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Papers to be presented at the XIV International Congress of Slavists,

Ohrid, 10-16.09.2008

The Slavonic Languages and European Charter

for Regional or Minority Languages pp.2-10
by John Dunn (University of Glasgow/Bologna)

Instrumental Case and Verb Meaning in Polish pp.11-27

by Jan Fellerer (University of Oxford)

The Heresy of the ‘Judaizers’ in 15th century Moscovy and the Production
of the First Complete Slavonic Bible: Is There a Connection? pp.28-36
by Jana Howlett and Lyubov Osinkina (Cambridge and Oxford)

Russian literature in Greece today:

Describing the experience of a new Slavic migration pp.37-44
by Alexandra Ioannidou, PhD (British Association for Slavonic
and East European Studies/University of Macedonia (Thessaloniki))

Maksim Grek and the Norms of Russian Church Slavonic pp.45-63

by C. M. MacRobert (University of Oxford)

История формирования славянских коллекцнй в Британской

библиотеке (по архивным материалам: 1837-1900 гг.) pp.64-76
by Екатерина Рогачевская (British Library)

Pragmatic and stylistic aspects of word order in Russian pp.77-89

by Sarah Turner (British Association for Slavonic and East European
Studies/University of Waterloo)

The Slavonic Languages and European Charter
for Regional or Minority Languages

John Dunn
(University of Glasgow/Bologna)

The European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages was adopted by the
Council of Europe on 25 June 1992. It came into force on 1 March 1998, once it had been
ratified by five nations. The position at 12 May 2008 was that 23 countries had signed and
ratified the Charter, while a further ten had signed the Charter, but had not ratified it.
Fourteen nations belonging to the Council of Europe have yet to sign the Charter, which is
open for accession by non-member states; no country belonging to this category has so far
chosen to avail itself of this option. 1
Of the countries where Slavonic languages are or may reasonably assumed to be
spoken, the following have ratified the Charter: Armenia, Austria, Croatia, the Czech
Republic, Germany, Hungary, Montenegro, Romania, Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Ukraine.
The following nations have signed, but not yet ratified the Charter (the year of signing is
indicated in brackets): Azerbaijan (2001), Bosnia and Herzegovina (2005), Italy (2000),
Macedonia (1996), Moldova (2002), Poland (2003), Russia (2001). Among the member
nations still to sign the Charter are: Albania, Bulgaria, Estonia, Georgia, Greece, Latvia,
Lithuania. This category can be extended to include the one state relevant to this paper that is
not a member of the Council of Europe, namely Belarus.
When a nation ratifies the Charter, it submits a declaration, listing the regional and
minority languages it recognises and the degree of protection or support it considers
appropriate to offer. 2 There are two levels of support: Part II support, intended to apply to
what are termed non-territorial languages, involves merely a general commitment to apply the
principles of the charter to the selected language(s). Part III support, on the other hand,
involves making specific commitments selected from a menu of options which apply to a
number of designated areas of public life: education, law, administration and public services,
media, cultural activities and facilities, economic and social life, transfrontier exchanges.
Some countries, such as Romania, divide the languages mentioned into those offered Part II
support and those offered Part III support, while others, such as Serbia, Slovakia and
Slovenia, offer Part III support to all the languages listed in their declarations. In some
instances, such as Austria, Germany or the Czech Republic, support for specific languages
applies only in certain named regions.
In general terms it is the responsibility of a nation to determine the languages to be
included in its Declaration and the degree of support to be offered, but there is a system for
monitoring the implementation of the Charter. Every nation in which the Charter has come
into force is required to submit a periodic (triennial) report, which, together with any
supplementary information and answers to questions, is considered by a Committee of
Experts. This Committee, having considered the periodic report and visited the country
concerned, produces its own report, which usually contains a number of recommendations.
After the nation being assessed has had the opportunity to comment, a definitive list of
recommendations is issued by the Committee of Ministers of the Council of Europe. The
impressive pile of paperwork resulting from this monitoring process (which some may feel
bears a slightly discomforting resemblance to quality assessment regimes used in some

education systems) is made available on the Council’s web-site, at:
An examination of the existing Declarations shows that the following Slavonic
languages have been identified as regional or minority languages in the following countries.
In this list the names used for the various languages are those given in the English-language
versions of the respective Declarations:
Bosnian: Serbia
Bulgarian: Romania, Serbia, Slovakia, Ukraine
Burgenlandcroatian: Austria (Burgenland)
Byelorussian: Ukraine
Croatian: Hungary, Romania, Serbia, Slovakia
Czech: Austria (Vienna), Croatia, Romania, Slovakia
Lower Sorbian: Germany (Brandenburg)
Macedonian: Romania (Part II only)
Polish: Czech Rep. (parts of the Moravian-Silesian region), Romania (Part II only), Slovakia,
Russian: Armenia, Romania, Ukraine
Ruthenian: Croatia, Romania (Part II only), Serbia, Slovakia
Serbian: Croatia, Hungary, Romania
Slovak(ian): Austria (Vienna), Croatia, Czech Rep., Hungary, Romania, Serbia, Ukraine
Slovene/Slovenian: Austria (Carinthia, Styria), Hungary
Ukrainian: Croatia, Romania, Serbia, Slovakia
Upper Sorbian: Germany (Saxony)
This list thus shows that sixteen different Slavonic languages have been listed in at least one
Declaration. Perhaps surprisingly, Slovak figures in the greatest number of Declarations
(seven); no less surprisingly perhaps, Romania lists as many as ten Slavonic languages, while
Serbia, Slovakia and Ukraine each list six. Montenegro and Slovenia include no Slavonic
languages in their respective Declarations.
An examination of how the Charter does or does not function with respect to Slavonic
Literary Microlanguages has been undertaken by Sven Gustavsson (2006). The purpose of
this paper is to look at a number of more general issues arising out of the existence and
implementation of the Charter. It will make use of the materials and the proceedings of the
international conference ‘Slavonic Literary Microlanguages and Language Contacts’, which
took place in Tartu in September 2006 as part of the work of the Commission for the Study of
Language Contacts of the International Committee of Slavists.
The first and perhaps the most fundamental general issue is that of signing and
ratifying the Charter. Ten years after it came into force seven member nations that might be
placed partially or wholly within the ‘Slavonic world’ have yet to undertake the first stage of
the process, while a further seven have completed the first stage, but not the second. This
would seem to indicate that no undue pressure is placed on a country that is not willing or
does not feel able to commit itself to the requirements of the Charter. Two geographical areas

seem particular problematic: in the Baltic region Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania are all non-
signatories; in the Southern Balkans the same status applies to Albania, Bulgaria and Greece,
while Macedonia has yet to ratify a signature going back to 1996. It is well known that in
both these areas there are significant problems affecting the identification and status of
linguistic minorities, and this pattern of non-adherence prompts the observation that signing
up to and implementing the Charter is not itself a problem-solving measure, but is more likely
to serve as a device that confirms and consolidates a consensus over status that has been
reached by other means. It would certainly seem that the Charter is not given a particularly
high priority either by the Council of Europe or by at least some individual countries.
To some extent these observations gain a degree of support from some of the nations
that are going through the process of ratification. Bosnia and Hercegovina has yet to ratify a
signature deposited in 2005, yet its Constitution includes the Charter among a list of
international agreements on human rights that are to applied in that country. 3 In Italy and
Poland the parliamentary processes leading to the ratification of the Charter are under way, if
only at glacial speed: the Italian Chamber of Deputies approved the relevant draft law on 16
October 2003. 4 In both these countries, however, there already exist national laws relating to
the protection of regional or minority languages and intended to serve as the basis for
implementing the charter once ratification has taken place. 5 In these three instances it would
seem that the ratification of the Charter, assuming that it eventually takes place, will not
necessarily have significant consequences other than to place the nations concerned within the
scope of the Council of Europe’s monitoring processes.
A second issue concerns terminology, both within the Charter itself and in relation to
the names of the languages mentioned in the various Declarations. The Charter uses the
expression ‘regional or minority languages’ without explaining what the difference between
these terms might be; enlightenment is to be found in paragraph 18 of an accompanying
Explanatory Report, where it is stated that a regional language is one that is used only within
a limited part of a nation, but which in that limited part may be spoken by a majority of the
population. 6 In fact, only one Declaration so far makes a distinction between the two
categories, that of Germany, which treats Low German as a regional language, while other
languages mentioned, such as Upper and Lower Sorbian, are described as minority languages.
A similar distinction is, however, made in the draft Polish ratification, which singles out
Kashubian as a regional language. This document, moreover, makes a further distinction
between ‘języki mniejszości narodowych’ [languages of national minorities] and ‘języki
mniejszości etnicznych’[languages of ethnic minorities]. 7 In neither instance do these
distinctions seem to have any practical consequences for the status and use of the various
individual languages concerned.
The question of language nomenclature arises out of the fact that the Declarations are
made separately by the individual states, but are published together in English and French
only. This can make problematic the matter of finding common and generally accepted
names for the various languages in the different Declarations. As far as the Slavonic
languages are concerned, the issue of language nomenclature (as opposed to language
identity, which will be considered later) arises in relation to the language which in the
Declarations of Croatia, Romania, Serbia and Slovakia is called Ruthenian (French:
ruthène/langue ruthénienne), but which others (especially within the Slavist community) may
prefer to call Rusyn. A slightly different issue is raised by the Ukrainian Declaration, which
uses the spelling ‘Byelorussian’, a form that was once widespread, but which is now no
longer acceptable to many Belarusians. 8 The question of language nomenclature is not
always trivial, and it may be that this matter is one to which those responsible for producing
Council of Europe documentation have not always paid sufficient attention.

Article 1 of the Charter mentions two explicit exclusions when it states that: ‘it does
not include either dialects of the official language(s) of the State or the languages of
migrants;’ [syntax and punctuation as in the original]. The first exclusion is dealt with in
paragraph 32 of the Explanatory Report, which concludes that ‘it will be left to the authorities
concerned within each state, in accordance with its own democratic processes, to determine at
what point a form of expression constitutes a separate language’. In fact, the Declarations of
many West European nations reflect a tendency to bestow the status of a separate language on
several ‘forms of expression’ that might have struggled to achieve this status two or three
generations ago. So, for example, the British Declaration includes both Scots and Ulster
Scots, the German Declaration includes Low German, North Frisian and Sater Frisian, while
the Italian Law on Linguistic Minorities mentions Franco-Provençal, Friulian, Ladin, Occitan
and Sardinian.
In the case of the Slavonic languages it is possible to identify a number of issues
relating to the distinction between language and dialect. The German Declaration lists Upper
and Lower Sorbian as separate languages, a differentiation which may be facilitated by the
fact that since reunification they happen to be used in different Länder (see above). Other
issues remain unresolved. Rusyn/Ruthenian appears in four Declarations, but is absent from
that of Ukraine, where the relevant authorities do not consider it to be a separate language
(Gustavsson 2006: 86-87; Padyak 2006: 269, 279-83). It will be interesting to see whether
this omission is noted when the monitoring process is applied to Ukraine. The draft law
submitted to the Polish parliament mentions Kashubian as a regional language, apparently
uncontroversially, but does not accord the same status to Silesian. A justification for
including the latter would seem to be provided by the data obtained in the 2002 Census: here
56,643 people claimed to speak Silesian at home, compared to 52,665 who said they spoke
Kashubian. 9 In this instance ‘democratic processes’ may indeed determine the outcome,
since the question of redefining Silesian as a regional language was raised (though not, it
appears, answered) during preliminary discussions of the ratification process in the Polish
Sejm. 10
A more subtle issue related to language identity is the question whether a language
included a nation’s declaration is perceived by its speakers (or, at least, by all of its speakers)
as being identical to one of the same name used in a neighbouring state. The issue is
addressed explicitly in the Austrian Declaration, which refers to Burgenlandcroatian [sic].
This gives recognition to the fact that the Slavonic population of Burgenland considers itself
to be Croatian, but that the form of the language used in the region and the standard that is
emerging there is not identical to that used in Croatia proper (Tyran 2006). This point is
worth noting: English speakers are used to the existence of different standards in the various
countries where English is used; this example, however, seems so far to be unique among
those Slavonic languages that have achieved the status of official or state language.
This issue arises in a slightly different form in relation to Slovene, as it is used in the
north-eastern Italian region of Friuli - Venezia Giulia. The national law of 1999 and the
regional law of 2000 (see note 5) both refer only to ‘sloveno’ [i.e. Slovene], but it transpires
that at least some of the Slavonic-speaking population of the province of Udine do not
identify themselves with the Slovenes. 11 As is often the case with such sources, it is difficult
to judge from the web-sites mentioned in note 11 how much support this point of view has,
though it appears to have some bearing on local politics within the province. In any event the
latest regional law on the protection of Slovene (dating from November 2007) states that the
provisions of the law extend to ‘il resiano e le varianti linguistiche delle Valli del Natisone,
del Torre e della Val Canale’ [Resian and the linguistic variants of Valle del Natisone, the
Valle del Torre and the Val Canale]. 12

A potential issue also arises in relation to Lemko and Rusyn/Ruthenian. The draft
Polish ratification law includes the former, but not the latter, leaving it unclear whether the
distinction is perceived as linguistic or terminological. The question is perhaps hypothetical in
that it is devoid of real consequences, though after ratification of the Charter by Poland a
decision may have to be taken about whether and how Article 14 (relating to transfrontier
exchanges) might apply to Lemko. 13
The second omission, relating to the languages of migrants, betrays what might be
termed the West European assumptions that form the basis for much of the Charter.
Paragraph 31 of the Explanatory Report states:
In particular, the charter is not concerned with the phenomenon of non-European groups
who have immigrated recently into Europe and acquired the nationality of a European
state. The expressions “historical regional or minority languages of Europe” (see second
paragraph of the preamble) and languages “traditionally used” in the state (Article 1,
paragraph a) show clearly that the charter covers only historical languages, that is to say
languages which have been spoken over a long period in the state in question.
In spite of the rather imprecise nature of some of the phraseology used, it is not
difficult to see how in the context of Western Europe a distinction can be drawn between, for
example, Scots Gaelic and Punjabi or between Breton and Kabyle, It may, however, present
difficulties when account is taken of various movements of populations that have taken place
in Europe (especially, but not only Central and Eastern Europe) in recent decades. For
example, there are substantial numbers of speakers of Albanian, Romanian and Ukrainian in
Italy, but the only one of those languages to be included in the Italian law on protecting
minority languages is Albanian on the grounds that the long-settled (Albanian-speaking)
Arberesht communities in the south of the country qualify as one one of the ‘minoranze
linguistiche istoriche’ [long-established linguistic minorities] referred to in the title of the law.
When the proposed ratification was being discussed by the relevant commissions of
the Polish Sejm (see note 10), one question raised was that of ‘asymmetry’. In part this
related to understandable concerns that Poland was about to ratify the Charter, when
neighbouring states with Polish minorities (Lithuania, Belarus and, at the time the discussion
was taking place, Ukraine) were not taking the same step. Another concern, however, was
that Poland was including German among its own recognised minorities when Germany had
not included Polish in its own declaration. The view of the German government is that there
is, in terms of the Charter, no Polish minority in Germany, since the Polish speakers in the
country are immigrants. 14 Poland’s own law on national minorities is explicit on this point:
to qualify their ancestors have to have settled on the present-day territory of Poland at least
100 years ago (Article 2), which would at least seem to exempt the Polish authorities from
having to concern themselves with the 128 individuals who claimed in the 2002 Census to
speak Zulu. 15
The question relating to the languages of migrants arises in connection with the final
issue to be examined here, namely the anomalous position of Russian in those nations that
were formally part of the Soviet Union. The anomaly is that while Russian now is a minority
language, it had (or is perceived to have had) a dominant position in those nations in the
period before 1991 and therefore its relationship to the respective state languages is inevitably
different from that which exists between state and minority languages in most other European
nations. In consequence it is perhaps not entirely surprising that of the countries in question
only Armenia (where the number of Russian speakers was always small) and Ukraine have
ratified the Charter; Azerbaijan and Moldova have signed, but not ratified it, while Georgia
and the three Baltic nations have yet to append their signatures. 16

The Charter is not always at the forefront of public attention and governments that are
not in a hurry to sign the document are not necessarily keen to rouse sleeping dogs, but some
insight into the thinking of those who oppose signing the Charter is provided in a somewhat
coyly worded statement by an Estonian parliamentarian called Mart Nutt:
Есть и другие причины, по которым страны не присоединяются к хартии. Одна из
них – боязнь сепаратизма, из-за которой бюрократия скорее склоняется к
ассимиляции, а не к сохранению культурного наследства меньшинства. Всегда
считаться с различиями неудобно, их лучше избегать.
Во вторых, выполнение условий хартии требует затрат и потому государства не
хотят брать на себя международные обязательства и подвергать
внутригосударственную политику в отношении меньшинств международному
контролю. Опасения вызывает и перспектива расширения действия хартии (хотя
бы и лишь путем интерпретации) на языки иммигрантов, хотя хартия и исключает
С учетом увеличения числа иммигрантских сообществ и их количественного
роста (турки, арабы во Франции [sic – J.A.D], пакистанцы в Великобритании,
русские в Балтийских странах, Финляндии и Германии), а также того факта, что
нажим по поводу признания иммигрантских языков усиливается, эта боязнь
вполне обоснованна. В то же время, если хартию распространить и на
иммигрантские языки, ее функция по защите региональных и малых языков
станет незначительной. 17
Four arguments seem to be adduced here: (1) the fear of separatism; (2) concerns
about the expense involved; (3) a desire to avoid the external monitoring of the policy towards
minorities; (4) a concern that a form of ‘legislative creep’ will extend the scope of the Charter
to the languages of migrants (into which category Russian in the Baltic states is explicitly
placed) and that this will limit its potential to protect regional and minority languages. Of
these arguments, the first, to judge by the tone used, is not perceived as relevant to the
particular case in question, the second, while not to be dismissed as trivial, is hard to sustain
in the light of commitments undertaken by those states that have ratified the Charter, while
the fourth, in the absence of specific examples, looks very much like special pleading. The
key point therefore is the third argument, with its apparent recognition that any commitments
that a state such as Estonia is likely to be willing to make (including the possible classification
of Russian as a migrant language) will not meet the standards that a monitoring body will
expect to find and that in those circumstances it is better not to embark on the process at all.
As for the treatment of Russian as a migrant language, it is not the purpose of this paper to
resolve the question whether it is appropriate to place Russian in Estonia in the same category
as Arabic in France or the various sub-continental languages in the U.K., but merely to note
that a provision which seems uncontroversial in the context for which it was originally created
can in a different context introduce ambiguities that are not conducive to the successful
adoption and implementation of the Charter.
Not that ratifying the Charter provides an instant solution to the problem, as the
experience of Ukraine shows. The ratification process was complex: an initial attempt,
relatively favourable to Russian, was rejected by the Constitutional Court; the final version
gives Russian the same status as twelve other languages, all of which are spoken (at least in
Ukraine) by far fewer people than is Russian. In any event the Russian-language lobby would
prefer that Russian be given the status of a second state language. 18
Implementation has also brought problems. Some local and regional authorities in
areas where Russian speakers predominate have sought to make Russian a co-official

language in their areas, but the legality of this has been questioned by the Ukrainian
authorities. 19 More curious have been the responses to a decision of Ukrainian Constitutional
Court made on 24 December 2007 to the effect that all foreign films shown in Ukraine had to
be either dubbed or sub-titled in Ukrainian. The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs
responded by claiming that this decision did not correspond to Article 11, Paragraph 4 of the
Charter, i.e. that section which refers to promoting the distribution of films in minority
languages. 20 This in turn prompted a reply from the equivalent Ukrainian ministry, pointing
out that Ukraine was carrying out its obligations under the Charter to the full and that in any
case the Charter was concerned not with the linguistic rights of national minorities, but with
protecting languages that are on the verge of disappearance. 21 This is a possible, albeit
reductive interpretation of the Charter and its aims, but it does raise the question why, if
Ukraine has adopted this interpretation, it included Russian in its Declaration at all.
This tendentious exchange demonstrates that, whatever the Charter can achieve
elsewhere, it is not a suitable instrument for addressing the issue of Russian in the post-Soviet
space. There is no doubt that the problem exists, and it may well be the Council of Europe is
suitably placed to contribute towards finding a solution, but it would seem more helpful to
recognise that the problem is sui generis, and thus needs an individual solution specifically
tailored to the circumstances.
More generally there does not seem to be any evidence that the Charter by itself can
help to bring about goodwill where none already exists. The relative lack of pressure to sign
or to ratify the document, the loosely-worded exclusions and the considerable degree of
discretion left to individual states mean that there are sufficient loopholes of one sort or
another to ensure that there is plenty of scope for contentious matters to remain contentious.
What the Charter can do, however, is contribute towards a general climate that is favourable
to minority languages, thus encouraging states to produce their own laws even where they
have not completed the process of signing or ratification; where goodwill does already exist, it
can help to provide the legal and administrative framework which enables minority languages
to function at the appropriate level. It may be, however, that the main importance of the
Charter lies in another dimension. The number of different languages contained in the
existing Declarations and the number of countries that have included one or more Slavonic
languages have together effected a significant extension to the perceived geography of the
Slavonic languages within Europe. These languages, moreover, co-exist in a much more
complex set of relationships than was the case in the past, in that a previous system of
standard languages and dialects is being replaced by a complex hierarchy of language status
and language function. In this sense the Charter is making a significant contribution to the
replotting of the linguistic map of Europe.

Gustavsson, S., 2006. ‘The Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities,
the European Charter of Regional or Minority Languages, Euromosaic and the Slavic
Literary Microlanguages’, in: Slavianskie literaturnye mikroiazyki i iazykovye
kontakty, ed. Aleksandr D. Dulichenko and Sven Gustavsson, Slavica Tartuensia, VII,
Tartu, 2006 [hereafter Slavianskie literaturnye mikroiazyki], 82-101.
Padyak, V.I., 2006. ‘Zakarpat’e (Podkarpatskaia Rus’): problemy i osobennosti
funktsionirovaniia rusinskogo literaturnogo iazyka v kontekste natsional’nogo
vozrozhdeniia’, in Slavianskie literaturnye mikroiazyki, 265-84.

Tyran, K., 2006. ‘Die Streit um die Standardsprache bei den Burgenländischen Kroaten’, in:
Slavianskie literaturnye mikroiazyki, 122-37.


The text of the Charter can be found at:
http://conventions.coe.int/treaty/Commun/QueVoulezVous.asp?NT=148&CM=1&CL=ENG and at
http://www.coe.int/T/E/Legal_Affairs/Local_and_regional_Democracy/Regional_or_Minority_languages/. A
third site gives access to the text of the Charter in a number of European languages, including twelve Slavonic
languages: http://www.coe.int/t/dg4/education/minlang/textcharter/default_en.asp. The first two of these sites
give access to the list of signatories. All web-sites mentioned in this paper were accessed in the period 12-31
May 2008.
These Declarations are available, in English and French only, at:
http://conventions.coe.int/treaty/Commun/ListeDeclarations.asp?NT=148&CM=1&DF=&CL=ENG&VL=1 and
VL=1&CM=9&CL=FRE respectively. Up to now only one nation, Liechtenstein, has submitted a declaration
stating that it has no regional or minority languages.
Item 14 of Annexe I. The Constitution of Bosnia and Hercegovina can be found in Bosnian, Croatian, Serbian
and English on the web-site of the Bosnia and Hercegovina Constitutional Court (http://www.ccbh.ba).
In Italy the relevant law is Norme in materia di tutela delle minoranze linguistiche storiche
(http://www.camera.it/parlam/leggi/99482l.htm), approved in 1999 and supplemented by various regional laws,
such as Norme a tutela della minoranza linguistica slovena della Regione Friuli-Venezia Giulia
(http://web.uniud.it/cip/min_lr4735_2000.htm). The relevant law for Poland is Ustawa o mniejszościach
narodowych i etnicznych oraz o języku regionalnym
yku_regionalnym.html), approved in 2005. The Slavonic languages mentioned in the Italian law are Croat and
Slovene; Slavonic languages included in the Polish law and in the draft Polish ratification
(http://ks.sejm.gov.pl/proc4/projekty/4158_p.htm) are Kashubian, Belarusian, Czech, Russian, Polish, Slovak,
Ukrainian and Lemko.
These distinctions are also made in the 2005 law. Article 2 of that law indicates that an ethnic minority differs
from a national minority in that it does not identify itself with a nation [naród] having its own state.
The same spelling is used in the official English translation of the Polish law of 2005
Curiously, however, the question on ethnic allegiance produced very different answers: 173,153 people
described themselves as Silesians, but only 5,062 individuals stated that they were Kashubians (Table 33). The
data can be downloaded from: http://www.stat.gov.pl/gus/45_756_PLK_HTML.htm.
To be precise, at a joint session of the Commissions on Internal and Foreign Affairs that took place on 30 June
Their views can be ascertained from the web-sites: http://valresia.splinder.com/ and
http://www.legaslaviafriulana.org/. When accessed on 28 May 2008 the former site bore on its home-page the
unambiguous slogan: ‘I resiani non sono, e non si sentiranno mai sloveni’ [The Resians are not and will never
feel themselves to be Slovenes].
In the 2002 Census data 5627 individuals claimed to speak Lemko, a figure that corresponds remarkably
closely to the number (5863) who gave their ethnic allegiance as Lemko. Rusyn is not mentioned in either
category (see note 9).
Thomas Urban, ‘Das alte Bild, täglich neu entdeckt’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 19 June 2007. Accessed on-line at:
The sceptical observer may interpret this datum as an indication of the dangers of basing policy on the
statements that persons choose to make about themselves in their census returns. The pedantic observer will
note an ambiguity in the Polish law: it is not clear if the 100 year period is a fixed term, dating back from when

the law came into force, or a term that continually renews itself, which would thereby offer the possibility, at
least in theory, of other communities being added to the list in due course.
Belarus is irrelevant here, since Russian has co-official status in that country.
http://www.fennougria.ee/?id=12128. The statement was made at a conference on Finno-Ugric matters that
took place in Saransk in November-December 2006.
For differing accounts of this process see Vladimir Kravchenko, Oksana Prikhod’ko, ‘Khasan Bermek:
Khartiia ne umaliaet znacheniia gosudarstvennogo iazyka’, Zerkalo nedeli, 22-28 July 2006 (accessed on-line:
http://www.zn.ua/1000/1030/54048/) and Pavel Baulin, ‘Itak, chto zhe daiot nam Evropeiskaia Khartiia
Regional'nykh iazykov, ratifitsirovannaia ukrainskim parlamentom?’
Kravchenko, Prikhod’ko, op. cit.
The text of the statement can be found at:
http://www.ln.mid.ru/brp_4.nsf/sps/B800004D6C0E48B7C32573CB0047376B. In fact, the relevant section of
the Charter would seem to be Article 12, Paragraph 1, sections b and c.
The text of the statement can be found at: http://www.mfa.gov.ua/mfa/ua/news/detail/9948.htm.

Instrumental Case and Verb Meaning in Polish

Jan Fellerer
(University of Oxford)

1. Introduction
In this paper, I explore the lexical semantics of verbs which, syntactically, combine
with a noun phrase marked for instrumental case, for example Polish on łamał łomem szafę
(‘he broke the wardrobe with a crow-bar’). My aim is to show that this syntactic mapping,
i.e., here, the appearance of instrumental case on łom, is directly linked to the semantic role of
the NP. Rather than in terms of labels such as INSTRUMENT, GOAL etc., I shall conceive of
this role as the NP’s immediate function relative to the meaning of the verb. Verb meaning,
in turn, will be represented as event structure. Thus, my aim in this paper is to demonstrate
that, in many instances, instrumental case is the syntactic expression of the NP’s specific role
within or relative to the event projected by the verb. This, I shall argue, constitutes
instantiations of semantic case.
In particular, I will be dealing with four semantic groups of verbs: i.) verbs of change
of state, such as Polish łamać coś czymś (‘to break sth. with sth.’); ii.) verbs which, according
to Fillmore (1970), express forceful contact with a surface, such as Polish bić w coś / kogoś
czymś (‘to beat sth. / so. with sth.’); iii.) verbs which, according to Padučeva / Rozina (1993;
Fellerer 2001), express complete transferral of a substance, e.g. wypełniać coś czymś (‘to fill
sth. with sth.’); and iv.) verbs for ‘to throw’, such as rzucić czymś. It can be shown that the
nouns surfacing in the instrumental case occupy an argument position in the event structure of
‘complete-transferral’ and of ‘throwing’ verbs. More precisely, they are a demoted theme
which may be re-promoted to its actual thematic status. With change-of-state and ‘surface-
contact’ verbs, on the other hand, the instrumental NPs do not form part of the verbs’ event
structure. They are adjuncts, and they take the type of semantic instrumental case which is
typical of adverbs expressing things such as means and tools.
The paper addresses these two instances of semantic instrumental case only. There are
others too, for instance instrumental case on local adverbials such as Czech Řidič Seatu jel
ulicí Dobiášovou (‘The driver of the Seat drove down Dobiášova street’), or predicate
instrumental on verbs such as Polish wydawać / wydać się kimś (‘to seem (to be) sb.’), if this
is not an instance of structural instrumental case similar to predicative instrumental, such as
Polish On myśli, że jest wielkim mędrcem (‘He thinks he is particularly clever’). The latter
certainly pairs with instrumental in secondary predicates, for example Russian On sel p’janym
za rul’ avtomobilja (‘He sat behind the wheel of the car drunk’). Both are assigned in a
specific syntactic configuration. Finally, in this paper I shall also not discuss instances of
purely lexical instrumental such as the well-known ‘govern’ or ‘control’ verbs in various
Slavonic languages, for example Polish kierować czymś (‘to manage sth.’).
The two instances of semantic instrumental case dealt with here will be introduced as
follows: the next section introduces aspects of methodology which I shall apply to shed light
on the relationship between instrumental and verb meaning. These include the type of lexical
semantic representation of verbal meaning adopted for the purposes of the present paper, and
the distinction between semantic case and other types of case briefly touched on above. The
third section explores the syntactic behaviour of the verbs under investigation. They differ

considerably not only in meaning, but also with respect to their distribution and the case-
marking alternations into which they enter. In particular, the instrumental NP can surface in a
structural case position with ‘complete-transferral’ verbs and ‘throwing’ verbs. With the
former, this is the subject position (e.g. Woda wypełnia pojemnik – ‘Water fills the
container’). With the latter, as is well known, it is the direct object (e.g. rzucić kamień – ‘to
throw the stone’). With change-of-state verbs and ‘surface-contact’ verbs no such alternation
occurs. These contrasts are evidence that the semantic differences between the four groups of
verbs are syntactically relevant too. As I shall analyse in sections 4 and 5, the impossibility of
alternative case-marking on the instrumental NP with change-of-state and ‘surface-contact’
verbs is down to the fact that the noun is an adjunct rather than an argument. Thus, it cannot
be subject to multiple argument realization. On the other hand, the possibility of alternative
case marking with ‘complete-transferral’ verbs and ‘throwing’ verbs is due to the fact that the
NP marked for instrumental represents a demoted theme. That is, it is an argument of the
verb. What is more, this argument may be re-promoted to themehood. Depending on the
verb’s event structure, it surfaces as direct object with ‘throwing’ verbs, or as subject with
‘complete-transferral’ verbs. The last section will be a very brief summary.

2. Methodological preliminaries
Argument realization and case marking with verbs have been at the centre of Slavonic
linguistics for many decades. By and large, one deals with questions such as: What case does
a verbal argument receive, and how precisely is this case assigned? In what way does the
meaning of the verb, of the argument, or of the two together, prefigure the syntactic
realization of arguments? That is, how do syntax and verbal semantics interact, whereby I
understand verbal semantics broadly, to include various facets of event structure such as
telicity, causality and lexical aspectuality? Generally speaking, case has been approached with
either a bias towards syntax or an emphasis on meaning (Brecht / Levine 1986). It goes
without saying that the two are not mutually exclusive. It is obvious that case establishes
syntactic links, as much as it conveys meaning, at least in certain instances. Still, in the
descriptive and structuralist tradition case was treated either as a predominantly semantic or as
a syntactic phenomenon. When semantics took centre stage scholars sought to explore the
meaning of individual cases and their relationship to each other. Jakobson’s (1971)
‘Gesamtbedeutung’ of cases was a particularly important concept. Heinz (1965) proposed a
semantic system of case for Polish. Mrazek (1964) and Wierzbicka (1980) presented in-depth
studies of the Russian instrumental case and its usage in different contexts. Many of them are
captured in semantic terms, for example ‘instrumental of instrument’ (e.g. Ivan ubil Petra
toporom – ‘Ivan killed Peter with an axe’), ‘instrumental objects in action sentences’ (e.g.
Ivan švyrjal kamnjami – ‘Ivan was throwing stones’), and ‘instrumental of matter in action
sentences’ (e.g. Ivan nagruzil telegu senom – ‘Ivan loaded the cart with hay’), to name just
those discussed in Wierzbicka (1980: 4-22, 70-82) which are of direct relevance to the present
study. Other types of usage were accorded a more syntactic treatment, e.g. Mrazek’s (1964:
166-179) ‘tvoritel’nyj realizatora dejstvija v bezličnych konstrukcijach’. In general,
traditional syntactic approaches to case often adhered to verbal valence models following
Tesnière’s (1965) Dependency grammar.
Even though this is of course a very schematic sketch of the research tradition, one
may continue and claim that, in more recent formal linguistics, there is a distinction between
syntactic and lexical semantic conceptions of case too. In Government and Binding, for
example, morphological case was by and large relegated to the lexicon; and quite predictably
so, as the theory drew on English data. Thus, early formal, i.e. fully explicit treatments of
case tended to concentrate on its lexical semantic underpinnings, or on ‘deep case’ to take

Fillmore’s (1968) term. Ever since, the debate has concentrated on the relationship between
verb meaning and argument structure. It is only more recently that case has also been looked
at from, so to speak, the other end; i.e. its manifestation in syntax. Firstly, this is due to the
fact that Government and Binding and subsequent forms of the theory started to be applied to
highly inflectional languages such as Slavonic (cf. e.g. Franks 1995). Secondly, the recent
introduction of semantic features and functional projections into syntax has made it possible
to be far more explicit about structural case. Essentially, this is a syntactic process whereby
the verb’s semantic categories are valued against the nominative and accusative case of the
subject and the direct object. The categories are person, number, and gender on the one hand,
and the verb’s function to project a certain type of event on the other. In a major study
devoted to the latter, Richardson (2007: 50-106) has established a link between accusative
case and the compositional event structure of bare case assigning, two-place base verbs.
Here, ‘compositional’ refers to the fact that an atelic verb is quantized; that is, it becomes telic
if combined with a quantized internal argument in the case of creation / consumption verbs
(e.g. Russian est’ jabloko), or with a telicizing prefix elsewhere (e.g. Russian razmešat’ sup).
In the future, we may see syntactic treatments of other types of case too. Transformational,
i.e. syntactic accounts have also been proposed for various forms of multiple argument
realization (cf. Levin / Rappaport Hovav 2005: 196-201), for instance for the well known
‘locative alternation’ in English: to load hay on the truck → to load the truck with hay.
Multiple argument realization plays an important role in the present paper too, as will
become clear in the next section. At this point, however, let us record, in very general terms,
that the research tradition suggests two approaches to case: one that seeks to identify the
syntactic structures in which case is assigned or valuated, and another one which looks for
case as part of the lexical semantics which underlie what is found on the syntactic surface.
The present study follows the second path. I shall explore the precise meaning of the
instrumental noun phrase towards four groups of verbs. Furthermore, I shall argue that this
meaning prefigures syntactic realization; i.e. that we are dealing with instances of semantic
instrumental case. This programme warrants definition of two crucial notions: firstly,
semantic case, and secondly, the components in the lexical semantics of verbs which appear
to be relevant to grammar. For semantic case, I follow Babby’s (1986: 171, 198-199)
conception: semantic case contributes to the sentence’s overall semantic interpretation.
Therefore, nouns marked for semantic case may be assigned a different case in order to yield
a different meaning, for example Russian chotet’ čto (‘to want’, with a concrete or specific
thing) vs. chotet čego (‘to want’, with a more abstract concept). Thus, multiple argument
realization is a good indicator of semantic case, even though it is by no means an
unambiguous diagnostic. For the purposes of the present paper, it will be sufficient to rely on
multiple argument realization as an indicator of semantic case.
I shall move on to the second crucial notion that requires clarification; that is, the
lexical semantic representation which I adopt in order to identify grammatically relevant
components in the meaning of verbs. In our case, these are the components which are said to
prefigure semantic instrumental case on noun phrases accompanying the four groups of verbs
under investigation: a potentially very large one comprising verbs which express a change of
state in the object, two smaller ones with verbs expressing forceful contact with a surface and
complete transferral of a substance, and a fourth, small group of various verbs for ‘to throw’.
I should like to emphasize that this is the crucial advantage of the present approach over a
traditional record of valence models associated with verbs. Stating that a verb such as
wypełniać / wypełnić (‘to fill’) takes an accusative object and a facultative phrase in the
instrumental is an accurate description of things. However, it fails to reveal that instrumental
case on the facultative phrase is expected, as much as it is expected that this phrase can

become the subject: Woda wypełnia pojemnik (‘Water fills the container’). These, I will
argue, are predictions which require the decomposition of verbal meaning and an algorithm
that maps the resulting components onto syntactic structures. I shall, therefore, now briefly
sketch the type of lexical semantic representation which I adopt in this paper.
Ever since Fillmore (1968), the notion of semantic roles has been crucial to meaning-
driven conceptions of argument structure and realization. However, there are various
problems attached to semantic roles. How many, and which ones are there? For example,
what would be the semantic role of the internal argument of the Polish verbs obchodzić dom
(‘to walk around the house’), mijać dom (‘to pass by the house’)? How do we account for the
fact that there appear to be numerous violations of the so-called Uniformity of Theta
Assignment Hypothesis? It stipulates that noun phrases bearing the same semantic role should
be realized in the same way syntactically too. Obvious and well known counter-examples are
so-called psychological verbs, such as Polish Pies przestraszył mnie (‘The dog frightened
me’) and Ja zlękłem się psa (‘I was afraid of the dog’). With these two types of verb,
EXPERIENCER and THEME surface in complementary syntactic positions. Belletti / Rizzi
(1988) proposed a syntactic treatment of the problem, whereas Grimshaw’s (1992) distinction
between two separate layers of semantic roles allowed for a more satisfactory lexical solution
feeding into syntax. However, it appears that even nuanced conceptions of semantic roles are
not flexible enough to accommodate the great diversity in argument realization patterns (for a
discussion of the limitations of semantic roles cf. Levin / Rappaport Hovav 2005: 35-77, 131-
185). Further evidence comes from multiple argument realization which has now been
recognized as more wide-spread than previously assumed, for example Polish napchać
torebkę drobiazgami (‘to stuff the bag with small items’) → napchać drobiazgi do torebki (‘to
stuff small items into the bag’).
There is an alternative to semantic roles. Event structure is now often used to capture
the syntactically relevant components of verbal meaning. Semantic roles then are dependent
on event structure. They specify the role a complement plays within or towards the particular
event. Verbal event structure has been conceptualized differently (cf. Levin / Rappaport
Hovav 2005: 78-130). I shall adopt an approach that decomposes verbal meaning into
hierarchically organized subevents (cf. Levin / Rappaport Hovav 2005: 112-117). Verbal
arguments are participants in the subevents. The vocabulary to classify and denote subevents
may vary (cf. e.g. Pustejovsky 1995: 67-75). The one used here draws on some of the
primitive predicates proposed by Jackendoff (1990). More importantly, decomposition of
verbal meaning as adopted for the present paper distinguishes between simple and complex
events. I assume that a verb such as Polish (biec) biegnąć (‘to run’) projects a simple event.
‘To run’, without any further complements, is an atelic activity that cannot be analysed any
further. The label for an event of this kind will be the generic predicate ACT. It licenses one
argument only, the one who carries out the activity. Now, take a verb such as rozbijać /
rozbić (‘to smash’). Unlike biegnąć, it projects a complex, telic event. Someone acts in such
way that they cause the object to change state. After the event, it is destroyed or broken.
Thus, the verb refers to an event that consists of two hierarchically ordered subevents. The
main one can be labelled CAUSE, the subordinate one COME TO BE IN STATE. They both
connote one argument each, the causer and the theme that undergoes a change of state. The
two examples can be formalized as follows:
(1’’) [X ACT]
(1’) [X ACT <biegnąć>]
(1) Szybko biegnie.
‘She runs fast.’

(2’) [X CAUSE [Y COME TO BE IN STATE] <rozbijać / rozbić>]
(2) Ona rozbiła szybę (w drobne kawałki).
‘She smashed the pane (into small pieces).’
It is important to keep in mind that the arguments do not receive independent semantic
role labels. The variables ‘X’ and ‘Y’ refer to arguments which are selected by the generic
predicates of the lexical semantic representation. As a result, arguments do not carry meaning
by themselves, as traditional semantic role labels suggest. Their meaning is derived from the
specific slot which they occupy in the eventual structure projected by the verb. With biegnąć,
the first (and only) argument is the subject of ACT. With rozbić, it is the subject of CAUSE.
This difference is important because it distinguishes between transitive verbs and intransitive
verbs; a distinction which is easily lost if semantic roles take precedence. In that case,
nothing would prevent us from positing one and the same role AGENT for both biegnąć and
Simple events of the type ACT and complex causal events are of course frequent.
Other ongoing activities without inherent endpoint are for instance oglądać / obejrzeć (‘to
watch’), pracować (‘to work’), myć (‘to wash’). Further examples of verbs projecting
complex telic and causal events include stępić / stępiać (‘to blunt (a knife)’), obsmażyć /
obsmażać (‘to fry’), otworzyć / otwierać (‘to open’). They illustrate that eventual structures
as adopted here are partly informed by the Vendlerian verb classes, but they are not
commensurate with them. Firstly, Vendler intended his classes to be purely aspectual with no
reference to a concept such as CAUSE. In passing, it must be also mentioned that Vendler’s
lexical aspect is different from grammatical aspect as usually understood in Slavonic
grammar. Secondly, the design of events as adopted here allows for more, and for more
complex structures than the four Vendlerian groups. It is beyond the scope of this paper to
attempt a comprehensive discussion of possible eventual structures encoded in Polish and
other Slavonic verbs. Suffice it to note that the methodological framework makes a crucial
distinction between simple and complex events. As will become clear in section 5.1, a further
tenet of the theory is that it includes operators to combine events. Thus, apart from simple
and complex events, there are also combined ones.
Let us return to the lexical semantic representations of biegnąć and rozbijać / rozbić
from above. As (1’) and (2’) show, entries must name the ‘lexical root’ which specifies the
given event (cf. Pesetsky 1995). There may be different ways of how the root integrates into
the event. For instance, it may be significant whether rozbić is thought of as complementing
the subordinate event predicate (in the shape of ‘broken’), or as modifying the main event
predicate, which is the solution adopted here. We do not need to go further into this question
for the present purposes. We shall say in a non-terminological fashion that the activity carried
out in (1’’) is set for biegnąć, and the causing event of (2’’) is specified for rozbić / rozbijać,
as shown within brackets. Lexically specified event structures serve as input for mapping
algorithms onto syntax. I shall briefly return to these algorithms in section 5.1. At this point,
let us further focus on lexical roots and a special property which applies to them within the
methodological framework adopted here. To start with, take the following alternative usage
of Polish (biec) biegnąć (‘to run’).
(3) Ona biegła do szkoły (w 10 minut).
‘She ran to school (in ten minutes).’

As is well known, adding a directional argument changes the atelic verb of motion into a telic
one. We are dealing with a semantic extension whereby the event projected by (biec) biegnąć
is further specified to include an inherent endpoint. This shift in event type probably changes
the unergative motion verb into an unaccusative one, as has been noted for a language such as
Italian where, unlike Polish, tests for unaccusativity are relatively unambiguous: ha corso →
è corso a casa. I propose a change of the primitive predicate from ACT in (1’) to GO in (3’) to
represent this shift of event type.
What is important here too is the representation of the additional, directional
complement. It is clear that its semantic role within the event is quintessentially different
from the direct object in example (2) above. The event Ona rozbiła szybę (‘She smashed the
pane’) is not only inherently telic, as Ona biegła do szkoły (‘She ran to school’) is. It also
entails a change of state with a new resultant state: ‘the pane is broken’. No change of state is
entailed in example (3). The person who has reached the school running may be tired or
exhausted, but this is not logically implied. This crucial difference can again be explained
with reference to event complexity. Change-of-state verbs project a complex causing event.
Change-of-location verbs remain simple events irrespective of the directional argument.
Every metre, so to speak, on the person’s way to school in example (3) is part of the event.
The event progresses incrementally with the distance covered. Thus, the direction must be
thought of as an integral part of the subevent projected by the motion verb. This can be
represented in the following manner:
(3a’) [X GO TO Y <biegnąć>]
Rappaport Hovav / Levin (1998) try to take one step further the idea that the decisive
factor in event structure is compositionality. A lexical semantic representation such as (3a’)
does not sit comfortably with this idea because it includes a non-hierarchical relationship
between two arguments within the same subevent. One way of discriminating between them
may be to associate the first argument with the event itself. The second argument, on the
other hand, would be implied by the lexical root. This would be in recognition of the fact that
a motion event itself only entails that someone is moving, but not necessarily that they are
moving somewhere specific. An asymmetrical relationship between two arguments within
the same subevent would, in the case of biegnąć, need to be represented in the following way:
(3b’) [X GO <biegnąć do Y>]
Thus, the first argument complements the event proper. The direction, on the other hand, is
associated with the lexical root. That the directional argument should be secondary to the
event, and more closely linked with the lexical root, also seems plausible in so far as it can
either be left out (cf. (1)), or come in a wide variety of different kinds of prepositional phrase,
e.g. biegnąć do szkoły, biegnąć na autobus (‘to run to the bus (to catch it)’), biegnąć ku temu
wzgórzu (‘to run towards the hillock’).
It is beyond the scope of this paper to decide whether a representation such as (3b’) is
in fact a viable option. I shall tentatively adopt it. More importantly, however, I will draw on
the distinction between simple, complex and combined events (for the latter cf. section 5.1).
This serves the purpose of elucidating lexical semantic differences between the four groups of
Polish verbs under investigation, and to show that the instrumental noun phrase with which
they may combine is an adjunct with change-of-state and ‘surface-contact’ verbs, but a proper
argument with ‘complete-transferral’ and ‘throwing’ verbs. With these two groups of verbs
the instrumental argument is a demoted theme. It may be re-promoted to proper themehood
and surface as the subject with ‘complete-transferral’ verbs and as the object with ‘throwing’
verbs. The following section is about these alternative syntactic realizations of the NP
marked for instrumental case.

3. Alternative syntactic realizations of the instrumental noun phrase
At first glance, the instrumental noun phrases with the four groups of verbs under
investigation appear to be more or less similar from a semantic and from a syntactic point of
(4) Marek rozbił szybę kamieniem.
‘Marek smashed the pane with a stone.’
(5) Marek uderzył siekierą w podłogę.
‘Marek hit the floor with an axe.’
(6) Marek wypełnił pojemnik wodą.
‘Marek filled the container with water.’
(7) Marek rzucił kamieniem w okno.
‘Marek threw the stone at the window.’
The relevant noun phrases in sentences (4) to (7) are all marked for instrumental case. They
all seem to express some sort of instrument or the means which an agent uses to do
something. Alternative syntactic realizations, however, reveal significant contrasts in their
distribution. In fact, Wierzbicka distinguishes types of usage of instrumental case which
equal examples (4) to (7). Yet, with other analysts some of the distinctions went unnoticed.
For instance, Grochowski (1986) conflates examples (4), (5) and (7) under the heading
‘instrumental of instrument’. Topolińska (1990) does not distinguish (4), (5) and (6).
Distributional data show that this cannot be the right approach.
The NPs marked for instrumental allow alternative syntactic realization in ways which
significantly differ from each other. Let us first look at examples (4) and (5). In both cases,
the instrumental noun phrase may alternatively surface as subject:
(8) Kamień rozbił szybę.
‘The stone smashed the pane.’
(9) Siekiera uderzyła w podłogę.
‘The axe hit the floor.’
Note, however, that the alternation produces distinctly different readings. ‘To smash’ retains
more or less the same sense. ‘To hit’, on the other hand, appears to change the type of event it
projects. A ‘surface-contact’ verb in example (5), it now has become a motion verb.
Sentence (9) entails that the axe has changed position and is now on the floor.
Change-of-state verbs, such as rozbijać / rozbić (‘to smash’), contrast even more
markedly with a ‘complete-transferral’ verb, such as wypełniać / wypełnić (‘to fill’). Here, the
contrast is syntactic in nature. Compare the following forms:
(10) Szyba rozbiła się (*kamieniem).
‘The pain smashed (*with a stone).’
(11) Pojemnik wypełnił się (wodą).
‘The container filled (with water).’

Adding the reflexive pronoun się to the change-of-state verb produces an inchoative or anti-
causative derivative (cf. Kardela 1985: 63-66; Rozwadowska 1992: 43-52). It has a
spontaneous reading and does not allow an instrumental phrase (cf. Kibort 2004: 228-229).
With a ‘complete-transferral’ verb, the same operation does not yield a spontaneous reading.
What is more, it allows an instrumental phrase.
A related contrast emerges if we apply the instrument-to-subject alternation to a
‘complete-transferral’ verb. Compare example (12):
(12) Woda wypełnia / wypełniła pojemnik.
‘Water fills / filled the container.’
The situation described is either a state: ‘The container is full’. Alternatively, it can be
understood as a telic process; an accomplishment in Vendler’s terms that has been stripped of
the agent or causer. This event-type shift is not observable with state-of-change verbs, such
as example (8), as I shall argue in the subsequent section.
Finally, alternative case marking also distinguishes example (7) above. As is well
known, its second argument can alternatively be marked for accusative case:
(13) Marek rzucił kamień w okno.
‘Marek threw a stone at the window.’
Crucially, the contrasts introduced in this section are not restricted to the four verbs
illustrated in examples (4) to (7). They apply in exactly the same way to other, semantically
similar verbs too. Compare the following examples (for their syntax and senses see Słownik
(14) Change-of-state verbs: rozbijać / rozbić (‘to smash’), łamać / złamać (‘to break’),
rozkrajać / rozkroić (‘to cut in two’), rozrywać / rozerwać (‘to tear in two’), zginać /
zgiąć (‘to bend’);
(15) ‘Surface-contact’ verbs: uderzać / uderzyć (‘to hit’), bić / – (‘to beat’), grzmocić /
grzmotnąć (‘to bang’), stukać / stuknąć (‘to knock’), walić / walnąć (‘to batter’);
(16) ‘Complete-transferral’ verbs: wypełniać / wypełnić (‘to fill’), nasycać / nasycić (‘to
satiate’), oblepiać / oblepić (‘to stick’), powlekać / powlec (‘to coat’), nakrywać /
nakryć (‘to cover’);
(17) ‘Throwing’ verbs: rzucać / rzucić (‘to throw’), ciskać / cisnąć (‘to hurl’), grzmocić /
grzmotnąć (‘to fling’), miotać / – (‘to throw’, ‘to toss’), uderzać / uderzyć (‘to hurl’).
In the following sections, I analyse the differences in argument realization and event-type
shift between these four groups of verbs. The main purpose will be to show that, for each of
these groups, the instrumental noun phrase accompanying the verb fulfils a different role
within or towards the event. Thus, I shall attempt a lexical semantic explanation of the
variant syntactic (and semantic) behaviour found in the four groups of verbs under

4. The instrumental noun phrase as adjunct

4.1 Change-of-state verbs
The statement that the instrumental noun phrase is an adjunct with change-of-state
verbs seems to be trivial. This is what is often assumed more or less ad hoc. However, at
closer inspection it emerges that this is in contrast with another, equally influential analysis.

It dates back to Fillmore (1968) and returns in many subsequent studies such as Lasnik
(1988). It says that the semantic role of INSTRUMENT can become the subject of the sentence
if there is no canonical AGENT. This is the alleged instrument-to-subject alternation
illustrated in example (8) of the previous section. Crucially, this analysis implies that the
INSTRUMENT is a verbal argument because it is on a par with the AGENT. If it is an argument
of the verb, it cannot be an adjunct at the same time. The two analyses are mutually
Let us however look more closely into the semantic role of instrumental noun phrases
with change-of-state verbs. Following Schlesinger’s (1989) analysis, there is no need to
discriminate between an animate and agentive subject on the one hand, and an inanimate
instrumental subject on the other. To be sure, the subject of sentence (4) above is of course
semantically different from the one of sentence (8). However, this difference does not have
any bearing on the event structure of the verb. In either case, someone or something causes
something else to change state. Both, sentences (4) and (8) entail that the pane of the window
is broken. Thus, from the point of view of event structure, the subject in sentence (4) and the
subject in sentence (8) fulfil precisely the same semantic role. Rather than an agent in one
case and an instrument in the other, it is the causer or, to use Dowty’s (1991) term, the ‘proto-
agent’ in both sentences. Thus, there is a stable semantic relationship between the verb and
its first argument, irrespective of whether the filler is animate and agentive, inanimate and
instrumental or else. The lexical semantic representation for rozbić, repeated from above,
assigns only one semantic role to the first argument:
(2’) [X CAUSE [Y COME TO BE IN STATE] <rozbijać / rozbić>]
Thus, sentence (8) from the previous section does not in fact manifest an alternative
realization of the instrumental noun phrase of sentence (4). Both, (4) and (8) project the same
event structure (2’). If this analysis is correct, then there is no instrument-to-subject
alternation, and there is no derivative relationship between the subject in (8) and the
instrumental NP in (4).
If the instrumental noun phrase in (4) does not allow alternative argument realization,
this must be due to the fact that we are not dealing with an argument at all. This is
tantamount to saying that it does not represent a meaning component inherent to the event.
Supporting evidence for this claim comes from the following example:
(18) Ludzie łamali nogi na śliskich schodach (Słownik 1980, vol.2: 346).
‘People broke their legs on the slippery stairs’.
Here, the change-of-state verb łamać is used in such way that no instrumental phrase can be
added. The reason for that must be that the ‘breaking’-event and, by analogy, other change-
of-state events are not encoded as mediated through an instrument. In many, if not in most
cases an instrument may be added, but this modifies, rather than constitutes the event. From
an example such as (18) and, more importantly, from the fact that there is no instrument-to-
subject argument alternation, I conclude that the NP marked for instrumental case with
change-of-state verbs is an adjunct rather than an argument.

4.2 ‘Surface-contact’ verbs

Instrumental case on NPs also appears with ‘surface-contact’ verbs as exemplified in
(5) above. Extending the point from the previous section, I assume that these NPs are
adjuncts rather than arguments too. Compare the following sentence taken from the Polish
Academy Corpus (Korpus):

(19) Kotłowali się na podłodze, uderzając o fotele i łóżko.
‘They [Ewa and her husband] were whirling around on the floor hitting against the
armchairs and the bed.’
Similarly to sentence (18) above, the verb uderzać (‘to hit’) is used in such way here that it
does not allow an instrumental phrase. What is more, the subject is not an agent. This
suggests that ‘surface-contact’ verbs do not project an event inherently mediated by an
instrument. From this I conclude that the instrumental noun phrase in example (5) of section
3 is a modifier, rather than a constituent part of the forceful ‘surface-contact’ event.
Furthermore, and again similar to change-of-state verbs, the first argument of ‘surface-
contact’ verbs cannot be described as an AGENT in the traditional sense; that is an active or
volitional entity, usually human or human-like. If that was the case, an example such as (19)
should not be possible.
Thus, if an instrument is not intrinsic to the ‘surface-contact’ event, and if it is not
only agents that can start it, there is no need to assume an instrument-to-subject alternation.
Thus, there is none in a sentence such as the following either:
(20) Laska mężczyzny uderzyła jeszcze energiczniej o kafelkową posadzkę (Korpus).
‘The stick of the man hit against the tiled floor even more energetically.’
Rather than an instrument promoted to subject position, laska (‘the stick’) here equals a
canonical agent, such as English ‘he beats the fence with a stick’. The contact between acting
entity and surface is direct in example (20), rather than indirect as in canonical surface-contact
events. However, this distinction is irrelevant to the architecture of the event itself. If this
were not so, the acceptability of sentence (19), which does not allow a mediating instrument,
would be unexpected.
The following lexical semantic representation captures the fact that ‘contact-surface’
verbs project a simple event headed by an ‘actor’:
(20’) [X ACT <uderzać / uderzyć w / o / po Y>]
As the representation (20’) shows too, I propose to integrate the second argument into the
lexical root, rather than to associate it with an argument position in the event structure (cf.
section 2 for this possibility). Polish appears to encode ‘surface-contact’ events as simple
activities which specify the ‘actor’ only, rather than the ‘actor’ and the surface. Note, for
instance, that the Polish verb bić (‘to hit’) can be used without specifying a surface at all.
(21) Ona bije wokół siebie.
lit. ‘She beats around her.’
‘Surface-contact’ verbs are quintessentially intransitive in Polish. That the second
argument appears in the accusative if it is human is a problem that must be resolved
separately (e.g. bić kogoś – ‘to beat so.’). It does, however, tie in with an observation briefly
made in section 2. Arguments associated with the root seem to allow for a wider range of
realization options. Lexical semantic flexibility is also in evidence in another sense.
‘Surface-contact’ verbs form derivatives which describe fast motion, and which may be
analysed as unaccusative.
Consider example (9) of section 3, repeated here as (22) for ease of reference:
(22) Siekiera uderzyła w podłogę.
‘The axe hit the floor.’

Its meaning is fundamentally different from examples such as (5), (19) and (20). The subject
does not only contact a surface. Crucially, it is entailed that it remains in contact with that
surface. Thus, the verb does in fact not express forceful contact with a surface any longer. It
now describes fast movement of an object to a surface or location. The new, derived sense
can be represented in the same fashion as the meaning of a motion verb proper (cf. the lexical
semantic representation for biegnąć (‘to run’) in section 2):
(22’) [X GO < uderzać / uderzyć w Y >]
A mapping rule from lexical semantics to syntax would need to specify that the
argument of the primitive predicate GO is to become an underlying object. If that rule is
correct, one would need to show that uderzyć for ‘to move fast (and forcefully) to a location’
is in fact unaccusative, as opposed to unergative uderzyć for ‘to contact a surface forcefully’.
This is not easily achieved, given that tests for unaccusativity are often unavailable or
unreliable in Polish (for an introduction to those tests cf. Kosta / Frasek 2004). For our
purposes, it will be sufficient to point out that there is not only a semantic contrast between
the usage of uderzyć (‘to hit’) in example (22) on the one hand, and in the examples (5), (19)
and (20) on the other. There is some syntactic evidence too: The unaccusative derivative
cannot take a prepositional argument in o (‘against’) because the preposition o excludes
continued contact.
This analysis also shows that examples (19) and (20) are not unaccusative as they
combine with a PP in o. Thus, they are unergative. Unergative ‘surface-contact’ verbs
project a simple event with two arguments, some sort of ‘actor’ and a surface. No
instrumental argument is encoded. The instrumental phrase which may appear with ‘surface-
contact’ verbs is an adjunct and modifies VP.

5. The instrumental noun phrase as demoted theme

5.1 ‘Complete-transferral’ verbs
Unlike change-of-state and ‘surface-contact’ verbs, the instrumental noun phrase is not
an adjunct with ‘complete-transferral’ verbs (cf. example (6) in section 3). Based on a
proposal put forward by Rappaport / Levin (1988), it can be analysed as ‘demoted theme’.
Padučeva / Rozina (1993: 8-9) also emphasize that the noun phrase marked for instrumental
has a particular semantic function with ‘complete-transferral’ verbs. Intuitively, it can be
described in the following fashion: The agent directly operates on the matter or substance
referred to by the instrumental noun phrase. This is unlike other transitive verbs where,
canonically, the agent acts on the direct object marked for accusative.
With certain ‘complete-transferral’ verbs, this peculiar semantic constellation can be
‘normalized’. This refers to the so-called locative alternation which has received considerable
scholarly attention. In the locative variant, the LOCATUM argument takes accusative. The
LOCATION is realized as a prepositional phrase. In the ‘with’-variant, it is the other way
around. Take, for example, German füllen (‘to fill’):
(23a) Er füllt Wasser in den Tank.
lit. ‘He fills water into the tank.’
(23b) Er füllt den Tank mit Wasser.
‘He fills the tank with water.’
In the ‘with’-variant (23b), the actual object, or theme of the action is demoted and
realized as a prepositional ‘with’-phrase. Incidentally, the locative variant (23a) is not an

option for English ‘to fill’. However, it is available for verbs, such as ‘to load’ and ‘to spray’.
As has long been noticed, there is not only a difference in perspective between (23a) and
(23b). They also differ in meaning. The locative variant (23a), if available, describes how an
agent transfers a substance or a matter to another location. The ‘with’-variant (23b), on the
other hand, also implies that the transfer is complete. Thus, as Rappaport / Levin (1988: 26)
point out, the ‘with’-variant in (23b) presupposes the locative variant in (23a).
To represent this correctly, they propose the compound causal event (23b’), as
paraphrased in (23b’’):
(23b’) [X CAUSE [Z COME TO BE IN STATE] <füllen>]
(23b’’) ‘He fills the tank’.
By means of: He transfers water into the tank.’
At this point, it is necessary to return to an aspect of methodology briefly touched on in
section 2. This is about the mapping rules from lexical semantics onto syntax. Semantic
representations, such as (1’), (2’), (3a-b’), (20’), (22’) and (23b’), are in fact entries in the
lexicon. Mapping those entries onto syntax may be unproblematic, such as in the case of
causative change-of-state verbs. Here, event structure complexity neatly corresponds to
syntactic realization. The causing subevent projects the external argument. The theme of the
subevent describing the change of state must project as the direct object. Mapping is more
complicated if the event structure is compound, such as in (23b’). First, the causing event
projects the external argument. Then, the argument of the subordinate subevent is mapped
onto syntax as direct object. This is the location ‘Z’. As mapping proceeds hierarchically, it
now moves to the embedded component of the event. Here, it encounters ‘X’, which has
already been realized as external argument. This is followed by ‘Y’. Being the theme of the
transferral, it qualifies as a direct object. However, the direct-object relation has already been
assigned to the location ‘Z’. Therefore the argument ‘Y’, the theme of the transferral, must be
The semantic representation (23b’) with the mapping algorithm outlined above can be
easily transferred to a ‘complete-transferral’ verb in Polish, such as wypełnić / wypełniać (‘to
fill’). It does not only correctly capture the intuition that the theme of the transferral event,
i.e. the substance transferred, is demoted. It also allows positing a special mapping rule for
Polish which stipulates that demoted themes receive instrumental case. Given that demoted
theme clearly is a lexical semantic category, I consider this an instance of semantic case
assignment. It is worth noting that Slavonic employs instrumental case more widely if a third
argument competes with a second one for direct objecthood, e.g. Russian ščitat’ kogo kem (‘to
consider so. (to be) so.’). In the same vein, Brecht / Levine (1986: 27) note that ‘the
instrumental case in Russian occurs automatically where a double accusative is expected.’
The representation in (23b’) is suitable for Polish ‘complete-transferral’ verbs from
another point of view too. First, recall that it allows the explicit derivation of the ‘with’-
variant from the locative variant, if the latter is available for a given verb. Examples are
German füllen (‘to fill’) and English ‘to load’, ‘to spray’. Polish has but a handful of
corresponding examples, such as napchać torebkę drobiazgami (‘to stuff the bag with small
items’) → napchać drobiazgi do torebki (‘to stuff small items into the bag’). Similarly to
English, the locative variant is not an option for the Polish sample verb under discussion:
(24) *Marek wypełnił wodę do pojemnika.
lit. ‘Marek filled water into the container.’

However, another alternative argument realization for ‘to fill’ is available:
(25) Woda wypełnia / wypełniła pojemnik.
‘Water fills / filled the container.’
I reserve the label ‘complete transferral’ for this kind of verbs; that is, for verbs which
describe an event as represented in (23b’), and which may alternate as shown in (25), but
which do not allow the locative variant as exemplified in (24).
Let us now return to the question why (23b’) is in fact an appropriate lexical semantic
representation of Polish ‘complete-transferral’ verbs. In a nutshell, it allows us to establish an
explicit derivational link between the ‘non-with’ variant in (25) and the ‘with’-variant in
(23b); cf. (6) for the Polish equivalent. Two differences between the ‘non-with’ and the
‘with’-variants need to be accounted for: Firstly, the ‘non-with’ variant in (25) is a non-
causative state or process, as opposed to the causative event projected by the ‘with’-variant.
Secondly, the theme of the transferral, i.e. the substance transferred, is promoted to subject
position in the ‘non-with’ variant. This is matched by the following representation:
(25’) [[Y COME TO BE AT Z] < wypełniać / wypełnić>] 1
Crucially, (25’) is the embedded subevent of (23b’). It tells us that the ‘non-with’ variant
describes a change of location, and that this change of location is a subevent of the ‘with’-
Finally, ‘complete-transferral’ verbs undergo a third alternation as illustrated in (26):
(26) Pojemnik wypełnił się wodą.
‘The container was filled with / by water.’
Unlike Kibort’s (2004: 232-233) eventual analysis, I do not consider this an anti-causative
construction proper. It lacks the spontaneous reading and naturally allows an instrumental
phrase. As Kibort (2004: 132) points out, the instrumental phrase can also become the
demoted subject in the passive form of example (25):
(27) Pojemnik została wypełniona przez wodę.
‘The container was filled by water’
This suggests that sentence (26) has a passive-like reading, but a form that is remnant of the
anti-causative construction. This yields an unusual event description; namely a change of
state which lacks a causer, but which, unlike other anti-causatives, does not project the theme
as external argument. The sentence in (26) describes a (non-caused) change of state in the
location by way of a (non-caused) change of location of the substance. This is captured by
the following lexical semantic representation:
(26’) [[Z COME TO BE IN STATE] <wypełniać się / wypełnić się>]
(26’) is directly related to (23b’). As argued above, the same is true for (25’). Hence, we
have an explicit representation of the semantic relationship that holds between the three
senses of ‘complete-transferral’ verbs. What is more, this representation helps to explain
why, in the causative and the passive-like variants, the argument denoting the transferred
substance is assigned instrumental case when it is mapped onto syntax. To repeat, this is so
because it represents the demoted theme of the embedded change of location. It is promoted
to subjecthood in the ‘non-with’ variant.

5.2 ‘Throwing’-verbs
It is well known that Slavonic verbs for ‘to throw’ may assign instrumental case
instead of accusative to their internal argument. We shall first turn to the structural
accusative-case variant as exemplified in (13) above; i.e. rzucić coś w coś (‘to throw sth. at
sth.’). Here, the verb describes an event whereby an agent sets an object into motion.
Jakobson (1971: 48), in his discussion of Russian švyrjat’ kamni as opposed to švyrjat’
kamnjami (‘to throw stones’), states that, with accusative, the activity is directed at the object.
The verb may further combine with a directional phrase as illustrated in example (13) of
section 3. The motion is then given a goal, even though this goal is not inherent in the verb
itself. Thus, the resulting event clearly is in some way compound; that is, it describes a
situation whereby someone or something sets an object into motion towards a goal by way of
throwing. I do not, however, take this to be a complex causing event of the kind ‘to cause an
object to come to be in a different place’, such as ‘to put’.
Let us now compare this with the instrumental-variant rzucić czymś w coś (‘to throw
sth. at sth.’). There are two important differences. First, the action is not immediately
directed at the object thrown. Second, the additional prepositional phrase does not simply
denote a goal. Its meaning is more akin to the PP in ‘surface-contact’ verbs, such as bić w
coś, uderzyć w coś (‘to hit sth.’). It refers to a surface with which the thrower attempts to
establish some sort of – often forceful – contact. Compare the following two examples:
(28) Matka cisnęła skorupy do śmietnika (Słownik 1980, vol. 1).
‘The mother threw the shells into the bin.’
(29) Matka cisnęła skorupami do śmietnika.
lit. ‘The mother threw with the shells towards / at the bin.’
Sentence (28) describes an object being set into motion towards a goal by way of
throwing. Following the diction of native informants, the instrumental variant (29) expresses
that the same act of throwing is carried out more ‘aggressively’. Topolińska (1990: 432)
speaks of some additional purpose entailed in the act of throwing. I take this to be the
thrower’s aim to establish contact with an object or a person.
Supporting evidence for this analysis comes from the fact that it is not only the
meaning of ‘throwing’ verbs which can shift to include a semantic component of ‘surface-
contact’ verb. The derivation works in the opposite direction too; that is, ‘surface-contact’
verbs can be used to speak of an object that has been set into fast motion, possibly towards a
certain goal, for example uderzyć piłkę na drugą stronę (lit. ‘to hit the ball to the other side’).
Even the instrumental variant is available: uderzyć piłką w siatkę (lit. ‘to hit with the ball into
the net’). Thus, the semantics of ‘throwing’ and of ‘surface-contact’ verbs seem to have the
potential to combine in both directions. There is, however, an important distinction too. With
‘throwing’ verbs, unlike ‘surface-contact’ verbs, the instrumental phrase is obligatory.
Therefore, sentence (30) is not acceptable:
(30) *Marek rzucił w okno.
lit. ‘Marek threw at the window.’
This suggests that the instrumental argument is constitutive of the event. I assume that it is
the theme, but it is a different kind of theme than in the accusative-case variant. With
instrumental case, the ‘throwing’ is just the means towards something else; namely towards
establishing a – usually forceful – contact with a surface. Note that the surface, similar to
surface-contact verbs proper, does not need to be expressed explicitly. However, I assume,

following Topolińska (1990: 432), that it is entailed in the instrument-case variant. The
theme, on the other hand, must be expressed. It is assigned instrumental case, rather than
accusative, because it has been demoted to the embedded ‘throwing’ event. These various
aspects can be represented as follows:
BY MEANS OF: [X MOVE Y] < rzucać / rzucić>]
The lexical semantic representation in (29’) says that an agent establishes, or attempts to
establish, a – usually forceful – contact with a surface. The contact is indirect and brought
about by way of throwing something.
Thus, the event is a combination of two activities: an unergative activity (surface
contact) with an embedded transitive activity (‘to throw’). The theme demoted to the
embedded component of the event receives instrumental case; the same type of semantic
instrumental case which the demoted theme of ‘complete-transferral’ verbs is assigned.
Semantically assigned instrumental is fundamentally different from the instrumental case
found with ‘control’ verbs, such as rządzić czymś (‘to govern sth.), manipulować kimś (‘to
manipulate s.o.’). I assume, unlike Fowler (1996), that these are instances of lexical case.

6. Summary
In the present paper, I have shown that an instrumental phrase is an adjunct with
Polish change-of-state verbs, such as z/łamać coś czymś (‘to break sth. with sth.’), and with
‘surface-contact’ verbs, such as bić w coś czymś (‘to hit at sth. with sth.’). This is so because
it is not a constituent part of the verb’s event structure. With two other groups of Polish verbs
the instrumental phrase is an argument of the event structure. These are ‘complete-
transferral’ verb, such as wypełniać / wypełnić coś czymś (‘to fill sth. with sth.), and ‘throwing
verbs, such as rzucić czymś (‘to throw sth.’). Here, it is the theme, but has been demoted to an
embedded constituent of the event. Therefore, it is assigned instrumental, rather than
accusative case when projected onto syntax. Case-marking of this kind is semantic as it is
contingent on the semantic role of the argument. As a by-product, the analysis has revealed
that not only ‘complete-transferral’ verbs project a compound event. The instrumental variant
of ‘throwing’ verbs does so too, blending the activity described by rzucić (‘to throw’) with the
kind of forceful surface contact expressed by a verb such as uderzyć (‘to hit’). I assume that
event composition is an exceptionally productive, but as yet poorly understood process in
Slavonic word formation in general.

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This formula represents the process reading. If the event changes to a state, there will be further derivation
yielding a representation of the kind: [[Y BE AT Z] < wypełniać / wypełnić>].

The Heresy of the ‘Judaizers’ in 15th century Moscovy and the Production of the First
Complete Slavonic Bible: Is There a Connection?

Jana Howlett and Lyubov Osinkina

(Cambridge and Oxford)


The image above reproduces the colophon to the first complete codex of the Slavonic Bible,
now known as the Gennadii Bible. The colophon translates (literally) as follows:
In the year 7007 was written this book, called the Bible, that is both
the Testaments Old and New, in the reign of the blessed in faith
Grand Prince Ivan Vasil’evich, the autocrat of All Rus’, and of the
metropolitan of All Rus’ Simon, and of the archbishop of Novgorod
Gennadii in Novgorod the Great, at the court of the archbishop by
the order of the archbishop’s archdeacon, the monk Gerasim, and
the scribes who wrote it, these are their names: Vasil Ierusalimskii,
Gridia Ispovednitskii and Kliment Arkhangelskoi. 1
The colophon does not say that the codex was compiled on Gennadii’s orders, still less
does it give any reason for the compilation. Yet Gennadii has firmly entered history as the
‘conceiver’ of the project which first established a canonical text of the Bible. Moreover several
authoritative scholars have claimed that that the Bible codex was compiled as a weapon in the

struggle against a group of heretics who ‘philosophize judaistically’, whose existence in Novgorod
Gennadii first reported some time before January 1488.2
Other scholars have argued that the fact that the Gennadii Bible contains texts directly
translated from Hebrew argues for a Jewish/Judaiser influence at Gennadii’s court, or that the
presence of texts translated from the Latin Vulgate argues for a Western Catholic influence. 3 The
connection made between Gennadii, the Bible codex and the heretics now known as Judaizers is
typical of the syllogistic reasoning which characterizes many discussions of early modern Russia.
The argument goes something like this:
1 Gennadii in his letters expresses concern about (inter alia) biblical books
which ‘the heretics possess’, and speaks of books such as the Psalms which have been
‘corrupted’ by the heretics.
2 Gennadii says the heretics ‘judaized’.
3 Therefore the heretics were involved in disseminating Jewish texts.
4 Therefore Gennadii embarked upon the project of compiling a canonical text as
a weapon against the heretics. 4
The vision of Gennadii brandishing an authentic text in refutation of his enemies like
Luther is anachronistic. The Holy Book only became a tool in theological debates once
printing made the text accessible – the Gennadii Bible exists in a few folio copies.
The present paper reviews present knowledge on the relevant aspects of the Judaizers’ heresy
and the compilation of the Gennadii Bible in the years up to 1499, and suggests that the two were
connected for reasons different from those cited above.

What was the Heresy of the Judaizers?

Anyone wishing to see a succint statement of the accepted view on the heresy could do
worse than read Solzhenitsyn’s Dvesti let vmeste. In chapter one of his history of Russian-Jewish
relations Solzhenitsyn gives an account of the heresy based entirely on Karamzin, Solov’ev and
encyclopedias, but it does not differ greatly from the summary obtained in most specialist works.
According to this narrative in 1470 a Jew called Shariia went from Kiev to Novgorod, where
he converted local priests to Judaising heresy. When Novgorod fell in 1480, Ivan III took two of the
heretics to Moscow. In 1487 Gennadii of Novgorod discovered the heresy and held a Council
against the heretics in 1490. But in the meantime the heretics in Moscow managed to convert the
Metropolitan Zosima, and numerous members of the Grand Prince Ivan’s court, including his
Moldavian sister-in-law. The heresy was only extirpated in 1504.
This summary is so persistent because it fits a number of existing historical frameworks. To
those who see the history of Orthodoxy as the history of struggle against spiritual enemies – Jews
among them – the heresy is proof of the ancient roots of the conflict. To those who perceive the
fifteenth century as a period of unacknowledged Jewish cultural influence in Russia, this narrative is
proof of the existence of such influence. Finally such a narrative suits all those who see Russian
history in terms of struggle between two polar opposites, whether in terms of class or belief.
But the narrative has a number of holes, and this is easy to establish, since the period is
relatively well documented. Firstly, there was no one heresy of the Judaizers, instead there were
several groups accused of heresy between the years 1488 and 1504. Each group came from a
different area and background, and the specific accusations against each group were different. But
because of the Prosvetitel’ of Iosif Volotskii they all came to be described as one group, though still
not as Judaisers, but as adherents of the ‘newly-appeared heresy of Novgorod heretics, Aleksei the

Archpriest and Denis the Priest and others who philosophize in the same way.’ 5 The term comes
from Gennadii’s first mention of the existence of a problem in his diocese, written in 1487 to
Prokhor, Bishop of Sarai:
Please aid us in the name of Christ the God [sic] and his Virgin
Mother's pure image … against who have attacked our Lord Jesus
Christ with calumny and have dishonoured the image of our Most
Pure Lady the Mother of God, the Novgorod heretics who
philosophize judaistically [‘жидовская мудръствующих’]. For they
are, like those heretics, stamped with the curse of those heretics, that
is the curse of Marcionites and Messalians. For they too, when
questioned, renounce that which they decreed and they shamelessly
and strenuously swear and curse all who philosophize likewise... 6
The letter is telling. The words 'philosophizing judaistically' are a translation of the Greek
epithet ioudaika fronon or ioudaiofron. This, like the words ‘Judaizers’ ioudaisti and ‘judaizing’
ioudaizon became common in Byzantine anti-heretical literature 7 because of the theories first
developed in the Panarion of St. Ephiphanios of Cyprus 8 and later re-worked by St. John of Damascus
in a tract which became the reference work for Orthodox theologians dealing with heresy.
St. John's work, entitled On heresies, 9 traces the origin of all heresies back to four heretical
archetypes: Barbarism, Scythism, Hellenism and Judaism. Judaism superseded all the rest, 10 and all
heresies which sprang up after the victory of Christianity have Judaism as their archetype. 11 The
accusation of ‘judaistic philosophizing’ thus does not imply adherence to the Jewish faith – only the
holding of heretical beliefs. And the important thing to remember is that persons professing a non-
Christian faith could not be heretics.
That is why a ‘judaizing’ accusation can be found in the Epistle of Michael Cerullarius, an
attack on the Church of Rome written in 1054. This contains a list of nineteen offences against the
orthodox faith allegedly committed by the Latins. The list is headed: ‘And this is what they do,
judaizing’ and accuses the Latins of such practices as using unleavened bread in Communion, shaving
their beards, eating the meat of strangled animals and forbidding their priests to marry. 12 Only a few
of the practices thus listed could be described as Jewish and many would have been equally abhorrent
to Latins and observant Jews, but this did not worry the compiler of the list. Roman Catholics had
departed from Orthodoxy and thus, though Christian, they ‘judaized’. 13
The need for such works as John of Damascus’ On heresies, or the Epistle of Michael
Cerullarios was conditioned by the Orthodox procedure for identifying heresy, which was ruled by
precedent and syllogistic proof. The accepted procedure was as follows:
1. Note observed heretical practices or reported doctrines, though, ‘the Orthodox sources ... are
more apt to concern themselves with heretical practices which are readily observable than with
abstruse points of doctrine ...’. 14 (e.g. improper officiation at Holy Communion, swearing
without fear).
2. From observed ‘symptoms’ identify the heresies to which such practices or doctrines belong
by reference to anti-heretical writings.
3. By reference to the same writings deduce other practices and doctrines of the ‘newly
appeared’ 15 heretics and establish the appropriate method of dealing with them (e.g.
excommunication, anathematization, banishment, etc.). 16
The symptoms which Gennadii observed in the Novgorod priests were desecration of icons
and crosses and an unwillingness to confess to their sins. The latter was enough to make him
deduce from Timotheos’ On the reception of heretics 17 (to which he refers) that this made ‘his

heretics’ like Messalians and Marcionites, and thus guilty of denial of the central tenets of the
Christian faith, among them the Virgin Birth and the Trinity.
Several of the heretics whom Gennadii discovered in Novgorod were tried in 1488 and found
guilty. By 1488 the Novgorod heresy came to be known as the heresy of Novgorod priests who had
embraced the Jewish faith, in other words Gennadii's epithet ‘judaistically philosophizing’ had come
to be accepted.
In 1489 Gennadii wrote to another of his colleagues in the Church hierarchy, Ioasaf. His letter
was concerned with calendrical problems, his desire to make sure that a Moscow Council of the entire
church should be held to try the heretics. The letter also states:
Do you have any of the following books in the Kirillov or Ferapontov
monasteries, or in the monastery on Kamennyi Island: Silvester, Pope
of Rome, Athanasius of Alexandria, Cosmas's Treatise on the
Bogomil Heresy, the Epistle of Patriarch Photios to Prince Boris of
Bulgaria, and the Book of the Prophets, and Genesis, and Kings, and
the Proverbs of Solomon, and Menander, and Jesus son of Sirach, and
the Logic and Dionysius Areopagite? For the heretics have all these
books. 18
It has been generally accepted that the books listed here were in the possession of the
Novgorod heretics, testifying to their ‘astounding breadth of cultural interests’ 19 or proving further
that the heretics were reading Jewish texts. Yet it is clear that the texts (many of them Biblical) are
Christian. As extant manuscript collections show, all the titles were held in many monastic libraries.
Had the texts been heretical, how could Gennadii expect monastic libraries to keep them? He
must have known that according to Canon law anyone holding heretical books would be
automatically anathematized. 20 The only way to explain this passage is to remember that to Gennadii
Catholics were also heretics, even though he had frequent dealings with them, as the sources show.
For example an entry in MS RNB, Pog. 84 (f. 360 v.) reads:
Maccabees [translated?] from the Latin tongue [..] in the first year after the seventh thousand
(7001=1493)by the order of Lord most priestly Archbishop Gennadii, by a certain honest
priest, also a monk of the monastery of Saint Dominic by the name of Veniamin, a Slav
(Slovenian) by birth, who knew the Latin language and grammar well, and also knew some
Greek and Italian. 21
This entry shows that by 1493 Gennadii had started to commission translations from Latin for the
new codex of Biblical books. Gennadii’s mention of books in the letter to Ioasaf had nothing to do with
the Novgorod heretics, but was probably an enquiry connected with the preparation of texts for the new

The Gennadian Bible project

To understand the importance of this project it is important to stress that the very word
bibliia is first encountered in Church Slavonic letters in the colophon shown above. So – as
regards the Slavonic manuscript world – the very concept of a bible as a collection of all
sacra scriptura is born with the Gennadian Bible.
The compilation of the new Bible was carried out in several stages. Firstly, the
compilers had to collect all available translations. 22 Some of these came from exegetical
manuscripts and were collated with a varying degree of thoroughness, as can be seen from the
inclusion of commentaries in some of the text. For books that were not available in a

Slavonic translation – 1-2 Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah, 1-2 Esdras, Tobit, Judith, the Wisdom
of Solomon, 1-2 Maccabees – new translations were made from Latin.
The compilers also translated and copied the commentaries of Nicholas de Lyra from
Koberger’s edition of the Vulgate, and the prefaces from Kessler’s Bible. 23
The compilers of the first codex had a variety of sources at their disposal to determine
the composition of the codex in general, and of the Old Testament in particular. By the end of
the 15th century there were in circulation nine Slavonic indices of Old Testament books, the
majority of these included in the Kormchaia kniga, or collection of canon law.
One of the striking things about the new Novgorod codex was that it followed the
Vulgate in the overall order of books and division into chapters. What could have been the
reasons behind commissioning a Slavonic translation from a Latin Bible rather than from a
Greek one, as had been the tradition since Cyril and Methodius?
The Russian biblical scholar Evseev argued that the Gennadian Bible is evidence of
Catholic influence in Novgorod. 24 Evseev believed that Veniamin brought with him some
Croat Glagolitic breviaries so as to be able to interpolate a Church Slavonic translation into
the Vulgate.
According to Evseev Veniamin arrived in Novgorod armed with a ready-made
translation of the biblical books in breviaries; the only remaining thing for him to do was to
transliterate these from Glagolitic into Cyrillic. 25 This has been disproved by Lur’e and
Romodanovskaia, 26 who have shown beyond doubt that the translations from the Latin Bible
were made at the episcopal scriptorium in Novgorod. They did this by reference to working
copies containing the name of Veniamin and books translated from Latin in preparation for
work on the codex.
By comparing several quotations from Ecclesiastes in the Gennadian Bible with the
ones found in Croat Glagolitic breviaries, Evseev tried to present similarities in the two
versions as evidence for the influence of the Croat Glagolitic text on the Gennadian Bible.
Many of Evseev’s citations are not as similar as he claimed, while actual similarities are
purely coincidental. Moreover many of the Gennadian Bible readings have been found to
have antecendents in the Cyrillic textual tradition independent of the Croat text. 27
The general dearth of Greek-language manuscripts surviving from the period suggests
that knowledge of Greek was rare. But we know that a few decades later Grand Prince
Vasilii, needing a translator from the Greek, sent to Athos (the monk Maksim Grek, who
arrived in 1515, shares the dubious distinction of being tried as a heretic and posthumously
canonized, with Jeanne d’Arc). The question therefore arises why Gennadii did not also send
to Athos.
One explanation rests on the premise that, to invite an Athonite, Gennadii would have
needed permission from Moscow. But the same was true of an invitation to anyone from the
West. The more likely explanation is that at this stage there was no easily available Greek
Bible, while a printed and easily portable version of the Vulgate was available.
As noted by Foster, the Old Testament of the 1499 Bible does not correspond to any
single Graeco-Byzantine index of books from the nine lists known to exist in the Slavonic
translation by the end of the 15th century. This does not mean, however, that the canon of the
Gennadian Bible was ‘Latin’ or ‘Roman Catholic’. As Foster suggests, the canon of the OT
books of the Gennadian Bible, like the Vulgate, preserves an older canon, based on the
Alexandrian tradition. This canon could have been derived not from a single index but from a
compilation of several of the indexes. 28

Тhe ‘Judaizers’ heresy after 1488.
In 1490 Gennadii claimed to have discovered that there was a group of priests at court in
Moscow which met to learn ‘how to attack the Orthodox’. He wrote this while he himself was feeling
under attack from Moscow, as he was required to make an oath stating that he did not have any
communications with Moscow’s enemy Lithuania, ‘nor do I have Lithuanian appointees officiating in
my archbishopric.’ 29 Gennadii connected the heresy ‘which has spread throughout the Russian land’
with Lithuania and he achieved the result he desired. A Council was convoked, and 22 men were
condemned for
...they call themselves priests and keep secrets from people and write
and learn from and keep books that have been renounced, and among
themselves they praise the rejected Old Testament, and praise the
Jewish faith, and daring in their speech they speak calumny against
Our Lord Jesus Christ Son of God and His Most Pure Mother, and
they also refuse to worship the Holy icons, and call icons idols; and
they attack with blasphemous words, and disrespect and dishonour
the great Holy Wonderworking Saints of Russia Petr and Aleksei and
Leontii and Sergei and many other Holy Blessed Fathers (…) 30
After 1490 reference to ‘judaising’ is conspicuously absent from Gennadii’s letters and other works,
even in the Paschal Tables for the 8th millenium to which he wrote an introduction some time in 1492 .
In 1503 Gennadii was removed from his see and imprisoned. The 1504 Council against a new group of
Muscovite heretics mets without him. The chronicles record:
In the same winter the Grand Prince Ivan Vasil’evich and the Grand Prince
Vasilii Ivanovich of All Russia met with their [spiritual] father Metropolitan
Simon and with the bishops and with the whole Council and having investigated
the heretics they ordered that the evil ones should be punished by death. And on
December 27th they burnt in a cage the diak Volk Kuritsyn, and Mitia Konoplev
and Ivashko Maksimov. And they ordered that Nekras Rukavov should have his
tongue cut out, and he was burnt to death in Novgorod the Great. And in the
same winter [archimandrite] Kasian was burnt to death *and his brother Ivashko
Samochernyi, and Gridia Kvashnia, and Mitia Pustoselov and other heretics were
burnt, and others were imprisoned, and others were sent round monasteries. 31

It is striking that no mention of Judaizing is made in the report. But among the
condemned were Ivan Chernyi and Ivan Volk Kuritsyn, both diaki at the court of Ivan III,
and both responsible for the copying of biblical and canon law texts at the Grand Prince’s
scriptorium. None of the texts have been proved to show any evidence of heresy. Yet, as
we have mentioned above, the account in Iosif Volotskii s Prosvetitel’ claims that they
judaized. There are a number of hypotheses explaining their fate in 1504. Among them is
resentment by the Church of the role of secular court diaki in compiling texts which
should be the province of men like Gennadii.

The Heresy of the Judaisers and the Gennadian Bible.

It is thus clear that work on the Gennadii bible started after the condemnation of the
heretics. By 1493, when work on the Bible started, Gennadii had left the prosecution of
heresy behind.

Gennadii has left behind sufficient documentation to show that he did not hesitate to
express his views – on heresy, the end of the world, the danger of inadequate governance.
Had he commissioned the Bible text to fight the heretics, there seems little doubt that he
would have written an appropriate commentary.
So what was the reason for the commissioning and compilation of the Bible? It is clear
that at the end of the fifteenth the Russian Church began an important process of
strengthening its theological foundations. The fall of Constantinople to the Turks brought
virtual autokephaleia, but with it came the need to revise and create its own texts. The late
fifteenth century is an extraordinary period in terms of revisions of Paschal Tables, Canon
Law, chronicles, compilations of epistolary and administrative sborniki for the provision of
reference. Like the creation of Iosif Volotskii’s Prosvetitel’, the compilation of the Gennadii
Bible codex is not so much the result of conflict as the result of a period of stability, wealth
and self-realisation which characterizes the history of the period.

Alekseev, A. A., 1999. Tekstologiia slavianskoi Biblii, St. Petersburg.
Arkhangel’skii, A.S., 1888. ‘Tvoreniia ottsov tserkvi v drevne-russkoi pis’mennosti. Obozrenie
rukopisnogo materiala’, Zhurnal ministerstva narodnogo prosveshcheniia, cclviii:7, 1-49;
8, 203-95.
Begunov, Iu. K., 1973. Kozma Presviter v slavianskikh literaturakh, Sofia.
Evseev, I. E., 1914. Gennadievskaia Biblia 1499 goda, Moscow.
Foster, P., 1996. The Church Slavonic translation of Maccabees in the Gennadii Bible (1499),
Garsoian, N., 1967. The Paulician Heresy. A Study in the Origin and Development of
Paulicianism in Armenia and the Eastern Provinces of the Byzantine Empire, The
Gorskii, A.V., Nevostruev, K.I., 1855. Opisanie slavianskikh rukopisei Moskovskoi
Sinodal’noi biblioteki, Moscow.
Howlett, J., 1993. ‘Svidetel’stvo arkhiepiskopa Gennadiia o eresi ‘novgorodskikh eretikov
zhidovskaia mudr’stvuiushchikh’, Trudy Otdela drevnerusskoi literatury, xlvi, 53-73 .
Howlett, J., 2007. ‘Eres’ zhidovstvuiushchikh i Rossiia v pravlenie Ivana III’, Vestnik St.
Peterburgskogo Universiteta, Petersburg.
Kazakova, N. A. and Lur’e Ia. S., 1955. Antifeodal’nye ereticheskie dvizheniia na Rusi XIV-
nachala XVI v., Moscow-Leningrad.
Lampe, G. W. H., 1961. Patristic Greek Lexicon, Oxford.
Lur’e, Ia. S., 1960. Ideologicheskaia bor’ba v russkoi publitsistike kontsa XV-nachala XVI veka,
Lur’e, Ia. S., 1961. ‘K voprosu o ‘latinstve’ Gennadievskogo literaturnogo kruzhka’, in:
Issledovaniia i materialy po drevnerusskoi literature, Moscow, 68-77.
PG: Migne, J.-P., Patrologiae Graecae Cursus Completus, 81 vols., Paris, 1856-61.

Miller, D. B., 1978. ‘The Lübeckers Bartolomäus Ghotan and Nicolaus Bülow in Novgorod
and Moscow and the Problem of Early Western Influences on Russian Culture’,
Viator, ix, 395-412.
Osinkina, L., 2007. The Textual Tradition of Ecclesiastes in Church Slavonic, Unpublished
D.Phil. Thesis, Oxford.
Popov, A., 1875. Istoriko-literaturnyi obzor drevnerusskikh polemicheskikh sochinenii protiv
latynian. Moscow.
Iosif, igumen Volotskii, 1903. Prosvetitel’, ili oblichenie eresi zhidovstvuiushchikh,
tvorenie…Iosifa igumena Volotskogo, Kazan.
PSRL: Polnoe sobranie russkikh letopisei.
Romodanovskaia, V. A., 2001. ‘O tseliakh sozdaniia Gennadievskoi biblii kak pervogo
polnogo russkogo bibleiskogo kodeksa’, in: Knizhnye tsentry Drevnei Rusi.
Severnorusskie monastyri, 278-305 .
Sobolevskii, A. I., 1903. ‘Perevodnaia literatura Moskovskoi Rusi XIV-XVII vekov’,
Sbornik otdeleniia russkogo iazyka i slovesnosti imperatorskoi Akademii Nauk,
lxxiv:1, St. Petersburg.
Solzhenitsyn, A. I., 2001. Dvesti let vmeste (1795–1995), Moscow.
Thomson, F. J., 1998. ‘The Slavonic Translation of the Old Testament’, in: The Interpretation
of the Bible. The International Symposium in Slovenia, Sheffield, 605-920.
Wieczynski, J. L., 1972. ‘Archbishop Gennadius and the West: The Impact of Catholic Ideas
upon the Church of Novgorod’, Canadian-American Slavic Studies, vi:3, 374-89.
Wimmer, E., 1975. ‘Zu den katholischen Quellen der Gennadii-Bibel’, in: Forschung und
Lehre. Abschiedsschrift zu Joh. Schropfers Emeritierung und Festgruss zu seinem 65.
Geburtstag, Hamburg, 444-58.


GIM, Sin. 915. The colophon is reproduced in Alekseev, 1999: Appendix.
Kazakova and Lur’e 1955:309-10.
Evseev 1914: passim; Wieczynski 1972:374-89.
Gorskii and Nevostruev 1855:VII, and 136-37; Lur’e 1960:193.
TsGADA 181/458: f 1 v. For the full text see Iosif’s Prosvetitel’.
Kazakova and Lur’e 1955:309-10.
Lampe 1961:674-5.
PG 41, cols. 174-1199; 42, cols. 10-74.
PG 94, cols. 678-1231.
PG 94 cols. 678-82.
Manuscripts of On heresies exist in Russian MS. from at least the fifteenth century, see Arkhangel'skii
Popov, 1875:47-51
Other examples of this accusation against Christians see Howlett 2007, passim.
Garsoian 1967:158.
Another term common in anti-heretical literature, see Begunov 1973:297.
Howlett 1993: passim.
PG 86, cols. 11-68.
Kazakova and Lur’e 1955:410.

Lur’e 1960:197.
Canon IX of the 7th Oecumenical Council.
Translated from Alekseev 1999:197.
Thomson 1998:657.
Wimmer 1975:444-58.
Evseev 1914, passim. Cf. also Lur’e 1961:68-77; Wieczynski 1972:374-89.
Evseev 1914:10-22.
Lur’e 1961:68-77; Romodanovskaia 2001:278-305.
Osinkina 2007:84-85.
Foster 1995:81.
Kazakova and Lur’e 1955:375.
Kazakova and Lur’e 1955:383.
PSRL 28:337. after * quoted from PSRL 20:244. Cf. PSRL 20:49-50, 375 and PSRL 26:297.

Russian literature in Greece today:
Describing the experience of a new Slavic migration

Alexandra Ioannidou, PhD

British Association for Slavonic and East European Studies,
University of Macedonia (Thessaloniki)

‘Where am I? In which space? Do I control any of my senses; do I live in a particular

country, in a particular city? And if is so - in what street? I am not there, I am not here. I
am nowhere (…) Nobody is looking for me, I am rootless, I have lost orientation. I have lost
all my abilities, all my talents.’ (Graf, 2007:477)
In the summer of 2006, the responsible person for the translations department of one of
the biggest publishing houses in Athens, ‘Kastaniotis’, handed me for evaluation a manuscript
in Russian. The manuscript was huge – about 600 pages long, written by Elena Bogatyreva-
Xanthopoulou, an immigrant from Ukraine. For the publication she suggested the literary
pseudonym ‘Ekaterina Graf’. One had the notion that the author had compiled it for one of
the Russian so- called ‘thick literature journals’. Although the book, entitled The woman who
longed to love (Zhenshchina zhelavshaia liubit’), was visibly the work of a beginner, the
subject and many passages in it were so appealing and new, that I finally recommended it for
publication: it was – I argued – at last the story of a new-settler in Greece, at last a picture of
Greece through the eyes of one of the many new immigrants who came from Eastern Europe
to live and work in the country during the last two decades. Meanwhile ‘Kastaniotis’ editions
published the manuscript, which was translated from the Russian by Voula Papastavrou. The
book can be found in every bookseller’s corner – from big bookstores in the centre of Athens,
to kiosks and booksellers’ baskets in supermarkets.

1. A woman’s migration
The main heroine of the book with this rather kitsch, soap-opera’s title, Elizaveta, or
Liza, is a Ukrainian, married to an old, ugly and very repulsive Greek, a retired pilot of the
Greek air force. In the beginning of the book, before the actual story starts, the 3rd person
narrator reflects upon women in general and their difficult path in life. Right afterwards the
reflections take a much more concrete form, announcing as the subject of the book not simply
the adventures of a woman, but of a Russian woman abroad. It is very interesting that the
author chooses to compare directly the situation of her heroine’s destiny with the lives of
Russian émigré women after the revolution:
‘… after the revolution, the first Russian women arrived in New York, in
Constantinople, in Shanghai, in Paris, in Thessaloniki and elsewhere. (…) Then other times
came, when Russia, as if awakening from a long sleep, regretted the mistakes and the old
sins. (…) Millions of people lost their jobs. (…) Then it was that the second exodus of Slav
women to foreign countries started. Nevertheless, this time, at the end of the 20th century,
women did not leave like they used to leave in the beginnings, after the revolution, full of
pride and pain. This time they left in a totally different way, as slaves, with hands stretched
out for begging, with uncovered bodies. (…) Towards the end of the 1990s, the civilized

world met the Russian woman with contempt, granting her a place on the pavement, in the
kitchens for washing the dishes and in their houses as a charwoman.’ (Graf 2007:12, 14)
After this introduction, the story begins with the end of the hateful Greek husband: Liza
has just come back from his funeral, with a feeling free and lightsome, although a little
regretful for her inability to mourn his death. From then on the novel’s narrative in a
retrospective focuses on Liza’s life from her childhood on, on her university years, on her
marriage to a rather indifferent young Russian, incapable of making her happy, on her first job
as a tourist guide, her second job as a KGB-spy, her love for an Egyptian who abandons her in
a cruel way, her first travel to Greece, her marriage to the appalling ex-pilot, her struggle to
become a successful business woman. The end of the narration finds the heroine again in her
room, after the funeral, ready to start a new life. At the very last moment, the terrible truth is
revealed to the reader – the Greek husband died of a stroke caused in a purposeful way by
Liza herself. Shortly after he has been released from the hospital, she takes off her clothes in
front of his bed, in a very provocative striptease dance. By ‘murdering’ him in this indirect
way, Liza seems to have taken revenge for all the humiliations she had suffered not only
during their days together, but also throughout her entire life – Mimis, the dead husband, had
long turned into a symbol of every derogatory and humbling experience in her life.
In her essay about women’s migration in Russian literature, K. Sarsenov observes that
despite millions of dangerous and distant journeys women have undertaken throughout
history, in Russian as well as Western narratives women mostly represent ‘motherland’ by
remaining at home and waiting for their husband travellers (Sarsenov 2004:5-8). Nowadays,
when Russian emigration is dominated by women, literature is at last turning its focus on
women emigrants. Among the three novels Sarsenov chooses in order to support her point
that Russian female traveller’s conceptualization as ‘easily available mail-order brides and
deplorable victims of trafficking’ can and is being undermined by literature, Liudmila
Ulitskaia’s novel Zü-zürich (2002) most of all resembles to Graf’s novel. There, the main
heroine emigrates thanks to her marriage to a Swiss man. Throughout the novel, Lydia faces
stigmatization as a sexually licentious person. At the end, she comes to the conclusion that
the only way to survive is to be calculating and to accept that decent behavior can be a
substitute for love. ‘Liudmila Ulitskaia’s story “Zü-zürich” posits “calculation” as a basis
for understanding the phenomenon of marital migration. (…) it shows the intricate
connections between different types of desire: amorous, sexual, social and financial; and the
impossible task of separating the one from the other.’ (Sarsenov 2004:16). In a similar way,
Graf’s Liza turns from a rather sensitive person full of love dreams, into a cruel, calculating
business woman who by having undergone an inner transformation is at last capable of living
and succeeding in the West. Although deeply inside her, she has designated love as the aim
of her life, she must accept that money must be her first priority, which she can achieve only
through marriage: ‘She only needed to marry someone she did not love, to offer him her body
and the job was done! Why, why couldn’t destiny offer her all at once? Greece , and a
beloved, and money and happiness?’ (Graf 2007:453-454) And, again: ‘Liza looked at Mimis
who was observing her laughing full of wickedness. “This is my possibility”, she thought.
“His obnoxious senility laden with money.”’ (Ibid.:457).

2. The picture of Greece

In Graf’s novel, the ‘West’ is clearly Greece, the picture of which is divided into two
aspects. The one corresponds to an idealized image of modern Greece – ablaze with light, full
of joy and blissfulness – an image of a country which deservingly succeeded ancient Greece.

This image clearly constitutes an opposite to the poor, shabby everyday life in today’s
‘She had fallen in love (…) with Greece. During the ride from the airport she stroked
with her gaze the blue of the sea (…) She remembered that some hours ago the same day she
was waiting in the dark and the cold for the express bus which would take her to the airport.’
(Graf, 2007:439).
And again:
‘In this cold air (on a ferry’s deck), in front of this vast water expanse, in her loneliness
on the deck of the ship, Liza felt for the first time what freedom meant. Physical freedom,
when there is nothing around but the sea, the air, the sun and Greece stretched over the
islands.’ (Ibid.:452).
Only one paragraph further, the comparison strikes the reader with its decisiveness: ‘It
was as if someone had put a curse on the land she used to live, by burdening it with sins, with
the deaths of innocent people, with the years of the red regime, with humiliations and
poverty.’ (Ibid.:453).
The other image of Greece, a definitely negative this time – exemplified mainly by the
old, ugly husband of the heroine – shows a country full of depressed, insecure individuals
who work day and night in order to be able to retain some necessary comforts for themselves
and for their families. Here money prevails over feelings, relations, family ties. Liza’s
husband is presented as a scrooge, dominant growler, whose biggest anxiety is to maintain his
fortune and to save his money. The opposite to this image, again, is an idealized picture of
life in the Soviet Union – where people had work, food, hot water, education for their children
and were not obliged to think about money. In this sense, modern Russia is held against the
Soviet Union. Compared with Russia, Greece is seen in a positive light – compared with the
Soviet Union, it becomes negatively charged.
A further aspect of Greece which dominates in this book is that of a land of abundance
and richness. Not long after her arrival in Greece the heroine steps into a patisserie. While
her future husband is looking for a free table, she ‘looked at the window with the tarts. She
couldn’t believe that something like that was possible in February! Pieces of strawberries,
ananas, kiwi, banana and blueberries drowned in jelly or put into small flour baskets
attracted her gaze…’ (Ibid.:440). Tzvetan Todorov, in L’Homme dépaysé, comments in a
very interesting way on the picture of the West in the eyes of people first entering it after the
collapse of the Soviet Union, as a world of freedom to choose and to consume whatever they
liked. This attittude, which in fact misunderstood freedom as freedom to consume, Todorov
argues, was first met as demeritorious by intellectuals in the West. Todorov, though, saw in it
a victory over the humiliation people had to go through in socialist societies, when they were
obliged to queue for the most indispensable goods (Todorov 1996:99).

3. A typical story of emigration from Ukraine

When, at the end of the 1980s and beginning of the 1990s, borders opened for travelling
to the Eastern European people, Greece became not only a a favorite place to visit for those
who wanted to get to know the alleged ‘birthplace of our civilization’, but also one of the
most preferred settlement countries. All of a sudden, Greece turned from a traditional
emigration to an immigration country (Cavounides 2002:45, 47). The dramatic political
changes, especially the collapse and the subsequent fragmentation of the USSR, caused
enormous migration flows from all over Eastern Europe and the Balkans. In 1999,

governmental sources estimated 12% of all labour force in Greece to be immigrants. Among
the Russian speakers (estimated today at about 300,000) – the fourth larger group after
Albanians, Bulgarians and Polish people – mostly Russian, Ukrainians and Georgians came to
stay and work all over Greece. They worked in construction, in agriculture, in housekeeping.
Women’s trafficking has introduced the Russian and Ukrainian prostitutes as the most
preferred ‘commodity’ in bars and brothels (Lazaridis 2001:81, 85) 1 in Athens, Thessaloniki,
Larissa, Volos and elsewhere. Another interesting phenomenon that arose from the
immigrants’ presence in Greece were the mixed marriages mostly between foreign women
and Greek men.
Recent sociological analyses of the migration process from the Ukraine to Greece focus
on the following more or less typical features which are of interest for the understanding of
Graf’s novel: the Ukrainian migrants to Greece started arriving in Greece at the end of the
1980s, first from the west and then from the other parts of the country. Ukrainians in Greece
have a strong female overrepresentation – women are estimated at 77% of the total of
Ukrainian settlers in Greece. According to statistical data one third of the Ukrainian women
were divorced before their arrival in Greece. Most of them obtained first a tourist visa to
enter the country. Some of the Ukrainian women were granted permanent residence permits
due to marriage to a EU-citizen. In the beginning of their stay, they all hoped to return to
their motherland as soon as conditions would allow it. Meanwhile most of them have settled
These characteristics more or less apply also to Graf’s heroine. Graf’s novel reflects to
a certain point very accurately the emigration process from the heroine’s motherland to
Greece at the end of the 1980s and beginning of the 1990s – at exactly the period when the
big immigration flow from the former Soviet Union began. Liza also arrived in Greece for
the first time at the end of the 1980s, first with a tourist visa. By then she had no intention to
spend the rest of her life in Greece. In contrast, though, to most of the Ukrainian emigrants,
Liza did not work as a domestic worker nor did she work in the sex industry. After she stayed
for some time with her future husband, she returned to Ukraine where she tried to escape the
destiny of marrying someone she despised. At last, though, haunted by adversities, she got
baptized in order to be able to marry according to the Christian orthodox rituals. For her,
although not of Greek origin, Greek in the beginning still represented something like an
idealized homeland – an idealization that is confirmed as realistic by different reports
(Tzortzopoulou 2002; Voutira 2006). After her first travel and experiences in the country,
however, the reader understands that by accepting the proposal of her Greek admirer she acts
under pressure, out of desperation, as if she did not know the way out of a blind alley: she
even goes through a long depression period, until she submits to baptism and marriage in
‘I have gained nothing’, she ascertains shortly before she comes for the second time to
Greece for her wedding. ‘Instability, insecurity, uncertainty, semi-reality, non-reality, death.’
(Graf 2007:558) Only years afterwards, in 2000, having meanwhile become a successful
businesswoman and with a new lover, whom she intends to exploit as much as she did with
her husband (the last sentence of the novel is: ‘Now his turn had come…’ – Ibid.:661), Liza
feels released, strong and freed.

4. A first generation Russian ‘immigrant-novel’ in Greece?

As mentioned before, not many years passed since Greece was itself a country of origin
for emigrants. Due to the fact that from the beginning of the 20th century until the late 1970s
Greeks were those who departed to work and settle in foreign countries (overseas in the

beginning, in central and northern Europe afterwards), Greek philology has by now to offer
some very interesting presentations of the so named immigrants’ literature referring to Greek
literature abroad. (Kalogeras 2002; Ziras 2001). On the other hand, there is some increased
interest in the picture of the foreign settler in Greek contemporary literature (Calotychos
2007; Camatsos 2007), but still no interest in a totally new literary phenomenon – the rise of a
new immigrants’ literature in Greece. Apart from the warm welcome Greek readers offered
to the rather autobiographical report of the Albanian journalist and writer G. Kaplani (2006),
there is no information at all about literary works by other nationalities of immigrants in
Greek or in their language of origin.
During the inescapable interdisciplinary research that a literary work on the migration
experience demands (King et al. 1995:x) one can easily conclude that in contrast to very
detailed and up to date statistical and sociological analyses of the emigration from Eastern
Europe in the last decades, some of which have been already mentioned above, the
phenomenon of Russian writing in Greece has not yet been identified at all. 2
And yet: in Athens and Thessaloniki alone, more than four Russian bookshops as well
as the publishing of three Russian language newspapers – ‘Omonia’, ‘Afinskii Kur’er’, ‘Afiny
plius’ indicate a large reading public. Occasional literary contributions to these newspapers
as well as single publications manifest the rise of a new Russian literature in Greece today.
‘Afinskii Kur’er’, the biggest Russian newspaper of Athens, has meanwhile a small book
publishing activity. Among its most read publications ranks a very well known book in
Russian speaking immigrant circles, written by a Russian-speaking Greek repatriated from
Georgia, V. Budakidu (Boutakidou), under the appealing title Ulybka s prikusom Ėllady.
Budakidu’s literary activity indicates the paradox of two separate literary worlds in Greece
today: although the book was a big success in Greece among Russian speakers, it is not at all
known among Greek readers. Budakidu recently published her second book, in Russia this
time, under the title Grechanka, russkoi dushoi (2008). As far as the publication paths of
such works are concerned, we have to keep in mind the following: their authors do not easily
make the big step to present their manuscript for translation and publication in Greek to a
Greek publishing house. It is as if today’s first generation immigrants have not yet stepped
with both feet on Greek ground, as if they didn’t seek communication with the Greek readers
or as if they did not believe that their works would be appealing to the Greek public. These
books are mostly written for a small public and do not contribute to the establishing of
intellectual communication between the population groups, or at least between the respective
majority and minority groups. Elena Bogatyreva, or Ekaterina Graf, again, chose the other
path: Although she wrote her book initially in Russian, she immediately gave it for translation
and publication in Greek, aiming at a success in Greece.
Russian (and other immigrants’) works in Greece nowadays are not written in Greek
because they originate from first generation immigrants’ writing and not from their children
and grandchildren. 3 Both through the origin of the writers and the language they are written
in, these literary works could be assigned to the respective literatures rather than to Greek.
But again – what sense has the categorization to one or the other national literature of such
works? If one tried to trace similar phenomena in history, one could compare – in terms of
extra-literary criteria and definitely not in terms of literary level – this phenomenon with
Russian exiles’ literature in Paris and Prague and other Western capitals from the twenties and
thirties, after the Russian revolution and onwards, to the ‘tamizdat’ publications of Russian
literature by political exiles in the 60s and 70s in France and in the United States. From this
point of view, we indeed have to do with a new literature by exiles – only this time the exiles
are migrants out of mainly economical and not out of political reasons.

A closer reading of Graf’s book leads us to the conclusion, that it fulfils most of the
criteria W. Boelhower sets for the classification of a literary work in the genre category of the
‘immigrant novel’. In a very close analysis of the narrative structure of the immigrant novel
as genre, Boelhower suggests that the immigrant novel at thematic level is defined by the
topic of immigration. The topic of immigration, again, underlies a text’s macrostructure,
described as follows: ‘An immigrant protagonist(s), representing an ethnic worldview, comes
to America with great expectations and through a series of trials is led to reconsider them in
terms of his final status.’ (Boelhower 1981:5). This feature, along with the three major
moments of the narrative as described by Boelhower – expectation, contact and resolution – is
clearly traceable in Graf’s novel: Liza, representing the world view of the Ukrainian modern,
well educated woman and in broader terms the worldview of a citizen of the former Soviet
Union, comes to Greece expecting to find the country of the ancient myths and the great
philosophers. There she has to face a series of humiliations caused by the unbearable
oppression of her abusive husband and by the incompatibility of their characters, which leads
her to the revision not only of her expectations (her greatest expectation is ‘to find true love’,
understood mostly as protection and generosity) but also of her own character.
Another aspect of the immigrant’s novel as defined by Boelhower which is clearly
visible in Graf’s book, is the permanent comparison between New and Old World (NW versus
OW), whereas the first idealization of the new world with parallel rejection of the old world,
gradually shifts to ‘de-idealization’ of the new world and ‘re-idealization’ of the old.
This pattern vindicates the observation that when dealing with literary works by writers
from the former socialist Eastern European countries and the Soviet Union there is no ‘clash’
of civilizations as observed in intercultural studies and analyses of minorities’ literatures.
Conflicts observed in such works do not correspond to the pattern of ‘oppressor’ versus
‘repressed’, ‘former colonialist’ versus ‘recently freed’, ‘rich’ versus ‘poor’. In the polarized
world from which all of us come, the citizens coming from Eastern Europe might have found
themselves in the vast space created through the sudden end of socialism and the invasion of
capitalism, but they do not necessarily face the host countries they end up in as culturally
superior to them, neither do they accept any kind of cultural paternalism. In Ekaterina Graf’s
book and all other works I have so far examined (particularly in Budakidu’s most humorous
way of satirizing her first linguistic blunders in the country of her distant origin), there is not a
single notion of inferiority to the western way of life. There is bitterness for the loss of a
dream, humorous dealing with the adventures in the new, capitalist world, but there is also a
lot of skepticism, criticism and irony towards the West with pride in the high educational
level in the East. There is a feeling of superiority to western abandonment of education and
reading. Graf for example has many intertextual reminiscences of classic Russian literature,
while she mentions a couple of times Liza’s Greek husband’s reluctance to read. As far as
Greece is concerned, there is a clear distinction between modern Greece which is seen as an
enjoyable, bright place to live in yet with many problems and with hostile people, and ancient
Greece as a symbol of civilization.
Nevertheless, if we contemplate the subjects most of the new immigrant writers in
Greece deal with in the sense of Emmanuel Levinas’s philosophy, we cannot but consider
these works splendid occasions for an intercultural approach leading to a better cognition of
ourselves: the encounter with the other, which these works of literature offer – where in these
the ‘other’ is the Greek, today socially and economically powerful and dominating – could
bring us to a reconsideration of the self, a reconsideration of ‘Greekness’. Literary works on
the Greek experience of Eastern countries’ first generation immigrants could be seen as a kind
of mirror held against ignorance and self-satisfaction of an almost autistic modern Greek self-
awareness. 4 This approach may seem all too utilitarian – but who could doubt ethical benefits

through literature? The only necessary step to do would be a thorough consideration of this
rather new-born literature and the encouragement and support of translations into Greek.

Budakidu, V. 2008. Grechanka, russkoi dushoi, St. Petersburg.
Budakidu (Boutakidou), V. 2005. Ulybka s prikusom Ėllady, Athens.
Boelhower, W. 1981. ‘The Immigrant Novel as Genre’, Melus, viii:1,3-13.
Calotychos, V. 2007. ‘Immigrant, Emigrant, Dead Migrant in Sotiris Dimitriou’s God Tells
them.’ (Paper presented at the Annual Conference of the Modern Greek Studies
Association, Yale October 2007).
Camatsos, E. 2007. ‘Voices of Immigration in Contemporary Greek Literature’. (Paper
presented at the Annual Conference of the Modern Greek Studies Association, Yale
October 2007).
Cavounides, J. 2002. ‘Migration in Southern Europe and the Case of Greece’, International
Migration, xl:1, 45-70.
Fakiolas, R., Marantou-Alipranti, L. 2000. ‘Foreign Female Immigrants in Greece’, Papers:
revista de sociología, lx, 101-117.
Graf, E. 2007. Ē gynaika pou lachtarouse na agapēsei. (transl. from the Russian by Voula
Papastavrou), Athens.
Kalogeras, G. 2002. ‘Zōnes epafēs kai martyries metavasēs: oi logotechnikoi “kykloi” tēs
ellēnikēs metanasteusēs’, in: Sygchronē ellēnikē pezografia. Diethneis
prosanatolismoi kai diastavrōseis, ed. A. Spyropoulou, Th. Tsimpoukis, Athens, 69-
Kaplani, G. 2007. Mikro ēmerologio synorōn. Athens.
Kaurinkoski, K. 2008. ‘Gendered Migration Patterns and Experiences of Ukrainian
Immigrants in Greece’, in: Proceedings of the First International Interdisciplinary
Slavic Studies Conference, Thessaloniki, 29.9.-2.10.2006, ed. A. Ioannidou, Ch. Voss,
Berlin (in press).
King, R., Connell, J., White P. (ed.) 1995. Writing across Worlds. Literature and Migration.
New York.
Lazaridis, G., 2001. ‘Trafficking and Prostitution. The Growing Exploitation of Migrant
Women in Greece’, European Journal of Women’s Studies, viii:1, 67-102.
Sarsenov, K., 2004. ‘Women’s Migration in Contemporary Russian Literature.’ CFE Working
Paper Series, xxiv, 1-31.
Suhr, H., 1989. ‘Ausländerliteratur: Minority Literature in the Federal Republic of Germany.’
New German Critique, xlvi, 71-103.
Todorov, T., 1996. L’ Homme dépaysé. Paris.
Tuerk, R. 1975. ‘Notes toward a Definition of the American Immigrant Novel’, Melus, ii:3,
Tzortzopoulou, M. 2002. ‘Mētanastes pros tēn Ellada. I periptōsē tēs periochēs prōtevousas’,
in: Oikonomikē kai koinonikē thesē ton metanastōn. Athens.

Voutira, E. 2006. ‘Post-Soviet Diaspora Politics: The Case of the Soviet Greeks’, Journal of
Modern Greek Studies, xxiv:2, 379-414.
Whitlark, J., Aycock, W. (ed.) 1992. The Literature of Emigration and Exile. Texas (= Studies
in Comparative Literature, no. 23)
Ziras, Al. 2001. ‘I logotechnia tes Metoikesias kai to dilemma: Autonomia e ensōmatose?’,
in: Logotechnia kai Metanastefsi. Praktika Symposiou 14.-15.12.2000. Athens.


‘Tastes have changed; the image of the nice subordinate woman from the Third World has been replaced by the
relatively educated, white, blond woman from Europe’ ((Lazaridis 2001:81). ‘At the top of the scale are the
Russians, then the Ukrainians because they are tall, slim, blond’ (Ibid.:85).
This should hardly be seen as an exception: In her report on minority literature in Germany, Heidrun Suhr
criticizes the lack of response to immigrants’ literary works. (Suhr 1989:78).
Former experience shows that immigration as subject does not persist beyond the first generation.
Characteristic is Kalogeras’ observation that in Greek American literary works there is a lack of texts referring to
the immigration experience (Kalogeras 2002:79), whereas Ziras correlates the particular topic with the first
generation as well as with the feeling of marginal existence (Ziras 2001:19).
Suhr (1989:73) is more pessimistic in this respect, having inter alia observed that ‘The large-scale migrations of
this century have definitely had an impact on recent developments in literature, but their influence in the
breaking up the ethnocentricity and eurocentricity of the dominant culture is questionable.’

Maksim Grek and the Norms of Russian Church Slavonic

C. M. MacRobert
(University of Oxford)

Various claims have been made for the distinctiveness and historical significance of
Maksim Grek’s revisions to Church Slavonic texts. On the basis of an analysis primarily of
lexical material, Kovtun, Sinicyna and Fonkič (1973:110-111, 127) suggest that Maksim’s
choices reflect a sense of the ‘literary norms’ which obtained in Muscovy in the sixteenth
century and contributed to the further development of those norms. Uspenskij (2002:344-5)
takes a similar line, claiming that Maksim influenced the normalization of Russian Church
Slavonic because he tried to write in a variety of language usual among Russians, excluding
distinctive South Slavonic influence. Matxauzerova (1976:48) goes so far as to claim that
Maksim and his collaborators aimed at a rapprochement between the Church Slavonic variety
used for literary purposes and the colloquial Russian language of their day. In a study which
focuses on grammatical features, Kravec (1991:247, 265-6) concurs in the view that Maksim
opted for forms common to Church Slavonic and Russian, rather than antiquated Church
Slavonic expressions used only in writing, but also emphasizes the importance of Greek as the
model for the systematic rules of grammatical usage which she attributes to Maksim. By
contrast, Baracchi surmises (1971:270) that Maksim was in some respects influenced by
South Slavonic usage, Olmsted (2002:1) claims his language ‘stands out distinctly against the
background of normal Muscovite written discourse’ because of its non-native and especially
its Hellenizing grammatical tendencies, while Romodanovskaja (2000:238) argues that the
marked preference for perfect over aorist forms in 2nd and 3rd singular which can be seen in
Maksim’s versions, Dmitrij Gerasimov’s adaptation of Donatus and the translations from
Latin in the Gennadian Bible is a response to the syncretism between those tenses in Latin,
rather than to Russian usage.
It is beyond dispute that the revisions to the Psalter associated with Maksim exerted
some influence on the development of that text in Muscovy in the 16th-17th centuries, and
that those revisions included some distinctively Russian expressions not normally found in
Church Slavonic texts. However, many of the linguistic features which are said to
differentiate Maksim’s versions from what was current in Muscovy at the start of the 16th
century can in fact be paralleled in earlier sources. The purpose of the present study is to
explore the antecedents and possible motivation for the changes to the psalter text proposed
by Maksim and to consider how far they represent departures from pre-existing Church
Slavonic usage. For this purpose, the following manuscript sources have been consulted,
which are represented in discussion by the abbreviations indicated after each one.
A. The earliest available witnesses which reflect Maksim’s revisions of 1519-1522 and 1552,
as specified in Kovtun, Sinicyna and Fonkič (1973:100-2) and Sinicyna (1977:12-13, 65, 71)
supplemented by a pair of manuscripts in the library of the Hilandar Monastery which, on the
evidence of their watermark datings (Bogdanović 1978: i.86-7; Matejić, Thomas 1992: i.353-
4), may be the earliest complete copy extant of Maksim’s catena on the psalms:
MS 63, Ovčinnikov collection, Russian State Library, Moscow (1520s, Maksim’s catena on
the psalms, ps.77-end) = 63.

MS ДА A.I. 171, Russian National Library, St Petersburg (1540s, Maksim’s catena on the
psalms, pss.1-54) = 171.
MSS 116 and 117, Hilandar Monastery (1550s, Maksim’s catena on the psalms) = 116 / 117.
MS 315, Troickij collection, Russian State Library, Moscow (late 15th c., annotated by
Maksim at an uncertain date) = 315.
MS 78, Sofijskij collection, Russian National Library, St Petersburg (1540, annoted by
Maksim and Veniamin circa ) = 78.
MSS 752/862, Soloveckij collection, Russian National Library, St Petersburg (late 16th c.,
version of Maksim’s later translation; pss. 1-54 excerpted) = 752.
MS 1143, Pogodinskij collection, Russian National Library, St Petersburg (17th c., selected
variants from Maksim’s later translation) = 1143.
B. Psalter manuscripts containing versions of the text current in the 14th-15th centuries:
MS 7/177, Čudov collection, State Historical Museum, Moscow (15th c., commentary of
Theodoret of Cyrrhus) = 7/177
Norov Psalter (Češko et al. 1989) (early 14th c.) = Nor
Simonovskaja psalter, published by Archimandrite Amfiloxij (14th c., Turilov et al. 2002:
584 №384) = Amf.
MS F.п.I.2, Russian National Library, St. Petersburg (14th c.) = FпI2
MS 28, Synodal Typographic collection, Russian State Archive of Ancient Documents
(RGADA), Moscow = T28.
MS 64, Sofijskij collection, Russian National Library, St. Petersburg (14th c.) = S64
MS 8662, Troickij collection, Russian State Library, Moscow (14th c.) = 8662
MS Acq. e doni 360, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Florence (1384) = Luck
Kiev Psalter (Vzdornov and Jurova 1978) (1397) = Ki
MS 15231, archive of the regional history museum, Jaroslavl’ (early 15th c.) = J
MS 96, Barsov collection, State Historical Museum, Moscow (early 15th c.) = B
Gennadian Bible (Freidhof 1974; Russkaja Biblija 1997) (1499) = GB.
The circumstances in which the sources listed under A came into being give rise to
certain problems of interpretation which may not be capable of final resolution, but for which
allowance must be made in the analysis of data. First of all, it is not entirely clear how far
their Church Slavonic usage reflects choices made by Maksim himself rather than by his
assistants. It has been suggested (Sobolevskij 1903:261-4; Ikonnikov 1915:146-8; Speranskij,
1960:178-80) that Maksim may have acquired some knowledge of Church Slavonic in the
Vatopedi monastery on Mount Athos; but the occasional South Slavonic spellings in his
glosses to 78 could have been learnt in Muscovy, and the peculiarities in his use of cases,
particularly the confusion of genitive and locative plural, could be due either to Middle
Bulgarian influence or to his own non-native error, as assumed by Olmsted (2002:4-6). It is
clear, from what Maksim and his contemporaries say, that when he arrived in Muscovy he did
not feel competent to translate directly from Greek into Church Slavonic: he used Latin to
produce an intermediary translation, which his Russian assistants rendered into Church
Slavonic (Kovtun 1975:8). By the 1550s he had become sufficiently familiar with Russian
Church Slavonic for Nil Kurljatev to regard him as fully competent in that language

(Porfir′ev, Vadkovskij and Krasnosel′cev 1881:19-20; Kovtun 1971:6-8). However, both that
competence and the earlier linguistic choices made in his name must have been informed by
the notions of Church Slavonic usage imparted to him by his assistants. In the case of Dimitri
Gerasimov, who worked on the compilation of the Gennadian Bible and produced a Church
Slavonic adaptation of Donatus’s Latin Grammar, we can to some extent infer what those
notions might have been; but it does not follow that Maksim’s other assistants, Vlasij, Mixail
Medovarcev, Selivan, Isak Sobaka, shared Gerasimov’s linguistic judgements in every
particular. Equally, the negative view of South Slavonic varieties of Church Slavonic
expressed by Nil Kurljatev should not automatically be generalized to the rest of his
contemporaries, especially as it is far from clear what he found objectionable in the texts
associated with Metropolitan Kiprian: Nil’s strictures relate on the one hand to features of
South Slavonic spelling whose use among the East Slavs was ephemeral, on the other hand to
antiquated expressions such as boxma, vasnĭ, rěsnotivie, cěci, ašutĭ, zamuditi, which had been
the object of glossing at least from the 14th century (Kovtun 1963:217-25, 421-31) and were
no more used in the 14th-century South Slavonic versions of the Psalter than they were
among the East Slavs.
Fluidity and variability in the Church Slavonic usage of 16th-century Muscovy, and
especially in the wording of Scriptural translations such as the Psalter, can confidently be
inferred from what we know about the development of Church Slavonic and its textual
traditions among the East Slavs in the medieval period. Three early versions of the Church
Slavonic Psalter, Redactions I and II and the commentary by Theodoret of Cyrrhus (Thomson
1998:797-825; MacRobert 1998), circulated more or less widely among the East Slavs up to
the late 14th century, when Redaction V, attributed to Metropolitan Kiprian, was introduced.
Although that version commanded sufficient authority to be incorporated into the Gennadian
Bible, it would be rash to assume that it had entirely supplanted previous versions by the early
16th century; indeed the process of updating by means of corrections to pre-existing
manuscripts (MacRobert 1997) was a recipe for conflation of traditions and norms.
Furthermore, Češko (1981) has established that not only Redaction V but also the so-called
Athonite redaction, or Redaction III, was to some extent known in Muscovy of the late 14th
and 15th centuries. At the same time revisions to Redaction II undertaken in the East Slav
lands drew on the early translations of commentated psalters and on local linguistic
preferences to produce the hybrid versions found in such manuscripts as T28 (Pogorelov
1901:9-23) and FпI2, 8662 and S64 (MacRobert forthcoming), the marked vernacular
influence discernible in Luck (Verdiani 1954) and the idiosyncratic blends of old and new,
East and South Slavonic linguistic usage which emerge in the early 15th-century J and B
(MacRobert 2005).
These complexities are relevant both to the general question of Church Slavonic
norms in Muscovy of the early 16th century and to the specific issue of Maksim’s revisions to
the psalter text. It is clear from his own introduction to his catena on the psalms that Maksim
did not attempt a completely new, independent translation of the psalms, but rather emended a
pre-existing one: a iže nez<d>ravě pre<d>ložena ō<t> pisarę. ili i inako ō<t> dolgago
vremeni rastlěnna idě<ž> oubo vŭzmo<ž>no na<m> by<s>. ili ō<t> knigŭ
prosvětleny<m>. ili i ō<t> sebe urazuměv’ši<m> priležanie prevelie sŭtvorixo<m> sŭ
bgo<m> pomoščniko<m>. jako ōstavlenaa priložena byti i rastlěnnaa lěpoe vŭspriati
ispravlenie. ide<ž> niže ō<t> knigŭ. ni<ž> ō<t> sebe umysliti někoea cěl’by
vŭzmogoxo<m>. sice ōstavixo<m>. jako běša i isprŭva položena (171 f.5v, 116 f.8v). The
studies cited above allude to differences between the ‘traditional’ text and Maksim’s
revisions, but the character of that ‘traditional’ text remains largely unexplored. One might
assume, especially in the light of Nil Kurljatev’s remarks, that the text offered to Maksim for

revision was the Kiprianic Redaction V adopted by Gennadij two decades earlier. Indeed
Gorskij and Nevostruev (1857: 99-100) assert that Maksim’s point of departure was the text
of the Gennadian Bible, and observe that in one of the manuscripts containing his catena on
the psalms Gennadian readings are found in text with Maksim’s corrections in the margins.
However, there are grounds to suppose that the reality was less straightforward. For
instance, the 15th-century psalter manuscript 315 annotated by Maksim certainly followed
Redaction V to some extent: it shares readings with the psalter text of the Gennadian Bible,
such as 22:2 na městě zlačně, and some of them were indeed the target of Maksim’s
interventions, e.g. 91:8 pronikošę → ra<z>nikošę<s>, though sometimes the change results
in the restoration of a common pre-Kyprianic reading, e.g. 67:12 silou mnogou → silo<ju>
mnogo<ju> and the substitutions drŭžava → krěpo<s> in 30:11, 42:2, pomazannyj →
xr<s>tĭ in 104:15, 131:10 and 17. But elsewhere in 315 Maksim’s corrections actually
introduce Kiprianic readings, in preference to variants which are either characteristic of one or
more earlier redactions, e.g. 40:10 kovŭ → pętu, 77:14 vede → nastavi, 77:21 razgněva sę →
prezrě, 77:51 pobi → porazi, including Theodoret’s commentary, e.g. 72:27 bloudęšča<g>
→ ljuby dějušča<g>, 74:5 glavy → roga, or are idiosyncrasies for which parallels in other
‘traditional’ versions have not so far been located, e.g. 36:24 ne smutit sę → ne porutit sę,
77:47 trŭnie → černicię.
Not only the starting point, but also the character of Maksim’s work is obfuscated by
the possibility of sporadic influence from earlier sources. Much of the manuscript evidence
stands at a remove from Maksim himself: his catena on the psalms, undertaken in 1519-1522,
is known in copies only one of which, 63, is really close in date to the original; the textual
tradition of the 1552 revision of the Psalter is attested in manuscripts written after an elapse of
several decades, such as 752/862, and is characterized by a considerable degree of fluidity
(Porfir′ev, Vadkovskij and Krasnosel′cev 1881:17-18; Kovtun 1975:90-93); Maksim’s glosses
in 315 and 78 correspond only in part to the changes attested in other sources, but they seem
to stand closer to his later work (Kovtun, Sinicyna, Fonkič 1973:104-9); the 17th-century lists
of variant readings ascribed to him, for instance in 1143, are also selective. In order to
evaluate the data contained in these witnesses, we have to allow for the possibility that a
reading which can be paralleled from earlier sources may represent:
a) the residue of the ‘traditional’ psalter text which Maksim used as a basis for revision, a
textual tradition allied to but not necessarily the same in every detail as that of the Gennadian
b) a correction introduced by Maksim himself which, because of similarities in linguistic
tradition and translation technique, coincides by chance with some earlier version;
c) a correction prompted by one or other of Maksim’s assistants, who were probably familiar
both with the Gennadian text and with wordings from earlier versions;
d) a correction inserted, deliberately or unconciously, by a copyist who had likewise been
exposed to more than one pre-existing version of the Church Slavonic psalter.
Such indeterminacy can readily be illustrated from the manuscripts of Maksim’s
catena on the psalms. These include a scattering of readings which can be traced back to
Redaction II in the 11th century and commonly occur in East Slavonic psalters up to the time
when they were superseded by the Gennadian version, e.g.
39:3 ō<t> bernia tiny 171 = II FпI2 T28 8662 S64 – timěnia glubiny GB
39:18 zamedli 171 1143 = FпI2 T28 8662 S64 Luck J – zakosni GB
54:23 smętenia (→ kolebania in the margin) 171 = II T28 8662 Luck J B – mlŭvy GB

69:6 zamedli 1143 = FпI2 T28 Luck (zamudi 8662 S64 zaboudi J) – zakosni GB 116
81:1 sŭborě 63 = II FпI2 T28 8662 S64 Luck J B – sŭnmě GB 1143
92:3 sotrenia 63 = II FпI2 8662 S64 – strugy GB
107:10 prostru 63 = II FпI2 T28 8662 S64 – naložu GB
In addition there are some more distinctive variants, which can be paralleled from revised
texts of the 14th century but are alien to the tradition of the Gennadian Bible:
9:30 lovi<t> 171 78 = 8662 – laet GB
32:12 naslědie 171 = FпI2 – dostoanie GB
46:5 naslědie 171 = T28 – dostoanie GB
48:3 zemnorō<d>nii 171 1143 = Luck J B – zemnii GB
54:24 kladenecĭ 171, kladę<z> 1143 = J B – studenecĭ GB
68:16 kladęzĭ 116 1143 = 8662 (S64) – studenecĭ GB
79:7 porugaša <s> 63 78 1143 = Luck – podražašę GB (the original reading in 315,
podrazniša, is unusual but occurs in J)
81:5 poznaša 63 = B – uvěděša GB
86:6 pisaniixŭ 63 1143 = J – knigaxŭ GB
91:11 edinorōga 63 1143 = J B – inoroga GB
Where such variants are found in copies of Maksim’s versions, they may betray slips
in scribal attention, as suggested by the correction to 54:23 in 116; but the larger the number
of separate witnesses to a reading, the greater the likelihood that the variant in question
represents a conscious choice made by Maksim or his assistants. In the case of the
annotations to manuscripts 315 and 78, which are attributable directly to Maksim’s activity,
such a conclusion is ineluctable, and the question is whether those choices were informed,
directly or indirectly, by earlier traditions. In any of the instances cited above, or in the
following ones, Maksim’s choice of expression may have been entirely independent:
79:14 veprŭ 315 78 1143 = Čud 7/177 – inokŭ GB
106:29 utišišę<s> 315 1143 = J B – umlŭkošę GB
111:5 vzaimŭ daę 315 78 63 = 7/177 – daę GB
Indeed, in cases of approximate earlier parallels we obviously have to do not with direct
influence but rather with a common approach to the task of rendering Greek into Church
Slavonic, e.g.
126:4 ō<t>tręši<x> sę 315 1143 ōtręšenny<x> 63 cf. istręseny<x> 7/177
140:4 izvěty tvoriti 315 1143 cf. izvětovati izvěty FпI2
140:6 nasldišę <s> 315 usladiša <s> 63 = 7/177 FпI2 J B – vŭzmogoša GB, based on a
different variant in Greek.
Nevertheless, there is a clear need to investigate the antecedents of any individual variant
before claims are made for innovation on the part of Maksim and his assistants.
It may be objected that the crucial difference between Maksim’s translations and the
efforts of his predecessors consists not so much in the use of specific lexical items, but rather
in a systematic attempt to select from the resouces of Church Slavonic adequate and

acceptable equivalents, lexical and grammatical, for his Greek originals (Kovtun, Sinicyna
and Fonkič 1973:109-127; Kravec 1991:265). The cogency of this claim depends on the
range of material with which Maksim’s texts are compared and on the assumed motivation for
his decisions. For instance, one of the characteristics of his approach to translation is a
tendency towards morphological calque, as can be seen in the almost systematic use of
Church Slavonic pregorčevati or ogorčevati, rather than progněvati of most earlier versions,
to render the Greek verb parapikrainein:
5:11 pregrŭčiša 171 1143
65:7 ogo<r>čevajušče 1143 progněvajuščei 116
67:7 progněvajuščaja 116 progněvajuščix 1143
77:8 pregorčavaę 63 117 315 = GB ōgo<r>čevaę 1143
77:17 pregorčišę 117 315 = GB
77:40 prego<r>čiša 1143 progněvaša 63
77:56 pregorčiša 63 1143
104:28 ogorčiša 63 cf. pregrŭčiša GB
105:7 prego<r>čiša 1143 progněvaša 63
105:33 ōgrŭčiša 63 1143 = GB J B
105:43 prego<r>čiša 1143 razgněvaša 63
106:11 pregorčiša 63 ōgo<r>čiša 1143
But these calques were not new, because in four of the instances listed above they occur in the
Gennadian Bible and in one place also in J and B. If we assume that Maksim used the calques
consistently, and that any inconsistencies in the manuscript tradition result from scribal
intervention, then we must at least allow for the possibility that the same explanation applies
to the variable usage of the Gennadian Bible, and that a version characterized by the use of
these calques had reached the East Slavs, probably from the South Slav lands, by the fifteenth
Similar considerations apply to Maksim’s use of nužda in place of běda to translate
Greek anagkē (24:17 171 1143, 30:8 171 1143, 106:6 63 1143, 106:13 63 1143, 106:19 63
1143, 106:28 63 1143), which has an antecedent in 118:143 nuždi 63 1143 = GB J B, or of
vsegda instead of vynu, a substitution already to be found sporadically in Luck and J B and in
Skorina’s revision of the Psalter on the basis of redaction III (Thomson 1998:667-8, 826).
Likewise Maksim’s practice of distinguishing between Greek ekklēsia and naos by deploying
xramŭ for the latter item, which Kravec (1991:262-4) puts forward as an innovation, can be
paralleled from earlier usage. It is true that most earlier versions of the Psalter used crŭkŭvĭ
indifferently for ekklēsia and naos, reserving xramŭ as an alternative to domŭ, the usual
translation of oikos or oikia; but as the two latter Greek words, and therefore xramŭ, can refer
to the house of God (e.g. 54:15, 133:1, 134:1), the sense of ‘temple, shrine’ had become
associated with the Church Slavonic word well before Maksim’s time, and a precedent for its
use to translate naos in 26:4 752 1143 can already be found in Redaction IV, the fourteenth-
century Norov Psalter.
Some of the parallels with revised texts of the 14th and 15th centuries are more
striking because they are recurrent in one or other of Maksim’s versions. For instance in the
witnesses to his catena on the psalms, the innovatory aorist forms dade and prědade, noted by
Baracchi (1971:273-4), are used consistently (except in 98:7), as in the Norov Psalter, rather

than the traditional forms dastĭ and prědastĭ which are usual in Russian Church Slavonic
psalters up to and including the Gennadian Bible. Later, when he was assisted by Veniamin
and Nil Kurljatev in the 1540s and 1550s, Maksim glossed most instances of the Greek verb
adoleskhein with the Church Slavonic poučiti sę, rather than the more usual glumlěti sę /
poglumiti sę found in the Gennadian Bible, and this translation is retained in 1143. These
glosses have exact counterparts in some East and South Slavonic psalters of the 14th and
early 15th century (MacRobert 2005:225):
76:13 poučju sę 78 1143 = J B
118:15 poučju sę 315 78 1143 = J B Ki
118:23 poučęše sę 78 1143 = Amf (ljubomudrŭstvuja J B Ki)
118:27 poučju sę 78 1143 = J B Ki
118:48 poučax sę 78 1143 = J B (ljubomudrŭstvovaxŭ Ki)
The fact that there is an isolated instance in 63, Maksim’s earlier version, provides further
ground to suspect that they were already current in Muscovy when Maksim arrived:
118:78 poučju sę 63 = B Ki poučix sę J.
In all these versions the use of poučiti sę was doubtless motivated by the desire to
disambiguate adoleskhein, probably as a response to the exegesis of this word in
commentaries. It may of course be that Maksim’s choice of expression was made
independently, but the possibility either of influence from pre-existing psalter manuscripts or
of a common source in the Church Slavonic translation of the commentary by Theodoret of
Cyrrhus (MacRobert forthcoming) cannot be excluded.
The typological similarity between the approach adopted by Maksim and his assistants
and the revisions of the 14th and 15th centuries is illustrated by the translations of Greek
ekleipein in the appended table. In redactions I, II and III this verb is rendered in four
different ways, and although the reasons for one or other translation are not always obvious,
there is some ground to suppose that polysemy and contextual considerations played a part in
their distribution. So the equivalent (i)skončati sę (x11 in Redaction I, x10 in Redactions II
and III) appears to convey the sense ‘to be past, finished’, with subjects denoting periods of
time in three instances (77:33, 89:9. 101:28); iznemagati (x3) expresses physical exhaustion;
iščezati (x10) means ‘to vanish’ and is employed in collocation with the phrase ‘like smoke’
in three instances (36:20, 67:3, 101:4); while oskouděti (x4 in Redaction I, x5 in Redactions II
and II) means ‘to be inadequate, lacking’. On the whole this nuanced treatment persists in the
Kiev Psalter, which in large part follows Redaction III (Češko 1981:84), but the other 14th-
century revisions show a tendency towards a standardized equivalent: (i)skončati sę in J B,
iščezati in the Norov and Gennadian Bible, except where context, supported by tradition,
forces a different choice. Against this background, pace Kovtun, Sinicyna and Fonkič
(1973:123-4), Maksim’s preference for iščezati looks less like a rapprochement with
Muscovite Russian and more like imitation or extension of the established Church Slavonic
usage of the early 16th century. The apparently random alternation between iščezati and
oskouděvati in the versions associated with him is difficult to reconcile with the claims made
for his systematic approach; the most one can say is that oskouděvati occurs more often in the
later versions, especially in 1143. This development is one of several indications that the
norms of Church Slavonic which guided Maksim’s practice changed either with time or with
different advisers, but it is not clear how far this particular change reflects the trend towards
the ‘naličie menee knižnyx variantov’ suggested by Kravec (1991:266), since oskouděti was
available in Old Church Slavonic.

The claims which have been made for Maksim’s distinctive morpho-syntactic usage
likewise need to be assessed against the background of developments in Church Slavonic
which are apparent by the 14th and 15th centuries. For instance, it has been suggested
(Kravec 1991:256-7, Olmsted 2003:19-20) that the use of eže with a Church Slavonic
infinitive as an equivalent of the Greek definite article and nominalized infinitive is
characteristic of Maksim’s linguistic practice, particularly in his earlier work. In comparison
with the early redactions of the Church Slavonic Psalter this is true, for in them these
constructions are usually rendered by means of simple infinitives or subordinate clauses
introduced by da or egda (Pastrnek 1913:370-84). By the later medieval period, however, eže
had acquired the function of a standard equivalent to the Greek definite article in combination
with the infinitive. This can be seen in the short grammatical exposition Ōsĭmĭ čestii slova,
extant in a 15th-century Serbian manuscript and in later East Slavonic sources, which
recommends the use of the article (različie) in expressions such as ježe čisti polĭzno, eže ěsti
potrěbno, ježe igrati oukorno (Jagić 1896/1968:40-46, especially 44; Worth 1983:17).
Among the later revisions of the psalter text, the most systematic application of this
translational device is found in the literalistic Norov Psalter, where Greek en tōi + infinitive is
conveyed by means of the conjunction vŭnegda + infinitive, while in other combinations with
the infinitive the article is regularly translated as eže (Češko et al. 1989:70-71; Karačorova
1989:154-7). The Gennadian Bible mostly adopts the same practice for en tōi + infinitive, but
is less consistent in its treatment of other constructions involving the article and infinitive:
while it sometimes follows the lead of the Norov Psalter, in many instances it reverts to the
earlier use of a simple infinitive. Other revised versions of the 14th-15th centuries from the
East Slav area, such as the catenae in J and B, are still more eclectic. The same can
apparently be said of Maksim’s approach: on the whole his versions agree with the Norov
Psalter and the Gennadian Bible in using vŭnegda + the infinitive to translate en tōi +
infinitive, although the choice of specific lexical item may differ:
9:4 vĭnegda vĭzvratiti sę vragou Nor GB J B 171 vnegda ō<t>vratiti sę vragou 752 1143
9:30 vĭnegda privlěšči ego Nor GB J 171 752 1143
16:15 vĭnegda javiti mi sę Nor GB 171 752 1143 vĭnegda javitĭ mi sę J B
26:2 vŭnegda približati sę .. zlobouąščimĭ Nor vnegda približati sę .. ōzloblęjušči<m> 752
1143 vŭnegda približati sę .. zlobujuščei GB J B 171
27:2 vĭnegda vĭzděati mi Nor GB egda vŭz<d>ěti mi 171 752 vŭnegda vŭzděju J B
36:34 vĭnegda potrěblěti sę grěšnikōmĭ Nor GB J B 171 752
37:17 vĭnegda podvizati sę nogama moima Nor 8662 S64 vnegda podvižati sę noga<m>
moimŭ GB 752 eg<d>a podvizati<s> noga<m> moi<m> 171
38:2 vĭnegda sĭstanąti grěšnikou Nor vnegda vŭzsta grěšnomu GB vŭnegda stati grěšnomou
315 vnegda vŭstati grěšnomou J 171 752 1143 J vnegda vŭstati grěšniku 8662 S64
41:4 vĭnegda glati sę mně Nor (glati) GB 171 1143
41.11 vŭnegda glati imĭ mně Nor GB J B 171 752 1143
70:9 vŭnegda skončati sę krěposti Nor vnegda izčazati krěposti GB vnegda iznemagati
krěposti J B vneg<d>a oskouděvati krěposti 116 vŭneg<d>a oskouděti krěposti 1143
75:10 vŭnegda vŭstati bou Nor FпI2 8662 S64 J B (bŭ) GB vnegda vŭstati bga 116
vŭneg<d>a vsta<ti> 1143
80:6 vŭnegda izyti emou Nor GB J B 63

101:23 vŭnegda sŭbrati sę ljudemŭ Nor GB 63
105:44 vŭnegda stąžiti imĭ Nor vŭnegda skrŭběti imŭ GB J B 63 1143
106:6 vŭnegda vŭstąžišą Nor vŭnegda skorběti imŭ GB J B 63 1143
106:13, 19, 28 vĭnegda skrŭběti imŭ Nor GB 63
108:7 vŭnegda sąditi sę emou Nor FпI2 GB J B 63
118:7 vŭnegda naoučiti mi sę Nor GB J B 63
123:2 vŭnegda vŭstati člkmŭ Nor GB J B 63 1143
136:1 vŭnegda poměnąti ny Nor (namŭ) GB J B 63.
However, there are instances of alternative, older methods of translation in Maksim’s catena
on the psalms, whereas in the later versions attributed to Maksim vŭnegda + the infinitive is
found, as in the Norov Psalter:
9:23 vĭnegda grŭděti nečestivomou Nor 752 vnegda ra<s>gorděti sę nečestivomu 1143 vŭ
grŭdosti nečĭstivago GB J B 171
9:31 vĭnegda emou oudolěti Nor vnegda emu vladěti 752 1143 egda udelěe<t> GB vneg<d>a
ōbladae<t> 171 egda oudolenŭ budetĭ J
27:2 vĭnegda moliti mi sę Nor 752 1143 eg<d>a moliti mi <s> 171 egda molju sę GB J B
63:2 vŭnegda moliti mi sę Nor GB J B vnegda molju sę 116
67:15 vŭnegda razsilati nebesnōmou Nor vneg<d>a ra<z>deliti nb<s>nomu 1143 egda
raznĭstvitĭ nb<s>nyi GB J B eg<d>a razděli<t> nb<s>nyi crĭ 116
91:8 vŭnegda prodzębnąti grěšnikomŭ Nor 1143 egda prozębošę grěšnici GB J B 63
105:44 vŭnegda emou ouslyšati Nor 1143 vnegda uslyšaše GB J B 63.
It seems be less common for the version in the catena to share the infinitival construction of
the Norov Psalter and the option of a clause to emerge later:
41:11 vĭnegda sĭkroušati sę kosti Nor vnegda sŭkroušati <s> koste<m> 171 vnegda skrušaxu
sę kosti GB J B vnegda skroušaju<t> sę kosti 752 1143
50:6 vŭnegda sąditi ti sę Nor J B vnegda suditi ti GB FпI2 8662 171 vsegda [sic] sudiši sę
141:4 vŭnegda iztězati .. dxŭ moi Nor vnegda izčazae<t> dxŭ moi GB J B vnegda ōskuděvati
dxou moemu 63 vneg<d>a ōskuděvae<t> .. dxŭ moi 1143.
Equally rare are instances in which the clausal construction of earlier tradition is found
throughout Maksim’s work:
13:7 vĭnegda vŭzvratiti gou Nor J B vŭnegda vŭzvrati<t> gĭ GB 171 752
41:10 vĭnegda stąžati vragou Nor vnegda stužae<t> vragŭ GB 171 752 1143
48:18 ne vŭnegda li oumirati emou Nor egda umirae<t> GB J B 171 752 1143.
There is however a small number of places where Maksim calques en tōi + infinitive
by means of a preposition + eže + infinitive, producing a more literalistic translation than in
the Norov Psalter; and pace Kravec these locutions are at least as frequent in the later material
ascribed to Maksim as in the catena on the psalms:
21:25 vĭnegda vĭzvati mi Nor J B egda vŭzva<x> GB 171 1143 vo eže zvati mi 752

29:10 vĭnegda sĭniti mi Nor J B vnegda sxoditi mi GB 752 vŭ eže sxoditi mi 171
104:12 vŭnegda byti imŭ maly Nor zane byti im GB J B vŭ eže byti imŭ 63 1143
118:6 vĭnegda priz<i>rati mi Nor egda prizrju GB J B 63 vo e<že> pri<z>rěti mi 1143
118:9 vŭnegda sŭxraniti Nor GB J B 63 <eže> sŭxraniti 315 vo e<že> soxrani<ti> 1143
119:1 vŭnegda skrŭběti mi Nor 63 vnegda skrŭbě<x> GB J B 1143 vŭ eže skorbiti mi 78.
Maksim’s treatment of other expressions involving the Greek article + infinitive is
similarly heterogeneous. It is not uncommon for his versions to follow the long-standing
practice, preserved in the Gennadian Bible, of rendering the final construction tou + infinitive
with a simple infinitive. Influence from Redaction V may also explain those few instances
where Maksim, the Norov Psalter and the Gennadian Bible agree in using eže + infinitive:
26:4 eže žiti mi Nor 8662 GB J B 171 752
132:1 eže žiti bratii Nor FпI2 GB J B 63.
Yet there is again a perceptible convergence between the approach represented by the
Norov Psalter and Maksim’s later revisions, in which eže is actually used more often as a
translational equivalent to the Greek definite article than it is in the catena on the psalms:
22:6 eže žiti mi Nor vŭseliti mi sę GB J B e<ž> vseliti mi <s> 171 752 e<ž> vseliti sę mně
26:4 eže zrěti mi Nor 8662 752 1143 zrěti mi GB J B 171
31:3 ōt eže zovąščou mi Nor zovuščju mi GB FпI2 J B ōt eže zvati mi 78 752 1143 (31.4 with
past tense 752 1143) ōt eže vŭpiti mi 171
35:2 eže sĭgrěšati Nor 78 752 1143 sŭgrěšati GB FпI2 171
57:10 prěžde daže ne razoum<ě>ti Nor 8662 J prěž<d>e daže razuměti GB 1143(corrected
to preže <neželi razumělo>) preže eže razuměti 166
68:4 ō<t> eže oupov<a>ąščou mi Nor 166 upovajušču mi GB J B ō<t> eže oupovati mi 1143
69:2 vŭ eže pomošči mi Nor vo e<že> pomošči mně 1143 pomošči mi GB J B 166
79:3 vŭ eže spasti Nor 1143 spasti GB J B 63
100:6 eže sŭp<o>saditi ą Nor 1143 posaž<d>ati ixŭ GB J B sěděti i<m> 63
108:4 vŭ město eže ljubiti mę Nor 63 78 v město ljubiti 1143 v město ljubve GB J B
126:2 eže outrŭnevati Nor 1143 outrŭnevati GB J B 63
126:2 vŭstaněte Nor GB J B 63 vŭstati 78 eže vsta<ti> 1143
126:2 po eže sěděti Nor 1143 po sědani GB J B 63
At the same time another option, the use of jako + infinitive, comes into play. This
construction is rare in earlier redactions of the Church Slavonic psalter text, as it is reserved to
translate the Greek consecutive construction hōste + infinitive in 103:35. In the versions
associated with Maksim from the late 16th and 17th centuries it is deployed a number of
times, in the consecutive and final functions already found in Old Church Slavonic (Večerka,
1989-2003:ii.287 and 334-5):
25:7 eže slyšati mi Nor e<ž> uslyšati mi 171 uslyšati mi GB FпI2 8662 J B jako ouslyšati mi
752 1143
33:17 eže potr<ě>biti Nor 171 (iže) GB potrěbiti FпI2 8662 Ki J jako potrebiti 752

35:3 eže ōbrěsti Nor ōbrěsti GB J B 171 jako ōbrěsti 78
36:32 eže ousmrtiti Nor eže oumrtviti GB 171 oumertviti J B 752 ęko ume<r>tviti 1143
38:2 eže ne sŭgrěšati mi Nor 8662 S64 J eže ne sŭgrěšati sę GB da ne sŭgrěšou 171 jako ne
sogrěšati 752 1143
39:9 eže sŭtvoriti Nor stvoriti GB J B 171 jako sotvoriti 752 1143
60:9 eže vŭzdati mi Nor 8662 vŭzdati mi GB J B 166 ęko vo<z>dati mi 1143
62:3 eže viděti Nor viděti GB J B 116 jako viděti 78
67:19 <eže> vŭseliti Nor GB 166 vŭseliti J B jako vseli<t> 1143
77:18 eže isprositi Nor vŭprositi GB J 117 prositi 8662 78 ęko prosi<t> 1143
100:8 iže potrěbiti Nor potrěbiti GB J B 63 ęko po<t>rebi<ti> 1143
101.21-2 ježe ouslyšati .. eže razdrěšiti .. eže vĭzvěstiti Nor ouslyšati .. razdrěšiti .. vŭzvěstiti
GB J B 63 ęko ra<z>rešiti 1143
105:8 eže skazati Nor skazati J B poznati GB pokazati 63 315 78 ęko pokaza<ti> 1143
The significance of this material is twofold. On the one hand it demonstrates
Maksim’s dependence on his assistants, for the constructions involving eže, vŭnegda and jako
reviewed above were not of a kind that would automatically occur to any novice user of
Church Slavonic; on the contrary, they were conventional, albeit long established, solutions to
structural discrepancies between that language and Greek. On the other hand it provides
additional evidence of development and change in the norms of Church Slavonic which
Maksim followed, presumably in response to his own reading and to his readers’ reactions –
but change away from, not towards vernacular Russian.
In the light of these findings, some other features of Maksim’s Church Slavonic usage
can be seen as following the accepted practice of his time rather than constituting marked,
even deliberate innovation. So the systematic use of da to mark third person imperatives and
the frequent use of the genitive case in animate accusative function for plurals as well as
masculine singular continue trends which are attested in the South Slavonic revisions of the
14th century. If, as seems likely, Maksim took for his starting point a version of the Church
Slavonic Psalter which reflected these developments, he might have regarded any lingering
inconsistencies between them and older usage as examples of the corruptions which could so
readily creep into manuscript tradition and which could remedied by the systematic
application of what both his sources and his assistants treated as the norm.
The same can be said of Maksim’s use of 2nd singular perfect to render the 2nd
singular aorist of Greek (Baracchi 1971:275, Kovtun, Sinicyna and Fonkič 1973:108,
Matxauzerova 1976:46-7, Olmsted 2003:15, Romodanovskaja 2000). As Živov (1986:99-
102), Kravec (1991:249-50) and Uspenskij (2002:241-7) note, the practice of employing 2nd
singular perfect to avoid the ambiguity caused by the formal coincidence of 2nd and 3rd
singular aorist had a long history in Church Slavonic, extending back to Old Church Slavonic,
where it was particularly prominent in the Psalter: Večerka (1989-2003:iv.167-8) notes that
82% of perfect tense forms in the Sinai Psalter are 2nd singular, no doubt because the
psalmist alternates between addressing the Deity and referring to his past actions. In the 14th
century the tendency to use 2nd singular perfect became still more pronounced (Karačorova
1989:177-8), so that when Maksim turned his attention to the psalter text those 2nd singular
aorist forms which still survived must have struck him as anomalies. The process by which
2nd singular perfect ousted the aorist, and the relatively small role played by Maksim’s
revision, can be seen from the following tabulation of forms in passages from two psalms:

43:10a ōtrinou I II III=Ki Nor GB ōtrinuv JB → ō<t>rinoulŭ esi 171 1143
43:10a posrami ny I II Nor → posramilĭ jesi nas III=Ki J B GB 171
43:11a vŭzvratilŭ ny esi I II III=Ki vŭzvratilĭ esi nasĭ Nor J B GB 171 ō<t>vrati<l> esi
na<s> 752 1143
43:12a dalŭ ny esi I II III=Ki dalĭ esi nasĭ Nor J B GB 171 vyda<l> esi na<s> 752 1143
43:12b rasějalŭ ny esi I II III=Ki GB 171 razsěalŭ esi nasŭ Nor J B 752 1143
43:13a prodastŭ I III=Ki J prědastĭ II B proda Nor ō<t>dastĭ GB → prodal esi 171
ō<t>da<l> esi 752 1143
43:14a položilŭ ny esi I II položilĭ esi nas III=Ki Nor J B GB 171
43:15a položilŭ ny esi I II III=Ki položilĭ esi nasĭ Nor J B GB 171
65:10a iskousilŭ ny esi I II III=Ki, GB, 116 izkousilĭ esi nasŭ Nor J B 1143
65:10b raždeže ny I II III=Ki GB 116 razžezhe nasŭ Nor J B → razžeglŭ esi na<s> 1143
65:11a vŭvede ny I II vŭvede nasŭ Nor → vĭvelĭ ny esi III=Ki GB 116 vvelŭ esi nasŭ J B 1143
65:11b položilŭ esi I II III=Ki Nor J B 116 315 1143 → položi GB
65:12a vŭzvede I II III=Ki GB → vŭzvelĭ esi Nor J B 1143 nave<l> esi 116
65:12c izvede ny I II III=Ki Nor GB izvede nasŭ J B → izve<l> esi na<s> 116 1143
Moreover, in most places the process of correction was a very simple one, consisting
in the addition of a superscript l and the auxiliary esi above the line or in the margin. The
automatic application of this process no doubt explains how Maksim arrived at an
objectionable paraphrase of the Creed (Pokrovskij 1971:109, 126) when he altered sědě to
sědělŭ esi/estĭ odesnouju otca; as Živov and Uspenskij (1986:259-62) point out, this entails a
change from the perfective action verb sěsti to the imperfective stative sěděti. If Maksim had
had a clearer understanding of the implications of this change and of the morphological
relationship between the aorist paradigm and the forms of the infinitive and perfect participle,
he would presumably have altered sědě to sělŭ esi/estĭ, as the compiler of J did a hundred
years earlier, apparently with impunity, when he wrote in 9:5 sělŭ esi na prěstolě soudęi vŭ
pravdou instead of the traditional sědě.
It has to be said that the replacement of 3rd singular aorist with its perfect equivalent,
which is a hallmark especially of Maksim’s later work, is less common in earlier varieties of
Church Slavonic. Yet it is not without precedent even in Redaction I, as can be seen in the
following passage, where a 3rd singular aorist in Greek is translated first by a Church
Slavonic aorist, but in its three iterations by perfect tense forms:
113:20 gospodĭ poměnąvŭ ny blagoslovi ny I II III Nor → blgvilŭ estĭ nasŭ GB Ki J B 63
blagoslovilŭ estĭ domŭ izrailevŭ all redactions
blagoslovilŭ estĭ domŭ aronĭ all redactions
113:21 blagoslovilŭ estĭ bojęštęję sę gospoda all redactions.
The revised versions of the psalter text from the 14th-15th centuries provide more instances of
the perfect in place of 3rd singular aorist, e.g. in the Norov Psalter (56:4, 66:7, 113:24) and in
J and B, with or even without the auxiliary verb:
7:16 sŭtvori I II III=Ki 171 sĭděla Nor GB FпI2 → stvorilĭ B sŭdělal7 J 752 1143

20:5 prosi I II III=Ki Nor → prosilŭ ti estĭ GB prosilŭ estĭ B prosilŭ estĭ tebe 78 prosi<l> ou
tebe 171 315 1143
21:32 sŭtvori I II III=Ki Nor GB 171 → stvorilŭ estĭ J stvorilŭ 752 1143
35:5 pomysli I II III=Ki Nor GB 171 → pomyslilŭ J B 752 1143
67:17 blagovoli I II III=Ki Nor GB 116 → blagovolilŭ estĭ J B bl<g>ovoli<l> 1143
77:4 sŭtvori I II III=Ki Nor GB 63 117 → stvorilŭ B
102:19 ougotova I II III=Ki Nor GB 63 315 → oustroilŭ estĭ J B
147:2 blagoslovi I II III=Ki GB → blg<s>vilĭ estŭ Nor 8662 S64 J B bl<s>vilŭ 63 1143
Thus we find yet again that an ostensibly distinctive feature of Maksim’s Church Slavonic
usage has antecedents which go back at least a century.
The variability and inconsistencies which must have struck Maksim and his assistants
as they compared one or other Church Slavonic psalter with the Greek text can be variously
referred to linguistic changes over time, to differences between South and East Slavonic
usage, and to the effects of incomplete revision. Above all, however, they are due to the
interaction of two requirements fundamental to pre-modern Biblical translation: the desire to
mirror as nearly as possible the form of the original text, and the need to avoid unintentional
ambiguity or distortion of meaning. The first requirement gave rise to syntactic and
morphological calques and to standardized equivalencies between Greek and Church Slavonic
lexical items. The second prompted the use of translational variants in order to disambiguate
polysemous expressions in either language, and therefore tended to undermine formal
parallelism. All redactions of the Church Slavonic Psalter are in some degree governed by
both these principles, but the balance between them varies, the early redactions according
more weight to the second while the revisions of the 14th century, above all the Norov
Psalter, give pride of place to the first.
Maksim, like his predecessors, had to find ways of resolving the tension between
these requirements. That the tension was a real one which could give rise to divergent
solutions can be seen from the final set of examples to be examined here, involving Maksim’s
use of the expressions jako(že), kolĭ, zane and aky. The word jako(že) had a wide range of
meanings and syntactic functions in Old Church Slavonic (Lexicon Linguae Palaeoslovenicae
1995:v.940-53), and these could on occasion give rise to ambiguity. In particular the standard
use of jako to translate Greek hoti and hōs(ei), both of which are capable of conveying more
than one meaning, sometimes caused difficulties which necessitated a flexible approach. The
need for this is most obvious in contexts where an indiscriminate use of jako would produce
different senses in close proximity, e.g. in 36:2, 36:13 and 113:6, but it appears to have been
felt in some other places. So from the earliest redactions onwards hoti in the sense ‘that’,
introducing indirect statement, is normally conveyed by jako, but hoti in the sense ‘because’
may be translated either as jako or occasionally as zane:
10:3 zane I II III=Ki GB J 171 752 1143 jako 7/177 Nor
36:2 zane I II III=Ki 7/177 Nor GB J B 171 752 1143
36:9 zane I II III=Ki 7/177 J 171 jako Nor GB 752 sice B
36:13 zane I II III=Ki B 171 dane J jako 7/177 Nor GB 752
48:18 ide I II III=Ki jako 7/177 Nor J GB 171 752 1143 zane B
54:20 zane I 171 jako I II III=Ki 7/177 Nor GB J 752 sice B

68:27 zane I II III=Ki GB J B 116 1143 jako 7/177 Nor
77:22 zane I II III=Ki 7/177 Nor jako GB J 117 sice B
98:7 zane I 63 jako I II III=Ki 7/177 Nor GB J B
101:4 ide I II jako II III=Ki 7/177 Nor GB J B 1143 zane 63 78
101:10 ide I II zane III=Ki GB 63 1143 jako 7/177 Nor zanejako J jakozane B
104:28 zane I II III=Ki Nor J B 63 i ne 7/177 jako GB
113:6 zane I jako I II Nor Ki GB J da III absent in 7/177 Amf FпI2 T28 63
The differentiating use of zane or ide is typically, though not quite consistently, found
in the early redactions, whereas the Church Slavonic version of Theodoret’s commentary, the
Norov Psalter and to some extent the Gennadian Bible tend to prefer the standard translation,
jako. At first glance it might seem that in his catena Maksim followed earlier practice; but in
fact his initial preference for zane in most of the instances cited above is symptomatic of a
more radical departure from textual tradition, for there are 78 other instances in the catena on
the psalms where he used zane rather than jako. It is possible that this frequent, though by no
means systematic, disambiguation of hoti owes something to the working method which
Maksim and his early assistants are reported to have used: when Maksim turned the Greek
text into an intermediary Latin version, he could well have exploited the differentiating
options quoniam / quia and quod, as in the Vulgate version of 36:13 quoniam prospicit quod
veniet dies ejus, and his Russian translators could then have equated quoniam / quia with
zane, quod with jako. But this hypothesis depends on the assumption that Maksim
improvised his Latin version, rather than using the Vulgate itself, in which quoniam is used to
introduce indirect statement as well as causal clauses; and certainly the replacement of jako
with zane in 86:7 owes nothing to the Vulgate’s sicut as a translation of Greek hōs.
A similar extension of an old translational option can be seen in Maksim’s treatment
of Greek hōs. The use of this word in the sense ‘how much’ was sometimes distinguished in
early Church Slavonic translation from the senses ‘like, as’ by means of kolĭ, rather than the
standard jako which tends to prevail in the translation of Theodoret and the Norov Psalter:
22:5 kolĭ drŭžavĭna I II III jako 7/177 Nor FпI2 Ki GB J B ja<k> naročita 171 jako<ž>
naročita 315
30:20 kolĭ mnogo I II III=Ki GB J B 171 jako 7/177 Nor FпI2
65:3 kolĭ strašĭna I II III=Ki GB J B 116 jako 7/177 Nor
65:5 kolĭ strašĭnŭ I II III=Ki GB J B 116 jako II 7/177 Nor
72:1 kolĭ dobrŭ I kolĭ blagŭ II III=Ki 7/177 GB J B 116 jako I Nor
83:2 koli vŭzljublena I II III=Ki GB J B 63 jako 7/177 Nor
118:97 jako vŭzljubixŭ I II III 7/177 Nor J B kolĭ Ki GB 63
118:103 kolĭ sladŭka I II III=Ki 7/177 GB J B 63 jako Nor Amf FпI2 T28
Maksim generalized kolĭ to five more places (8:2 171 315 1143, 8:10 171 315 1143, 35:8 315
752 1143, 91:6 63 315 1143, 103:24 315 78 1143) and apparently thought the distinction
sufficiently important to maintain it in his later work. The hypothesis of Latin mediating
influence is plausible here, because in all these places the Vulgate disambiguates by means of
quam, quemadmodum (91:6) or quomodo (118:97) rather than sicut, the equivalent of hōs(ei)
in the sense ‘like, as if’. Latin influence may also explain why in 132:1 Maksim’s catena
follows the old reading kolĭ dobro i kolĭ krasno I II 7/177 63, which can be referred back to

Latin quam, rather than the 14th-century correction čĭto…čĭto III=Ki Nor GB J B 1143, based
on Greek ti.
Another alternative to jako appears sporadically in Maksim’s early work but is absent
at a later date: the variant form aky, which emerged in Old Church Slavonic with two close
but distinct senses: ‘like, as if’, introducing similes, or ‘in the capacity of’ (Lexicon Linguae
Palaeoslovenicae 1966:i.23-4). In the first sense it is attested quite frequently in East and
South Slavonic psalter manuscripts affiliated to Redaction II, though it seems to have been
excluded from the South Slavonic revised versions of the 14th century and the Gennadian
Bible, which prefer jako(že). In the witnesses to Maksim’s catena on the psalms and in the
Church Slavonic glosses on the Greek psalter manuscript 78 I have found 23 instances where
aky rather than jako translates hōs(ei) introducing a simile; aky also occurs in the passages of
commentary which make up the catena. If it is the case, as suggested by much of the data
reviewed above, that Maksim’s starting point for revision was a version of the Church
Slavonic psalter text allied to that of the Gennadian Bible, then it is unlikely that these
instances of aky were inherited from it, and their sporadic appearance precludes the possibility
that they were deliberately exploited by Maksim himself to mark a specific function of
hōs(ei). They were therefore probably introduced either by Maksim’s assistants or his
copyists and reflect traditional Church Slavonic usage in 16th-century Muscovy.
In Maksim’s later versions, represented here by his glosses on 315 and by 752 and
1143, I have found no trace of aky; instead, as Kravec (1991:257-8) notes, jakože is
systematically employed to translate hōs(ei), leaving jako to be the equivalent of hoti. The
reason for this change in approach is not far to seek: one of the objections levelled against
Maksim at the time of his trial had to do with his use of aky. Although the precise nature of
the objection is not stated explicitly, it can be inferred from the examples provided by the
witness Mixail Medovarcev (Olmsted 2002:18, Pokrovskij 1971:128), if we assume that aky
was by this time used exclusively in the sense ‘like, as if’ and had lost the sense ‘in the
capacity of’. Medovarcev felt impelled to correct Maksim’s wording aki semeni mužeska
nikako že pričastivša sę by replacing aki with jako, no doubt because the reference is to the
Mother of God ‘in her capacity of’ one who has had no contact with male seed, not ‘like, as
if’ someone who has had no such contact. Similarly, when Medovarcev changed aki
pravednyj glagoletŭ to jako pravedenŭ syi glagoletŭ, he was presumably concerned to avoid
the impropriety of saying that the referent, perhaps God or Christ, speaks ‘as if’ a righteous
man, rather than ‘in the capacity of’ one who is righteous. In most contexts, however, the
distinction would have been immaterial, and it is understandable that Maksim might not have
been alerted to it by his Russian assistants. Hard experience taught him to be more cautious;
and caution expressed itself in a retreat into formalism which brought him closer to the usage,
not of earlier Russian Church Slavonic, let alone the vernacular language of Muscovy, but
rather of the hybrid Church Slavonic variety which had emerged under the influence of the
14th-century South Slavonic revisions.

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Translations of Greek ekleipein in the Church Slavonic Psalter

(i)skončati sę iznemagati iščezati oskoudě(va)ti

38:11 I II III=Ki 752 Nor GB J 171
72:19 I II III=Ki Nor GB 116 1143
77:33 I II III=Ki J Nor GB 117 315
83:3 I II III=Ki GB J B 315 Nor 63 1143
89:7 I II III=Ki Nor GB J B 63 1143
89:9 I II III=Ki J B Nor GB 63 1143
101:28 I Nor II III=Ki GB J B 63
103:35 I II III=Ki Nor GB 63 1143
other: potrěbętĭ sę J B
118:82 I II III=Ki J B Nor GB 63 1143
118:123 I II III=Ki J B Nor GB 1143 (corrected) 63 1143
142:7 I II III=Ki Nor GB 63
other: izide J B
17:39 I II III=Ki Nor GB J B
171 752 1143
70:9 Nor I II III=Ki J B GB 116 1143
106:5 I II III=Ki Nor J B GB 63 1143

(i)skončati sę iznemagati iščezati oskoudě(va)ti
36:20 I II III=Ki Nor GB B 171 1143
other: pogibajušči pogibnou<t> J
63:7 I II III=Ki Nor GB 116
other: pogibnutĭ J B
67:3 I II III=Ki Nor GB J B 116 1143
68:4 I II III=Ki Nor GB J B 116 1143
70:13 I II III=Ki Nor GB 116
other: pogibnutĭ J B
72:26 I II III=Ki Nor GB 116 1143
101:4 JB I II III=Ki Nor GB 1143 63
103:29 JB I II III=Ki Nor GB 63 1143
118:81 JB I II III=Ki Nor GB 63 1143
141:4 I II III=Ki Nor GB J B 63 1143
9:7 B I II III=Ki Nor GB J 171
11:1 J I II III=Ki Nor GB B 171 1143
30:11 B Ki GB I II III Nor J 171 1143
54:12 I II III=Ki Nor GB J B 171 1143

История формирования славянских коллекцнй в Британской библиотеке
(по архивным материалам: 1837-1900 гг.)

Екатерина Рогачевская
(British Library)

Как и любая организация, Британская библиотека обладает архивом, в котором

отражена история формирования и функционирования института. При разделении
Британского музея и Британской библиотеки на две самостоятельные организации в
1972 году архивы также были разделены. В архив Библиотеки поступили документы, в
основном относящиеся к Отделам печатной книги и рукописей, а также документы
общего характера (например, отчеты Совета Попечителей, имеющие непосредственное
отношение к библиотеке). 1 Надо сказать, что систематическое и довольно подробное
архивирование документации началось в Библиотеке с середины 19-го века
(Британский Музей был основан в 1753 году) с приходом к руководству легендарного
Антонио, а позднее – сэра Энтони Паницци (1797-1879), который революционизировал
институт во многих отношениях, в том числе и архивном.
Архив Британской библиотеки хорошо известен сотрудникам, которые
пользуются им, чтобы выяснить, когда и каким путем попала в фонды та или иная
книга, кто пользовался библиотекой, кто курировал тот или иной участок работы. 2 По
архивным документам написана фундаментальная История Библиотеки Британского
Музея (Harris 1998). Несмотря на это, архив, составляющий несколько сотен
переплетенных томов и других материалов, изучен недостаточно. Мне показалось
интересным использовать материалы архива для исследования по истории славистики в
Великобритании, одной из составляющих которой является история славянских фондов
Какие же документы, которые могут иметь отношение к истории славянской
коллекции и отдела, сохранились в архиве Британского Музея? Во-первых,
официальные документы, например, отчеты начальника Отдела печатных изданий и его
заместителей, протоколы заседаний Попечительного Совета Музея, прошения о
дополнительных отпусках и листы регистрации на службе всех сотрудников Отдела. 3
Сохранилось также собрание общей корреспонденции, которое включает в себя
переписку с поставщиками, читателями, потенциальными дарителями и
пользователями библиотекой (правда, копии ответов сотрудников Музея прилагаются
не всегда, а в исключительных случаях), а также с сотрудниками, если их переписка не
считалась официальной. 4 Собраны и переплетены в отдельные тома все счета за
купленные печатные материалы, причем календарное число обработки счета,
проставленное на нем, для материалов 19 века всегда совпадает с календарным числом
на библиотечном штампе в книге, что значительно облегчает задачу исследователя,
который хотел бы проследить историю получения той или иной книги. 5 Отдельными
томами представлены книги учета печатных материалов, подаренных библиотеке. 6
Часть архива составляют также личные бумаги Паницци и его корреспонденция. 7
Разумеется, материалы, относящиеся к истории славянской коллекции и Отдела,
не собраны в отдельные папки или разделы, поэтому приходится просматривать весь
архив всплошную, в надежде найти новые документы, по которым можно воссоздать

историю Славянского Отдела и фондов. Динамика переписки и документации,
разумеется, отражает моменты подъема и упадка интереса к славянской коллекции.
Несмотря на то, что со времен Паницци иностранное комплектование велось
поступательно, его спады и подъемы совпадают не только и не столько с личными
качествами и интересами сотрудников (хотя это очень важный фактор), но и с
политической и общекультурной ситуацией в стране в целом. Первый подъем был
связан с Крымской войной, второй – с увлечением британской интеллигенцией
русскими революционными идеями и литературой, следующий – с признанием
Британией Советской Республики, что, в свою очередь, обусловило и начало
формирования славистики как отрасли науки в Великобритании. И, разумеется, самый
большой толчок к подъему славистики дала Холодная война, а затем, на некоторое
время, перестройка.
История формирования славянских, и в частности, русских фондов Библиотеки
Британского Музея уже освящалась в научной литературе (Thomas 2006, Thomas 1997,
Kanevskii 1969). Безусловно, сам характер материала подсказывает, что написать
историю коллекции книг невозможно, не описывая людей, ее создававших.
Как уже отмечалось во многих работах о русских фондах Библиотеки
Британского Музея, со времени ее основания и до начала 1840-х годов иностранное
комплектование практически не велось за недостатком интереса, средств и
квалифицированных сотрудников. 8 Иностранные книги оказались в библиотеке только
благодаря тому, что уже изначально были частью чей-либо личной коллекции,
приобретенной Музеем. Первые рукописные и печатные книги на русском языке
попали в Библиотеку Британского Музея в составе коллекции сэра Ханса Слоуна (1660-
1753), которая была одной из четырех частных коллекций, положивших основу фондам
библиотеки. Слоун являлся почетным членом Российской Академии наук и в течение
многих лет переписывался с российскими академиками (Thomas 1998, Bryce 2005).
Несколько русских и славянских книг было в библиотеке короля Георга III, которая
была подарена Музею в 1823 г. Достаточно большой случайностью было и то, что
князь Чарторыйский предложил в подарок Музею свою коллекцию польских книг в
1832 г. 9
Приход Антонио Паниции (Miller 1988, Dictionary of National Biography 1895) к
руководству Отделом Печатных изданий в 1837 г. 10 в корне изменил ситуацию. С
помощью других сотрудников, и в частности Томаса Уоттса (1811-1869), который
занимал тогда не слишком высокий пост ассистента, но впоследствии сыграл самую
важную роль в истории иностранного комплектования библиотеки в 19-м веке,
Паницци составил отчет о состоянии фондов для Парламентской Комиссии 1846 г. 11
Уоттс подготовил для Паницци сравнение коллекции Музея с различными
иностранными каталогами и библиографиями, в том числе с каталогом книжной лавки
А. Ф. Смирдина, приобретенным еще в 1839 г., и наглядно показал, что библиотека
имела лишь единицы из сотен трудов, изданных в России. Такие же результаты
получились и по другим странам. В результате этого отчета ежегодная сумма на
иностранное комплектование возросла до 10 тысяч фунтов.
Надо сказать, что знание русского языка (а также других «трудных» языков,
каковыми считались скандинавские, восточные, другие славянские, венгерский и
некоторые другие языки) являлось в Британии чрезвычайной редкостью. Выучить эти
языки можно было только самостоятельно и способны на это были лишь немногие
одаренные лингвисты. Одним из таких людей и был Томас Уоттс, которого Паниции
изначально взял в библиотеку добровольным каталогизатором. В 1856 г., когда
Паницци занял пост Главного Библиотекаря (директора библиотеки), Уоттс стал

помощником начальника Отдела печатных книг, а затем возглавлял его (1866-1869) уже
после ухода Паницци на пенсию. Период работы Паницци и Уоттса над созданием
русской коллекции подробно описан в статье К. Томас и Р. Хендерсона (Thomas and
Henderson 1997). После смерти Уоттса другой одаренный лингвист, знаток нескольких
славянских языков Вильям Шедден Ролстон (1828-1889), впоследствии создавший себе
репутацию специалиста по русской литературе и находившийся в переписке с
некоторыми русскими писателями, в том числе с И.С.Тургеневым (Alekseev 1944:128,
Alekseev 1964), не смог получить место начальника Отдела или его заместителя и
выполнять работу Уоттса.
И хотя Ролстон поступил на службу еще при жизни Уоттса, в 1853 году, и начал
учить русский язык по настоятельному совету Паницци, ему так и не доверили
самостоятельной работы по отбору книг на заказ. Книги на заказ отбирались либо
самим начальником Отдела (например, Уоттсом), либо его заместителями. После
Уоттса начальником Отдела (Главным хранителем Отдела печатных изданий) стал
‘добросовестный, прилежный, но гораздо менее яркий Вилльям Бенчли Рай (1818-
1901)’ (Thomas 2006:60), и вся переписка с поставщиками формально была адресована
ему. 12 Согласно его подробному отчету, составленному в июне 1872 г., за прошедший
финансовый год Музеем было приобретено 212 новых русских книг на общую сумму
98 фунтов 9 шиллингов 3 пенса (для сравнения немецких книг было приобретено 5604,
а общая сумма затраченная на монографии и периодику на немецком языке составляла
£1050.6.2, французских книг соответственно: 885, на общую сумму, включая периодику
– £ 779.15.7 (DH2, 14, 1872)). По предварительным оценкам Рая, в текущем году будет
приобретено 200 русских книг на сумму 50 фунтов, и еще 50 фунтов потребуется для
покрытия расходов на периодику и продолжающиеся издания. Приблизительное число
книг на других славянских языках, уже поступивших или ожидавшихся в библиотеке в
текущем году, составляло 100 единиц на сумму 50 фунтов, из которых половина
должна была быть израсходована на монографии, а другая половина – на
продолжающиеся издания и периодику (там же). Из этого отчета видно, что в начале
70-х гг. 19-го века Музей переживал довольно спокойные времена, хотя тенденция к
снижению закупок, особенно ярко проявившаяся в 80-е годы, уже была хорошо
видна. 13 Именно в 1870-71-м году, как уже отмечала К.Томас (Thomas 2006:62), Рай
затеял долгую и желчную переписку с Альбертом Коном, возглавлявшим тогда
книготорговую компанию Ашера, которая по-прежнему являлась основным
поставщиком иностранной и, в частности, русской литературы, о ценах на российские
книги: ‘Стремление Рая торговаться можно рассматривать как заботу добросовестного
чиновника о рачительном расходовании средств. Это характерно для ведения дел под
руководством (в отличие от прежнего доверия Паницци к Ашеру), и, возможно, из-за
неуступчивости Рая Британский Музей не приобрел много важных русских книг’
(Thomas 2006:64). По той же причине не приобрел Музей и библиотеку С. А.
Соболевского, которая была представлена на продажу также через Кона и фирму
Ашера в 1873 г. (Thomas forthcoming). В целом переписка с книготорговцами,
поставлявшими русскую и славянскую литературу, еще активная в начале 1870-х годов,
к середине десятилетия, была сведена практически на нет. И хотя 1877 г. был все еще
вполне благополучным с финансовой точки зрения, приобретение русских книг едва ли
было приоритетным направлением комплектования. В августе 1877 г. фирма Ашера
жаловалась в переписке с Музеем, что она получила за этот год всего 487 фунтов,
получит еще 193 фунта, а поставила книг уже на 805 фунтов, в то время как Музей
недоплатил фирме за прошлые годы еще 1700 фунтов (разумеется, расходы на русские
книги составляют лишь часть указанных сумм) (DH4, 19, 1877, A-L:15-24).

Общее снижение закупок иностранной литературы было обусловлено не только
экономическим, но и ‘человеческим’ фактором. Помощниками хранителя Отдела
печатной книги в 70-е – 80-е годы были Джорж Буллен (1816-1894), занявший пост Рая
в 1875 г., и Джорж Вильям Портер (умер в 1887 г.), который и стал осуществлять отбор
литературы на русском и славянских языках. Ролстон, будучи его починенным и опять,
как и при Уоттсе, лишенный возможности применить свои знания русского языка и
литературы, был невысокого мнения о Портере и его уровне владения русским
языком. 14 Карьера же Ролстона в Музее не складывалась так, как ему хотелось бы, 15 а
публичный скандал в 1875 г. и вовсе сделал его дальнейшее пребывание в Музее
невозможным (McCrimmon 1988).
Побывав в России несколько раз, начиная с 1867 г., в марте 1870 г. Ролстон
снова решил поехать туда и попросил разрешения на трехмесячный отпуск без
содержания, чтобы иметь возможность посетить не только Россию, но и Балканские
страны с целью совершенствования знания других славянских языков. 16 Надо сказать,
что в Музее существовала практика посылать своих сотрудников в страны изучаемых
языков, например, в архиве сохранилось разрешение на дополнительный отпуск
(правда, всего лишь на месяц), данное мистеру Феофилиусу Марциалсу (1850-1920) для
посещения Корфу с целью изучения новогреческого языка (DH2, 26, 1881). Рай,
прямой начальник Ролстона, поддержал прошение довольно странным образом. В
своей служебной записке Попечителям он писал: ‘М-р Ролстон – очень ценный
сотрудник, и М-р Рай с удовольствием рекомендовал бы все, что могло послужить к его
пользе, но в то же время он (м-р Рай) почитает своей обязанностью указать
Попечителям на то, что если таковая просьба будет выполнена, специальная работа,
связанная с последней версией нового каталога, которую в настоящее время выполняет
Ролстон, по необходимости будет отложена на все время его отсутствия’ (10 марта 1870
- DH2, 11, Aug. 1869-Apr. 1870).
Таким образом, в дополнительном трехмесячном отпустке Ролстону было
отказано, но в протоколе заседания Совета Попечителей библиотеки содержится
записка Главного хранителя Джона Винтера Джонса от 14 мая, в которой он сообщает о
желании Ролстона получить хотя бы две недели оплачиваемого отпуска для посещения
России. Согласно рекомендации самого Джонса и начальника Отдела печатных
изданий Рая оплачиваемый отпуск в две недели был получен в качестве исключения
(DH2, 11, May 1870 – Dec 1870). Через 4 года, отметив 20-летие своей службы в
Музее, Ролстон обратился к Раю с просьбой разрешить ему отлучки из Музея в обмен
на дополнительную работу (DH2, 15, 1874). Не вполне понятно, была ли удовлетворена
эта просьба, но уже через год Ростону пришлось уволиться «по состоянию здоровья»,
как гласили официальные документы (DH2, 16, 1875).
Несмотря на неприятности, связанные с уходом с работы, в 1880 г. Ролстон
послал в подарок Музею книги о России от имени Общества Любителей древнерусской
литературы в Петербурге (Harris 1998:342).
Другим, гораздо менее известным специалистом по русскому языку, который не
смог применить свои специализированные знания в Музее, стал Генри Вилсон. В
конце 1881 года он также, уже будучи в России, просил удлиннить полагающийся ему
отпуск. 14-го (2-го) ноября 1881 года Вилсон писал своему начальнику Буллену из
Москвы: ‘Милостивый Государь! Я смею надеяться, что вы любезно представите
Попечителям мою просьбу о продлении отпуска с тем, чтобы я смог в полной мере
получить удовлетворение от такой особенно приятной, но для меня и дорогостоящей
возможности совершенствоваться в славянских штудиях. Мне кажется, что это не так
уж много – надеяться на разрешение получить дополнительные 25 или 30 дней отпуска

после 15-ти лет службы, поскольку прошение это материально связано с тем
предметом, который я имею в виду <имеется в виду изучение русского языка>. Я могу
упомянуть некоторые соображения, позволяющие <Вам> поддержать мою просьбу,
которая, как мне верится, полностью соответствует прецеденту. В течение почти 15-ти
лет я регулярно и постоянно ходил на работу, и отсутствовал на службе редко и по
исключительным причинам. Однако и моя зарплата (даже по максимуму), и отпуск
гораздо меньше, чем получают многие мои коллеги, а потому для меня довольно
трудно найти в настоящее время подобные возможности. Мое здоровье, весьма
некрепкое, было бы поправлено благодаря продлению пребывания в климате, гораздо
более благоприятном зимой, чем лондонский. Цель моего пребывания здесь весьма
полезна. Не могу не надеяться, милостивый Государь, что моя просьба получит Ваше
понимание и поддержку, за которые я был бы Вам весьма благодарен’ (DH4, 27, 1881,
A-L). Письма Вилсона и ответы на них сохранились в файле общей корреспонденции,
и поскольку Буллен отказался представить прошение Вилсона на рассмотрение
Попечителей, переписка эта рассматривалась как частная. Посчитав на оборотке дни
отпуска своего сотрудника, Буллен ответил 23-го ноября: ‘Дорогой мистер Вилсон! Я
очень сожалею, что не могу выполнить Вашу просьбу и представить Ваше прошение о
дополнительном отпуске на рассмотрение Попечителей. По Вашему желанию, в
прошлом году я попросил их перенести 33 дня Вашего отпуска за прошлый год на этот,
что они и разрешили. Как Вам известно, каждый год Вам положено 30 дней отпуска, к
которым я позволил, если я правильно помню, добавить еще 6, получая, таким образом,
36 дней. Итак, я совершенно не возражаю, чтобы Вы получили эти дополнительные
дни, что делает Ваш отпуск (включая прошлогодние 33 дня) продолжительностью 69
дней. Теперь, обратившись к своим собственным записям и Вашему дневнику, я
нашел, что Вы либо уже использовали, либо используете к 12-му декабря 51 день.
Таким образом, у Вас останется 17 дней, которые истекут к концу декабря этого года.
Если Вы хотите получить своей очередной отпуск в начале 1882 г., было бы очень
хорошо, если бы Вы мне написали и дали о этом знать. В данный момент я не вижу
причин, чтобы Вы получили отпуск в очередном порядке. Очень рад тому, что Вам
нравится отпуск в Москве’ (там же).
Сейчас уже трудно рассудить начальника и подчиненного, видимо, каждый из
них имел, как это часто бывает ‘свою правду’. Тем не менее, вся история Вилсона
говорит о том, что в Музее существовало противостояние ‘менеджеров’ и
‘специалистов’. Вилсон не сдавался, и хотя он в весьма витиеватых фразах уверил
начальника в своей полной покорности, он тем не менее намекнул, что мог бы
согласиться и на меньшее число дней, добавленных к отпуску. Его письмо от 29-го (17-
го) ноября – горькая жалоба на несправедливость и незаслуженные обиды, полученные
им за время службы. 5-го декабря Буллен жестко закрыл дискуссию: ‘Милостивый
Государь! Я получил Ваше письмо от 29-го ноября, которое считаю совершенно
неуместным. Я по-прежнему отказываюсь передать Ваше прошение о дополнительном
отпуске Попечителям и считаю, что это находится в моей компетенции. Если Вы
другого мнения, то, я полагаю, в Вашей власти написать прямо Главному
Библиотекарю’ (там же).
История эта имела продолжение, когда в 1882 г. Вилсон попросил разрешения
совмещать свои работу в Музее с работой в Министерстве иностранных Дел в качестве
переводчика с русского, шведского и некоторых других языков (DH4, 30, 1882, M-Z,
письма Вилсона Буллену, Буллена – Бонду (Главному Библиотекарю) и Бонда –
Буллену от 15-16-го сентября 1882 г.). Во прошении Вилсона и в записке Буллена в
поддержку этого прошения говорится о том, что Вилсону будет предоставлен

отдельный кабинет в Министерстве, а его работа там никоим образом не будет мешать
работе в Музее. Судя по этим письмам, начальство было настроено позитивно. И тем
не менее, в уже официальном прошении, представленном на рассмотрение
Попечителей заместителем Буллена Портером в отсутствии начальника Отдела,
содержится целый абзац о том, что Портер предлагает позволить Вилсону совмещение
двух работ на короткий период, который являлся бы испытательным сроком. По мысли
Портера, за время этого испытательного срока начальники Вилсона в Музее смогли бы
понять, действительно ли работа в МИДе не мешает службе в библиотеке. Трудно
сказать, что происходило за кулисами архивных материалов, 17 но в совмещении служб
Вилсону было отказано в октябре 1882 г. В ноябре, меньше чем через месяц после
этого, он подал в отставку, и неудивительно, ведь в МИДе за неполную рабочую
неделю ему обещали платить 250 фунтов в год, что существенно превышало ему
зарплату в Музее на полную ставку (все документы: DH2, 28, 1882).
По всей вероятности, за этим, более мелким, но все-таки скандалом, тоже стояли
интересы Портера, который не хотел конкуренции. К сожалению, нельзя не отметить,
что то время, когда Портер комплектовал фонды иностранной литературой (1870-1887),
было явным упадком как в истории комплектования, 18 так и в смысле подготовки
кадров. И хотя уже в 1860 г. на службе состоял поляк из Варшавы Джон Нааке
(оставил службу в 1899 из-за душевной болезни), который после ухода Ролстона
многими посетителями и воспринимался как главный специалист по славянским
языкам (Viktorov 1895), он также не продвинулся по службе и занимался в основном
каталогизацией. Каталогизировали книги на русском и других славянских языках
также Расселл Мартино (1831-1898), Роберт Нисбет Бейн (1854-1909), Лоуренс Тейлор
(умер в 1910 г.). Бейн, еще будучи ассистентом в Музее, стал одним из пионеров
научной славистики в Британии, специалистом по Скандинавии и Венгрии,
переводчиком со славянских языков, написал научные труды по истории России,
Польши, Венгрии и Скандинавии, которые переиздаются и по сей день. В начале 20-го
века он стал старшим специалистом по славянским языкам, а после его смерти в 1909 г.
комплектование славянской коллекции было поручено Тейлору (Harris 1998:438).
Генри Мейхью (умер в 1910 г.) занимался иностранными продолжающимися издания,
но только в 1888 году (уже после смерти Портера) ездил в Россию с целью посещения
библиотек и музеев. К сожалению, в архиве не отложился его отчет о поездке, а лишь
документы, сопровождающие его.
Однако, видимо, именно Нааке переводил с русского языка письма тех, кто
хотел бы продать библиотеке свои книги. Например, написанное на корявом русском
языке письмо некоего Алексея Степановича Бакланова, предлагавшего библиотеке
приобрести у него одну рукопись и две старопечатные книги, 19 или предложение
действительного статского Советника Ивана Могилянского из Баку продать Музею
‘древнее издание Геометрии под заглавием Praxes Geometricae quae tum in charta, tum in
Campo exerceri possunt’ (DH4, 44, 1889, H-M:483). Оба эти предложения, как и
некоторые другие, были отклонены.
Слава о библиотеке Музея и ее русской коллекции привлекала не только
сомнительные предложения о продаже, но и весьма ценные дары. Таковым явились,
например, три посылки из Общества Любителей Древней Письменности, которые
сопровождались краткой запиской на английском языке за подписью князя П. П.
Вяземского и секретаря Общества И. Дьяконова. Приложение составлял полный
список подаренных изданий, из которых, судя по всему лишь немногие оказались
дубликатами. 20

Несмотря на недостаточно активное комплектование библиотеки в конце 70-х–
начале 80-х гг., в Британии появился интерес к России и русской литературе. Именно в
эти годы появились первые вопросы читателей, свидетельствующие об этом интересе.
В июне 1889 г. читатель Фред Вишоу интересовался, существует ли перевод романа
Пушкина ‘Капитанская дочка’ (или ‘Дочь Капитана’, как перевел он сам) 21 (DH4, 44,
1889, H-M:723), а еще раньше, в 1886 г., редактор манчестерской ‘Вечерней почты’
(Evening Mail) Е. А. Пратт хотел получить информацию о существовании перевода на
английский ‘Ревизора’ Гоголя 22 (DH4, 38, 1886, M-Z:272).
С 1890 по 1899 гг. русская и славянская коллекция, а также комплектование
иностранных фондов в целом переживали относительный подъем. Доктор Ричард
Гарнетт (McCrimmon 1989), который все-таки дождался долгожданного повышения,
был в 1875 г. назначен помощником хранителя, а в 1890 году – хранителем Отдела
Печатной книги. После смерти Портера в 1888 году именно Гарнету был поручен
отбор книг на заказ. Просматривая только архивные материалы, можно предположить,
что Гарнетт развернул активную деятельность в сфере иностранного комплектования.
Объем переписки с поставщиками сразу возрос по сравнению с предыдущими годами в
несколько раз. Это предположение подтверждается и финансовой документацией.
Гарнетт сыграл большую роль и в истории формирования русских фондов
Музея. К 90-м годам его дети, в основном дочь Оливия и невестка Констанс (1861-
1946), впоследствии известная переводчица классической русской литературы на
английский язык, были увлечены Россией, а русские революционеры-эмигранты
являлись частыми гостями в доме как самого Ричарда Гарнетта, так и позже – его сына
Эдварда, мужа Констанс. Дневники Оливии, где описывается именно этот период ее
жизни, были опубликованы Барри Джонсоном (Garnett 1989, Garnett 1993). Оливия и
Констанс учили русский язык у Феликса Волховского, а затем Оливия некоторое время
жила в России и написала несколько художественных произведений на русскую тему
(Garnett 1918, Garnett 1900). Ф. В. Волховский помогал Констанс с ее первым
переводом с русского языка – это была ‘Обыкновенная история’ Н. Гончарова
(Goncharov 1890). Он же познакомил Гарнеттов со С.М. Степняком-Кравчинским и
другими русскими политическими эмигрантами. Феномен интереса к российской
революционной эмиграции и ее восприятие викторианским обществом уже
рассматривался в научной литературе (Vernitski 2005), также как и история русских
революционеров – читателей библиотеки Британского Музея (Henderson 1991).
Принимая во внимание личную заинтересованность русских революционеров в
пополнении фондов библиотеки, вовсе неудивительно, что в 1888 году князь П.
Кропоткин написал руководству Музея письмо, 23 в котором указал на лакуны в
комплектовании за последние 20 лет и предлагал способы их устранения. К письму
прилагался список дезадераты, состоявший из более 50-ти позиций (пометы, сделанные
музейным сотрудником на письме Кропоткина, говорят о том, что три названия из
предложенных им полсотни уже были к тому моменту в библиотеке). Гарнетт составил
отчет, 24 где предлагал уделить больше внимания русской литературе. Однако очень
мало из того, что предложил Кропоткин, поступило в библиотеку. Вполне вероятно,
что письмо Кропоткина отложилось не в томе общей корреспонденции, а среди
официальных бумаг именно потому, что оно не было рядовым фактом в музейной
практике. Не исключено также (хотя доказать это было бы сложно), что Гарнетт мог
знать о намерении Кропоткина написать такое письмо и, может быть, даже как-то
участвовал в его написании, поскольку дата его получения письма идеально совпадает
с началом выполнения Гарнеттом работы по отбору книг. Видимо, ответом на это
письмо явился и заказ каталога книг, изданных вне России (Spisok 1885), хотя ни один

из сохранившихся экземпляров не несет на себе следов его использования в качестве
библиографии, по которой осуществлялся отбор книг на заказ.
В 1892 году Фонд Вольной русской прессы, организованный в Лондоне С. М.
Кравчинским, Ф. Волховским, Л. Э. Шишко и Н. В. Чайковским в 1891 г. для
пропаганды революционных идей и печатания неподцензурной литературы (Senese
1987) начал коммерческую деятельность по продаже своей продукции в Библиотеку
Музея. Под руководством первого бизнес-менеджера В. М. Войнича (впоследствии
библиофила, коллекционера и самостоятельного книготорговца, в том числе ведшего
дела и с Музеем (Garland 1932; cм. также каталоги Войнича, поступившие в библиотеку
Музея: Voynich [1898-1902] и Voynich [1903-1914])) Фонд Вольной русской прессы
поставлял в библиотеку Музея не только свои издания, но и запрещенные книги из
России, причем часть изданий Фонда были проданы Музею, хотя будучи
напечатанными в Англии, они должны были бы поступить в библиотеку в качестве
обязательных экземпляров. Вероятно, это коммерческое предприятие не обошлось без
личного участия Гарнетта.
В ‘Истории Библиотеки Британского Музея’ Харрис пишет, что слишком
активная, по мнению начальства, комплектаторская деятельность Гарнетта была
раскритикована тогдашним Главным библиотекарем Мондом Томпсоном в 1895 г.
Первым признаком этого было распоряжение Попечителей, отданное в феврале, что
каждый год определенная сумма должна была быть отложена на покупку текущего
материала. В 1895/6 финансовом году эта сумма составляла 5250 фунтов из общего
гранта в 9250 фунтов для всего Отдела Печатных Изданий. Затем Гарнетту было
предложено составить меморандум, в котором он должен был изложить свои взгляды
на теорию и практику комплектования. Этот меморандум затем должен был быть
обсужден на заседании специальной комиссии по делам печатных изданий и
рукописей, которая должна была собраться в скором времени. Документ, который
Гарнетт начал с изложения практики отбора иностранной литературы, был представлен
к ноябрю (Harris 1998:401). Из этого документа (DH2, 55(2), 1895) мы знаем, что в
середине 90-х гг. Нааке и Бейн, до этого занимавшиеся только каталогом, отбирали на
заказ книги на славянских языках, но Гарнетт сам просматривал их работу по мере
возможности. Далее Гарнетт доказывал, повторяя аргументы Уоттса, что Британский
Музей не может себе позволить сократить иностранное комплектование, уже
добившись репутации наиболее полного хранилища иностранной литературы в Европе,
куда съезжаются ученые из всех стран мира. Томпсон представил на рассмотрение
Комиссии своей документ, в котором он, не соглашаясь с Гарнеттом, говорил о том, что
пора было бы изменить политику комплектации в Британском Музее, которая
оставалась неизменной со времен Паницци. Выступая против почти полной монополии
начальника Отдела Печатных изданий и его ближайших помощников на отбор
литературы, Томпсон предлагал дать возможность более широкому кругу сотрудников,
знающих соответствующие иностранные языки, выполнять это задание, но сделать
отбор более жестким. В то же время он выражал недовольство тем обстоятельством,
что до недавнего времени Музей старался приобретать все старые иностранные книги,
которых не было в его фондах (DH2, 55(2), 1895). Комиссия поддержала Главного
библиотекаря, и постановила, что только иностранные книги, имеющие непреходящую
культурную ценность, должны быть заказаны для библиотеки. Кроме того, их
рекомендации гласили, что иностранные книги желательно получать для осмотра и
проверки и только потом выносить решение о их покупке. Этот принцип в целом
относился и к старым книгам. Среди других мер, направленных на «урегулирование»
текущего иностранного комплектования, было также запрещено, за исключением

крайних случаев, делать покупки в промежутках между собраниями Попечителей,
чтобы они всегда успевали утвердить затраты (DH2, 54(1), 1895). Результатом этого
постановления стало также и правило, что Гарнетт должен был отчитываться за
каждую покупку старых книг, какой бы мелкой ни была сумма. Харрис пишет, что
когда Фортескью сменил Гарнетта на этом посту в 1899 г., Томпсон написал
Попечителям, что необходимость в таких отчетах полностью отпала (Harris 1998:403).
Наступил 20-й век, началась другая эпоха и открылась новая глава в истории
славянской и русской коллекции библиотеки Британского Музея, которая заслуживает
отдельного исследования.

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Goncharov, I. A., 1890. A Common Story, translated from the Russian by Constance Garnet
Harris, P. R., 1998. A History of the British Museum Library : 1753-1973, London.
Henderson, R., 1991. ‘Russian Political Émigrés and the British Museum Library’, Library
History, ix (December), 59-68. Эта статья также доступна:
Kanevskii, B. P., 1969. ‘Russkaia kniga v Britanskom Muzee v XIX veke’, Trudy
Gosudarstvennoi biblioteki im. Lenina, xi, 106-124.
Mann, Iu., 2005. Postigaia Gogolia, Moscow.
McCrimmon, B, 1988. ‘W. R. S. Ralston (1828-1889) : Scholarship and scandal in British
Museum’, British Library Journal, xiv, 178-198.
McCrimmon, B., 1989. Richard Garnett : The Scholar as Librarian, Chicago and
London, 54-55.
Miller E., 1988. Prince of librarians : The life and time of Antonio Panizzi of the British
Museum, London.
Senese, D. J., 1987. S. M. Stepniak-Kravchinskii, the London years, Newtonville, Mass.

Spisok, 1885. Spisok russkikh knig, napechatannykh vne Rossii za poslednee desiatiletie
1875-1885, Berlin.
Thomas, C. G., 1988. ‘Sir Hans Sloan and the Russian Academy of Science’, British Library
Journal, xiv, 21-36.
Thomas, C., Henderson, R., 1997. ‘Watts, Panizzi and Asher: The development of the
Russian collections, 1837-1869’, British Library Journal, xxiii:ii, 154-157.
Thomas, C., 2006. ‘Komplektovanie russkikh fondov Britanskogo muzeia v seredine XIX
veka’, in: Knizhnoe delo v Rossii v XIX – nachale XX veka: sbornik nauchnykh trudov,
xiii, St Petersburg, 54-56.
Thomas, C., forthcoming. ‘The Collection of Sergei Aleksandrovich Sobolevskii (1803-
1870)’, British Library Journal.
Vernitski, A., 2005. ‘Russian Revolutionaries and English sympathizers in 1890s London.
The case of Olive Garnett and Sergei Stepniak’, Journal of European Studies,
xxxv:iii, 299-314.
Viktorov, N. 1895. ‘Britanskii Muzei’, Istoricheskii vestnik, lix, 256-286.
Voynich, W. M., [1898-1902]. A First (-Ninth) list of books offered for sale [With ‘A First list
of books, second edition,’ ‘Supplement to the Eighth list,’ and ‘Index of books
contained in Lists I-VI.’], London.
Voynich, W. M., 1903-1914. Short Catalogue of second-hand books and manuscripts,
offered; Catalogue of old and rare books offered; Catalogue, etc. [London].


Полный список архивных фондов как Британского Музея, так и Британской Библиотеки см.: Harris
1998: 785-787.
О методике поиска такого рода см. : http://www.bl.uk/collections/early/provenance1.html.
Тома эти объединены общим названием Correspondence, Trustees’ Minutes and Reports of the Keepers of
Printed Books и имеют архивный шифр DH2. Документация охватывает период с 1856 по 1973 г. Далее
в тексте статьи в скобках при ссылке будет указываться DH2, номер тома и год.
In-letters. Архивный шифр DH4, охватывает период: с 1866 по 1948 г. Далее в тексте статьи в скобках
при ссылке будет указываться DH4, номер тома и год.
Invoices for purchases, архивный цифр DH5. Охватывает период с 1826 по настоящее время, хотя с 1929
г. года практика обработки книг одновременно со счетом была отменена в связи с увеличением потока
новоприобретенных книг. В дальнейшем в статье формат ссылки на этот архивный фонд такой же, как и
для предыдущих разделов.
Register of Donations or Book of Presents, архивный шифр DH53. Охватывает период с 1836 по 1953 г. В
дальнейшем в статье формат ссылки на этот архивный фонд такой же, как и для предыдущих разделов.
Correspondence, Trustees’ Minutes and Keepers’ Reports (Panizzi papers), шифр DH1. Охватывает период
с 1836 по 1855 г. и Correspondence of Sir Antonio Panizzi, 1823-1880 (Отдел рукописей, Add. MSS. 36714-
Правда, еще в 1805 г. Совет Попечителей выразил озабоченность компетенцией сотрудников
библиотеки в иностранных языка, в результате чего Главный Хранитель (директор Музея) должен был
представить доклад о состоянии дел. К сожалению, выяснилось, что некоторые библиотекари знали
немецкий, французский и итальянский, но знанием никаких других языков не обладали. В то время
изменить ситуацию так и не удалось (Harris 1998:63).
Standing Committee of the Trustees, Minutes, 1754-1963 – CE3, 11, 3255 (12 June 1830), CE3, 12, 3458 (10
Mar 1832); General Meetings of the Trustees, Minutes, 1753-1963 – CE 1, 6, 1389 (25 May 1831).

Паницци возглавлял Отдел до 1856 г., после чего еще десять лет был Главным Хранителем, т.е.
директором всей библиотеки.
Panizzi’s Report on the State of the Collections. Parliamentary Papers, xxv (1846).
В 1869 г., почти сразу после смерти Уоттса, Рай докладывал в своем отчете (черновик от 7 октября
1869 г.), что ‘с момента последнего отчета, последовательные действия были направлены на то, чтобы
получать для библиотеки путем закупок основные труды из современной литературы зарубежных стран,
поддерживать поставки продолжающихся изданий и устранить пробелы в фондах’ (DH2, 11, Aug. 1869-
Apr. 1870).
Если в 1877/8 финансовом году правительственный грант составлял 10 тысяч фунтов (как в в начале
70-х годов), из которых около 5 тысяч было использовано на закупку книг, то в 1887/8 финансовом году
общий грант был сокращен до 6200 фунтов (Harris 1998:337).
Интересно, что отсутствие в Музее практики привлечения ассистентов к заказам книг было одним из
пунктов критики, на которую Рай должен был отвечать в своем отчете 1875 г., представленном
специальной Комиссии. Он писал: ‘М-р Р.К.Даглас, представитель старших ассистентов, <заявил> перед
Комиссией (ответ 6159), что «для Хранителя Отдела печатных изданий не является обычным делом
спрашивать у соответствующих ассистентов их предложения, касающиеся заказов дезадераты». Я могу
заметить, что заявление м-ра Дагласа не вполне верно, поскольку как раз недавно я получил две работы
на европейских языках, касающиеся Китая, которые были предложены для закупки самим м-ром
Дагласом, что подтверждает записка, написанная им собственноручно в прошлом (1874) году, в
результате которой и были приобретены эти книги. Таким образом, как я понимаю, его заявление
совершенно не было согласовано с другими ассистентами, которых он представляет’ (DH2, 15, 1875). В
этом же году Рай вышел в отставку, а через год востоковед Р.К. Даглас (1838-1913), впоследствии –
руководитель Отдела Восточной Печатной книги, получивший рыцарское звание, принял участие в
Третьей Сессии Международного Конгрессса востоковедов в Санкт-Петербурге как официальный
представитель Великобритании (документы от 17 июня и 14 октября; DH2, 17, 1876).
В первое время Ролстон находился под протекцией Паницци, например, когда в 1867 г. занял
освободившееся место ассистента высшей категории первого класса вместо надеевшегося на это
повышение Ричарда Гарнетта (1835-1906), который к тому времени проработал в Музее на два года
дольше и находился на две ступени выше в служебной иерархии. Тем не менее, через два года ни
Паницци, бывший к тому времени на пенсии, но сохранявший свое влияние в Музее, ни действующий
Главный Хранитель (директор) Джон Винтер Джонс (1805-1881) почему-то не поддержали кандидатуру
Ролстона на пост помощника начальника Отдела (Harris 1998: 306, McCrimmon 1989:54-55).
Копия прошения Ролстона Раю от 9 марта 1870 г.: ‘Милостивый Государь! Я предполагаю этой весной
нанести визит в Россию с целью усовершенствования моих знаний о стране, а особенно – ее языка и
литературы. Если Попечители будут настолько любезны, что позволят мне получить дополнительный
отпуск сверх моего обычного отпуска, я смогу продолжить свои штудии не только русского языка, но и
других славянских языков с большой пользой для себя и, я надеюсь, не без пользы для Музея. Смею ли я
просить Вас рекомендовать меня для получения дополнительного отпуска? Я предполагаю просить
только специальный отпуск на три месяца без содержания. Если я его получу, то я потрачу месяц на
изучение Богемии, Сербии, Болгарии и других славянских народов, а также посвящу два месяца жизни в
самой России, где я предполагаю провести время среди книг или в литературных обществах. Я бы не
осмелился обратиться с подобной просьбой, если бы не надеялся, что я смогу извлечь из своей поездки
такую пользу, которая, как я полагаю, даст мне возможность более эффективно выполнять свои
обязанности в Музее’ (DH2, 11, Aug. 1869-Apr. 1870).
Интересно отметить, что 11-го января 1873 г., уже оставив службу в Музее, Вилсон написал Буллену
витиеватое письмо, в своем обычном стиле ‘маленького человека’, который если не тогда, то сейчас
читается как гоголевская пародия на этот стиль лояльного низшего чиновника. В этом письме он
выражал уверенность, что Буллен поддержал его прошение перед Попечителями и благодарит
начальника за его поддержку. ‘В этих обстоятельствах, я надеюсь, Вы понимаете, насколько я хотел бы
получить Ваши уверения в том, что пока я имел счастье быть Вашим подчиненным, мои обязанности
выполнялись эффективно и к полному Вашему удовлетворению. Я смею думать, что Вы не взяли назад
таковые уверения, которые Вы не раз выказывали’ (DH4, 32, 1883, M-Z:446-449). В ответ Буллен кратко
и сухо уверил бывшщего подчиненного, что был полностью удовлетворен его службой (там же).
Портер, видимо, как и Рай, был исправным чиновником, что в какой-то степени вредило
комплектованию. Примером может служить его письмо издательской и книготорговой фирме Николаса
Трюбнера, которая в свое время печатала книги и журналы А.Н.Герцена. Просмотрев русские книги,
запрошенные им на проверку с распродажи библиотеки барона фон Хана, Портер писал поставщику:
‘Должен сказать, что я был весьма разочарован. Дубликатов было не так много, но количество книг, от
которых мы были вынуждены отказаться по причине их физического состояния – состояния, не

отраженного в каталоге, полученном нами – было необычно велико. Большое количество наименований
не являются самостоятельными работами, а лишь отрывками, вырезанными из периодических изданий.
М-р Рай просмотрел комплект «Горного Журнала» за 1825-1854 гг. и решил, что цена слишком высока.
Передо мной как раз лежит объявление, в котором комплекты этого журнала за 1826-1855 гг.
предлагаются по 3 рубля за годовой комплект, что составляет 14 фунтов за полный комплект, а не 31
фунт 10 шиллингов’ (Письмо Портера Трюбнеру от 11 ноября 1871 г.; DH4, vol. 9, 1871, F-Z). И хотя
фирма Трюбнера готова была удовлетворить все претензии клиента, с точки зрения современного
исследователя, вовсе неплохо было бы иметь в библиотеке отдельные оттиски статей, подобранные
одним коллекционером. 12 лет спустя, в июле 1883 г., по-прежнему самый крупный поставщик
иностранных, и в том числе русских книг Кон, представитель фирмы Ашера, жаловался, что за
последние 18 месяцев ему не поступило от Музея ни одного заказа, из-за чего были потеряны многие
русские книги, которые могут уже и не появится на рынке (DH4, 31, 1883, A-L:174-195).
Письмо это настолько курьезно, что невозможно не привести его полностью:
1887-го июня 6 дня
Ваше высокоблагородие имею чести Вашей предложить следующее что неугодно ли будет вам
приобрести древнии книги 3 екземляри следующий
1-е бумажная рукопись евангелие кириловскаго писма 1436 года писаное въ <…> черногорий
писал иермонах мина своеручно
2-е служебник (литургиарион) напечятан в венеции иждивением вицентия вуковичя 1554-го в
4-ю долю листа
3-е четвероевангелие напечятано напечятано (так!) иеромонахом мавродием в типографии
бывшей примонастре мркшина церкви в 1562 года в етих 3х екземъпярах есть два укоторых есть
потерены листы помалости которым им цена тысичю 1000 рублей. А для осмотрения можно
выслать но только на благонадежнаго личьность с почтением квам покорным и куслугам
Алексей Cтифановичь Бакланов.
Адрис Г.Одесса въторговле потомъственнаго почетнаго гражданина М.С.Кузнецова передать А.
Бакланову. (DH4, 39, 1887, A-L:62).
Справедливости ради надо сказать, что в архиве имеется и более грамотное письмо, подписанное тем же
человеком и датированное апрелем того же года. Вероятно, первое письмо написано по его просьбе, а
второе – им самим после того, как он не получил немедленного ответа на предыдущее послание.
Издания за 1877 г.
1. Критическое описание Двадесят монастырей, обретающихся в Св. Горе Афонской
2. Собрание гравированных икон Божией матери с сказаниями о них
3. Челобитная дьяка Ямского приказа Всполохова
4. Житие Александра Митрополита
5. Римские Деяния 1-ый
6. Мудрость четвертая мусика
7. Новгородские грамоты
8. Азбука гражданская с нравоучением, правлена рукою Петра Великого
9. Обретение главы Иоанна Предтечи в Емесе
10. Слова Иоанна Златоустого на усекновение главы Иоанна Предтечи
11. Службы Иоанну Предтечи
12. Слова на Благовещение Иоанна Дамаскина
13. Синодик Дедовской пустыни Тотемского уезда
14. Азбука Словенского языка (буквица)
15. Сборник с лицевыми изображениями и с крюковыми пометами «На реках Вавилонских»
16. Стефанит и Ихтилат 1-ый
17. Протокол 10 ноября 1877 г. с 4 приглашениями.
Издания за 1878 г.
18. Заседание в книжной палате 18-го февраля 1627 г. по поводу исправления катихизиса Лаврентия
19. Философия Христофоровича
20. Сказание об иконе Божией Матери, писанной Св. Лукою.
21. Риторическая рука Стефана Яворского
22. Отдельные листы
23. Житие Иоанна Богослова с лицевыми изображениями XVII века
24. Чин пострижения и погребения иноков
25. Закон Винодольский 1288 г.
26. Летовник Георгия Мниха. 1-ый

27. Стефанит и Ихтилат 2-й и последний выпуск
28. Повесть о Семи мудрецах. 1-ый
29. Сказание о чудесах Владимирской иконы Божией Матери
30. Житие Иоанна Богослова по рукописи XV века с греческим текстом по рукописи 1022 г.
31. Синодик Холмогорский
32. Римские деяния 2-й и последний выпуск
33. Отчет о деятельности Общества за 1877 г.
34. Жизнь и труды П.М.Строева
35. Протокол 25 апреля 1878 г.
Издания за 1879 г.
36. Житие Матвея Прозорливого, с лицевыми изображениями
37. Повесть о сами мудрецах, 2-й вып.
38. Житие Дмитрия Царевича с лицев. изобр.
39. Житие Василия и Федора с лицев. изобр.
40. Шемякин суд
41. Житие Пр-го Нифонта 1-ый вып.
42. Счетная Мудрость
43. Житие Пр-го Филиппа Ираннского
44. Житие и завещание Патриарха Иоакима
45. Житие Федора Эдесского 1-ый выпуск
46. Сказка о Силе Царевиче и о Ивашке-белой рубашке
47. Памятники Древней Письменности 1878-79 гг.
48. Памятники Древней Письменности I, II, III, IV вып. 1879
Издания на 1880
49. Мусикийское учение
50. Закон Винодольский
51. Изборник Святослова Ярославича 1073 г.
Летовник Георгия Мниха, см. № XXVI
Чин пострижения и погребения иноков см. № XXIV
52. Памятники Древней Письманности I и II вып. (18/30 августа 1880 г., DH4, vol. 26, 1880, L-Z).
В каталоге Британской библиотеки имеется сокращенная версия этого произведения, вышедшая в
Лондоне по-английски в 1858 г. (шифр - 12601.h.15).
Несмотря на то, что на французский язык комедия была переведена в 1846 г., а на немецкий – в 1854 г.,
английский перевод этой пьесы Гоголя появился в Калькутте только в 1890 г. (Mann 2005) – N. Gogol.
The Inspector. A comedy. Translated by T. Hart-Davies. Thacker, Spink and Co.: Calcutta, 1890, шифр
Бритнаской библиотеки - 11758.df.12.
DH2, 41(2), 1888, 7 августа 1888 г.
Уже 10-го августа, т.е.через два дня после получения письма Кропоткина, Гарнетт писал начальству:
‘Заказ русских книг находился в почти полном небрежении в 1874-1887 гг., поэтому совершенно
неувидивительно, что князь Кропоткин обраружил столько лакун. В ноябре 1887 г. этим вопросом
начали заниматься: были заключены новые соглашения на более выгодных условиях, чем предыдущие, и
все долги с 1883 г. либо уже заплачены, либо будут заплачены в скором будущем. Невозможно найти
библиографии за 1882-88 гг., поэтому будет необходимо получить свежие экземпляры. Библиографии за
1875-79 гг. уже размечены, но насколько это очевидно, только небольшое количество заказов было
послано поставщикам. Все недоработки, однако, будут исправлены. Все непродолжающиеся издания,
предложенные Кропоткиным должны быть заказаны. Что касается периодических изданий, то было бы
желательно, пока сумма, которая представляется правильной, для того, чтобы истратить ее на периодику,
была бы определена более точно. Хорошей идеей представляется идея попросить о присылке книг в
качестве подарков, хотя исполнение этого замысла зависит от Главного Библиотекаря. Русские книги
долгое время ждут каталогизации, чтобы аккумулировалось достаточное количество названий для
отдельной партии. Было бы лучше печатать их на карточках, как для Галерейного каталога, с тем, чтобы
их потом можно было напечатать вместе отдельной партией, если будет нужно’ (DH2, 41(2), 1888).

Pragmatic and stylistic aspects of word order in Russian

Sarah Turner
(BASEES/University of Waterloo)

1. Introduction
This paper is concerned with the placement in the clause of subjects expressed by
personal pronouns in the nominative case. The pragmatic model of word order known in
Russian as aktual′noe členenie predloženija, rendered here as functional sentence perspective,
makes strong predictions about where constituents of this type should stand. The model has
sometimes been criticized for a lack of conceptual and methodological rigour, but in the
particular area to be considered in this paper the criticisms levelled against it are not relevant.
Personal pronouns in the nominative case ordinarily meet the criteria associated with the
theme, regardless of whether the primary factor in the definition of that concept is contextual
availability, predictability in the discourse situation, or topicality (‘aboutness’). The referents
of first- and second-person pronouns are determined with reference to the deictic parameters
of the discourse (Yokoyama 1986: 32); the interpretation of third-person pronouns depends
upon their relationship with a referring expression in the preceding text. Thus the typical
position of nominative personal pronouns as the first major constituent of the clause accords
well with the model of Russian word order which predicts that in stylistically neutral clauses
the thematic constituent(s) will be placed before the rhematic constituent(s).
Some instances in which the pronominal nominative constituent does not appear in the
predicted position can be accounted for straightforwardly within the parameters of functional
sentence perspective. In some situations, the speaker’s need to identify the performer of an
action or to draw a contrast renders the innate thematic characteristics of the personal pronoun
secondary to its particular communicative function at that point in the discourse:
(1) a ètot kirpič-to položila ja (Matveeva 1995: 201)
(2) Ja povedu // (pauza) nu možeš′ ty esli est′ želanie (Matveeva 1995: 82)
Other exceptions, too, can arguably be dealt with in pragmatic terms, though they may equally
well be interpreted on a syntactic plane. For instance, the verb-subject word order in clauses
attributing direct speech is set by syntactic convention, and the option of inverting the
expected order of the subject and the verb in a question is one of the possible syntactic
templates for an interrogative clause in Russian:
(3) Vy ljubite masliny? - sprašivaet on (Oleša 1989: 20)
(4) imeju ja pravo ili ne imeju? (Matveeva 1995: 153)
Even when these broad classes of exceptions are set aside, however, Russian provides many
examples of clauses in which the position of the pronominal nominative constituent remains
to be accounted for satisfactorily.
The clause patterns illustrated in examples (5) and (6) have been interpreted in various
(5) Seli my v ètu lodočku, vzjali udočki (recorded conversation cited in Adamec 1966: 67)
(6) Pojedu ja zavtra na daču (Janko 2001: 201)

In Janko 2001, clauses with post-verbal subject pronouns are treated alongside clauses with
post-verbal subject nouns. Clause patterns of this type are said to create the impression of
‘imagined observation’ (umozritel′noe nabljudenie) and to make a narrative especially vivid
(Janko 2001: 14). This interpretation makes a direct connection between the clause pattern
itself and the effect associated with it, without reference to any specific feature of or
motivating factor in the immediate discourse situation. Therefore, although Janko’s work is
set within the pragmatic framework of functional sentence perspective, the interpretation it
presents is ultimately stylistic rather than pragmatic. In this respect, it follows in the tradition
of classic studies of word order in Russian such as Adamec 1966: 67, where clauses with
post-verbal thematic subject nouns are described as features of an ‘epic, narrative style’.
This paper shows that earlier studies are undermined by a lack of clarity in the
methodologies they adopt and in their appreciation of the implications the methodologies
have for the range of possible conclusions that can be arrived at. The examples discussed in
earlier studies have been drawn from a diverse range of sources – colloquial speech, literary
texts of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and traditional folkloric texts – yet in the
description and analysis of the data there is no differentiation of the sources. The very fact of
grouping such a diverse range of data together makes a broad, and largely inscrutable,
interpretation such as style a very likely outcome of the investigation. More specific
conclusions would require a more nuanced treatment of the data. Furthermore, when the
approach to investigation typically isolates the material of interest from its immediate context,
pragmatic conclusions are inevitably excluded, no matter what the nature of the conceptual
framework which underlies the investigation might be.
The fundamental argument to be made here is that the post-verbal position of a
pronominal subject is to be understood pragmatically in the first instance: there are particular
environments in discourse which license the use of this order of constituents. Stylistic factors
do have a role to play in explaining how these constructions come to be used in literary texts,
and in view of the impact of universal education and mass literacy, it is always possible that
specific occurrences of this clause pattern in colloquial speech might be motivated
stylistically. As a whole, however, the basis for the interpretation of post-verbal pronominal
subjects should be pragmatic rather than stylistic or prosodic.
This investigation addresses the two areas of methodological weakness observed in
earlier studies by ensuring that all examples are looked at in context and by treating literary
and non-literary sources separately. Its starting-point is an examination of the distribution of
the clause patterns of interest in colloquial speech, the findings of which are described in
section 2. Section 3 presents examples from a variety of literary sources.

2. Post-verbal subject pronouns in colloquial Russian
The corpus of texts for this part of the study is taken from Zemskaja 1978: 80-144 and
Matveeva 1995. The educational and social backgrounds of the inhabitants of Moscow and
Leningrad who participated in the study led by Zemskaja mean that they are all classed by the
authors of that study as speakers of razgovornaja reč′, the variety of language spoken in
domestic circumstances by those who have been educated in the norms of the contemporary
standard Russian language. There is greater diversity in the social and educational
backgrounds of the participants in Matveeva’s study carried out in Ekaterinburg. For that
reason, it is notable that the features of particular interest here are found throughout the
On a rough estimate, the size of the corpus is approximately 70,000 words. It contains
approximately 100 clauses in which the nominative subject pronoun stands later in the clause
than the verb. The relative position of the two constituents in some of these examples can be
accounted for straightforwardly. Interrogative clauses, both direct and indirect, are excluded
from further consideration, as are clauses in which the verb is a constituent of the theme and
the subject is the rhematic constituent. In both these sets of circumstances, the post-verbal
position of the pronoun is entirely expected, either on syntactic or pragmatic grounds. Further
exclusions are made when the position of the subject relative to the verb appears to be
associated with an especially emphatic negation (Da ne znaju ja), and the commonly used
collocation zabyl(a) ja is also set aside. The resulting set of data for use here contains 62
In this set of data, some syntactic and lexical classes of verbs are represented more
strongly than others. Intransitive verbs occur more frequently than transitive verbs.
Particularly common lexical items are verbs of motion and the verb ‘to live’. In classic
studies of functional sentence perspective in Russian, verbs of these types are typically
mentioned in connection with the use of verb-subject orders when the clause consists of a
rheme only (e.g. Kovtunova 1980: 196). However, in the interpretation put forward here,
neither of these factors has any direct connection with the constituent order. These word
orders frequently co-occur with verbs of particular classes because each of the phenomena is
independently associated with an overarching factor: the narrative intention shaping the
speaker’s contribution to the discourse.
This overarching pragmatic framework helps to explain other aspects of the
distribution of the data in the corpus which are not ordinarily discussed in connection with
constituent order. For instance, the vast majority of subject pronouns in the sub-corpus are
almost exclusively first- or third-person ones; there is just one example of a second-person
pronoun. At first sight, this distribution of data might seem surprising: after all, the deictic
properties shared by first-and second-person pronouns set them apart from third-person
pronouns, which are anaphoric in nature. When viewed from the perspective of narrative,
however, the distribution makes more sense: the speaker and third-parties are more natural
topics for a narrative than the person to whom the narrative is addressed. 1 Similarly, the very
high proportion of past-tense verbs in the corpus is another consequence of the speaker’s
narrative intent. When verbs do appear in other tenses, it is generally possible to interpret
them not as having genuine present or future reference, but rather as historic presents. 2
The hypothesis that the post-verbal position of subject pronouns is a marker of a
narrative mode of discourse clearly stands in need of refinement. All of the texts in the
corpus involve at least two speakers and are often described as ‘dialogues’ by the editors of
the volumes in which they appear, yet in many of them the recollections and anecdotes told by
one speaker dominate the conversation for substantial stretches of time. That being so, an

incidence of no more than one narrative-marking clause pattern per 1100 words of text seems
decidedly low. The suggestion made here is that rather than marking narrative as such, these
clause patterns serve to mark transitional moments in the discourse, when the speaker
indicates to his interlocutors his intention to embark upon a narrative or to resume a narrative
which has been interrupted. Clause patterns of this type effectively signal to the listener that
the speaker intends to hold the floor for some time and does not expect any substantial
challenge to his control over the discourse situation.
In examples (7) and (8), the speakers A and S have been explicitly asked to tell a
story. The constituent orders of particular interest are underlined:
(7) A. A-aa slušaj / ešče vspomnil / slučaj odin smešnoj so mnoj na službe priključilsja.
No tol′ko èto poslednee / bol′še ne mogu vspominat′ / ustal
B. Xorošo / čto za slučaj?
A. Da ja kogda služil / slučaj so mnoj priključilsja smešnoj. Pošel ja kak-to na post
nabljudenija / u nas tam vyška takaja / vot po nej brodim smotrim po storonam.
Smotrju! Na našej territorii neizvestnyj rybu lovit (Matveeva 1995: 18)
(8) N. Nu-ka rasskaži pro poxod //
S. Ugu // Ščas // Kofe zdorovo sol′ju posypat′ // Snačala mne ne ponravilos′…
N. (Ras?)skaži / na kakoj den′ vy sobralis′?
S. Nu vot // Značit // Vyšli my utrom // Nu doexali do Jalty na avtobuse /
A. Povestvovanie takoe epi-i-českoe // Netoropli-i-voe (smeetsja) // (Zemskaja 1978:
The clauses with post-verbal subject pronouns occur at moments when discussion of the
possibility of telling story comes to an end and the story itself begins. Example (7) contains
other linguistic features that can be associated with colloquial narrative: the use of the historic
present, the use of the particle vot, and double verbs. In example (8), the reaction of
participant A is noteworthy in the light of the stylistic interpretations of verb-subject
constituent orders reviewed in section 1, though it seems that his reaction is based upon the
measured speed of delivery (netoropli-i-voe) rather than the constituent order chosen. All the
speakers in the second example have a university education in the humanities, and for this
reason the possibility that S chooses the clause pattern as a deliberate stylistic allusion to
traditional epic literature cannot be completely excluded when the example is considered in
isolation. However, when it is set alongside the first example, in which the speaker – a
mechanic – seems unlikely to have had any extensive training in literary studies, a stylistic
interpretation of the clause pattern becomes less attractive.
The use of post-verbal subject pronouns to mark the transition from dialogue or
polylogue to narrative is further illustrated at moments when a speaker is interrupted and
attempts to resume control of the discourse situation, as in examples (9)-(11):
(9) S. Potom čerez sto metrov stali nas ostanavlivat′ / i proverjat′ dokumenty // My dumali
/ vot oni znali / s čem… čego želali // Nu vot / nu potom poexali vsë normal′no /
(pauza) Nu čto tam / vrode v poezdke / nikakix osobyx proisšestvij ne bylo /
N. (šutlivo) U vsex byli bilety / vy ix deržali sudorožno v ruke //
S. vot / a pot… sošli my na ostanovke / kotoraja nazyvalas′ / sorok vtoroj kilometr //
(Zemskaja 1978: 89)

(10) A: Papanja skosit [oves] na prodažu / a esli na seno / to kosit nedozrelyj. Lošad′ju
paxali // vspašem odin ogorod / potom drugoj. Da / družnye ljudi byli // a sejčas…
kogda otcu nogu otrezali…
B: Emu nogu nedavno otrezali?
A: Da / u nego gangrena pošla // vot. A žili my na Bugrovoj / ulica naša / kak-to na
bugre stojala // parni v prazdnik p′janye ne byli // … (Matveeva 1995: 25)
(11) A. Potom my seli na avtobus i poexali v gorod / kotoryj nazyvaetsja Palex / snačala…
T. (adresujas′ k O., v otvet na ee voprositel′nyj vzgljad) Palex, Palex //
O. Èto ottuda vsë / da? (ob ukrašenijax I.)
I. Ugu //
A. Seli my / v avtobus i vperedi menja sidel djaden′ka / u kotorogo byla takaja
mjasistaja / lysaja golova / i na nej sidela muxa / značit (smex) // vsju dorogu ètot
mužčina el / pjat′ časov / i postojanno videt′ pered soboj ètu muxu… (smex)
I. Ona ego zakryla štorkoj //
O. Zakryla štorkoj //
T. Nado bylo muxu sognat′ //
A. Priexali my v Palex…
I. Ona sadilas′ snova //
V. Možet / ona iskusstvennaja byla //
О. V obščem / vy odinakovye byli //
A. Priexali my v Južu / a Juža - sosredotočie Irinkinyx rodstvennikov // Juža / gorodok
soveršenno klassnyj (Matveeva 1995: 132)
In example (9), a continuation of the story started in (8), speaker S briefly loses momentum in
her narrative. Speaker N tries to encourage her by interpolating a comment which invites her
to go into more detail about the encounter with the officials. S, however, has already
exhausted everything that she has to say on the matter. She acknowledges N’s contribution to
the narrative (vot) and then resumes her own narrative line with a clause containing a post-
verbal subject pronoun.
In example (10), speaker A has been reminiscing about the golden days of her youth in
the countryside, but the idyllic mood is disturbed by her remark that her father had his leg
amputated, prompting B’s question. As A answers the question put to her, she appears to
think better of the gloomy mood that her reminiscences were about to head off in before she
was interrupted. Rather than embark upon the lament about the parlous state of things in the
present which seemed almost certain to follow on from a sejčas, she reverts to her positive
recollections of the past. Here again, at a transitional moment in the narrative, when the
speaker recovers from an interruption and reorients the direction of her story, the thematic
pronominal subject stands after the verb.
In example (11), the main narrator A has considerable difficulty keeping control of the
narrative, even though prior to the passage quoted here she has been asked to speak. A side
discussion about the significance of Palex takes place between participants T, O and I,
leading speaker A to reassert her control of the situation in the first of the underlined clauses.
As her story progresses, so great is the amusement caused by the incident with the fly that the

situation threatens to slip completely from her control. The post-verbal subject pronouns in
the second and third underlined clauses are in no way a decorative embellishment, but rather a
response to the immediate discourse situation: the clause patterns are to be understood
pragmatically rather than stylistically.
The transitional moment in the narrative which triggers this order of constituents does
not always have to come directly from an interaction between speakers. In extract (12),
speaker A attempts to re-engage G’s waning interest in a debate about cost and value by
presenting him with a hypothetical situation to consider:
(12) A. A kak cena bez stoimosti? Cena bez stoimosti možet byt′?
G. Ne zna - ju /
A. Ne znaeš′ /
G. Iljuš / anekdot rasskaži kakoj-nibud′ /
B. Ne xoču / a čto /
A. Ili skažem pokupaju ja zemel′nyj učastok / ne dlja togo čtoby tam trudit′sja / to est′
izvleč′ dlja sebja kakuju-to pribyl′ / a tak pokupaju čtoby na neë smotret′ / imeju ja
pravo ili ne imeju? Èto u nas že / s usloviem sdači sel′xozprocentov /
G. Da?
A. Da / vo vsex ostal′nyx stranax ty xot′ s′′eš′ eë / xot′ prodaj eë / tak vot kupil ja eë i
smotrju na neë / ona pribyli nikakoj ne daët / no ja eë kupil na svoi / izvinite / den′gi /
ja / čto / vnešnij vid tol′ko kupil? (Matveeva 1995: 153-54)
The first underlined clause shows speaker A signalling his intention to change the nature of
the discussion: rather than engaging in an exchange of brief questions and answers as before,
he now intends to hold the floor long enough to set out the hypothetical situation which he
hopes will reawaken G’s interest in the debate. Moments later, when the important limitation
he imposes on the situation has distracted the attention of both G and himself from the
question just posed and has opened up the possibility of the conversation developing into a
comparison between Russia and other countries, he puts the discussion back on the track he
originally planned for it with another clause containing a post-verbal subject pronoun.
The use of post-verbal subject pronouns as markers of transitions from one mode of
discourse to another might also help to explain why such clause patterns seem to be associated
with the inclusion of direct speech in an oral narrative:
(13) i govorit / nu zapas ja mnogo vsego / xvatit (Matveeva 1995: 96)
(14) Ira / ja kak čuvstvoval včera govorju / xoču naest′sja ja rediski / i vot požalujsta / ona
/ miska / vot tut kak tut (Matveeva 1995: 146)
In these examples, the use of a relatively rare constituent order serves to differentiate between
the narrative voice and the direct speech. Although there is not here the battle for control of
the narrative amongst actual participants in the conversation that was seen in (11), the shift
from the voices of the narrators to the voices of the persons made to figure in the stories is
nevertheless analogous to an environment in which control of the discourse is established.
In example (15), the transition back from direct speech to the narrative voice is also
accompanied by a post-verbal subject pronoun:
(15) K. On <ja očen′ xoču naučit′sja > // i vot sidjat oni večerom /
O. Čto on negramotnyj?

K. Aga / a kupil on alfavit / privëz / (Matveeva 1995: 62)
In this instance the inversion of the pronoun and verb is made all the more likely by the
inclusion of the particle vot. This particle is used in everyday discourse to signal openings
and closings (Grenoble 1998: 178-85). In the example given here it is not entirely clear
whether the speaker conceives of the last quoted clause as the end of the story: the
intonational break which follows is not decisively final. Whatever the original intention,
though, the question which the other participant in the conversation then poses obliges the
speaker to extend the story. That resumption of control of the narrative is again marked with
a post-verbal subject pronoun, this time in a clause containing a transitive verb.
Not every example in this subset of data can be understood with reference to the
hypothesis proposed here, but no alternative hypothesis which could explain more of the data
suggests itself. Some examples of the use of post-verbal subject pronouns can loosely be
described as markers of the segmentation of a narrative into topical units, as in (16),
suggesting that constituent order can be added as an optional element to the list of boundary-
marking devices in Russian noted by Grenoble (1998: 175):
(16) M. V Neapole pobyli my tam / potom byli v muzee / v muzee gde raskopki // Dlja
raskopok // Po… Pompei // Tam očen′ mnogo vsevozmožnyx veščej interesnyx // Potom
poexali / požili my v Sorrento byli neskol′ko dnej […]
A. Ugu
M. Nu potom… po… poselilis′ my na Kapri v gostinice / i žili tam my dve nedeli
(Zemskaja 1978: 108)
Most of the examples may be described more loosely still as signals of a narrative intention
on the speaker’s part, for even if no immediate stimulus for their usage is evident at the
particular point in the text at which they occur, the text as a whole is nevertheless typically
narrative in its character. Examples are extremely rare in the transcripts of telephone
conversations and recordings of everyday linguistic activity in domestic or commercial
settings collected in Zemskaja 1978.
The hypothesis that the placement of subject pronouns after a rhematic verb is a
marker of narrative control in Russian discourse adds a new dimension to work done in the
field of conversation analysis. Since much of the work in this area is based upon data from
English, it is not surprising that constituent order within the clause has not been among the
linguistic features remarked upon. Tannen (2005: 182) lists increased amplitude of speech
and repetition of words as ‘floor-getting devices’. Liddicoat (2007: 279-302) considers only
lexical means of ‘creat[ing] interactional space’ for story-telling within conversation. Whilst
certain verbs do feature more frequently than others in the Russian data, there can be no
question that speakers are using lexical formulae to assert their claim to the floor.
Given the highly restricted set of data used in the present study, it is not possible to
say with any confidence what the operational linguistic feature might be in this situation. In
her work on constructions which she associates with ‘imagined observation’, Janko (2001:
201-06) looks at a range of data which are syntactically more diverse and takes their defining
feature to be prosodic. However, since her examples are presented out of context and not all
of them are drawn from spontaneous spoken discourse, it is difficult to judge the extent to
which they share the pragmatic function observed in the examples studied here and hence the
extent to which the current examples should be expected to show the same prosodic
characteristics as her data. Certainly, the detailed prosodic transcriptions which are available
for examples (8) and (9) above show that the clauses of interest were realized with different

intonation contours, IK-2 and IK-3 respectively (Zemskaja 1978: 48-49), presumably because
of the different degrees of connectedness they have to the following clause.
Although Ford, Fox and Thompson (2002: 15) understand the concept of constituency
in a way which would not be relevant in this instance, their observation for English that
‘participants in conversation use constituency (or nonconstituency) as an interactional
resource’ might be obliquely helpful in understanding how the Russian construction works.
For them, a constituent is a unit of discourse which is syntactically, semantically and
prosodically coherent, and the completion of such a unit forms a natural breaking-point in
conversation where one participant can take over from another (2002: 14-15). If for the
Russian data constituency is understood in a narrow syntactic sense, then the positioning of a
subject pronoun after the verbal component of the predicate produces a clause in which there
is no clear separation between the immediate constituents. If, as seems likely, there is no
possibility of making a prosodic break either, 3 then in choosing such a construction the
speaker is depriving his interlocutors of even the slightest opportunity to rejoin the dialogue
by taking up at a point where the original speaker might have appeared to leave off. The use
of a marked clause pattern with a post-verbal subject rather than a clause with no explicit
subject constituent makes it clear that the lack of opportunities for interruption is intentional
on the speaker’s part. Thus, notwithstanding the arguments made in Janko 2001: 204-06,
there is a case for regarding this type of clause as ‘undivided’ (nerasčlenennoe), in the
terminology of Russian work on functional sentence perspective. Whatever the precise
pragmatic characteristics of the individual components of the clause, they form a single
discourse unit whose essential pragmatic purpose seems to be to resist being broken up.

3. Post-verbal subject pronouns in literary texts

The discourse circumstances that produce an environment where post-verbal subject
pronouns may be used in colloquial speech are absent from literary texts, for a writer’s control
over the telling of the story can never be under threat. Nevertheless, post-verbal subject
pronouns are found in literary sources. This section illustrates some environments in which
they occur and discusses the relationship between their distribution in colloquial Russian and
their distribution in literature.
The narrative strategy a writer adopts in any given work strongly influences the
likelihood that the clause patterns of interest here will be used, and for this reason it is
difficult to sample of data on this phenomenon from the literary language in a random
fashion. A small sample of prose fiction from the period 1974-1988 (i.e. roughly coincident
with the time of recording of the oral texts) that included works by Rasputin, Petruševskaja
and Sorokin produced no clear-cut parallels to the examples from Zemskaja 1978 and
Matveeva 1995. Although post-verbal subject pronouns appeared in all the literary texts
analysed, their occurrence could typically be understood with reference to the functional
sentence perspective model. The absence of the ‘transitional’ type of post-verbal subject
pronoun described in section 2 is surely connected with the narrative structure of the texts
sampled, which happened to be based heavily on dialogue set into a third-person narration.
The characters’ conversations form part of the story being told, rather than a means of telling
a story in themselves: they are not the near-monologues from which the examples from the
colloquial language were drawn. Furthermore, when the narrative voice belongs to an
unspecified figure who is not involved in the plot, there is no strong motivation for the writer
to create the impression that the narrative as a whole arises as part of the narrator’s interaction
with others. To the extent that the very construction of the story can affect their presence or
absence, post-verbal subject pronouns in a literary text are a matter of style, then: the same

story could have been related in a different manner which would have increased or decreased
the number of environments that encourage the use of this clause pattern.
The literary material studied here was collected in the course of casual reading. It is
not in any sense a representative sample of Contemporary Standard Russian. Examples of
post-verbal subject pronouns are most readily forthcoming in works of literature which are
stylistically experimental in some way. Studies of constituent order typically note this clause
pattern in Tolstoj’s Kavkazskij plennik and Šoloxov’s Tixij Don. When nothing in the
immediate environment suggests an alternative explanation for their appearance, the view
advanced by Adamec (1966: 67) and Kovtunova (1980: 203) that their usage is stylistically
motivated is difficult to dispute in broad outline. The more specific view that they lend an
epic colouring to a text stands open to modification, however, for the works of other notable
users of these clause patterns differ strongly from those of Tolstoj and Šoloxov in their scope
and setting. The common element shared between these authors seems rather to be that they
create the impression of oral narrative itself. When these narratives are third-person ones, as
in Kavkazskij plennik and Tixij Don, then, with appropriately heroic subject matter, the way in
which the texts are written can indeed be construed as an allusion to folk literature. When
used in first-person narratives told by lowly characters in mundane circumstances, as in
Zoščenko, the clause patterns are a contributory feature to the phenomenon of skaz, which has
attracted the attention not only of literary scholars but also of linguists (e.g. Jokojama 2003).
Much of the material for this paper is drawn from two novels which fall into neither one
category nor the other, Oleša’s Zavist′ (1927) and Tolstaja’s Kys′ (2000). The relatively high
concentration of post-verbal subjects in them is one means the writers use to create an
idiosyncratic, intimate voice (or voices) in which to tell the story. Nevertheless, subsets of
examples within these texts show points of similarity with the colloquial data, and a more
complete interpretation of specific examples can be arrived at by going beyond a superficial
stylistic interpretation and drawing out these points of pragmatic similarity between the two
varieties of language.
Occasionally, examples of post-verbal subject pronouns can be found in circumstances
which mirror exactly the circumstances of their appearance in colloquial speech:
(17) Tut detiški, kotorye slušali, prosjat:
- Rasskaži, deduška, kakuju ešče nečist′ v lesu vidat′.
Nalili stariku kvasu jaičnogo, on i načal:
- Byl ja togda molodoj, gorjačij. Ničego ne bojalsja. (Tolstaja 2000: 12)
(18) Vot slušajte. Zaxotelos′ moej staruxe ognecov pokušat′. Prinesi da prinesi. A ognecy
v tot god pospeli sladkie, tjanučie. Ja i pojdi. Odin.
- Kak odin? - opešili naši.
- A vot tak! - poxvastalsja čuženin. - Nu, slušajte dal′še. Idu ja sebe, idu, a tut
stemnelo. (Tolstaja 2000: 12)
In (17), as in (7) and (8), the start of an elicited narrative is signalled by the placement of the
subject pronoun after the verb, and in (18), as in (9)-(11), the narrator marks the resumption of
his story after an interruption with that order of constituents. Such direct parallels to the
usage of this clause pattern in colloquial speech are rather rare, however.
Post-verbal subject pronouns commonly appear in close proximity to clauses
containing verbs of imagining or dreaming. The events imagined may be presented as a
character’s actual recollections, as in (20), or as fantasy, in (21):

(19) Predstav′te, v pivnyx risoval on portrety s želajuščix, sočinjal èksprompty na zadannye
temy (Oleša 1989: 65)
(20) Predstavilos′ Benediktu, kak sidit on v detstve na peči, svesiv valenki, a za oknom
metel′ guljaet (Tolstaja 2000: 52)
(21) A Benediktu tak predstavljalos′: vyxodit on na vysokuju goru, a s nee okrest daleko
vidat′ (Tolstaja 2000: 188)
(22) a ne to razmečtaeš′sja, čto pošel ty budto tuda, kuda ne xodili (Tolstaja 2000: 98)
(23) Byvalo, i son snilsja: idet on budto po testevu domu, s galerei na galereju (Tolstaja
2000: 206)
Another common environment is in clauses which include the particle vot, as illustrated in
(24) and (25). Example (26) shows a similarly presentational context:
(24) no vot – ja ošibsja. I vot bluždaju ja, poslednij mečtatel′ zemli, po krajam jamu, kak
ranenyj netopyr′ (Oleša 1989: 76)
(25) Vot proexali oni, tol′ko narod ponaprasnu popužali (Tolstaja 2000: 74)
(26) Smotri: spojutsja oni oba – Kavalerov tvoj da Ivan Petrovič – i izvedut tebja (Oleša
1989: 50)
A search in the Russian National Corpus produces many parallels to examples (24) and (25)
in texts by writers ranging from Puškin to Doncova. Parallels to (19)-(23) were not found.
These examples naturally call to mind Janko’s view that clauses with a rhematic verb in initial
position are used (in both speech and writing, it would seem) to create the effect of ‘imagined
observation’. However, in the light of the interpretation of the colloquial material presented
in section 2, a different interpretation of the literary material is put forward here: in literary
usages, too, the placement of subject pronouns after a rhematic verb can be motivated
pragmatically. The function of this clause pattern in everyday speech is extended. Rather
than marking outright control of the discourse situation as such, it instead marks moments in
the narrative when transitions are made between the different viewpoints represented in it. In
examples (20), (21) and (23), there is a transition from the perspective of the third-person
narrator to the character’s inner world. The presentative examples (24)-(26), like (19) and
(22), invite the addressee – be it the reader or a character in the novel – to consider the scene
described not from the perspective of the narrator, which has previously dominated, but from
his own perspective instead.
From this core set of examples, the usage of post-verbal subject pronouns as markers
of transition can become extended to other kinds of situations. A third context in which Oleša
and Tolstaja both make use of them is in clauses introduced by budto or točno, where a
transition is made from an actual situation or event in the story to some sort of hypothetical
(27) Xody zaputany, točno idu ja v uxe (Oleša 1989: 41)
(28) Syraja metel′ nabrosala puškinu voroxa snega na sutuluju golovu, na sognutuju ruku,
budto lazal on po čužim izbam, po čulanam podvorovyvat′ (Tolstaja 2000: 311)
Further examples can be found in texts which are written in an altogether plainer style, though
even they provide examples of further types of transition. In addition to using post-verbal
subject pronouns to move between the perspective of the narrator and the character, as in (29),
on two occasions in his story Dama s sobačkoj, 4 Čexov uses this word order to signal a shift
in the narrator’s own perspective:

(29) No prošlo bol′še mesjaca, nastupila glubokaja zima, a v pamjati vsё bylo jasno, točno
rasstalsja on s Annoj Sergeevnoj tol′ko včera (Čexov 1977: 136)
(30) U staryx lip i berez, belyx ot ineja, dobrodušnoe vyraženie, oni bliže k serdcu, čem
kiparisy i pal′my, i vblizi nix uže ne xočetsja dumat′ o gorax i more.
Gurov byl moskvič, vernulsja on v Moskvu v xorošij, moroznyj den′, i kogda nadel
šubu i prošelsja po Petrovke […], to nedavnjaja poezdka i mesta […] uterjali dlja
nego vse očarovanie (Čexov 1977: 135)
(31) V dekabre na prazdnikax on sobralsja v dorogu […] Emu xotelos′ povidat′sja s Annoj
Sergeevnoj i pogovorit′, ustroit′ svidanie, esli možno.
Priexal on v S. utrom i zanjal v gostinice lučšij nomer (Čexov 1977: 137)
In (30), the transition from description to action is accompanied by a post-verbal subject
pronoun. In (31), the post-verbal subject pronoun marks a chronological break in the logic of
the storyline: the period between Gurov’s preparations for his journey and his arrival at his
destination is not mentioned. Whereas in (30) there is an explicit interruption to the story, as
the narrator pauses to describe the Moscow winter, in (31) there is merely an implied gap in
his train of thought. In both examples, the clause pattern serves to underscore the resumption
of the main narrative line.
The examples of clauses with post-verbal subject pronouns found in literature are
much more diffuse than the examples taken from colloquial Russian. However, they share a
common pragmatic feature with colloquial data, in that they too mark a shift in the narrative
line. Style becomes a factor in the interpretation of this clause pattern in literature because
different writers arguably interpret its usage in colloquial speech in different ways. Some
extend the transition-marking function of the construction and use it to effect temporal shifts
in the narrative, for instance. For others, the mere association of the clause pattern with
colloquial speech seems to be the foremost nuance, and they use the construction in
circumstances where no change in perspective is evident. Unless an example has been
examined in the immediate context in which it occurs, it is not satisfactory to conclude simply
that the placement of a thematic subject pronoun after a rhematic verb is a feature of
colloquial (or indeed epic) narrative style. Pragmatic factors, too, can play a role in
prompting this order of clause constituents.

4. Conclusion
In contrast to earlier studies such as Adamec 1966 and Janko 2001, this paper makes a
clear distinction between material drawn from colloquial Russian and material drawn from the
literary variety of the standard language. When the distribution of clauses in which a thematic
subject pronoun stands after a rhematic verb is examined in this framework, a revised
interpretation of their status emerges. In the colloquial language, their primary function is to
assert the speaker’s control over the discourse, signalling that he intends to hold the floor for
some time in order to tell a story. Secondarily, they may be used to underscore a change in
voices within the story. This secondary function comes to the fore in literature, where the
author’s own control over the narrative is never challenged, but where the clause pattern may
be used to mark changes in narrative perspective, even when there is no change in the actual
narrative voice.
The relationship between the colloquial language and the language of literature which
is suggested by the distribution of the data on this phenomenon bears comparison to the
observations made by Weiss (Vajs 2003) in his study of so-called double verbs (such as

brodim smotrim in example (7)). He noticed that this construction was much more restricted
in its semantics and in some syntactic features in the colloquial language than in literature.
Similarly, with post-verbal subject pronouns of the sort studied here, a phenomenon which
has a rather limited distribution and function in the colloquial language is used in much more
diverse circumstances in literature. Weiss speculates that folklore is instrumental in spreading
double-verb constructions from the colloquial language to the language of literature, though in
the light of the discussion at the start of section 3 this paper puts forward the alternative
suggestion that in the case of post-verbal subject pronouns the bridging point between the two
types of language is more likely to be simply their common concern with narration and story-
telling than any necessary association with folklore. Whatever the mechanism for the
diffusion of the clause pattern through the Russian language, it does seem, however, that in
this area the literary language is to be viewed as an elaboration and extension of the colloquial
language rather than as a standard based upon a subset of its linguistic resources.
To sum up: stylistic interpretations of clauses in which a thematic subject pronoun
appears after a rhematic verb are inappropriate for material drawn from the colloquial
language, and are insufficient for material drawn from the standard language. This paper has
shown that the similarities between the contexts in which they occur offer an insight into
pragmatic factors motivating their usage.

1. Primary sources
Čexov, A. P., 1977. Polnoe sobranie sočinenij i pisem v tridcati tomax, Moscow, x.
Matveeva, T. V., ed., 1995. Živaja reč′ ural′skogo goroda: Teksty, Ekaterinburg.
Oleša, Ju., 1989. Izbrannoe, Frunze.
Tolstaja, T., 2000. Kys′, Moscow.
Zemskaja, E. A., ed., 1978. Russkaja razgovornaja reč′: Teksty, Moscow.

2. Secondary sources
Adamec, P., 1966. Porjadok slov v sovremennom russkom jazyke, Prague.
Benveniste, E., 1966. ‘Les relations de temps dans la verbe française’, in: Problèmes de
linguistique générale I, Paris, 237-50.
Ford, C. E., Fox, B. A., Thompson, S. A., 2002. ‘Constituency and the Grammar of Turn
Increments’, in: The Language of Turn and Sequence, ed. C. E. Ford, B. A. Fox and S.
A. Thompson, Oxford, 14-38.
Forsyth, J., 1970. A Grammar of Aspect: Usage and Meaning in the Russian Verb,
Grenoble, L. A., 1998. Deixis and Information Packaging in Russian Discourse, Amsterdam.
Janko, T. E., 2001. Kommunikativnye strategii russkoj reči, Moscow.
Jokojama, O., 2003. ‘Intonacija kak sredstvo xarakteristiki kommunikativnogo modusa
povestvovanija v zoščenkovsom tekste’, Russkij jazyk v naučnom osveščenii, vi: 2,

Kovtunova, I. I., 1980. ‘Porjadok slov’, in: Russkaja grammatika, ed. N. Ju. Švedova, 2 vols.,
Moscow, ii.190-214.
Liddicoat, A. J., 2007. An Introduction to Conversation Analysis, London.
Tannen, D., 2005. Conversational Style: Analyzing Talk among Friends, 2nd ed., Oxford.
Vajs, D., 2003. ‘Russkie dvojnye glagoly i ix sootvetsvija v finno-ugorskix jazykax’, Russkij
jazyk v naučnom osveščenii, vi: 2, 37-59.
Weinrich, H., 1971. Tempus: Besprochene und erzählte Welt, 2nd ed., Stuttgart.
Yokoyama, O. T., 1986. Discourse and Word Order, Amsterdam.


The connection between first- and third-person pronouns and narrative made here diverges from that made by
Benveniste (1966), who regarded the use of the third-person pronouns only as a feature of narrative (histoire)
and who associated both the first- and second-persons with what he termed discours.
See Forsyth 1970: 150-51, 179-83 on the present historic in Russian, and Weinrich 1971 on the association
between tense usage and narrative (Erzählung) in German.
The prosodic break in the first underlined clause in example (11) is not usual for the corpus.
The story contains 31 post-verbal subject pronouns, of which 24 are found in clauses which attribute direct
speech and one appears in an indirect question containing the enclitic particle li.