analysis of the Cossack state, the Hetmanate. Recent generations of the Ukrainian intelligentsia have been of two minds concerning Markevych’s history of Little Russia. On the one hand, they have felt obliged to defend his heroic-patriotic version of Ukrainian history. On the other hand, Markevych’s grand narrative has not stood up well to scholarly criticism or to the scrutiny of intellectuals raised with more democratic views. One of the first to leap to Markevych’s defence against Senkovsky’s criticism was Panteleimon Kulish.152 However, his own understanding of the history of Ukraine proved to be rather distant from that of Markevych. For Kulish, the idea of the narod “nation” was clearly democratic, not elitist; a similar view was also held by Mykola Kostomarov.153 Indisputably, Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii had the greatest influence on Taras Shevchenko, who embraced its version of Ukrainian history, albeit with an astonishingly clear-eyed perspective.154 Ukraine’s preeminent bard dedicated his lyrical poem “Bandurist, My Blue-Grey Eagle” to Markevych155 and at the same time took the self-same “illustrious” hetmans described by Markevych and vilified them as “toadies, slaves, the filth of Moscow, Warsaw’s garbage.”156 Thus, we see that new generations of the Ukrainian intelligentsia have formulated their own versions of the history of Ukraine based on Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii. Indeed, it managed to have a significant impact in its time, while the work that Markevych had taken as a foundation for his narrative – the Istoriia Rusov – was still in manuscript form and remained unpublished until 1846. From their Little Russian predecessors the new generation of modern Ukrainian nationalists inherited not an idea of political independence – an idea that they did not have – but rather the idea of social justice. I believe that the materials in this chapter allow us to revise the prevalent opinion in the historical literature that the Ukrainian Romantics were apolitical.157 Actually, the Romantic Markevych’s creative output had an overtly political character

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from the very beginning. He himself was aware of this, his milieu agreed with it, and the imperial government understood it clearly. Therefore, I cannot concur with the assertion that “up until the late 1840s, the Russian government did not generally perceive the activities of Ukrainian Romantic literati as ‘political,’ dangerous, or detrimental to the imperial unity.”158 In reality, the “Mazepist movement” (Ukrainian political separatism) never escaped the attention of the imperial bureaucracy, even up until the prosecution of the Cyril and Methodius Brotherhood in 1845. The discussion concerning Istoriia Malorossii became no less important than the work itself. It revealed, first, the growing pressure of modern nationalism on the old-fashioned, “all-Russian” imperial identity. In a way, this polemic contributed to the growing tensions between the modern Russian and Little Russian national discourses159 rather than to “the invention of a Russian nation.”160 The “all-Russian nation” – including Great Russians, Little Russians, and White Russians – had already been invented by Orthodox hierarchs in Kyiv in the seventeenth century and instrumentalized by the Russian empire-builders. The modern (Great) Russian nation, on the other hand, was invented by the modern Russian nationalists but never implemented. Mykola Markevych died in 1860, not having lived to see the new era of imperial reforms imposed from above that changed not only the social status of the Little Russian nobility but also the relationships between the Russian, Great Russian, Little Russian, and Ukrainian identity discourses. We may only speculate as to where Markevych would have ended up in a post-reform Russia if he had lived longer, as Palacký did. Would Markevych have galvanized a camp of followers and countrymen, following the example of Nikolai Rigelman and Mikhail Yuzefovich, and declared war on the Ukrainian nationalists? Would he instead have joined the nationalist camp, headed by Mykhailo Drahomanov, or the camp of pragmatic cultural activists led by Volodymyr Antonovych? It would take only a little imagination to envision Markevych in the role of a member of the Soviet Ukrainian nomenklatura, which combined loyalty to the Great Fatherland while retaining ties to a smaller, local patrimoine and maintaining a safe distance from political dissidents. But such comparisons can go too far, and so we must give the early nineteenth-century historian his due, since indeed it would be impossible to identify any Soviet-era history of Ukraine that had an impact as significant as Markevych’s Istoriia Malorossii did in its time.

PART TWO

Sloboda Ukraine: A Regional Dimension of Ukrainian Nation-Building

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The Backstory

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4

Sloboda Ukraine: A Borderland Region

Introduction The regional dimension of Ukrainian historical development is a well-known fact.1 Ukrainian historical regions are much older than the independent Ukrainian nation-state. They arose on a politically contested and symbolically fragmented territory that often became an object of geopolitical struggle between neighbouring superpowers. In times of rapid transformation, a particular region could acquire its own political profile. Depending on changing circumstances, it might be considered either a barrier or a bridge between neighbouring countries and peoples. Local inhabitants might perceive it as a “crossroads” or a “heartland,” if not today, then in the past or the future.2 Challenged by the national agenda, the borderland population, according to Philip Ther, “had to find various strategies to cope with the compulsion to be unambiguous. The first ideal type ... was to join one of the competing national movements, the second one to resist and to establish regional movements, the third one to retreat into the private sphere and to keep a distance from political activities in general, including the competing nationalisms.”3 Ther does not mention another possible strategy, especially relevant to the Ukrainian-Russian border situation, which is embracing all possible alternatives at once. This chapter is devoted to the Ukrainian historical region known as Sloboda Ukraine, located in the northern sector of the Ukrainian-Russian borderland. “Sloboda Ukraine” is a typical social construct that has periodically changed its configuration, name, and meaning. The region took shape between the mid-seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries on the steppe

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frontier contested by the Muscovite state, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the Crimean Khanate, and the Cossack polities. From the outset, Sloboda Ukraine had a vivid geopolitical identity that reasserted itself during successive transformations of the former Russian Empire (in 1917–20) and the Soviet Union (from 1991 to the present).4 Geographically, Sloboda Ukraine embraced a territory now divided between three Russian (Kursk, Voronezh, Belgorod) and five Ukrainian (Kharkiv, Sumy, Poltava, Donetsk, Luhansk) oblasts. Since the second half of the eighteenth century, it has consolidated around its administrative, economic, and cultural centre, Kharkiv, which has become the second-largest city in Ukraine after Kyiv and has given its name to the whole region. The administrative boundaries of the Kharkiv (Sloboda Ukraine) gubernia (province) in the Russian Empire and Kharkiv oblast in the USSR and presentday Ukraine coincided only in part with the historical Sloboda Ukraine. The Slobodian regional discourse took shape in the course of the political, institutional, and cultural transformation of the former steppe frontier. The Sloboda Ukraine/Kharkiv region became an important centre of Russian/Soviet modernization and a huge transitional zone between the Ukrainian and Russian settlements. That territory took on an additional dimension with the advent of modern nationalism in the second half of the nineteenth century. After that, the “Ukrainian” component of the region’s name changed its meaning from geographic to national, while the region itself became contested by regional, national, and overarching imperial discourses of identity. In what follows, I shall try to trace the construction and further development of Sloboda Ukraine regional discourse and the place of the region itself on the mental maps of Ukrainian and Russian national identities.5 I will also try to explore changing images of the region in Ukrainian and Russian historical narratives.6 This requires a preliminary survey of the region’s (geo)political and socio-cultural development from the seventeenth century to the present.

Making “Sloboda Ukraine” The Sloboda Ukraine region began its development in the geographic transition zone between the forest-steppe and the steppe. The direction of the main communication routes – rivers and the steppe roads leading to them – influenced the formation of the region’s south-north geographic orientation. The famous Murava Route crossed the steppe, linking the Muscovite

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Tsardom with the Crimean Khanate. At the dawn of its history, the region had no natural boundaries and was usually referred to as a “Ukraine” (“borderland” or “land on the edge”)7 or as the “Steppe,” the “Wild Field,” or the “Tatar side.” It was a contested territory claimed simultaneously by Muscovy, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and the Crimean Khanate.8 Their respective proxies – the military polities of the Cossack Hetmanate, the Zaporozhian Sich, the Don Cossack Host, and the Tatar hordes – played an active role in the struggle for the territory, periodically changing sides in order to maintain political balance in the steppe. That balance was broken when Moscow opened its western borderland to Ukrainian refugees escaping from lands engulfed by the Cossack war led by Bohdan Khmelnytsky in the mid-seventeenth century. The military steppe frontier then began its social transformation into something of a “free economic zone” divided between five local Cossack regiments under the supervision of the Belgorod voevoda (military governor). They had in common a particular form of self-government and a complex of socio-economic privileges (slobody, sing. sloboda) granted to them by the Russian central government. Such privileged settlements latter dotted the whole steppe borderland and became the main marker of “Slobodian” social identity. The additional “Ukraine” marker referred primarily to their geographic location. “Sloboda Ukraine” could thus be presented as “a borderland military territory with a special administrative and socio-economic status.” Sloboda Ukraine became a magnet for many people in conflict with the government of their homeland. These were not only Ukrainian peasants and Cossacks but also Russian religious dissidents, the Old Believers, who formed the nucleus of subsequent powerful dynasties of local merchants. Later on, they were joined by new colonists from the Balkans who filled the ranks of the local military elite and service stratum. Soldiers and officers captured by Russian troops in the course of the many wars that the Russian Empire was then waging against Turkey, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and France were also sent here. Ukrainians were the largest ethnic group in the region, known under various names (Cherkasians, khokhly, “Little Russians,” and so on). Many of them also referred to their Cossack social status in order to distinguish themselves from unprivileged social groups. The Sloboda Ukraine Cossack regiments appear to have been the most effective model of controlling the borderland elaborated by the Russian government. They combined regular and irregular military forces, local selfgovernment and centralization. Retrospectively, it is easy to see that the

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Cossack military settlements of Sloboda Ukraine radically changed the political balance in the steppe in favour of Moscow. They took on a triple task: first, they helped to secure and legitimize Russian territorial acquisitions; second, they created a basis for the Russian army operating in the steppe; third, they exerted political pressure on the other Cossack military polities of Little Russia, the Zaporozhian Host, and the Don Cossack Host on behalf of Moscow. The Ukrainian settlers of the Sloboda region were politically opposed to the Hetmanate from the outset. Not surprisingly, the Little Russian hetmans, starting with Bohdan Khmelnytsky, attempted to extend their control over the new colonies or annihilate them altogether. The Don and Zaporozhian Cossacks, in their turn, tried to do the same. In all these cases, the Cossack polities failed because of the skillful policy of the Russian government, which always backed the Slobodians in their border conflicts with neighbours. At the same time, Sloboda Ukraine retained its special character, which distinguished it from the internal Russian (Great Russian) area of settlement. This distinction was based on socio-political and ethnic differences. While the former were gradually disappearing, the latter proved persistent.9 Imperial Russian policy toward the Sloboda regiments was dictated by two closely related but different political agendas: the first was military expansion to the South, which required cooperation with the local elites in order to control less reliable and potentially dangerous Cossack polities; the second was a policy of modernization (in the form of Westernization) modelled on the European Enlightenment, which required increasing centralization and unification of the newly incorporated lands. It is symptomatic that even the most modern and Western-oriented Russian monarchs were forced to maneuvre between these two agendas and often sacrifice strategic goals of modernization to tactical acquisitions of territory. Yet both goals could sometimes be pursued successfully, as the case of Kharkiv suggests. The city rose to prominence among the other towns of Sloboda Ukraine because of its strategic location and enlightened imperial reforms (see chapter 5 in this volume). The liquidation of the military frontier along with its specific institutions and norms did not, in and of itself, signify the loss of the region’s particular socioeconomic and legal status. Strategic military considerations continued to play a substantial role in the region’s identification: after the Napoleonic wars, it was chosen as a place to experiment with military settlements, which were established in the Kharkiv, Chuhuiv, Izium, and Zmiiv districts of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia in 1817.10 That only served to emphasize the region’s bor-

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derland identity, which was reflected in the “Ukrainian” name of the gubernia, the titles of the first literary journals that appeared in Kharkiv in the early nineteenth century, and even in the name of the new Hussar military units of the Russian army, established in place of the former Cossack regiments.11 In the plans for the federative restructuring of the Russian Empire worked out by the Decembrist Nikita Muraviev, Kharkiv figured as the capital of a kind of “state” named “Ukraine,” while Kyiv was to become the centre of a kind of “Buh [River]” state and Odesa of a “Black Sea” state.12 Pavel Pestel' also pointed to Kharkiv as the centre of a would-be “Ukrainian” oblast to be composed, as he saw it, of the Voronezh, Kursk, Kharkiv, Poltava, and Katerynoslav districts (okrugi).13 In fact, it would embrace the territories of Sloboda Ukraine (which gave its name to the oblast projected by both Decembrists) as well as of the former Zaporozhian Host and Little Russian/ Malorossian regions.14 From the late eighteenth century, the city of Kharkiv – the new imperial administrative and cultural centre of the borderland – began actively to influence the “marking” of the whole region, among whose names, along with “Sloboda region” and “Ukraine,” that of “Kharkiv region” soon appeared. The thought inevitably arises that the “Kharkiv” marker in the region’s name indicated integrationist tendencies in its political and cultural life, while that of “Sloboda Ukraine” emphasized local particularities, at first in the capacity of a border region with special rights and subsequently as part of Ukrainian national space. It was no accident that Vasilii Karazin, who initiated the founding of Kharkiv University, dreamt of the time when his native Sloboda region would lose its border status and come to be known as the Kharkiv gubernia. That would come to pass during his lifetime, in 1835. There would be a similar evolution of the name of the Sloboda Ukraine eparchy, later renamed the Kharkiv eparchy, and of the Sloboda Ukraine Main Elementary School, renamed in the process of its conversion into a secondary school. In the same period, the university established in the city in 1805 was named the Imperial Kharkiv University from the outset. By the time the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia changed its official name to the Kharkiv gubernia in 1835, it had already become firmly located, this time unofficially, in “Ukrainian,” that is, former borderland space, which was taking on a more pronounced ethnic meaning. For example, Kharkiv was referred to as the “capital of Ukraine” in the notes of the German traveller Johann Georg Kohl, who passed through the city in 1838.15 The well-known

Figure 4.1 Sloboda Ukraine. Paul-Robert Magocsi, Ukraine: An Illustrated History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007, 114; reprinted with permission of the publisher.

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Russian literary critic Vissarion Belinsky repeated Kohl’s reference almost word for word. In the early 1840s, he too had recourse to the “capital” metaphor in order to convey his impression of the city: “Kharkiv, in its populousness and beauty as compared to other gubernia towns, is in a way the capital of Ukraine, and hence the capital of Ukrainian literature, of Ukrainian prose and, in particular, of Ukrainian verse.”16

Sloboda Ukraine vs Little Russia Russian policy towards the southern okraina created small but sufficient space for settlers of the Sloboda territory to elaborate their own regional identity. It was manifested in the region’s name (Sloboda Ukraine), territory and institutions (Sloboda Cossack regiments), security concerns, economic cooperation, and even historical narrative. The latter was based on the idea of local privileges obtained by the colonists from the Russian government as a reward for their political loyalty and irreproachable military service. This idea had three important ramifications: first, the new settlers were eager to show the progress of their land; second, they did their best to keep their privileges indefinitely; third, in order to protect their status, they needed to distance themselves in political terms from the politically prominent but shaky Little Russia. The first literary monument to place Kharkiv on the cultural map of Europe in the early eighteenth century was a panegyric entitled Bogaty wirydarz (The Rich Orchard), written in Polish by a Ukrainian author from Chernihiv, Ivan Ornovsky (Pol. Jan Ornowski) and published in Kyiv in 1705.17 It was dedicated to the Donets-Zakharzhevsky Cossack family, who were considered to be Kharkiv’s founding fathers. The panegyric may be considered the first historical narrative of Sloboda Ukraine. It contains a long record of the family scions’ heroic deeds, loyalty to the Russian tsars, and achievements in the colonization of the borderland. The latter was presented as a blossoming orchard planted in the former desert by the local elites, who were symbolically depicted as a rose bush by the engraver, Ivan Shchyrsky. It should be stressed that the image of the orchard was intertwined with the idea of privileges awarded to such devoted subjects by the benevolent Russian monarch. The reforms of Catherine II and Alexander I in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries did not supplant the traditions of regional estate particularism. Those traditions found reflection in the polemics that flared up between the former Cossack elites of Little Russia and Sloboda Ukraine over their “birthright” after the centralizing reforms of Catherine the Great. In the

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Little Russian historical narrative, the Sloboda region was depicted as a periphery of the Hetmanate’s metropole, settled by “upstarts” from the common people brazen enough to make totally unfounded claims to membership in the Cossack gentry. Highly characteristic in this regard is a satirical poem written in the Ukrainian vernacular by an unknown patriot of Little Russia/the Hetmanate on the cusp of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The author mocks the self-identification of the inhabitants of the Sloboda region as “Little Russians, steppe Ukrainians, and fine Slobodians,” attributing highly unflattering characteristics to them.18 The attitude of the Little Russian Cossack elite to that of the Sloboda region was reflected even more strongly in the historicopublicistic pamphlet Istoriia Rusov (History of the Rus' People), written approximately at this time.19 The author maintained that the Sloboda region had belonged historically to Little Russia, attributing the formation of the Sloboda regiments to Hetman Bohdan Khmelnytsky and asserting that those regiments had settled on Little Russian lands and were subject to the jurisdiction of the Hetmanate authorities.20 Other texts of the period show that the author of the Istoriia Rusov was no exception in his attitude toward the Sloboda region.21 The first attempt to counter the Little Russian regional narrative is attributed to Illia Kvitka, a representative of the mighty Kvitka Cossack clan, which was contending with the Donets-Zakharzhevskys for the title of founding fathers of Kharkiv.22 His Zapiski o Slobodskikh polkakh (Notes on the Sloboda Regiments), written in the second half of the eighteenth century and published in 1812, contains basic components of the historical legitimizing myth of the Sloboda Cossacks.23 It actively employs the discourse of the “foreign” origin of the first Sloboda settlers, while saying comparatively little about their kinship with the neighbouring Little Russians. Quite naturally, the historical mythology of the Sloboda region was based on feats of the proverbial “little hetmans” in loyal and irreproachable service to the Russian throne. Illia Kvitka depicted Sloboda Ukraine as a veritable Russian antemurale, protecting it simultaneously from the Crimean Tatars and from the “fickle and traitorous” Little Russian hetmans.24 Kvitka’s historical narrative included proofs not only of the Sloboda Cossacks’ courage and martial valour but also of their suffering from the rebellions of “traitors” – Hetmans Ivan Briukhovetsky and Ivan Mazepa. In the former instance, according to the author, the Slobodians did not yield to persuasions to join the rebellion and were persecuted by the Zaporozhians; in the latter, they stoutly defended

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Russia’s borders against Mazepa’s forces. That myth proved to be one of the most stable and influential components of regional discourse, surviving robustly to our own day. It was no accident that Zapiski o Slobodskikh polkakh was published in 1812 – a banner year for the Russian Empire. The work was clearly designed to show that the unbroken sequence of favours and privileges with which the Russian monarchs had honoured the Slobodians for their military service should be extended in the future. Not only did the “old” regionalism not fade into oblivion, but it even gained a new impulse under the influence of Russian modernization and ethnographic research. It was Hryhorii Kvitka, Illia Kvitka’s nephew, a wellknown public figure of the Sloboda region, an educator, and one of the founders of modern Ukrainian literature, who took on the publication of his uncle’s Zapiski o Slobodskikh polkakh. In 1840, he published an article “On the Sloboda Regiments” in the journal Sovremennik (The Contemporary) that turned out to be nothing other than a creative reworking of Illia Kvitka’s text. The differences in tonality between the two publications derive largely from the greater influence on Hryhorii Kvitka than on his uncle of the ethnocultural components of the regional discourse. In a letter of 28 December 1841 to Andrei Kraevsky, an editor-in-chief of the journal Otechestvennye zapiski (Fatherland Notes), Hryhorii Kvitka asserted: “We Slobodians do not constitute Little Russia. They, the Little Russians, were still hemming and hawing over how to disengage from the impious Poles and thinking to whom it would be more advantageous to attach themselves when our ancestors, not pausing for thought, got up and went to their own father, the Russian tsar, settled the free lands along the border ... and began fighting off the Tatars and shielding Russia with their own bodies.” 25 Although he agreed that “the peoples who settled the present-day Kharkiv gubernia were mainly Ukrainians and had the same language and customs as the Little Russians,” he emphasized that the Slobodians “had diverged from them considerably, resulting in a notable difference.”26 They possessed a different name, genealogy, history of their own, and fully delineated territory, thereby creating something in the nature of a distinct people.27 Even their language was allegedly “much more purified than Little Russian,” and the local inhabitants did not understand many Little Russian words.28 The discourse of Slobodian historico-cultural regional identity created by Hryhorii Kvitka was crowned with his characterization of an “ideal Ukrainian” – an inhabitant of the Sloboda region. In his article “Ukrainians,” published in the St Petersburg Sovremennik in 1841, Kvitka wrote as follows on

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this subject: “The Slobodian ... is tidy, hospitable, sincere, polite”; he is honest and sincere, thanks to which he is unable to cheat anyone but often becomes the victim of a swindle himself; he is obedient and devoted to authority, without which he does not want to take a step; he aspires to learning and has no few achievements in that domain, especially the local clergy, which may be considered exemplary “with regard to knowledge and morals”; he loves music and art and has an aptitude for them.29 The foregoing permits the assumption that Kvitka was creating certain conditions for the transformation of socio-territorial corporate estate regionalism in Sloboda Ukraine into an ethnocultural identity. And yet Kvitka went no further along that path. He stopped when, in his literary work, he turned to the conversational vernacular of the Ukrainian commoners of the Sloboda region. There were several reasons for that. First, the Kvitkas were not persistent in their attempts to deepen a dividing line between Little Russia and Sloboda Ukraine. Even Illia Kvitka himself admitted at times that the Sloboda region might be part of the historical space of Little Russia.30 His nephew, Hryhorii, chose the “Little Russian,” not the “Slobodian,” vernacular for his literary work. Second, the idea of the unity of historical Ukrainian regions on the basis of ethnocultural commonality had arisen long before the publications of the Kvitkas. Indeed, the “Little Russian/Malorosian” ethnocultural component that united the inhabitants of the Sloboda region with their countrymen in other regions of Ukraine had been present in the colonists’ consciousness from the very beginning of their settlement. That component remained part of their identity afterwards, regardless of their new habitation. Thus, Andrei Aleinikov, а deputy from the Khopersk fortress to the Catherinian commission on the drafting of a new law code in 1767, spoke of one “Little Russian people in Little Russia and in the Sloboda regiments.” Hryhorii Kalynovsky, a contemporary of his, described “Ukrainian wedding rituals of the common people” that were common to inhabitants of Little Russia and the Sloboda region.31 More than half a century after him, August von Haxthausen, a German scientist and traveller, noted that villages in the Kharkiv gubernia were “wholly Little Russian” and differed from Great Russian villages.32 His observation was supported by many Russian travellers. Thus, ethnically defined Sloboda Ukraine became part of the common “Little Russian/ Malorossian” space. It was an irony of history that the imperial policy of centralization and unification led to the erasure of administrative and symbolic boundaries

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between the two Ukrainian regions and the gradual “Little Russianization” of Sloboda Ukraine. Historical Little Russia lost its administrative integrity when it was divided in 1831 into the Poltava and Chernihiv gubernias. In 1834, it was the turn of the Sloboda region, which was renamed, as Karazin had dreamt, the Kharkiv gubernia. But with this change Kharkiv also became the administrative centre of a new governorate-general, transferred there from neighbouring Poltava in 1835, which embraced the former Sloboda Ukraine and Little Russian regions.33 By having ceased to bear the official name Sloboda Ukraine, the Kharkiv region appeared as part of Little Russia. The well-known Russian government official Nikolai Miliutin, who visited Kharkiv in 1837, called it the “centre of the upper stratum of Little Russia,” a city that “promised to become both the moral and the material centre of Little Russia.”34 Both Russian and foreign travellers also considered Kharkiv part of Little Russia, just as their predecessors had done a century earlier.35 An illustrated description of the Russian Empire published in the United States in 1855 shows Kharkiv, along with Kyiv, Poltava, and Chernihiv, in Little Russia.36 In administrative- ethnographic-geographic descriptions of the Russian Empire published in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Kharkiv is also included in the Little Russian space, along with Poltava and Chernihiv.37 For some contemporaries, Kharkiv appeared to be the “Athens of Little Russia,” a centre of Little Russian education and commerce.38

Sloboda Ukraine vs “South Russia” vs “Little Russia” The emerging regional identity of Sloboda Ukraine was confronted not only with the Little Russian but also with the modern “South Russian” regional identity. During the reign of Catherine II, the contours of a new region known as South Russia gradually became apparent. It was meant to become a symbol of modernization, a melting pot of historical border regions, including the “old” Cossack regions of the Zaporozhian Host, Little Russia, and Sloboda Ukraine. That is why its “southern” geographic identification was usually accompanied by “new” markers clearly reflected in the local toponymy. They had been crowned by the name of New Russia (Novorossiia), bestowed on the gubernia (1764–83 and 1796–1804) and on the New Russian and Bessarabian governorate-general (1822–74).39 But “New Russia” was not an equivalent of “South Russia”: the latter appeared to be much older and broader than the former.

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The old “South Russia” was traditionally associated with Kyiv, which in turn had almost always been correlated with Little Russia. Almost all Ukrainian (Little Russian) authors used “South Russia” and “Little Russia” interchangeably to denote their fatherland. In the early nineteenth century, the Little Russian gentry protested against changes designed to separate South Russian administrative units from historical Little Russia, as was demonstrated by Vasyl Poletyka. The imperial authorities in their turn were prepared to employ the Kyivan Slavic-Rus' symbolic legacy, real or imagined, in order to legitimize their new territorial acquisitions in the south.40 At the same time, the imperial government had no intention of sharing even symbolic control over the “New South Russia” with the Little Russian landed nobility. “South Russia” indeed became a fast-growing, dynamic, multi-ethnic, and urbanized region modelled initially along the lines of the European Enlightenment. Prince Oleksandr Bezborodko, observing the city of Kremenchuk in 1786, stressed that what he saw there was no longer backward old Little Russia but modern Russia.41 In other words, the new “South Russia” became a space of imperial modernization, although its boundaries, centre, and identity remained undefined. As a result, “South Russia” became something of a metaregional shell covering a highly heterogeneous and polycentric space, with several cities competing for the status of its capital – Katerynoslav, Odesa, Kyiv, and Kharkiv. The Sloboda region joined the “South Russian” space both economically and culturally. This process was paralleled by the ethnicization of the local Slobodian identity in the second half of the eighteenth century. The Topographic Description of the Kharkiv Vicegerency (namestnichestvo), written in the late 1780s by Ivan Pereverzev, the director of the public school in Kharkiv and a graduate of the local theological college,42 placed Sloboda Ukraine in the imagined space of “South Russia.” That space included not only the old Kyivan territories but also the “New Russian” ones on the basis of ethnicity. The author stressed that inhabitants of this land were historically and ethnoculturally one people, including those in the western lands beyond the borders of the Russian Empire.43 At the same time, Pereverzev drew a line between the Sloboda Ukrainians and their Great Russian neighbours by emphasizing the superiority of the former over the latter in terms of diligence and national character. The formation of Sloboda regional discourse at the beginning of the nineteenth century is indissolubly associated with an eminent representative of the Sloboda gentry elite, Vasilii Karazin, an educator and innovator who ini-

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tiated and inspired the Kharkiv University project. Karazin was the scion of Balkan emigrants who resettled in Russia under Peter I, making a military career there and becoming landowners in the Sloboda region.44 Karazin’s ethnic identity appears to have been rather vague and situational: depending on circumstances, he called himself a Greek, Bulgarian, or Serb, while his imperial Russian patriotism included elements of early Russian Pan-Slavism. It was indeed Vasilii Karazin who formulated, in the most general sense, the complex of ideas, projects, and images that combined imperial and regional discourses of identity. He firmly established the Sloboda region in the very centre of the “South Russian” lands. To that end, he actively invoked Greek allusions designed to single out his homeland from other provinces of the empire.45 Like Hryhorii Kvitka, Karazin sought to substantiate the cultural differences between the Slobodians and the Little Russians. Publishing his Zamechaniia o Slobodsko-Ukrainskoi gubernii (Observations on the Sloboda Ukraine Gubernia) in 1820, Karazin wrote that “the people of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia, though belonging to the Little Russians from ancient times and having the same language and customs as they, have changed considerably over the time of their settlement in these places.”46 In his opinion, they had drawn closer to the “general mass of the Russian people,” as a result of which “the local people and gentry have become more Russified ... than their neighbours.”47 Karazin appeared even more consistent than Kvitka in his attempt to separate Sloboda Ukraine from Little Russia in terms of ethnicity. He came out against Ukrainian-language publications in the Kharkiv almanac Molodyk (New Moon), not because he found them politically dubious but merely because they were written in Ukrainian (“khokhol language”). “It is unfortunate that he [Ivan Betsky, the founder of Molodyk] named it in the khokhol language, against my advice,” wrote Karazin to the famous Russian historian Mikhail Pogodin in 1842. “That name, which forces one to suspect that it will take only khokhol pieces, of which everyone has already had enough, and which, believe me, our Kharkivites (who have long proudly identified themselves with old Russia) prize less than anyone else, gives pause to many.”48 At the same time, Karazin remained a strong regional patriot. After the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia had been renamed the Kharkiv gubernia and got rid of its “Ukrainian” official name, as had been Karazin’s most cherished dream, he articulated the identity of his homeland in terms of territoriality. In his article “On the Meaning of Kharkiv for South Russia,”49 published in 1840, the geographic image of the land constructed by Karazin is based on Kharkiv’s “central location between the north and south of the empire,” on “the road

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from the north and the capitals to the south and from the east and the nomadic steppes to educated Europe”; even the soil of the Sloboda region, according to Karazin, “differs from the soils of the southern land and the northern land.”50 His definition of Kharkiv as a “crossroads city” became firmly established in local cultural tradition. Karazin’s words would hardly convince his contemporary, the Russian historian, ethnographer, and writer Vadim Passek, who became probably the first student of the Sloboda region to apply the term “indeterminacy” to it.51 Thereafter, the word would also be encountered with amazing frequency in comments of local and visiting intellectuals about the region and its centre, Kharkiv. Evidently, opinions differed about the region’s place on the symbolic map of the Russian Empire. In the first half of the nineteenth century, Kharkiv established its reputation as the main educational and commercial centre of “South Russia.”52 The Industrial Revolution and railways appeared to seal Kharkiv’s place in the South Russian space. The railways were not only becoming economically important, they were also endowed with an additional, national meaning to serve as effective tools of imperial Russification. According to Pavel Korf, “It is not just goods that travel by rail but also books, ideas, customs and attitudes ... Great Russian and Little Russian capital, Great Russian and Little Russian ideas, attitudes and customs will blend, and these two already close peoples will become very much alike. Then just let the Ukrainophiles preach to the people about Ukraine, about their struggles for independence and their glorious Hetmanate, even if they do it with the fiery verses of their Shevchenko.”53 In the second half of the nineteenth century, Kharkiv became the headquarters of the largest mining and industrial Russian joint-stock companies, a transportation hub, and a financial centre. The names of many Kharkivbased economic and business institutions, as well the title of the largest daily newspaper published in Kharkiv, bore the “southern” marker. Kharkiv became an administrative and financial centre for the new, intensively growing Donbas region, which was also positioned in “South Russian” symbolic geography in parallel with “Sloboda Ukraine” and “Little Russia.” Pavel Korf appears to have ignored the possibility that new channels of economic activity would not promote Russification. In fact, they facilitated the overcoming of “Little Russian” regionalism and the reimagination of Ukrainian territory as an ethnocultural and economic unit.54 ***

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The change in the basic directions of Russian cultural expansion, accompanied by a successive wave of imperial reform, created conditions for the unification of the two former Cossack regions on the basis of modernity. Grigorii Danilevsky, a prolific Russian-language writer who belonged to the landed gentry of Sloboda Ukraine, authored several novels devoted to “New Russia” and published an important collection of essays on the history of his homeland.55 Contrary to his predecessors, Danilevsky endorsed the “convergence” of Ukraine’s various historical regions and the erosion of the conventional borders between them by making extensive use of the ethnonym “Ukrainian,” which he emphasized with the epithet “ours.” At the same time, he embedded “Ukrainian” local symbols in a “Little Russian” framework, thereby promoting a dual “Little Russian/Ukrainian” ethnic identity discourse.56

The Sloboda Region as Part of “Ukraine” Danilevsky’s younger contemporaries, the historian Dmytro Bahalii and the philologist and ethnographer Mykola Sumtsov, both professors at Kharkiv University, worked together to change the “Little Russian/Ukrainian” discourse in favour of “Ukraine.” They laid the foundations of a regional Sloboda Ukraine narrative on the basis of modern Ukrainian nationalism. Both participated actively in the Ukrainian national movement in its cultural forms, making deft use of “Little Russian” and local “homeland” rhetoric to avoid political complications. Bahalii’s interpretation of the region’s history was based not on traditional Cossack mythology but on socio-economic and cultural arguments.57 In particular, he connected the historical regions of Sloboda Ukraine, Little Russia, and New Russia by employing the then popular concept of “colonization.”58 Bahalii also emphasized the region’s bicultural UkrainianRussian character. Sumtsov focused on the Ukrainian folklore, literature, and culture of the Slobodians, treating them as members of the Ukrainian people (narod) as a whole without stressing their regional particularities. Arguably, the two scholars managed to overcome Sloboda Ukraine particularism in their works by bringing the region into the very centre of Ukrainian national discourse. The historically marginal Sloboda Ukraine was now reimagined as the cradle of the Ukrainian national revival, represented by local symbols identified as “Ukrainian.” The two activists made enthusiastic use of “Ukrainian” terminology to stress the region’s national identity.59 Bahalii demonstrated that the regional narrative could be employed very effectively to incorporate non-Ukrainians into the national narrative on the basis of territoriality. The region’s Russian cultural legacy, represented by

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Karazin and Sreznevsky, to say nothing of Kharkiv University as a whole, was thus Ukrainized. It should be stressed, however, that by the eve of World War I none of the identity discourses employed in Sloboda Ukraine had become prevalent. The region belonged simultaneously to three symbolic spaces: territorial “South Russia,” ethnic “Little Russia,” and national “Ukraine.” Local inhabitants could thus be identified as Russians, Little Russians, Ukrainians, or even individuals considering themselves “neither Ukrainian nor Russian.”60 Moreover, the ethnogeographic terminology employed by Russian-language authors to describe the territory of Ukraine and its people remained highly inconsistent and unstable until the end of the Russian Empire.

1917–20 The dissolution of the Russian Empire fragmented and reconfigured its former space along new political, national, and regional dividing lines.61 It would probably be no exaggeration to assert that the political chaos engulfing the former Russian imperial territory in 1917–20 bore a striking resemblance to the geopolitical situation on the steppe frontier in the seventeenth century. That chaos was created by the successors to the main historical entities of the preceding centuries: Muscovy, “Little Russia,” the Zaporozhian Cossack Host, the Don Cossack Host, the Crimean Khanate, and, to some degree, even Poland (restored in this period). The rebordering of the new polities was accompanied by many local military conflicts and not finalized even after the establishment of the Soviet regime. As for the former Sloboda Ukraine, its territory became a bone of contention between competing imperial, national, and regional forces. In 1917, Ukrainian activists created a regional representative institution in Kharkiv known as the Rada (Council) of Sloboda Ukraine, which announced its intention to “implement the [idea of] Ukrainian autonomy in the Sloboda region.”62 Such a set of designations would have been hardly comprehensible to the seventeenth-century colonists in the region: the meaning of every term had changed profoundly.63 When the local intellectual leaders, Dmytro Bahalii and Mykola Sumtsov, began writing new narratives of the contested region’s history and culture in Ukrainian, they sought to incorporate Sloboda Ukraine into the Ukrainian national grand narrative.64 To outsiders, however, it seemed as if the local population had decided to join a bygone “Little Russian” Cossack state instead of pursuing its own political project.

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The provisional government in St Petersburg also referred to history when it decided to limit Ukrainian political autonomy to the boundaries of the former Little Russia or the Cossack Hetmanate. The Kharkiv and New Russia gubernias were initially excluded from that territory. In making that decision, the Russian centre was supported by activists professing “Little Russian” and “South Russian” political discourses. The idea of Ukrainian national selfdetermination was opposed by Nikolai von Ditmar, the leader of the South Russian mining and industrial company, based in Kharkiv.65 The economically defined South Russian region was imagined as embracing the former territories of Sloboda Ukraine and the Zaporozhian Cossack Host, as well as New Russia.66 However, the “South Russian” regional discourse was unable to offer the multi-ethnic local population any symbolic identity other than imperial (pan-Russian) or Little Russian (ethnocultural). Both were effectively challenged by Ukrainian national and communist (Bolshevik) discourses. Moscow’s policy toward Ukraine was guided by the same duality of economic and national principles that underlay the establishment of all the nonRussian Soviet republics. For political purposes, Ukraine was considered a national entity, but the Bolsheviks thought of nationalism as a relic of the “accursed past.” The radical faction of the party was prepared to discard it immediately, while the more moderate one accepted it as a temporary but “objective” phenomenon, expecting accelerated national “maturation” to get rid of it. National communists were dealt with according to the “general line” of the Communist Party, which oscillated between the two approaches. The economic definition of Ukrainian territory was derived from the national one. Thus, the central Bolshevik authorities formally operated with “Ukrainian,” not “Little Russian,” terminology.67 At the local level, however, they were used to “South Russian” and “Kharkovian” terminology. The Kharkiv Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies issued a daily newspaper entitled News from the South.68 The adjective “Kharkovian” was widely used in the names of Red Army units. By contrast, local Ukrainian activists readily employed the “Slobodian” designation. The clash between economic and ethnonational versions of collective identity became apparent in late 1917 when radical Bolsheviks proclaimed a new Donets-Kryvyi Rih Soviet Republic (DKR) on a South Russian territorial and economic basis, while their more pragmatic comrades announced a Ukrainian People’s Republic (Ukr. Ukraïns'ka Narodna Respublika) based on the principle of national (ethnocultural) self-determination. Ironically, both events occurred in the same place at the same time, making the border city of Kharkiv

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the capital of Sloboda Ukraine, the Donetsk-Kryvyi Rih Soviet Republic, and the Ukrainian People’s (Soviet) Republic almost simultaneously. The DKR encompassed the Kharkiv and Katerynoslav gubernias and part of the Don Cossack Host. Its “South Russian” regional self-identification did not contradict pan-Russian identity. Indeed, local Bolsheviks in the Donbas treated the region as the “heart” of Soviet Russia because of its economic potential. Early attempts to combine “South Russian” and “Ukrainian” symbolism in the new identity discourse implemented by the DKR authorities appeared fruitless until Lenin intervened. After that, a political compromise between “South Russian” and pro-Ukrainian Bolshevik factions resulted in the formation of the Ukrainian Socialist Soviet Republic, with its capital in Kharkiv. It is interesting to note that during the formation of the new Soviet Donetsk gubernia, it managed to bite off the eastern territories previously claimed by the Don Cossack government from the former Kharkiv gubernia.69

Soviet Rebordering The policy of “Ukrainization” was accompanied by the development of a new national discourse that replaced the old Russian regional nomenclature with a new Ukrainian one. Accordingly, the “Little Russian” core region changed its name to “Left-Bank Ukraine”; the former “South Russia” and “New Russia” became “Southern” and “Steppe” Ukraine; and “Southwestern Russia” was renamed “Right-Bank Ukraine.” The “Sloboda Ukraine” designation was adopted in the new Soviet discourse and legitimized by the Kharkiv-based school of historical writing under the guidance of Dmytro Bahalii. It reflected the discussion about the historical and national identity of the contested territory on the Ukrainian-Russian borderland. In the course of the 1920s, the Ukrainian-Russian borderland, inhabited by a large ethnically mixed population, became the object of a variety of interpretations and political strategies.70 Ukrainian-Russian negotiations concerning the border between the two Soviet republics were guided mostly by conflicting national rather than ideological agendas, while the Soviet/ “all-Russian” centre tried to play the role of a mediator oriented primarily toward economic issues. Without the latter’s intervention, the UkrainianRussian dialogue was doomed from the outset, since the two sides spoke in different terms. The Ukrainians operated with ethnocultural arguments, while the Russian narrative was ostensibly based on economic rhetoric. Local Ukrainian and Russian representatives also responded to issues of nationality

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with contradictory claims based on their respective ethnocultural discourses, “so negotiations often ended in a deadlock.”71 As a result, the border between the Russian Federation and the Ukrainian SSR “was loosely delimited but not demarcated with any physical barriers or checkpoints between the two republics.”72 It was often arbitrarily drawn, “often without paying much attention to the legality of the process and the will of the local population.”73 The Ukrainian border population was divided between the Russian Federation and the Ukrainian SSR. About 500,000 Ukrainians who found themselves in Russia changed their “official” nationality to become “Russians.”74 Nevertheless, ethnocultural differences between Ukrainians and Russians on both sides of the border appeared to be rooted so deeply in historical tradition that they somehow survived both Stalin’s Holodomor and Nazi extermination.

The Postwar Period The process of de-Stalinization in the Soviet Union was accompanied by a partial rehabilitation of the pre-Soviet historical legacy. The Soviet policy of selective decentralization also contributed to that process. Late Stalinism was marked by a partial rehabilitation of the imperial Russian legacy, reflected to some extent in the legitimation of the pre-Soviet regional nomenclature. The contours and the very name of the former “South Russia” did not disappear completely. It was reproduced from time to time in the works of Soviet Russian historians in parallel with “Ukrainian” designations of the region.75 Soviet decentralization opened the door to the development of the Soviet kraevedenie (“local lore”) movement, intended to revive and cultivate local monuments and memories.76 This movement allowed “Sloboda Ukraine” regional discourse to make an effective comeback into Soviet historiography. It not only reintroduced a historical pantheon of local “celebrities” such as Hryhorii Skovoroda, Vasilii Karazin, and Dmytro Bahalii to public discourse but also reactivated half-forgotten discussions between Russian and Ukrainian historians about who had first colonized the region and by what means.77 “In Soviet historiography, Sloboda Ukraine became the true embodiment of ‘eternal’ Russian-Ukrainian friendship.”78 It came as a surprise to many when the Soviet Russian ethnographer Liudmila Chizhikova found that Ukrainian settlements located on the Russian side of the border appeared to be less susceptible to Russification than had been previously assumed and retained elements of their ethnic identity.79

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Post-Soviet Development Post-Soviet Ukraine is often conceived in terms of an “East-West” geopolitical paradigm, with western Lviv and eastern Donetsk located on opposite sides of that intellectual construct. In actual fact, the “East-West” paradigm “grossly oversimplifies Ukraine’s rather more complex regional structure and, as a consequence, the differences and variations as one moves from east to west.”80 As Russian and Ukrainian nation-state– building continued to diverge, the phenomenon of Ukrainian regionalism became more pronounced. It revealed both old ethnic cleavages and new political agendas developed in internal and external opposition to the Ukrainian national project. Local elites, finding weaknesses in old and new centres of power, cleverly navigated the uncharted waters of diverse, often controversial agendas of nation-state–building. As a result, new definitions such as “Eastern Ukraine” and “Southeastern Ukraine” emerged to denote oblasts located along the Ukrainian-Russian border. Parallel to them, half-forgotten symbols of historical regions such as “Galicia,” “Sloboda Ukraine,” “Little Russia,” “New Russia,” “Transnistria,” “Transcarpathia,” or even the “Donetsk-Kryvyi Rih Republic” were resurrected and employed for political purposes. Most of them were reimagined and acquired meanings different from those of preSoviet times. The “Sloboda Ukraine” regional discourse returned from oblivion and was reinvented on the basis of “various symbolic resources and sometimes contradictory historical narratives: the glorious Cossack past with its democratic traditions, the peaceful character of hardworking Ukrainian peasants, a ‘multiculturalism’ and ethnic tolerance typical for the borderlands, the historical experience of cooperation between Russians and Ukrainians, the settlement mentality with its liberal and individualistic attitudes, and the merchants’ prosperity and capitalist spirit of Kharkiv.”81 In Ukraine, the discourse of the Sloboda region was presented in closely related but different versions. One of them stressed the region’s Ukrainian identity on the basis of ethnicity and history.82 The symbols used for that purpose reflected Cossack mythology directly connected to local history. For example, new monuments to Cossack leaders – Bohdan Khmelnytsky, as well as Barvinok the Cossack and Ivan Sirko – were erected in Kharkiv oblast. Intellectuals who had been included in the Soviet canon, such as Hryhorii Skovoroda, Taras Shevchenko, Lesia Ukrainka, and Ivan Franko, were com-

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memorated in the same way. All those names fit quite comfortably into the framework of Soviet Ukrainian discourse. Another version of regional discourse was constructed “around the core issue of Russian-Ukrainian relations”83 and was close to the Soviet “friendship of peoples” paradigm. Finally, an attempt was made to go beyond the “Ukrainian vs Soviet” paradigm and emphasize the region’s specific values, including “pragmatism, civic self-organization, tolerance, openness to innovation, and rich traditions of civil society and academic freedom” within the new Ukrainian grand narrative.84 In one curious case, the suggestion was made to develop a particular “Sloboda Ukrainian” ethnocultural identity on the basis of the local vernacular (surzhyk).85 In Russia, the “Sloboda” marker has been employed to promote the symbolic de-Ukrainization of the Russo-Ukrainian borderland. In the new Russian historical discourse, which seems to be heavily influenced by the “theory” of ethnos elaborated by the Russian Eurasianist Lev Gumilev, “Slobodians” are defined as a “unique Russian sub-ethnos” consisting of ethnic Russians and Ukrainians, similar to the Don and Kuban Cossacks.86 The authors of the historical narrative issued in the city of Belgorod in 2011 even elevated the Slobodian “sub-ethnos” to the status of a “nation” in an effort to supplant the traditional “Russian” and “Ukrainian” national identifications of the mixed border population. They removed the “Ukrainian” designation from the name of the region, which was rebaptized as the “Sloboda Region (Slobozhanshchina) and Belgorod Krai [territory].”87 Thus defined as a Russian historical region, Slobozhanshchina was depicted as a Russian antemurale whose mission was to protect the “foundations of Orthodox Slavic civilization” from “Eastern parasitic expansionism,” as well as from Tatars, Turks, Poles, Lithuanians, and anti-Russian Cossack hetmans.88 Presumably, competing visions of the Sloboda borderland on opposite sides of the border might have made the demarcation of the new UkrainianRussian border north of Kharkiv even more complicated than it was in the first third of the twentieth century. Surprisingly, that did not happen. Russian elites applied different strategies to various Ukrainian border regions. Territorial claims to the Crimea and southern Ukraine were a useful “stick” in dealing with Kyiv, while the quick and uncomplicated delineation of the northern border and the development of cross-border cooperation were “carrots” for Kharkiv. At first glance, this was a workable political strategy. The northern sector of the Russo-Ukrainian border was rendered nonconflictual. Kharkiv Russo-

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phone elites were active in establishing the Council of Leaders of Border Oblasts of Russia and Ukraine and in signing an intergovernmental agreement on cooperation between the border regions of the two countries in January 1995. They tried to use “Slobodian” regional discourse to renew and develop cross-border cooperation, which resulted in the “Slobozhanshchyna Euroregion” project, intended to reduce the impact of rebordering on the local population.89 But the Russian and Ukrainian participants appear to have understood the purposes of the project differently.90 Ukrainian elites in Kharkiv were motivated mostly by business interests and, to some degree, by Soviet nostalgia, while their Russian partners in Belgorod emphasized the nationalistic “Slavic-Rus'” discourse of historical and cultural unity of Orthodox peoples. In practice, however, these differences of opinion proved no obstacle to cross-border cooperation. Tensions between the Ukrainian border region and the national capital, Kyiv, appeared to be more serious.

2004 Local Ukrainian elites demonstrated their political potential in the course of the “Orange Revolution” of 2004, when a bid to proclaim “Southeastern autonomy” in the southern and eastern oblasts of Ukraine and the Crimea brought the country to the brink of open conflict between pro-Ukrainian and pro-Russian segments of the local population.91 The coordinator of this regional project was a Kharkiv politician, Yevhen Kushnarev, and Kharkiv was expected to become the capital of the new political entity. The prospect of “Southeastern” autonomy in Ukraine bore a strange resemblance to an attempt at political self-determination in “South Russia” announced by local Russian elites during the breakup of the Russian Empire in 1917, but there was a huge symbolic difference between the two projects. In 1917, Russian nationalists opposed any intention of including “South Russia” in the “Little Russian/Malorossian” autonomy announced by the Ukrainian Central Rada. Almost a century later, Russian nationalists proclaimed the need for a “Little Russianization” of “Southeastern” Ukraine to protect them from “Ukrainization” by the “Galicians” or zapadentsy (scornful Russian epithet for western Ukrainians). The Russian historian Oleg Nemensky called for a “new national project” to provide the ostensibly “amorphous” and “sluggish” population of southeastern Ukraine with a “new” Little Russian identity based on the Russian language, the Orthodox religion,

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and a historical narrative in the spirit of Nikolai Gogol, glorifying the Cossacks as defenders of the “Russian World” (Russkii mir).92 It is hard to find anything new in such a proposal except direct references to two other regions, Transnistria (Pridnestrov'e) and Transcarpathia (Zakarpattia), whose elites already have rich experience in freezing early modern Slavic-Rus' identity and opposing nation-building projects in, respectively, Moldova and Ukraine. Nevertheless, Nemensky’s texts may be of interest as illustrations of the state of mind of those Russian intellectuals who have been deeply involved in the Kremlin’s neo-imperial project. Although Nemensky accused the Russian political establishment of shortsightedness and ignoring or underestimating the ideas of the “Russian World,” he was mistaken in that case as well. According to Dmitrii Trenin, Kremlin politicians have long considered scenarios of fragmenting Ukraine and annexing its southeastern territories. In 2004, during the Orange Revolution, “Kiev’s tensions with Moscow had an immediate impact on Crimea, especially Sevastopol. Moscow politicians started offering suggestions in favor of the ‘federalization’ of Ukraine.”93 In particular, “some not entirely academic quarters in Moscow played with the idea of a major geopolitical redesign of the northern Black Sea area, under which southern Ukraine, from the Crimea to Odessa, would secede from Kiev and form a Moscow-friendly buffer state, ‘Novorossiya’-New Russia. As part of that grand scheme, tiny Transnistria would either be affiliated with that state or absorbed by it. The rest of Moldova could then be annexed by Romania.”94 Such an imperial “grand design” might have been dismissed as Russian “NATO at the gates” paranoia had it not become a reality ten years later. Local Ukrainian elites based in Kharkiv and Donetsk followed a scenario of autonomization of the eastern and southern oblasts slightly different from those just described. It had more in common with locally produced regional projects of “South Russia” and the Donetsk-Kryvyi Rih Soviet Republic of 1917 than with prerevolutionary imperial “New Russia.”95 But those who initiated the “Southeastern autonomy” project as a substitute Donetsk-Kryvyi Rih Republic failed to make Kharkiv their focal point, as it had been a century before, when the city played the role of political, economic, administrative, and cultural capital of the Donbas region. It was not by chance that a conference of representatives of Ukraine’s southern and eastern oblasts, which was supposed to legitimize the political autonomy project, took place on 28 November 2004 not in Kharkiv but in the peripheral town of Severodonetsk in Luhansk oblast (currently under

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Ukrainian control). Moreover, neither Soviet nor Russian imperial nostalgia proved an attractive alternative to Ukrainian nation-state–building. The autonomization project appeared to be stillborn. No wonder that some observers raised the question of deconstructing the very concept of “Eastern Ukraine” as a regional entity.96 A subsequent compromise between borderland Ukrainian political and business elites and the national capital neutralized the impetus for regional autonomy or even separatist projects for some time.97 Kushnarev was shot dead in suspicious circumstances while hunting along the border between Kharkiv and Donetsk oblasts. His successors in Kharkiv appeared to be second-rate politicians more concerned with business activities than with national priorities. From combating Ukrainian nationalism with Soviet-era slogans they simply switched to the new “Russian World” nationalist doctrine. The Orange Revolution of 2004 did not resolve the fundamental issue of Ukrainian national and geopolitical identity. It was put to a more serious test by the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014 and ensuing pro-Russian unrest in southeastern Ukraine, which produced another geopolitical reconfiguration in the Ukrainian-Russian borderland. Not all observers took note that this time, as in 2004, Russian political leaders came up with conflicting scenarios for the future of the imagined “southeastern” Ukrainian borderland. Significantly, three main cities – Sevastopol, Kharkiv, and Donetsk – were identified as centres of expected pro-Russian political activity intended to undermine the “Ukrainian project” from within. As early as January 2014, Russian nationalist organizations in Sevastopol raised the prospect of establishing a “federative state of Little Russia oriented toward Russia” on the basis of the southeastern and central oblasts of Ukraine.98 The very fact that the issue of “Little Russia” emerged in the public space of Crimea, the most Russified and Moscow-connected region of post-Soviet Ukraine, soon found an explanation. Speaking in Moscow at a meeting of the Liberal-Democratic Party of Russia on 23 February 2014, Vladimir Zhirinovsky, an eccentric Russian politician and ardent nationalist, called for the formation of a new Little Russian state in the eastern oblasts of Ukraine, with its capital in Kharkiv, to be followed by its absorption into the Russian state.99 On the same occasion, he announced that the first units of Russian “volunteers” were already prepared for dispatch to Kharkiv. Russian nationalists in Moscow seemed oblivious to the fact that historical Little Russia embraced only part of what is now Ukraine and, as such, was bound to find itself in opposition to other regional discourses and mytholo-

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gies revived on the basis of local history. Kharkiv has its own “Sloboda Ukraine” regional discourse, which began to confront the former “Little Russian” discourse in the eighteenth century. The other borderland political elites of Ukraine used a variety of historical discourses to identify themselves: “Russian imperial” (Sevastopol), imperial “New Russian” (Odesa), or regional Soviet (Donetsk). As a result, the basically ethnonational but politically impotent “Little Russian” discourse found support in none of them, except perhaps in Zaporizhia, where local elites toyed with the mythology of the Zaporozhian Cossack Host. After the annexation of Crimea, Russian and pro-Russian strategists decided to replace the “Little Russian” slogan with a “New Russian” one, seeking support in the eastern and southern oblasts (Donetsk, Luhansk, Kharkiv, Odesa, Kherson, Dnipropetrovsk, Zaporizhia, and Mykolaiv) to federalize the rest of Ukraine under Russian domination. President Vladimir Putin turned to history in order to articulate the idea that “Southeastern” Ukraine was in fact “New Russia,” which the Bolsheviks had allegedly transferred to Soviet Ukraine, “God knows why.”100 Some Russian historians hastened to create a “New Russian” historical narrative in response to this political conjuncture,101 but all efforts to (re)construct a particular “New Russian” regional identity seem poorly conceptualized. The late Patricia Herlihy, a well-known specialist in the history of “South Russia,” pointed out obvious limitations in President Putin’s historical education.102 So did the Russian historian Andrei Illarionov.103 Marlene Laruelle indicates the composite and contradictory nature of “Novorossiia geopolitical adventurism” based on “three underlying ideological paradigms – ‘red’ (Soviet), ‘white’ (Orthodox), and ‘brown’ (Fascist).”104 These observations are equally applicable to the parallel “Southeastern” political project under the leadership of Oleg Tsarev, a former member of the Ukrainian parliament.105 It soon became apparent even to nationally committed Russian authors that the allegedly united Ukrainian “Southeast” has a composite structure.106 The aforementioned Oleg Nemensky had to admit that the southern and eastern oblasts of Ukraine “have no particular self-awareness, no national thinking, and no local patriotic elites. They are simply territories insufficiently involved in the process of building a united Ukrainian nation.”107 Obviously, “New Russia” never covered the whole territory of “South Russia,” even in its broad territorial version. Kharkiv and the Sloboda region never belonged to historical New Russia, and without Kharkiv, as Peter Dickinson puts it, there would be no “New Russia.”108 Even more important was

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the nature of Putin’s “New Russia” simulacrum, which bore only a superficial resemblance to the initial Russian imperial project under that name. The latter was a product of Enlightenment Westernization, while the former became a manifestation of Russian nationalism in the spirit of Anton Denikin’s White Army, also known as the “Armed Forces of South Russia” (Vooruzhennye Sily Iuga Rossii). It was no accident that the Russian ex-KGB officer Igor Girkin (alias Strelkov), one of the most active military commanders of the proRussian separatists in the Donbas in 2014 and a fanatical nationalist, had a historical education: he was known as a re-enactor who reimagined and presented himself as an officer of the White Army.109 Surprisingly, it was Donetsk, one of the most Sovietized Ukrainian cities, that became the main citadel of Putin’s reinvented “New Russia.”110 This was unexpected because the regional discourse of the Donetsk-Kryvyi Rih Republic (DKR), already popular in the Donbas, was redolent of the Soviet ethos, not of the imperial Orthodox nationalism associated with “New Russia” and the “Russian World” promoted by the Kremlin and its proxies. On 5 February 2015, the separatist “Donetsk People’s Republic” declared itself the successor to the Donetsk-Kryvyi Rih Soviet Republic and called on all other territories, including Kharkiv oblast, to join the “new federal state.”111 The neo-Soviet identity of the Donetsk-based separatists lasted only two and a half years. In 2017, Aleksandr Zakharchenko, the puppet leader of the “Donetsk People’s Republic,” initiated its transformation into the new “Little Russia” (Malorossiia), with its capital in Donetsk.112 This “new state” lasted about twenty-four hours. Repeatedly, the Donbas political authorities express their identity in terms of imperial Russian nationalism and confirm their desire to be part of Russia. It is still unclear what remains, if anything, of the local Soviet and Ukrainian identity of the border territory. So far, the self-proclaimed “people’s republics” of Donetsk and Luhansk have failed to establish a political union. The “Confederation of New Russia,” solemnly proclaimed in 2014, was quietly dissolved the following year. The main centres of the Ukrainian-Russian borderland, including Kharkiv, Dnipro (formerly Dnipropetrovsk), and Odesa, have also turned away.113 The disappearance of the Party of Regions in Ukraine deprived the regional elites of a political platform for joint action.114 It would appear that none of the models of political autonomism offered to the Ukrainian border elites by Russian political technologists have proved viable in practice. After Russia’s annexation of Crimea, the eastern and southern regions of Ukraine underwent yet another symbolic reconfiguration.115 Some analysts

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have remarked on the disappearance of the “Southeast”116 as a common designation of the Russo-Ukrainian border regions.117 By contrast, a new “Central Ukraine” has begun to take shape between the eastern and western border regions.118 Finally, the border city of Dnipro, the former imperial Katerynoslav, has acquired new political significance as a symbol of Ukrainian political loyalty and even a new “heart of Ukraine.”119 On the other hand, the former role of Donetsk as the Ukrainian regional centre most opposed to official Kyiv was transferred not to Kharkiv but to Odesa, also for a short time. To be sure, regional discourses continue to articulate the ongoing symbolic struggle for the Ukrainian-Russian borderland. As for Kharkiv, it appears to have found itself in a grey zone between Odesa and Dnipro. I find it difficult to agree with the idea, expressed by an unknown analyst, that the erosion of Donbas regional identity in the territory under Kyiv’s control paralleled the strengthening of Sloboda regional identity, with its centre in Kharkiv.120 By the same token, it is hard to accept the conclusion that “the region of Kharkiv has turned into a fortress, with a defensive wall being built on the border with Russia.”121 Only 40 per cent of the so-called “European Wall,” intended to present an impregnable barrier to Russian tanks and make visible the symbolic border between Europe and Russia, has been completed.122 Its defensive and symbolic functions arouse skepticism in anyone who has crossed it in both directions.

Conclusions Sloboda Ukraine appears to be a very special kind of historical region. It began its history with a clearly defined territory, name, and institutions that differentiated it from the neighbouring Ukrainian Cossack regions of Little Russia and the Zaporozhian Host, as well as from the (Great) Russian core territory beyond the Belgorod Wall. The regional identity of the Sloboda territory and its administrative and cultural centre, Kharkiv, remained unstable, mutable, and dependent on the changing political context until the midnineteenth century. After losing its regional special status, Sloboda Ukraine was renamed the Kharkiv gubernia but retained a predominantly Ukrainian ethnic population. During the era of intensive empire-driven modernization, the profile of the former Sloboda Ukraine was redefined in terms of ethnicity. While the administrative border between the region and the neighbouring Ukrainian and Russian territories was disappearing, the ethnic redefinition of Sloboda

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Ukraine positioned it in Ukrainian symbolic space. Sloboda Ukraine also acquired an economic profile because of its active involvement in the creation of the new “South Russian” innovative region, which became a showplace of empire-driven modernization. In the history of the Sloboda region, modernization usually outweighed ethnicity. It may be assumed that Soviet modernization, accompanied by the new administrative division, dealt the final blow to the regional identity of the former Sloboda Ukraine. It did not survive the twentieth century.123 The postSoviet redefinition of Kharkiv and oblast in an independent Ukrainian state revived the historical mythology of Sloboda Ukraine but was unable to resuscitate its regional identity without undertaking the impossible task of recreating its social and institutional basis. Tatiana Zhurzhenko rightly notes that present-day “Slobozhanshchyna is an ideal myth because it is ambivalent and therefore can be filled with various messages to legitimize different interests.”124 It has been instrumentalized by various actors who themselves are bearers of “hybrid and mixed identities combining some elements of Ukrainian and Russian culture, Orthodox belief, and Soviet symbols.”125 On the political map of post-Soviet Ukraine, Kharkiv oblast has been positioned in various ways. Some sociologists consider it part of “Eastern Ukraine” along with Dnipro and Zaporizhia oblasts.126 According to others, Kharkiv oblast stands aside from its neighbours.127 In any case, there is nothing in Kharkiv’s position on the political map of present-day Ukraine to remind us of the contours of the former Sloboda Ukraine. It would be fair to assume that the identity of Kharkiv oblast is now shaped more by the geographic factor of the Russo-Ukrainian border, the historical factor of the Soviet legacy, and Ukrainian nation-state–building than by its local specificity. Since the Sloboda region is no longer fulfilling its main role of intermediary between Ukraine and Russia, the earlier trans-border project appears to have been sidelined and marginalized, although the idea itself remains alive on both sides of the border.128 Barring a “reset” of Russo-Ukrainian relations, however, it could hardly be implemented. Perhaps keeping a safe distance from the main centres of political turbulence is the most substantial remaining legacy of Sloboda Ukraine.

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5

Kharkiv as a Borderland City

Introduction Urban studies have become one of the most dynamic and growing fields in Ukrainian studies.1 There are studies of Kyiv,2 Lviv,3 Odesa,4 Chernivtsi,5 Dnipro (formerly Dnipropetrovsk),6 and Sevastopol.7 Against this background, Kharkiv, now the second-largest city in Ukraine after Kyiv, also cannot complain of lack of attention.8 For a time (1920–34) it even managed to replace Kyiv as the capital of Ukraine. Having lost its metropolitan status, Kharkiv remains an important industrial, transportation, and educational centre that boasts a greater number of universities and colleges than any other city in Ukraine. In a way, it belongs to the global category of “second cities” competing for power on a national scale. David Hooson compared the Kharkiv–Kyiv relationship with the Milan–Rome duumvirate in Italy with respect to economic potential and political influence.9 Perhaps the Russian pair of historical capitals, Moscow and St Petersburg, may also be seen as an appropriate comparison.10 The list can easily be extended. Kharkiv also belongs to the category of border or “margin-centric” European cities such as Lviv, Vilnius, Gdańsk, and many others that “represent centres of modernization and pluralization in the area, even if their victories are temporary and contested, mixing the ‘myth of division’ with the ‘myth of connection.’”11 Strategically located on the route from Moscow to Crimea, Kharkiv is one of the most influential components of the historical UkrainianRussian borderland, which has been a subject of symbolic and political reconfiguration and reinterpretation since the mid-seventeenth century. As a border city, it was governed successively from Moscow, St Petersburg, and

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Kyiv. Each of them left its imprint on the city’s cultural landscape. Kharkiv is saturated with a variety of symbols, some of them contradictory, and their combinations create diverse narratives of the city. It has been argued that literature sometimes captures urban phenomena better than academic writing.12 The case of Kharkiv proves that true. Different images of the city are reflected in texts written primarily by Ukrainian writers and philologists.13 A centre of learning and a gigantic bazaar, the cradle of the Ukrainian national renaissance, and an outpost of Russian advancement ... Images of Kharkiv took shape and changed constantly, depending on the position of the observer, the various meanings attributed to one and the same phenomenon and, of course, changes in the city’s regional, political, and cultural environment. The reflections of Yurii Sherekh/Shevelov on Kharkiv’s past and future are perhaps the most eloquent attempt to identify Kharkiv’s place in the Ukrainian grand narrative.14 Shevelov’s influence on post-Soviet Ukrainian scholars would be hard to exaggerate. For most of them, the city’s identity has been presumed to be inherently Ukrainian, but “Ukraine” acquired its exclusively national meaning relatively recently, in the twentieth century. Nowadays, when Ukrainian nation-state–building is still in progress, it remains to be seen to what extent and in what form Kharkiv has been inscribed in the modern Ukrainian national narrative. Tanya Zaharchenko has shrewdly noted that the city “has a curious way of combining its location in the borderlands – a mere forty kilometres from Russia – with a role as one of the country’s key urban centres: formerly political, always cultural.”15 Perhaps history can offer an explanation of this curious combination. In this historical overview, I will try to examine, first, the formation of and changes in Kharkiv’s cultural landscape as a result of identity policies implemented by different regimes – imperial Russian, Soviet, and Ukrainian – and, second, to compare various images of Kharkiv created by Ukrainian and Russian authors of predominantly historical narratives. Methodologically, this chapter focuses on the city as an imagined social construct based on urban mythology and identity.16

Early History Kharkiv emerged in the mid-seventeenth century in the transition zone between the forest-steppe and the steppe. The rivers and steppe roads leading to them influenced the south-north communication routes in this

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land. The famous Murava Route crossed the steppe and linked the Muscovite Tsardom with the Crimean Khanate. Kharkiv’s significance to the Russian Empire was initially based mainly on military and political considerations. Of all the Cossack regimental outposts in the steppe, Kharkiv had the most strategically advantageous location, since it was situated on the southern route of Russian expansion. Thus, it became the hub of largescale wholesale trade and the headquarters of the commander-in-chief of the Russian army. From the moment of its founding, Kharkiv began to develop wholesale markets, which were very soon counted among the largest in the empire. In 1765, Kharkiv became an administrative centre of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia,17 but its real significance extended far beyond its boundaries. Following the establishment of the Kharkiv Orthodox Collegium (1726) and the founding of an eparchy (1799), Kharkiv gained primacy over Belgorod, which had been considered the main centre of Russian control over the steppe borderland since the mid-seventeenth century. The military governor of Kharkiv also supervised the Voronezh, Kazan, Saratov, and Astrakhan gubernias, as well as the Don Cossack Host, that is, the entire privileged Sloboda zone, which extended to the Volga River and the Caucasus Mountains.18 At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the newly established Kharkiv School District encompassed, in addition to the adjacent Russian lands, the entire left bank of the Dnipro River together with Crimea and the Caucasus. Later on, Kharkiv became an administrative, transport, and financial centre for the huge industrial and mining region known as “South Russia,” which became one of the most economically advanced regions of the Russian Empire. Its size was comparable to that of the privileged seventeenth-century steppe frontier covered with slobody.

(Geo)cultural Geography Kharkiv’s cultural geography was defined by various means. The new settlers symbolically transformed the steppe not only by using purely Slavic names for their settlements but also by sacralizing it, building Orthodox churches and monasteries and establishing cults devoted to local saints and wonderworking images such as the Ozeriany or Okhtyrka icons of the Mother of God. Throughout the eighteenth century, variations in church rites brought by the Ukrainian colonists were gradually eliminated by changes taking place

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in the Russian Orthodox Church, which regarded Kharkiv as an outpost of Orthodoxy on the steppe cultural borderland. The Kharkiv Orthodox Collegium trained priests for the entire steppe frontier between the Dnipro and Don rivers.19 From a secular perspective, Kharkiv may be considered part of the Ukrainian-Polish cultural borderland. The social model of the Polish gentry (szlachta) became an important means of legitimizing the noble status of colonists in the new Russian-dominated environment. The first historical narrative of the city and region, published in 1705, was written in Polish by the Ukrainian Ivan Ornovsky. The first publications of the Kharkiv Orthodox Church printshop in the 1790s were household calendars translated from the Polish – prototypes of the literary almanacs of the Romantic age. Kharkiv University maintained close relationships with the Polish-dominated right bank of Ukraine and local Polish educational institutions.20 As “South Russia” turned into a model space of enlightened imperial modernization, Kharkiv became part of it. However, when the Russian empress Catherine the Great began searching for a new capital of the Russian Empire, now to be located in the south as a counterweight to the northern capital of St Petersburg, neither Kharkiv nor Kyiv was considered for that role. The choice fell on Katerynoslav (now Dnipro, formerly Dnipropetrovsk), a new city whose cornerstone was laid by the empress herself in 1787.21 Its very name appeared to be a supplementary argument in favour of the prime role reserved for it in the future (as compared with Peter’s city, St Petersburg). The particular status of Katerynoslav was also emphasized by an imperial ukase of 1784 on the establishment of a university in the city, intended to educate not only Russian subjects but also Slavs residing in the Ottoman and Austrian empires.22 The idea of transferring the imperial capital from north to south was not realized after all. Nevertheless, the bold experiment of creating a modern and dynamic space of modernization in the southern lands of the empire was not cut short by the death of Catherine II. “South Russia” remained a highly heterogenous, polycentric space represented by four main cities: Kyiv, Odesa, Katerynoslav, and Kharkiv. Each of them became a centre of its respective smaller region. Thus, Kyiv was administratively “moved” westward to become the centre of the southwestern region, a bastion of imperial Orthodox Russification of the former Polish eastern borderland also known as “Polish Ukraine.” Odesa became the centre of New Russia, associated with the Black Sea basin. Katerynoslav gravitated toward the new

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industrial and resource region known as the Donetsk/Kryvyi Rih Basin, or simply the Donbas. Kharkiv in turn expanded its role as the centre of all “South Russia,” including the former Sloboda Ukraine and Little Russia, as well as the growing Donbas. Kharkiv’s strategic location between the imperial Russian centre and Crimea became its trump card in regional (geo)politics. It was regarded as the gateway to the south on the road from the north. The city’s symbolic southern geographic identification was consolidated in the course of the “long” nineteenth century as it became an academic, industrial, and financial centre. It was no accident that the powerful Congress of Mining Industrialists of Southern Russia, which controlled the burgeoning economy of the entire southern region, including the Donbas, established its headquarters in Kharkiv.

The Formation of the Myth The rapid transformation of Kharkiv from a military free settlement/fortress into a contemporary city was accompanied by the growth of urban mythology. Kharkiv yielded in many respects to Kyiv, the “second Jerusalem,” the cradle of Orthodoxy in Rus', and the historical centre of Little Russia. Odesa surpassed all other cities of the empire except those located on the Baltic basin because of its seaport, cosmopolitan population, and European-style architecture. Even Poltava had more solid mythological potential than Kharkiv, owing to the famous battle of 1709. But Kharkiv possessed other qualities that made it a worthy rival of many other cities on the UkrainianRussian borderland. Kharkiv’s mythology was based on the idea of prosperity and progress. As noted earlier, that idea was introduced by Ivan Ornovsky in honour of the Kharkiv colonels of the Donets-Zakharzhevsky line. The market trade contributed most to Kharkiv’s growth. That is why, in the second half of the eighteenth century, the city’s official coat of arms featured a caduceus (the staff carried by Mercury, considered a symbol of trade) and a horn of plenty. The most profitable branch of the local economy – the free distillation and retail of Ukrainian vodka (horilka) – was not accorded such official recognition. The image of Kharkiv as a centre of education and science began to take shape in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The philosopher Hryhorii Skovoroda called it Zakharpolis, the city of the sun, and predicted a glorious future for it. In his writings, Vasilii Karazin portrayed Kharkiv as a

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“Ukrainian Athens,” a city where enlightened citizens, skilled artisans, and wealthy merchants lived amid blessed natural surroundings in a mild climate where the arts and sciences flourished. The development of Kharkiv’s urban mythology was facilitated by the founding of a university. Ever since its founding, the university has defined Kharkiv as a “university town” and has become an immutable part of its image. Thanks to the university, “capital city” rhetoric took root in local self-representation long before Kharkiv was proclaimed the capital of Soviet Ukraine. The local periodical Ukrainskii zhurnal (Ukrainian Journal) solemnly assured readers that “of course, the city of Kharkiv, after our capital cities, can and must be regarded as the first in our homeland in terms of striving for education on the part of the city’s young people.”23 Hryhorii Kvitka (Osnovianenko) also contributed to Kharkiv’s modern mythology. In the following quotation, the Ukrainian writer painted a vivid picture of the city: “Yes, the city of Kharkiv differs from many gubernia cities. Look at it in passing but with all attentiveness: beauty! The streets are even, clean, and straight; public edifices are sumptuous, private buildings are nice and pleasant; the shops are full of all kinds of merchandise and items in great quantities that are constantly being exchanged for newer, more sophisticated wares; no sooner does something appear in Petersburg than it has already been shipped to Kharkiv and sold. The streets, theatre, shopping arcade, various art institutions ... it lacks for nothing! ... It is a capital city indeed.”24 Kvitka’s reference to St Petersburg is very interesting in itself. “The decree of 1762, which liberated the aristocracy from obligatory state service, contributed to the importance of Moscow as the second seat of court life. While Petersburg remained the capital of the service nobility, concentrating mostly military men and officials, Moscow became the capital of the retired and not working nobility, more distant from the court and more linked to the traditional culture and way of life.”25 It seems that Hryhorii Kvitka, himself a landed gentleman of conservative views, singled out Kharkiv from other gubernia cities by emphasizing its modern profile and dynamic imperial development rather than its Slavic-Rus' traditional roots. Kharkiv’s impressive progress left a similar impression on mid-nineteenth century travellers, including Johann Georg Kohl and Alexander Petzholdt; all reported that Kharkiv was one of the leading provincial cities of the Russian Empire, a flourishing city in the steppe that was growing by leaps and bounds. Kharkiv’s modern European culture honed its ambitions to become a capital city. The Kharkiv myth resembled the Odesa myth, in which the

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paradigm of progress played a paramount role. In Russian and foreign correspondence of the time, Kharkiv and Odesa are mentioned as cities of the modern European type. In terms of geography, both were perceived as southern cities, especially by Russian travellers. Kharkiv’s public space was replete with “southern” markers of self-representation. These included the newspaper Iuzhnyi krai (The Southern Land), with the largest circulation in the city, a multitude of civic organizations and institutions, and, since the second half of the nineteenth century, the Southern Railway, which followed the ancient Murava Route.

The City’s Urban Identity Kharkiv’s urban space took shape slowly. For a long time, the city remained sparsely populated. Its population during the first 150 years barely exceeded 10,000. Kharkiv lacked even the external attributes of an urban milieu, remaining a fortified free settlement undistinguished in any way from other slobody on the steppe frontier. The founders of Kharkiv – “rabble and country bumpkins,” according to a local Russian administrator – continued their accustomed way of life in the new location, establishing outlying farms, engaging in rural trades, distilling beverages, and practising small-scale commerce.26 The Polish historian Ludwik Janowski noted that Kharkiv lagged significantly behind its neighbouring Russian cities, Belgorod, Kursk, and Voronezh.27 His observation is supported by numerous visitors to Kharkiv in the early nineteenth century. The Russian traveller Pavel Sumarokov was amazed that Kharkiv in no way resembled Russian cities.28 German professors of the newly established Kharkiv University were shocked by what they saw on their arrival. Narrow and crooked streets, thatch-covered wooden houses, piles of mud unheard of even in the provinces, a terrible microclimate, lack of sanitation, and a high mortality rate were some of the features of Kharkiv that left a profoundly negative impression on visitors. Nevertheless, thanks to the university, Kharkiv’s landscape underwent an impressive change. By the second third of the nineteenth century Kharkiv was regarded as a real city with all concomitant attributes. It was enriched by its first public park and botanical garden, a boulevard, new places for rest and recreation, and new brick buildings. As a city, Kharkiv experienced rapid development during the era of industrialization of the Russian Empire. It was precisely at this time that a civic cultural landscape was formed, which has

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been preserved to the present day. The city’s architectural face was defined by its eclectic style and in the early twentieth century by modern design. The features of Kharkiv’s urban landscape were aptly noted by the German scholar Baron von Haxthausen, who visited the city in 1843. Haxthausen called Kharkiv one of the most important, most beautiful, and most promising cities of southern Russia, saying that it could be compared to Odesa as Moscow was compared to St Petersburg.29 The German traveller left a detailed description of Kharkiv’s composite structure inherited from previous eras. He identified three concentric circles of Kharkiv’s landscape through which visitors passed on their way to the city centre. On the outskirts, the visitor encountered a “village with orchards and flower gardens,” the oldest part of Kharkiv; then came the “city of Catherine II,” an imitation of a Muscovite suburb with long, straight streets, Russian artisans, taverns, and shops; finally, in the centre of Kharkiv was the “town of Nicholas I,” a modern European city with straight streets, squares, and brick buildings, which, however, lacked vitality and movement.30 This brief but insightful description reflected not only geographic but also historical and cultural layers of Kharkiv’s urban space. It suggests that the more closely one approached the centre, the newer the city became. In culture, Kharkiv was a typical imperial Russian gubernia capital with a majority (about 63 per cent) of Russophones. The “city of Nicholas and Catherine” spoke primarily modern Russian, sometimes with a pronounced Ukrainian accent, while the outskirts were dominated by those speaking surzhyk, a mixed Ukrainian-Russian vernacular.31 Actually, the same might be said about all other major “South Russian”/Ukrainian cities. The further development of their urban space contributed to the growth of a socio-cultural gap between the Russian-speaking modern city and its surrounding Ukrainian/ surzhyk-speaking countryside. At the same time, linguistic criteria cannot be considered the only or even the main indicator of the city’s ethnic structure. There have been Ukrainian Russophones and Russian-speaking Ukrainians behind the façade of the imperial Russian imperial lingua franca. According to a recent investigation, Kharkiv could be regarded as a Ukrainian-Russian city: Ukrainians comprised nearly 43 per cent, Russians about 42 per cent, and Jews slightly more than 6 per cent of the population.32 By the early twentieth century, Kharkiv had a population of nearly 240,000 – fewer people than in each of Kyiv and Odesa but more than in Katerynoslav and Lviv. As Kharkiv’s particular urban identity began to take shape, one of its fea-

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tures was the publication of numerous reference works, travel guides, and calendars that outlined the city’s cultural profile and were aimed at the mass consumer. Arguably the most important narrative of Kharkiv’s urban identity was the fundamental two-volume history of the city written in the early twentieth century by two local Ukrainian historians, Dmytro Bahalii and Dmytro Miller, who were commissioned by the Kharkiv Municipal Duma. It was considered one of the best scholarly descriptions of an imperial city at the time.33 All these publications reflected the multiethnic and multicultural components of Kharkiv’s profile within the Ukrainian-Russian symbolic framework.

Whose Kharkiv? In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when the concepts of “Ukraine” and “Little Russia” were radically reinterpreted and reformulated under the influence of modern nationalism, a struggle was waged between Russian and Ukrainian national discourses for symbolic control of Kharkiv. On the symbolic map of Russian nationalism, Kharkiv was part of imperial Orthodox space, marked by churches and other sacred sites, rituals, mass manifestations, and the names of members of the imperial dynasty. In this regard, Kharkiv was much closer to the Russian core than many cities in the Ukrainian-Polish historical borderland. That is one of the reasons that Russian Orthodox nationalists in Kharkiv were not as aggressive as those in, say, Kyiv or Odesa. Symbolic Russification became a principal feature of the cultural policy of Kharkiv’s local government, starting around the end of the nineteenth century. The first large-scale renaming of Kharkiv’s urban spaces was launched in 1894, with the names of distinguished figures of imperial Russian culture (Ivan Turgenev, Aleksandr Pushkin, Mikhail Lermontov, Vasilii Zhukovsky, Nikolai Gogol/Mykola Hohol [whose literary legacy is claimed both by Russia and by Ukraine], Gavriil Derzhavin, Nikolai Nekrasov, Nikolai Chernyshevsky, Vsevolod Garshin, Petr Chaikovsky) and the names of Russian military leaders (Petr Bagration, Mikhail Skobelev, Aleksandr Suvorov, and Aleksandr Nevsky).34 The renaming policy was directed partly against Kharkiv’s historical foreign legacy: the former German Street was renamed Pushkin Street, and the city park known as Bavaria was renamed Slavic Park. On the mental map of Ukrainian nationalism, Kharkiv appeared to exist on the outskirts compared to either Kyiv or Poltava. Thus, from the outset

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Kharkiv often presented a negative image in Ukrainian national discourse, which was closely associated with the Little Russian/Malorossian anti-urban tradition that can be traced to the works of Yakiv Shchoholiv and Serhii Vasylkivsky. Kharkiv had the appearance of a city distorted by modernity, contrasting strongly with the surrounding patriarchal rural landscape. Russian cultural influences could also be perceived by Ukrainians as redolent of alien, hostile modernity. For example, when asked why Kharkiv never figured in his touring schedule, the Ukrainian composer, pianist, conductor, and ethnomusicologist Mykola Lysenko replied: “It was with a great pain in my heart that I did not see, did not feel the Ukrainian people in Kharkiv, did not see a Ukrainian community; there, everything is smeared with, trampled by the Muscovite spirit, Muscovite tastes. Indeed, everything is not ours, everything is foreign, not our own.”35 Lysenko’s contemporary, the prominent civic leader, patron of Ukrainian culture and publisher Yevhen Chykalenko, considered Kharkiv the most “Muscovized” of all Ukrainian cities. The Ukrainian intelligentsia launched a struggle for the cultural space of Kharkiv under the banner of Ukraine’s national poet, Taras Shevchenko. A street and one of the first schools in the city were named after him, but the city fathers of imperial Kharkiv did not see fit to erect a monument to the poet. The very first monument to Shevchenko in Ukraine, erected in 1898 on the grounds of the Alchevsky family’s private estate, was dismantled at the demand of the police, and the 1911 decision of the Municipal Duma to erect a column featuring the poet’s image was never implemented. In 1904, when members of a Ukrainian youth organization attempted to destroy a monument to the Russian poet Pushkin located in the city centre,36 their actions were motivated by the official ban on honouring Shevchenko in Kharkiv. The monument to Gogol, which was erected opposite the Pushkin statue five years later, did not elicit such strong emotions. A positive image of Ukrainian Kharkiv, based on an earlier intellectual tradition that may be traced from Ornovsky through Skovoroda, Karazin, and Kvitka, all the way to Bahalii, is that of a cultural capital, a city that became the centre of modern Ukrainian poetry, prose, and literary criticism. Moreover, the “Ukrainian” and “Sloboda Ukraine” terminology applied to Kharkiv in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, which had a mostly regional, geographic significance at first, was restored to the city’s public and cultural spaces a century later, but now with a national meaning. Urban phenomena and events underwent symbolic “Ukrainization.” The budding Ukrainian culture thereby acquired historical legitima-

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cy, and Kharkiv was included in Ukrainian national discourse as a prestigious capital, not a mere neighbourhood. The struggle for Kharkiv waged by Ukrainian and Russian national discourses turned into a contest over local historical and cultural heritage. Its most vivid expression was the unveiling of a monument to Karazin.37 One can find almost anything in the works of this enlightener from Sloboda Ukraine: free thinking and servility, Westernism and Pan-Slavism, traditionalism and reformism. The contradictory nature of Karazin’s views permitted a variety of interpretations of his persona. Thanks to the efforts of Kharkiv’s liberal intelligentsia, Karazin emerged as a prominent civic figure who championed the need for democratic reform and education in the Russian Empire. The inscription on the pedestal of the monument to Karazin, erected in Kharkiv in 1907, states: “I have been blessed one hundredfold if circumstance has allowed me to do the smallest good for my Ukraine, whose welfare is so closely bound up with the welfare of gigantic Russia.”38 In Karazin’s usage, “Ukraine” had a territorial, regional meaning, but by the early twentieth century it had acquired a new, national sense. Bahalii, for his part, got around the censors by using “Ukraine” ambiguously, in both the geographic and the national sense, in his scholarly works. Russian nationalists who belonged to the Black Hundreds in Kharkiv lost the ideological struggle over Karazin to their political opponents. In their interpretation, Karazin was cast in the unattractive role of adventurer, promoter of harebrained schemes, and informer, unscrupulous about the ways in which he satisfied his vanity. Accordingly, the Black Hundreds opposed the idea of a monument to Karazin. Of course, such an interpretation had no hope of garnering broad support among the city’s multi-ethnic intelligentsia, which included substantial numbers of Jews, Poles, and Ukrainians. Attempts to promote a national reinterpretation of Kharkiv’s public space at the turn of the nineteenth century left no perceptible trace on the city’s landscape. Describing Kharkiv in the year 1916, the Russian journalist Petr Pilsky noted only that the city lacked a style of its own and had a mixed RussoUkrainian population: “It is Little Russian but also Great Russian, and the Great Russians are trying with all their might to say how real and sincere the khokhly are, while the Little Russians are affixing the suffix ‘-ov’ to their surnames, and they are not even opposed to becoming Great Russians, although their songs scorn the Muscovite, and they are creating a hymn to Ukraine alone and only in the exclusively Ukrainian style ... There are various cities in Russia: clever ones and stupid ones, chaste ones and dissolute ones, beauties

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and monsters, oldsters and infants. But in Russia there is only one ill-defined city. That city is Kharkiv.”39 If the accuracy of these words is acknowledged, then it becomes clear why the regional dimension of Kharkiv’s identity successfully withstood competition with the national one. With the outbreak of World War I, which led to the collapse of the Russian Empire, Kharkiv once again ended up in the role of a border city, while the Kharkiv gubernia (the former Sloboda Ukraine) was transformed into a military frontier for the second time in its history. The new political configuration of eastern Europe at the dawn of the twentieth century emerged as a result of the long-standing conflict among regional, national, and religious discourses, each projecting different interpretations of “Russia” and “Ukraine” and appropriate relations between them and their neighbours. Depending on the results of negotiations and the balance of power, Kharkiv could have ended up on either side of the Ukrainian-Russian border. In this case, Ukrainian nationalism encountered a serious local competitor. Kharkiv, the largest city of the Ukrainian-Russian borderland, became a testing ground for several competing political forces. In 1917, it was proclaimed the capital of the Soviet Ukrainian People’s Republic. In February 1918, it became the capital of the Soviet Donetsk–Kryvyi Rih Republic. In the first case, “Ukrainian” national discourse was employed, while “southern” regional terminology predominated in the latter case. Thereafter, Kharkiv changed hands several times, falling under the control of the Ukrainians and the Germans, the Reds and the Whites, until in late 1919 it once again became the capital of Soviet Ukraine.

The Capital of the Ukrainian Proletariat The selection of Kharkiv as the capital of Soviet Ukraine was influenced by several factors.40 In this particular case, geography demonstrated its superiority over history. The role of Kharkiv in regional geopolitics was determined above all by its military and strategic importance as a transportation hub and by its proximity both to Moscow and to the Donetsk/Kryvyi Rih Basin. In fact, when Kharkiv became the headquarters of the Red Army, which was advancing southward in 1919, it was restored to its historical role as a fort on the steppe borderland. Subsequently, plans were drafted to commemorate this role of Kharkiv in the Civil War in the form of a gigantic diorama depicting the storming of Perekop in Crimea in 1920 by Soviet troops under the command of Mikhail Frunze.

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Political factors also played a role in Kharkiv’s ascendance. Under pressure from the Soviet centre, a compromise was reached between proponents of territorial/economic and national principles in the organization of the new state. The former faction was represented by the revolutionary Soviet statesman and local party activist Fedor Sergeev (“Artem”); the latter found its leader in the Ukrainian Bolshevik Mykola Skrypnyk. The compromise between them made it possible for Kharkiv to play the role of an alternative capital to Kyiv, which by that time had become a prominent centre of Ukrainian nationalism and still bore the marks of the Central Rada and hetman government. Kharkiv was the most economically developed and urbanized city in the former “South Russia,” while Kyiv remained the capital of the agrarian right bank of the Dnipro River. The early 1920s marked the beginning of Kharkiv’s short-lived career as the experimental, “proletarian” capital of Soviet Ukraine. The city began to expand feverishly, and its population grew in geometric progression. By the early 1930s, Kharkiv, with its 521,000 residents, was not far behind Kyiv, which remained the most populous city in Ukraine. Kharkiv’s ethnic structure remained basically the same: there were slightly more ethnic Ukrainians (38.6 per cent in 1926) than ethnic Russians (37.2 per cent in the same year), while the proportion of Jews grew appreciably (to nearly 20 per cent).41 The cultural space of the Ukrainian “proletarian” capital underwent cardinal change. By 1919, Kharkiv had already experienced the first wave of Sovietization, in which some central streets and squares in the city received new names. For example, Sumy Street was renamed Karl Liebknecht Street, Katerynoslav Street became Sverdlov Street, Pavlov Square was renamed Rosa Luxemburg Square, and St Nicholas Square became known as Tevelev Square. This list was later expanded to include the names of Soviet military leaders, French revolutionaries, Red trade unions, and the like. After his death, Artem, the former head of the Donetsk–Kryvyi Rih Republic, became one of the most popular symbols of Kharkiv: a street, a museum, a communist university, and a library club were all named in his honour.42 Kharkiv, the capital city, was transformed into a laboratory of architectural innovations, a symbol of functionalism and constructivism, and the embodiment of the communist utopia of the industrial age and new civic life.43 Even though the historic centre of Kharkiv managed to avoid destruction, it lost its former social and cultural role. A new downtown core constructed on the northern outskirts of the city was supposed to symbolize the bright future of humanity: a huge open space, advertised as the largest in

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Europe, was surrounded by government offices built in modern style and residential buildings. This space, called Dzerzhinsky Square, was a place of public meetings, parades, and open-air revelries. In addition to a new centre, plans were drafted for the construction of a new socialist city, Sotsgorod (“socialist city”), full of communal buildings and workers’ settlements.44 It became a residential quarter for about 120,000 people. It was designed and developed as a “new garden city” popularly known as “New Kharkiv.” The idea of “garden cities,” which was very popular in plans for new residential construction,45 somehow echoed the metaphor of the orchard in the steppe employed by Ivan Ornovsky in his panegyric two hundred years before. The geometric design of new streets and avenues, buildings constructed of concrete, glass, and iron, and the blend of daily life with industry were among the features of the new capital city that had taken on the role of a newly discovered industrial giant whose hands – the streets of Kharkiv – exhaled factory smoke. The image of the city as a rising or awakening “giant” became very popular in the propaganda rhetoric of the 1920s–30s. It survives in our own times in the name of the dormitory complex located in the northern part of the city. The Derzhprom (State Industry) building, which became a symbol of Soviet modernization, was constructed in the mid-1920s. It was the first Soviet skyscraper, and the American writer Theodore Dreiser described it as follows: “a great new gray stone building of eight or ten stories, which looked as though it had been taken out of New York and set down here in the snow plains. It made a tremendous psychological impression ... The drawing of the whole project is certainly a beautiful picture. In ten years, it is easy to believe that there will be a Ukrainian Chicago in Kharkov.”46 But it was not the city’s industry and new buildings that first impressed the American anarchist Emma Goldman, who visited Kharkiv in the early 1920s. It was Kharkiv’s bright southern colours and the appearance of the citizens: “The streets were full of people and they looked better fed and dressed than the population of Petrograd and Moscow. The women were handsomer than in northern Russia; the men of a finer type. It was rather odd to see beautiful women, wearing evening gowns in the daytime, walk about barefoot or clad in wooden sandals without stockings. The coloured kerchiefs most of them had on lent life and colour to the streets, giving them a cheerful appearance which contrasted favourably with the gray tones of Petrograd.”47 The idea of modernization in the mythology of the new Kharkiv was

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Figure 5.1 Kharkiv, Derzhprom building (1928), contemporary view. From the author’s collection.

associated with the Ukrainian national idea by the regional discourse, which was reinterpreted in the national spirit in the early twentieth century and represented by the names of Skovoroda, Kvitka, Vasylkivsky, and Potebnia. The ancient name of the region, Sloboda Ukraine, was also used in public discourse. But the most vivid symbol of Kharkiv’s Ukrainian spirit was the monument to Shevchenko, which, ironically, appeared in the city just as the role of capital was transferred to Kyiv, leaving Kharkiv a regional centre once again. Moreover, it was not Pushkin whom Shevchenko had finally supplanted but Karazin, a regional icon, who was not even included in the new pantheon of progressive Ukrainian figures and disappeared from the urban space for some time along with the old university. The new communist capital of Ukraine aroused ambiguous feelings in the Ukrainian intelligentsia. The older generation of cultural figures did not accept Kharkiv in that role. Entries for the year 1925 in the diary of the Ukrainian literary historian and critic Serhii Yefremov hark back to Kharkiv’s

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negative image in the Ukrainian cultural milieu of the pre-revolutionary period: “A city of liars and speculators, swollen reputations, arrogance and ignorance, idlers and prattlers. Every city has its own soul, so to speak; only in Kharkiv is it not in evidence. A rather bad copy of Asiatic Moscow with unlimited pretensions.”48 For him, Kharkiv evoked associations with the autonomous Cossack Little Russia subordinated to the imperial capital. But the new generation of leftist intellectuals held the opposite view: for them it was Kyiv, not Kharkiv, that became an embodiment of the Little Russian mentality. The youthful spirit of the new capital city, its “unfettered” openness to innovation, its orientation toward the future, and its elemental Sturm und Drang, which was contrasted with Kyiv’s “burgher” orderliness, prudence, and refinement, attracted the rising generation of Ukrainian intellectuals, who set out to “conquer” the city. This generation of the “Executed Renaissance” reimagined Kharkiv in terms of modernity and futurism, overcoming the old-fashioned anti-urban traditions of the Little Russian cultural legacy. It was no accident that Mykola Khvyliovy’s manifesto, “Ukraïna chy Malorosiia” (Ukraine or Little Russia), was written in “proletarian” Kharkiv and not in “national” Kyiv: the former symbolized the communist future, while the latter belonged to the national past. Thus, it made sense for the theatre director Les Kurbas to move his experimental and innovative theatre from Kyiv to Kharkiv in 1926. In the art of historical writing, the Kharkiv-based experimental Marxist school represented by Matvii Yavorsky was opposed to the Kyiv-based Ukrainian nationalist historiography led by Mykhailo Hrushevsky. Ukrainian identity was linked with modernity in Kharkiv for some time, but the bond began to weaken when Kyiv was restored as the capital of Ukraine in 1934. Among the reasons given for the Soviet leadership’s decision are the international situation, the termination of the Ukrainization policy, and the steadily increasing scale of persecution in Ukraine.49 In the confrontation between the two cities, there is no question that Kyiv’s victory over Kharkiv may be interpreted in the context of the Stalinist “Great Retreat” – a partial withdrawal from communist experimentation to quasiimperial traditionalism. “Little Russianism” yielded to modern “Ukrainianism” in a form but not in essence.50 Although “Little Russian” terminology disappeared completely from official Soviet usage, “Ukrainian” national discourse was relegated to a manifestation of ethnocultural “Little Russianism” in the spirit of Gogol’s

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early writings. In the course of Ukraine’s gradual “Little Russianization” in Stalin’s USSR, Kyiv once again ended up in the role of the republic’s “natural centre,” while Kharkiv, in turn, once again occupied a regional niche in the Russo-Ukrainian borderland as the “second city” of Soviet Ukraine. The cultural landscape of Kharkiv also changed during the Stalin era. In 1936, about 500 of the city’s streets and lanes were renamed. In 1937–38, Railway Station Square was renamed after Lazar Kaganovich, as was the city’s Zhuravlivka quarter (now the Moscow quarter of Kharkiv), Fish Street became Beria Street, Dostoevsky Street was renamed after Nikolai Yezhov and present-day Smithy Street after Semen Budenny. Moscow Avenue was deemed worthy of being named after Stalin himself, to whom a huge monument appeared at the entrance to Dzerzhinsky Square in the very centre of town. In the course of World War II, Kharkiv changed hands several times, resuming its symbolic place as a border town in the transitional zone between Ukraine and Russia. The Soviet poet Abram Katsnelson, describing the retreat of Soviet forces in 1941, speaks of Kharkiv as “the last boundary of Ukraine.”51 After the occupation of the city by the Nazis and their allies on 25 October 1941, it was near the front line. Interestingly, German Nazi ideologists, confronted with Kharkiv’s rich cultural legacy in its museum and art collections, tried to reimagine the region’s history in terms of an east European antemurale.52 Kharkiv changed hands as the front line advanced and retreated until it was finally liberated from the Nazis on 23 August 1943 by Soviet forces of the Steppe Front. Given the major failures of the Red Army at Kharkiv, which were passed over in silence by Soviet propaganda, it was never officially recognized as a hero city like Kyiv and Odesa.53 The city’s wartime reputation was improved only to a limited extent when Kharkiv became the site of the first trial of fascists in world history in 1943.54 A programmatic article promoting the slogan of the “reunification” of all ethnic Ukrainian lands, prepared by the highly placed Ukrainian writer Oleksandr Korniichuk, was published in Kharkiv.55

The Soviet Standard After the war, Kharkiv was assimilated into the unified Soviet cultural space with its standard characteristics, architecture, and toponymy. It remained a megalopolis oriented culturally toward Moscow and

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Leningrad, with its numerous institutes of higher education, defence industry, and all-union industries. Even more, Kharkiv retained the symbolic title of “second capital” of Ukraine.56 At this time, the city’s “southern” geographic orientation vis-à-vis Moscow began to be supplemented by its “northeastern” relation to Kyiv.57 Thus, the virtually undetectable administrative border between the two Soviet republics still turned out to be based on the symbolic ethnocultural markers of the historical UkrainianRussian borderland.58 During the Soviet era, periodic changes in Kharkiv’s cultural landscape took place according to “fluctuations of party policy”: (i) the advent of the Stalinist “Empire style,” with its gloomy military-industrial communist symbols and names of Stalinist leaders; (ii) de-Stalinization based on the historical mythology of the Great October Socialist Revolution, together with low-cost concrete or brick three- to five-storey apartment buildings known as khrushchevki; and (iii) cautious Brezhnevian re-Stalinization based on mythologized memory of the Great Patriotic War, along with new “bedroom communities” and a subway system. These three sources of the city’s recent past are still the salient components of its present-day landscape, similar to Haxthausen’s description of “three cities in one.” But every political pirouette of the communist leadership forced it to dip into the symbolic capital of the pre-revolutionary era or, more precisely, two cultural eras, Ukrainian Cossack and imperial. As a result, Kharkiv’s preSoviet past was gradually resurrected. For example, in the late 1940s and early 1950s there was “reverse” renaming of some streets in Kharkiv: Karl Liebknecht Street was replaced by Sumy Street, Klara Zetkin Street was renamed Tanner (Rymarska) Street, and Free Academy Street became known as University Street. Then it was Karazin’s turn: he was restored to prominence and recognized as a “progressive” public figure who had played the role of a “Ukrainian Lomonosov.” The return to “Leninist principles of nationality policy” was accompanied by the partial rehabilitation of some Ukrainian cultural figures and representatives of the age of the “Executed Renaissance,” as well as by revival of topics pertaining to regional history, particularly that of Sloboda Ukraine. Historical narratives and their authors, the historian Dmytro Bahalii for one, gradually returned to the public sphere. In terms of geography, Kharkiv remained part of the Russo-Ukrainian cultural borderland, reflecting and eclectically combining the basic tendencies of the Soviet

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centre’s contradictory policy. Nevertheless, cultural Russification remained a constant of that policy. The Russian scholar Yurii Barabash came to the conclusion that the Ukrainian-Russian borderland as a spiritual phenomenon, a factor of creative development, became almost invisible in Kharkiv cultural life after World War II; the borderland was transformed into “a conglomerate of parallel existing facts, formal signs” that remained at the grassroots level of everyday life.59 Ukrainian-language cultural production largely lost its former innovative potential and social prestige in the predominantly Russophone city. Nevertheless, Kharkiv’s borderland status appeared to be one of the city’s most stable features, becoming less visible in times of domestic stability and emerging in public life when it was rocked by geopolitical cataclysms.

Post-Soviet Development After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, Kharkiv became a borderland city once again. As such, the city played an important role in Moscow’s strategy of keeping Ukraine within the Russian sphere of influence. Kharkiv was the place where on 27 May 1992, the Bishops’ Council of the Russian Orthodox Church took place. The council elected Vladimir (Sabodan), formerly Metropolitan of Rostov and Novocherkassk, as Metropolitan of Kyiv and All Ukraine and Primate of the newly established autonomous church (christened the Ukrainian Orthodox Church) of the Moscow Patriarchate. By doing so, the council effectively prevented its secession from Russian Orthodoxy and re-established in Ukraine a supreme Orthodox hierarchy loyal to Russia. “It was a decisive event in the modern history of Orthodoxy in Ukraine.”60 Kharkiv remained subject to the spiritual dominance of the Russian Orthodox Church even as Russia itself was ostensibly prepared to embark on national rather than imperial development. When Russia again opted for the neo-imperial model, Kharkiv was also reminded of its role as a gateway for Russian political influence in Ukraine. It was demonstrated when a bilateral Russo-Ukrainian agreement was signed in Kharkiv on 21 April 2010, whereby Russia extended its lease of the military naval base in Sevastopol for twenty-five years beyond its original expiry date of 2017; in exchange, Ukraine was granted a reduction in the price of Russian natural gas. Known as the Kharkiv Pact or Kharkiv Accords, the agreement was decried by the Ukrainian political opposition to the

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Yanukovych regime as a “new Treaty of Pereiaslav.”61 It was a reference to a fateful meeting in 1654 at which Ukraine’s Cossack leader, Bohdan Khmelnytsky, submitted to the protection of the Muscovite tsar. It was also a reference to the former “Little Russia,” that is, Ukraine’s subordinate political status in the Russian Empire. Public representations of post-Soviet Kharkiv were often accompanied by traditional markers of the military frontier, such as the ancient Murava Route, the “Wild Field,” and the Steppe. As Tanya Zaharchenko put it, the post-Soviet generation of Ukrainian-language writers in Kharkiv showed “consistent preoccupation with, and even fetishization of, the notions of borders, boundaries and blurring.”62 This insightful observation is also applicable to local Russian-language writers. In a novel by the well-known Kharkiv science-fiction writers Oldi (Dmitrii Gromov and Oleg Ladyzhensky) and Andrei Valentinov (Shmalko), a border dividing parallel worlds passes between Kharkiv and Poltava, more or less where in the mid-nineteenth century contemporaries discerned an ethnocultural border between the former historical regions of Sloboda Ukraine and Little Russia/Malorossiia. Kharkiv began to be seen differently from opposing sides of the RussoUkrainian border. On the mental map of contemporary Russian nationalism, Kharkiv acquired the image of an imperial border post in the “Wild Field” (Dikoe Pole), cut off from the symbolic space of the Russian World (Russkii mir). This image was combined with that of the Brest fortress, the Soviet wartime stronghold in the west, which occupied a prominent place in “Great Patriotic War” mythology. Kharkiv was thus imagined as waging a heroic unequal struggle against an aggressive and dangerous enemy – Ukrainian nationalism, associated with fascism and the treacherous West.63 The early modern rhetoric of the “Slavic-Rus' brotherhood of Orthodox peoples,” which was gradually transformed into the geopolitical doctrine of the “Russian World,” became another powerful tool of Russian efforts to reintegrate Ukraine into the Moscow-dominated space of the former Soviet Union. The representation of Kharkiv in the Ukrainian national narrative remains traditionally contradictory. In order to single out its discrete features, one must turn to the metaphor of the “Executed Renaissance.” If we emphasize the word “Renaissance,” then we actualize the historical mythology of the local Cossacks, the local philosopher Hryhorii Skovoroda, Kharkiv Universi-

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ty, the early Ukrainian-language writers, many civic and cultural figures of the nineteenth century, and, obviously, the process of Ukrainization during the period of National Communism. An emphasis on “Executed” recalls the Communist Revolution of 1917, political repressions, show trials, and the Holodomor of 1932–33. Accordingly, from “cradle of the Ukrainian Renaissance” Kharkiv can easily be transformed into the “capital of despair,” “sin city,” and the victim of brutal forcible Russification. As Kharkiv was gradually marginalized in both the Russian and the Ukrainian post-Soviet national narratives, local discourse became more influential. By emphasizing Kharkiv’s special role in the past, local elites articulated and promoted the regional component of the city’s identity, no matter what their political sympathies. The “Sloboda” brand became even more popular in Kharkiv’s public space than it had been during the dissolution of the Russian Empire. It was used in the names of new local dailies, brands of beer, restaurants, places of residence, and public awards, to say nothing of the flood of new historical narratives devoted to the region. Even a new voluntary organization known as the Great Sloboda Rada (Council) was named after its predecessor of 1917.64 It should be noted that the adjective “Sloboda” used to be inseparable from the noun “Ukraine” for purposes of national (re)identification. Employed separately, however, the “Sloboda” marker emphasizes Kharkiv’s regional specificity, sometimes in political opposition to Kyiv or Lviv. Kharkiv was proclaimed a centre of Ukrainian-Russian friendship, a bridge between the two countries designed to neutralize the Ukrainian-Russian border as a dividing line and transform it into a “grey zone.”65 The same symbolic and political role was assigned to the local discourse of “first capital city,” which began to develop in Kharkiv during the late 1990s. It emphasized Kharkiv’s role as an alternative, Russian-oriented rival to Kyiv in its role as “shadow capital of Russian-speaking culture in Ukraine.”66 Put forward by a local television channel, a trade brand, and a number of newspaper articles, it received strong support from the local political elite. This discourse bore no relation to Ukrainian national-communist mythology of the 1920s or to the Donetsk–Kryvyi Rih Republic. Instead, it used the rhetoric of contemporary Russian nationalistic imperial mythology reminiscent of the early twentieth century. All three main discourses of collective identity, Ukrainian national, imperial Russian Orthodox, and regional post-Soviet, were reflected in Kharkiv’s

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public space and cultural landscape.67 The transformation of the latter two discourses began during the perestroika period under Mikhail Gorbachev at the end of the 1980s. Initially, it proceeded in keeping with slogans of democratization and an appeal to right the wrongs of the past and expose the crimes of the Soviet communist regime. This resulted in the first changes to Kharkiv’s toponymy, the most conspicuous of which may have been renaming Dzerzhinsky Square as Liberty Square. Local elites took to filling in the “blank spots” of recent history mainly with symbols of Soviet-era political persecution and tragedy, including monuments to victims of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, fallen soldiers or veterans of the Afghan-Soviet war, cosmonauts, firefighters, policemen, literary characters, and personalities of Soviet mass culture (especially popular comedians). During the presidency of Leonid Kuchma (1994–2004), Kharkiv’s cultural space began filling up rapidly with symbols of the Brezhnev era, which had produced the first generation of Ukraine’s political elite.68 The names and images of former Communist Party nomenklatura members and Soviet celebrities were present everywhere, usually on commemorative plaques and bas-reliefs and in the names of subway stations and companies. The policy of “reconciliation” with the Soviet past at the local level was reflected, for example, at ceremonial unveilings of plaques in memory of the first secretaries of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Ukraine Petro Shelest (1996) and Volodymyr Ivashko (2002). Memorialized along with them were the names of Soviet scientists, plant directors, trade union leaders, sportsmen, writers, and so on. Almost all these individuals had been born and/or worked locally. The Soviet historical mythology of the “Great Patriotic War” became one of the main components of local memory politics.69 This mythology was reflected symbolically in numerous plaques and monuments installed throughout Kharkiv oblast during the 1990s, including a “memorial complex” to honor the Shyronintsy Guard in the village of Taranivka, a monument to Ivan Kozhedub in Kharkiv, and monuments and plaques commemorating the Barvinkove–Kharkiv Operation of 1942, as well as monuments to wartime student volunteers from Kharkiv University, members of the Kharkiv communist underground during the Nazi occupation, and the like. In a later move, the Soviet discourse of the “Great Patriotic War” was reinvented in Russia and re-exported to Ukraine in a combination that included Stalin, the imperial St George Ribbon, and Russian Orthodox

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symbols.70 An example of such memory politics in the Kharkiv region is the Marshal Konev Heights Memorial Complex, built in 2003 to honor Ivan Konev, the Soviet marshal and Steppe Front commander during the war. It is worth mentioning that after the liberation of Kharkiv from the Nazis, the Steppe Front was renamed the Second Ukrainian Front.71 The Memorial Complex reinforced the symbolic connection between the neighbouring Kharkiv and Belgorod oblasts “in the spirit of Orthodox Slavic unity.” In 2003, an Orthodox chapel appeared beside the monument to the Soviet military commander. In another striking example, the erection of a new Orthodox church in the very centre of the city led to the removal of the entire Soviet Colonnade of Young Communist League war heroes, with its dozen busts. The “Ukrainization” of cultural space in Kharkiv revolved around symbols adopted earlier by the Soviet regime. For example, Cossack mythology became especially visible during the official celebrations of Kharkiv’s 350th anniversary in 2004 (before the “Orange Revolution”). The monument to Cossack Kharko, the city’s mythical founder, (designed and presented to Kharkiv by the extraordinarily prolific Russo-Georgian sculptor Zurab Tsereteli) was unveiled in downtown Kharkiv. It was placed symbolically at the end of Lenin Street, the beginning of which was dominated by a newly erected Russian Orthodox church. Presented in that way, Cossack mythology was compatible with the imperial legacy. The Soviet legacy paved the way for imperial Russian symbols. It is no wonder that next to the building of the Kharkiv Oblast State Administration there appeared a bust of the first imperial Russian governor of Sloboda Ukraine, Count Yevdokim Shcherbinin, regarded in Ukrainian national historiography as the gravedigger of the region’s Cossack autonomy.72 At the same time, a monument was erected in Kharkiv to Prince St Aleksandr Nevsky, for whom, however, no better location was found than a local psychiatric clinic. Gradually, Kharkiv’s Soviet symbolic spaces were subjected to increasing Russification. In the city centre, for example, the monument to fighters for Soviet rule, which reflected the historical mythology of the Great October Socialist Revolution, was gradually taken down, as was Glory Way, which commemorated Great Patriotic War heroes of the Young Communist League underground. The latter was replaced by an ecclesiastical complex of the Russian Orthodox Church. After Viktor Yanukovych took office as president in 2010, Kharkiv’s official memory policy was radicalized, succumbing

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increasingly to the influence of post-Soviet Russian neo-imperial discourse. The Ukrainian national narrative seems neither flexible nor consolidated enough to come to terms with the Soviet legacy. The “national renaissance” mythology yielded to the imperial Russian city’s golden age of progress, proudly manifested in Kharkiv’s classic architecture and landscape. The victim discourse of the Holodomor and Stalinist persecution was unable to rival the local discourse of Kharkiv as an innovative city of Soviet modernization, military-industrial production, and educational and scientific achievements. The glorification of the wartime Ukrainian Insurgent Army, which opposed both the Nazis and the Soviets, proved far less popular than the reinvented Russian/Soviet “Great Victory” discourse. It was hard for Ukraine’s new national symbols to take root in Kharkiv’s cultural landscape. A commemorative stone erected in honour of the proclamation of Ukrainian independence on Liberty Square (formerly Dzerzhinsky Square) at the dawn of modern Ukrainian statehood, with the promise to transform it into a monument, remains a dead place of memory. Equally unsuccessful was a monument to the tenth anniversary of the proclamation of Ukrainian statehood erected in 2001 on the former Rosa Luxemburg Square. Cut off from sidewalks by streams of traffic at every approach, it attracted no visitors. The symbol chosen for the monument was that of a tenyear-old girl rather than something corresponding to the “millennium of Ukrainian national statehood” mythology. The monument was dismantled in 2011. The new independence monument, known as “Flying Ukraine,” was erected in 2012 in the city’s historical centre, Constitution Square, to replace the huge Soviet monument dedicated to the anniversary of the 1917 October Revolution. “Flying Ukraine” is the figure of a winged woman similar to the ancient Greek goddess Nike holding a branch of laurel and flying over the globe. According to former President Viktor Yanukovych, who officially unveiled it in 2012, “The monument symbolizes our fathers’ long-standing hope for freedom; our centuries-long striving for independence. At the same time, it symbolizes the aspiration and will of present-day Ukrainians to strive for new achievements and victories.”73 But those ideas are not supported by any association with Ukrainian national symbols in the design of the monument. In fact, its style bears a striking resemblance to a statue of Jesus Christ on the globe that stands a couple of hundred metres away, hidden in the courtyard of the Holy Protection Monastery.

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Before the political crisis that erupted in the winter of 2013–14, Kharkiv appeared to be the ideal place to mount political opposition to Kyiv-led nation-state–building. The political leaders of the oblast (Mikhail Dobkin) and city (Gennadii Kernes) were known to be loyal allies of Yanukovych and openly pro-Russian; they also maintained intensive contacts with their Russian counterparts, not only in Moscow but also in neighbouring Belgorod and even in the more distant Chechen capital, Grozny. Their memory politics were becoming ever more compatible with the official Kremlin “Russian World” discourse and “Great Fatherland War” mythology. Dozens of Russian and pro-Russian organizations existed legally in Kharkiv, ranging from cultural and religious bodies to sports and paramilitary associations. Among them was Oplot (“stronghold” or “bastion”), the most aggressive paramilitary vigilante group, which later became the Vostok (East) Battalion in the army of the Donbas separatists.74 As Peter Dickinson writes, “No other Ukrainian city outside of Crimea looked to be quite as firmly rooted in the ‘Russian World.’”75 After the first salvos on Independence Square (Maidan) in Kyiv at the beginning of 2014, Kharkiv prepared to take over the functions of an alternate capital of Ukraine. With more than 3,000 lawmakers of all levels of government gathered in Kharkiv from the southern and eastern oblasts of Ukraine, including Sevastopol and the Autonomous Republic of the Crimea, they awaited only the president and speaker of the Supreme Rada of Ukraine, who were already hastening there from Kyiv. These people represented a new political alliance, the “Ukrainian Front,” evoking associations with the “Great Patriotic War” when the Ukrainian Fronts of the Soviet Red Army began “liberating Ukraine from the Nazis.” The ideological basis of this alliance was the Russian “Great Victory” discourse, and the enormous hall of the Kharkiv Sports Palace, where the gathering took place, was decorated with a symbol of that discourse – the Ribbon of St George. Kharkiv was to be the starting point for “liberating” all of Ukraine from “Ukrainian fascism.” The oblast governor, Mikhail Dobkin, announced the creation of a National Guard–type armed unit, recruited from members of Russian Cossack, veterans’, military, and sports organizations, mandated to “bring order” to Ukraine. The plans of Yanukovych’s supporters were quite transparent: to “liberate” Ukraine from those taking part in the Euromaidan as the Red Army had liberated Kyiv, the capital of the Ukrainian SSR, from the Nazis in 1943.

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The next step was to be a new version of the mythologized “Little Russian” Pereiaslav Council of 1654. Characteristically, during a rally of the Liberal Democratic Party in Moscow on 23 February, which announced the formation of Russian volunteer units that would be departing for Kharkiv, the odious Russian nationalist Vladimir Zhirinovsky spoke of breaking up Ukraine and tearing away eastern “Little Russia,” declaring Kharkiv its capital, and incorporating it into the Russian Federation. Numerous representatives of the Russian political elite from Moscow and the border oblasts came to Kharkiv to welcome local political leaders.76 They were only waiting for the Ukrainian president to legitimize the Ukrainian-Russian “reunion.” “The geography of Europe and the very course of twenty-first-century European history would be decided partly in Kharkiv between late February and midApril 2014.”77 This time, however, Kharkiv managed to avoid the scenario of 1917, when the city was declared the capital of Soviet Ukraine instead of Kyiv. Subsequent events in Kharkiv were more reminiscent of opposition to the Orange Revolution and the quest for southeastern regional autonomy ten years earlier than the events of late 1917. This time, the course of events in the city was determined by open confrontation between small groups of committed activists rather than by mass movements. At first the pro-Russian groups, twice as large as their Ukrainian counterparts, managed to seize the regional administrative building and declare a “Kharkiv People’s Republic” in the spring of 2014. Their attempt was suppressed with astonishing ease by a special forces squad from the central Ukrainian city of Vinnytsia. The separatists failed to obtain assistance even from Russian “volunteers” in neighbouring oblasts. Instead, they were driven out of the city by Ukrainian nationalists who established the Azov Battalion (later Regiment).78 Both opposing forces went on to play a significant role in the war in the Donbas, but most of the city dwellers remained neutral or indifferent.79 One could hardly exaggerate the influence of the Azov armed unit, which was led by people with a historical education, on the memory politics of that period in Kharkiv. In particular, the azovtsi were instrumental in the removal of monuments to Soviet leaders from the Kharkiv city centre during the decommunization of Ukraine’s public spaces. Among them was the huge statue of Lenin in the centre of Liberty Square, which became the main symbol of pro-Russian mobilization and gatherings. It was demolished in September 2014 by Ukrainian radical activists, producing emotional reactions in Ukraine and abroad.80 In 2015, several more statues of Lenin and other

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communist leaders were toppled by Ukrainian nationalists.81 Kharkiv’s local elites decided to replace the Lenin monument with a huge column crowned with an angel bearing an Orthodox cross. Only energetic protests from local civic activists prevented the “clericalization” of Ukraine’s largest square. The city authorities finally decided to build a fountain there, putting an end to the issue. Since 2015, Kharkiv has undergone another toponymic revolution, the third one in its recent history, in which 268 urbanonyms were changed.82 As a result, most Soviet and communist names and symbols disappeared from the urban space. This may be considered a very moderate revolution, since most municipal voters held to the principle of seeking the golden mean – the city’s characteristic behaviour throughout its history. More than half the new names of streets and squares turned out in fact to be old local ones associated with the previous, pre-Soviet era.83 A significant proportion of them refer to local Orthodox parishes. Most of Kharkiv’s new street names are anthroponyms celebrating local science, education, and traditional culture: in nearly equal measure, they reflect both the imperial Russian and the Soviet historical legacies. The selection of Ukrainian national symbols seems smaller than the abovementioned toponymic groups and is associated either with the Cossack era or with the local historical and cultural heritage. Only a handful belong to the historical mythology of the Ukrainian national revolution of 1917–20. The wartime mythology of the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists and the Ukrainian Insurgent Army is not represented in the new toponymy, while numerous Soviet monuments and memorials erected to commemorate the “Great Patriotic War” mythology remain intact. The cultural landscape of Kharkiv has undergone rapid transformation in recent decades, reflecting not only changes in identity politics but also certain aesthetic tastes of local society. Gennadii Kernes’s tenure as mayor of Kharkiv was long enough (2010–20) to leave an imprint on the city’s architectural ensemble. The changes that he initiated are especially notable in places most frequented by the public, two parks first and foremost. One of them, the largest in Kharkiv, is located in the northern part of the city and named after the Russian proletarian writer Maxim Gorky; the second, smaller but no less popular, is named after Taras Shevchenko and located in the very centre of town. The appearance of both has been changed by large-scale reconstruction, marked by Kharkiv’s usual stylistic eclecticism and commercialization. The combination of kitsch with some claims to intellectualism

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has been severely criticized by local aesthetes but fully satisfies the tastes of the mass consumer. This may be taken as just another proof that the city’s local identity remains quite strong. In fact, according to a recent sociological survey, it seems more powerful than the national identity.84 Local residents respond with hostility to any hint of disparagement of the “first capital” mythology.85 Significant numbers of Kharkivites, like residents of other eastern and southern Ukrainian cities, remain nostalgic about Soviet times.86 Even after the failure (certainly not the rout) of the radical Russian nationalists in Kharkiv and the ban on the Communist Party of Ukraine, the political sympathies of the city’s population did not change significantly. Part of the local population continued to harbour pro-Russian sympathies and support separatist groups, which have gone underground but remind one of their presence from time to time with acts of sabotage or vandalism.87 The elections to the Kharkiv oblast legislature in 2015 were won decisively by politicians representing the former Party of Regions, which had undergone some reorganization.88 Elections to the Kharkiv City Council produced similar results,89 bringing back Mayor Gennadii Kernes, who had been active on Yanukovych’s side in the events of 2014. In 2018, as many as 38 per cent of those Kharkivites who were certain about their political preferences declared that they would vote for the proRussian political parties Za Zhyttia (For Life) and Opoblok (Opposition Bloc).90 However, recent presidential and parliamentary elections in Ukraine produced a hardly predictable political alternative to both the “Soviet/Russian” and the “Ukrainian national” discourses, which lost to a “third force” represented by Volodymyr Zelensky and his Servant of the People party. Nevertheless, “local politicians in the region (much as in Odesa) mostly maintained their positions of power. They still control the local and regional (oblast) councils while openly advocating for peace with Russia, sabotaging decommunization laws, and glorifying the communist history of Ukraine.”91

Conclusions Kharkiv, one of the most important Ukrainian cities, may be seen as an indicator of the progress of Ukrainian nation-state–building, which in turn is based on the three pillars: geopolitics, historical legacy, and modernity. Kharkiv clearly demonstrates the persistence of geography and history on the

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Russo-Ukrainian borderland, which has been in a state of flux since the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Kharkiv’s strategic location on the route from the Russian heartland to Crimea made it the true capital of one of the most advanced economic regions of the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union. The imperial incorporation and modernization of the former steppe frontier contributed to the successful development of Kharkiv as a crossroads city, with its specific local identity based on the idea of progress. Contrariwise, the disintegration of imperial space reduced Kharkiv’s transitional capacity and demoted it to the status of a border city. In terms of symbolic geography, Kharkiv has occupied a mutable position in the Russo-Ukrainian borderland, which has been in a state of permanent reconfiguration. Eclecticism, multiculturalism, hybrid identity, and indifference to identity are all typical of borderland cities. Kharkiv’s dynamic development and frontier location are reflected in its cultural landscape, which has been shaped by contending discourses of local, regional, national, and imperial identity. Some of these identities have coexisted, partly because of their loose articulation: from that perspective, Kharkiv’s local narrative might be regarded as more pragmatic than traditional Russian or even Ukrainian national identity. Although Kharkiv is much more important for Ukrainian nation-building than for its Russian counterpart, the city has not been fully integrated into the Ukrainian grand narrative. The city holds fast to its “golden age” mythology, which is deeply rooted in the imperial and Soviet past. Ukrainian national discourse, for its part, seems so bound to the past as to have difficulty in expressing itself in more flexible and inclusive terms. While Kharkiv has been marginalized in both narratives, it has also shown its ability to be guided by common sense and to avoid extremes – an advantage more characteristic of a border city than of a capital.

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6

A University for Ukraine

Introduction The founding of Kharkiv University in 1805 may be considered the central event in the history of the Sloboda region in the first half of the nineteenth century. The university became one of the most recognized symbols of the city and region as a whole, notably influencing the cultural and even administrative topography of the Ukrainian-Russian borderland. It is presented in the Ukrainian grand narrative as the first Ukrainian university and the main centre of the early national revival.1 Ukrainian authors have been especially interested in emphasizing the university’s connections with local society to prove its “organic” character. In Russian and Western historiography, Kharkiv University is usually considered in the context of imperial modernization initiated and conducted “from above.”2 Most of those who have explored the topic recognize the active role in this process of the local gentry’s leader and enlightener, Vasilii Karazin, whom many consider the true founder of Kharkiv University. However, Karazin’s motives and role in this history have been variously interpreted in Ukrainian historiography.3 In this chapter, I shall focus on the first decades of Kharkiv University in an attempt to revise the account of how and why it was established and discern the motives of the main actors in this process, as well as its outcomes. The role of the university in the Ukrainian cultural movement is another topic that deserves special attention. What motivated the university professors and students to turn to Ukrainian topics? Finally, I will touch briefly on issues of knowledge transfer and the adaptation of the Western university model on Ukrainian soil. I believe that the search for answers to all these

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questions takes the investigator far beyond the Ukrainian national framework and requires focusing on both imperial and regional perspectives.

The Beginning The development of education in the Ukrainian lands in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries remains a controversial problem. According to David Saunders, “it may have lagged behind education available in the West, but it was a long way ahead of most of the education available in Russia.”4 Nevertheless, one cannot ignore numerous complaints of contemporaries attesting to their view that the educational system in the Ukrainian lands was incapable of meeting the practical needs of society. Many of them preferred to travel to German university centres to obtain diplomas rather than enter Orthodox collegiums in Kyiv, Kharkiv, or Chernihiv. The only Russian university in Moscow also attracted numerous Ukrainians from the Cossack lands. The Little Russian elite of the Hetmanate well understood the connection between secular university education and the social status associated with it. Education and service were the routes whereby representatives of the former Cossack officer class were supposed to consolidate their new status as members of the Russian nobility, especially those whose claims to nobility appeared dubious. Military service remained the most important means of acquiring nobiliary rights and powers, but a civilian professional education was also gradually beginning to create opportunities. The last Ukrainian hetman, Kyrylo Rozumovsky, had begun to develop plans for the establishment of a university in his capital, Baturyn.5 In his dual role as Ukrainian hetman and president of the St Petersburg Academy of Sciences, Rozumovsky followed the model of German universities of the day, with their corporate autonomy. The first university professors and staff members would be invited to Ukraine from the German lands. The principal goal of Baturyn University was to be the education of a new secular generation of the Little Russian intellectual elite – teachers, doctors, and professors. It proved impossible to realize this project after Rozumovsky’s resignation. The same fate awaited efforts to establish a university in other urban centres of the former Hetmanate, such as Chernihiv, Pereiaslav, and Lubny.6 It is significant that at least some of these projects were elaborated in cooperation with the imperial Russian authorities or even initiated by the latter. The newly established Katerynoslav, imagined in the role of southern capital of

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the Russian Empire, was also projected as a university centre. The city was supposed to become a centre of gravity for Orthodox Slavs in the Balkan peninsula, and the university was to play an important role in drawing them into Russian cultural space. But the idea of Katerynoslav University perished with the death of its main promoter, Prince Grigorii Potemkin. The Sloboda region gentry also expressed itself in favour of secular education during the elections to the Legislative Commission of 1768 and in the course of its work. However, the local elites appeared to be less ambitious than their Little Russian neighbours. They just proposed expanding the curriculum of the Kharkiv Orthodox Collegium to include, in particular, modern languages, mathematics, and military science.7 Such a modest program seemed acceptable to the imperial authorities. The Kharkiv Collegium was expanded to include a state secular educational institution known as “supplementary classes,” “classes,” a “state school,” or even a “gymnasium.”8 Basically intended for children of the gentry, it was in fact independent of the college and directly subordinate to the gubernia (provincial) government, that is, to the gubernia administration. The curriculum of the “supplementary classes” lent itself to turning the school into a military college, which was fully in keeping with the desires of the local gentry.9 The secular system of education soon expanded with the opening of the Main Public School in Kharkiv in 1789. To understand the subsequent course of events, which led to the founding of Kharkiv University, one has to interpret them in a political context. Emperor Alexander I, who was brought to power by a gentry conspiracy, reinstated the Charter to the Nobility (1785) and the inviolability of gentry privileges in 1801. The tsar supported a Senate initiative by re-establishing the practice of convoking gubernia gentry assemblies and allowing them to submit collective petitions to the government, earlier forbidden by Paul I. The Charter to the Cities was also reinstated in the same year. The new monarch needed to resume the dialogue with gentry society in order to promote his own agenda of enlightened reforms. The gentry of the ill-assorted provinces of the empire, for its part, once awakened to participation in social affairs, usually hastened to voice its own needs and demands, which were sometimes at variance with official efforts to unify the state. This sequence came into play whenever a period of official reaction was followed by a policy of liberal reform. The unambiguous signals sent by the centre were duly received in the regions. This in turn led to the activation of somnolent gentry initiative. As in the elections to the Legislative

A University for Ukraine

Figure 6.1

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Kharkiv University (1823–31), contemporary view. From the author’s collection.

Commission in 1767, the Ukrainian gentry began to articulate its traditional rights and freedoms. The gentry of the Sloboda region, having learned of the restitution of the Charter to the Nobility, hastened to convoke an extraordinary assembly on 31 May 1801 to express its deep appreciation to the new emperor. The imperial rescript on the matter, dated 29 December 1801, included all the requisite mentions of “our constant appreciation of the steadfast loyalty, diligence, and merits of the Sloboda Ukraine gentry” and the “affirmation and assurance of all the rights and privileges conferred upon it at various times and existing without revocation to the present day.”10 The townspeople followed in their footsteps, celebrating the restitution of the Charter to the Cities. A step toward the satisfaction of the corporate interests of the Sloboda gentry was the governmental project to establish a military academy (cadet college) in Kharkiv, which was made public in mid-August 1801. It contained an appeal for voluntary donations to help build the institution. Since the wishes of the central authorities in the Russian Empire were always interpret-

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ed locally as routine calls for action, the Sloboda gentry obliged itself to collect 100,000 rubles for the new governmental project over three years. True, some of the landowners protested that sum, considering it excessive,11 but that was not the main thing: relations between the local provincial gentry and the throne began to be determined once again, as previously, by the practice of direct dialogue and mutual compromise. In that regard, the gentry of the Sloboda region followed the protocol of relations with the government worked out by long practice: initiatives were to come “from above,” and the response to them presupposed a positive reply “from below,” along with a modest reminder of local needs and wishes. The landed gentry of the Sloboda region decided to seize the opportunity to approach the government on the question of restoring the local rights and privileges set forth in tsarist charters of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries but abolished during the reign of Catherine II. According to the practice of earlier years, the gentry, followed by the merchants, selected their deputies, who were supposed to greet the new emperor in person with his election to the throne and represent the gubernia at his coronation. The deputies elected by the gentry were the marshal of the Sloboda region nobility, Volodymyr Donets-Zakharzhevsky, the Sumy landowner Fedir Kukol-Yasnopolsky, and the Bohodukhiv landowner Vasilii Karazin, then living in St Petersburg, who was embarking on his impetuous career at court.

Karazin The biography of Vasilii Karazin is veiled in mystery and legend, and the man himself played a significant role in creating and preserving his personal mythology.12 Much of what we know about his youth and the breakneck speed and trajectory of his career at the tsarist court comes from Karazin’s own statements issued at various stages and twists and turns of his complicated life. This trove of information shows distinct traces of a fluctuating civic and political state of affairs. Quite a few historians who studied Karazin’s life came under the influence of the polemical and subjective views of the educator himself or his ideological opponents. This situation gave rise to many conflicts, exaggerated views, ambiguities, and unresolved mysteries that are the stuff of the literature about him.13 Karazin was the son of a Balkan emigrant who made his way up the military career ladder to the rank of colonel and became the owner of a large

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estate in Sloboda Ukraine.14 His father’s service to the Russian throne allowed Karazin to enter the elite Semenovsky Life Guards Regiment. His restless and turbulent nature led him, however, from military service to academia and freethinking, from embarking on journeys throughout Russia to an attempt to escape across the border. Arrested while trying to make an illegal crossing of Russia’s western border and imprisoned in the Shlisselburg Fortress, by a stroke of luck Karazin obtained a pardon from Tsar Paul I and a sinecure in St Petersburg. After Alexander I acceded to the throne, Karazin was granted a personal audience with the new Russian emperor and earned his trust in the process. The circumstances behind this metamorphosis remain veiled in mystery to the present day. It may be inferred that Tsar Alexander, surrounded by conspirators who had murdered his father, badly needed people personally devoted to him. Karazin, who had enjoyed the favour of Paul I, who had no influential patrons at court and was not dependent on the various competing groups and clans, was thus eminently suited for the role of trusted assistant to the emperor. Holding the modest post of secretary of various committees and commissions developing projects of university reform, Karazin was simultaneously a confidant of the emperor with direct access to him. To a certain extent, all this goes to explain the political and cultural phenomenon of Karazin at the Russian imperial court, the degree of his influence on current affairs, and the role he played in the founding of Kharkiv University. Regardless of his fairly low rank and office, Karazin actually wielded much greater influence than might be observed from outside. He was sometimes given secret assignments requiring particular delicacy, notably the investigation of instances of corruption among high-ranking officials. On the orders of Alexander I, Karazin gathered compromising materials about Dmitrii Lopukhin, the odious governor general of Kaluga, who was notorious for his criminal actions and abuse of power. These materials enabled the state commission headed by Gavriil Derzhavin to prosecute Lopukhin, even though the latter had many friends and high-ranking patrons.15 Most of those who were in the habit of taking bribes and engaged in the abuse of power began to fear Karazin, who, according to predictions, was slated to become the tsar’s favourite.16 In addition, he was formally appointed secretary of the committee that had been charged with drafting a new statute for higher educational institutions and the Academy of Sciences. For a brief period, Karazin played a dual role: as an unofficial agent, he served as the “sovereign’s eyes and ears,” and as a representative of the nobil-

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iary community of Sloboda Ukraine who stood next to the throne, he was the spokesman of its thoughts and moods. Karazin soon justified the expectations of his countrymen in his role as deputy. Thanks to his support, on 29 December 1801 they received a monarchical charter confirming their former “rights and privileges granted [to them] in various periods and [which are] still valid without abrogation.” At the same time, Karazin, on his own initiative, presented a proposal to the gentry of Sloboda Ukraine to support the idea of founding a university in Kharkiv with donated funds. It is hard to say when this idea occurred to Karazin, especially considering that he wrote about it in vague terms.17 I have not found any evidence that such a plan existed in 1801, as the historian Yakov Abramov, one of Karazin’s biographers, has written.18 However, one may concur with Dmytro Bahalii that, one way or another, the idea of a university was connected with Karazin’s work in the above-mentioned committee; therefore, the idea of founding a university in Kharkiv possibly emerged no earlier than 1802, that is, after the gentry of Sloboda Ukraine obtained confirmation of its privileges.19 On 2 May 1802, Karazin sent a private letter to the Kharkiv priest and enlightener Vasilii Fotiiev, which states in part: “Having been deemed worthy of a conversation with the good Sovereign shortly after my return to St Petersburg, I ventured to tell him about the idea of establishing a university in Kharkiv that would be organized better than the Moscow one and worthy of being called the educational centre of southern Russia. My idea was received positively, and I set about drafting a plan for it.”20 Karazin states further: “This idea has utterly captivated my soul, and I am only waiting for the gentry company’s assent in order to act.”21 As far as I have been able to determine, this is the first documented mention of the idea of founding a university in Kharkiv. There is an established notion in the scholarly literature that at the time the choice of Kharkiv as a university town could not have occurred to anyone but Karazin.22 And indeed, it must be accepted that almost until the last moment the society of the Sloboda region had not the slightest inkling of the fate prepared for it in the capital. The gentry of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia, expecting that a cadet college would be opened in Kharkiv, was simultaneously preparing for its general assembly in order to offer ceremonial thanks to the emperor for reinstating local privileges. The marshal of the gubernia nobility, planning that occasion, advised in a letter of 20 June 1802 that a supplementary donation of funds be made, either to open a forty-bed hospital in

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Kharkiv or to provide scholarships for twenty children of the gentry or, in the last instance, for aid to the poor.23 As yet, however, there was no mention of a university in those letters. In July 1802, when Karazin convinced the tsar that the local gentry fully supported the idea of Kharkiv University and was prepared to prove it with generous voluntary donations, he had no formal right to do so, since he had not obtained the preliminary agreement of the gentry corporation.24 Dmytro Bahalii, a historian of Kharkiv University, found himself obliged to admit that Karazin, “with his characteristic enthusiasm ... had already informed the sovereign of the Kharkiv gentry’s desire to make a donation for the university” long before the official decision of the gentry assembly.25 It may be assumed that certain promises of a private or public nature had been given to the Kharkiv gentry on Karazin’s part in return for its agreement to support the university project. The carefully prepared and regulated ceremonial character of the assembly of gubernia gentry on 30 August 1802 strikes one as noteworthy in that connection. It was meant to remind those present yet again, if reminder were needed, that the main reason for the event and the idea at its heart was not, after all, the university but the charter of gentry privileges graciously presented by the monarch. That precious document was carried publicly on a crimson pillow, sprinkled with holy water, and displayed in the most prominent places in church and in administrative premises. Against that background, subsequent donations for the university appeared as mere gestures of gratitude on the part of society in response to yet another monarchical favour. It would be fair to assume that the organizers of the gentry assembly were mindful of the fact that 30 August was the saint’s day of Alexander, after whom the monarch was named. That day became the date of the official university holiday, in commemoration of the gentry assembly of the Sloboda gubernia in 1802 at which the restitution of some of their rights and privileges was celebrated.26 Regardless of all the preparatory measures, opposition to the university project arose among the gentry of the Izium and Vovchansk districts of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia, who considered that it had been “handed down from above” without preliminary consultation, at the government’s initiative. More precisely, this was just a continuation of the previous opposition, when the smallholders protested what they considered the excessive sum of 100,000 rubles specified as a voluntary donation for the military academy that the government was planning for Kharkiv. The new sum of a million rubles

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suggested by some of the gentry as a total contribution to the building of the university looked utterly unrealistic in comparison. The paradox of this situation was that the opposition – supported, by the way, by the governor of Sloboda Ukraine, Andrei Artakov, who was acting in accord with previous governmental instructions – was conducting itself lawfully in formal terms, citing an official ban on donations of an involuntary nature.27 Moreover, the opponents noted procedural infringements in the course of preparations and the conduct of the gentry assemblies. They pointed out in particular that the emperor had not issued an edict permitting them to be conducted, which cast doubt on the legality of their decisions. Karazin, for his part, did all he could to obtain a positive resolution from the gentry assembly of 31 August 1802. His speech, abounding with fervent and genuine emotion and replete with passionate rhetoric in the spirit of the time, concluded with the forthright words: “It now depends on you, most esteemed assembly, to justify me or consign me to shame and despair. I stand here before you either as your friend or as a criminal.”28 Karazin had to make desperate efforts to come up with a verdict favourable to himself in the matter. He was running across a bridge that was collapsing behind him. In that situation, the gentry did not wish and would scarcely have dared to turn the tsar’s favourite from a friend into an enemy, thereby risking a fiasco with the reinstatement of its local privileges. The Sloboda gentry, having listened to Karazin the official, hastened to express to him – their deputy at the tsar’s court – a whole series of supplementary petitions concerning their traditional privileges (slobody). Nor did they neglect to reduce the sum of their voluntary donations for the university to 400,000 rubles, including their unpaid debts to the state and their personal donations to the cadet college. Participants in the assembly defined their position in a separate document, approved on 1 September 1802, which was to serve as an instruction to Karazin with regard to his subsequent actions. Thus, in the consciousness of the Sloboda gentry, Karazin’s university project turned out to be closely associated with their own corporate desires – those already confirmed by the government and those they expected to realize. So widespread was this attitude that even the marshal of the local nobility, Volodymyr Donets-Zakharzhevsky, a descendant of a well-known line of Cossack colonels, appealing to the neighbouring Little Russian gentry to do its part in contributing financially to the establishment of Kharkiv University,

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gave as his prime argument that new governmental favours could be expected for the region: “The gentry of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia had the good fortune to receive a charter of confirmation of the rights and privileges of this land, Most Highly granted by His Imperial Majesty.”29 Karazin himself, given the ambiguity of his status vis-à-vis the emperor, appeared by turns in the role of an official in the imperial capital endowed with plenary powers and a deputy of the Sloboda Ukraine gentry at court. The draft university statute written by Karazin corresponded in the first instance to the corporate interests of the local gentry inasmuch as it made particular provision for maintaining the principle of segregation by social estate in the educational process, special prerogatives for students of gentry descent, the inclusion of military training in the university curriculum, and so on. According to the draft statute, all higher and more elementary schools in the Sloboda region were to be supervised by a director elected from the local gentry with the assistance of a committee of university professors. Other estates were thus deprived of influence on university affairs. Karazin’s draft endowed the university with a thoroughly gentry character. Karazin could not have been unaware that at the beginning of 1802 Alexander I had personally struck out of the draft statute for Dorpat (Tartu) University all items proposed by the local gentry in its own interests and all that might restrict the academic freedom of the university corporation. The tsar confirmed his position on the matter yet again during a visit to Dorpat University in May 1802. Karazin was in fact going against the current by coming out against the updated model of the German university, with its fundamental principles of academic freedom and autonomy, toward which the imperial bureaucracy of the capital, the most influential grouping at court, oriented itself. But Karazin took the risk deliberately because he had no alternative. He became a hostage of his dual role as imperial agent and regional patriot. At all costs he needed to incline the Sloboda gentry toward a voluntary “patriotic” donation for the founding of Kharkiv University, persuading them to abandon any intention of opening a military academy in the city, for which some funds had already been collected. And it was precisely the support of the local gentry that was supposed to become the decisive argument capable of convincing the government to open a university in Kharkiv. Following the gentry’s example, the Kharkiv municipal administration supported the idea of founding a university in the city but supplemented it with its own desires and petitions. The merchants, for instance, petitioned to end

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military quartering in the city. Other estates, particularly the townspeople and guild tradesmen, followed the example of the gentry and the merchants, even though they had declined to make financial contributions. Unlike them, the local Cossacks declared a voluntary donation of a parcel of land in the city for Kharkiv University, not forgetting to remind the authorities that it would be desirable to renew their own corporate privileges associated with the production and sale of spirits, the abolition of certain taxes, the tax-farming system, and the like.30 Thus, as the historian Ludwik Janowski justly noted, the idea of Kharkiv University was closely bound up from the very beginning with the exclusive corporate interests of local society, which was so contrary to the wishes of the enlightened Russian government.31 In that regard, the Sloboda gentry did not differ from its Little Russian, Baltic, or Polish-Lithuanian counterparts. The situation that had come into existence at the beginning of Catherine II’s reign was being repeated in miniature, with certain differences: social initiative in the localities, awakened “from above,” was going beyond the framework envisaged by the authorities. In this case, the situation contradicted certain fundamental principles of the state policy of centralizing and unifying the regions of the empire. That is precisely why the governor of Kharkiv, Andrei Artakov, reacted so strongly to the demand of Kharkiv merchants concerning military quartering. The emperor himself did not dare to abolish that policy. Moreover, the demands of local estates with regard to the reinstatement of their traditional “liberties,” especially the production and free sale of spirits, affected the interests of the imperial treasury and the local administration, which realized considerable income from the state monopoly on vodka. Finally, the very circumstances attending the preparations and proceedings of the gentry assembly of August 1802 in Kharkiv, opposition complaints about legal infractions by a group of the richest and most influential representatives of the local gentry corporation, and similar complaints by Artakov against the actions of Karazin himself and the municipal government, which supported him, called into question the legitimacy of the second component required for the success of Karazin’s project – the “unexpected and, to date, the only patriotic outburst of its kind” in the form of the gentry’s voluntary financial contribution to the university.32 In a special rescript of 30 September 1802, Alexander I thanked the Sloboda gentry for its patriotic action in rather restrained terms, without a word about its petitions of a regional corporate nature, emphasizing particularly

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that he would agree to accept the funds only on condition that they not lead to a new tax on serfs. The government even found it necessary to open an official investigation, supervised by the minister of the interior, Viktor Kochubei, of the circumstances in which the assemblies of the Sloboda gentry were held. However, the government needed to proceed cautiously. The decision of the Kharkiv gentry and townspeople to donate voluntarily in the interests of the university had already become public knowledge. The government found it more useful to turn that decision to its own advantage by presenting it as an expression of support for its policy on the part of the provincial gentry and evidence of active social participation in governmental reforms. The principal motive officially put forward for establishing a university in Kharkiv was the “patriotic donation” of the gentry and citizens of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia. The new tsarist rescript of 31 January 1803 to the Sloboda gentry differed sharply from the one of 31 August 1802, in which Alexander I had reacted to the decision of the general assembly of the Sloboda Ukrainian gentry. This time it was couched in an exceptionally gracious tone, with thanks and compliments addressed to particular individuals who had acted in the interests of the university. The emperor distributed awards to its most active supporters. Those opposed to the university project – the marshal of the Izium nobility, Zakharashevych-Kapustiansky, and Governor Andrei Artakov – suffered a defeat. Some time later, the former was publicly rebuked by the emperor, while the latter was soon dismissed from his post. Both suffered for sticking to the letter of the law. The issue of Kharkiv University had in fact already been decided in its favour by the end of 1802, when Karazin and the future administrator of the Kharkiv educational district, Count Seweryn Potocki, began the selection of the first university professors. The formal decision to confirm the list of university towns and educational districts in the Russian Empire was taken in January 1803 with a special legislative act, “Preliminary Regulations of Public Education,” on the foundations of a new system of education for the empire. The other reason why the Kharkiv University project gained official status instead of being shelved for many years – the fate that had befallen many earlier university projects and even ukases promulgated by Catherine II – was of a geopolitical nature. It came to the forefront in September 1802 when discussions of the university project were initiated in the government committee tasked with drafting a new statute for higher educational institutions and

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the Academy of Sciences at the behest of the school commission on which Karazin served as secretary.

Regional Geopolitics It appears that, initially, Karazin was the only one championing Kharkiv’s interests. He acted on the basis of his position as spokesman for Russia’s southward expansion, in which Kharkiv could play an important strategic role. The city had a unique geopolitical location, situated as it was at the very heart of strategic communication routes linking central Russia with New Russia (Novorossiia), Crimea, and the Caucasus. In this connection, Karazin wrote: “Kharkiv, insignificant in its own right ... could not boast of anything but its central location in the southern gubernias.”33 However, it was Kyiv, not Kharkiv, which was considered by many an obvious choice for the university project. The leading Western specialists invited by the Russian government, including the Swiss Frédéric-César de La Harpe and a well-known educational reformer from the Austrian Empire, the Serb Teodor JankovićMirijevski, gave preference to Kyiv, placing it on the same level as Moscow, Dorpat, Vilnius, St Petersburg, and Kazan.34 The Little Russian landed gentry, however, raised the question of founding a university in Chernihiv and expressed its desire to donate a certain sum of money from its private income for that purpose.35 Some time later, Lubny and NovhorodSiverskyi emerged as contenders for the status of university towns. It is not clear in what way the idea of a university was connected with the local nobles’ social and regional privileges. It is much more clear that these projects were ill-coordinated. Illia Tymkovsky, a Little Russian gentleman who worked together with Karazin on the Kharkiv university project, tried to convince his compatriots that there was no point in petitioning for a university in Poltava or Chernihiv, given that the Kharkiv institution was to be “built near [Little Russian gentry] and in a land inhabited by its relatives.”36 Such arguments did not help: in the eyes of the regional elites, ethnic commonality took second place to particular corporate privileges. Disappointed by such a course of events, Karazin went as far as to assert that in future he would be guided exclusively by the interests of his own “small homeland,” the Sloboda region, and not Little Russia, which was allegedly mocking his efforts.37 The story of the university project was repeated several years later when the Sloboda gentry, developing

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a project for the founding of an institute of noble maidens in Kharkiv, even proposed that it be called a “Little Russian” institute; they invited the gentry of the neighbouring Little Russian gubernias to take part in establishing it, but the latter declined this second proposal as well.38 It is interesting to note that the highly placed Little Russians, such as the ministers Petro Zavadovsky and Viktor Kochubei, who presumably could lobby the Little Russian university project, did not lift a finger to support their compatriots. Both of them, however, sought openly or covertly to undermine Karazin’s plans.39 They rejected university reform in principle and advocated the alternative lycée system, which was closer to aristocratic preferences than the more socially inclusive university model of education. However, when the old-fashioned minister of public education, Count Petro Zavadovsky, was replaced by his compatriot Count Oleksii Rozumovsky, a descendant of the last hetman of Little Russia, the latter raised for discussion the issue of moving the university from Kharkiv to Kyiv. Professor Ferdinand Shveikart, a member of Kharkiv University’s scholarly council, wrote in 1814: “The university should be transferred to the ancient location of learning and source of Little Russian culture, that is, to Kyiv. This is required by the city’s glory, the multitude of inhabitants of every estate, the great commerce that goes on there, and the resulting comforts of life, especially the proximity of places where learning flourishes. Foreign scholars invited from abroad will of course more readily go to Kyiv than to Kharkiv. No argument against such a transfer can be derived from the delineation of the district of our university. After all, Kharkiv was chosen not because it is located in the centre of the district, but the district was created after Kharkiv was chosen.”40 Almost half the members of the council also expressed themselves in favour of Kyiv. The attempt yielded nothing. A similar fate, evidently for the same reasons, awaited the last nineteenth-century attempt to transfer the university from the Sloboda region to Little Russia. It was undertaken in the latter half of the 1820s by the administrator/supervisor of the Kharkiv educational district, Aleksei Perovsky, yet another descendant of the last hetman of Little Russia. As an alternative to Kharkiv, he suggested Novhorod-Siverskyi, the former administrative capital of Little Russia, but it appears that the proposal was not even considered by the academic council of Kharkiv University. The choice between Kharkiv and Kyiv in connection with the reform of secular education was not a sham, as some historians suppose.41 It had a clearly delineated political subtext. Kharkiv became the centre of a university edu-

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cational district because it was less associated with the regional historical privileges of the gentry than any city in either Little Russia or the Polish borderlands (kresy). From the viewpoint of the centre, Kharkiv appeared to be a fulcrum for official policy intended to overcome the corporate and regional diversity of the southern and western borderlands of the empire and bring about their cultural and legal unification. The Kharkiv educational district was made up of diverse regions of contemporary Russia and Ukraine, differing in traditions and ethnic composition: the Russian military borderland; the Cossack territories of the Sloboda region; Little Russia; the Don Cossack and Black Sea Cossack Hosts; the Crimean Khanate; New Russia; and even part of the Caucasus.42 It is striking that, as noted earlier, the sphere of administrative responsibility of the supervisor of the Kharkiv educational district at the moment of its delineation practically coincided with the territory subordinate to the military governor of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia in the late eighteenth century. This was the borderland of imperial Russian modernization. It is worth mentioning in this regard that while the Little Russian gentry refused to support Karazin’s university project, it found favour in two South Russian gubernias, those of Katerynoslav and Kherson. The gentry of Katerynoslav, to whom the idea of a university had not been alien since the time of Prince Grigorii Potemkin and who did not find “South Russian” regional identification incompatible with local tradition, resolved in January 1803 to donate more than 100,000 rubles to Kharkiv University in the course of a decade. Some time later, in 1806, the gentry of another southern gubernia, that of Kherson, also resolved to donate slightly more than 40,000 rubles to Kharkiv University.43 Тhe Kharkiv University project had tremendous influence on establishing the further intellectual cartography not only of the Sloboda region but of all the southern regions of the Russian Empire. Karazin, considering the university in Kharkiv and the boundaries of its educational district, stressed that it should be “the focus of enlightenment of southern Russia.”44 In declaring the pretensions of “insignificant Kharkiv” to figure as the “focus of the southern gubernias,”45 Karazin was virtually relaying to the city the baton of Katerynoslav, which had failed to become the southern capital of the empire and a university centre, as noted earlier. Not surprisingly, Karazin, with his affinity for Balkan problems because of his origins and family traditions, maintained that his plan for the founding of Kharkiv University provided for the education of students even from Greece. All in all, Kharkiv University was assigned

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the task of acculturating the new territories annexed to the Russian Empire in the course of its southwestern expansion. The western dimension of imperial politics also played a certain role in the history of the Kharkiv University project. In this case, the Polish factor turned out to be the most influential. The project of founding a university in Kharkiv won the support of the “Polish” party, headed by Prince Adam Czartoryski, which was influential at court. The motives guiding the Polish nobleman in his decision to support Kharkiv against Kyiv have not remained obscure to historians. In the opinion of James T. Flynn, Czartoryski expressed apprehension that the opening of a university in Kyiv might hamper his plans to reestablish a university in Vilnius.46 There certainly appeared to be grounds for Czartoryski’s apprehension. From the end of the eighteenth century, Russian educational institutions played a particular role in the integration (splochenie) of the western and Baltic lands into the Russian Empire. It was no accident that the Russian government established the first public schools in the empire in 1789 in the Polatsk and Mahilioŭ gubernias and in Kyiv. In December 1801, the educational commission presented a memorandum to the emperor recommending the reform of Polish schools in the western gubernias on the model of Russian public schools “in order to bring annexed Poland into close union with Russia.”47 During the reign of Alexander I, the development of the educational system in the Right-Bank Ukrainian, Lithuanian, and Belarusian gubernias was in the hands of officials such as Petrо Zavadovsky, for whom corporate, regional, and political considerations took precedence over modern national ones. Given the precipitous rise of French power and the impending war with Napoleon, Alexander I, for his part, did not wish to annoy the Polish gentry yet again. The Kharkiv University project presented no direct threat to Polish cultural dominance. According to Ivan Lysiak-Rudnytsky, “Ukrainian national interest would have required favouring Kyiv,” since that would certainly have promoted the development of the Ukrainian national project, especially the cultural unification of Right- and Left-Bank Ukraine and the undermining of Polish gentry influence on the Right Bank.48 As the Ukrainian historian writes, “Prince Czartoryski was right, as a Polish patriot, when he attempted to prevent the founding of a university in Kyiv. He was intent on including the three RightBank gubernias – Volyn, Podilia, and Kyiv – in the Vilnius educational district and thereby consolidating Polish cultural hegemony in those territories. And

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he managed to do so with the active assistance of the Ukrainian Karazin.”49 In fact, Karazin was a “Ukrainian” only in the geographic sense. His role was not that of a Ukrainian nationalist but of one who favoured cultural and legal Russification. In a letter to the governor general of Little Russia, Prince Aleksandr Kurakin, Karazin weighed the chances of various cities – Poltava, Kyiv, Kharkiv, and Chernihiv – with regard to the founding of a university. He stressed that Kyiv lay in the sphere of influence of the Polish gentry, while Poltava mаintained “some kind of unconquerable alienation from the Great Russian inhabitants” and was too far removed from the Russian towns of Orel, Kursk, and Voronezh.50 The Sloboda region, in Karazin’s opinion, had none of those blemishes. But Kharkiv University did not become a regional gentry institution. There was initially nothing in its statute, structure, or teaching staff that reflected specific features of the locality or the region. Nor did the structure of the educational process and curriculum contain anything specially oriented toward local history, geography, or culture or anything designed to encourage students to think of their native history and culture in terms of either Ukrainian national or Sloboda regional identity. The only detail reminiscent of the university’s location was the intention to establish a department of military science in order to satisfy the wishes of local gentry donors. The establishment of the university reflected the triumph of the doctrine of imperial centralization over regional and social particularism. The opening ceremony at the beginning of 1805 was intended to highlight the leading role of the government in the establishment of Kharkiv University. All present were reminded of that role by the medallion specially struck for the occasion, which featured the allegorical figures of Alexander I alongside Apollo, as well as the names of the emperor and the first supervisor of the Kharkiv educational district, Count Seweryn Potocki. The local gentry was represented at the celebration only in the capacity of obedient and grateful subjects showered with the graces of the supreme powers. There was nothing to remind one of the initiative of the gentry themselves in establishing the university. The most eloquent instance of aposiopesis in this regard may be considered the absence from the celebration of Vasilii Karazin himself, the author of the idea of Kharkiv University. In other words, the scenario of public representation of state power did not, in this instance, include those for whom it was actually intended, thereby reflecting the common practice of the imperial authorities.

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It seems that the final act of the dialogue between the imperial centre and the gentry of Sloboda Ukraine turned out to be a profound disappointment for the latter. Not only did the government actually ignore the gentry’s corporate interests, but it completely removed the gentry elite from direct influence on university affairs, concentrating control over them in its own hands. Government officials would long find themselves obliged to explain to the citizenry that just because the university bore the name of their city, that did not give the local gentry any right to take part in its administration. No wonder that the Sloboda gentry quickly lost interest in the universi51 ty. The assembly of marshals of the nobility of the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia held on 21 April 1803 declined Karazin’s proposal to establish a public committee to audit financial contributions, as stipulated particularly on 1 September 1802. Financial contributions to the university fell off sharply. Two decades later, the Sloboda gentry was still in arrears amounting to more than 100,000 rubles – an amount approximating that of initial donations for the desired cadet college in Kharkiv.The government had to resort to administrative repression, collecting money from debtors with the aid of the police and courts. For a quarter century afterwards, there were unceasing complaints from the disgruntled gentry that the funds collected were being spent on the university and not on a cadet college. But the government remained unyielding until it had extracted almost the entire amount of the debt from the unfortunate patrons. Yet again, the well-known Russian proverb was reaffirmed: any initiative other than an official one is reprehensible. Local donations did not create an endowment: financially, the imperial Kharkiv University was totally dependent on the state. In 1811, on the eve of Napoleon’s invasion of Russia, Karazin tried to revise the status of Kharkiv University and strengthen the features of its statute associated with the gentry and the region.52 He proposed that the government replace the supervisor of the educational district with a permanent director chosen from the ranks of the local gentry and obliged to live in Kharkiv. Karazin planned to occupy the position himself. At the same time, he raised the question once again of establishing a department of military science, a theological faculty, and a boarding school for gentry students at Kharkiv University. This time as well, the local gentry proposal of university reform was rejected by the imperial centre. The first supervisor of the Kharkiv educational district, Count Seweryn Potocki, asserted in his speech at the ceremony that Kharkiv University was

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organized “on the model of Oxford and Cambridge, to which the sons of the first English lords come to learn how to defend the rights of their country in Parliament; on the model of Göttingen, Jena and others, where the princeelectors and reigning princes do not find it shameful to send their children.”53 In general, however, the government oriented itself on the German or, more precisely, the Göttingen model, which had become the most popular in central and eastern Europe at the time.54 It was closely associated with the state. The latter regarded universities as effective instruments in its struggles with the church, the aristocracy, traditional legislation, and regional particularism. Thus, the Kharkiv University project, associated from the outset with the ideas of traditional regional identity and estate privileges, was realized in a form directed against those ideas.55 Interestingly, Dorpat University, initiated by the Baltic German landed nobility, was also integrated into the imperial educational structure over time and turned from a Landesuniversität into a Reichsuniversität.56

Academic “Colony” The inclusion of universities in the system of state institutions automatically brought their staff members and graduates into the bureaucratic hierarchy according to the Table of Ranks, while master’s and doctoral diplomas became equivalent to certificates of gentry status. It should be recalled that until then, scholars and professors had been considered members of the socalled “third estate” and could count only on the status of “distinguished citizens” granted them according to the Charter to the Cities (1785).57 From that time on, not only a professorial career but also a university diploma opened the path to personal and even hereditary nobility. This was a great step forward from the time when, according to Christoph von Rommel, certain landowners were quite incapable of grasping the difference between professors and actors.58 With the passing of another quarter century, the title of university professor would finally become prestigious and honourable in the eyes of nineteenth-century Russian society.

Professors For the most part, the first professors and instructors of Kharkiv University were recruited abroad. The instruction issued by the minister of public education, Petro Zavadovsky, provided that invitations to Russian universities

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would be issued first and foremost to scholars from the Slavic lands of the Austrian Empire, for whom the Russian language was supposedly not a foreign tongue.59 Searches undertaken by Seweryn Potocki in the Austrian Empire, notably in Lviv, Cracow, and Vienna, for candidates to fill professorial chairs produced very modest results. At first, he managed to recruit only one professor of Slavic descent, the Serbian physicist Atanasije Stojković, who would soon become rector of Kharkiv University. His countryman Teodor Filipović (pseud. Božidar Grujović), a lawyer by education, was elected an adjunct of Kharkiv University in 1804. It is not known whether he managed to initiate any courses of instruction, since he returned to Serbia in 1805 and became the author of the first Serbian laws and a draft of state organization (constitution) for the country. Much greater success attended searches for qualified candidates in the German lands and in France, then involved in the conflagration of warfare and a radical rebuilding of the whole social, governmental, and cultural order. The famous German universities were in deep crisis because of the French occupation. The best German scholars, including the famous Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Johann Gottlieb Fichte, helped their countrymen and colleagues search for new places of employment and move to the outskirts of the Russian Empire, including Kharkiv and Kazan.60 It was in German lands that most of the instructors prepared to abandon their homeland for a career in provincial Kharkiv were recruited. This ran counter to Zavadovsky’s instructions but was wholly in keeping with the general orientation of Russian reformers toward German models of education. Another source of cadres for Kharkiv University was France, which provided a considerable percentage of emigrants dissatisfied with the revolution and the Napoleonic reforms. The Russian government successfully exploited the situation in European states drawn into the maelstrom of the Napoleonic Wars. The material conditions in which Russian university professors lived, along with certain social privileges, seemed quite attractive, at least to some of the applicants. Moving to the newly established university gave both foreigners and Russian subjects the opportunity to climb the ladder of a career in government service more quickly by obtaining a professorial post, thereby raising one’s social status and gaining the right to join the gentry. But it turned out that the first cohort of Kharkiv professors also included individuals with a sense of cultural mission, noble idealists inspired by the prospect of extending education to culturally untilled and seemingly virgin lands. These were Germans for the most

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part, brought up in the spirit of Enlightenment philosophy that prevailed in the universities of their homeland. The staff of professors and instructors at Kharkiv University proved extraordinarily diverse by origin. Germans were dominant among them, followed by Slavs from the Austrian Empire and Frenchmen. Thus, unlike Moscow University, where immigrants from Germany formed a strong and solidary corporation, Kharkiv University drew its foreign professors from different regions of Europe: they were divided into a variety of groups by origin, religious and national affiliations, educational qualifications, and political loyalties. In this regard, the academic staff at Kharkiv University resembled the one at Kazan University. Russian subjects, who made up no more than onethird of the instructors, were also of various ethnic origin, including Russians, Ukrainians, Germans, and Poles. At first, the only ethnic Ukrainian on academic staff was Professor Illia Tymkovsky, who was also the only nobleman among the Russian subjects. Understandably, this diversity of the Kharkiv professoriate gave rise to constant arguments, intrigues, and conflicts among individuals and cliques concerning problems of infinitely less than global significance. As always in such circumstances, questions of politics and world view became closely intertwined with outraged self-esteem, personal ambition, and conflict of interest. The constant enmity between French and German professors proved especially dramatic. The former were led by Antoine Jeudy Dugour (Degurov), a subtle political operator and deft intriguer who later became rector of St Petersburg University. The leader of the opposing party was Johann Baptist Schad, a professor of philosophy and a dazzling polemicist, frenzied and passionate in his undiplomatic behaviour, who was ultimately deported from Russia. The Germans freely accused their French colleagues of being politically untrustworthy and harbouring pro-Napoleonic sympathies, while the French sought to catch their opponents out in freethinking. Most of the Russian subjects were divided from the foreigners by established prejudice and poorly concealed hostility. “The Russians and the foreigners differed in everything,” noted Professor Christoph Rommel.61 The former, in his view, were distinguished by “great hypocrisy and cunning. Cold-bloodedly awaiting their chance in debate, as if preparing an ambush, they all knew, to the detriment of the open-hearted foreigners, how to exploit every moment when the latter heatedly allowed themselves incautious phrases; in barbaric cunning they outdid even the French.”62 The

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foreigners, for their part, were no innocent victims of local “barbarism” but appealed to the higher authorities at every turn, showing off their own merits. Most foreigners of the “first enrollment” kept their distance from the Russian professors.63 They united in groups that were closed to outsiders. Johann Schad held Latin evenings at home for colleagues at which German literature was discussed. There were outstanding specialists to be found among the Kharkiv professors, although it may be, as James Flynn considers, that the Kharkiv professoriate was inferior in scholarly quality to its colleagues in the universities of Dorpat, Vilnius, and Moscow64 and was on the level of Kazan University in that regard. The leading scholars, representing the philosophical and social disciplines, were concentrated in the department of ethics and politics. Outstanding among them were the Fichtean philosopher Johann Schad (1758–1834);65 the economist and lawyer Ludwig Jacob (1759–1827), a former rector of the University of Halle; and the economist Joseph Lang (1775 or 1776–1819), whom the Nobel laureate in economics Wassily Leontieff considered one of his intellectual forebears.66 The Russian subjects Timofei Osipovsky (1766–1832) and Nikolai/Mykola Ostrohradsky (1801–1862) excelled in mathematics. The results of the scholarly work carried out by academic staff at Kharkiv University in the early period of its existence were conditioned both by the modest needs and resources of a provincial university and by the general nature of scholarship in the Age of Enlightenment. The Kharkiv University milieu acted as an intermediary distributing the latest scholarly knowledge from the more advanced Western centres to the European cultural periphery, which included Sloboda Ukraine at the time. The scholarly activity of the first Kharkiv professors came down in practice to teaching and popularizing in the spirit of the Enlightenment. Their publications – textbooks, manuals, lecture courses, translations, official speeches, and more than modest dissertations – substituted for independent scholarly research. Most probably, the foreign professors generally felt that that there was little demand in Kharkiv for the kind of scholarship they had produced at home. This is eloquently illustrated by the fate of Professor Bernhard Reit’s work on the history of Kyivan Rus'. His Latin-language book, published in Kharkiv, remained unnoticed or deliberately ignored by his colleagues. No less eloquent in this regard is the example of Joseph Lang, whose works, also published in Kharkiv, were read by no one. Indeed, they lay with their pages uncut even in German libraries for almost a century and a half. Also lost to

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scholarship were the years spent in Kharkiv by such specialists as the agriculturalist Karl Noeldechen and the veterinarian Мartin-Heinrich (Fedor) Pilger, who came to the university full of creative plans and ideas but very soon lost enthusiasm. In Kharkiv, the historian Christoph Rommel produced mainly educational materials, but only after his return to Germany did he publish a major work on the history of Kassel. A scholar undertaking to study the influence of Kharkiv professors on Ukrainian or Russian scholarship and education will most probably end up disappointed. Transplanted from abroad to local soil, the exotic plant proved not so fruitful as in its homeland. It is the presence of scholarly traditions, currents, and scientific schools that determines the profile and influence of any educational institution. In this regard, the first Kharkiv professors did not create conditions for the development of those factors. For most of them, Kharkiv proved just a temporary stop on the way to the Russian capitals or back home after the Napoleonic Wars. If, for example, Ludwig Jacob barely endured about two years in Kharkiv, then Antoine Dugour became a Russian subject and even Russified his surname (Degurov), which later allowed him to make a brilliant career as rector of St Petersburg University.

The University and Local Society The privileges granted to the professorial corporation of the university provoked envy and jealousy among the local gentry. Typical in this regard was an episode that occurred in 1826, when the corpse of Emperor Alexander I was being transported through Kharkiv. A dispute arose between the local governor and the professors: who was to follow the emperor’s coffin and in what order? When the authorities ranked the professors below the officials of the gubernia court and the medical council, there was a sharp objection from the district supervisor, Aleksei Perovsky. As a result, it was decided that the professors were worthy of a place alongside the officials of the gubernia administration and would walk in pairs with them in the funeral procession. Corruption was commonplace in the imperial bureaucracy at all levels. The memoirs of Professor Christoph Rommel contain much that is instructive in this regard. His acquaintance with the local “guardians of law and order” began when “unknown” criminals stole two of his horses. “When I told the town governor about it,” recalled Rommel, “he asked how much I would give. We soon came to an agreement; he sent a policeman who

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brought my horses directly from the criminals’ barn in the neighbouring town [Bohodukhiv] the following night and returned them to me in almost perfect condition.”67 With unconcealed irony, Rommel described the life-loving head of the criminal court, who would ride through the streets of the town collecting the usual tribute from merchants in the form of gifts, exactly as Gogol would later describe it in his Inspector General.68 The newly arrived foreigners were rather quick to adopt local customs and habits. When it became clear that university diplomas had a notable influence on service careers and even on social status and appointments to educational institutions, and even the censorship began to depend on the university professoriate, then corruption soon found its way into the university corporation. One of the richest landowners in Sloboda Ukraine, General Osip Khorvat, asked Professor Rommel to prepare his illegitimate son, Pavel Degai, for university examinations. “At the time,” recalled Rommel, “I had no idea of the traditional method of bribery. As the examination of the young Degai for the doctoral degree drew near, he told me of having heard that I apparently wished to buy his marvellous new two-horse carriage. I denied this, and that seemed to be the end of the matter. But soon I happened to see a Russian colleague of mine riding in that expensive carriage, and later, in St Petersburg, I learned how they had ridiculed my honesty.”69 Less than two decades later, Kharkiv University would consider it a privilege to elect the same Pavel Degai, by then a department head in the Ministry of Justice and later a state secretary, senator, and member of the censorship committee, as an honorary member. Besides its moral significance, bribetaking among the professoriate had something of a social regulatory nature, indicating the university’s adjustment to the social environment of its locality and their mutual adaptation. In one way or another, the learned colonists sought to adapt to an unfamiliar socio-cultural environment. Some of the foreign professors in Kharkiv began learning Russian immediately. The Frenchman Jacques Belin de Ballu would go to the local bazaar for that purpose, holding a Russian dictionary in his hands but obviously failing to grasp that the bazaar with its Ukrainian surzhyk was the last place in Kharkiv to try learning literary Russian. The saleswomen would make fun of his pronunciation and his quaint mannerisms. The German Johann Schad, an avid drinker, took a liking to local invective, excitedly calling it “politeness arrayed in coarse and vulgar form.” He even attempted to translate expressions that he found especially colourful into Latin.70

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The fact that many professors married local women may be taken as an indication that their adaptation to Kharkiv society was proceeding well. The old Russian or Ukrainian gentry might confuse professors with actors or tradesmen, but most landowning dynasties of the Sloboda region, some of them quite well off though still relatively young in the ranks of the Russian gentry, were eager to enter into relations with university instructors, who had acquired unheard-of and previously unseen advantages. Furthermore, there were a good many young unmarried professors aged from twenty-two to slightly over forty. Those among them who could not boast gentry origins hoped to improve their material and social status by means of family ties with “true” nobles – the only privileged social estate in the empire. That was the route taken by the Russian Ivan Rizhsky, the Serb Atanasije Stojković, and the Frenchman Antoine Dugour. Professors Konstantin Paulovich and Christoph Rommel married local female landowners, as did the music instructor Gustav Adolf Hess de Calve. Unfortunately, most of the marriages contracted by professors in Kharkiv turned out unsuccessfully. The cultural gap between learned men and provincial women proved too great. Thus, Professor Fedor Pilger’s marriage to a simple and poorly educated Ukrainian woman closed the doors of local “high” society to him. A similar misalliance was Johann Schad’s marriage to a Russified German woman who could not even write without errors. The third rector of Kharkiv University, Timofei Osipovsky, married a beautiful young Ukrainian woman who found learned society boring and once, in a fit of temper, threw into the fire a scholarly treatise over which her taciturn husband had spent many long evenings. A mere month after coming to Kharkiv, Christoph Rommel, a confirmed bachelor, married a woman from the influential gentry clan of the Kovalinskys. The captive of the Ukrainian Circe suffered a few years before divorcing his wife, whose world was limited to religious feasts, gossip, and card games.

A “National University”? The original mission of Kharkiv University had been to disseminate the achievements of Enlightenment culture throughout the newly acquired and not yet domesticated provinces of the empire. It is interesting to note that more than half of its first-year students came from the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia, the rest from the neighbouring Kursk and Voronezh gubernias, and only a few individuals from neighbouring Little Russia and

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the southern gubernias. The preponderance of local graduates over all others remained, regardless of the constant growth of the student body in absolute numbers. At the moment Kharkiv University was opened, it had a total enrollment of fifty-seven students, thirty-three of whom were subsidized by the state, while twenty-four paid their own way. The subsequent growth of the student body was slow. Thus, in 1811 there were eighty-six students, 159 in 1819, and 358 in 1825.71 For comparison, it may be noted that Kharkiv fared better than Kazan but was far behind Vilnius and Dorpat universities.72 The scholarly activity of the first Kharkiv professors was not confined to the Sloboda Ukraine gubernia but embraced the whole educational district, which included much of the territory of Little Russia and the Russian gubernias. The first supervisor of the Kharkiv educational district, Count Seweryn Potocki (who, appropriately enough, owned a southern estate called Severinovka in the Kherson gubernia), called for the establishment in Kharkiv of a historical museum to display all artifacts discovered on the territory of the Black Sea littoral. The French professor Antoine Dugour devoted a special study to the history and culture of the Noghay Tatars. Romanticism as an essential precondition for the reception and reproduction of national ideas in the Ukrainian context is very often associated with German influences disseminated by Kharkiv University, which allegedly inspired young Ukrainian intellectuals to collect local folklore and experiment with the vernacular. This view requires considerable limitation, since it reflects the intellectual situation of the 1830s–40s and should not be extrapolated to the early nineteenth century, when intellectual life was still influenced by the European Enlightenment rather than nascent Romanticism. Educated foreigners attracted by the newly established Kharkiv University at the beginning of the nineteenth century naturally took an interest in the local historical and cultural tradition. The doctoral dissertation of the musicologist and folklorist, Gustav Adolf Hess de Calve, a former Habsburg subject, brought local Ukrainian topics into academic scholarly discourse.73 The German scholars Bernhard Reit and Christoph Rommel took an interest in the history of Ukrainian (Little Russian) Cossackdom. An instructor at Kharkiv University, the writer and journalist Razumnik Gonorsky, translated into Russian and published in 1818 an excerpt of the Annales de la PetiteRussie by the French scholar Jean-Benoît Scherer and the doctoral dissertation of Hess de Calve, written originally in German. But all these cases are distant from the Romantic passion for the folk.

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Initially, it was the strong current of conservative imperial Russian patriotism in the period of the Napoleonic Wars that promoted interest in SlavicRus' history, language, and tradition. It was a reaction to Western, mostly French, influence that inspired Russian university professors to show an interest in the local and, to their mind, “Russian” folklore and language. It is telling, however, that in the field of history it was not so much the relatively new Sloboda region or other parts of the Kharkiv educational district that claimed their attention as it was neighbouring Little Russia, with its ancient history and rich folklore tradition. The Russian historian Gavriil Uspensky became the first university scholar in the empire to publish, in 1811, a description of the governmental institutions and ranks of the former Cossack Hetmanate. The Pis'ma o Malorossii (Letters about Little Russia 1816) by the Kharkiv University student Aleksei Levshin followed. A senior official of the Kharkiv educational district, the ethnic Georgian Nikolai Tsertelev, issued the first specialized publication of Ukrainian/Little Russian folk songs in 1819. From the very beginning of his administration, the first rector of Kharkiv University, Ivan Rizhsky, continued the policy of linguistic Russification initiated earlier by the rectors of Kharkiv Theological College.74 In 1805, the University Council resolved, on Rizhsky’s motion, “to endeavour to have teachers from among the Great Russians in the district in order to avoid habits of incorrect pronunciation of the Russian language among the students.”75 The efforts of the university professoriate proved not to have been fruitless, as shown by the eloquent testimony of the local pedagogue Timofei Selivanov: “Already in 1807 we found teachers in the schools of Kharkiv itself who simply jabbered with the pupils in Ukrainian, so we, that is, teachers newly arrived from teachers’ colleges, following the authorities’ directions, broke them and trained them to speak Russian.”76 At the same time, besides its communicative function, the Ukrainian language had a symbolic and cultural one. In that capacity, it was regarded first and foremost as a survival of ancient “Slavic-Rus'” tradition untouched by the levelling influence of European and urban civilization. By the same token, the Ukrainian language attracted the constant attention of Russian archaizing traditionalists: concerned about Western cultural influence, they turned to the Ukrainian cultural and historical heritage, especially to language. It was none other than the Russifier Ivan Rizhsky who set about searching for local Ukrainian-language manuscripts and studying them. Rizhsky’s successor in the chair of Russian language and literature, Profes-

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sor Ivan Sreznevsky, was distinguished by similar qualities. Standing in the ranks of the “Russian party” on the university board, he is less known today than his son, the famous Russian philologist and leader of the Kharkiv Romantics Izmail Sreznevsky. Thus, along with the Russification of teaching and of the system of training pedagogical cadres, early nineteenth-century Kharkiv University, fully in the spirit of the time, helped to promote an awakening of interest in the local Ukrainian vernacular, which continued to be spoken by the ethnic Ukrainians who constituted the main mass of the university’s student body. Individual professors born in neighbouring Little Russia, especially Illia Tymkovsky and Pavlo Shumliansky, also spoke the vernacular well. The latter particularly liked to spice his language with Ukrainian colloquialisms and jokes. Shumliansky was also the first to try using the Ukrainian language in teaching at Kharkiv University, although for comic effect, in the spirit of Kotliarevshchyna. Aleksei Levshin, a graduate of Kharkiv University, appealed to educated people to bend their efforts toward perfecting and developing the Ukrainian literary language. Petro Hulak-Artemovsky, who became a professor of history and rector of Kharkiv University, would realize Levshin’s appeal in practice, becoming one of the founders of modern Ukrainian literature. However, almost a hundred years would pass before the Ukrainian professoriate in the person of Mykola Sumtsov made an attempt to introduce the Ukrainian language into the teaching process at Kharkiv University. In the first half of the nineteenth century, a contact zone of UkrainianRussian literary bilingualism developed around Kharkiv University and its publications. Local authors who used the Ukrainian language in their works – Vasyl Maslovych and Petro Hulak-Artemovsky – also wrote in Russian. They were perfectly capable of speaking one language and writing in the other but mixing the two languages or marking one of them with colloquialisms or expressions borrowed from the other, or styling their works in the genres of burlesque, parody, or irony in reaction to the new literary canon, they endowed their writing not so much with a communicative as with a symbolic meaning. Russian speech spiced with the Ukrainian vernacular functioned as a marker of local borderland identity on the regional and personal levels. The intermediary role of Kharkiv University in the creation of a new cultural space becomes especially striking with the appearance and rapid growth of periodical publications in the city.77 They were initiated in 1812 thanks to

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the German professors on staff and focused mostly on general information and economics. Much more popular than the practical publications were the literary and scholarly journals: Ukrainskii vestnik (Ukrainian Herald, 1816–19), Khar’kovskii Demokrit (Kharkiv Democritus, 1816), and Ukrainskii zhurnal (Ukrainian Journal, 1824–25). It was no accident that literary journals appeared in Kharkiv during and after the Napoleonic Wars. They reflected the rise of patriotic as well as anti-Western attitudes in local and, more broadly, Russian society. To bring provincial literature to life, a European intellectual “challenge” was required. As for reorienting it to local subjects, national-patriotic pathos proved quite sufficient. All these journals had to be Russian-language publications, but they were intended mainly for a local readership, and from time to time they featured Ukrainian-language items and stories on local subjects. From time to time, Kharkiv periodicals published Ukrainian material, including a cycle of satirical verses by Hryhorii Kvitka under the title Shpyhachky (Digs), literary works by Vasyl Maslovych titled Osnovanie Khar’kova (The Founding of Kharkiv) and Pesn’ semeistvu (A Song to the Family), a series of poetical works and translations by Petro Hulak-Artemovsky, and a number of others. The Ukrainian-language texts often appeared in reaction to the intrusion of the Russian-speaking milieu into the everyday life of the Sloboda province. A colourful sketch of the prevailing attitude toward the Russian vernacular in the everyday life of early nineteenth-century Kharkiv was left by Petro Hulak-Artemovsky, then one of the publishers of Ukrainskii vestnik and an instructor at Kharkiv University: “Оh! They’re already jabbering about who knows what in their own lingo! There’s that outlandish language of theirs! Sometimes it happens that you stand in front of him for a good hour, and he minces and chops at you! What? The hell you can understand whatever it is he’s chattering and going on about! You just think you catch him saying that vot-s, and shto-s, and da-s, and net-s, and gavariu-kazhu, gavariu-kazhu [‘I say’ in phonetic Russian spelling and correct Ukrainian], but what it is he’s saying, you won’t make sense of even with a priest!”78 Kharkiv journalism became a forum for creative encounters between intellectuals from various regions of the university educational district. The proud Little Russian nobles could look down on the Sloboda Ukraine upstarts, but Ukrainian men of letters from both neighbouring regions used the opportunity to discuss Little Russian history and geography publicly in the pages of Ukrainskii vestnik and Ukrainskii zhurnal. In 1819, the former published a

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prose work by the historian, writer, and adjunct of Kharkiv University Petro Hulak-Artemovsky titled “Something about That Harasko” that included a citation from the “manifesto” of Little Russian nationalism, the famous Istoriia Rusov (History of the Rus' People).79 Thus, if in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries patriots of the Sloboda region and Little Russia still quarreled with one another about local rights and privileges and competed in efforts to open “their” university, after somewhat more than a decade following the establishment of Kharkiv University they began to unite their efforts in the cultural process, transitioning from a social to an ethnic conception of nation and territory. This would hardly have become possible if the Kharkiv educational district had not united various regions of Ukraine within its boundaries. While Kharkiv journals were published in Russian, by no means did they eliminate manifestations of local colour and regional patriotism; on the contrary, they activized local subjects in the cultural process.

Polish Connections Although the Polish lobby at court supported the Kharkiv University project because of its remoteness, Kharkiv was not isolated from Polish cultural influences. They reached Sloboda Ukraine together with Ukrainian migrants in the mid-seventeenth century. From that point of view, Kharkiv remained in the sphere of the Polish-Ukrainian cultural borderland. Not only had that borderland not disappeared with the partitions of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth in the late eighteenth century, but it had become even more prominent in the early nineteenth century with the formation of the Vilnius educational district (1803) and the establishment of the Krzemieniec Lyceum (1805). After the Napoleonic Wars, Kharkiv University’s contacts with Polish educational institutions and intellectuals became even more intensive.80 The elective teaching of Polish language and literature at Kharkiv University was initiated by Petro Hulak-Artemovsky, an adjunct instructor at the university and a graduate of the Kyiv Mohyla Academy who came from Right-Bank Ukraine, where he had made his living for some time as a domestic teacher on Polish gentry estates. He became a Ukrainian writer in Kharkiv, but many of his best works of serious literature, which opened new generic and thematic possibilities for the Ukrainian language, were influenced by Polish writers, especially Ignacy Krasicki and Adam Mickiewicz. In his early peri-

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od as a writer, Hulak-Artemovsky maintained active contacts with Polish intellectuals and was even elected a member of the Royal Society of Friends of Learning in Warsaw. In 1831, after the crushing of the Polish revolt, the Right-Bank Ukrainian gubernias of Podilia and Volyn were temporarily transferred to the jurisdiction of Kharkiv University. After the closing of Vilnius University and subsequent persecution of Polish culture, contacts between the Kharkiv and Polish intellectual milieux became even more intensive. Many Polish students found shelter in Kharkiv, and in some years they accounted for as much as one-third of the student body at the local university.81 Some Polish professors also found themselves constrained to move there from Vilnius. Since Kharkiv was farther from the Right Bank than Kyiv or Odesa, the attitude of the local administration toward Poles was, as a rule, fairly measured. The role of “Russifier” of the Polish kresy of Right-Bank Ukraine ultimately fell to Kyiv. The geographic location of Kharkiv turned out to be unsuitable for carrying out such a mission. When the new St Vladimir University was promptly established in 1834, some Kharkiv professors were transferred to Kyiv to strengthen it as a bastion of Orthodox Slavic-Rus' influence in the Polishdominated region.

The Kharkiv Romantics It was at this time that Romanticism aroused a new wave of interest in folk culture in local Kharkiv society. The assimilation of Romantic culture, mainly through Russian and Polish “mediation,” led to the formation in Kharkiv of new intellectual circles in the late 1820s and early 1830s that consisted mainly of students, graduates, and instructors of the university. Quite a few Polish students took part in Kharkiv literary evenings devoted to the discussion of Ukrainian themes and subjects. During his time at Kharkiv University, Professor Ignacy Daniłowicz did much to promote interest in Ukrainian ethnography and history among local students.82 Among his students was the beginning Ukrainian Romantic writer Levko Borovykovsky, who studied Polish language and literature and translated works of Adam Mickiewicz into Ukrainian. Another graduate of Kharkiv University, Nikolai/Mykola Kostomarov, turned in his early work to the theme of the historical Polish-Ukrainian borderland, Cossack revolts, and religious conflict in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. His dissertation

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on the religious union of Brest (1596) even caused alarm in local Orthodox Church circles. At the insistence of Metropolitan Innokentii of Kharkiv, the dissertation was not approved for defence and burned, fortunately without involving the author in the flames.83 The literary and scholarly circle headed by Izmail Sreznesky may be considered the calling card of Kharkiv Romanticism. It served to unite graduates of Kharkiv University who were enthusiastic about ideas of “nationality” and “Slavdom,” wholly in the spirit of the official policy proclaimed by Sergei Uvarov. Their activities led to the development of Ukrainian-language prose, poetry, criticism, and dramaturgy, as well as historiography and ethnology. In Kharkiv, the basic tribunes of the new generation of intellectuals were the literary almanacs that replaced the Kharkiv journals of the early nineteenth century.84 The first of them was Ukrainskii almanakh (1831), which published, among other material, texts of Ukrainian folk and epic songs, works on Ukrainian history, and poetic variations on the Cossack theme. It was continued in 1834 by two issues of the almanac Utrenniaia zvezda (Morning Star), with the second issue containing exclusively Ukrainian-themed and mainly Ukrainian-language publications by Hryhorii Kvitka, Petro Hulak-Artemovsky, Ivan Kotliarevsky, Yevhen Hrebinka, and Izmail Sreznevsky. Another serial prepared by Izmail Sreznevsky was Ukrainskii sbornik (Ukrainian Miscellany), whose two issues included the texts of Ivan Kotliarevsky’s popular plays Natalka-Poltavka (Natalka, the Girl from Poltava, 1838) and Moskal'-charivnyk (The Muscovite-Sorcerer, 1841). In the 1840s, several issues of the almanac Molodyk (New Moon) were published with the participation of mainly Ukrainian authors. Most of the works printed in those publications came to be regarded as classics of the new Ukrainian literature. The thematic miscellany Zaporozhskaia starina (Zaporozhian Antiquity), six issues of which appeared between 1833 and 1838, is considered the best known and most influential publication of the Kharkiv Romantics. It featured historical, folkloric, and literary items in various genres devoted to the history of Ukrainian Cossackdom. A good portion of them turned out to be stylizations of folkloric and manuscript sources by contemporary authors in the spirit of traditional epics and historical fiction. The geography associated with that history took in not only the neighbouring Little Russian gubernias but also the lands of the former Zaporozhian Sich, as well as Right-Bank and, in part, western Ukraine. In other words, the “Little Russia” of the Kharkiv

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Romantics rose above the traditional boundaries of historical regions and was basically coterminous with Ukrainian ethnic territory. The Kharkiv Romantics functioned as cultural communicators, mediators, and “gatherers of the Slavic cultural heritage” rather than conscious promoters of the Ukrainian national revival. Their intellectual associations remained extraordinarily fluid, diffuse, and ambivalent.85 Their writings fitted comfortably into the framework of the official doctrine of “nationality” and even helped the careers of those members of the circle who subsequently devoted themselves to government service. They contributed to the development of Ukrainian studies within the broad pan-Russian intellectual framework. It was no accident that the leader of the circle, Izmail Sreznevsky, carefully distanced himself from anything reminiscent of idealization of the Ukrainian Cossack past even before his transfer to St Petersburg. In the Historical Survey of the Civil Organization of Sloboda Ukraine from the Time of Its Settlement to Its Transformation into the Kharkiv Gubernia, Sreznevsky referred to the times of Cossack self-rule in the spirit of Nikolai Polevoi and Vissarion Belinsky as “half-savage independence” and a “semi-nomadic type of civilization.”86 After that, almost half a century would pass before the history of the Sloboda region in Cossack times was reinterpreted in a different and positive manner in the works of Dmytro Bahalii, Mykola Sumtsov, and their followers. The fact of Kharkiv University’s location on Ukrainian ethnic territory and the interest of its professors and students in Ukrainian studies have prompted notions of the Ukrainian character of that educational institution. If the first foreign professors at Kharkiv University imagined its symbolic geography through the “southern,” ancient, and “Cossack” markers, then by the second quarter of the nineteenth century the latter were replaced with ethnic “Little Russian,” khokhol, and “Ruthenian” symbols. Thus, in a letter of October 1829 to Joachim Lelewel, Michał Bobrowski called Kharkiv the “capital of the khokhly.”87 The Russian scholar Yakov Grot, in correspondence with Petr Pletnev, saw Kharkiv’s basic difference from Odesa in the fact that people there spoke “in khokhol.” Ivan Aksakov, speaking of Kharkiv University, shrugged his shoulders, stating it as selfevident that “The university is poor, of course, but the khokhly probably place it above all others.”88 Although Ukrainian national space figures under a variety of names, Kharkiv University became firmly located within it in the role of a national

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educational centre. For that reason, a member of the Ruthenian Triad, Ivan Vahylevych, called Kharkiv the “focus of Ruthenian enlightenment,”89 while the Polish historian Rev. Walerian Kalinka, who was close to Prince Adam Czartoryski, called the Sloboda region “the heart of Ruthenian nationality.”90 Unquestionably, such rhetoric creates an illusory perspective. Between the founding of Kharkiv University in Ukraine and its transformation into a Ukrainian institution there lies a long road that has not yet been travelled to the end.

In Place of Conclusions Kharkiv University was established to promote imperial modernization initiated by Russian enlightened absolutism and supported, to a certain degree, by the local gentry elites. As such, it contributed a good deal to the secularization of the imperial Orthodox legacy. Kharkiv University was designed to produce loyal and enlightened citizens of imperial Russia. As such, it activated the local historical and cultural tradition, which was employed in combating Western and particularly Polish cultural influence. Unintentionally, that policy contributed to the reimagining of the Little Russian historical legacy, which in turn became a basis for the development of the Ukrainian national movement. The activists of the Ukrainian movement were not able to establish a national university before the dissolution of the Russian Empire. They only managed to put growing pressure on the imperial authorities to accept Ukrainian as a language of instruction and incorporate Ukrainian topics in the university curricula. Their demands were not well received. The “nationalization” of Kharkiv University was not accomplished even during and after the dissolution of the Russian Empire. It was easier to establish new universities based on the Ukrainian system of education rather than “Ukrainianize” the old ones. The entire university system was abolished by the Soviet Ukrainian government in the course of the social and national experiments of the 1920s and replaced by a network of vocational and narrowly specialized educational and scientific institutes. The re-establishment of Kharkiv University in 1934 was a result of the Stalin regime’s gradual ideological retreat from communist internationalism to reconciliation with a reimagined imperial Russian heritage. The Sovietized Kharkiv University was an institutional example of such a compromise, although it preserved some important remnants of the

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Ukrainization policy, such as Ukrainian-oriented departments of history and philology.91 The development of the post-Soviet university looks like a prolonged balancing act between agendas of Ukrainian nation-state–building, globalization, and devotion to (once again reimagined) Soviet and pre-Soviet historical traditions.

The Backstory

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Conclusion

Having become an independent state, Ukraine has not ceased to be a cultural borderland consisting of various layers, belts, and enclaves. Traditionally, the population of a geopolitical borderland prefers indeterminacy or the simultaneous choice of contradictory programs that neutralize one another and lead to maintenance of the status quo. Nowadays, analysts either characterize post-Soviet Ukraine by means of rhetoric that conveys a state of ambivalence – “Without steering wheel or sails,”1 “Movement without change, change without movement”2 – or frankly express disappointment with the record of the country’s achievements.3 Against this background, expectations of an “end to ambivalence”4 in Ukraine are matched in optimism only by assertions of a “farewell to empire.”5 Scholars emphasize “the ambivalent nature of the cultural legacy of the state-socialist era: it appears as a pool of heterogeneous cultural resources that can be mobilized and utilized in different ways and work towards even divergent ends.”6 Of these, the Soviet–Russian imperial legacy appears to be the most important component of the Ukrainian and Russian search for identity.7 It is reimagined, reinterpreted, and instrumentalized from opposing perspectives on both sides of the Ukrainian-Russian border, according to different trajectories of post-Soviet development in the two largest successors to the Soviet Union. While Russia is returning to its imperial heritage and attempting to integrate certain elements of Soviet history into that legacy,8 Ukraine appears to be moving in the opposite direction, from empire to nation-state.9 It is another matter that the “final destination” has yet to be clearly identified. Following the disintegration of the USSR, the Russian elite was constantly exercised by the question of “What are we to do with Ukraine?” It was

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answered by the Kremlin’s annexation of Crimea in 2014 and support for Donbas separatism. Such a policy was directly associated with a corresponding interpretation of history. The Russian elite had recourse to the part of its historical legacy involving the terminal phase of the agonizing Russian Empire and its struggle against non-Russian nationalist movements in the empire, including Ukrainian nationalism. That legacy automatically deprived the Ukrainian state of political legitimacy and the Ukrainian nation of the right to exist, since Ukrainians and Russians have been declared by Russian officials to constitute one people. In all probability, those in the Kremlin who planned the Crimean adventure of 2014 took into consideration that a substantial part of post-Soviet Ukrainian society had been nourished on the imperial-born Little Russian myth of a “Rus'-Slavic world.” According to a poll conducted by the Razumkov Centre in 2005, almost 44 per cent of Ukrainian citizens considered Ukrainian history “an inalienable part of the history of the great East Slavic people, as is the history of Russia and Belarus.”10 Only about half that number (25 per cent) considered Ukrainian history wholly autonomous and Ukraine the sole successor of Kyivan Rus'. It is hard to say to what extent these figures reflect changing attitudes in Ukrainian society, but a recent poll suggests that the number of people who share the above-mentioned views remains substantial, even though they may dislike Putin’s regime.11 In the seventh year of the “hybrid” war on the Donbas territory, almost half the Ukrainian population had a positive view of Russia.12 The fact that the most pro-Western (“European Solidarity”) and the openly pro-Russian (“Opposition Platform for Life”) political parties of Ukraine enjoy the same voter support is telling.13 It should be noted that the attitude of the Ukrainian population to Russia remains better than that of Russians to Ukraine. It compels the conclusion that Russia appears to be ahead of Ukraine in the search for a new national consensus. The Russian-Soviet imperial legacy is one of the most potent cultural strata at the foundation of modern Ukrainian historical experience. It has been deeply internalized in Ukrainian society itself. I find it hard to imagine that a discourse of Ukrainian national identity could be created on a non-historical basis. Accordingly, I think that appeals to renounce a historical grand narrative in a society overburdened with history are illusory.14 One possible way to come to terms with this historical or, rather, living legacy would be a reinterpretation of the entangled past as an integral part of a new national narrative.

Conclusion

207

Post-Soviet Ukraine has a right to the imperial legacy, which contains substantial elements of historical continuity. Ukrainians can regard themselves as co-builders of the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union. So far, however, Ukrainian scholars appear more than reluctant to re-evaluate the roles of the Russian Empire in modern Ukrainian history – at least, its Western-inspired, modern components, which once attracted the Ukrainian (Little Russian) elite to the imperial project. The selective integration of the legacy of imperial-led modernization into Ukrainian national discourse might strengthen its reformist potential. Of course, this also entails the admission of co-responsibility for crimes committed under the imperial banner. I am not sure that Ukrainian society is ready for that. More sophisticated interpretations of the common imperial legacy can be produced professionally through the gradual expansion of the thematic and methodological horizons of Ukrainian and Russian studies, as well as helping to overcome some of their complexes and phobias. It is true that both Ukrainian and Russian post-Soviet academic communities have been deeply involved in their countries’ national mobilizations before and after Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014.15 From this perspective, Russian historians differ from their Ukrainian counterparts only in the greater dependence of the former on the ruling regime. While some scholars continue to search for new interpretations of the two countries’ shared historical legacy,16 it seems that intellectual emancipation from the imperial grand narrative has proved to be very difficult for both sides. Confirmation of that fact is to be found in the long absence of institutionalized Russian studies in Ukraine and corresponding Ukrainian studies in Russia.17 It is easy to see that the dialogue between Ukrainian and Russian historians so far has remained asymmetrical in character. Russian syntheses of Ukrainian history are well known;18 conversely, it would be hard to say how many syntheses of Russian imperial or Soviet history have been written by Ukrainian authors in recent decades. If Russian historical problems are represented in the works of Ukrainian historians, they appear mainly in conjunction with Ukrainian subjects. In practice, then, it appears that the UkrainianRussian dialogue is focused on Ukraine and conducted on Ukrainian symbolic “territory.” In the process of emancipating Russian historical thought from the imperial legacy, Ukrainian problems are among the most paramount.19 Yet “Ukraine” in Russian academic discourse very often appears in its Little Russ-

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The Ukrainian-Russian Borderland

ian version. That fact makes it difficult to draw a clear dividing line between discourses of identity pertaining to pre-modern imperial-Orthodox “Slavic Rus'” (i.e., the “Russian World”) on the one hand and the modern political, multi-ethnic nation of “Russia” on the other. From this perspective, it is worth noting the efforts of individual Russian historians to differentiate the national and imperial paradigms of Russian historiography and find ways of defining the place of Russian national history proper in the framework of the empire’s historical development.20 Today, I am afraid, that direction of historical writing will meet more obstacles on its way. The voice of the Russian academic community is getting less and less discernible behind official Russian propaganda, which denies the very existence of the Ukrainian nation.21 The creation of an ideologically motivated commission on historical education with the task of having “a unified view of the history of Russia in order to combat the likely liberal interpretation of that history,” the suppression of the human-rights NGO Memorial for alleged “distortion”of the Soviet past, and growing anti-Western sentiment is driving Russia back to the times of self-isolation and state-sponsored xenophobia. It is perfectly obvious that the implementation of a doctrine of national identity similar, if not identical, to that articulated by Russian nationalists on the eve of the collapse of their empire, in the present-day Russian system of education cannot be simply dismissed. It makes the “disputes of Slavs with one another” (Aleksandr Pushkin) extremely difficult, if not impossible, to resolve. For Ukraine, the answer to the question “What are we to do with Russia?” lies, I believe, in a strongbox labelled “Little Russia.” It can be seen as more than just a “deviation” or “distortion” of the “true” Ukrainian identity. The very phenomenon of “Little Russianism” is a direct product of Ukraine’s precarious position in the geopolitical “shatter zone” on the one hand and its strong dependence on historical legacy on the other. “Peripheral inhabitants tend to be more culturally independent and more conservative than those in central locations and are therefore less willing to change and to adapt to a national culture and a national set of norms.”22 The “Little Russian/ Ukrainian” dualism seems to determine the direction of Ukrainian nationstate–building, while the imperial “Russian/Soviet” discourse remains the main axis around which the Ukrainian “wheel” rotates. It would take a new Gogol to predict how far and in what direction the Ukrainian “carriage” will go.

Conclusion

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About forty years ago, Omeljan Pritsak, the distinguished scholar and founding father of the Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute, argued for the secularization of Ukrainian national intellectual culture.23 It seems as though his appeal remains relevant today, when a new wave of technological revolution is accompanied by the new “advent of the masses” and concomitant mythological perception of the world. Unlike some other postSoviet countries, Ukraine has avoided public ritual sacrifices at sessions of parliament or at soccer games. But the shaping of symbolic space and the legitimization of national integrity in contemporary Ukraine requires shifting accents from mythological to rational aspects of nationstate–building. Addendum 30 March 2022 ... When this book was already in press, there came news that defied belief: Russia had begun to solve the “Ukrainian question” by force of arms. On 24 February 2022, the face of the Russian dictator, Vladimir Putin, twisted with hatred, conveyed more to millions of shocked viewers throughout the world than did his mendacious rhetoric. History seems to be repeating itself, not as farce but as yet another tragedy.24 Historians are usually more comfortable when they keep a distance from the object of their studies. I have no such distance. When this essay is published, a reader will be better informed than the author about the course of events in Ukraine. However, although many details and aspects of the war remain in the shadow, I have a strong feeling of déjà vu, in particular when it comes to Russia. Over and over, Russia reproduces similar patterns of political, social, and cultural life that grew from the old Byzantine matrix. During geopolitical upheavals, a thin layer of Western polish peels off the façade of Potemkin imperial village. That is when the real, inner (glubinnaia) Russia reveals herself in the form of a gloomy carcass of the Muscovite Tsardom, a “garrison state” under the dome of the Orthodox Church. Russian post-Soviet identity has been articulated in terms of theological imperialism rather than ethnicity or territoriality. According to pious Putin, in the case of a nuclear conflict, Western enemies “will croak but we [Russians – KV] will get to heaven as martyrs.”25 Even Osama bin Laden could not say it better. Putin is a past-oriented national leader. As an imitator, he is following in the steps of Russian late-imperial nationalists and Orthodox fundamentalists

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rather than enlightened autocrats. In contrast to the latter with their policy of inclusive Westernization, Putin is trying to encompass his “fortress of Russia” with enclaves of fossilized Sovietism. In order to succeed, he needs to turn “Ukraine” back into the Soviet-like “Little Russia.” However, today, Russian forces attack precisely those Ukrainian cities whose predominantly Russophone citizens until recently expressed pro-Russian and pro-Soviet sympathies. Many former Soviet “Little Russians” who routinely celebrated the Soviet unofficial “Men’s Day” on 23 February were woken up the next day by the Russian bombing of Kyiv, which was reminiscent of the the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941. I believe that many of them turned into Russianspeaking Ukrainians that day. They joined the Ukrainian modern political nation rather than an archaic “Russian world.” In fact, a mediocre KGB operative who became the Russian “Supreme Leader” at the whim of history is dealing the final blow to Ukrainian-Russian common historical legacy by targeting its main foundations. The bombing of Kyiv by Russian forces will surely reduce the influence of the Little Russian component of Ukrainian identity to a minimum. The bombing of Kharkiv is transforming the former capital of Soviet Ukraine into a Ukrainian national outpost against Russian aggression. Historical Sloboda Ukraine is losing its former transborder identity and turning into a Ukrainian frontier. The Ukrainian-Russian border is acquiring symbolic significance that compensates for the absence of natural barriers. Whatever the outcome of this war, it has accelerated national consolidation of Ukraine both in time and in space. Today, with Russia’s transformation from Ukraine’s “elder brother” into its existential enemy, Ukraine seems to be much closer than Russia to breaking out of the vicious circle of history. It is becoming future-oriented rather than past-oriented. Ukraine’s “fatal” geography is also losing its grip on the national future. The geopolitical quadrate of Poland, Turkey, Russia, and Europe, which kept Ukraine in isolation for many years, looks different today. None of Ukraine’s powerful neighbours, except Russia, is making claims to Ukrainian lands anymore. However, Ukraine remains on the slope of the volcano, in the shaky geopolitical zone, in which external challenges can easily turn into internal ones and vice versa.

Notes

introduction 1 Kravchenko, Ukraïna, imperiia, Rosiia, 455–528. 2 Portnov, “Post-Maidan Europe”; Gerasimov, “Ukraine 2014”; Finnin, “Ukrainian Studies in Europe”; historians.in.ua, “Ukraїna i kryza.” 3 I touch on this issue in my Cicero Foundation lecture “Ukraine and Russia: In Search of a Divergent Future”; see also Kravchenko, “Ukraine: History Confronts Geography.” 4 Edgerton, review of Between Gogol' and Ševčenko. 5 Szporluk, “From an Imperial Periphery,” in Szporluk, Russia, Ukraine and the Breakup of the Soviet Union, 362. 6 Zhurzhenko, Borderlands into Bordered Lands; Richardson, Kaleidoscopic Odessa; Barabash, “Ėtnokul'turnoe pogranich'e”; Bublikov, “Osobennosti identichnosti”; Antoshkina et al., Osoblyvosti bukovyns'koho pohranychchia; Sukhomlynov, Kul'turnі pohranychchia; Biaspamiatnych, “Belarusian-PolishLithuanian Borderlands”; Kokhan, “Fenomen pohranychchia”; DąbrowskaPartyka, Literatura pogranicza; Uliasz, O literaturze Kresów; Girin, Problemy kul'turnogo pogranich'ia; Bizzell, “‘Contact Zones’,” 16. 7 Johann Arnason, “Historians in Search of Borders: Mapping the European East,” H-Soz-u-Kult, 31 May 2006, http://hsozkult.geschichte.huberlin.de/forum/2006-05-004. 8 Twardzisz, Defining “Eastern Europe.” 9 Bartov and Weitz, eds, Shatterzone of Empires; Rieber, The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands; Von Hagen, “Empires, Borderlands, and Diasporas.”

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Notes to pages 5–8

10 Panafidin, “Kontsept ‘Ukraїns'ke natsional'ne vidrodzhennia’”; Kondratiuk and Mandziak, “Ukraїns'ke natsional'ne vidrodzhennia.” 11 Elena Matusova, “Kogda Rossiia”; Nowak, “Russia, Empire, and Evil”; Norris, “Tsarist Russia, Lubok Style”; Kasianov et al., Ukraina v rosiis'komu istorychnomu dyskursi. 12 Remy, Brothers or Enemies; Kravchenko, “Putting One and One Together?”; Bojanowska, “All the King’s Horses”; Bojanowska, Nikolai Gogol; Kappeler, “The Russian Empire and Its Nationalities”; Kappeler et al., eds, Culture, Nation, and Identity; Miller, The Ukrainian Question; Plokhy, Ukraine and Russia; Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism; Vulpius, “Slova i liudi v imperii.” 13 Szporluk, Russia, Ukraine, and the Breakup of the Soviet Union, 187. 14 Kohut, Making Ukraine, 96. 15 Seton-Watson, The Russian Empire, 65. 16 Seton-Watson, review of Ukrainian Nationalism. 17 Kappeler et al., eds., Culture, Nation, and Identity, viii–ix. 18 Szporluk, “From an Imperial Periphery,” in Szporluk, Russia, Ukraine and the Breakup of the Soviet Union, 367–8. 19 “Linguistically challenged,” The Economist, 6 April 2013. http://www .economist.com/news/europe/21575786-how-ukraine-falls-betweenpolitical-economic-and-linguistic-camps-linguistically-challenged. 20 Wodak et al., The Discursive Construction of National Identity, 3. 21 Ibid., 3–5. 22 Cited in: Wagner, “Nationalism and Cultural Memory in Poland,” 196. 23 Plokhy, The Origins of the Slavic Nations, 258–66. 24 Hillis, Children of Rus'; Armstrong, “Myth and History”; Szporluk. Russia, Ukraine, and the Breakup of the Soviet Union, 357, 371. 25 Ther, “‘Imperial nationalism’”; Ter, “Natsiotvorennia v bahatonatsional'nii imperiї”; compare with: Miller, The Ukrainian Question, 34; Miller, The Romanov Empire and Nationalism, 161–80; Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 183. 26 Pavlyshyn, “Dylema identychnosty”; Wendland, “The Russian Empire”; Makarchuk, Moskvofil'stvo, 4. 27 Leskinen, Velikoross / velikorus. 28 Savenko, Ukraintsy ili Malorossy?; Storozhenko, Malaia Rossiia ili Ukraina?; Khvyl'ovyi, “Ukraїna chy Malorosiia?”; Hrushevs'kyi, “Velyka, Mala i Bila Rus'”; Solov'ev, “Velikaia, Malaia i Belaia Rus'”; Levkievskaia, “Semanticheskie varianty”; Ukrainskii separatizm.

Notes to pages 9–11

213

29 Luckyj, Between Gogol' and Ševčenko; Rudnytsky, Essays, 394; Kohut, “The Development of a Little Russian Identity.” 30 Vdovina, “Ob istorii nekotorykh poniatii,” 467. 31 Rudnytsky, “The Role of Ukraine in Modern History”; Sysyn, “The Persistence of the Little Rossian Fatherland”; see also Andriewsky, “The RussianUkrainian Discourse.” 32 Saunders, review of Children of Rus', 746; Kappeler, “Mazepintsy, Malorossy, Khokhly”; Halushka et al., U kihtiakh dvohlavykh orliv; Iekel'chyk, Ukraїnofily; Iekel'chyk, Probudzhennia natsiї. 33 Borisenok and Leskinen, Malorossy vs ukraintsy; Miller, “Neulovimyi maloross”; Kotenko et al., “‘Maloross’”; Borisenok, ed., Imia naroda. 34 Andriewsky, “The Russian-Ukrainian Discourse.” 35 Fedevych and Fedevych, Za viru, tsaria i Kobzaria; Naumov, “‘Malorosiis'kyi proekt’ ХІХ stolittia”; Tolochko, Kievskaia Rus'. 36 The category of ethnicity is understood “as a subjectively felt sense of belonging based on the belief in shared culture and common ancestry. This belief refers to cultural practices perceived as ‘typical’ for the community, to myths of a common historical origin, or to phenotypical similarities” (Wimmer, “The Making and Unmaking of Ethnic Boundaries,” 973). 37 Kohut, Making Ukraine, 55–6. 38 Plokhy, The Origins of the Slavic Nations, 300. 39 Minghi, “From Conflict to Harmony in Border Landscapes,” 15. 40 Paasi, “Bounded Spaces in the Mobile World”; see also Keating, “Rethinking the Region.” 41 Häyrynen, “A Periphery Lost”; Kürti, The Remote Borderland; Bassin, Imperial Visions; Gruffudd, “Remaking Wales.” 42 According to Anthony Smith, even in France “the various regions retained their local identities into the early twentieth century” (National Identity, 10), and “regionalism persisted well into the nineteenth century; the large body of French peasants were not fully incorporated into the French nation until 1900” (ibid., 58). 43 Beissinger, “The Persistence of Empire in Eurasia.” 44 Rechter, “Geography Is Destiny.” 45 Myshlovska and Schmid, eds, Regionalism without Regions; Himka, “The History Behind”; Diesen and Keane, “The Two-Tiered Division of Ukraine”; “Regiony Ukrainy”; Hughes and Sasse, eds, Ethnicity and Territory; Nemyria, “Regionalism”; Barrington and Herron, “One Ukraine or Many?”; Gorizon-

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47 48 49

Notes to pages 12–19

tov, Regiony i granitsy Ukrainy. On the eastern and southern regions of Ukraine, see Pirie, “National Identity and Politics”; Kuromiya, Freedom and Terror; and Rodgers, “Contestation and Negotiation.” Stokłosa and Besier, eds, European Border Regions; Wanner, “Ukraine and the Enigma”; Laven and Baycroft, “Border Regions and Identity”; Anderson and O’Dowd, “Borders.” Sarbei, “Istoryko-heohrafichni rehiony”; Reient, “Sobornist' ta problemy spetsyfiky”; Matsuzato, “Iadro ili periferiia imperii?”. See chapter 4. Mihaylov and Sala, “Subnational identities.”

chapter one

1 2

3

4

This is an updated English version of the article published as “Im'ia dlia Ukraïny” in Volodymyr Kravchenko, Ukraïna, imperiia, Rosiia: Vybrani statti z modernoï istoriï ta istoriohrafiï (Kyiv, 2011), 11–43. The original article was translated by Marta Olynyk, with updates translated by Myroslav Yurkevich. Copyright 2011 by Krytyka Publishers and Volodymyr Kravchenko. Translated and reprinted with permission. Miller, The Romanov Empire and Nationalism, 169; Miller, The Ukrainian Question, 25–6. Divovych, “Razgovor”; Istoriia Rusov; Venelin, “O spore”; Maksimovich, “Ob upotreblenii nazvaniia Rossiia i Malorossiia v Zapadnoi Rusi” in Sobranie sochinenii 2:307–12; Kostomarov, “Davno li Malaia Rus' stala pisat'sia Malorossiei, a Rus' – Rossieiu” in Zemskie sobory, 448–55; Drahomanov, “Literatura rosiis'ka, velykorus'ka, ukraïns'ka i halyts'ka” in Literaturno-publitsystychni pratsi, 1:179–80. Tsehel's'kyi, Rus'-Ukraïna a Moskovshchyna-Rosiia; Hrushevs'kyi, “Velyka, Mala i Bila Rus'”; Halushko, Rus' – Malorosiia – Ukraïna; Khvyl'ovyi, “Ukraïna chy Malorosiia?”; Linnichenko, Malorusskii vopros; Storozhenko, Malaia Rossiia ili Ukraina?; Savitskii, “Velikorossiia.” Shelukhin, Ukraïna; Andrusiak, Nazva “Ukraïna”; Simpson, The Names “Rus',” “Russia,” “Ukraine”; Pritsak and Kubijovyč, “The Names for the Ukrainian Territory”; Pritsak and Reshetar, “The Ukraine and the Dialectics”; Shevelov, “The Name Ukrajina ‘Ukraine’” in Teasers and Appeasers; Gregorovich, Ukraine, Rus', Russia, and Muscovy; Horak, “Periodization and Terminology”; Andrusiak, “Terminy ‘Rus'kyi,’ ‘ros'kyi’”; Wynar, “Comments on Periodization.”

Notes to pages 19–23

215

5 Narodzhennia kraïny; Borisenok, Imia naroda; Gorizontov, “Podneprov'e”; Ias', “Terminy ‘Novorosiia’ ta ‘Pivdenna Ukraïna’”; Hillis, Children of Rus'; Ilnytzkyj, review of Children of Rus'; Miller et al., “Poniatiia o Rossii”; Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism; Tolochko, Kievskaia Rus'; Pavlenko, “Linguistic Russification”; Iakovenko, “Choice of Name”; Plokhy, The Origins of the Slavic Nations; Kohut, Making Ukraine; Vulpius, “Slova i liudi”; Dolbilov and Staliunas, “Vvedenie k forumu”; Dolbilov and Staliunas, “Slova, liudi”; Boeck, “What’s in a Name,” 33; Kappeler, “The Ambiguities of Russification”; Miller, The Ukrainian Question. 6 Levkievskaia, “Semanticheskie varianty.” 7 Many of them were republished; see Ukrainskii separatizm, also Ul'ianov, Proiskhozhdenie ukrainskago separatizma; Riabchuk, Vid Malorosiï do Ukraïny. 8 Volkonskii, Ukraina; Ukrainskii separatizm. 9 Plokhy, The Cossack Myth. 10 Todiichuk, Ukraina XVI–XVIII vv. 11 I am using this word here in its contemporary, modern meaning, encompassing the entire mass of texts written by Ukrainians and non-Ukrainians on topics related to Ukrainian history, geography, and ethnography. 12 Sunderland, “Imperial Space,” 52. 13 In various periods it comprised the lands of today’s Zaporizhia, Dnipro, Mykolaiv, Kropyvnytskyi, Kherson, and Odesa oblasts, as well as Crimea. 14 Today this geographic area encompasses part of Kyiv oblast as well as Vinnytsia, Cherkasy, Khmelnytskyi, Zhytomyr, Rivne, and Volyn oblasts. 15 Poniatiia, idei, konstruktsii; Wortman, The Power of Language; Miller et al., “Poniatiia o Rossii,” 1:5–47; Empire Speaks Out. 16 An Empire of Others; Mogilner, Homo Imperii; Shirle, “Uchenie o dukhe,” 121, 129–32; Zagrebin, “I.G. Georgi”; Slezkine, “Naturalists Versus Nations.” 17 Hillis, Children of Rus', 5; Ilnytzkyj, review of Children of Rus'. 18 Miller, “‘Narodnost'’ i ‘natsiia.’” 19 Russkii iazyk; Istoria russkoi leksikografii. 20 Leskinen, Velikoross / velikorus; Vishlenkova, Vizualʹnoe narodovedenie; Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 163; Kloss, O proiskhozhdenii nazvaniia “Rossiia”; Jersild, “‘Russia,’ from the Vistula”; Trubachev, V poiskah edinstva, 225–36; Stepanov, Konstanty, 151–65; Bushkovitch, “What Is Russia?”; Kappeler, “Great Russians” and “Little Russians.” 21 In the words of Ivan Kireevskii, the Orthodox consciousness is the basis of the Russian narodnost'; see Bobrovskikh, “K istorii izucheniia poniatiia ‘narodnost'’,” 193.

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Notes to pages 23–7

22 Orlai, “O Iugo-Zapadnoi Rusii.” 23 Matiushevskaia, “‘Sinopsis Kievskii’”; Samarin, “Kievskii ‘Sinopsis’”; Kohut, “Origins of the Unity Paradigm.” 24 It is worth noting that the Muscovite tsar Aleksei Mikhailovich (1629–76) even considered transferring the capital of the growing state from Moscow to Kyiv. 25 Chamberlain, Ministry of Darkness, 233–53; Miller, The Romanov Empire and Nationalism, 139–60. 26 Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 163. 27 “There are even two Russian words for Russia, Rus' and Rossiia, with the corresponding adjectives, russkoe and rossiiskoe, whose usage conforms quite closely to the distinction I have made between ‘ethnic’ and ‘imperial’ Russianness. Rus' is pre-imperial Russia, and is also used to refer to traditional, grassroots Russia, especially as manifested in its villages and churches, while Rossiia is multinational imperial Russia, ruled over by an Imperator rather than a Tsar.” See Hosking, Empire and Nation. 28 Plokhy, The Lost Kingdom, 255–7. 29 Narodzhennia kraïny, 83; Burbank and von Hagen, “Coming into the Territory,” 5; Bassin, “Geographies.” 30 See Leskinen, Velikoross / velikorus; Gorizontov, “The ‘Great Circle’”; Szporluk, review of The Ukrainian Question; Kappeler, “Great Russians” and “Little Russians”; Loskoutova, “A Motherland.” 31 Tatishchev, Leksikon, 230–1. 32 Polunin, Geograficheskii leksikon. 33 Maksimovich, Novyi i polnyi geograficheskii slovarʹ. 34 Pleschééf, Survey of the Russian Empire. 35 Georgi, Opisanie vsekh obitaiushchikh. 36 N.N. “Velikaia Rossiia.” 37 Ibid., 262. 38 Ibid., 261. 39 Ibid., 268, 273. 40 Zorin, Kormia dvuglavogo orla. 41 Sochineniia imperatritsy Ekateriny, 8:64. 42 I used the English edition; see Pleschééf, Survey of the Russian Empire, 77. 43 For a detailed discussion, see Withers, Placing the Enlightenment. 44 Shepelev, Chinovnyi mir Rossii, 199, 202. 45 Emin, Rossiiskaia istoriia, 90; Shafonskii, Chernigovskogo namestnichestva topograficheskoe opisanie, 44, 46; Stritter, Istoriia Rossiiskogo gosudarstva, 3:319.

Notes to pages 27–30

217

46 Sochineniia imperatritsy Ekateriny, 8:64. 47 For details pertaining to the authorship of this work, see Opysy Kharkivsʹkoho namisnytstva, 5–8. 48 Szporluk, “Mapping Ukraine.” 49 Opysy Kharkivs'koho namisnytstva, n18. 50 Shafonskii, Chernigovskogo namestnichestva topograficheskoe opisanie, 44, 46; Stritter, Istoriia Rossiiskogo gosudarstva, 3:319. 51 Istoriia Rusov, 8. 52 Velychenko, National History as Cultural Process, xxii. On Engel, see Prymak, “On the 200th Anniversary”; and Kravchenko, “I.-Kh. Enhel'.” 53 Orlai, “O Iugo-Zapadnoi Rusii,” 225. 54 Bantysh-Kamensky, Istoriia Maloi Rossii, 1:3, 6, 16, 29, 51, 56, 202–3. 55 Gogol', “Otryvok iz istorii Malorossii.” 56 Markevich, Istoriia Malorossii, 1:4. 57 Bilets'kyi-Nosenko, Slovnyk. 58 Bodianskii, “Rassmotrenie.” 59 Pavlyshyn, “For and Against”; Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact, 7. 60 According to Mykola Kostomarov, after the dissolution of the Cyril and Methodius Brotherhood in 1847, the terms “Ukraine,” “Little Russia,” and “Het'manshchyna” came to be regarded as disloyal; see Velychenko, “Tsarist Censorship”; Velychenko, National History as Cultural Process, 230. 61 Zapiski o Iuzhnoi Rusi, xxv. 62 Ibid., v. 63 Miller, The Ukrainian Question, 75–95; Kotenko, “Do pytannia pro tvorennia.” 64 Shevchenko, Bukvarʹ iuzhnorusskii. Before this, the Ukrainian language was designated as “southern Russian” in Holovatskii, Rozprava o iazytsi iuzhnoruskom. 65 Malashevych, “Borot'ba za ‘rus'ke pervorodstvo.’” 66 Kohut, “From Commonwealth to Ukraine”; Kohut, Making Ukraine, 36– 57; Sysyn, “The Persistence of the Little Rossian Fatherland”; Sysyn, “Fatherland.” 67 Horban', “‘Zapiski o Maloi Rossii’,” 140; Shafonskii, Chernigovskogo namestnichestva topograficheskoe opisanie, 3. 68 As exemplified in the works of Yakiv Markovych and Mykhailo Antonovsky. 69 Venelin, “O spore,” 2; Levshin, Pis′ma iz Malorossii. 70 Hal', “Heokontsept ‘Malorossiia’”; Kotenko, “Construction of Ukrainian National Space.”

218

71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79

80

81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

93 94 95 96 97 98 99

Notes to pages 30–4

Kubicek, The History of Ukraine, 45. Kohut, Making Ukraine, 17, 48. Ukraїns′ka literatura XVIII stolittia, 394. “Vozrazhenie deputata Grigoriia Poletiki,” 98. Simonovskii, Kratkoe opisanie, 2–3. Kratkaia letopis′ Malyia Rossii. Maksimovich, Novyi i polnyi geograficheskii slovarʹ, 3:74, 112. Gorlenko, “Iz istorii iuzhno-russkogo obshchestva.” See also Zhurba, “Predstav'te vy sebe,” 198. This idea was shared, in particular, by Markov and the anonymous author of Korotka istoriia Maloї Rosiї, written sometime around the turn of the 1790s, a copy of which was published in 1926 by Mykola Horban'. Miller, Istoricheskie sochineniia, 2; Simonovskii, Kratkoe opisanie, 3; Georgi, Opisanie vsekh obitaiushchikh, 4:235–6; Zarul'skii, Opisanie o Maloi Rossii i Ukraine, 1; Markovich, Zapiski o Malorossii, 29. Shafonskii, Chernigovskogo namestnichestva topograficheskoe opisanie, 44, 58. Ianovskii, Novyi slovotolkovatel′. Istoriia Rusov, 5, 128. Zarulʹskii, Opisanie o Maloi Rossii i Ukraine, 1–2. Shafonskii, Chernigovskogo namestnichestva topograficheskoe opisanie, 61. Markovich, Zapiski o Malorossii, 29. “Kratkoe istoricheskoe opisanie,” 1. Markov, “Pis'mo k odnomu iz izdatelei”; Kvitka, Illia, “O Maloi Rossii.” Musin-Pushkin, Istoricheskoe issledovanie, ix–xi. Geograficheskoe metodicheskoe opisanie Rossiiskoi Imperii, 103–4. German, Statisticheskiia issledovaniia, 37; Arsen'ev, Trudy uchenykh; Arsen'ev, O sostoianii pravitelʹstva, 107–8. Vasilii Ruban, Kratkie geograficheskie, politicheskie i istoricheskie izvestiia o Maloi Rossii, s priobshcheniem ukrainskikh traktov i izvestii o pochtakh, takozh spiski dukhovnykh i svetskikh tamo nakhodiashchikhsia nyne chinov, chisle naroda i prochaia (St Petersburg, 1773), 1–2. Istoriia Rusov, 8, 16, 177–9, 186. Georgi, Opisanie vsekh obitaiushchikh, 4:338–9. Smolii, Ukraïnsʹki proekty, 266–310; Tolochko, “Fellows and Travelers.” Ianovskii, Novyi slovotolkovatel′. Saunders, “Historians and Concepts of Nationality.” Markevich, Ukrainskie melodii, v. Markevich, Istoriia Malorossii, 1:3.

Notes to pages 34–8

219

100 IR NBU f. 14, spr. 4978, ark. 17. 101 Hillis, Children of Rus', 41. 102 “Malorusomania” among Galician intellectuals had acquired vivid ethnocultural (not historical) meaning; see Turii, “Ukraïns'ka idea v Halychyni v seredyni XIX stolittia.” 103 Boeck, “What’s in a Name,” 41. 104 Ohloblyn, “Problema skhemy istoriï Ukraïny,” 11; Miller et al., “Neulovimyi maloross.” 105 Kappeler, “Great Russians” and “Little Russians,” 14. 106 Miller, Istoricheskie sochineniia, 34; Shafonskii, Chernigovskogo namestnichestva topograficheskoe opisanie, 49; Rigel'man, Letopisnoe povestvovanie o Maloi Rossii, 12. 107 Bolkhovitinov, Opisanie Kievosofiiskogo sobora, 204, 214, 247; Chatskii, “O nazvanii Ukrainy.” 108 Markov, “Pis'mo k odnomu iz izdatelei,” 125. 109 “Kratkoe istoricheskoe opisanie o Maloi Rossii do 1765 goda,” 27, 29–30; Ianovskii, Novyi slovotolkovatel′, 2:234; Berlyns'kyi, Istoriia mista Kyieva, 119–120, 126. 110 Ziablovskii, Statisticheskoe opisanie Rossiiskoi imperii, 5; Arsen'ev, O sostoianii pravitel'stva, 107–8. 111 Chukhlib, “Poniattia ‘Ukraïna’ ta ‘Ukrainnyi.’” 112 IR NBU f. 14, spr. 4978, ark. 8–9. 113 Shafonskii, Chernigovskogo namestnichestva topograficheskoe opisanie, 15; Gorlenko, Stanovlenie ukrainskoi ėtnografii, 72–3. 114 Plokhy, “Ukraine or Little Russia,” 348, 351. 115 Istoriia Rusov, iii. 116 Ibid. 117 Ibid., iii–iv. 118 Ibid., 68–73, 179. However, in several places it is used separately as “Ukraine” with the same meaning; see ibid., 183, 208. See also Frank Sysyn’s analysis of the text of the Bila Tserkva proclamation in Istoriia Rusov in Sysyn, “The Persistence of the Little Rossian Fatherland in the Russian Empire.” 119 Istoriia Rusov, 208. 120 Ibid., 161. 121 Ibid., 172. 122 Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact, 262; Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 56. 123 Ziablovskii, Statisticheskoe opisanie Rossiiskoi imperii, 1:128.

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124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152

153 154

Notes to pages 38–43

Nechkina, Dvizhenie dekabristov, 1:389, 423. Kohl, Russia, 186, 505. Beliakov, “‘Taras Bul'ba’ mezhdu Ukrainoi i Rossiei,” 198. Apanovich, Rukopisnaia svetskaia kniga, 189, 192, 199. Dziuba, “‘Ukraïna’ i ‘Malorosiia,’” 45–52. Ziablovskii, Zemleopisanie Rossiiskoi imperii, 339. German, Statisticheskiia izsledovaniia, 37. Bagalei, Opyt istorii Khar′kovskogo universiteta, 773. Boeck, “What’s in a Name?” Ibid., 37. Beauplan, Opisanie Ukrainy, vi. Sbornik Imperatorskogo Russkogo Istoricheskogo Obshchestva, 1871, vol. 8, 375. Kalinovskii, Opisanie svadebnykh ukrainskikh prostonarodnykh obriadov. Bantysh-Kamensky, Istoriia Maloi Rossii, 1830, vol. 2, 1, 23; vol. 3, 264 et al. Kvitka-Osnov'ianenko, “Ukraintsy,” 461. Kvitka-Osnov'ianenko, “Ved'ma.” Markevich, Ukrainskie melodii, 102. Somov, Golos ukraintsa. Narodzhennia kraïny, 87–8; Masliichuk, “‘Vid Ukraïny do Malorosiï,’” 240–1, 243. Honcharuk, ed., Ukraïnsʹki poety-romantyky, 68, 87, 143, 144, 146. Shpyhotsky, “Malorossiiskaia melodiia,” 87; Hillis, Children of Rus', 45. Ilnytzkyj, review of Children of Rus'; Boeck, “What’s in a Name,” 41. Markevich, Istoriia Malorossii, 1:134–5, 186, 300, 382. Ibid., 2:67, 280. Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 56. Kotsipinskii, Pesni, dumki i shumki. Ukraїns′ka literatura XVIII stolittia, 77–9, 82–4. Kappeler, “Mazepintsy, Malorossy, Khokhly,” 162–81. “I’m a maloros, my country is a hive of warriors for honour and freedom, But now it lies plundered, And I burn and wail in misfortune” (1883); Hyrych, “Znakova stattia Omeliana Pritsaka,” 152. Saunders, review of Children of Rus', 746. Leskinen, “‘Iuzhnorussy,’ ‘malorossiiane,’ ‘malorossy’”; Drozdov, “Ukrainskoe naselenie Rossii/RSFSR”; Beliakov, “‘Taras Bul'ba,’” 39–41; Vulpius, “Slova i liudi”; Kappeler, “Mazepintsy, Malorossy, Khokhly.”

Notes to pages 43–6

155 156 157 158 159 160

161 162

163

164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175

176

221

Iu. Venelin, Ob istochnike narodnoi poezii, 9, 17. Boeck, “What’s in a Name,” 43. Riabchuk, “‘Khokhly,’ ‘Malorosy,’ ‘Bandery.’” Kappeler, “Mazepintsy, Malorossy, Khokhly,” 168, 174. Karazin, Sochineniia, pisʹma i bumagi, 484–5, 584, 600. One can compare the Ukrainian case to many others all over the world in Safran, “Names, Labels, and Identities.” However, the author’s interpretation of the ethnonym “Ukrainian” cannot but seem a bit eccentric; see pp. 446–7. Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 153. “I have to tell you that I myself do not know which kind of soul I have, the soul of a khokhol or of a Russian. I know only that I never would give preference to the ‘Little Russian’ before the Russian nor to the Russian before the ‘Little Russian.’” See Kappeler, “Great Russians” and “Little Russians”, 29. Taras Koznarsky, “Kharkiv Literary Almanacs of the 1830s: The Shaping of Ukrainian Cultural Identity” (PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 2001), 82. Petrenko, Strana Khokhliandiia. Beliakov, Ukrainskaia natsiia v ėpokhu Gogolia, 8. Ibid., 10; Aksakov, Pisʹma k rodnym, 401. Kijas, Polacy na Uniwersytecie Charkowskim, 53; Perepiska Ia.K. Grota, 242. Kotenko, “Construction of Ukrainian National Space,” 41. Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism 53–4, 153. For Hrushevsky’s discussion of the various names for Ukraine and Ukrainians, see Hrushevsky, History of Ukraine-Rus', 1:1–2. Shevel'ov, “Nazva ‘Ukraïna’”; Boeck, “What’s in a Name?” 43–6. Boeck, “What’s in a Name?” 48. Kappeler, “Great Russians” and “Little Russians.” Plokhy, The Origins of the Slavic Nations, 302. Pogrebinskii, Mikhail. “Ukrainorusy: Ideologicheskie i politicheskie orientatsii.” Russkii zhurnal, 7 June 2004. http://www.russ.ru/pole/Ukrainorusyideologicheskie-i-politicheskie-orientacii; Nemenskii, “‘Nedoukraintsy’ ili novyi narod?” According to Roman Szporluk, “In many ways these intellectuals were simultaneously Ukrainian and Russian” (Szporluk, “Ukraine,” 98). Paul-Robert Magocsi noticed that it seemed “perfectly normal for some residents to be simultaneously a Little Russian (Ukrainian) and a Russian” (Magocsi, “The Ukrainian National Revival,” 51).

222

Notes to pages 47–50

chapter two 1 Adam Taylor, “Ukrainian Separatists Claim to Have Created a New Country: Malorossiya, or ‘Little Russia’,” Washington Post, 19 July 2017, https://www .washingtonpost.com/news/worldviews/wp/2017/07/19/ukrainianseparatists-claim-to-have-created-a-new-country-malorossiya-or-littlerussia. 2 Tat'iana Ivzhenko, “Malorossiia sputala karty na Minskikh peregovorakh,” Nezavisimaia gazeta, 20 July 2017: 6. 3 Mihaylov et al., “Subnational Identities,” 89. 4 Marchukov, “Malorusskii proekt”; Nemenskii, “Nedoukraintsy ili novyj narod?”; Butakov, “Proekt Rus'-Ukraina”; Ukrainskii separatizm. See also Ul'ianov, Proiskhozhdenie ukrainskogo separatizma; Volkonskii, Ukraina. 5 “Little Russian mentality,” Internet Encyclopedia of Ukraine, http://www .encyclopediaofukraine.com/display.asp?linkpath=pages%5CL%5CI %5CLittleRussianmentality.htm. 6 Sereda, “Kompleks malorosa.” 7 Riabchuk, Vid Malorosiï do Ukraïny; Zhurzhenko, “The Myth of Two Ukraines.” 8 Buzyna, Voskreshenia Malorossii. Buzyna was assassinated in 2015 because of his views and political activities. 9 Beissinger, “The Persistence of Empire in Eurasia.” 10 Kappeler, “Hromadians'ka chy etnichna natsiia?” 14. 11 Maxwell, “Typologies and Phases in Nationalism Studies.” 12 This definition is used as an established historiographical term, not implying any “primordial” character of a nation. 13 Rudnytsky, “The Intellectual Origins of Modern Ukraine,” 140. 14 According to Daniel Beauvois, “Brak wykształcenia i analfabetyzm ... sprawiły, że aż do połowy stulecia promowaniem narodowej kultury ukraińskiej zajmowali się przeważnie – podobnie jak w przypadku Litwy i Białorusi – intelektualiści pochodzenia polskiego lub rosyjskiego” (Kłoczowski, ed., Historia Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej, 1:303). Among the “intellectuals” being spoken of, the author names Nikolai Gogol (Mykola Hohol), Mykhailo Maksymovych, and Petro Hulak-Artemovsky (ibid., 1:304). 15 “What we mean by ‘national’ identity involves some sense of political community, however tenuous. A political community, in turn, implies at least some common institutions and a single code of rights and duties for all the members of the community. It also suggests a definite social space, a fairly well

Notes to pages 50–5

16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

223

demarcated and bounded territory, with which the members identify and to which they feel they belong” (Smith, National Identity, 19). Sysyn, “The Persistence of the Little Rossian Fatherland, 40. See also Sysyn, “Fatherland”; Kohut, “From Commonwealth to Ukraine.” See next chapters for details. Grabowicz, “Between Subversion and Self-Assertion,” 216. Berger and Miller, eds, Nationalizing Empires, 17. Grabowicz, “Ukrainian-Russian Literary Relations.” Pavlovskii, Pribavlenie k grammatike malrossiiskogo narechia, 15. Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 152–3. Vigel', Zapiski Filipa Filipovicha Vigelia. Harvie, Scotland and Nationalism. Inglot, Poglądy literackie. Krueger, Czech, German, and Noble; Havránek, “Bohemian Spring 1848.” Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 253–4. Banac and Sysyn, eds., “Concepts of Nationhood in Early Modern Eastern Europe,” 277. Kohut, Making Ukraine, 96. Kravchenko, “Do problemy otsinky reform.” Litvinova, “Pomeshchich'ia Pravda”; Hurzhii and Rusanov, Dvorianstvo Livoberezhnoї Ukraїny; Kohut, Making Ukraine, 78–111. [Grigorii Poletika], “Rech, proiznesennaia Grigoriem Andreevichem Poletikoiu v obshchem sobranii malrossiiskago shliakhetstva v Glukhove o pravakh, preimushchestvakh i nuzhdakh Maloi Rossii.” IR NBU, fond VІІІ, od. zb. 2683, ark. 1–5. Zhurba, “Predstav'te vy sebe.” Miller, “Ocherki iz istorii i iuridicheskogo byta staroi Malorossii”; Magocsi, “The Ukrainian National Revival,” 52; Tolochko, Kievskaia Rus', 177–205. Hroch, European Nations, 230. Kohut, Making Ukraine, 54. Hroch, European Nations, 230. Tsarinnyi, Mysli malorossiianina. Subtelny, Ukraine: A History, 224–5, 228. Greenfeld, “The Formation of the Russian National Identity,” 583. Ibid., 551. David Saunders found “particularly striking” Mykola Markevych’s attack of 1831 on the French historian Jean-Benoît Scherer, who was “one of the few who took a favourable view of Ukrainian” (Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact,

224

43 44 45 46 47 48

49 50

51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

Notes to pages 55–61

178). I believe that this episode has nothing contradictory in light of Little Russian (“Malorossian”) ressentiment. Woolf, ed., Nationalism in Europe, 22. Velychenko, “Identities, Loyalties and Service in Imperial Russia.” See chapter 5. Wendland, “The Russian Empire,” 439. Melnychenko, Ukraïns'ka dusha Moskvy; Pritsak and Reshetar, “The Ukraine and the Dialectics.” “The term designates a hegemonic framing of accounts which foreground central tendencies in a nation’s evolution and define their significance for the present” (Berger and Conrad, The Past as History, 11). Mal'tseva and Chernyshev. “Formirovanie rossiiskoi ėntsiklopedistiki.” Kravchenko, “‘Korotki vidomosti pro Malu Rosiiu’”; Inna Bondarenko. Topohrafichni opysy Ukraїny kintsia XVIII – pochatku XIX st.: Problema atrybutsiї ta informatyvnoї reprezentatyvnosti dzherel. Candidate of Historical Sciences diss., DNU, 2003. Tolz, Inventing the Nation: Russia, 168. Kohut, “Mazepa’s Ukraine”; Sysyn, “Ukraïns'ke natsiotvorennia,” 91–2. Hal', “Heokontsept ‘Malorossiia.’” Kohut, Russian Centralism and Ukrainian Autonomy, 101–2; Hal', “‘Ne ustupatʹ ni na odin shag.’” Opysy Kharkivsʹkoho namisnytstva, 5–8. IR NBU f. 14, spr. 4978, ark. 17. Szporluk, “The Western Dimension of the Making of Modern Ukraine,” 10. The Ukrainian word pysanka is literally a decorated Easter egg; figuratively, it can be used to describe a beautiful woman. Smith, National Identity, 19. Sydoruk, “Herder and the Slavs,” 73. It is not clear, though, how Herder defined the territory of “Ukraine.” Schérer, Litopys Malorosii, 132. Doroshenko, A Survey of Ukrainian Historiography, 101. Bushkovitch, “The Ukraine in Russian Culture,” 341–9. Kravchenko, Narysy z ukraïns'koï istoriohrafiï. Hroch, European Nations, 468–9. Gorlenko, Stanovlenie ukrainskoi ėtnografii; Horlenko, Narysy s istoriï ukraiïns'koï etnohrafiï; Knight, “Science, Empire and Nationality”; Rustemeyer, “Concepts of Ukrainian Folklore.”

Notes to pages 61–8

225

67 Chulkov, Novoe i polnoe sobranie rossiiskikh pesen; Prach, Sobranie narodnykh russkikh pesen. 68 Pavlovskii, Pribavlenie k grammatike malorossiiskogo narechia, 32. 69 Pavlovskii, Grammatika Malorossiiskogo narechia. Beletskii-Nosenko’s “Slovar' malorossiiskago ili iugo-vostochnorusskago iazyka” (1840–2) was published only in 1966 (Bilets'kyi-Nosenko, Slovnyk ukraїns'koї movy); see also Horets'kyi, Istoriia ukraїns'koї leksykohrafiї. 70 Opysy Kharkivsʹkoho namisnytstva, 36. 71 Shafonskii, Chernigovskogo namestnichestva topograficheskoe opisanie, 25, 26. 72 Simonovskii, Kratkoe opisanie. 73 Zamechaniia, 15–16, 52; Gorlenko, “Iz istorii iuzhno-russkogo obshchestva,” 143 (attributed by some scholars to Mikhail Markov, director of the Chernihiv People’s College). 74 N.S., “Poltavskii gubernskii marshal,” 141. 75 IR NBU, fond I, od. zb. 294, ark. 34–5. 76 Ibid., ark. 34. 77 Berger and Conrad, The Past as History, 1. 78 Kohut, “The Development of a Ukrainian National Historiography,” 453. 79 Ifversen, “Myth in the Writing of European History,” 453. 80 Smith, “Nationalism in Early Modern Europe,” 412. 81 IR NBU, fond 14, od. zb. 4978, аrk. 22–3. 82 Shatalov, Uiavlennia pro kozatstvo; Anna Kovalchuk, “Narrating the National Future: The Cossacks in Ukrainian and Russian Romantic Literature” (PhD diss., University of Oregon, 2017); Plokhy, The Cossack Myth. 83 As Kostomarov sarcastically put it, in Markevich’s Istoriia Malorossii each Cossack hetman “was presented as a genius almost equal to Napoleon” (Margolis, Istoricheskie vzgliady T.G. Shevchenka, 75). 84 Yoon, “Transformation”; Plokhy, The Cossack Myth, 56. 85 Shatalov, “Uiavlennia pro kozatstvo.” 86 Kravchenko, “Why Didn’t the Antemurale.” 87 Istoriia Rusov ili Maloi Rossii, ІІ:98. 88 Stennik, “Polemika o natsional'nom kharaktere,” 85. 89 Storozhenko, “K istorii malorosiiskikh kozakov,” 128. 90 Yekelchyk. “The Grand Narrative and Its Discontents,” 234. 91 Miller, The Romanov Empire and Nationalism, 164. 92 Riasanovsky, Russian Identities, 74. 93 Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact. 94 Aleksandrovskii, “‘Ukrainskii vopros,’” 154.

226

Notes to pages 68–73

95 «Не торговал мой дед блинами, /Не ваксил царских сапогов, /Не пел с придворными дьячками, /В князья не прыгал из хохлов, /И не был беглым он солдатом/Австрийских пудреных дружин». (“My grandfather didn’t peddle pancakes, /Didn’t shine the tsars’ boots, /Didn’t sing with the court sextons, /Didn’t jump from forelock [emphasis added] to prince, /Nor was he a deserter who abandoned /The powdered Austrian regiments”); this important detail escaped the English translator’s attention. See Pushkin, “My Genealogy,” 217. 96 Somov, Golos ukraintsa. 97 Hillis, Children of Rus', 201. 98 Kravchenko, “Nikolai Polievoi.” 99 [Polevoi], “Malorossiia,” 86. 100 Ibid. 101 Ibid. 102 Ibid., 77. This opinion is expressed, with certain reservations, in Polevoi, Istoriia russkogo naroda, 2:316–17. 103 Polevoi, Istoriia russkogo naroda, 98–9. 104 [Polevoi], “Malorossiia,” 87–8. 105 Ukr.: Hruziia. [Polevoi], “Malorossiia,” 84. He reiterated this thesis later in Polevoi, Obozrenie russkoi istorii, 65. 106 Polevoi, Obozrenie russkoi istorii, 245. 107 Ibid., 244–5. 108 Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 50. 109 Cited in Polevoi, Materialy po istorii russkoi literatury, 482; cf. Nikitenko, Zapiski i dnevnik, vol. 1. 110 Koialovich, Istoriia, 204–7. 111 Shandra, General-gubernatorstva, 115–19. 112 Zaitsev, “Nedrukovanyi virsh Arkadiia Rodzianka.” 113 Ibid., 156. 114 Molchanov, “Dzherel'na baza ta istoriohrafiia problem.” 115 Storozhenko, “Poltavskii gubernskii marshal”; Shatalov, Uiavlennia, 202–9. 116 Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 229; Ias', Istoryk i styl', 126–7; Markevich, N.A. “О Malorossii i ob Ukraine.” IR NBU, fond 14, spr. 4978, ark.1–9; Markevich, N.A. “О narodakh obitavshikh v strane, gde gospodstvuet iazyk malorossiiskii.” IR NBU, fond 14, spr. 4978, ark. 10–26; Ias', Istoryk i styl', 126–7. 117 Kvitka-Osnov'ianenko, Prozovi tvory, 9. 118 Rozhdestvenskii, Istoricheskii obzor, 296.

Notes to pages 73–7

119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126

127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136

227

See chapter 3. [Nadezhdin], “Velikaia Rossiia,” 9:262–79. Ibid., 9:268. See the section “Vissarion Belinsky’s Little Russia” in Shkandrij, Russia and Ukraine, 116–25. Velychenko, “Tsarist Censorship,” 390–1; Tolochko, Kievskaia Rus'; Hillis, Children of Rus', 48. Stråth, ed., Myth and Memory in the Construction of Community, 21. Kaschuba, “The Emergence and Transformation of Foundation Myths,” 224. According to Serhiy Bilenky, “A major discontinuity ... occurred in the 1840s, when the nobility ceased to represent the Ukrainian national movement” (Bilenky, “The Ukrainian National Movement,” xxiii); Aleksei Miller attributes the split between the “Little Russian” and “Ukrainian” trends to a later period of time, somewhere in the 1860s (Miller, review of Children of Rus'); Serhii Plokhy extends the period of overlapping of the two discourses “through most of the nineteenth century” (Plokhy, review of Children of Rus', 160). Plokhy, review of Children of Rus', 160. See also Bilenky, “‘Children of Rus',’” 432; Fedevych and Fedevych, Za viru, tsaria i Kobzaria. Lysiak-Rudnyts'kyi, “Storichchia pershoї ukraїns'koї politychnoї prohramy.” Bilenky, “The Ukrainian National Movement,” xxx. Margolis, Istoricheskie vzgliady T.G. Shevchenko. Shevchenko, Poeziia 1837–1847, 352–3. Grabowicz, The Poet as Mythmaker, 134; Zapiski o Iuzhnoi Rusi, 174. Wilson, The Ukrainians, 70. Wilson, Ukrainian Nationalism in the 1990s. Kohut, Making Ukraine, 56. Ibid., 57.

chapter three This chapter is based on the relevant chapter in Kravchenko, Narysy z ukraїns'koї istoriohrafiї; translations from Ukrainian and Russian by Ksenia Maryniak. 1 Markevitch, Le testament d’Icare; Besedy s Igorem Markevichem. 2 Ias', Istoryk i styl', 1:121–46; Kosachevskaia, N.A. Markevich; http://www .encyclopediaofukraine.com/display.asp?linkpath=pages%5CM%5CA%5C MarkevychMykola.htm.

228

Notes to pages 79–85

3 Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 224. 4 Barabash, “‘Avtobiohrafichni zapysky’ M. Markevycha,” 330. 5 Markevych once even received a letter that was delivered in an envelope with his surname indicated as “Mazepovych” (Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma”, 223). Regardless of whether it was a careless postman’s error or someone’s idea of a joke, this instance testifies to the existence of a persistent Russian stereotype of Ukrainians as “Mazepists.” 6 Smirnova, “Konkretno-rechevoe upotreblenie poniatiia ‘otechestvo’”; Vdovina, “Ob istorii nekotorykh poniatii,” 468–9; Schierle, “Patriotism and emotions.” 7 Kravchenko, Narysy z ukraїns'koї istoriohrafiї, 240–1. 8 Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 229. Rakovych’s personality is described for the first time in Shatalov, Uiavlennia pro kozatstvo, 202–9. 9 Hroch, European Nations, 230. 10 Excerpts cited here and below from Markevych’s letter to Ryleev are taken from the English translation found in Plokhy, The Cossack Myth, 26, with editorial amendments based on a comparison of the translation with the Russian-language version in Iakushkin, “K literaturnoi i obshchestvennoi istorii,” 599. 11 Plokhy, The Cossack Myth, 26. 12 Iakushkin, “K literaturnoi i obshchestvennoi istorii,” 599; translation in Plokhy, The Cossack Myth, 26. 13 Kosachevskaia, N.A. Markevich, 57. 14 Plokhy, The Cossack Myth; “‘Poema vol'noho narodu’: ‘Istoriia Rusov’ ta її mistse v ukraїns'kii istoriohrafiї” in Kravchenko, Narysy z ukraїns'koї istoriohrafiї. The Istoriia Rusov has been the subject of several monographs and numerous articles; it has been published in Russian and Ukrainian, although to date a scholarly edition of this historical document has yet to be accomplished. Historians have been unable to identify the original text or to determine its author or the motivation and circumstances of its writing. 15 Engelstein, Slavophile Empire; Rabow-Edling, Slavophile Thought; Walicki, The Slavophile Controversy. 16 See chapter 6 in this book. 17 Koshelev, “Duma get'mana Mazepy”; Plokhy, The Cossack Myth, 51–6. 18 Kur'ianov, “Rol' ‘Ukrainskikh melodii’”; Kur'ianov, Literaturna deiatel'nost' N.A. Markevicha; Kryzhanivs'kyi, “‘Ukrainskie melodii’ Mykoly Markevycha”; Mel'nyk, “Tvorchist' Mykoly Markevycha.” 19 Markevich, Ukrainskie melodii, 137.

Notes to pages 85–9

20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

38 39 40 41 42 43 44

45

229

As quoted in Luckyj, Between Gogol' and Ševčenko, 22–3. Doroshenko, A Survey, 100. Kur'ianov, Literaturna deiatel'nost' N.A. Markevicha. Liapina, “Ukrainskie melodii N. Markevicha.” See the opposite view in Kryzhanivs'kyi, “‘Ukrainskie melodii’ Mykoly Markevycha,” 148. Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact, 179. Markevich, Ukrainskie melodii, 121. Ibid., 121. Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 232. Ibid., 216. Ibid., 218. Ibid., 239, also 224, 228, 232. Dixon, “Repositioning Pushkin.” Kravchenko, “Nikolai Polevoi.” N.P., “Malorossiia,” 86. Ibid., 77. This opinion is expressed, with certain reservations, in Polevoi, Istoriia russkogo naroda, 2:316–17. Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 229. Markevich, N.А. “O Malorossii i ob Ukraine.” IR NBU, fond 14, spr. 4978, ark. 9; Markevich, N.А. “O narodakh, obitavshikh v strane, gde gospodstvuet iazyk malorossiiskii.” IR NBU, fond 14, spr. 4978, ark. 10–26. A more detailed analysis of these publications can be found in the two-part monograph Ias', Istoryk i styl', 1:126–7. Tsarinnyi, Mysli malorossiianina, 2–3. “Appears to be so inadequate that one would not read him if he did not write with such a lovely pen” (Kosachevskaia, N.A. Markevich, 104). Kravchenko, Narysy z ukraїns'koї istoriohrafiї. Kravchenko, “I.-Kh. Enhel',” 7–24. Bantysh-Kamensky, Istoriia Maloi Rossii, 72. Plokhy, The Cossack Myth. “The activation of myth serves the purpose of (re)constituting the community. Reconstitution takes place when the event is perceived as morally crucial and touching on the core values of the community” (Ifversen, “Myth in the Writing of European History,” 455). Denisov, “‘Istoriia Malorossii’ glazami Gogolia”; Denisov, “Taras Bul'ba”; Bojanowska, “All the King’s Horses”; Bojanowska, Nikolai Gogol; Karpuk, “Reconstructing Gogol’s Project”; Yoon, “Transformation.”

230

Notes to pages 89–94

46 “Polack-Panko isn’t one of us! No way, not one of us!” Tsarinnyi, Mysli malorossiianina, 3. 47 Ibid., 69. 48 Proskurin, “Pochti svoi.” 49 Markevich, Istoriia Malorossii, 1:5. 50 Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact, 180. 51 Kosachevskaia, N.A. Markevich, 123. 52 Baár, Historians and Nationalism, 32. 53 Ibid., 11. 54 Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact, 237. 55 Baár, Historians and Nationalism, 11. 56 Hroch, European Nations, 232. 57 Kohut, Making Ukraine, 196. 58 The movement supporting Orthodox Church union with Rome, creating Eastern Catholic (“Uniate”) churches of non-Latin rites; today the term is mostly used with derogatory intent. This issue was followed closely by the Holy Synod of the Russian Orthodox Church. Kostomarov suffered the most under the ecclesiastical censor: his dissertation on this topic was rejected prior to his defence and burned in 1842, the same year that the first volume of Markevich’s Istoriia Malorossii was published (Levyts'ka, “Pereosmyslennia”; Аizenshtok, “Persha dysertatsiia Kostomarova”). 59 Markevich, “Mazepa: Stat'ia pervaia”; Markevich, “Mazepa: Stat'ia vtoraia”; Markevich, “Mazepa: Stat'ia tret'ia.” 60 RGIA-SPb, fond 772, op. 1, delo 1670, ark. 44. 61 Kosachevskaia, N.A. Markevich, 108. 62 Berger, “The Power of National Pasts,” 34. 63 Baár, Historians and Nationalism, 15. 64 Coakley, “Mobilizing the Past,” 541. 65 Plokhy, The Cossack Myth, 62. 66 Baár, Historians and Nationalism, 32. 67 Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 168. 68 Markevich declared, “Malorossiia is where the people talk Little Russian” (IR NBU, fond 14, spr. 4978, ark. 17). 69 Markevich, Istoriia Malorossii; Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 223, 232. 70 Markevich, Istoriia Malorossii, 2:39. 71 Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 237. 72 Markevich, “O kozakakh,” 10. 73 Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 156.

Notes to pages 94–100

231

74 “One thing by which it is possible to determine the origins of a people as a whole with complete certainty is language” (Markevich, Istoriia Malorossii, 1:38–9). 75 IR NBU, fond 14, spr. 4978, аrk. 5; original quote is from a manuscript handwritten in Russian. 76 Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 237. 77 Markevich, Istoriia Malorossii, 1:351, 1:355, 2:4. 78 Ibid., 1:351. 79 Ibid., 2:28. 80 Ibid., 1:viii. 81 Plokhy, The Cossack Myth, 354. 82 Markevich, Istoriia Malorossii, 1:10. 83 Ibid., 1:4–6. 84 Ibid., 1:5–6. 85 Ibid., 1:13–14. 86 IR NBU, fond 14, spr. 4978, ark. 22–3. 87 Ibid. 88 Ibid., ark. 26. 89 Markevich, “O kozakakh,” 37. 90 Shatalov, Uiavlennia pro kozatstvo, 213–14. 91 Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 232, 218. 92 Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 217. 93 Gogol', “Otryvok iz istorii Malorossii,” 8. 94 Ibid., 2:34. 95 Ibid. 2:33–4. 96 Baár, Historians and Nationalism, 4. 97 Istoriia Rusov, 97. 98 Ibid., 134. 99 Gogol', “Otryvok iz istorii Malorossii,” 10. 100 Bilenky, Eastern Europe in Search of a Nation, 56. 101 Enhel', Istoriia Ukraїny ta ukraїns'kykh kozakiv, 382. 102 Markevich, Istoria Malorossii, 2:65–6. 103 Ibid., 1:347. 104 Ibid., 1:368. 105 Ibid., 2:65–6. 106 Ibid., 2:593, 639. 107 Ibid., 2:653–4, 2:672–3. 108 Marchenko, Ukraїns'ka istoriohrafiia, 152.

232

109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129

130 131 132 133 134 135

136 137 138

Notes to pages 100–6

Kravchenko, “Ivan Mazepa.” Markevich, Istoria Malorossii, 2:362. Ibid., 2:65–6. Ibid., 2:4. Baár, Historians and Nationalism, 32. Markevich, Istoria Malorossii, 1:256. Ibid., 2:125. Ibid., 2:124. Proskurin, “Pochti svoi.” Kraszewski, “Choroby moralne,” 17, 18. Shatalov, Uiavlennia pro kozatstvo, 175–89; Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 202; Bushkovitch, “The Ukraine in Russian Culture,” 353. Senkovskii, “Stat'ia pervaia – vtoraia”; Kulish, “Otvet g. Senkovskomu”; Frazier, Romantic Encounters. Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 201. On the reaction of Markevych’s defendants, see Shatalov, Uiavlennia pro kozatstvo, 189–94. Perepiska Ia.K. Grota s P.A. Pletnevym, 2:98. Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 229. Kur'ianov, “Neopublikovannie stat'i N.A. Markevicha.” Kosachevskaia, N.A. Markevich, 6–7. Gertsen, Sobranie sochinenii, 2:72. Kohut, Making Ukraine, 98. Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 239–46; Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact, 237–9; Shkandrii, Russia and Ukraine, 116–25; Rutherford, “Vissarion Belinskii”; Bushkovitch, “The Ukraine in Russian Culture,” 359. I used the text in the collected works of Belinskii, “Sobranie sochinenii,” 7:44–64. As quoted in Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact, 238. As quoted in Rutherford, “Vissarion Belinskii,” 509. Rutherford, “Vissarion Belinskii.” Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 157–8. Mamonov, “Memuary professora,” 202. It is interesting to see how this stereotype was reflected in Gogol’s evaluation of Taras Shevchenko (“[more than a speck of] tar”); Danilevskii, “Znakomstvo s Gogolem,” 14:92–100. RGIA, fond 772, op. І, spr. 1670, ark. 40–4. Ibid., ark. 42. Nikitenko, Dnevnik, 277–8.

Notes to pages 106–9

139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146

147

148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155

156

233

Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 244–5; Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 200. Kosachevskaia, N.A. Markevich, 80. Velychenko, “Tsarist Censorship,” 397. Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 225. Markevich, Obychai, pover'ia, kukhnia. Kosachevskaia, “Pis'ma,” 231. “The nation is truly formed only when it reached the stage of an ‘imagined community’” (Hroch, European Nations, 229, 235). Markevych’s Istoriia was inspired by the Istoriia Rusov and therefore was regarded by many as an alternative to the four-volume history of Ukraine sponsored by Nikolai Repnin and written by Dmitrii Bantysh-Kamensky. The first strove to incorporate Little Russia into the Russian Empire; the second helped turn it into modern Ukraine; Plokhy, The Cossack Myth, 329–30. “In past ages, when the carrier of national self-consciousness was a representative class, that class’s disappearance – through physical destruction or a loss of nerve – indeed amounted to ‘the death of a nation.’ What remained was an amorphous ethnic mass, at best an incomplete nation. Such national decapitation occurred twice in Ukrainian history, each time followed by a rebirth: the first in the seventeenth century and the second in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries” (Rudnytsky, “Observations on the Problem of ‘Historical’ and ‘Non-historical’ Nations,” in Rudnytsky, Essays [originally published in Harvard Ukrainian Studies 5, no. 3 (September 1981): 358–68]). Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 199. Baár, Historians and Nationalism, 34. Coakley, “Mobilizing the Past,” 541 (emphasis in the original). Rudnytsky, Essays, 11. Ivashkiv, “Panteleimon Kulish.” Kostomarov, “Mysli ob istorii Malorossii.” Margolis, Istoricheskie vzgliady T.G. Shevchenko, 75; a different opinion is held by Serhii Plokhy (Plokhy, The Cossack Myth, 50). https://taras-shevchenko.storinka.org/taras-shevchenko’s-poem-to-nmarkevich-translated-from-Ukrainian-by-c-h-andrusyshen-and-watson-kirkconnell.html; Ukrainian original in Shevchenko, Kobzar, 56. https://taras-shevchenko.storinka.org/to-my-fellow-countrymen-in-ukraineand-not-in-ukraine-living-dead-and-as-yet-unborn-my-friendly-epistle-poemof-taras-shevchenko-ukrainian-to-english-translation-by-vera-rich.html; Kyrylo-Mefodiїvs'ke tovarystvo, 260; Boiko, “М.А. Markevych і Т.H. Shevchenko.”

234

Notes to pages 109–10

157 The Romantics no longer possessed the political consciousness of the previous generation (Bilenky, “The Ukrainian National Movement,” xxx). 158 Bilenky, Romantic Nationalism, 253. 159 Andriewsky, “The Russian-Ukrainian Discourse,” 182–214. 160 Hillis, Children of Rusʹ.

chapter four

1

2

3 4

5

6

This chapter is based on my monograph Khar'kоv / Kharkiv and three recently published articles: “Ukrainian-Russian Border after Euromaidan,” “Kharkiv: The Past Lives On,” and “Borderland City: Kharkiv.” Regionalism without Regions; Ethnicity and Territory in the Former Soviet Union; Nemyria, Regionalism; Barrington and Herron, “One Ukraine or Many?”; Regiony i granitsy Ukrainy. On the eastern and southern regions of Ukraine, see: Pirie, “National Identity and Politics”; Kuromiya, Freedom and Terror in the Donbas; Rodgers, “Contestation and Negotiation.” Kolosov, “Radical Shifts in Russian-Ukrainian Relations”; Kolosov, “Transformatsiia transgranichnykh vzaimodeistvii”; Zayats, “Impact of Crisis in Russia-Ukraine Relations”; Rossiisko-ukrainskoe pogranich'e; Zhurzhenko, “‘Chuzha viina’ chy ‘spil'na Peremoha’?”; Zhurzhenko, Tatiana, “From Borderlands to Bloodlands,” Eurozine, 19 November 2014, http://www.eurozine .com/from-borderlands-to-bloodlands/; Zhurzhenko, Borderlands into Bordered Lands; Rodgers, Nation, Region, and History in Post-Communist Transitions. Ther, “Caught in Between,” 486. Rieber, The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands; Bartov and Weitz, eds, Shatterzone of Empires; Von Hagen, “Empires, Borderlands, and Diasporas”; LeDonne, The Grand Strategy of the Russian Empire. Ellis and Eβer, eds, Frontiers, Regions, and Identities in Europe; Paasi, “The Resurgence of the ‘Region’ and ‘Regional Identity’”; Paasi, “Region and Place,” 475. About national and regional phenomena, see Berger and Miller, eds, Nationalizing Empires; Augusteijn and Storm, eds, Nation and Region; Umbach, “Nation and Region”; Berger and Miller, “Nation-Building and Regional Integration”; Núñez, “The Region as Essence of the Fatherland”; Applegate, A Nation of Provincials; Boa and Palfreyman, Heimat; Sahlins, Boundaries. Chornyi, Istoriia Slobids'koї Ukraїny; Sklokin, Rosiis'ka imperiia i Slobids'ka Ukraїna; Masliichuk, Provintsiia na perekhresti kul'tur; Sliusars'kyi, Slobids'ka Ukraїna; Bahalii, Istoriia Slobids'koї Ukraїny.

Notes to pages 115–20

235

7 I use the term “Ukrainian” in both territorial-geographic (pre-state) and contemporary national meanings, in the former case with quotation marks. 8 Chornovol, Komparatyvnі frontyry; Breyfogle et al., eds, Peopling the Russian Periphery; LeDonne, The Grand Strategy of the Russian Empire; Sunderland, “Imperial Space,” 43, 53–5. 9 Chizhikova, Russko-ukrainskoe pogranich'e; Bublikov, Ėtnicheskie men'shinstva i uroven' ikh integratsii v Belgorodskoi oblasti; Bublikov, “Osobennosti identichnosti.” 10 Iachmenikhin, Armiia i reformy. 11 Kvitka, G., Khar'kov i uezdnye goroda, 189. 12 Nechkina, 1:389, 423. 13 Dmytriienko, “Administratyvno-terytorial'nyi ustrii ukraїns'kykh zemel',” 110. 14 Kharkiv general-governorship (1879–82) without Katerynoslav gubernia; Shandra, General-gubernatorstva v Ukraїni, 61. 15 Bagalei and Miller, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova, 2:968. 16 Belinskii, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii, 8:89. 17 Ornowski, Bogaty w parantelę; Losiievs'kyi, “‘Bahatyi sad’ Iana Ornovs'koho 1705 r.” 18 “Unbaptized Gypsies,” “filth, shepherds, homeless vagabonds,” “cowards,” etc. The anonymous author offered them the following advice: “Go ahead and graze sheep, plough the land, and be carters, / But don’t even think of crawling into Cossackdom! / Settle the free lands but pay us rent! / And if not, we’ll drive you from the steppes: shoo, shoo!” (“Satyra na slobozhan,” 216). 19 Plokhy, The Cossack Myth. 20 According to the author, it was only since the times of Hetman Ivan Samoilovych that the “local hetmans, preferring that every one of them be a small autocratic hetman rather than submit to the greater hetman, had requested that the tsar’s court or, better, Prince Golitsyn, who was then in charge of everything, grant each of them particular rights independent of Little Russian subordination” (Istoriia Rusov, 108). 21 Hurzhii, Ukraїns'ka kozats'ka derzhava, 8. 22 Shugurov, “Il'ia Ivanovich Kvitka”; Masliichuk, Provintsiia na perekhresti kul'tur, 256–88. 23 Kvitka, Illia, Zapiski o slobodskikh polkakh; Kvitka, G., Khar'kov i uezdnye goroda, 167–90. 24 Kravchenko, “Why Didn’t the Antemurale,” 212.

236

Notes to pages 121–5

25 Kvitka-Osnov'ianenko, Istorychni, etnohrafichni, literaturno-publitsystychni statti, 337. 26 Kvitka, G. “Ukraintsy,” 460. 27 Kvitka, G. Khar'kov i uezdnye goroda, 170. 28 Ibid. 29 Kvitka, G. “Ukraintsy,” 461. 30 Kvitka, Illia, “O Maloi Rossii.” 31 Kalinovskii, Opisanie. 32 Bagalei and Miller, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova, 2:12; 1:106–7. 33 Shandra, General-gubernatorstva v Ukraїni, 118. The official name of the new administrative unit (Chernihiv, Poltava, and Kharkiv) had nothing that would bring to mind any regional (Little Russian and Sloboda-Ukrainian) historical legacy. 34 Bagalei and Miller, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova, 2:968. 35 Aksakov, Pis'ma 1851–1860 gg., 165; Evseenko, Pod iasnym nebom Malorossii. 36 Sears, Illustrated Description of the Russian Empire, 119–21. 37 Rossiia, 63; Tagirova, “Mapping the Empire’s Economic Regions,” 129, 137; Gorizontov, “Podneprov'e.” 38 Sumtsov, “Geograficheskie neudachi.” 39 Turchenko and Turchenko, Pivdenna Ukraїna, 12–13; Shandra, Generalgubernatorstva v Ukraїni, 164–264. 40 In this connection, it suffices to recall the quest for the semi-legendary Tmutorokan Principality, for aid against which Muscovy appealed to the Khanate of Astrakhan at one time. Evidently, no less a role in that process was played by the subsequently famous Tale of Igor’s Campaign, most opportunely discovered by Count Aleksei Musin-Pushkin (as is well known, the original of that epic poem did not survive). 41 Vyrs'kyi, Novorosiia incognita, 28. 42 Opysy Kharkivsʹkoho namisnytstva, 5–8; Pirko, “Ivan Opanasovych Pereverziev”; Archaimbault and Wakoulenko, Ivan Pereverzev. 43 Opysy Kharkivsʹkoho namisnytstva, 18n. 44 Bolebrukh, Kudelko, and Khridochkin, Vasyl' Nazarovych Karazin; Fadner, Seventy Years of Pan-Slavism. 45 Bagalei, Opyt istorii Khar′kovskogo universiteta, 1:113. 46 Karazin, Sochineniia, 448. 47 Ibid., 449. 48 Kravchenko, Khar'kоv / Kharkiv, 155. 49 Karazin, O znachenii Khar'kova dlia poludennoi Rossii.

Notes to pages 126–31

237

50 Karazin, Sochineniia, pis'ma i bumagi, 485. 51 Passek, “Ocherk Khar'kovskoi gubernii,” 53. 52 Sbitnev, “Poezdka v Khar'kov,” 34; Bagalei and Miller, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova, 1:291. 53 Miller, “Russia’s Ukrainian Policy before 1917,” 304–5. 54 Velychenko, “The Issue of Russian Colonialism in Ukrainian Thought,” 340; Rovenchak, “Faktory ta dzherela vydannia H. Velychkom.” 55 Gorizontov, “Novye zemli imperii v zerkale kul'turnykh traditsii.” 56 Danilevskii, Ukrainskaia starina, 77. 57 Tatiana Zhurzhenko holds the opposite opinion (Zhurzhenko, Borderlands into Bordered Lands, 225). 58 Kravchenko, D.I. Bagalei; Kravchenko, “D.І. Bahalii v svitli i tini svoieї ‘Avtobiohrafiї.’” 59 Mykhailyn, Narys istoriї zhurnalistyky Kharkivs'koї huberniї, 288. 60 Bantysh-Kamensky, Puteshestvie v Moldaviiu, Valakhiiu i Serbiiu, 30–1; Aksakov, Pis'ma k rodnym, 165. 61 Bartov and Weitz, eds, Shatterzone of Empires; The Emergence of Ukraine. 62 Naumov, “Vynyknennia i diial'nist' Kharkivs'koї,” 61; Verstiuk et al., Ukraїns'ki proekty v Rosiis'kii imperiї, 1:420. 63 For the first colonists, it was the “Slobodian” (aka Sloboda, Slobidska) autonomy on the “Ukrainian” territory. 64 Bahalii, Istoriia Slobids'koї Ukraїny; Sumtsov, Slobozhany. 65 Verstiuk et al., Ukraїns'ki proekty v Rosiis'kii imperiї, 1:442–3. 66 Boiechko et al., 22–5. 67 Borisenok, “Poniatiia ‘Ukraina’ i ‘ukraintsy’,” 229. 68 Mykhailyn, 324. 69 Boiechko et al., 30–1. 70 Rindlisbacher, “From Space to Territory”; Hirsch, “State and Evolution,” 150–3; Sluzhyns'ka, “Formuvannia ukraїns'ko-rosiis'koho kordonu”; Borisenok, “Ukraina i Rossiia.” 71 Rindlisbacher, “From Space to Territory,” 97. 72 Menkiszak, “Borders in Flux,” 85. 73 Ibid. 74 Bublikov, “Osobennosti identichnosti”; Bublikov, “Transformatsiia.” 75 Bakulev, Chernaia metallurgiia Iuga Rossii; Shpolianskii, Monopolii ugol'nometallurgicheskoi promyshlennosti; Zhebelev, Severnoe Prichernomor'e; Kabuzan and Beskrovnyi, Zaselenie Novorossii; Druzhinina, Iuzhnaia Ukraina. 76 Tron'ko, “Do napysannia istoriї.”

238

Notes to pages 131–7

77 Sliusars'kyi, Slobids'ka Ukraїna, 52; cf. Zagorovskii, Belgorodskaia cherta, 22; Zagorovskii, Iziumskaia cherta, 9, 11. 78 Zhurzhenko, Borderlands into Bordered Lands, 226. 79 Chizhikova, Russko-ukrainskoe pogranich'e. 80 Solchanyk, Ukraine and Russia, 136. 81 Zhurzhenko, Borderlands into Bordered Lands, 221–2. 82 Borysenko. “Rol' ukraїns'koho etnosu.” 83 Zhurzhenko, Borderlands into Bordered Lands, 228. 84 Ibid., 230. As one of the authors of the respective text, I deny that it was written either in “opposition to the ‘national-democratic’ west” or for the purposes of “legitimizing Ukrainian-Russian cross-border cooperation” (ibid., 230–1). 85 A more detailed description of the related text can be found in my monograph Khar'kov / Kharkiv, 153. 86 Lobanov and Pogonina, “Slobozhanskii Krai,” 144; Petr Masliuzhenko, “510 let edinstva: Istoriia Slobozhanshchiny,” Russkaia pravda, http://ruspravda.info /510-let-edinstva-istoriya-Slobozhanshchini-2984.html. On Lev Gumilev, see Shlapentokh, “Lev Gumilev.” 87 Istoriia Slobozhanshchiny і Belgorodskogo kraia, 7, 29. 88 Lobanov and Pogonina, “Slobozhanskii Krai,” 144. One can compare these clichés with Kvitka’s similar views. 89 Vendina et al., “Rossiia-Ukraina”; Sidorov, Rosiis'ko-ukraїns'ke porubizhzhia. 90 Zhurzhenko, “Cross-border Cooperation and Transformation.” 91 Wilson, Ukraine’s Orange Revolution, 145. 92 Nemenskii, “‘Nedoukraintsy’ ili novyii narod?” See also Nemenskii, “Modeli iuzhnorusskogo natsionalizma na Ukraine.” 93 Trenin, Post-Imperium: A Eurasian Story, 57. 94 Ibid., 100. 95 Valerii Soldatenko, “Donets'ko-Kryvoriz'ka Respublika: Istoriia separatysts'koho mifu,” Ukraїns'ka pravda, 11 February 2011, http://www.istpravda.c0m.ua/articles/2011/02/11/ 23624/. 96 Rodgers, “Understanding Regionalism,” 157; Soltys, “Shifting Civilizational Borders.” 97 Kravchenko, “Kharkiv: The Past Lives On.” 98 Dmitrii Volokitin, “Sevastopol'tsy zagovorili o sozdanii Malorossii,” Rabochaia gazeta, 30 January 2014. 99 Kravchenko, “Ukrainian-Russian Border after Euromaidan,” 122.

Notes to pages 137–8

239

100 David M. Herszenhorn, “What Is Putin’s ‘New Russia’?” New York Times, 18 April 2014, https://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/19/world/europe/what-isputins-new-russia.html. 101 Shubin, Istoriia Novorossii; cf. Smolii, ed., Skhid і Pivden' Ukraїny. 102 Patricia Herlihy, “What Vladimir Putin Chooses Not to Know about Russian History,” Los Angeles Times, 1 May 2014, http://www.latimes.com/opinion /op-ed/la-oe-herlihy-russia- ukraine-odessa-20140501-story.html. 103 Andrei Illarionov, “Istoriia Novorossii: ‘opiat' dvoika,’” LiveJournal, 29 April 2014, http://aillarionov.livejournal.com/679717.html. 104 Laruelle, “The Three Colors of Novorossiya.” 105 Holovko, “Ukraїns'kyi rozlom ‘russkogo mira,’” 101–2. 106 Baranov, “Politicheskaia identichnost' Novorossii.” 107 Nemenskii, “Modeli iuzhnorusskogo natsionalizma na Ukraine,” 21. 108 Peter Dickinson, “Rejecting Russia: How Kharkiv Saved Ukraine from Putin’s Partition Plan,” Business Ukraine, 2 January 2017, http://bunews.com.ua /politics/item/rejecting-russia-how-kharkiv-saved-the-whole-of-ukrainefrom-putins-partition-plan#.WGu25NfyNgM.facebook. 109 Marples, Ukraine in Conflict, 57–62. 110 Skorkin, “Mit Novorosiї.” 111 Vladimir Dergachev and Dmitrii Kartsev, “DNR nashla sebe istoriiu: DNR provozglasila sebia preemnitsei Donetsko-Krivorozhskoi respubliki,” Gazeta.ru, 6 February 2015, https://www.gazeta.ru/politics/2015/02/06_a _6402557.shtml. 112 Philip Shishkin, “Head of Donetsk Separatists Says He Is Ready for ‘Russian Empire,’” Wall Street Journal – Eastern Edition, 14 July 2014; Adam Taylor, “Ukrainian Separatists Claim to Have Created a New Country: Malorossiya, or ‘Little Russia,’” Washington Post, 19 July 2017, https://www.washington post.com/news/worldviews/wp/2017/07/19/ukrainian-separatists-claimto-have-created-a-new-country-malorossiya-or-little-russia/?utm_term =.fc9b39185448. 113 O’Loughlin et al., “The Rise and Fall of ‘Novorossiya’”; Andrei Kolesnikov, “Why the Kremlin is shutting down the ‘Novorossiya Project,’” Carnegie Moscow Center – Commentary, 29 May 2015, https://carnegie.ru/commentary /60249. 114 Kuzio, “Rise and Fall of the Party of Regions Political Machine.” 115 Hrytsak, “Ukraine in 2013–2014”; Stebelsky, “A Tale of Two Regions”; Pohorila, “Political and National Identity in Ukraine’s Regions”; Andrii Portnov, “How ‘Eastern Ukraine’ Was Lost,” openDemocracy – OD Russia, 14 Jan-

240

116 117

118

119 120

121

122 123 124 125 126 127 128

Notes to pages 139–40

uary 2016, https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/odr/how-eastern-ukrainewas-lost/. “Regiony Ukrainy,” 136. Maksim Vikhrov, “Tri mifa ob ukrainskom iugo-vostoke,” Republic.ru, 28 Aрrіl 2014, https://republic.ru/posts/l/1091432; Oleksandr Demchenko, “Pivdennoho Skhodu bil'she nemaie,” Ukraїns'ka pravda, 22 April 2014, http://www.pravda.com.ua/articles/2014/04/22/7023182. Pohorila, “Political and National Identity in Ukraine’s Regions.” However, other researchers suggest that “in the central part of Ukraine sub-ethnic identity is relatively weak” (Melnychuk et al., “Use of Territorial Identity Markers,” 166). Portnov, “Kak nachinalas' voina”; idem, “The New Heart of Ukraine?”; idem, “Ukraїnа ta її ‘dalekyi skhid’.” “Revolutsiia na Donbasse: Osoznanie і otritsanie,” Pervyi Komitet, 23 June 2016, http://www.fttc.com.ua/2016/06/revolyutsiya-na-donbasseosoznanie-i-otritsanie/. Natalia Shapovalova and Balázs Jarábik, “How Eastern Ukraine Is Adapting and Surviving: The Case of Kharkiv,” Carnegie Europe, 12 September 2018, https://carnegieeurope.eu/2018/09/12/how-eastern-ukraine-is-adaptingand-surviving-case-of-kharkiv-pub-77216. “Na ‘stinu Iatseniuka’ vytratyly vzhe 1,3 mil'iarda – DPSU,” Ekonomichna pravda, 9 April 2019, https://www.epravda.com.ua/news/2019/04/9/646881/. Zhurzhenko, Borderlands into Bordered Lands, 234. Ibid., 222. Ibid., 234–5. Prytula et al., “Recent Regional Economic Development in Ukraine,” 299. Lewicka and Iwan´czak, “The Regional Differentiation of Identities in Ukraine,” chapter 5. “V Karazinskom universitete sostoialos' otkrytie iubileinogo Molodezhnogo foruma Assotsiatsii evropeiskikh prigranichnykh regionov,” Kharkovskii natsional'nyi universitet imeni V.N. Karazina, 21 August 2018, http://www .univer.kharkov.ua/ru/general/univer_today/news?news_id=4585.

chapter five An updated version of my article “Borderland City: Kharkiv,” East/West: Journal of Ukrainian Studies 7, no. 1 (2020): 169–96, augmented with

Notes to pages 141–2

1

2 3 4

5 6 7 8

9 10 11 12 13 14

15 16

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selected fragments from “Kharkiv: The Past Lives On,” The Soviet and PostSoviet Review 64, no. 3 (2019): 1–29. Shandra, “Ukraïns'ke misto”; Schlögel, Ukraine: A Nation on the Borderland; Hrytsenko, Pam'iat' mistsevoho vyrobnytstva; Vermenych, Istorychna urbanistyka; Cities after the Fall. Bilenky, Imperial Urbanism; Cybriwsky, Kyiv, Ukraine; Meir, Kiev, Jewish Metropolis; Hamm, Kiev: A Portrait; Hyrych, Kyїv v ukraїns'kii istoriї. Amar, The Paradox; Czaplicka, Lviv. Herlihy, Odessa Recollected; Richardson, Kaleidoscopic Odessa; Sylvester, Tales of Old Odessa; Rubble and Friedberg, How Things Were Done in Odessa; Polese and Wylegala, “Odessa and Lvov.” Hirsch and Spitzer, Ghosts of Home. Zhuk, Rock and Roll; Portnova, Mis'ke seredovyshche; Bolebrukh et al., Istoriia mista Dnipropetrovs'ka; Iavornitskii, Istoriia goroda Ekaterinoslava. Plokhy, “The City of Glory.” Bagalei and Miller, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova; Istoriia mista Kharkova; Søvik, Support, Resistance, and Pragmatism; Westrate, Living Soviet; Chornyi, Po livyi bik Dnipra. Szporluk, Russia, Ukraine, and the Breakup of the Soviet Union, 95, 157. Gritsai and Van der Wusten, “Moscow and St. Petersburg.” Cornis-Pope and Neubauer, Towards a History of the Literary Cultures in EastCentral Europe, 26–7. Fischer-Nebmaier, Berg, and Christou, eds, Narrating the City, 1. Dolengo, “Kyїv ta Kharkiv”; Sherekh, “Chetvertyi Kharkiv”; Zaharchenko, Where Currents Meet. Sherekh, “Chetvertyi Kharkiv”; Ihor Mykhailyn, “P'iatyi Kharkiv u zhurnalistytsi pizn'oho Iuriia Shevel'ova: fenomenolohichna ta imperatyvna reprezentatsiї,” Kharkiv Univ. Journalism Dept. blog, 13 April 2012, http://www.kafedra journ.org.ua/media/227; Zhurzhenko, “The Fifth Kharkiv.” Zaharchenko, Where Currents Meet, 18. Arnold, The Metropolis and Its Image; Emden et al., The Art of Urban Living; Siebenhaar, “The Myth of Berlin”; Low, “The Anthropology of Cities”; Nilsson, Capital Cities; Patton, “Imaginary Cities”; Mazzoleni, “The City and the Imaginary”; Westwood and Williams, eds, Imagining Cities; Rodwin and Hollister, eds, Cities of the Mind; Lynch, The Image of the City; Weiss-Sussex and Bianchini, eds, Urban Mindscapes of Europe; Donald, “Metropolis: The City as Text.”

242

Notes to pages 143–53

17 In 1780, it was renamed the Kharkiv vicegerency (Russ. namestnichestvo); in 1796 the former official name was restored; and in 1834 it was renamed to the Kharkiv gubernia. 18 Sreznevskii, Istoricheskoe obozrenie grazhdanskogo ustroeniia Slobodskoi Ukrainy, 22. 19 Posokhova, Kharkivs'kyi kolehium. 20 Kijas, Polacy na Uniwersytecie Charkowskim. 21 At first Kherson is likely to have had ambitions of becoming a new imperial capital, as Catherine II herself noted repeatedly. According to the empress’s intention, Kherson was to become the “St. Petersburg of the South.” It is no accident that the city was built by the godson of Peter I, General Ivan Gannibal. The Eparchy of Kherson and Slaviansk of the Russian Orthodox Church, endowed with an exclusively high status, was established in the new city in 1775. True, it later became apparent that the imperial government had botched the historical data, concluding that this was the site of ancient Chersonesus, the legendary site of the christening of Grand Prince Volodymyr of Kyiv. 22 Iavornitskii, Istoriia goroda Ekaterinoslava, 54. 23 Losievskii, Russkaia lira s Ukrainy, 10. 24 Kvitka, G., Khar'kov і uezdnye goroda, 46. 25 Gritsai and Van der Wusten, “Moscow and St. Petersburg,” 37. 26 Bagalei and Miller, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova, 1:21. 27 Janowski, Uniwersytet Charkowski, 45–6. 28 Bagalei and Miller, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova, 2:965–6. 29 Haxthausen, The Russian Empire, 397. 30 Ibid., 394. 31 Savchenko and Khmelevskii, “K istokam formirovaniia.” 32 Liubchenko, “Etnosotsial'nyi sklad mis'koho naselennia,” 204. 33 Kravchenko, Bagalei. 34 Kravchenko, Khar'kov / Kharkiv, 204. 35 L-aia, “Vospominaniia o N. V. Lysenko,” 51. 36 Naumov, “‘Zamakh,’” 120. 37 Kravchenko, Khar'kov / Kharkiv, 206–7. 38 Bagalei, Opyt istorii Khar′kovskogo universiteta, 1:114. 39 Pil'skii, “Khar'kov.” 40 Kul'chyts'kyi, “Poshuky stolytsi”; Yekelchyk, “The Making of a ‘Proletarian Capital.’” 41 Kurman and Lebedinskii, Naselenie bol'shogo sotsialisticheskogo goroda, 23, 63, 86; Vsesoiuznaia perepis', 66.

Notes to pages 153–61

243

42 Takhtaulova, “Toponimichna mapa.” 43 Hewryk, “Planning of the Capital in Kharkiv.” 44 Liubavskii, “‘Sozdadim Novyi Khar'kov!’”; Chechel'nitskii, ed., Аrkhitektory Khar'kova, 14; Hewryk, “Planning of the Capital in Kharkiv,” 343–4. 45 Gritsai and Van der Wusten, “Moscow and St. Petersburg,” 40. 46 Riggio and West III, eds, Dreiser’s Russian Diary, 220. 47 Goldman, My Disillusionment in Russia, ch. XIX. 48 Iefremov, Shchodennyky, 262. 49 Kul'chyts'kyi, “Poshuky stolytsi”; Yekelchyk, “The Making of a ‘Proletarian Capital.’” 50 The “Little Russian” nomenclature was officially forbidden in the Soviet Union, since it was considered a sign of national disregard of Ukrainians, but the “Little Russian” metaphor was used in public rhetoric for the purposes of contrasting the stereotypical sincere and devoted “Ukrainian” with the opportunistic and hypocritical “Little Russian” (see, e.g., Borisenok, “Poniatiia ‘Ukraina’ i ‘ukraintsy’ v bol'shevistskoi identifikatsionnoi strategii,” 242). 51 Kopychko and Kopychko, Kharkiv'iany, 84. 52 Kasherova, “Obhruntuvannia istorychnykh prav.” 53 Glantz, Kharkov 1942. 54 Dawson, Judgment before Nuremberg; Sudebnyi protsess o zverstvakh. 55 Hrynevych et al., Radians'kyi proekt dlia Ukraїny, 261. 56 G. Okladnoi, “Khar'kov – vtoraia stolitsa Sovetskoi Ukrainy,” Krasnoe znamia, 20 August 1949; P. Sachko, “Bystree vosstanovim vtoruiu stolitsu Ukrainy,” Krasnoe znamia, 14 August 1949. 57 Kravchenko, Khar'kov / Kharkiv, 243. 58 Chizhikova, Russko-ukrainskoe pogranich'e, 38. 59 Barabash, “Ėtnokul'turnoe pogranich'e,” 2:304. 60 “Message of the Holy Synod of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church to the Episcopate, Clergy, Monastics and Laity on the Occasion of the 25th Anniversary of the Bishops’ Council of Kharkov,” Moscow Patriarchate website, 30 May 2017, https://mospat.ru/en/2017/05/30/news146837/. 61 Kravchenko, “Kharkiv: The Past Lives On,” 340. 62 Zaharchenko, Where Currents Meet, 6. 63 Minakov, “Kharkov: Priznaki zhizni”; idem, “Novaia pokhodnaia pesnia slobodskikh polkov.” 64 “Bol'shaia Slobozhanskaia Rada,” Vremia, 20 February 1999; “‘Slobozhans'ka Rada’: Spravy i plany,” Slobids'kyi krai, 12 October 1999. 65 Kiriukhin, “Formuvannia transkordonnykh ievrorehioniv,” 39.

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66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73

74 75

76

77

78 79 80

81 82 83

Notes to pages 161–7

Zhurzhenko, Borderlands into Bordered Lands, 228–9. Kravchenko, Khar'kov / Kharkiv, 282–3. Ibid., 289–90. Zhurzhenko, ‘“Chuzha viina’ chy ‘spil'na peremoha’?” Nelson, “History as Ideology”; Miller, “The Invention of Tradition”; Koposov, Pamiat' strogogo rezhima. The symbolic significance of these names was subsequently discernible in the political events of the winter of 2014. Bahalii, Istoriia Slobids'koї Ukraїny, 112. “The President of Ukraine inaugurated the monument of Independence in Kharkiv,” Kharkiv City Council website, https://www.city.kharkov.ua/en/publication/prezident-ukrayini-vidkrivpam-yatnik-nezalezhnosti-v-harkovi-15368.html (language edited for clarity). Kuzio, Ukraine: Democratization, 102, 112. Peter Dickinson, “Rejecting Russia: How Kharkiv Saved Ukraine from Putin’s Partition Plan in 2014,” Business Ukraine, 2 January 2017, http://bunews.com .ua/politics/item/rejecting-russia-how-kharkiv-saved-the-whole-of-ukrainefrom-putins-partition-plan. “Ukraine’s Southeast Seeks to Restore Constitutional Order, Thousands Gather in Kharkov,” RT, 22 February 2014, https://www.rt.com/news /thousands-gather-eastern-ukraine-252/. Vladislav Davidzon, “Swaggering Jewish Gangster Mayor Hennadiy Kernes, Reluctant Savior of Kharkiv, Is Felled by COVID: A Colorful Life, Summed Up in a Punchline,” Tablet Magazine, 23 December 2020, https://www.tabletmag .com/sections/news/articles/hennadiey-kernes-obituary-covid. Umland, “Irregular Militias and Radical Nationalism.” Hrytsak, “Ukraine in 2013–2014,” 376. A popular Ukrainian comedian, Vladimir Zelensky, made fun of the Chechen leader Ramzan Kadyrov as if crying over the fate of Kharkiv’s Lenin. Later on, the Ukrainian president, Volodymyr Zelensky, apologized to Kadyrov for that. Zhurzhenko, “Memory Wars in Post-Soviet Kharkiv,” 119. Mariia Takhtaulova, “Vulytseiu Stusa,” Mediaport, 16 September 2016, http://www.me- diaport.ua/vuliceyu-stusa. “Perelik pereimenuvan' ob'iektiv toponimiky mista Kharkova,” Kharkiv City Council website, http://www.city.kharkov.ua/uk/document/zaproponovaninazvi-vulits-yaki -mayut-buti-zmineni-vidpovidno-do-zakonu-ukraini-prozasudzhennya-komunistich- nogo-ta-natsional-sotsialistichnogo-natsistskogo-

Notes to page 168

84

85

86

87

88

89 90

91

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totalitarnikh-rezhimiv-v-ukraini-ta-zaboronu-propagandi-ikh-simvoliki47404.html. “Hromads'ka dumka u mistakh-milionnykakh: Elektoral'ni orientatsiї ta nastroї naperedodni Dnia Nezalezhnosti Ukraїny; Rezul'taty doslidzhennia,” Ukrinform, 17 August 2018, https://www.ukrinform.ua/rubric-presshall /2518531-elektoralni-orientacii-ta-nastroi -naperedodni-dna-nezaleznostiukraini-rezultati-doslidzenna.html. Vera Ageeva, “Pochemu v Khar'kove ne prizhilas' stolitsa Ukrainy,” BBC Ukraine, 27 November 2017, https://www.bbc.com/ukrainian/blog-historyrussian-42135701; “Pochemu Khar'kov byl stolitsei: Nash otvet professoru Kievo-Mogilianki,” Status Quo, 30 November 2017, http://www.sq.com.ua/rus/news/teksty/30.11.2017/pochemu_harkov_byl_ stolitsey_nash_otvet_professoru_kievo_mogilyanki. “Dynamika nostal'hiї za SRSR,” Reitynh / Rating Sociological Group, 8 October 2015, http://rating- group.ua/research/ukraine/dinamika_nostalgii_ po_sssr.html; Nataliya Sudakova, “Who Wants the USSR Back in Ukraine?” Euromaidan Press, 13 April 2018, http://euromaidanpress.com/2018/04 /11/soviet-people-in-ukraine-why-do-they-miss-it-and-what-danger-doesthis-pose-for-ukraine. Zhurzhenko, “The Fifth Kharkiv”; “Za god v Khar'kove proizoshlo 43 terakta – mvd,” Liga.Novosti, 5 March 2015, http:// news.liga.net/news/politics /5236149-za_god_v_kharkove_i_oblasti_proizoshlo_43_terakta_mvd.htm. “Cherhovi mistsevi vybory, 2015: Kharkivs'ka oblasna rada,” Central Electoral Commission Local Elections Ukraine 2015 official web-portal, https://www .cvk.gov.ua/pls/vm2015/pvm057pid112=12pid102=5441pf7691=5441pt001 f01=100rej=0pt00_t001f01=100.html. “Stali izvestny rezul'taty vyborov v Khar'kovskii gorsovet,” Vechernii Khar'kov, 4 November 2015, http://vecherniy.kharkov.ua/news/112766. “Partiia ‘Za zhyttia’ obognala ‘Oppoblok’ v Khar'kove і Odesse – sotsopros,” Apostrof, 17 August 2018, https://apostrophe.ua/news/politics/political-parties/2018-08-17/partiya-za-jittya-obognala-oppoblok-v-harove-i-odesse-sotsopros/138704. Harry Nedelcu, Dmytro Panchuk, and Yulia Bidenko, “Foreign Interference in Ukraine’s Politics during the 2019 Elections: The Case of the Kharkiv Region,” New Eastern Europe, 12 February 2020, https://neweasterneurope .eu/2020/02/12/foreign-interference-in-ukraines-politics-during-the-2019elections-the-case-of-the-kharkiv-region%EF%BB%BF/.

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Notes to pages 170–6

chapter six

1 2 3

4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18 19 20

This is an updated version of my аrticle “Universytet dlia Ukraїny” in Kravchenko, Ukraїna, Rosiia, Imperiia, 87–132. Sarbei, “Mistse i rol' Kharkivs'koho universytetu”; Magocsi, A History of Ukraine, 381; Hrytsak, Narys istoriї Ukraїny, 30. “Byt' russkim po dukhu”; Аndreev, Rossiiskie universitety; Petrov, Rossiiskie universitety; Flynn, The University Reform of Tsar Alexander I. Lavrinenko, Vasyl' Karazyn. This book provoked strong objections from Ukrainian-American scholars: Lysiak-Rudnyts'kyi, Istorychni ese, 1:205–7; Shevel'ov, Ia–mene–meni, 2:86; Lavrinenko, “Neshchastia z Karazynom”; Vovk, “Karazin”; Flynn, “V.N. Karazin”; Fadner, Seventy Years of Pan-Slavism. Saunders, The Ukrainian Impact, 42. “Proekt k uchrezhdeniiu universiteta.” Mylovydov, “Proekty vyshchoї shkoly”; idem, “Proekty universytetu”; Korotkyi, Z imenem Sviatoho Volodymyra, 27–36. Rozhdestvenskii, Ocherki po istorii sistem, 285. Bagalei, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova, 1:404. Ibid., 1:421. Bagalei, Opyt istorii Khar'kovskogo universiteta, 1(bk. 2): 55. Ibid., 1:44–9. Bolebrukh et al., Vasyl' Nazarovych Karazin; Vasilii Karazin; Tikhii, V.N. Karazin; Karazin, Sochineniia, pis′ma i bumagi. An overview of special literature may be found in Kravchenko, “Kharkivs'kyi universytet”; Bagalei, Opyt istorii Khar'kovskogo universiteta, 1:5–37. Bagalei, “Nazarii Aleksandrovich.” It is worth recalling that the celebrated Russian poet and high-ranking official Gavriil Derzhavin also owed his career to the struggle against corruption in the highest ranks of the imperial government and his close relations with the Russian monarch. He was later banished from the court because of his temperament and his refusal to obey the unwritten rules of court etiquette. Something similar happened later to Karazin. He was soon promoted to the rank of Collegiate Counsellor, receiving a diamond ring as a sign of the monarch’s favour. Karazin, Sochineniia, 539. Abramov, V.N. Karazin, 35. Bagalei, Opyt istorii, 1:54. Ibid., 1:53.

Notes to pages 176–88

247

21 Ibid., 1:54. 22 Lavrovskii, “Vospominanie,” 301; Bagalei et al., Kratkii ocherk, 1; Janowski, Uniwersytet Charkowski, 45–6. 23 Bagalei, Opyt istorii, 1:55–7. 24 Ibid., 1:71. 25 Ibid., 1:68. 26 Kravchenko, Khar'kov / Kharkiv, 54. 27 Ibid., 52. 28 Bagalei, Оpyt istorii, 1:70. 29 Pavlovskii, “Pis'mo V.N. Karazina k kniaziu,” 185. 30 Bagalei, Оpyt istorii, 1:85. 31 Janowski, Uniwersytet Charkowski, 31. 32 Bagalei, Оpyt istorii, 1:91. 33 Karazin, Sochineniia, 539 (see also 622). 34 Bagalei, Opyt istorii, 1:14. 35 Mylovydov, “Proekty vyshchoї shkoly.” 36 Masliichuk, Provintsiia na perekhresti kul'tur, 351. 37 Karazin, Sochineniia, 38. 38 Bagalei and Miller, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova, 700. 39 Andrew Wilson believes that “Zavadovsky helped to found the University at Kharkiv in 1805” (Wilson, The Ukrainians, 77). 40 Bagalei, Оpyt istorii, 1:1017–18. 41 Petrov, Rossiiskie universitety, 1:299, 2:192. 42 Bagalei, Оpyt istorii, 1:225. 43 Ibid., 1:88. 44 Ibid., 1:101. 45 Karazin, Sochineniia, 539, 622. 46 Flynn, “V.N. Karazin,” 212. 47 Rozhdestvenskii, Istoricheskii obzor, 24. 48 Lysiak-Rudnyts'kyi, Istorychni ese, 1:212. 49 Ibid. 50 Pavlovskii, “Pis'mo V.N. Karazina k kniaziu,” 179–85. 51 Kravchenko, Khar'kov / Kharkiv, 54. 52 Ibid., 55. 53 Zhuravleva, “Ideal popechitel'stva.” 54 Gascoigne, Science, Politics, and Universities, 9. 55 Raeff, “Ukraine and Imperial Russia,” 79. 56 Dhondt, “Ambiguous Loyalty,” 103.

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57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77

78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91

Notes to pages 188–204

Margolis and Tishkin, Оtechestvu na pol'zu, 193–4. Rommel', Spohady; Hösch, “An Episode.” Sukhomlinov, Materialy dlia istorii prosveshcheniia, 71. Stel'makh, Istorychna dumka, 70–81. Rommel', Spohady, 120. Ibid., 121. Nichpaevskii, “Vospominaniia,” 376. Flynn, The University Reform of Tsar Alexander I, 53. Walther, “Jоhann Baptist Schad.” Götz, “The First Flow of Funds Table.” Rommel', Spohady, 129. Ibid. Ibid., 131. Lavrovskii, “Epizod iz istorii Khar'kovskogo universiteta,” 39. Ibid., 793, 2:110, 857. Flynn, The University Reform of Tsar Alexander I, 60–2. Kal've, Тeoriia muzyki. Danilevskii, Ukrainskaia starina, 298. Ibid., 307. Ibid. Kiselev and Vasil'eva, “Evoliutsiia obraza Ukrainy”; Kiselev, “Imperskaia slovesnost'”; Mykhailyn, Іstorіia ukraïns'koï zhurnalіstyky; Smith-Peter, “Ukrainskie zhurnaly.” Hulak-Artemovs'kyi and Hrebinka, Poetychni tvory, 51. Ibid., 51–2. Kijas, Polacy na Uniwersytecie Charkowskim. Neslukhovskii, “Iz moikh vospominanii.” Hawryluk, “‘Podlasianie ruskiego plemienia’.” Aizenshtok, “Persha dysertatsiia Kostomarova”; Flynn, “The Affair of Kostomarov’s Dissertation.” Kharkivs'ka shkola romantykiv. Koznarsky, “Kharkiv Literary Almanacs,” 246. Sreznevskii, Istoricheskoe obozrenie grazhdanskogo ustroeniia Slobodskoi Ukrainy. Bagalei and Miller, Istoriia goroda Khar'kova, 2:130. Beliakov, Ukrainskaia natsiia v ėpokhu Gogolia, 41. “Rus'ka triitsia” v istoriї, 110. Lysiak-Rudnyts'kyi, Istorychni ese, 1:425. “Kharkivs'kyi universytet ochyma kolyshnikh studentiv.”

Notes to pages 205–7

249

Conclusion

1 2 3 4 5 6

7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14

15 16

17

This part of the book is based partly on Kravchenko, “Ukraine: History Confronts Geography.” Hrytsak, “On Sails and Gales.” Dyczok, Ukraine: Movement without Change. Nahaylo, “Predannaia revolutsiia.” Riabchuk, “Dvi Ukrainy” Hnatiuk, Pożegnanie z imperium. Minkenberg and Beichelt, eds, Cultural Legacies in Post-Socialist Europe, 61. On the effect of history on the countries of the former “socialist camp,” along with the USSR, see Ashworth, Graham, and Tunbridge, Pluralising Pasts; Pop‐Eleches, “Historical Legacies”; Howard, “The Leninist Legacy Revisited”; Crawford and Lijphart, eds, Liberalization and Leninist Legacies, 1–39. Kravchenko, “Fighting Soviet Myths.” Kappeler, “The Russian Empire and its Nationalities,” 39. Motyl and Krawchenko, “Ukraine: From Empire to Statehood”; Szporluk, “Ukraine: From an Imperial Periphery.” Razumkov Centre, “Sociological Survey on Ukrainian History,” 2005, http://razumkov.org,ua/ukr/poll.php?poll_id-285. “Suspil'no-politychni ne_2500_072021_2_press.pdf. Liana Novikova, “Stavlennia naselennia Ukraїny do Rosiї ta naselennia Rosiї do Ukraїny,” Press release, September 2018, https://www.kiis.com.ua /?lang=ukr&cat=reports&id=795. Ukraїns'ka pravda, 17 May 2021. Kasianov and Tolochko, “National Histories and Contemporary Historiography”; Kas'ianov and Tolochko, “Natsional'ni istoriї ta suchasna istoriohrafiia.” Vushko, “Historians at War.” Zayarniuk, “A Revolution’s History.” See also forums on Ukrainian-Russian topics organized by leading academic journals, e.g., Slavic Review 74, no. 4 (2015); Ab Imperio, no. 3 (2014); Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 16, no. 1 (2015); and Europe-Asia Studies 68, no. 4 (2016); Kasianov and Miller, Rossiia – Ukraina; Tairova and Ishchenko, “The Current State of Ukrainian Studies in Russia”; Verstiuk et al.,Ukraїna-Rosiia: Dialoh istoriohrafii; Ukraїna i Rosiia v istorychnii retrospektyvi; Miller, Reprintsev, and Floria, eds, Rossiia – Ukraina: Istoriia vzaimootnoshenii. Mykhed, “Ukraїns'ka rusystyka”; Losiev, “Osoblyvosti stanovlennia rosiis'ko-

250

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21

22 23 24 25

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ho ukraїnoznavstva”; Tairova-Iakovleva, “Peterburgskaia ukrainistika”; Dmitriev, “Tsentr ukrainistiki i belorusistiki.” Danilevskii et al., Istoriia Ukrainy. Beliakov, Ukrainskaia natsiia v ėpokhu Gogolia. See my review of this book in Kravchenko, “Putting One and One Together?” Vishlenkova, Vizual'noe narodovedenie, 2; Miller, “Nation and Empire,” 420; Loskoutova, “A Motherland”; Gorizontov, “The ‘Great Circle’ of Interior Russia.” One can look through the list of Russian civil rights activists who publicly protested the Kremlin’s escalating pressure on Ukraine to find professional historians and specialists in Ukrainian studies among them (see “Lish by ne bylo voiny!” Radio Echo Moskvy, 30 January 2022, https://echo.msk.ru/blog/echomsk/2972500-echo). Rumley and Minghi, eds, The Geography of Border Landscapes, 6. Pritsak, “Shcho take istoriia Ukraïny?” 200. Kravchenko, “The Russian War.” “'My popadem v rai.”

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Index

Abramov, Yakov, 176 Aksakov, Ivan, 44, 202 Aksakov family, 83 Alchevsky family, 150 Aleinikov, Andrei, 40, 122 Aleksei Mikhailovich (Russian Tsar), 99, 104, 216n24 Alexander I (Russian Emperor), 119, 172, 175, 179, 180, 181, 185, 186, 192, 246n2, 248n64, 248n72 all-Russian (discourse, identity, space), 7–10, 23, 25–6, 30–1, 50, 62, 69, 71, 77, 102, 110, 130 Antonovsky, Mykhailo, 33, 85, 217n68 Antonovych, Volodymyr, 110 Arnason, Johann, 5 Arseniev, Konstantin, 32 Artakov, Andrei, 178, 180, 181 Astrakhan gubernia, 143 Astrakhan Khanate, 236n40 Austria, 33 Austrian Empire, 85, 100, 108, 144, 182, 189, 190

Austrian regiments, 226n95 Austro-Hungarian Empire, 48 Baár, Monika, 92, 97 Bagration, Petr, 149 Bahalii, Dmytro Ivanovych, 42, 127–8, 130–1, 149–51, 158, 176– 7, 202 Balkan emigrants, 125, 174 Balkan Peninsula, 172 Balkans, 115 Ballu, Jacques Belin de, 193 Baltic barons, 101 Baltic basin, 145 Baltic gentry, 180, 188 Baltic lands, 71, 185 Bandera, Stepan, 47 Bantysh-Kamensky, Dmitrii, 20, 39, 55, 68–9, 90, 92–3, 100 Barabash, Yurii, 159 Barvinkove–Kharkiv, Operation of 1942, 162 Barvinok the Cossack, 132 Baturyn, 85, 171 Baturyn University, 171

304

Beauplan, Guillaume Levasseur de, 35, 40, 95 Belarus, 11, 33, 185, 206, 211n6 Belgorod city, 33, 114, 133–4, 143, 147, 165, 210 Belgorod gubernia, 32 Belgorod Krai, 133 Belgorod oblast, 163, 235n9 Belgorod voevoda, 115 Belgorod Wall, 139 Belinsky, Vissarion, 74, 96, 102, 104–5, 119, 202 Beria Street, 157 Berlynsky, Maksym, 20, 36, 53, 65–6 Bessarabian governorate-general, 123 Betsky, Ivan, 125 Bezborodko, Oleksandr, 39, 85, 124 Bibikov, Dmitrii, 73, 103–5 Biblioteka dlia chteniia, 102, 106 Bila Tserkva, 38, 219n118 Bilenky, Serhiy, 23, 103, 108, 227n126 Biletsky-Nosenko, Pavlo, 39, 41, 62–3, 69, 93 Black Russia, 17 Black Sea, 27 Black Sea basin, 135, 144, 195 Black Sea Cossack Host, 184 Black Sea state, 117 Bobrowski, Michał, 202 Bodiansky, Osyp, 57, 69, 80, 87, 96, 103 Boeck, Brian, 40, 43, 46 Bogaty wirydarz, 119 Bogoliubsky, Andrei (Prince), 31

Index

Bohemia, 90, 108, 223n26 Bohemian nobles, 51, 90 Bohemian Society of the Sciences, 56 Bohodukhiv, 174, 193 Boltin, Ivan, 39 Borovykovsky, Levko, 41, 200 Boston, 79 Brest fortress, 160 Brest union, 201 Briukhovetsky, Ivan, 120 Buh River, 117 Bukovyna, 33 Bulgarin, Faddei, 69 Burachek, Stepan, 44, 51, 73, 108 Byron, George Gordon, 85 Calve, Gustav Adolf Hess de, 194–5 Carpathian Mountains, 28, 39, 41, 60, 93 Carpathian population, 28 Carpathian Russes, 28 Catherine II, also Catherine the Great (Russian Empress), 21, 26–7, 30, 67–8, 119, 123, 144, 148, 174, 180–1, 242n21 Caucasus, 41, 71, 83, 143, 182, 184 Central Rada, 134, 153 Chaikovsky, Petr, 149 Charles XII (King of Sweden), 100 Chebotarev, Khariton, 32 Chepa, Andrian, 31, 53, 85 Chernihiv (also Chernigov), 30, 31, 119, 123, 171, 182, 186, 235n33 Chernihiv gubernia, 30, 32, 123 Chernihiv People’s College, 225n73 Chernivtsi, 12, 141

Index

Chernobyl, 162 Chernyshevsky, Nikolai, 149 Chersonesos, 32 Chicago, 154 Chizhikova, Liudmila, 131 Chuhuiv, 116 Churovsky, Aleksandr, 61 Chyhyryn, 85 Chykalenko, Yevhen, 150 Coakley, John, 92, 108 Constantinople, 98 Constitution Square, 164 Cossack Hetmanate (also Cossackdom, polity, system, autonomy), 9, 20, 30, 35, 42, 49, 52–4, 57, 61, 65–6, 70–1, 73, 76, 87, 97, 99–100, 104–5, 107–9, 114–16, 128–9, 156, 171, 195–6, 201, 235n18 Cossack history, documents, also literature, 31, 39, 89, 91, 132, 202 Cossack lands, also regions, 9, 12, 35–6, 38, 49, 50, 53, 61, 123, 127, 139, 171 Cossack mythology, 64–5, 71, 74, 76, 127, 132, 163, 215n9, 225n82, 225n84, 228n10–12, 228n14, 229n43, 230n65, 231n81, 233n146, 233n154, 235n19 Cossack people, 63 Cossack revolution of 1648, 36 Cossacks, 18, 28, 40, 42, 44, 64, 82, 86, 88, 94–6, 103, 105–6, 115, 135, 158 Cossacks Zaporozhian, 21, 76, 115, 128–9, 137 Cossack terminology, 17, 33, 58, 202

305

Cossack Ukrainian elites, 6, 29, 36, 50–1, 52, 56, 58, 64, 79, 86, 101, 119–20 Cossack wars, 18, 98 Coterie Peterburska, 51 Cracow, 189 Crimea, 3, 19, 133–8, 141, 143, 145, 152, 165, 169, 182, 206–7, 215n13 Crimean Khanate, 98–9, 106, 114–15, 128, 143, 184 Crimean Tatars, 20–1, 70, 104, 120 Crimean War of 1853, 74 Cyrillo-Methodian Society, 29, 74–5 Czacki, Tadeusz, 35 Czartoryski, Adam, 185–6, 203 Danilevsky, Grigorii, 127 Daniłowicz, Ignacy, 200 Degai, Pavel, 193 Denikin, Anton, 138 Derzhavin, Gavriil, 149, 175, 246n15 Derzhprom (State Industry) building, 154–5 Dickinson, Peter, 137, 165 Ditmar, Nikolai von, 129 Divovych, Semen, 18, 31, 51, 64–5 Dnipro city (formerly Dnipropetrovsk), 137–8, 141, 144 Dnipro (Dnieper, Dnepr) River, 21, 32–3, 35–6, 38–9, 42, 51, 58, 73, 143–4, 153 Dnister River, 38 Dobkin, Mikhail, 165 Dolgoruky, Ivan, 44

306

Donbas (region), 48, 126, 130, 135, 138–9, 145, 152, 165–6, 206, 234n1 Don Cossacks, 39, 115–16, 128, 130, 133, 143, 184 Donetsk city, 47–8, 132, 135–9 Donetsk oblast (also gubernia), 114, 130, 136–7 Donetsk People’s Republic, 47, 138 Donets-Kryvyi Rih Soviet Republic (DKR), 129–30, 132, 135, 138, 152–3, 161 Donets River, 32 Donets-Zakharzhevsky, Volodymyr, 174, 178 Donets-Zakharzhevsky Cossack family, 119–20, 147 Don River, 28, 39, 144 Dorpat (Tartu) University, 179, 182, 188, 191, 195 Dostoevsky Street, 157 Drahomanov, Mykhailo, 5, 76, 110 Dreiser, Theodore, 154 Dugour, Antoine Jeudy (Degurov, Anton), 190, 192, 194–5 Dzerzhinsky Square, 154, 157, 162, 164 Eastern Europe, 5, 152, 188, 211n8, 223n28, 231n100, 245n91 Eastern Ukraine, 60, 132, 136, 140 Edgerton, William, 4 Elbe River, 6 Engel, Johann Christian von, 28, 35, 82, 88, 90, 98, 100, 217n52 Enlightenment, 6, 9, 21, 26, 35, 51, 53, 60–1, 64, 67, 93, 116, 124,

Index

138, 184, 190–1, 194–5, 203, 216n43 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, 189 Filipović, Teodor (pseud. Božidar Grujović), 189 Finland, 71 Finnish Literary Society, 56 Fish Street, 157 Flynn, James T., 185 Fotiiev, Vasilii, 176 France, 86, 115, 189, 213n42 Franko, Ivan, 132 Free Academy Street, 158 Freigang, Andrei, 105 Frunze, Mikhail, 152 Galicia (Halychyna), also Galician, 28, 33, 34, 36, 60, 85, 90, 94, 103, 132, 134, 219n102 Galician-Volhynian principality, 34 Garshin, Vsevolod, 149 Gdańsk, 141 Georgi, Johann, 25 German, Karl, 32, 39 Girkin, Igor (alias Strelkov), 138 Glinka, Fedor, 82 Glinka, Mikhail, 69, 80 Gnedich, Nikolai (Mykola Hnidych), 51, 62, 102 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 189 Gogol, Nikolai (Hohol, Mykola), 29, 41, 44, 47, 53, 66–7, 69, 83, 85, 89–90, 93–4, 97–8, 102, 108, 135, 149–50, 156, 193, 208, 222n14, 232n135 Goldman, Emma, 154

Index

Golikov, Ivan, 86 Gonorsky, Razumnik, 195 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 162 Gorky, Maxim, 167 Göttingen university, 188 Grabowicz, George, 50 Grabowski, Michał, 74 Great Russia, also Great Russian (also Velikorossian), 7–8, 17–18, 20, 24, 28, 30–3, 47, 51–2, 62–3, 65, 69–74, 76–7, 81, 87, 89, 92, 94, 101–2, 106, 110, 116, 122, 124, 126, 139, 151, 186, 196, 215n20, 216n30, 219n105, 221n162, 221n173 Great Russians, 24, 28, 51, 62–3, 68, 70, 74, 87, 89, 101–2, 110, 151, 186, 196, 215n20, 216n30, 219n105, 221n162, 221n173 Great Sloboda Rada (Council), 161 Greek, 27, 64, 70, 125, 164 Greek Catholic Church, 52, 72 Greenfeld, Liah, 54 Grot, Yakov, 202 Grozny, 165 Güldenstädt, Johann, 44 Gumilev, Lev, 133, 238n86 Habsburg (empire, dynasty), 5, 34, 58, 88, 90, 195 Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute, 9, 12, 209 Haxthausen, August von, 122, 148, 158 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 96 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 54, 60, 224n60

307

Herlihy, Patricia, 137 Herzen, Aleksandr, 103 Hillis, Faith, 25, 70 History of the Rus' People, also Istoriia Rusov, 9, 18, 20, 23, 28, 30–3, 36, 38–9, 53, 60, 64–6, 81–3, 86, 88–9, 92–100, 109, 120, 199 Hlukhiv, 44, 56, 85 Hobsbawm, Eric, 7 Holodomor, 131, 161, 164 Homann, Johann Baptiste, 35 Hooson, David, 141 Horyn River, 32 Hosking, Geoffrey, 24, 216n27 Hrebinka, Yevhen, 89, 201 Hroch, Miroslav, 48–9, 61, 78, 81, 107 Hrushevsky, Mykhailo, 5, 42, 45, 76, 156, 221n170 Hudovych family, 79, 91 Hulak-Artemovsky, Petro, 51, 56, 62, 197–201, 222n14 Hungary, 12, 33 Illarionov, Andrei, 137 Innokentii, Metropolitan of Kharkiv, 201 Ioann, Fr, 42 Istoriia Maloi Rossii, 29, 31, 40, 70, 82, 87–9, 108 Istoriia Malorossii, 29, 64, 66, 90–1, 93–5, 99, 101–2, 104–6, 108–10 Istoriia Rusov. See History of the Rus' People Italy, 61, 94, 141 Iuzhnyi krai (The Southern Land), 147

308

Ivashko, Volodymyr, 162 Izium, 116, 177, 181 Izmailov, Vladimir, 82 Jacob, Ludwig, 191–2 Janković-Mirijevski, Teodor, 182 Janowski, Ludwik, 147, 180 Kachenovsky, Mikhail (Mykhailo), 33, 39, 57, 93 Kaganovich, Lazar, 157 Kalinka, Walerian, 203 Kalinovsky (also Kalinovskii), Hryhorii, 40, 122 Kaluga, 175 Kamenets-Podolsky (KamianetsPodilsky), 34 Kankrin, Yegor Frantsevich, 68 Kapnist, Vasilii/Vasyl, 51, 102 Kappeler, Andreas, 42, 46 Karamzin, Nikolai, 31, 88, 90, 95 Karazin, Vasilii, 39, 43, 50, 117, 123–6, 125, 128, 131, 145, 150–1, 155, 158, 170, 174–84, 186–7, 246n15 Karl Liebknecht Street, 153, 158 Katerynoslav (Yekaterinoslav) city, 27, 39, 117, 184, 235n14 katsapy, 51 Katsnelson, Abram, 157 Kazan city, university, 143, 182, 189–91, 195 Kernes, Gennadii, 165, 167–8 Khanenko, Mykola, 38, 90 Kharkiv (also Kharkov) 3–4, 12–13, 27, 29, 39, 44, 56–7, 114, 116–17, 119–20, 123–6, 130, 132–5, 137– 40, 141–69, 241n8,

Index

243n53,243n60, 243n63, 244n73, 244n76, 244n83, 245n87, 245n89 Kharkiv gubernia, viceregency, oblast, region, 13, 27, 34, 38–41, 114, 117, 121–3, 125, 129–30, 136–40 Kharkiv Orthodox Collegium, 143–4, 171–2 Kharkiv Romantics, 29, 41, 83, 85, 197, 200–3 Kharkiv University, 12, 39, 56, 98, 117, 125, 127–8, 170–204 Kharko, the Cossack, 163 Khar’kovskii Demokrit, 198 Kherson, 27, 137, 184, 195, 215n13, 242n21 Khmelnytskyi (city), 215n14 Khmelnytsky (Khmelnitsky), Bohdan, 31–2, 82, 99, 101, 115–16, 120, 132, 160 khokhol, 43–4, 51, 125, 202, 221n162 Khopersk fortress, 122 Khorvat, Osip, 193 Khudorba, Arkhyp, 20 Khvyliovy, Mykola, 156 Klara Zetkin Street, 158 Kochubei, Vasyl, 80, 100 Kochubei, Viktor, 43, 72, 104, 181, 183 Kochubei family, 79, 91 Kochubei Semen, 63, 72 Kohl, Johann Georg, 39, 117, 119, 146 Kohut, Zenon, 9, 52, 58 Koialovich, Mikhail, 71 Konev, Ivan, 163 Konysky, Heorhii, 92

Index

Korf, Pavel, 126 Korniichuk, Oleksandr, 157 Korsakov, Petr, 92, 105–6 Kostomarov, Mykola (Nikolai), 18, 29, 41, 75–6, 109, 200, 217n60, 225n83, 230n58 Kotliarevsky, Ivan, 51, 62, 201 Kovalinskys family, 194 Kozhedub, Ivan, 162 Kraevsky, Andrei, 102, 121 Krasicki, Ignacy, 199 Kremenchuk (town), 124 Kremlin, 47, 135, 138, 165, 206, 250n21 Kryvyi Rih, 48 Krzemieniec Lyceum, 199 Kuban Cossacks, 133 Kuchma, Leonid, 162 Kukol-Yasnopolsky, Fedir, 174 Kulish, Panteleimon, 29, 42, 75–6, 109 Kurakin, Aleksandr, 186 Kurbas, Les, 156 Kursk (town, gubernia, oblast), 33–4, 39, 85, 114, 117, 147, 186, 194 Kushnarev, Yevhen, 134, 136 Kvitka (also Kvitka-Osnovianenko), Hryhorii, 39–41, 51, 53, 62, 73, 101–2, 121–2, 125, 146, 150, 155, 198, 201 Kvitka, Illia, 120–2 Kyiv (also Kiev), city and gubernia, 3, 8, 12, 23–5, 27–8, 30–3, 36, 45, 54, 56–7, 65, 71–3, 95, 103, 106, 110, 114, 117, 119, 123–4, 133–4, 139, 141–2, 144–5, 148–9, 153, 155–9, 161, 165–6, 171, 182–3,

309

185–6, 199–200, 209–10, 215n14, 216n24, 241n2, 242n21 Kyivan Rus', 23–4, 28, 30, 65, 76, 95, 103, 124, 191, 206 Kyivan Synopsis, 8, 23, 45, 104 La Harpe, Frédéric-César de, 182 Lang, Joseph, 191 Laruelle, Marlene, 137 Left-Bank Ukraine, 93, 130, 185 Lelewel, Joachim, 202 Lenin, 130, 163, 166–7, 244n80, 249n6 Leontieff, Wassily, 191 Lermontov, Mikhail, 149 Levshin, Aleksei, 55, 196–7 Liberty Square, 162, 164, 166 Linnaeus, Karl, 60 Lithuanian, Lithuanians, 36, 38, 49, 64, 72, 97, 103, 133, 185, 211n6 Little Russia, also Little Russian, Little Russians, Malorossiia, Malaia Rus', 4, 7–10, 12–13, 17–22, 24–5, 28–36, 38–85, 87–110, 115–30, 132, 134, 136–9, 145, 149–51, 156–7, 160, 166, 171–2, 178, 180, 182–4, 186, 194–9, 201–3, 206–10 Lobysevych, Opanas, 20 Lopukhin, Dmitrii, 175 Lubny, 171, 182 Luhansk, town and oblast, 114, 136–8 Lviv, 12, 48, 132, 141, 148, 161, 189, 241n3 Lysenko, Mykola, 150 Lysiak-Rudnytsky, Ivan, 49, 109, 185

310

Mahilioŭ gubernia, 185 Maksimovich, Lev, 25, 31 Maksymovych (Maksimovich), Mykhailo, 18, 29, 41, 56, 61, 69, 74, 80, 83 Markevitch, Igor, 79 Markevych, Mykola (Markevich, Nikolai), 9, 20 Markov, Mikhail, 31, 35, 55, 218n79, 225n73 Markovych, Yakiv, 20, 33, 36, 60, 85, 94, 217n68 Martos, Oleksii, 20, 66 Maslovych, Vasyl, 197–8 Mazepa, Ivan (Hetman), 47, 52, 79–80, 82, 91–2, 98, 100, 120–1 Metlynsky, Amvrosii, 61, 69 Mickiewicz, Adam, 199–200 Milan, 141 Miliutin, Nikolai, 123 Miller, Alexei, 18, 68, 227n126 Miller, Dmitrii/Dmytro, 54, 149 Minghi, Julian V., 11 Moldova (also Moldavia), 11, 38, 135 Molodyk, 125, 201 Montesquieu, Charles Louis de Secondat, 26 Montreal, 79 Moore, Thomas, 85 Moravia, 90 Moscow, city, 25–6, 36, 44, 47, 57, 70, 76, 80, 83, 95, 98–9, 107, 109, 115–16, 129, 135–6, 141, 146, 148, 152, 154, 156–60, 165–6, 182, 216n24 Moscow, Grand Duchy, 25 Moscow Avenue, 157

Index

Moscow Society of History and Antiquities, 21, 57 Moscow University, 32, 39, 57, 171, 176, 190–1 Moskovskii telegraf, 41, 70–1, 83 Müller (Miller), Gerhard, 24 Murava Route, 114, 143, 147, 160 Muraviev, Nikita, 117 Muscovites, 51, 89, 94, 101, 150–1, 201 Muscovite Tsardom (state), 23, 30, 32, 99, 114–15, 143, 160, 216n24 Musin-Pushkin, Aleksei, 32, 236n40 Myklashevsky family, 79 Mykolaiv city, 139, 215n13 Nadezhdin, Nikolai, 25, 74, 96, 102 Nalivaiko, Severyn, 81–2 Napoleon, Buonaparte, 225 Napoleonic wars, 55, 69, 116, 186–7, 189–90, 192, 196, 198–9 Narezhny, Vasilii (also Narizhny, Vasyl), 53, 82 Nekrasov, Nikolai, 149 Nemensky, Oleg, 134–5, 137 Nevsky, Aleksandr (Prince), 149, 163 New Russia, also Novorossiia, 21, 27–8, 32–3, 37, 58, 90, 123–4, 127, 129–30, 132, 135, 137–8, 144, 182, 184 News from the South, 129 New Sich, 90 Nicholas I (Russian Emperor), 68, 148 Nikitenko, Aleksandr, 106 Nikolai Yezhov Street, 157 Noeldechen, Karl, 192

Index

Notes on Little Russia, Its Inhabitants and Products, 61, 85 Novgorod, city, 94 Novhorod-Siverskyi, 27, 30, 182–3 Novikov, Nikolai, 107 Odesa, city, 12, 29, 117, 124, 137–9, 141, 144–9, 157, 168, 200, 202, 215n13 Ohloblyn, Oleksandr, 45 Oka River, 32 Okhtyrka town, 143 Oldi (Dmitrii Gromov and Oleg Ladyzhensky), 160 Orel, town, 186 Orlai, Ivan, 23, 28, 34 Ornovsky, Ivan (Pol. Jan Ornowski), 119, 144–5, 150, 154 Osipovsky, Timofei, 191, 194 Osnova, 29 Ostrohradsky, Nikolai/Mykola, 191 Otechestvennye zapiski, 102, 104, 121 Ottoman Empire, 18 Ovsianiko-Kulikovsky, Dmitrii, 50 Ozeriany, 143 Paasi, Anssi, 11 Palackyˊ, František, 90, 92, 100, 108, 110 Paskevich, Ivan, 69 Passek, Vadim, 126 Paul I (Russian Emperor), 172, 175 Paulovich, Konstantin, 194 Pavlovsky, Aleksei/Oleksii, 50, 62 Pavlov Square, 153 Pereiaslav (city, council), 32, 160, 166, 171

311

Perekop, 152 Pereverzev, Ivan, 27, 33, 40, 124; Topographic Description of the Kharkiv Vicegerency, 60, 62, 124 Perovsky, Aleksei, 183, 192 Perovsky, Lev, 104 Pestel', Pavel, 117 Peter I (Russian Emperor), 26, 79, 100, 125, 242n21 Petzholdt, Alexander, 146 Pilger, Мartin-Heinrich (Fedor), 192, 194 Pilsky, Petr, 151 Pleshcheev, Sergei, 25–6 Pletnev, Petr, 103, 202 Plokhy, Serhii, 46, 227n126 Pluchart, Adolphe, 25 Podilia, 2, 32–3, 103, 185, 200 Pogodin, Mikhail, 25, 69, 73–4, 80, 83, 102–3, 125 Poland, 11, 32, 97–8, 103, 106, 108, 128, 185 Polatsk gubernia, 185 Poletyka, Hryhorii, 20, 31, 53, 65 Poletyka, Vasyl, 124 Polevoi, Nikolai, 25, 66, 70–4, 80, 83, 86–7, 89–90, 96, 102–3, 202 Polevoi brothers, 83 Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, 18, 27, 35, 97, 100–1, 103, 114–15, 180, 199–200 Polish Ukraine, 36, 41, 144 Polish uprising of 1830, 21, 41, 55, 69–70 Poltava, town, gubernia, poem, 30, 34, 44, 69, 72, 80, 83, 88–9, 114, 117, 123, 145, 149, 160, 182, 186, 201, 236n33

312

Polubotok, Pavlo, 82, 100 Polubotok family, 79 Polunin, Fedor, 25 Potebnia, Oleksandr, 155 Potemkin, Grigorii, 172, 184 Potocki, Seweryn, 181, 186–7, 189, 195 Pritsak, Omeljan, 12, 209 Prokopovych-Antonsky, Anton, 57 Pryluky district, 80 Pushkin, Aleksandr, 68–9, 80, 83, 88–9, 100, 149–50, 155, 208 Putin, Vladimir, 47, 137–8, 206, 209–10 Rakovych, Hryhorii, 65, 72, 81, 96, 228n8 Red Russia, 17 Reit, Bernhard, 191, 195 Repnin, Nikolai, 44, 55, 63, 68, 72, 104, 233n146 Riazan, 36 Rigelman, Aleksandr, 35, 39, 55 Rigelman, Nikolai, 90, 110 Rizhsky, Ivan, 194, 196 Rodzianko, Arkadii, 72 Romania, 11, 135 Rome, 141, 230n58 Rommel, Christoph von, 188, 190, 192–5 Rosa Luxemburg Square, 153, 164 Royal Bohemian Society of the Sciences, 56 Rozumovsky, Kyrylo, 99, 171 Rozumovsky, Oleksii, 183 Rozumovsky family, 91 Ruban, Vasyl, 31–2, 57, 60, 85 Rumiantsev, Petr, 91

Index

Russian Empire, 5, 6, 8–9, 18–22, 24–7, 30, 34, 38, 42–3, 46, 48–50, 54–5, 58, 61–3, 71–2, 74, 77, 79, 82–3, 87–8, 90–1, 93, 97–101, 103, 106, 108, 110, 114–15, 117, 121, 123–4, 126, 128, 134, 143–4, 146–7, 151–2, 160–1, 169, 172–3, 181, 184–5, 189, 203, 206–7 Russian Federation, 131, 166 Russian Orthodox Church, 144, 159, 163, 230n58, 242n21 “Russian World” (also “Russkii Mir”), 135–6, 138, 160, 165, 208 “Rusyns” (Rusyny), Rusniaks, also Ruthenian, 33, 35, 43, 94, 202–3 Ryleev, Kondratii, 55, 81–2, 85, 100, 228n10 Sahaidachny Konashevych, Petro, 86, 93 Saratov gubernia, 143 Saunders, David, 86, 171, 223n42 Schad, Johann Baptist, 190–1, 193–4 Scherer, Jean-Benoît, 60, 82, 86, 195, 223n42 Scotland, 51, 61, 223n24 Selivanov, Timofei, 196 Semen Budenny Street, 157 Senkovsky, Osip (Józef Sękowski), 66, 73–4, 102–6, 109 Sergeev (“Artem”), Fedor, 153 Seton-Watson, Hugh, 6 Sevastopol, 135–7, 141, 159, 165 Severinovka, 195 Severodonetsk, 135 Shafonsky, Afanasii (Opanas), 31, 35–6, 39, 53, 63, 85

Index

Shchekatov, Afanasii, 32 Shcherbatov, Mikhail, 90 Shcherbinin, Yevdokim, 163 Shchoholiv, Yakiv, 150 Shchyrsky, Ivan, 119 Shelest, Petro, 162 Shevchenko, Taras, 20, 29, 49, 75–6, 80, 106, 109, 126, 132, 150, 155, 167, 232n135 Shevelov (Sherekh), Yurii, 142 Shlisselburg fortress, 175 Shpyhotsky, Opanas, 41 Shumliansky, Pavlo, 197 Shveikart, Ferdinand, 183 Siberia, 41, 70 Sirko, Ivan, 38, 132 Siversk, 32 Siverskyi Dinets River, 93 Skalkovsky, Apollon, 90 Skazanie o Koliivshchine, 41 Skobelev, Mikhail, 149 Skoropadsky, Ivan, 80 Skoropadsky, Pavlo, 80 Skoropadsky family, 79 Skovoroda, Hryhorii, 38, 131–2, 145, 150, 155, 160 Skrypnyk, Mykola, 153 Slavic, 4–6, 8–9, 18, 23, 46, 48, 52, 62, 68, 76–7, 94–5, 104, 133, 143, 149, 163, 189, 202, 206 Slavic (East Slavic) Orthodox, 6, 8, 18–19, 23, 46, 48, 206 Slavic-Rus', 7–10, 19, 23–5, 27–8, 34, 43, 45–6, 54–5, 57, 61, 64–5, 67, 70–1, 73, 76–7, 83, 87–9, 95, 104, 107, 124, 134–5, 146, 160, 196, 200, 208 Sloboda Cossacks, 38, 119–20

313

Sloboda Ukraine (also Slobozhanshchina, Slobozhanshchyna), 4, 10,12, 21, 32–3, 38–9, 41, 49–50, 60, 96, 106, 113–20, 122–34, 137, 139–40, 143, 145, 150–2, 155, 158, 160, 163, 173, 175–9, 181, 184, 187, 191, 193–5, 198–9, 202 Slovar’ malorusskoi stariny, 96 Slovo o polku Igoreve, 27 Sluch River, 38 Smirnova-Rossett, Aleksandra, 44 Smithy Street, 157 Somov, Orest, 41, 69 Southeastern Ukraine, 132, 134, 136–7 South Russia(n), also iuzhnorusskii, 20, 26–30, 34, 40–6, 60, 94, 123–6, 128–31, 134–5, 137–8, 140, 143–5, 148, 153, 184 Southwestern Russia, 28–30 Soviet, 3, 5, 8, 10, 12, 19–20, 23, 26, 35, 46–8, 66, 68, 86, 101, 110, 114, 128–34, 136–8, 140, 142, 146, 152–4, 156–69, 203–10 Soviet Union (USSR), 6, 8, 19, 23, 77, 114, 131 Sovremennik, 103, 121 Sreznevsky, Ivan, 197 Sreznevsky (also Sreznevskii), Izmail, 44, 55, 69, 83, 128, 197, 201–2; Historical Survey of the Civil Organization of Sloboda Ukraine from the Time of Its Settlement to Its Transformation into the Kharkiv Gubernia, 202; Ukrainskii almanakh0, 201; Ukrainskii sbornik, 201; Utrennia-

314

ia zvezda, 201; Zaporozhskaia starina, 201 Stählin, Jacob von, 67 Stalin, Stalinist, 158, 162, 164, 203 Steppe Front, 157, 163 St Nicholas Square, 153 Stockholm, 79 Stojković, Atanasije, 189, 194 Stone of Tmutarakan, 27 Storozhenko, Andrii, 88–9 St Petersburg, also Peterburg, Petrograd, Leningrad, 25–6, 29, 36, 40, 56–7, 63, 80, 104, 107, 121, 129, 141, 144, 146, 148, 154, 171, 174–6, 182, 190, 192–3, 202, 242n21 Stritter, Ivan, 28 St Vladimir University, 200 Sumarokov, Pavel, 147 Sumtsov, Mykola, 127–8, 197, 202 Sumy, 114, 174 Sumy Street, 153, 158 Suter, Andreas, 7 Suvorov, Aleksandr, 98, 149 Sverdlov Street, 153 Sweden, 18, 98, 100 Switzerland, 61 Symonovsky, Petro, 31, 39, 63 Szporluk, Roman, 6, 221n176 Tanner (Rymarska) Street, 158 Taranivka, 162 Tatishchev, Vasilii, 25 Taurida, 27 Tolz, Vera, 58 Transcarpathia (Zakarpattia), 28, 132, 135

Index

Transnistria, 132, 135 Trenin, Dmitrii, 135 Troshchynsky, Dmytro, 85 Tsarev, Oleg, 137 Tsarskoe Selo, 80 Tsereteli, Zurab, 163 Tsertelev, Nikolai, 55, 61, 82, 196 Tumansky, Fedir, 62 Turgenev, Ivan, 149 Turivka, 80 Turkey, 99, 115 Tymkovsky, Illia, 182, 190, 197 Ugra River, 32 Ukraїna, 36 Ukrainian elites, 6, 49–53 Ukrainian ethnicity, 60–4 Ukrainian Front, 163, 165 Ukrainian historical writing, 64–6, 82–101 Ukrainian identity, 7, 9–10, 75–6 Ukrainian Insurgent Army, 164, 167 Ukrainian nation-building, 6, 8, 47–78 Ukrainian People’s Republic, 129, 152 Ukrainian regions, 12, 21, 27–8, 30–4, 39, 45, 58–60, 113–14, 119–30, 182–6 Ukrainian-Russian border, borderland, 10–11, 114–19, 130–41, 143–5, 157–69 Ukrainian Soviet government, republic, 47, 110, 137, 146, 152–3, 157, 166, 203 Ukrainian terminology, 7, 17–22, 29, 34–46

Index

Ukrainka, Lesia, 132 Ukrainskie melodii, 41, 84–6, 90, 106 Ukrainskii vestnik, 198 Ukrainskii zhurnal, 39, 198 University Street, 158 Uspensky, Gavriil, 31, 196 Ustrialov, Fedor, 40 Ustrialov, Nikolai, 66, 73, 90 Uvarov, Sergei (Count), 23, 68–9, 71, 73, 104, 106, 108, 201 Vahylevych, Ivan, 203 Valentinov (Shmalko), Andrei, 160 Vasylkivsky, Serhii, 150, 155 Venelin, Yurii (Hutsa), 18, 24, 28–9, 34, 43, 73 Vestnik Evropy, 33 Vienna, 189 Vigel, Filipp, 51, 102 Vilnius, 141, 182, 185, 191, 195, 199–200 Vinnytsia, 166, 215n14 Vinsky, Hryhorii, 51 Vladimir (Sabodan), 159 Vladimir, city, 31 Volga River, 143 Volodymyr-Volynsky, 31 Volyn, 21, 185, 200, 215n14 Voronezh, 34, 60, 85, 93, 114, 117, 143, 147, 186, 194 Vovchansk, 177 Vyhovsky, Ivan, 97 Warsaw, 69, 76, 98, 109, 200 White Army, 138, 152 White Russia, 17, 24–5, 47, 74, 101, 110

315

“Wild Field” (Dikoe Pole), 115, 160 Yanovsky, Mykola (Nikolai), 31, 33 Yanukovych, Viktor, 160, 164–5, 168 Yavornytsky, Dmytro, 96 Yavorsky, Matvii, 156 Yefremov, Serhii, 155 Yurii, Prince of VolodymyrVolynsky, 31 Yuzefovich, Mikhail, 110 Zaharchenko, Tanya, 142, 160 Zakharashevych-Kapustiansky, Georgiy, 181 Zakharchenko, Aleksandr, 47 Zaporizhia, city, oblast, 137, 140, 215n13 Zaporozhian Cossacks, 21, 40–1, 42, 58, 61, 63, 66, 76, 96, 115, 120, 128 Zaporozhian Sich, 100, 105, 115–17, 123, 129, 137, 201 Zaporozhskie naezdy, 61 Zarulsky, Stanislav, 36 Zavadovsky, Petro, 183, 185, 188–9, 247n39 Zelensky, Volodymyr, 48, 168, 244n80 Zhirinovsky, Vladimir, 136, 166 Zhukovsky, Vasilii, 80, 149 Zhuravlivka quarter, 157 Zhurzhenko, Tatiana, 140 Ziablovsky, Yevdokim, 38–9 Zmiiv, 116 Zubrytsky, Denys, 34

316

Index