Icon and Axe

1. The Muscovite Ideology

THE UNIQUENESS of the new Great Russian culture that gradually emerged after the eclipse of Kiev is exemplified by the tent roof and the onion dome: two striking new shapes, which by the early sixteenth century dominated the skyline of the Russian north.

The lifting up of soaring wooden pyramids from raised octagonal churches throughout this period probably represents the adoption of wooden construction methods which pre-existed Christianity in the Great Russian north. Whatever obscure relationship the Russian tent roof may bear to Scandinavian, Caucasian, or Mongol forms, its development from primitive, horizontal log construction and its translation from wood into stone and brick in the sixteenth century was a development unique to northern Russia. The new onion dome and the pointed onion-shaped gables and arches also have anticipations if not roots in other cultures (particularly those of Islam); but the wholesale replacement of the spherical Byzantine and early Russian dome with this new elongated shape and its florid decorative use—not least atop tent roofs—is also peculiar to Muscovy.¹ The supreme surviving example of the Muscovite style, the wooden Church of the Transfiguration at Kizhi, on Lake Onega, has been likened to a giant fir tree because of the massive, jagged shape produced by superimposing twenty-two onion domes on its sharp, pyramidal roof. The new vertical thrust of the tent and onion shapes is related both to the material need for snow-shedding roofs and to the spiritual intensification of the new Muscovite civilization. These gilded new shapes rising out of the woods and snow of the north seemed to represent something distinct from either Byzantium or the West.

The Byzantine cupola over a church describes the dome of heaven covering earth; the Gothic spire describes the uncontainable striving upward, the lifting up from earth to heaven of the weight of stone. Finally, our fatherland’s “onion dome” incarnates the idea of deep prayerful fervor rising towards the heavens.… This summit of the Russian church is like a tongue of fire crowned by a cross and reaching up to the cross. When looking from afar in the clear sunlight at an old Russian monastery or town, it seems to be burning with a many-colored flame; and when these flames glimmer from afar amid endless snow-covered fields, they attract us to them like a distant, ethereal vision of the City of God.²

Of all the gilded spires and domes that drew Russians in from the countryside to new urban centers of civilization none were more imposing than those of Moscow and its ecclesiastic citadel, the Kremlin. Seated on the high ground at the center of Moscow, the Kremlin had, by the beginning of the seventeenth century, gathered behind its moats and walls a host of objects which seemed to offer the Orthodox some “distant, ethereal vision of the City of God.” Here were the largest bells, the most splendid icons (including the Vladimir Mother of God and Rublev’s greatest iconostasis), and a cluster of magnificent new churches rising over the graves of princes and saints. Highest of all stood the domes of the bell tower of Ivan the Great. Its more than fifty bells represented the most ambitious single effort to simulate “the angelic trumpets” of the world to come; and the proliferation of lesser bell towers throughout the sprawling city of 100,000³ attracted to the new capital the enduring designation of “Moscow of the forty forties,” or sixteen hundred belfries.

Moscow, the second great city of Russian culture, has remained the largest city of Russia and an enduring symbol for the Russian imagination. The new empire of the Eastern Slavs that slowly emerged out of the divisions and humiliations of the appanage period was known as Muscovy long before it was called Russia. Moscow was the site of the “third Rome” for apocalyptical monks in the sixteenth century, and of the “third international” for apocalyptical revolutionaries in the twentieth. The exotic beauty of the Kremlin—even though partly the work of Italians—came to symbolize the prophetic pretensions of modern Russia and its thirst for some earthly taste of the heavenly kingdom.

Of all the northern Orthodox cities to survive the initial Mongol assault, Moscow must have seemed one of the least likely candidates for future greatness. It was a relatively new wooden settlement built along a tributary of the Volga, with shabby walls not even made of oak. It lacked the cathedrals and historic links with Kiev and Byzantium, of Vladimir and Suzdal; the economic strength and Western contacts of Novgorod and Tver; and the fortified position of Smolensk. It is not even mentioned in the chronicles until the mid-twelfth century, it did not have its own permanent resident prince until the early fourteenth, and none of its original buildings are known to have survived even into the seventeenth.

The rise of the “third Rome,” like that of the first, has long tantalized historians. There are almost no surviving records for the critical 140 years between the fall of Kiev and the turning of the Tatar tide under the leadership of Moscow at Kulikovo field in 1380. Perhaps for this very reason, there is a certain fascination in weighing and balancing the factors usually cited to explain the rapid emergence of Muscovy: its favorable central location, the skill of its grand dukes, its special position as collecting agent of the Mongol tribute, and the disunity of its rivals. Yet these explanations—like those of Soviet economic determinists in more recent years—seem insufficient to account fully for the new impetus and sense of purpose that Muscovy suddenly demonstrated—in the icon workshop as well as on the battlefield.

To understand the rise of Muscovy, one must consider the religious stirrings which pre-existed and underlay its political accomplishments. Long before there was any political or economic homogeneity among the Eastern Slavs, there was a religious bond, which was tightened during the Mongol period.

The Orthodox Church brought Russia out of its dark ages, providing a sense of unity for its scattered people, higher purpose for its princes, and inspiration for its creative artists. In the course of the fourteenth century, the prevailing term for a simple Russian peasant became krest’ianin, which was apparently synonymous with “Christian” (khristianin).⁴ The phrase “of all Rus’,” which later became a key part of the tsar’s title, was first invoked at the very nadir of Russian unity and power at the turn of the thirteenth century, not by any prince, but by the ranking prelate of the Russian Church, the Metropolitan of Vladimir.⁵ The transfer of the Metropolitan’s seat from Vladimir to Moscow in 1326 was probably an even more important milestone in the emergence of Moscow to national leadership than the celebrated bestowal by the Tatars in the following year of the title “Great Prince” on Ivan Kalita, Prince of Moscow. Probably more important than Kalita or any of the early Muscovite Princes in establishing this leadership was Alexis, the fourteenth-century Metropolitan of Moscow, and the first Muscovite ever to occupy such a high ecclesiastical position.

Within the church the monasteries played the key role in the revival of Russian civilization, just as they had somewhat earlier in the West. Monastic revival helped to consolidate the special position of Moscow within Russia, and inspired Russians everywhere with the sense of destiny, militance, and colonizing zeal on which subsequent successes depended.

The monastic revival of the north took definite form in the 1330’s, when Metropolitan Alexis began to build a large number of churches within the Moscow Kremlin, providing a new religious aura to the citadel of power and centers of worship for several new monastic communities. Unlike the carefully organized and regulated monasteries of Western Christendom, these communities were loosely structured. Although they subscribed to the ritualized communal rule of St. Theodore Studite, discipline was irregular, the monks often gathering only for common meals and worship services. One reason for this relative laxness was the very centrality of the monasteries in Russian civilization. In contrast to most other monasteries of the Christian East, early Russian monasteries had generally been founded inside the leading princely cities, and monastic vows were often undertaken by figures who continued their previous political, economic, and military activities. Thus, the activities of Alexis as monk and metropolitan were in many ways merely a continuation under more impressive auspices of his earlier military and political exploits as a member of the noble Biakont family in Moscow. Yet Alexis’ new-found belief that God was with him brought new strength to the Muscovite cause. His relics were subsequently reverenced along with those of the first metropolitan of Moscow, Peter, who had been canonized at the insistence of Ivan Kalita. The most important of the new monasteries built by Alexis inside the Kremlin was named the Monastery of the Miracles in honor of the wonder-working powers attributed to the saintly lives and relics of these early metropolitans.

The central figure in the monastic revival and in the unification of Russia during the fourteenth century was Sergius of Radonezh. Like his friend Alexis, Sergius was of noble origin; but his conversion to a religious profession was more profound and seminal. Sergius had come to Moscow from Rostov, a vanquished rival city to the east. Disillusioned with Moscow and the lax older traditions of monastic life, he set off into the forest to recapture through prayer and self-denial the holiness of the early Church. His piety and physical bravery attracted others to the new monastery he founded northeast of Moscow in 1337. Dedicated to the Holy Trinity and later named for its founder, this monastery became for Muscovy what the Monastery of the Caves had been for Kiev: a center of civilization, a shrine for pilgrimage, and the second Lavra, or large parent monastery, in Russian history.

Certain distinctions between the monastery of St. Sergius and older ones in Kiev and Novgorod point to the new role monasteries were to play in Russian civilization. St. Sergius’ monastery was located outside of the political center, and its demands on the individual—in terms of physical labor and ascetic forbearance—were far more severe. This exposed location encouraged the monastery also to assume the roles of fortress and colonizing center.

The monastic revival in Russia depended not only on the heroism and sanctity of men like Sergius but also on important spiritual influences from the crumbling Byzantine Empire. Perplexed by its own misfortunes and embittered by harassment from the Catholic West, Byzantine monasticism in the late thirteenth and the fourteenth century increasingly turned away from the Studite rule in the monasteries and from the growing influence of Western scholasticism to a new mystical movement known as Hesychasm.⁶

This movement contended that there was a direct personal way to God available to man through the “inner calm” (hēsychia) which came from ascetic discipline of the flesh and silent prayers of the spirit. Darkness, fasting, and holding the breath were seen as aids to the achievement of this inner calm, and the traditional sacraments of the Church and even the verbal prayer of an individual believer subtly came to be viewed as irrelevant if not positively distracting. The Hesychasts believed that such a process of inner purification would prepare man for divine illumination: for a glimpse of the uncreated light from God which had appeared to the apostles on Mount Tabor at the time of Christ’s Transfiguration. The Hesychasts sought to avoid the heretical assertion that man could achieve identity with God by insisting that this illumination placed man only in contact with the “energy” (energeia) and not the “essence” (ousia) of the divine. This distinction and the belief that man could gain a glimpse of the divine light were upheld as articles of faith by the Eastern Church in 1351.

The triumph of Hesychasm in the late days of the Byzantine Empire further estranged Orthodoxy from the disciplined and ornately sacramental Roman Church of the late Middle Ages. By challenging authority and encouraging men to seek a direct path to God, Hesychasm represented in some ways an Eastern anticipation of Protestantism.

Nowhere was the victory of the new mysticism and the estrangement from Rome more complete than in the newly opened monasteries of the Russian north. The hostility of the surroundings had long required ascetic qualities of resourcefulness and endurance. The political disintegration of Kievan Russia had led some monks like St. Sergius to seek salvation by leaving the cities altogether in imitation of the early desert fathers. Thus, it is not surprising that the new monasteries of these pioneering Russian hermits should prove receptive to the hesychastic teachings which reached the north through pilgrims returning from the Russian monastery on Mt. Athos and through Orthodox Slavs fleeing to Muscovy after the fall of the Balkans to Islam. The separation of Muscovy from classical traditions of rational theology and clear hierarchical discipline rendered the region ripe for a doctrine emphasizing direct contact with God. At the same time, the closeness of the hermit-monks to nature (and to the animistic paganism of non-Christian tribes) led them to dwell in an almost Franciscan manner on the theme of God’s involvement in all of creation. Just as the apostles had seen a glimpse of light from God at the Transfiguration of Christ, so could a true monk in Christ’s universal church gain a glimmer of the coming transfiguration of the cosmos. The debilitating bleakness of the environment created a need to believe not just in human salvation but in a transformation of the entire natural world.

The theme of transfiguration was sometimes blended with that of the millennial Second Coming of Christ. Popular “spiritual songs” of the Muscovite period told of the coming of glory to “the communal church all transfigured” atop a mountain—a seeming combination of Tabor and Athos.⁷ The hermit-monks who founded new monasteries on the northeastern frontier of Europe thought of their new houses not so much as institutions designed to revivify the established Church as transitory places in man’s pilgrimage toward the Second Coming. The icons showing St. Sergius calming the wild beasts and preaching to animals and plants⁸ emphasized the fact that the promised end was not just the resurrection of the dead but the transfiguration of all creation.

In the century following the establishment of St. Sergius’ new monastery at Zagorsk, some 150 new monasteries were founded in one of the most remarkable missionary movements in Christian history.⁹ Most of the founders were strongly influenced by Hesychasm, but they were also, like the Cistercians of the medieval West, hard-working pioneers opening up new and forbidding lands for cultivation and colonization. The outward reach of the monasteries had extended some three hundred miles north of Moscow by 1397, with the founding of the monastery of St. Cyril on the White Lake. By 1436, just a century after the founding of St. Sergius’ monastery, the movement had reached yet another three hundred miles north into the islands of the White Sea with the founding of the Solovetsk Monastery by Savva and Zosima. There were more saints from this period of Russian history than any other; and prominent among them were Sergius, Cyril, Savva, and Zosima, whose monasteries became leading shrines because of the miraculous powers accredited to their relics and remains.

Another widely venerated local saint of the fourteenth century was Stephen of Perm, whose career illustrates the civilizing and colonizing function of Russian monasticism. This learned and ascetic figure carried Christian teachings 750 miles east of Moscow to the most distant tributary of the Volga, at the foot of the Ural Mountains. There he evangelized the pagan Komi peoples, inventing an alphabet for their language and translating Holy Scripture into it. Stephen left an enduring impact on the distant region as its cultural leader and first bishop. He returned to Moscow to be buried in a church appropriately called Savior in the Forest. Thanks largely to Moscow chroniclers the story of his heroic battles with natural elements and pagan sorcerers kindled the awakening imagination of Russian Christians. The “Life of Stephen of Perm” by the greatest hagiographer of the age, Epiphanius the Wise, set a new standard for flowery eulogy and became perhaps the most popular of the many new lives of local saints.¹⁰

The most influential of Epiphanius’ Lives, however, was that of St. Sergius of Radonezh, which he wrote shortly before his death in 1420. Richer than his earlier works in factual material and the use of vernacular terms, Epiphanius’ life of Sergius reads like a history of Russia in the fourteenth century and helps explain how this lonely ascetic has come to be known as the “builder of Russia.”¹¹ Respect for his selflessness and sanctity enabled Sergius to become a counselor and arbiter among the warring princes of the Volga-Oka region. The links that developed with nearby Zagorsk helped Moscow assume leadership of the region during the preparations for battle with the Mongols in the 1370’s. St. Sergius prayed for victory over the Tatars, mobilized the resources of his monastery to support the fighting, and sent two monks to lead the troops in the famous victory at Kulikovo. Because his aid and intercession were widely credited with this decisive turn in the fortunes of Muscovy, his monastery soon became—almost in the modern sense—a national shrine. It was connected not with any purely local event or holy man, but with the common victory over a pagan enemy of a united army of Orthodox Russians.

The new monasteries were full-time centers of work and prayer, controlling rather than controlled by the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Often modeled on the monasteries of Mount Athos, they were organized communally and strongly influenced by the new Athonite tradition of Hesychasm. The “elders” who had attained mastery of their passions and spiritual clairvoyance through long years of prayer and vigilance often commanded greater authority within the monastery than did the hegumen or archimandrite (the nominal head of a small and a large monastery respectively). These elders played a leading role in the “accumulation of spiritual energies,” which was the main work of Muscovite monasticism.

Like a magnetic field, this spiritual energy attracted loose elements and filled the surrounding area with invisible powers. This energizing effect has already been noted in the field of icon painting, which received much of its stimulus from the need to decorate new monasteries. Rublev’s “Old Testament Trinity” was painted by a monk for the monastery of St. Sergius, depicting the subject to which that key monastery had been dedicated.

Literary culture was stimulated by the monastic revival. About twic as many manuscript books have survived from the fourteenth century a from the three previous centuries combined.¹² These manuscripts were embellished with a new type of decoration known as belt weaving, and the style adorned with a new technique known as word weaving.¹³ Both of these skills were brought to Russia by many of the same monastic emigrants from Athos, who were bearers of Hesychasm. Both of these “weaving” techniques represented in some ways an extension to literature of principles common to both Hesychasm and the new iconography: the subordination of verbal inventiveness and pictorial naturalism to the balanced and rhythmic repetition of a few simple patterns and phrases designed to facilitate direct links with God.

Even more striking in the new literary activity was the intensification of the previous historical bias of Russian theology. In sacred history as in iconography, Muscovite monks succeeded in “transforming an imitative craft into a conscious national art.”¹⁴ Increasingly, lives of saints and sacred chronicles tended to identify the religious truth of Orthodoxy with the political fate of Muscovy. This trend was already evidenced in the late thirteenth century in the extraordinarily popular “Life of Alexander Nevsky.” The story of the prince who vanquished the Teutonic knights is filled with comparisons to Old Testament figures, military images drawn from Josephus Flavius’ Tale of the Destruction of Jerusalem, and details of heroism transferred from legends about Alexander the Great to Alexander Nevsky. This work was also infused with a militant anti-Catholic spirit that was absent from epics of the Kievan period (and probably from the outlook of Alexander himself) and was almost certainly introduced by the Monk Cyril, who had fled his native Galicia after it had entered the Roman orbit, and deepened his anti-Catholicism with a stay in Nicaea just as the Latin crusaders were overrunning nearby Constantinople, in the early thirteenth century.¹⁵

Even more exalted than this story of victory over “the Romans” were the tales of combat with the Tatars that became particularly popular after the victory at Kulikovo in 1380, under Dmitry Donskoy. The life of this lay prince was written in purely hagiographic style. He is repeatedly referred to as a saint, and is placed higher in the firmament of heaven than many biblical figures. The cause of Dmitry in the most famous epic of this period, “The Tale from Beyond the Don” (Zadonshchina), is that of “the Christian faith” and “the holy churches”; just as the icon commissioned for Dmitry’s grave by his widow was that of the Archangel Michael, the bearer of heavenly victory over the armies of Satan.¹⁶ Whereas epics of the Kievan era were relatively hospitable to naturalistic and even pagan detail, the Zadonshchina imparts a new spirit of fanaticism in a new idiom of eulogy and epithet.¹⁷

The extraordinary emphasis in the chronicles on the battle of Kulikovo (which was not in itself particularly decisive in turning back the tide of Tatar domination) represents in good measure the echoing by Muscovite chroniclers of the call—first sounded in Latin Christendom at the time of its great awakening several centuries earlier—for a Christian crusade against the infidel East. Once again, a people struggling out of darkness and division were invited to unite behind their faith to fight a common foe. The ideological accompaniment for the gradual subordination of all other major Russian princes to Moscow in the course of the fifteenth century was provided by a series of chronicles beginning with that of the St. Sergius Monastery in 1408, and by supporting songs and legends that stressed (in contrast to those of Novgorod, Pskov, and Tver) the importance of the holy war against the Tatars and the need for Muscovite leadership in reuniting “the Russian land.”¹⁸

The monastic literature of the late fourteenth and the fifteenth century moved increasingly into the world of prophecy—developing two interrelated beliefs that lay at the heart of the Moscow ideology: (1) that Russian Christendom represents a special culminating chapter in an unbroken chain of sacred history; and (2) that Moscow and its rulers are the chosen bearers of this destiny.

The belief in a special destiny for Orthodox Christianity was not new. Orthodoxy was heir to the earliest sees of Christendom, including all the regions in which Christ himself had lived. Chiliastic teachings from the East entered early into Byzantine thinking. When Jerusalem was falling to the Moslems in 638 the true cross and other sacred relics were transferred to Constantinople, and the thought arose—particularly under the Macedonian dynasty at the time when Russia was being converted—that Constantinople might in some sense be the New Jerusalem as well as the New Rome.¹⁹

Just as the Eastern Church claimed to be the only truly apostolic church, so too the Eastern Empire claimed a specially sanctified genealogy through Babylonia, Persia, and Rome. From the end of the fourth century, Constantinople began to be thought of as the New Rome: capital of an empire with a destiny unlike that of any other on earth. Byzantium was not a but the Christian Empire, specially chosen to guide men along the path marked out by the chroniclers that led from Christ’s incarnation to His Second Coming.

Following Clement and Origen rather than Augustine, Orthodox theology spoke less about the drama of personal salvation than about that of cosmic redemption.²⁰ Whereas Augustine willed to Latin Christendom a brooding sense of original sin and of pessimism about the earthly city, these Eastern fathers willed to Orthodox Christendom a penchant for believing that the Christian Empire of the East might yet be transformed into the final, heavenly kingdom. Hesychast mysticism encouraged the Orthodox to believe that such a transformation was an imminent possibility through a spiritual intensification of their own lives—and ultimately of the entire Christian imperium.

In times of change and dislocation, the historical imagination tended to look for signs of the coming end of history and of approaching deliverance. Thus, the growing sense of destiny in Muscovy was directly related to the anguish among Orthodox monks at the final decline and fall of Byzantium.

The flight into apocalyptical prophecy began in the late fourteenth century in the late-blooming Slavic kingdoms of the Balkans, and spread to Muscovy via a migration of men and ideas from the Southern Slavs. Unlike the Southern Slav influx of the tenth century, which brought the confident faith of a united Byzantium, this second wave in the fifteenth infected Russia with the bombastic rhetoric and eschatological forebodings that had developed in Serbia and Bulgaria as they disintegrated before the advancing Turks.

The Serbian kingdom, during its golden age under Stephen Dushan, 1331-55, represented in many ways a dress rehearsal for the pattern of rule that was to emerge in Muscovy. Sudden military expansion was accompanied by a rapid inflation of princely pretensions. With speed and audacity Dushan assumed the titles of Tsar, Autocrat, and Emperor of the Romans; styled himself a successor to Constantine and Justinian; and summoned a council to set up a separate Serbian patriarchate. He sought, in brief, to supplant the old Byzantine Empire with a new Slavic-Greek empire. To sustain his claim he leaned heavily on the support of Mt. Athos and other monasteries that he had enriched and patronized.

The Bulgarian kingdom developed during its much longer period of independence from Byzantium a prophetic tradition which was to be taken over directly by Muscovy. Seeking to glorify the Bulgarian capital of Trnovo, the chroniclers referred to it as the New Rome, which had supplanted both the Rome of classical antiquity and the declining “second Rome” of Constantinople.

When the infidel Turks swept into the Balkans, crushing the Serbs at Kossovo in 1389 and overrunning the flaming Bulgarian capital four years later, the messianic hopes of Orthodox Slavdom had only one direction in which to turn: to the unvanquished prince and expanding church of Muscovy. In 1390 a Bulgarian monk from Trnovo, Cyprian, became Metropolitan of Moscow, and in the course of the fifteenth century men and ideas moved north to Muscovy and helped infect it with a new sense of historical calling.²¹ The Balkan monks had tended to sympathize politically with the anti-Latin zealots in Byzantium and theologically with the antischolastic Hesychasts. They brought with them a fondness for the close alliance between monks and princes which had prevailed in the Southern Slav kingdoms and a deep hatred of Roman Catholicism, which in their view had surrounded the Orthodox Slavs with hostile principalities in the Balkans and had seduced the Church of Constantinople into humiliating reunion. The Southern Slavs also brought with them Balkan traditions of compiling synthetic genealogies to support the claims of the Serbian and Bulgarian kingdoms against Byzantium, and a penchant for ornate and pompous language heavily laden with archaic Church Slavonic forms. Particularly noteworthy and influential was the Tale of the Great Princes of Vladimir of Great Russia, by a Serbian émigré who solemnly connected the Muscovite princes not only with those of Kiev and the legendary Riurik but with the even more fanciful figure of Prussus, ruler of an imaginary ancient kingdom on the Vistula and a relative of Augustus Caesar, who was in turn related through Antony and Cleopatra to the Egyptian descendants of Noah and Shem. This widely copied work also encouraged Russians to think of themselves as successors of Byzantium by advancing the extraordinary fiction that the imperial regalia had been transferred from Constantinople to Kiev by Vladimir Monomachus, who was said to be the first tsar of all Russia.²²

Meanwhile, a sense of having superseded Byzantium was subtly encouraged by one of the very few ideological conditions of Tatar overlordship: the requirement to pray for only one tsar: the Tatar khan. Though not uniformly observed or enforced among the tribute-paying Eastern Slavs, this restriction tended to remove from view in Muscovy the names of the later Byzantine Emperors. Muscovy found it only too easy to view the collapse of this increasingly remote empire in the mid-fifteenth century as God’s chastisement of an unfaithful people.

In the Muscovite view—which was developed retrospectively in the late fifteenth century—the Byzantine Church betrayed its heritage by accepting union with Rome at Lyons, at Rome, and finally at the Council of Florence in 1437-9.

Ill-equipped to evaluate the theological issues, Muscovy equated Rome with the hostile knightly orders of the eastern Baltic and the growing power of the Polish-Lithuanian kingdom. The Muscovite church refused to accept the decisions of the council, driving into exile the Russian representative who had approved them, Metropolitan Isidore. This Greek prelate became a Catholic in exile, and was replaced as metropolitan by a native Russian at the Russian Church council of 1448.²³ The Turkish capture of Constantinople five years later came to be viewed as God’s revenge on Byzantium and prophetic confirmation that the Russian church had acted wisely in repudiating the Florentine union. Yet the sense of Russian involvement in the Byzantine tragedy was far greater than nationalistic historians have often been willing to admit. From the late fourteenth century on, Muscovy was sending financial support as well as expressions of sympathetic concern to Constantinople.²⁴ Those fleeing the Turks brought with them the fear that the whole Orthodox world might succumb. When the Khan Akhmet attacked Moscow in 1480, a Serbian monk issued a passionate plea to the populace not to follow

the Bulgars, Serbs, Greeks … Albanians, Croatians and Bosnians … and the many other lands which did not struggle manfully, whose fatherlands perished, whose lands and governments were destroyed, and whose people scattered in foreign lands.

Then, almost in the form of a prayer:

May your eyes never see the bondage and ravaging of your holy churches and homes, the murder of your children and the defiling of your wives and daughters—sufferings such as the Turks have brought to other great and revered lands.²⁵

In such an atmosphere, the psychological pressures were great for the comforting belief that the Christian Empire had not died with the fall of Byzantium and the other “great and revered” Orthodox kingdoms of the Balkans. The site of empire had merely moved from Constantinople to the “new Rome” of Trnovo, which became, by simple substitution, the “third Rome” of Moscow. This famous image originated with Philotheus of the Eleazer Monastery in Pskov, who probably first propounded it to Ivan III, though the earliest surviving statement is in a letter to Vasily III of 1511:

The church of ancient Rome fell because of the Apollinarian heresy, as to the second Rome—the Church of Constantinople—it has been hewn by the axes of the Hagarenes. But this third, new Rome, the Universal Apostolic Church under thy mighty rule radiates forth the Orthodox Christian faith to the ends of the earth more brightly than the sun.… In all the universe thou art the only Tsar of Christians.… Hear me, pious Tsar, all Christian kingdoms have converged in thine alone. Two Romes have fallen, a third stands, a fourth there shall not be.…²⁶

The transfer of Orthodox hopes to Muscovy had already been dramatized by the elaborately staged marriage in 1472 of Ivan III to Sophia Paleologus, niece of the last Byzantine emperor, and by the introduction into Russia a few years later of the former imperial seal of the two-headed eagle.²⁷

Russians were encouraged to view change in apocalyptical terms by the purely fortuitous fact that the old Orthodox Church calendar extended only to the year 1492. The 7,000 years that began with the creation in 5508 B.C. was drawing to a close, and learned monks tended to look for signs of the approaching end of history. The close advisers of the Tsar who showed sympathy at the Church council of 1490 with the rationalistic “Judaizing” heresy were denounced as “vessels of the devil, forerunners of the Antichrist.”²⁸ An important issue in the subsequent persecution of the Judaizers was their sponsorship of an astrological table for computing the years, “The Six Wings” (Shestokryl’), which seemed to suggest that “the years of the Christian Chronicle have expired but ours lives on.”²⁹ In combating the Judaizers, the Russian Church unwittingly kept historical expectations alive by translating into readable Russian for the first time much of the apocalyptical literature of the Old Testament, including such apocrypha as the apocalypse of Ezra.³⁰

By the turn of the century, expectations were raised that God was about to bring history to a close; but there was uncertainty as to whether one should look immediately for good or evil signs: for Christ’s Second Coming and thousand-year reign on earth or for the coming reign of the Antichrist. Philotheus believed that “Russian Tsardom is the last earthly kingdom, after which comes the eternal kingdom of Christ,” but another Pskovian saw the conquering Tsar as a harbinger of the Antichrist.³¹ This uncertainty as to whether disaster or deliverance was at hand became characteristic of Russian prophetic writings. In later years too, there was an unstable alternation between anticipation and fear, exultation and depression, among those who shared the recurring feeling that great things were about to happen in Russia.

The rise of prophecy in fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century Muscovy is evidenced in the growth of extreme forms of Christian spirituality, such as “pillar-like immobility” (stolpnichestvo) and the perpetual wandering of “folly for Christ’s sake” (iurodstvo). Though both traditions have Eastern and Byzantine origins, they acquired new intensity and importance in the Muscovite north.

Pillar-like immobility came to be regarded in the non-communal monasteries as a means of gaining special sanctity and clairvoyance. This tradition received popular sanction through the fabulous tales of Ilya of Murom, who allegedly sat immobile for thirty years before rising to carry out deeds of heroism.

The holy fools became revered for their asceticism and prophetic utterances as “men of God” (bozhie liudi). Whereas there had never been more than four saint’s days dedicated to holy fools in all of Orthodox Christendom from the sixth to the tenth century, at least ten such days were celebrated in Muscovy from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries.³² Churches and shrines were dedicated to them in great numbers, particularly in the sixteenth and the early seventeenth century, when this form of piety was at its height.³³

Holy fools often became the norm, if not the normal, in human life. Renunciation of the flesh “for Christ’s sake” purified them for the gift of prophecy. The role of the holy fool at the court of the princes of Muscovy was a combination of the court confessor of the Christian West and the royal soothsayer of the pagan East. They warned of doom and spoke darkly of the need for new crusades or penitential exercises, reinforcing the already marked tendency of Slavic Orthodoxy toward passion and prophecy rather than reason and discipline.

Those who became holy fools were often widely traveled and well read. It was, after all, the learned figure Tertullian who had first asked the Church, “What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” and asserted that “I believe because it is absurd.” Erasmus of Rotterdam, one of the most learned of Renaissance humanists, also sang “in praise of folly”; and his essay of that name became appropriately widely read by Russian thinkers.³⁴ Troubled Russian thinkers in later periods—Dostoevsky, Musorgsky, and Berdiaev—would feel tempted to find the true identity of their nation in this undisciplined tradition of holy “wanderers over the Russian land.”³⁵ But the prophetic fools provided a source of anarchistic and masochistic impulses as well as strength and sanctification.

The holy fools bore many points of resemblance to the prophetic hermit-saints that became common in Muscovy during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Indeed, the term for holy wanderer (skitalets) is related to the one used to describe the isolated hermit communities: skity. The most famous ascetic hermit and defender of these small communities was Nil Sorsky, through whom the spiritual intensity of the Hesychasts was brought from Greek to Russian soil.³⁶ A monk from St. Cyril’s monastery on the White Lake, Nil traveled to the Holy Land and to Constantinople in the years just after its fall and thence to the “holy Mountain” of Athos. There he acquired the deep devotion to an inner spiritual life free from external discipline and constraint, which he brought back to Russia and used as the basis of his model skit in the wilderness along the Sora River beyond the White Lake. In his devotional writings there is a kind of primitive Franciscan love of nature and indifference to things of this world. There were to be no more than twelve “brothers” in any skit, all living in apostolic poverty and close communion with the natural world. The gospels and a few other “divine writings” were to be the only sources of authority.

Nil saw the skit as the golden mean of monastic life, combining the communal type of monastery with the cellular type. Within the individual cell there was to be a kind of apprentice system with an experienced “elder” tutoring one or two apprentice monks in spiritual prayer and holy writings. All the various cells were to gather together for Sundays and other feast days, and each skit was to support itself economically but resist all temptations of wealth and luxury. Externals were irrelevant to this apostle of the inner spiritual life. He was not deeply concerned with the observance of fasts or the persecution of heretics. Nil preached rather the power of spiritual example, and sought to find the means of producing such examples in monasteries. Spiritual prayer was in Nil’s metaphorical language the running wind that could lead man across the turbulent seas of sin to the haven of salvation. All externals—even spoken prayer—were only tillers, means of steering men back into this wind of the spirit which had first blown on the apostles at Pentecost.

Nil’s life and doctrine had a profound effect in the new monasteries of the expanding northeastern frontier. His followers, known as trans-Volga elders, came chiefly from the dependent cloisters of St. Sergius and from the lesser-known “Savior in Stone” monastery and its nine monastic colonies in the Yaroslavl-Vologda region. When this monastery came under the direction of a Greek Hesychast in 1380, it became a center of training for “inner spirituality,” offering counsel not only to monastic apprentices but to a variety of tradesmen, colonizers, and lay pilgrims.³⁷

Nil’s teachings had the disturbing effect of leading men to think that direct links with God were possible—indeed preferable—to the ornately externalized services of Orthodoxy. The belief that God had sent inspired intermediaries directly to His chosen people outside the formal channels of the Church lent a kind of nervous religious character to life.

Muscovy at the time of its rise to greatness resembled an expectant revivalist camp. Russia was a primitive but powerful religious civilization, fatefully lacking in critical sense or clear division of authority. It had, of course, always been incorrect to speak even in Byzantium of “church” and “state” rather than of two types of sanctified authority (sacerdotium and imperium) within the universal Christian commonwealth.³⁸ In Muscovy the two were even more closely intertwined without any clear commitment to the theoretical definitions and practical limitations that had evolved in the long history of Byzantium.

In the civil sphere there were no permanent administrative chanceries (even of the crude prikaz variety) until the early sixteenth century.³⁹ In the ecclesiastical sphere, the lack of any clear diocesan structure or episcopal hierarchy made it difficult for leading prelates to provide an effective substitute for political authority during the long period of political division. Nor was there even a clear line of precedence among the monasteries. In contrast to the medieval West, where compendia of Roman law were waiting to be discovered and where the Moslem invader brought the texts of Aristotle with him, distant Muscovy had almost no exposure to the political and legal teachings of classical antiquity. At best they read some version of Plato’s arguments for the closed rule of a philosopher-king—but only to fortify their conclusion that a good and holy leader was necessary, never as an exercise in Socratic method.

Lacking any knowledge of political systems in the past or much experience with them in the present, the Muscovite vaguely sought a leader on the model of the divinized sun-kings of the East and the princes and saints of popular folklore. The victory in the Christian East of Platonic idealism, which was exemplified by the veneration of ideal forms in the icons, led Russians to look for an ideal prince who would be in effect “the living icon of God.”⁴⁰

Unlike the Platonic ideal, however, the ideal Russian prince was to be not a philosopher but a guardian of tradition. The highest good in Muscovy was not knowledge but memory, pamiat’. Where one would now say, “I know,” one then said, “I remember.” Descriptions, inventories, and administrative records in the prikazes were all known as pamiati; epic tales were written down “for the old to hear and the young to remember.” There was no higher appeal in a dispute than the “important, good and firm memory” of the oldest available authority.⁴¹

Thus, Muscovy was bound together not primarily by formal codes and definitions or rational procedures, but by an uncritical and unreflective collective memory. Special authority tended to devolve on those local “elders” whose memory went back furthest toward the apostolic age and whose experience made them most knowledgeable in Christian tradition: the ascetic starets in the monastery, the respected starosta in the city, and the epic stariny (tales of old) for the popular imagination. Rarely has a society been more attached to antiquity, but Muscovy looked to the past for tales of heroism rather than forms of thought, rhetoric rather than dialectic, the “golden-tongued” sermons of St. John Chrysostom rather than the “cursed logic” of Aristotle.⁴² Even the princes had to trace their genealogies and heraldic seals back to a sacred past in order to gain respect in the patriarchal atmosphere of Muscovy.⁴³

An essential element in making Muscovite authority effective throughout Russia was monastic support. The monasteries had reunified Russia by lifting men’s eyes above the petty quarrels of the appanage period to a higher ideal. The Muscovite grand dukes made innumerable pilgrimages to the leading cloisters; corresponded with monks; sought their material aid and spiritual intercession before undertaking any important military or political action; and were quick to bestow on them a large share of newly gained land and wealth. In return, the monasteries provided an all-important aura of sanctity for the Grand Duke of Muscovy. He was the protector of monasteries, the figure in whom “the opposition between the principle of Caesar and the will of God was overcome.”⁴⁴

The ideology of Muscovite tsardom, which took shape in the early sixteenth century, was a purely monastic creation. Its main author was the last and most articulate of the great monastic pioneers, Joseph Sanin, founder and hegumen of Volokolamsk. Like the others, Joseph established his monastery out of nothing in the forest, whence he had fled in despair of existing cloisters and in the hope of creating the ideal Christian community. A man of striking appearance and ascetic personal habits, Joseph insisted on absolute obedience to detailed regulations covering dress, seating precedence, and even bodily movements. His central conviction that acquired, external habits have internal, spiritual effects placed him in diametric opposition to his contemporary and rival, Nil Sorsky; and their fundamental philosophic conflict came to a head in the famous controversy over monastic property. Against Nil’s doctrine of apostolic poverty, Joseph defended the tremendous wealth which had accrued to his growing chain of cloisters through the bequests of the brother of Ivan III and other wealthy patrons and novices. Joseph was neither an advocate nor a practitioner of luxurious living. He insisted that monastic possessions were not personal wealth but a kind of sacred trust given in thanks for the sanctity and intercession of the monks, and in the hope that their holiness would radiate out into society.⁴⁵

The controversy between the “possessors” and “non-possessors” was essentially a conflict between two conceptions of monastic life. All major participants were monks who conceived of Muscovy as a religious civilization with the grand duke its absolute sovereign. The real issue was the nature of authority in this patriarchal monastic civilization: the physical authority of the hegumen against the spiritual authority of the elder; centralized organization and regular discipline against loosely bound communities of prophetic piety.

Although Ivan III—like other ambitious state builders of the early modern period—wanted to secularize church holdings, the church council of 1503 decided in favor of the possessors. The successive deaths of Ivan III and Nil shortly thereafter and a series of persecutions against Nil’s followers cemented the alliance between the Josephite party and the grand dukes of Muscovy. The monk Philotheus’ idea of Moscow as the Third Rome may have been addressed to the Tsar’s vanity in an effort to divert him from any action against the church hierarchy.⁴⁶ He addressed the Grand Duke not only as Tsar, but as “holder of the reins of the divine holy throne of the universal apostolic Church.”⁴⁷ As the influence of the Josephite party grew at court, the conception of tsardom itself was given a monastic flavor. All of Muscovy came to be viewed as a kind of vast monastery under the discipline of a Tsar-Archimandrite. The beginning in the sixteenth century of the tradition of “the Tsar’s words”—the obligation of all Russians to report immediately under threat of execution any serious criticism of the sovereign—probably represents an extension to the public at large of the rigid obligations to report fully any wavering of loyalties inside Josephite monasteries.

The close alliance that developed between monks and tsars in the first half of the sixteenth century can, of course, be analyzed as a venal, Machiavellian compact: the monks keeping their wealth, gaining freedom from the ecclesiastical hierarchy, and receiving as prisoners prophetic advocates of monastic poverty; the tsar receiving ecclesiastical permission for divorce and propagandistic support for the position that “though he be in body like all others, yet in power of office he is like God.”⁴⁸ Yet it is important to realize that the victory of the Josephites and the extension of their influence in sixteenth-century Russia was a direct result of popular reverence for monasteries and the monastic ideal. Men strove for the new wealth but still sought to dedicate it to God. They wanted power, but also monastic sanction for its exercise. If even Cosimo de Medici amidst the worldly splendors of fifteenth-century Florence felt the need of periodic retreats to his monastic cell, it is hardly surprising that the princes and leaders of the primitive religious civilization of Muscovy should at the same time give so much of their worldly goods and services to Russian monasteries.

The victorious monastic party brought new confusion of authority into Muscovy by blurring the division between the monastery and the outside world. The tsar became a kind of archimandrite-in-chief of all the monasteries, and the monasteries in turn began to serve as prisons for the tsar’s political opponents. The asceticism and discipline of the Josephite monasteries began to be applied to civil society; and the corruption and vulgarity of a crude frontier people made ever deeper inroads into the cloisters.

Although monastic corruption has often been the subject of lurid exaggeration, there is little doubt that the increasing wealth and power of Russian monasteries provided strong temptations to worldliness. The increasing number of monastic recruits brought with them two of the most widespread moral irregularities of Muscovite society: alcoholism and sexual perversion. The latter was a particular problem in a civilization that had been curiously unable to produce in its epic poetry a classic pair of ideal lovers and had accepted—in the teachings of the Josephites—an almost masochistic doctrine of ascetic discipline.

The high incidence of sexual irregularity shocked and fascinated foreign visitors to Muscovy. Nothing better indicates the intertwining of sacred and profane motifs within Muscovy than the fact that the monastic epistle to Vasily III first setting forth the exalted “third Rome” theory also included a long appeal for help in combating sodomy within the monasteries. Continued monastic concern Over this practice helped reinforce the prophetic strain in Muscovite thought, convincing Silvester, one of Ivan the Terrible’s closest clerical confidants, that God’s wrath was about to be visited on the new Sodom and Gomorrah of the Russian plain.⁴⁹

Less familiar than the growing worldliness of the monasteries in the sixteenth century is the increasing monasticism of the outside world. The “white,” or married, parish priests were often more zealous than the “black,” or celibate, monastic clergy in the performance of religious duties. Simple laymen were often the most conscientious of all in keeping the four long and rigorous fasts (for Advent, Easter, the apostles Peter and Paul, and the Assumption); observing weekly days of abstinence not only on Friday, the day of the Crucifixion, but also on Wednesday, the day on which Judas agreed to betray Christ; keeping vigil before the twelve universal feast days of Orthodoxy; and observing private devotions and local feasts. The simple Christian often came from considerable distances to go to a church which offered him neither heat nor a seat. Each visit was something of a pilgrimage, with the worshipper often spending as much time kneeling or prostrate upon the cold floor as standing. Religious processions were frequent and lengthy—the daily services of matins and vespers often lasting a total of seven or eight hours.⁵⁰

Behind the elaborate rituals of Russian Orthodoxy there often lay a deeper popular spirituality that was only slightly touched by the new tsarist ideology of the Josephites. Ordinary believers were dazzled by imperial claims and excited by its prophetic pronouncements. But they had no real interest in polemics which were conducted in a language that they could not understand and written in a script that they could not read.

Thus, along with the militant prophetic ideology of Muscovy went the cult of humility and self-abnegation: the attempt to be “very like” the Lord in the outpouring of love and the acceptance of suffering in the kenotic manner of Russia’s first national saints: Boris and Gleb.⁵¹ The persecuted followers of Nil Sorsky “beyond the Volga” were closer to this tradition than the victorious Josephites and enjoyed greater popular veneration together with all those willing to suffer voluntarily in the manner of Christ: as a propitiation for the sins of others and a means of purifying God’s sinful people.

The contrast between active militarism and passive kenoticism is more apparent than real. Hatred to those outside a group with a sense of destiny is often combined with love to those within it: and both the compulsion and the compassion of early Russian spirituality resulted from the over-all prophetic, historical bias of its theology. Soldiers followed images of the saints into combat, while dedicated figures at home followed the image of Christ into the battle with sin. Each was performing a podvig (glorious deed) in history and earning a small place in the great chronicle which would be read back at the Last Judgment. Podvizhnik, a word which more secular subsequent ages have tended to use pejoratively in the sense of “fanatic,” still carries with it the meaning of “champion”—whether in sports, war, or prayer.⁵² Ephrem the Syrian, the very same fourth-century saint from whom Russian iconographers derived their graphic and terrifying image of the coming apocalypse and judgment, provided the ordinary believer with his most familiar call to repentance and humility in a prayer recited with prostrations at every Lenten service:

O Lord and Master of my life! the spirit of vanity, of idleness, of domination, of idle speech, give me not. But the spirit of chastity, of humility, of patience, of love, do Thou grant to me, thy servant.

Yes, O Lord and King, grant me that I may perceive my transgressions and not condemn my brother, for Thou art blessed forever and ever, Amen.

Muscovite soldiers were not primarily mercenaries nor were Muscovite saints basically moralists. The Russian ideal of kenotic sainthood does not correspond exactly with the “imitation of Christ” advocated by Thomas à Kempis and the “new devotion” of late medieval Europe. Muscovites spoke of “following” or “serving” rather than “imitating” Christ, and put greater stress on the suffering and martyrdom which such service entailed. They dwelt on Christ’s mission rather than his teachings, which were in any case not widely known in the absence of a complete Slavonic New Testament. Man’s function was to enlist in that mission: to serve God by beating off his enemies and by following Christ in those features of his earthly life that were fully understood—his personal compassion and willingness to suffer.

In general practice, however, the monastic civilization of Muscovy was dominated more by fanaticism than kenoticism, more by compulsion than compassion. This emphasis is illustrated vividly by Ivan the Terrible, the first ideologist to rule Muscovy, the first ruler to be formally crowned tsar, and the man who ruled Russia longer than any other figure in its history.

Ascending the throne in 1533 at the age of three, Ivan reigned for just over a half century and became even in his lifetime the subject of fearful fascination and confused controversy that he has remained till this day.⁵³

In some ways Ivan can be seen as a kind of fundamentalist survival of Byzantium. Following his Josephite teachers, he used Byzantine texts to justify his absolutism and Byzantine rituals in having himself crowned in 1547 with the Russian form of the old imperial title. His sense of imperial pretense, formalistic traditionalism, and elaborate court intrigue all seem reminiscent of the vanished world of Constantinople. Yet his passion for absolute dominance over the ecclesiastical as well as the civil sphere represented caeseropapism in excess of anything in Byzantium, and has together with his cruelty and caprice led many to compare him with the Tatar khans, with whom he grappled so successfully in the early years of his reign. The leading contemporary apologist for Ivan’s ruthlessness, Ivan Peresvetov, may have infected the tsar with some of his own admiration for the Turkish sultan and his Janissaries.⁵⁴ Some of Ivan’s more famous acts of cruelty seem lifted from the legends of Dracula, which were popular in early sixteenth-century Russia, with their tales of a cruel yet gallant fifteenth-century governor of Wallachia, an exposed Balkan principality between the Turkish and Catholic worlds.⁵⁵

Worldly Western contemporaries often expressed admiration for his forceful rule. Many entered his service, and one visitor from Renaissance Italy used terms reminiscent of Machiavelli’s Prince in hailing Ivan for le singulare suoi virtù.⁵⁶ Then as now, there has been a tendency to see in Ivan merely another example of the strong ruler struggling to centralize power and build a modern nation at the expense of a traditional, landholding aristocracy. From this perspective the men of his famed oprichnina, or “separate estate,” appear not so much as oriental Janissaries but as builders of the modern service state. They were the first group to swear allegiance not just to the sovereign (gosudar’) or the “sovereign’s business” (gosudarevo delo) but to the sovereign state (gosudarstvo).⁵⁷

There are, however, far too many differences between Ivan and his Tudor or Bourbon contemporaries to permit his name to be quietly buried in some anonymous list of modernizing state builders. His cruelty and pretension were regarded by almost every contemporary Western observer as more extreme than anything they had ever seen.⁵⁸ His very innovations, moreover, appear on closer examination to stem not from some new secular perspective but from his very desire to preserve tradition. The man who placed Russia irrevocably on the path toward European statehood was at the same time the supreme codifier of the Muscovite ideology. Much of the confused ambivalence that Russians came to feel toward modernization and Europeanization resulted from this unresolved tension between the highly experimental policies and the fanatically traditional explanations of Ivan IV.

Ivan was steeped in Muscovite traditionalism by his monastic tutors, corresponded extensively with monastic leaders, and made frequent pilgrimages to monastic shrines—including at least one 38-mile penitential procession in bare feet from Moscow to the monastery of St. Sergius. He sometimes spoke of himself as a monk, and personally defended Orthodoxy in theological debates with Western thinkers who ranged from the left wing of Protestantism (the Czech Brethren) to the new right wing of Catholicism (the Society of Jesus).

Under Ivan the monastic conception of the prince as leader of an organic Christian civilization was translated into reality. Rival centers of potential political power—traditional landholding boyars, proud cities like Novgorod, and even those friends who sought to formalize conciliar limitations on autocracy—all were subjected to humiliations. The power and potential independence of the Church hierarchy was checked by the imprisonment and murder of the ranking metropolitan: Philip of Moscow. Dissident religious views were expunged by anti-Jewish pogroms in western Russia and by the trial and execution of early Protestant leaders from the same region.

The justification for his rule was rooted in the historical theology of Muscovy. The massive Book of Degrees of the Imperial Genealogy, drawn up by his monastic advisers, carried to new extremes the blending of sacred and secular history. Hagiography was applied wholesale to the descriptions of tsars, and imperial ancestries were traced to miracle-working saints as well as emperors of antiquity. Ivan was as diligent in gathering in for Moscow the historical legends and monastic ideologists of Novgorod and other principalities as he was in crushing their independent political pretensions.

In all of his activities, Ivan conceived of himself as head of a monolithic religious civilization, never simply as a military or political leader. His campaign against the Tatars at Kazan in 1552 was a kind of religious procession, a storming of Jericho. The great Kazan Cathedral was built in Red Square, and came to be named for the holy fool, Vasily the Blessed, to whom the victory was credited. Its nine asymmetrical tent roofs, exotically gilded and capped by onion cupolas, represent in many ways the climax of Muscovite architecture, and form a striking contrast with the balanced Italo-Byzantine cathedrals built in the Kremlin under Ivan III. Many other churches arose in this high Muscovite style, and more than ten were named for holy fools under Ivan.⁵⁹

Ivan’s legislative council of 1549-50—which provided some precedent for later parliamentary “councils of the land” (zemskie sobory)—was conceived as a religious gathering.⁶⁰ The Church code enacted in 1551 known as the hundred chapters was designed only to “confirm former tradition,” and prescribed rules for everything from icon painting to shaving and drinking. Every day of the calendar was covered and almost every saint depicted in the 27,000 large pages of the encyclopedia of holy readings, Cheti Mnei.⁶¹ Every aspect of domestic activity was ritualized with semi-monastic rules of conduct in the “Household Book” (Domostroy). Even the oprichnina was bound together with the vows, rules, and dress of a monastic order.

The consequence of this radical monasticization of society was the virtual elimination of secular culture in the course of the sixteenth century. Whereas Russia had previously reproduced a substantial number of secular tales and fables—drawn both from Byzantium and the West through the Southern and Western Slavs respectively—“there did not appear in Russian literature of the sixteenth century a single work of belles lettres similar to those already known in the fifteenth.… There cannot be found in Russian manuscripts of the sixteenth even those literary works which were known in fifteenth century Russia and were subsequently widely disseminated in the seventeenth.”⁶² The chronicles and the newly embellished genealogies, hagiographies, military tales, and polemics of the age were purged of “useless stories.” Nil Sorsky, no less than Joseph of Volokolamsk, favored this form of censorship; and the “hundred chapters” of 1551 extended these prohibitions on secular culture to music and art as well. By the time of Ivan the Terrible, Muscovy had set itself off even from other Orthodox Slavs by the totality of its historical pretensions and the religious character of its entire culture.

The peculiarities of Muscovite civilization as it took finished shape under Ivan IV invite comparisons not only with Eastern despots and Western state builders but also with two seemingly remote civilizations: imperial Spain and ancient Israel.

Like Spain, Muscovy absorbed for Christendom the shock of alien invaders and found its national identity in the fight to expel them. As with Spain, the military cause became a religious one for Russia. Political and religious authority were intertwined; and the resultant fanaticism led both countries to become particularly intense spokesmen for their respective divisions of Christianity. The introduction into the creed of the phrase “and from the Son,” which first split East and West, took place at a council in Toledo, and nowhere was it more bitterly opposed than in Russia. The Russian and Spanish hierarchies were the most adamant within the Eastern and Western churches respectively in opposing the reconciliation of the churches at Florence in 1437-9. The leading Spanish spokesman at Florence was, in fact, a relative of the famed inquisitor, Torquemada.

Amidst the rapid expansion of Russian power under Ivan III, the Russian hierarchy appears to have found both a challenge to its authority—and an answer to that challenge—coming from distant Spain. Whether or not the search for “Judaizers” in the late fifteenth century was prompted by a confusion between the early Russian word for “Jew” (Evreianin) and that for “Spaniard” (Iverianin), as has been recently suggested,⁶³ there seems little doubt that many of the proscribed texts used by these alleged heretics (such as the Logic of Moses Maimonides) did in fact come from Spain. Looking for a way of dealing with this influx of foreign rationalism, the Archbishop of Novgorod wrote admiringly to the Metropolitan of Moscow in 1490 about Ferdinand of Spain: “Look at the firmness which the Latins display. The ambassador of Caesar has told me about the way in which the king of Spain cleansed (ochistil) his land. I have sent you a memorandum of these conversations.”⁶⁴ Thus began the Russian fascination with, and partial imitation of, the Spanish Inquisition—and the use of the word “cleansing” for ideological purges.⁶⁵ There seems little doubt that the subsequent purge of “Judaizers” was undertaken “not on the model of the Second Rome, but of the First.”⁶⁶ The techniques of ritual investigation, flagellation, and burning of heretics were previously unknown to the Russian Church and vigorously opposed by the traditionalist trans-Volga elders. Although the Muscovite purges were directed against Roman Catholics, often with special fury, the weapons used were those of the Inquisition that had flourished within that church.

A strange love-hate relationship continued to exist between these two proud, passionate, and superstitious peoples—each ruled by an improbable folklore of military heroism; each animated by strong traditions of veneration for local saints; each preserving down to modern times a rich musical tradition of primitive atonal folk lament; each destined to be a breeding ground for revolutionary anarchism and the site of a civil war with profound international implications in the twentieth century.

As national self-consciousness was stimulated by the Napoleonic invasion, Russians came to feel a new sense of community with Spain. The leader of Russian partisan activities against Napoleon in 1812 drew inspiration from the Spanish resistance of 1808-9: the original guerrilla, or “little war.”⁶⁷ The Decembrist reformers of the post-war period also drew inspiration from the patriotic catechisms and constitutional proposals of their Spanish counterparts.⁶⁸

Ortega y Gasset, one of the most perceptive of modern Spaniards, saw a strange affinity between “Russia and Spain, the two extremities of the great diagonal of Europe … alike in being the two ‘pueblo’ races, races where the common people predominate.” In Spain no less than in Russia the “cultivated minority … trembles” before the people, and “has never been able to saturate the gigantic popular plasma with its organizing influence. Hence the protoplasmic, amorphous, persistently primitive aspect of Russian existence.”⁶⁹ If less “protoplasmic,” Spain was equally frustrated in its quest for political liberty; and “the two extremities” of Europe developed dreams of total liberation, which drove the cultivated minority to poetry, anarchy, and revolution.

Modern Russians felt a certain fascination with Spanish passion and spontaneity as a spiritual alternative to the dehumanized formality of Western Europe. They idealized the picaresque roguery of Lazarillo de Tormes, and the implausible gallantry of Don Quixote, in the book Dostoevsky considered “the last and greatest word of human thought.”⁷⁰ One Russian critic attributed his preference for Spanish over Italian literature to the Spaniards’ greater freedom from the confinements of classical antiquity.⁷¹ Even Turgenev, the most classical of the great Russian novelists, preferred Calderón’s dramas to those of Shakespeare.⁷² Russians loved not just the world-weary beauty and sense of honor that pervaded the works of Calderón, but also the fantastic settings and ironic perspectives provided by a man for whom “life is a dream” and history “is all foreshadowings.” The malaise of the Russian intelligentsia in the twilight of Imperial Russia is not unlike that of the great dramatist who lived in the afterglow of the golden age of Imperial Spain:

The cause lies within my breast

Where the heart is so large

That it fears—not without reason—

To find the world too narrow for it.⁷³

Spain was the only foreign country in which Glinka, the father of Russian national music, felt at home. He gathered musical themes on his Spanish travels, and considered Russian and Spanish music “the only instinctive musics” in Europe, with their integration of Oriental motifs and ability to portray suffering.⁷⁴ The first Western operatic performance in Russia had been the work of a Spaniard with a suitably passionate title—Force of Love and Hate—in 1736.⁷⁵ The setting was Spanish for the only important Western opera to have its premier in Russia (Verdi’s Force of Destiny), the one that subsequently became perhaps the most popular (Bizet’s Carmen), and one of the most consistently popular Western plays (Schiller’s Don Carlos)—even though these works were written in Italian, French, and German respectively. The most famous scene of Dostoevsky’s greatest novel, “The Legend of the Grand Inquisitor” in The Brothers Karamazov, was set in Seville at the time of the Inquisition. Fascination turned to repulsion in the twentieth century, as the Spanish and Russian revolutions took opposite turns. Participation in the Spanish Civil War became almost a guarantee of liquidation in the Stalinist purges of the late thirties and the forties. But Communist incursions in Latin America in the late fifties and the sixties brought not only political pleasure to the Soviet leaders, but also a curious popular undertone of envious admiration for the naive idealism of the Cuban Revolution—perhaps reflecting in some ways the older but equally distant and romantic appeal of the Hispanic world.

One of the most fascinating points of resemblance between Russia and Spain is the obscure but important role played by Jews in the development of each culture. Although Jewish influence is more difficult to trace in Russia than in Spain, there are repeated hints of a shadowy Jewish presence in Russian history—from the first formation of a Slavonic alphabet with its Hebrew-derived letters “ts” and “sh” to the philo-Semitism of dissident intellectuals in the post-Stalin era.⁷⁶

From the point of view of Jewish history, there is a certain continuity in the fact that the Russian attack on “Judaizing” followed closely the expulsion of the Jews from Spain, and accompanied the transfer of the cultural center of world Jewry from the southwestern to the northeastern periphery of Europe: from Spain to Poland and Western Russia.

The anti-Jewish fervor that was built into the Muscovite ideology in the sixteenth century represents in part the eastward migration of a Western attitude and in part classical peasant antipathy to the intellectual and commercial activities of the city. However, this attitude bespeaks an inner similarity between the ancient claims of Israel and the new pretensions of Muscovy. A newly proclaimed chosen people felt hostility toward an older pretender to this title. The failures and frustrations which might logically have caused the Muscovites to question their special status led them psychologically to project inner uncertainty into external fury against those with a rival claim to divine favor.

Like ancient Israel, medieval Muscovy gave a prophetic interpretation to bondage and humiliation, believing in God’s special concern for their destiny and developing messianic expectations of deliverance as the basis of national solidarity. Like Israel, Muscovy was more a religious civilization than a political order. All of life was hedged with religious regulations and rituals. Like Old Testament prophets, ascetic monks and wandering fools saw Russia as the suffering servant of God and called its people to repentance. Philotheus of Pskov addressed the Tsar as “Noah in the ark, saved from the flood.”⁷⁷ Moscow was referred to as “Jerusalem” and “the New Israel”⁷⁸ as well as the “third Rome.” Its savior, Dmitry Donskoy, was likened to Moses and Gideon; its princes, to Saul and David.⁷⁹ Like the early Jews, the Muscovites dated their calendar from creation, celebrated their New Year’s Day in September,⁸⁰ wore beards, and had elaborate regulations about the preparation and eating of meat. The Muscovites no less than the Jews looked for the righteous remnant that would survive both persecution and temptation to bring deliverance to God’s chosen people.

Some of this prophetic passion and Old Testament terminology was a continuation of Byzantine tradition and a reasonable facsimile of medieval Western practice. However, there also appear to have been direct and indirect Jewish influences, even though they have never been systematically assessed. There had been much contact during the Kievan period with the Jewish Khazar kingdom of the Caucasus, and even where Judaism was decried—as in Ilarion of Kiev’s sermon “On Law and Grace”—the prince of Kiev was given the Khazar title kagan.⁸¹ Early Russian literature shows extensive borrowing not only from the Old Testament and Apocrypha but also from works of later Jewish history, such as the History of the Judaic War. Direct translations were made from the Hebrew as well as the Greek in eleventh-century Kiev;⁸² and by the twelfth century, Kiev had become—in the words of one meticulous student of Jewish history—“a center of Jewish studies.”⁸³ It seems likely that some Jewish elements were absorbed by Muscovy after the sudden and still mysterious disappearance of the Khazars in the twelfth century.⁸⁴ There are traces of influence in surviving place names and clear indications of it in the thirteenth century, when there suddenly appeared Russian compilations of Jewish chronicles and a Russian glossary of Hebrew words.⁸⁵ The elusive and neglected area of early Russian music also offer some hints of Jewish influence. As in Spain, the Jews in Russia appear to have been important intermediaries in bringing Oriental motifs into folk music.⁸⁶ Some of the divergences of Russian from Byzantine church cantillation may also be attributable to Jewish influence.⁸⁷

Whatever the early impact of Karaite Jews from the south,⁸⁸ there can be no doubt about the importance of the later influx of Talmudic Jews fleeing from persecution in the high medieval West. The growing influence of the large Jewish community may be reflected in the Muscovite use of Talmudic terms, such as randar for rent and kabala for service contract.⁸⁹ Anti-Jewish measures were based in part on a realization that contemporary Jews were bearers of a more rationalistic, cosmopolitan culture than that of Muscovy. Indeed, the Jews did perform this stimulative function when they finally emerged from their ghetto confinement in the twenty-five regions known as the Pale of Settlement to contribute significantly to the ideological ferment, artistic creativity, and scientific activity of the late imperial period.⁹⁰ But fear and hatred did not abate; and there is an eerie similarity between the rooting out of “Judaizers” and hanging of Jewish doctors in the Moscow Kremlin for allegedly poisoning the son of the Grand Duke in the early sixteenth century and the lashing out against “homeless cosmopolitans” and the “doctor-poisoners” in Stalin’s last years.⁹¹

The most important aspect of Jewish influence in Russia lies, however, not in the sophisticated world of art and science, but in the primitive world of messianic expectation. The two great periods of apocalyptical excitation in Muscovy—at the beginning of the sixteenth century and the middle of the seventeenth—coincide exactly with times of disaster and renewed apocalypticism in the Jewish community and with violent anti-Jewish measures in Muscovy. What began as a crude imitation of Spanish persecution in the purge of “Judaizers” by believers in the messianic theory of the Third Rome led eventually to a massacre of Jews in 1648 that was unequaled anywhere prior to the twentieth century. By this time, however, the Russians were sufferers as well as persecutors; and one finds both the Muscovite Old Believers and Jewish Sabbataians expecting the end of the world in 1666. The subsequent history of Russian schismatic and sectarian movements is filled with apocalyptical, Judaizing elements which indicate far more interaction than either Russian or Jewish historians seem generally willing to admit.⁹² In some small part, at least, one could apply to Russia the statement that “it is not a paradox, but an elemental truth that Spanish society grew more and more fanatical in its Christianity as more and more Jews disappeared or were Christianized.”⁹³

Messianic expectations found parallel expressions among Jews and Russians of the late imperial period through populism and Zionism respectively; and when revolution finally convulsed Russia in 1917, gifted Russian Jews, like Zinov’ev, Kamenev, Sverdlov, and above all Trotsky, helped give the Bolshevik cause the compelling voice of prophecy and a contagious conviction that messianic deliverance was about to occur on Russian soil.⁹⁴ But the Jews who lent apocalyptical passion to the Revolution became victims rather than beneficiaries of the new order. Driven by a strange ideological compulsion of which he himself seemed unaware, Stalin accompanied his own mounting promises of millennial accomplishment with increasing persecution of the Jews. They were hounded out of the Third International as they had been from the Third Rome: scapegoats for the xenophobia that was to prove an enduring legacy of the Muscovite ideology.

The figure of Ivan the Terrible calls for both Spanish and Jewish comparisons. His crusading zeal, ideological fanaticism, and hatred of deviation make him closer in spirit to Philip II of Spain than to any other contemporary. His conviction that God had called him to lead His chosen people into battle made Ivan resemble the Old Testament kings, to whom he was repeatedly likened by chroniclers. One of the key points of the Josephites or “possessors,” who were Ivan’s teachers, was precisely their insistence on the crucial importance of the Old Testament and their rejection of the “non-possessors’” exclusive reliance on the New Testament and the “Jesus prayer.” Ivan’s favorite reading was the Book of Kings.⁹⁵ He appears to have viewed the Tatars as the Canaanites and the Poles as the Philistines during his campaigns against Kazan and Livonia respectively. This Old Testament perspective is well illustrated in Ivan’s famous letters to Prince Kurbsky after this former military leader had left Russia to live in Polish Lithuania. Writing in the alternately bombastic and profane Josephite style, Ivan defends his right to cruelty and absolutism as the leader of a chosen people locked in battle with “Hagarenes” and “Ishmaelites.”

“Did God,” asks Ivan rhetorically, “having led Israel out of bondage, place a priest to rule over men, or a multitude of ordinary officials? No, Moses alone, like a Tsar, he made lord over them.”⁹⁶ Israel was weak under priests, strong under kings and judges. David, in particular, was a just ruler “even though he committed murder.”⁹⁷ Having gone over to the enemies of Israel, Kurbsky can only be described as a “dog” who even befouled the waters in his baptismal font. Kurbsky deserves nothing but contempt; for, unlike his messenger Shibanev, whom Ivan tormented by nailing his feet to the ground with a spear, Kurbsky lacked the courage to return to face in person the judgment of God and of His earthly regent, the Tsar.⁹⁸ God’s intercession and not man’s arguments can alone vindicate one who has betrayed God’s cause.

Kurbsky, no less than Ivan, is dazzled by the Muscovite ideology. Although he adduces a wide variety of examples and ideas from classical scholarship, his main desire is clearly to find a place once more within Muscovy and not to challenge its basic ideology. Indeed, Kurbsky’s letters seem at times little more than an anguished repetition of the question with which he opened the correspondence: “Why, O Tsar, have you destroyed the strong in Israel and driven to death the generals given to you by God?”⁹⁹ Far from aligning himself with the Poles and Lithuanians, Kurbsky considers his foreign residence as temporary and seeks to justify himself in terms of Ivan’s favorite Old Testament figures: “Consider, O Tsar, how even David was compelled by Saul’s persecution to wage war on the land of Israel together with a pagan king.”¹⁰⁰ But eloquent pleadings from abroad only served to convince the leader in the Kremlin that his former lieutenant was secretly unsure of his position. Ivan’s campaign of vilification—like those of his great admirer, Stalin—served the purpose of hardening his own convictions and warning potential defectors in his realm.

If Kurbsky as the defender of traditional boyar rights found himself unconsciously accepting the pretentious claims of the Muscovite ideology, defenders of independence for the church hierarchy and the city communities went ever further. Metropolitan Philip argued for an independent church establishment using a Byzantine text, which undermined his position by including the classic argument for unrestricted imperial power.¹⁰¹ The Discourse of Valaam, written by monks from the ancient monastery in Lake Ladoga to advocate some return to the old town assembly principle in Muscovy, argued at the same time for an increase in imperial power and the recognition of its absolute and divinely ordained nature.¹⁰² Thus, for all the discontent with Ivan’s rule, there was never any effective program for opposing him. Generally ignorant of any but Byzantine political teachings, the anguished pamphleteers of the day included in their programs for reform Byzantine texts advocating unlimited power for the Tsar—often “to an even greater extent than did the apologists and theoreticians of the Muscovite imperial claims.”¹⁰³ Perhaps the leading apologist for Ivan’s rule was the widely traveled and essentially secular figure of Ivan Peresvetov, who argued on grounds of expediency that

A Tsar that is meek and humble in his reign will see his realm empoverished and his glory diminished. A Tsar that is feared and wise [grozen i mudr] will see his realm enlarged and his name praised in all the corners of the earth.… A realm without dread [bez grozy] is like a horse beneath a Tsar without a bridle.¹⁰⁴

For the second half of his reign, Muscovy was indeed a realm of fear, terrorized by the oprichnina, the hooded order of vigilantes which was then often designated by the Tatar-derived word for military district, t’ma, which was also the Russian word for darkness. The coming of this “darkness” to Russia and the flight of Kurbsky coincided with the fateful turn of Ivan’s military interests from east to west. The unsuccessful twenty-five-year Livonian War that Ivan launched in 1558 was probably more responsible than any sudden madness or change of character in Ivan for the crisis of his last years. By moving for the Baltic, Ivan involved the pretentious Muscovite civilization in military and ideological conflict with the West, and in costly campaigns which shattered economic and political stability, and ultimately led to the building of a new, Western type of capital on the shores of the Baltic. The dramatic confrontation of the closely knit religious civilization of Muscovy with the diffuse and worldly West produced chaos and conflict that lasted from Ivan to Peter the Great and subsequently left its imprint on Russian culture.