Comparisons of Russia with the “West” have been a staple of historians and of contemporary observers for a very long time, and no end is in sight. A recent appraisal of Soviet developments in the decade after the death of Stalin was devoted in part to a consideration of the prospects for “a gradual convergence of the social and/or political systems of the West and the Soviet Union.” The variety of the contributors’ responses—“ very likely,” “necessarily uncertain,” “unlikely any meaningful convergence,” “highly improbable,” “depends on what is meant by ‘gradual’ “—suggests an ample range of disagreement, both in expectations for the future and in the characterization of the contrasts underlying these expectations.

The eleven-hundredth anniversary of the arrival of a Byzantine Mission in Moravia (863) revived the interest of Slavic historians and philologists in the history of SS. Cyril and Methodius and served to reopen discussions concerning the significance of their activity in Moravia for the development of the Slavs.

It was widely believed that their mission had a profoundly religious character—the conversion of the Moravian pagans to Christianity. This interpretation is not quite correct. The words which the author of Cyril’s biography lets the Moravian ruler Rastislav address to the Emperor Michael should make us cautious about the real character of the Byzantine mission in Moravia. Rastislav is supposed to have declared that his people had already rejected paganism and were observing Christian rules. Some saw in this declaration an exaggeration and attributed it to Rastislav or to the biographer. Recent archaeological discoveries made in Moravia, however, confirm the correctness of Rastislav’s declaration. Thus far the foundations of sixteen stone churches have been discovered, and at least five of them were erected before the arrival of the Byzantine mission.

Writing about recent Soviet literature is a hazardous occupation. A Western chronicler of the post-Stalin literary ferment is as likely to overestimate an ephemeral trend as he is to miss a significant cue. He must be equally wary of premature euphoria and premature impatience. Last but not least, he has to do his best to maintain a viable balance between literary and political considerations.

The latter question was raised sharply by Mr. Andrew Field, a keen if somewhat petulant student of modern Russian literature. Mr. Field deplored the tendency prevalent in the West to discuss recent Soviet imaginative writing sub specie of its alleged ideological heterodoxy rather than of its literary texture.

When a student of the origins of 1917 looks back through the literature that appeared on the subject during the 1920’s and early 1930’s, he is likely to be struck by the degree of consensus in Soviet and Western treatments of the problem on two major assumptions. The first of these, then almost as widely entertained by Western as by Soviet historians, was that, just like other “classical” revolutions, the Revolution of 1917 had to be viewed, not as a historical accident or even as the product of immediate historical circumstances, but as the culmination of a long historical process–stretching back to the abolition of serfdom, if not to the appearance at the beginning of the nineteenth century of the Russian revolutionary intelligentsia. The second, balancing, assumption, which even Soviet historians were then still usually prepared to accept, was that, notwithstanding its deep historical roots, this revolutionary process had been substantially accelerated by the additional strains imposed on the Russian body politic by the First World War.

The lucid account of the Moravian mission of Constantine–Cyril and Methodius that Professor Dvornik has given is a persuasive and up–to–date statement of widely accepted views. Yet scarcely a single specialist would be willing to agree unhesitatingly with all the details even in such a brief résumé of the quarter-century of relations between the emerging Slavic nations and their neighbors. Indeed, some, as his footnotes suggest, might take exception to certain of his major points.

The difficulty lies in our historical sources–in their paucity, their unclear allusions, their omissions, and, worst of all, their contradictions. First of all, so little of the ninth–century material has survived that we are dependent on the views written decades or even centuries after the events. Then, even the contemporary writings have come down to us in modified form, owing to varying amounts of recopying and editing, with inevitable distortions, omissions, reinterpretations, and interpolations.

When I looked over the notes I had made in the margin of Professor Erlich’s article, most of them were check marks and exclamations such as “Yes,” “Very important,” and “Amen.”

His emphases, conclusions, and observations along the way move me to agreement and fill me with admiration and envy. He has said what I should have liked to say. I therefore can only add that this is an excellent and important analysis, and then do two things: sketch in some related areas, not in opposition but in supplementation of what Professor Erlich has written; and make some minuscule objections. As for the last, they will be found grouped below in a long “Ungenerous Footnote of Picky Points.”

The oldest Russian document has been called an “immunity charter.“ It dates from the first half of the twelfth century. Many other immunity charters have survived and are among our most prized sources on medieval Russia. Although few date back to the twelfth through fourteenth centuries, about five hundred remain from the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, and a recent survey lists 1,039 for the years 1504-84. Such documents have been found from each of the sixty-three districts (uezdy) which comprised the Russian state before Ivan IV's conquest of Kazan and Astrakhan, and newly discovered charters, or references to previously unknown charters, are still turning up. The terms of individual charters are usually clear, but scholars have advanced conflicting views on what these documents, taken together, really tell us about Old Russian immunities. Is one justified in claiming that such immunities even existed? If they did, two vexing questions remain.

The old French adage comparaison n'est pas raison indicates that comparison (contrast, too, for that matter) is never made for its own sake but only to lead to some conclusion. That is why the habit of comparing, or contrasting, the history of one country with that of another (or several others) gives rise to such vexing problems and generates such intense passions—and in turn feeds on them. We are dealing here not only with a “scientific” problem, whose solution would be an acquired truth, but with the attitudes of the participants and spectators of historical events as well. Unlike the scholar who is supposed to search only for truth, social and political thinkers and litterateurs engage in comparative analysis and reasoning in order to indulge whatever lies closest to their hearts at a given moment. In his paper Mr. Roberts has concentrated on the problems facing the scholar-scientist. His scientific similes and epistemological caveats are therefore neither mere literary embellishments nor a challenge to C. P. Snow's dichotomized view of the contemporary intellectual but quite deliberate and telling evidence that his main preoccupation is to clarify the methodological issues involved. In this very essential and laudable enterprise he has cut away much of the underbrush that all too often obscures comparative analysis and politically (or culturally or religiously) motivated contrasts. But in so doing he has perhaps allowed himself to lose sight of the reasons that made the question of Russia's relationship to the West an issue of such momentous concern for generations of Russians as well as Europeans—and now for Americans too. By taking up the discussion from the questions of method which Mr. Roberts has elucidated so well, we may be able to come to grips with the problem of attitudes and clarify a bit more the nature of the specific comparative issue with which we are concerned.

I am so completely in agreement with the main points of Victor Erlich's diagnosis—particularly with the lucidly formulated conclusions in the last few pages—that I shall confine myself to the one issue on which I dissent from his judgment—namely, his opinion of Solzhenitsyn.

A few words to begin with about the general approach of Western observers to Soviet literature. Professor Erlich rightly dwells on the question of the relationship between politics and literature, and I would like to reinforce his sagacious plea for the maintenance of a "viable balance between literary and political considerations."

One book, one article, and a series of archaeological finds have contributed the largest part to the progress of Cyrillo-Methodian studies in the past thirty years. The book was by Father Dvornik: Once and forever its author established the reliability of the Vitae of the Slavic Apostles—our two principal sources for their mission—by carefully fitting them into the framework of Byzantium’s history in the ninth century. The article was by Fathers Meyvaert and Devos: In a few pages it demonstrated more mathematico what many foremost scholars had already suspected—that the Vita of Constantine–Cyril was in existence by 882 (before Methodius’ death), and that, by this time, it existed in Slavic. The latter demonstration was a hard pill for Byzantinists to swallow. The archaeological finds were made in Southern Moravia. By unearthing several ninth-century towns, archaeologists were able to provide an explanation for the strength of the Great Moravian state; by discovering a number of early churches, they were able to demonstrate how well established Christianity was in Great Moravia even before the Cyrillo-Methodian mission had arrived.

In the second half of the eighteenth century the leavening effects of the Enlightenment began to be felt among the Rumanians of Transylvania. The Enlightenment in Transylvania—and in Eastern Europe generally —was a curious blend of natural law, rationalism, and optimism, drawn from the West, and nationalism, a response to local conditions. It is no coincidence that the first tangible signs of national awakening among the Rumanians manifested themselves at this time. In the thought of the Enlightenment they discovered new justification for their claims to equality with their Magyar, Saxon, and Szekler neighbors. For example, they applied the notion of “natural” civil equality between individuals to the relationship between whole peoples, and they accepted wholeheartedly the myth of the social contract as the foundation of society and as the guarantee of the rights of all those who composed it.

Professor Roberts’ study is an impressive methodological achievement. The more one meditates on it, the less one finds to disagree with. The task of this writer is rather a frustrating one, for how can one bring new points of view to supplement such a thorough treatment?

Professor Roberts pointed out that the future of the dilemma under study will hardly be dominated by the issue “Russia versus the West,“ for it will be overshadowed by more powerful factors which have dominated the life of both the West and Russia since the beginning of our century (Russia up to 1917!). I would be tempted as a historian to go one step further, and question our ability to see, or consciously to shape, the future. First of all, many new factors may appear. Second, we do not know the relationship and proportional weight of factors that will continue from the present into the future. So I would eschew the consideration of the future altogether.

I suspect that my commentators were overly indulgent with my methodological preoccupations—all egg crate and no eggs—but I am pleased that my piece should have elicited their own interesting observations on the theme. Taking advantage of their forbearance I shall limit my comments to just a few reflections on the points they have raised.

The pre-Soviet introduction of modern Turkestanian theater, long flatly denied by Communist officials, gave vigorous expression to social and political ideas current among local groups of enlightened private citizens in Western Turkestan just before the outbreak of the First World War. The innovation also strongly affected developments in the state-sponsored dramaturgy which appeared later. This new theater, differing radically from the old folk art, was inaugurated before a responsive audience at Samarkand early in 1914 with a performance of Mahmud Khoja Behbudiy's Padarkush (“The Parricide“).

Padarkush presents the spectacle of a father's willful refusal, despite repeated warnings, to meet specific religious and social obligations by giving his illiterate, adolescent son an education. This fatal error inevitably leads to the parent's violent death and the destruction of his family.

There are few events in history which had such a profound influence on the cultural development of so many nations as had the Byzantine mission to Moravia. Although the mission failed in the country for which it had been destined, the work of the two Greek brothers, aided by a few disciples, produced unexpected fruit among the Bulgarians, Serbians, Croats, and Eastern Slavs, and became the basis of the oldest Christian Slavic culture. This shows us the excellence of the first literary achievements in Moravia and testifies to the geniality of the inventor of the Slavic alphabet, and to Constantine’s extraordinary philological talent. A mediocre work could not have survived the Moravian catastrophe and the many upheavals in the early history of the southern and eastern Slavs.

As a part-time observer of the Soviet literary scene, I am gratified to see my tentative generalizations endorsed by men as knowledgeable and authoritative in the field of Soviet literature as George Gibian and Max Hayward. I am also glad that my attempt at diagnosis has provided an occasion for an illuminating companion piece and a thoughtful reassessment of what is undoubtedly one of the most significant works of recent Soviet fiction.

I have no quarrel whatsoever with the main body of Professor Gibian's perceptive and amply documented analysis, which supplements admirably my sketchy survey of trends and issues. The only portion of his article which may call for a brief rejoinder or clarification is the extended footnote. To take issue with what Professor Gibian himself calls "minuscule objections" is a somewhat picayune undertaking. But, just to be conversational, let me offer a few counter-cavils.

The wide divergence of views among the Russian Westernizers makes it difficult to generalize about them, and the personality of Vladimir Pecherin, in particular, defies all categorization. In his search for perfection he was, like the radical Westernizers, led from idealism to left Hegelianism to revolution. But unlike the radical Westernizers he ultimately freed himself from the revolutionary mystique and moderated his demands for perfection, finding meaningfulness in a life of service as a Roman Catholic priest at a hospital in Dublin.

It seems worth while to re-examine Pecherin's intellectual development, since the only Russian biography of Pecherin, by Mikhail Gershenzon, was completed before the publication of Pecherin's memoirs, Zamogil'nye zapiski. Of two recent German works, the essay by Victor Frank centers on Pecherin, the Russian exile, but takes the memoirs insufficiently into account in evaluating Pecherin's religious views.

The question “Did Peter the Great exert a beneficial or a harmful influence upon the development of Russian history and culture?” is one that has provoked debate ever since that monarch ruled Russia in the first quarter of the eighteenth century. The varied answers to that question set up the general battle lines between Westernizers and Slavophiles during the first half of the nineteenth century. One of Russia's most critical intellectuals in that period, Peter Iakovlevich Chaadaev, answered the question in several ways. His answers provide a key to a peculiar kind of ideological westernization in Russian intellectual history. The discovery of hitherto unpublished source materials that fill an important gap in the documentation of Chaadaev's views on Peter the Great led to the writing of this article.

During the K'ang-hsi (1662-1722) and Yung-cheng (1723-35) periods, Russia was the only foreign country with which China maintained treaty relations, the only “Western” state to which China sent diplomatic missions, and the only foreign power granted religious, commercial, and educational privileges in Peking. These were most unusual phenomena in Chinese foreign relations in view of China's claim to universal overlordship. As the Celestial Empire and the Middle Kingdom, China normally maintained no treaty relations with other states, sent no diplomatic missions abroad, and allowed no foreign country to keep permanent establishments in the capital city of Peking. It may therefore be asked, what differentiated Russia from the other foreign states in Chinese eyes and what prompted the Chinese to accord Russia preferential treatment?

It has been said of so-called old English traditions that on closer scrutiny they usually turn out to date back no further than Queen Victoria. Mutatis mutandis, the same observation can be made about the terminology and concepts of modern Russian history. Closer inves- tigation reveals that in a surprising number of instances they are the product of political polemics of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and especially those involving the Marxists. They are not only neologisms, as historical terms and concepts often are, but neologisms devised for specific political purposes and never subjected by historians to critical appraisal.