Gogol was little known in England before the Crimean War. Earlier there had been only one criticism of his works, and that an incompetent one (1841); a sketchy, erroneous mention of him in a table of Russian literature published in a periodical (1842); and the first translation of one of his supernatural tales, “Viy” (1847). Then the Crimean War brought forth a malicious forgery of his masterpiece of social satire, Dead Souls (1854), which occasioned three long articles, two of them exposing it for what it was, and a third simply exploiting it to suit the propaganda needs of the hour. On the more constructive side of the wartime interest in Gogol, first translations of two of his tales, with prefatory critical comments, were published in periodicals. Excepting a scattered handful of lost translations and one pioneering critical study, there was no further English interest in Gogol until the 1880s.

The events of the last years of NEP—the New Economic Policy—confront historians with two complex and still controversial issues: the effect of these “new” policies on the Russian economy, on society, and on methods of Communist rule in the country and the political conflict dividing the party leadership in the late 1920s. The first issue raises the question of the extent to which NEP was evolving in a direction compatible with the Communists' dream of a socialist society, with the short-term political needs of the Soviet state, and with the priorities of economic development. The second issue focuses on the political instability generated by the controversy over domestic policy and methods of rule, as well as by the personal antagonism between the two key political leaders, Nikolai Bukharin and Stalin. The debate on these questions, answers to which are crucial to our understanding of the origins of Stalinism, has for the most part relied on evidence drawn from central party and state activities, giving the discussion a panoramic view of the history of those years.

Authors writing in a language other than their native tongue have become a common phenomenon in an era of increased international mobility. This article is devoted to three Russian-born émigré writers—Andreï Makine (b. 1957), Wladimir Kaminer (b. 1967), and Gary Shteyngart (b. 1972)—all of whom have achieved literary stardom with books written in French, German, and English, respectively. Although each of the three authors has a distinctive style and ideological position, in his own way each projects a “Russian” persona to the western public. Using the notion of cultural hybridity, Adrian Wanner explores the various strategies these authors have adopted in fashioning an identity for themselves that is tailored to meet the demands of the reading public in their respective host nations while exploiting the cachet of the Russian “brand name” in today's global literary economy.

Although Russia is a "civil law" country, her legal history presents a pattern of development quite different from the continental countries of the "Roman law" tradition. Russia did not share in the Reception of Roman law after the eleventh century, which is the common tradition of western European jurisprudence. The institutions and philosophy of the Reception remained foreign—indeed almost unknown— to the Russians. Yet the Russian jurists have been studying the Roman law since the eighteenth century, and even today it is a required subject for Soviet law students.

The status of sociology and philosophy in the Soviet Union is radically different from that of the physical and mathematical sciences. The sociologists and philosophers are still regarded by the government as ideologists, whereas the mathematicians and physicists are considered scientists; and the ideologist is in low repute in the Soviet intellectual community. Thirty years ago, Nikolai Bukharin observed in a remarkable essay that the cultural style of the current Soviet period would be technicism, and that the humanities and historical sciences would be relegated to the background. He believed that this “one-sidedness“ was founded on the economic requirements of the time. Probably, however, the hollowness in the life of the Soviet ideologist is equally responsible for his low estate. The sociologists and philosophers are not regarded as independent thinkers; their job as ideological workers is to provide a documentation and footnoted commentary on the decisions of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Young men of ability consequently tend to avoid choosing a life work in the social sciences and philosophy. Why, they say, should they sacrifice their intellectual independence at the outset of their lives?

On the eve of the World War I, members of the Russian right deeply differed in their visions of the status quo and the means of its proper reconstruction. The war further differentiated the Right. The rightists, regardless of the ideological nuances, perceived the war as a chance for political revival. The outburst of patriotism in July and August 1914 became the most serious argument in favor of political reform. Their opponents, on the contrary, saw in it a chance to get rid of democratic institutions and practices. While the more moderate rightists leaned towards consensus, with liberals looking at political dialogue as the most effective instrument for securing social stability, the extreme ones concluded that strict control from above was a more adequate instrument for achieving this goal. All this aggravated the pre-war conflicts within the Right and led to its disintegration on the eve of the Revolution of 1917.

In his 1913 guide to the city, Grigorii Moskvich wrote that the dream of the “essential Odessan” was to strike it rich and immediately acquire a house, a carriage, and everything else he needed in order to “transform himself (by appearance, of course) into an impeccable British gentleman or blue-blooded Viennese aristocrat.” Then, “immaculately dressed, with an expensive cigar in his teeth,” the remade Odessan was ready to meet his public. Whether “getting into a carriage or sitting down in one of the better cafés, on the boulevard or in the park,” the Odessan was “out to impress by his appearance, aware of his own worth, looking down on everyone and everything below.” “Odessans are proud of themselves (not without foundation), flaunting their ability to dress as well as any purebred Parisian or Viennese.” Women, too, were always well turned out, “no husband carrying the expenses of his wife's toilette as uncomplainingly as the Odessan… . This passion for fashion, the desire to impress by external appearances, penetrates all of Odessa society, from the counts to the cooks,” the writer declared.

During the first half of the nineteenth century, arguments over Russian social structure played a central role in discussions of eating establishments. The Russian state controlled these establishments in part through legislation that kept social groups apart; it focused particularly on the extremes of the social hierarchy, showing little interest in the middling groups. In more narrative descriptions of eating establishments, however, the middling groups—or their absence—seemed remarkably important. Foreign observers generally felt that Russia lacked both a middle class and middling eating establishments. Russians in part agreed, but by the middle of the century they were more likely to locate a middle class among one particular group: Moscow's merchants.

From the time of Marco Polo to that of Vasco da Gama, no great eastern voyage, of which we possess a full record, has received less attention here than the gallant Athanasius Nikitin's journey from Russia “across three seas” to Persia, India, and back. Indeed, in not a single book on Russia, written in English, that the present writer has seen, was a mention, let alone a description, of Nikitin's voyage to be found. This is all the more regrettable, as a translation of his report has actually been published in English, in volume XXII of the Works issued by the Hakluyt Society (R. H. Major, editor; London, 1857). However, this translation is almost one hundred years old, and does not live up to the minimum requirements of up to date scholarship.

Finland's Position as a neighbor of the Soviet Union and yet at the same time a member of the free world presents an interesting challenge to the historian of postwar events. It is unfortunate that no comprehensive analysis of postwar Finnish-Soviet relations has appeared, because certainly this is a topic of considerable interest to those interested in Soviet foreign policy or Scandinavian politics. In spite of Finland's proximity to the Soviet Union she has been able to keep her independence, and she occupies a unique position with respect to Soviet relations with other countries.

Dezso Kosztolanyi, the Hungarian poet, novelist, short-story writer, critic and translator, played a prominent part in the cultural life of his native land, and for a time he was the center of heated controversies. His works are translated into English, Italian, French, German and other languages. His artistic consciousness determined his relationship to the Hungarian literary scene. Kosztolanyi was extremely word-conscious. He said that to play with words is to play with destiny. As a purifier of the Hungarian language, he emphasized the coordination of the nation's morality with the integrity of words. In his university years he was influenced by Professor Laszlo Negyesy's canons of Hungarian philology; and when Negyesy, at the age of seventy-two, renewed his campaign for linguistic purity, Kosztolanyi, then a recognized poet, joined this movement and added greatly to its success. He was not against neologisms, but against the corruption of the language.

In my paper critiquing the analysis of Brym and Degtyarev, I argued that little could be gained from their analysis and indeed that their paper contributed mainly to misunderstanding anti-Semitism in Russia. In this article, I present some new survey results on anti-Semitism as a means of advancing our knowledge on this important topic. In particular, I address four questions: 1) is anti-Semitism in Russia particularly widespread? 2) are prejudiced attitudes focused specifically on Jews or are they more diffuse? 3) does a "don't know" response to survey questions mask anti-Semitic attitudes? and 4) most importantly, what are the political implications of anti-Semitism for Russian Jews?