The Early Russian Intelligentsia
As Richard Pipes noted in his Russia under the Old Regime (1974), the origins of the term ‘intelligentsia’ are in fact Western European. Pipes described the word as ‘a clumsy, Latinized adaptation of the French intelligence and German Intelligenz which in the first half of the nineteenth century came to be used in the west to designate the educated, enlightened, “progressive” elements in society’. ‘Die Intelligenz’ (‘the intelligence’), for example as used in the discussions of the Austrian and German revolutionary parliaments of February 1849, referred to the ‘social group – essentially urban and professional – which by virtue of its superior public spirit deserved heavier parliamentary representation’. The word ‘intelligentsia’ entered the Russian vocabulary in the 1860s and, so Pipes argued, in the Russian context to the intelligentsia’s association with enlightened politics was added an important ‘sense of commitment to public welfare: a member of the intelligentsia or an intelligent is someone not wholly preoccupied with his personal well-being but at least as much and preferably much more concerned with that of society at large’. The emergence of an intelligentsia in imperial Russia was a ‘foregone conclusion’, because – Pipes added – an intelligentsia emerges ‘wherever there exists a significant discrepancy between those who control political and economic power, and those who represent (or believe themselves to represent) public opinion’.[i]
Though the term ‘intelligentsia’ was
first introduced into general Russian usage by Ivan Aksakov in the 1860s,
intellectuals had appeared as a distinct group during the reign of Catherine II.
As James H. Billington has observed, the work of these intellectuals was
already marked by their detachment from the phenomenon of autocratic power in
Russia. ‘The alienation of the intellectuals in many ways begins with the
growing antagonism of serious playwrights toward the increasingly frivolous,
largely musical theatre of Catherine’s later years.’ Billington cites the
phrase ‘true wisdom’ (premudrost’), as used in the writings of Alexander
Sumarokov, the director of the St Petersburg theatre. This concept, Billington
sees, was ‘at variance with the ethos of Catherine’s court even when advanced
by scrupulously loyal monarchists like Sumarokov’, in that it ‘seemed to
propose a standard of truth above that of the monarch’s will’.[ii] Yet,
as Pipes showed, it was Catherine herself who enabled the appearance of Russian
intellectuals. ‘The omnipotent Russian state brought into being even its own
counterforce.’ Catherine’s encouragement of journalistic activity, for instance
– in 1769 she started Russia’s first periodical, Vsiakaia Vsiachina (A
Bit of Everything) – ensured that ‘to Catherine belongs the credit for
launching what Russians describe with the untranslatable obshchestvennoe
dvizhenie’.[iii]
Pipes provided a literal translation for
this phrase as ‘social movement’ – signifying ‘a broad current combining
expressions of opinion with public activity, through which Russian society at
long last asserted its right to an independent existence’. The current flowed
from the start in two channels, both ‘critical of Russia as it then was’: the
‘conservative-nationalist’ and the ‘liberal-radical’. It is the originator of
the conservative-nationalist movement, Nikolai Novikov (1744-1818), whom Pipes
labels ‘Russia’s first clearly identifiable intelligent’. In response to
Catherine the Great’s stimulation of journalism, Novikov launched the satirical
journal The Drone, in the first issue of which (in 1769) he posed what
Pipes called ‘a question destined to be the central preoccupation of the whole
intelligentsia movement in Russia’: ‘What can I do for society?’.[iv]
Novikov can be identified as a critic of
Russia as it then was not because he questioned autocracy or serfdom (he did neither),
but because he sought to help people to act independently: at this time (Pipes
writes) ‘society first learned it could take care of its own needs’, insofar as
Novikov’s multifarious educational and philanthropic works shattered the
assumption that ‘the state and it alone had the right to act on behalf of “the
land”’. But Novikov is nonetheless ‘classified as a political conservative
because of his determination to work “within the system”’. Crucially, being a
Freemason follower of Louis Claude de Saint-Martin, Novikov blamed the
existence of evil on man’s corruption rather than the institutions under which
he lived. It was this emphasis on man himself rather than his environment which
would become a defining feature of Russian conservatism.[v]
It was not just that Novikov was
identifiable as the first obvious Russian intelligent : as a religious
conservative he appears as an exemplary late Enlightenment intellectual.
Nicholas Riasanovsky has defined the late Enlightenment as a phenomenon within
which ‘self-improvement was rapidly gaining adherents as a substitute for
social change’, and during which ‘critics were becoming moralists or even
mystics’. Freemasonry in Russia exemplified the social/mystical duality marking
the late Enlightenment: Riasanovsky wrote of ‘two approaches’ or ‘main trends’ that
fused within eighteenth-century Russian Freemasonry, ‘the mystical, and the
ethical and social’. Whilst the mystical trend ‘concentrated on such elusive
and essentially individual goals as contemplation and self-perfection’, the ‘active
wing of the movement’ – or ‘the socially oriented Freemasons centring around
the University of Moscow and led by Novikov’ – pursued its educational and
publishing projects.[vi]
When thinking about what makes Novikov represent
an exemplary late Enlightenment intellectual precisely as a result of his being
a religious – in his case, Freemason – conservative, it is worth remembering
the occultist sense and derivation of the word ‘intelligentsia’. As Billington
recorded, Novikov’s fellow Freemason, the philosopher and mystic Johann Georg
Schwarz (a lecturer at Moscow University), was ‘apparently the first to use the
term intelligentsiia’. Schwarz used the term in the sense of the Latin intelligentia
(‘intelligence’), but lent ‘intelligentsiia’ both its distinctive
Russian spelling and ‘the sense of special power which would eventually come to
be applied to the class of people who went by its name’. Billington adds that
it ‘seems probable’ that the term was in fact derived not directly from Latin,
but ‘indirectly through the adoption of Latin terms in German occult
literature’. He finds a usage of ‘intelligentsia’ which is ‘close to the
concept of pure spirits, or Intelligenzen, in German occultism’. Such a
usage would chime with Schwarz’s definition of ‘intelligence’, as pure: ‘that
higher state of man, as a mental essence, free from all base, earthly
perishable matter; eternally and imperceptibly capable of influencing and
acting on all things’.[vii]
An ambition to exercise such occult
special power, or capability of ‘influencing and acting on all things’, clearly
found expression in the social/mystical dualism characterizing the simultaneously
activist and contemplative operations of eighteenth-century Freemasonry. As Billington
maintained, ‘the first comprehensive history of Russian Masonry claimed with
some justice that Russian Masonry first gave the aristocracy “a sense of
mission as an intellectual class”’.[viii]
Riasanovsky argues that Novikov made ‘better use than any other individual of
the opportunities provided by Catherine the Great to spread enlightenment’, and
quotes the Soviet Novikov scholar Georgii Makogonenko regarding the publisher’s
‘knowing how to unite hundreds of people around his educational activities’. Thus
precisely the enlightening mission of the eighteenth-century, Russian
(Freemason) intelligentsia demonstrated how ‘the concept of enlightened
despotism itself’, as Riasanovsky asserts, entailed ‘a logical alliance between
modernizing rulers and an emerging educated public’.[ix]
Riasanovsky traced the development of
the divide between the Russian state and its enlightening, progressive
intelligentsia to the second, reactionary half of Alexander I’s reign. ‘It was
only after the Congress of Vienna and Waterloo that the paths of the government
and of at least the more radical segment of “society” began perceptibly to
diverge.’ Even as late as 1825, the Decembrist rebellion remained an Enlightenment-influenced
form of revolution: when Riasanovsky quotes Marc Raeff’s judgement that ‘the
Decembrists resembled in many ways the generation of Frenchmen that had led the
first years of the Revolution’, he adds the comment that ‘the Russian
Enlightenment was finally bearing its full fruit’. 1825 thus also saw the
crushing of the missionary activism of the early intelligentsia, when the
Decembrist fruit of the Enlightenment was cut down by the state. In 1969 one A.
Ianov would write, from his radical, Soviet perspective, that ‘not only the
revolutionary quality of the gentry was shot down in the Senate Square. Also
shot down were the ideological premisses of that revolutionary quality: the
belief in the all-saving force of enlightenment and of political reforms.’[x]
As Pipes notes, it was only the ‘post-1855
generation of “Positivists” or “Realists”’ who returned to the question
articulated by Novikov: ‘what are we to do?’. The ‘Idealist generation’ of
intellectuals of the decades from about 1830 on were instead more concerned
with asking ‘who are we?’. Riasanovsky was referring to this post-1825
heightened alienation of the intelligentsia and concomitant interest in
‘metaphysics, religion, art or poetry’, when he defined ‘the change from the
ideology of the Age of Reason to romanticism and idealism’, which occurred in
the second quarter of the nineteenth-century, in terms of a ‘new Weltanschauung’
that demoted ‘political and practical concerns’. This new viewpoint of the
intelligentsia also ‘contained within itself a strong affirmative and
conservative bias’, Riasanovsky continued; ‘historical, traditionalist,
religious, and authoritarian arguments of the romantic age were used to define
and uphold the doctrine of Official Nationality’. Yet Riasanovsky also still makes
the point – which I have noted elsewhere in connection with the thought of Ivan Kireevskii – that in Russia ‘the ideas of the intellectuals of the 1830s
and the 1840s were much farther removed from any actual or possible reality
than those of their counterparts in the preceding generations’.[xi] In
the remainder of this piece I want to explore how the early Russian
intelligentsia’s disengagement from external reality around 1825 seems to be
accompanied by a split within its religious conservative thinking.
I view this split in connection with –
as a development of – the social/mystical duality characterizing the religious
conservatism of Freemasons such as Novikov. Both the intelligentsia groups that
interest me in the period immediately after 1825 can be classed as ‘romantic’
intellectuals, and for both groups ‘“Russia” and “the Russian people” acquired
a supreme metaphysical, and even mystical, importance’ (in Riasanovsky’s
words). For this reason both groups of intellectuals can be described as
mystically-inclined religious conservatives. But the group Riasanovsky terms
‘nationalists’ were much more obviously socially oriented in their interests
than the other group, the Slavophiles, who in fact underlined the alienation of
the Russian people from the state. When detailing the main representatives of
the ‘nationalists’ (the poet Fëdor Tiutchev, Moscow professors Mikhail Pogodin
and Stepan Shevyrëv), Riasanovsky points out how this group ‘stood close to the
Slavophiles, although they remained separated from them, primarily by the issue
of the nature and role of the Russian state’.[xii]
The social ambitions of the nationalists
– their ‘commitment to public welfare’ (Pipes) as intellectuals – worked out in
terms of both a focus on general education and a substantial growth in higher
education. In the 1830s Sergei Uvarov began to run the Ministry of Education
and, wrote Pipes, ‘higher learning began to flourish spectacularly in Russia’.
Whereas in the late eighteenth-century the University of Moscow hardly had
‘much of an intellectual impact’ on the country, with a ‘largely foreign
faculty [which] lectured in German and Latin to an uncomprehending audience
composed of priests’ sons and other plebeians’, during the 1830s scions of the
aristocracy started to enrol in the newly fashionable activity of university
study. Uvarov thought, as Pipes put it, that ‘scientific and scholarly
knowledge was the best antidote to subversive ideas then floating in the
country’.[xiii]
Pogodin on the other hand, as
Riasanovsky saw, argued that ‘general education was a necessity if Russia were
to survive as a modern state’. Nationalists like Pogodin were committed not to
the aristocracy, rendered-compliant or otherwise, but to the idea of an
intellectually elevated populace. Pogodin – who himself began life as a serf –
once wrote that ‘every supreme authority, even the wisest, will become still
wiser when assisted by the voice of the entire people’. Such a view illustrates
the nationalist intellectuals’ belief in what Riasanovsky calls a ‘popular
autocracy’, or ‘a real union in thought and action between the tsar and his
humble subjects’. This goal was to be achieved by educational improvements
which would ‘make all people active and enthusiastic participants in the
destinies of Russia’. The nationalists’ impulse towards fostering popular
agency was aided by Nicholas I’s government which, Riasanovsky summarizes,
‘made some significant contributions to the development of education in
Russia’. But the encouragement of intelligent participation in political life
was also hindered by the repressive tsarist climate, within which Nicholas I
could write (in 1848) that ‘neither blame, nor praise is compatible with the
dignity of the government or with the order which fortunately exists among us;
one must obey and keep one’s thoughts to oneself’.[xiv]
Nicholas I was – in Riasanovsky’s phrase
– ‘suspicious and critical’ of German Idealism, which was precisely the school
of philosophy which had brought together future nationalist and Slavophile
intellectuals in the ‘Lovers of Wisdom’ group from 1823 onwards. As Riasanovsky
records, the study of Idealism in that literary group influenced the
development of Pogodin and Shevyrëv no less than that of the Slavophile
philosopher Kireevskii, and indeed Idealist philosophy ‘remained the central
axis of their thought’. Idealist inwardness and tsarist militarism or
bureaucracy were not well matched. But the metaphysical content of German
Idealism could contribute to the historical Zeitgeist that Nicholas I
both participated in (as an avid reader of Russian history) and helped foster
(university chairs of Russian history were first established during his reign),
as the autocratic state sought to find justification in history.[xv]
During the rule of Nicholas I there arose, as Riasanovsky wrote, ‘a
metaphysical issue of establishing and asserting the true principles of the
unique Russian national organism, of ensuring its historical mission’. Their
contribution to this phenomenon ensured that the Slavophiles created ‘the first
ideology of Russian nationalism’, as Pipes noted, ‘by borrowing ideas from
western Europe to extol Russia at western Europe’s expense’. Their involvement
with Russian metaphysical nationalism was in fact also what allied the Slavophiles
with modernizing, Westernizing intellectuals such as Alexander Herzen. The
latter figure would praise the Slavophile thinkers thus:
‘The Kireevskiis, [Aleksei] Khomiakov,
and [Konstantin] Aksakov accomplished their task. […] With them begins the
turning-point of Russian thought. […] Both they and we conceived from early
years one powerful, unaccountable, physiological, passionate feeling, which
they took to be a recollection, and we – a prophecy, the feeling of boundless,
all-encompassing love for the Russian people, Russian life, the Russian turn of
mind. Like Janus, or like a two-headed eagle, we were looking in different
directions while a single heart was beating in us.’[xvi]
Riasanovsky helps us trace the
Slavophiles’ metaphysical nationalism back to the Romantic quality of their historical
thinking. He argues that Slavophilism ‘represented the fullest and most
authentic expression of romantic thought in Russia’, and sees ‘Aksakov’s historical
writing’, for instance, as devoted to sustaining ‘the romantic ideal’ of
‘Russia’. Riasanovsky maintained that ‘the application of the Slavophile
teaching to the historical plane was strikingly romantic’: Pëtr Chaadaev and
the Slavophiles ‘theorized within essentially the same framework of romantic
historiosophy’, wherein ‘metaphysical principles determined historical
development’. For Riasanovsky, ‘even among romanticists’ Chaadaev and the
Slavophiles ‘stood out for their emphasis on religion and its decisive
significance in the life and history of man’.[xvii]
The Slavophiles shared their
metaphysical nationalism with the other mystically-inclined Russian religious
conservatives of the period (alongside Chaadaev), Riasanovsky’s ‘nationalists’
such as Pogodin, but the Slavophiles alone invested in a Romantic historiosophy
whose privileging of the transcendental suggested a detachment from material
reality fascinatingly mirrored by the alienation of the Russian people from the
state which the Slavophiles’ writing underscored. As Riasanovsky noted,
Slavophile intellectuals hoped that their work represented ‘the bringing into
consciousness, the all-important revelation of the ancient, deep, mighty, and
mysterious essence of Russia, its true spirit’. Yet the ‘larger ramifications’
of the view that Slavophilism offered ‘a genuine revelation of the spirit for
its age and perhaps for eternity’, as Riasanovsky adds, ‘belong to the realm of
faith rather than of historical analysis’.[xviii]
At one point in his account, the Slavophile historical method’s potential for
ahistoricism – ‘the historian Serge Soloviev and some other critics pointed out
at the time that the Slavophile view of the Russian past had very little
connection with any historical reality’ – suggests the transcendental quality
of Slavophile history-writing, when Riasanovsky concludes of Slavophile history
that ‘indeed, it had come from quite other realms’. The Slavophiles’ take on
the historical Russian commune illustrates the way the very content of their
work foregrounded the transcendental: Nikolai Berdiaev commented on how to the
Slavophiles ‘the commune was not a fact of history, but something imposing
which stands outside the realm of history; it is the “other world” so to speak
within this world’.[xix]
Riasanovsky highlights the Slavophiles’
own underlining of the Russian people’s long-term, and indeed constitutive,
alienation from the state. He explains the Slavophiles’ dislike for democracy
by observing how they were opposed to ‘any formal guarantee of the supremacy of
the people, any established machinery for the election or control of the
tsars’, because such democratic practice signified to them ‘the worst kind of
legalism of the Western type, an involvement of the people itself in politics,
a corruption of the Russian soul’. He cites Aksakov’s remark along these lines:
‘The essence of democracy is the most
crude worship blinded by ambition of the principle of the state, of the
external, material, compulsory, and relative truth, and the desire to introduce
this principle into the inner life of the people’.
Riasanovsky also quotes Aksakov’s
comment that ‘the fewer points of contact the government has with the people,
and the people with the government, the better’, noting that ‘a repudiation of
enlightened despotism could hardly be more complete’.[xx]
Here the Slavophiles’ distance from
Riasanovsky’s ‘nationalists’ concerning the issue of the nature of the Russian
state and the people’s relation to it is clear: Aksakov’s position represents
the inverse of the nationalist intellectuals’ belief in ‘popular autocracy’, or
a participative union between tsar and people. Riasanovsky thus seems mistaken
when he argues that Pogodin’s advocacy of popular autocracy – ‘every supreme
authority […] will become still wiser when assisted by the voice of the entire
people’ – was illustrative of how his ‘views overlap with those of the
Slavophiles’. But there remains a sense in which the Slavophiles did believe in
popular autocracy, which relates to the way in which they did actually support
democracy. For Riasanovsky was correct to speak uncritically about the idea of
a ‘populist and democratic nature of Slavophile teaching’ to precisely the
extent that Ianov was right to claim that the Slavophiles recognized ‘the
people as the source of authority’, even ‘autocratic authority’.[xxi]
The Slavophiles justified autocracy very
strangely, by positing a form of democratic popular legitimation for it that
was to remain separate from state power. As Riasanovsky observed, whilst for
Slavophile intellectuals ‘autocracy, government in general’ was ‘indispensable
in its proper place’, for these thinkers autocratic rule ‘was to be restricted
to that place, to interfere as little as possible with the free life of the
people’. In an allied way, ‘the Slavophile justifications of autocracy remained
historical and functional, therefore relative, never religious and absolute’. The
Slavophiles were seeking to conceive of a type of democracy which, being entangled
with neither state nor religious power, placed them firmly on the ‘mystical’
side of any social/mystical duality. As N. V. Ustrialov writes: ‘If
Slavophilism is characterized by a certain democratic element, its democracy is
not formal, political, not state, legal, but mystical.’[xxii]
29.1.21
[i] Russia
under the Old Regime, 2nd
edn (London: Penguin Books, 1995; first publ. [London(?)]: Weidenfeld
and Nicolson, 1974), pp. 251, 253.
[ii] James
H. Billington, The Icon and the Axe: An Interpretive History of Russian
Culture (New York: Vintage Books, 1970; first publ. [New York(?)]: Knopf,
1966), pp. 715 n. 101, 234, 236.
[iii]
Pipes, pp. 256, 255, 256.
[iv]
Pipes, p. 256.
[v]
Pipes, p. 258.
[vi] Nicholas
V. Riasanovsky, A Parting of Ways: Government and the Educated Public in
Russia 1801-1855 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), p. 51.
[vii]
Billington, pp. 251, 715 n. 101, 251 (quoting Schwarz).
[viii]
Billington, p. 251 (quoting I. Findel, Istoriia Frank-Masonstva (St
Petersburg: [n. pub.], 1872-74), page unknown).
[ix]
Riasanovsky, pp. 38 (quoting Makogonenko), 49.
[x]
Riasanovsky, pp. 82 (quoting Raeff), 292 (quoting Ianov).
[xi]
Pipes, p. 269; Riasanovsky, p. 286 (on Official Nationality see his Nicholas
I and Official Nationality in Russia, 1825-1855 (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1959)); Parting, p. 287.
[xii] Parting,
p. 125; for further commentary on the relationship between the two groups,
Riasanovsky directs us to his article ‘Pogodin and Ševyrev in Russian
Intellectual History’, Harvard Slavic Studies, 4 (1957), 149-67.
[xiii]
Pipes, pp. 253, 263.
[xiv] Parting,
pp. 132 (quoting Pogodin), 130, 132, 130, 140 (quoting Nicholas I).
[xv] Parting,
pp. 135, 156-57, 119.
[xvi] Parting,
p. 150; Pipes, p. 266; Herzen is quoted from Parting, p. 197 n. 5.
[xvii] Parting,
pp. 176-77, 183, 176.
[xviii] Parting,
pp. 191, 198.
[xix] Parting,
p. 186; Berdiaev quoted from Parting, p. 193.
[xx] Parting,
pp. 195 (quoting Aksakov in n. 4), 197 (quoting Aksakov).
[xxi] Parting,
pp. 132 (quoting Pogodin), 132-33 n. 5, 204; Ianov quoted on p. 205.
[xxii] Parting,
p. 196; Ustrialov quoted in p. 195 n. 4.
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