Konstantin Dmitrievich Kavelin has long been regarded as both a leader and archetype of nineteenth-century Russian liberalism. It is not clear, however, what “liberal” and “liberalism” mean with reference to nineteenth-century Russia. Russian liberals of the early twentieth century, seeking to create a tradition for their movement, put the most diverse figures from the past in the liberal pantheon. Soviet historians, with somewhat more justice but the same kind of zeal, have sharply demarcated mid-century radicals, with, whom they sympathize, from the liberals. American historians of Russia tend to characterize as “liberal” almost anyone who tried to achieve social and political improvements by nonrevolutionary means. And almost all historians have resorted to the tautology whereby “liberalism” denotes the activities and doctrines of those public figures whom we know to be “liberals.”

In the two decades that followed the Crimean War the local police, always crucial elements of the tsarist system, assumed a new importance. Vested with special responsibility for maintaining law and order and occupying a key position in the bureaucratic hierarchy, they were cast in a major role in carrying out the Great Reforms of Alexander II. The task of fitting the police to assume this role was one of great concern to Russia's leaders and occupied their attention throughout the reign. This essay is a study of police reform in the area of Iaroslavl Province. It examines the background, nature, and success of government efforts to revitalize an essential branch of the Russian state system.

On the eve of the period of reforms the local police in Iaroslavl as in other Russian provinces were officials of enormous influence. They were the foundation stones of a giant bureaucratic pyramid, for in addition to their special superior—the Ministry of Internal Affairs—a host of ministries, councils, and other government agencies depended on them. Matters of finance and justice, the supervision of industry and commerce, the protection of life and property—all were the concern of the police.

Western and Soviet scholars have generally maintained different interpretations of the period between 1905 and 1917 in Russia, describing it respectively as a time of amelioration or of immiseration for the masses. Both groups, however, have stressed the progress of capitalism in prerevolutionary Russia. Despite standard references to the agrarian problem, most of the attention given to socioeconomic development in this period has focused on industrialization and the urban sector. Yet 87 percent of the population was rural when revolution broke out in 1905, and 85 percent still rural when it erupted again in 1917.

During the interrevolutionary period the imperial government adopted a program that was intended to provide a take-off base for agriculture. Prime Minister Stolypin’s policy was aimed at the replacement of the archaic communal structure by a new order of individualized peasant landholdings that would give scope to personal initiative and technological innovation.

For almost forty years the private library of Nikolai Aleksandrovich Rubakin, located first in Baugy-sur-Clarens and subsequently in Lausanne, Switzerland, served as a major fund of Russian books in Western Europe, and it attracted many of the great figures of the Russian Revolution. Rubakin in turn welcomed every new reader; his motto, imprinted on his bookplates, declared: “Long live the book, a powerful weapon in the struggle for truth and justice.” Upon his death in 1946 the Soviet Union inherited the collection, variously estimated at 80,000 to 100,000 volumes, and its departure represented a great blow to East European studies in the West.

The interpolation of other-language material into the primary language of discourse is a well-known phenomenon in the speech of bi- and multilinguals. Social scientists studying bilingualism have termed this practice “code-switching.” In literature, code-switching is potentially available to any writer who commands another language besides his own and is not restricted from its use by literary canon. Practitioners of code-switching in the West include Petronius and Cicero, medieval translators, Rabelais and Montaigne, Sterne, Tolstoy, Pound, Eliot, Joyce, e. e. cummings, Hemingway, and Anthony Burgess. The motives for literary code-switching are many—terminological precision, connotative nuance, citation and allusion, display of erudition, an illusion of verisimilitude, irony, and word play.

We have often been scornful of the layman’s ignorance and misunderstanding of Soviet affairs—and not without reason. The resting place of American views of Russia and communism is littered with the carcasses of incomprehension and misperception which, were they not so sad, would be funny. It has been a pathetic and perdurable obsession, ever since the dispatch in November 1917 that Lenin had died in Switzerland two years earlier and that the impostor who was taking over Petrograd was some unknown named Zederblum and the rhapsodic exclamations of those who “had seen the future” in Lenin’s Russia and found that “it works.”

The insurrection on February 27, 1917, totally annihilated the tsarist police system in Petrograd, the most important link tying the citizens to the government, thus throwing the capital into a state of anarchy. Quickly lawlessness crept into the streets, as drunken soldiers looted wine cellars to get even more drunk and criminals released from prisons easily acquired weapons. To the sober-minded, it was apparent that this intolerable disorder had to be stopped as quickly as possible. Yet, for the more committed revolutionaries, the insurrection was not yet finished; even on February 28 machine-gun shots were fired from rooftops and upper-floor windows of tall buildings—actions, people firmly believed, taken by the remnants of Protopopov's police or the counter-revolutionary officers. Whether for the restoration of law and order or for the defense of the revolution, Petrograd urgently needed an organized police force. Indeed, the future course of the revolution to a large extent depended on how the new police force would be organized. If a group which regarded the restoration of law and order as the most urgent task established an efficient police power in the streets, it would mean that the revolutionary process that had been set in motion would be halted. On the other hand, if the revolutionaries succeeded in arming the masses of insurgents for the defense of the revolution, that would surely mean the further intensification of the revolutionary process. An analysis of the formation of the militias in the February Revolution is, therefore, integrally related to the problem of power.

In his article on Western studies of Soviet power, purpose, and policy—which I shall call Sovietology—Alexander Dallin has brought us to a timely reconsideration of the needs and prospects of our area field. Part of the problem is whether the “remarkable catalogue of hypotheses later abandoned or disproved” really indicates that specialists in Sovietology have been relatively ineffective. Still more important are the real reasons for our failures—and surely they are numerous.

Traditionally in surveys of Soviet history, if Alexandra Kollontai is mentioned she is presented briefly as the advocate of the “glass of water theory of sex,” a woman who practiced free love as freely as she preached it. The lecturer then moves on to more serious concerns, having ignored the history of a tormented, perceptive woman intimately involved in the early Soviet experiment in female emancipation. Kollontai advocated far more than free love, and the role she played was far greater than that of mistress to Alexander Shliapnikov. From 1917 until her departure from the Soviet Union in 1923 she held positions of major importance in the young government and in the Bolshevik party. Kollontai worked first as an agitator in 1917, then took the post of commissar of state welfare from November 1917 to March 1918, when she resigned in protest against the Brest-Litovsk Treaty. In 1921 she joined the Workers' Opposition, adding to Shliapnikov's proposals for trade-union reform her own call for party and government democratization and giving articulate voice to those demands in an often-cited pamphlet, The Workers' Opposition. Throughout the revolutionary years she was recognized as a major authority on the problems of women and child care. Since Kollontai did play an important role in the early period of Soviet history, her personality and ideology warrant study. That study in turn reveals a woman who perceived the problems of womanhood with clarity and who wrote about and sought a liberation beyond the comprehension of many of her contemporaries.

At a very early stage of the Bolshevik experiment with economic planning it became obvious that the economy could not be made to function without the use of money and other financial instruments. In fact, a financial history of the Soviet economy would show a gradual but relentless expansion in the number and functions of financial instruments. This expansion has been gradual largely because Soviet economists, planners, and administrators have had both ideological (theoretical) and practical reservations about the appropriate uses as well as the potential abuses to which financial instruments can be put. The process has been relentless nonetheless, because for a number of essential economic functions the possible substitutes or alternatives to financial instruments are either impractical or nonexistent. Let me attempt to explain briefly the fundamental reasons for the ambivalence in Soviet financial policy.

The Bolshevik Revolution in November 1917 offered Germany the first serious prospect of ending the two-front war dilemma. General Erich Ludendorff, anticipating resultant cessation of major military operations in the East, decided to seek a military victory in the West. But the ensuing peace negotiations with the Bolsheviks at Brest-Litovsk revealed basic policy differences within the German camp. Richard Kühlmann, state secretary of the Foreign Office, felt that the Bolshevik victory had sufficiently crippled Russia's armed might and had thereby eased the military burden in the East. Kühlmann as well as his successor, Admiral Paul von Hintze, successfully opposed all proposals to oust the Bolsheviks. Because they both believed that Bolshevik rule would assure long-term chaos in Russia, they sought a compromise peace in the East. The Foreign Office, through the first German ambassadors to Moscow, Count Wilhelm von Mirbach-Harff and Karl Helfferich, even extended financial aid to the Bolsheviks in order to keep them out of the Entente camp. In short, Germany's diplomats possessed a clear conception of their policies regarding the Bolsheviks and were consistent in them, desiring no armed conflict in the East but rather a concentration of military might in the West. The Army Supreme Command, and especially Ludendorff, rejected any compromise formula in the East, despite the decision of November 1917 to seek a military victory in the West. Ludendorff sought to end the war with either victory or defeat. Nonetheless, in the summer of 1918 he proved willing temporarily to accept the plan of the Foreign Office to cooperate with the Bolsheviks and “use” them to attain German goals, a decision that paralleled his original agreement in April 1917 to transport the Bolshevik leaders in Switzerland to Russia.

In scholarly publications we transliterate Russian names with consistency: linguists use the “international system” (with j, š, etc.), social scientists the “modified Library of Congress system.” But whenever any of us needs to communicate with a broad public of nonspecialists, such as the readers of a weekly news magazine or those who consult our own college catalogues, he finds himself on the horns of an old dilemma.

From the labyrinth of literary revaluations to which modern Czech literature has been subjected, the work of the gifted but unpredictable lyric poet Vítězslav Nezval (1900-1958) has emerged relatively unscathed. His literary career was a bewildering trail of shifting allegiances and paradoxical novelties —from Expressionist infantilism to elegant sophistication, from Dadaist anti-art to obsequious socialist realism: an anarchist in his youth, a surrealist in middle age, he ended as a laureate of the Czechoslovak Communist Establishment.

At the age of twenty Nezval came to Prague for university studies. Always a loner, he led a solitary life in the big city. His early poems are full of nostalgia for his Moravian home and lost childhood, sometimes recalled with more than a touch of childish nightmare. Prague in the early twenties was a place of tumbling pedestals and mushrooming social manifestoes: the newly silenced guns and the freshly inaugurated state seemed to be an earnest of a new start, and the end of a world discredited.