Secrets of the 1863 Valuyev Circular

The history of the Ukrainian language is filled with dramatic moments: more than once was it officially banned, called into question, and hypocritically squeezed out of various spheres of use by tsarist and Soviet authorities in favor of what was officially considered the common Russian language. Moreover, language problems always assumed an acute political nature. The Ukrainian language was said to be the result of a Polish (or Austrian) intrigue; attempts to defend its rights were billed as separatism and nationalism, while Ukrainians were highly encouraged to repudiate their mother tongue.

Let us turn a few pages of this sad story which everyone in Ukraine should know.

A CENSOR TRAVAILS

In late June 1863 Russian Minister of Internal Affairs PСtr Valuyev received a memorandum from Kyiv Censorship Committee chairman Novitsky saying that this agency had seized the manuscript, “Our Lord Jesus Christ’s Maxims Told in Ukrainian.” The chief Kyiv censor doubted whether it was worthwhile to publish this work. Why should Ukrainian students, Novitsky reasons, read the Gospel in Ukrainian? For education all over Russia “is conducted in the common Russian language and no schools are allowed to use the Little Russian vernacular.” Moreover, “the majority of Little Russians” are quite satisfied with this situation...

The reference to the opinion of “the majority of Little Russians” is especially telling: it is alleged that this “majority” was deeply indignant at the very idea of the Ukrainian language because they think that “their vernacular, used by the lower classes, is nothing but Russian corrupted by Polish influence.” It would be wrong to think that Novitsky was utterly without foundation: he relied on empirical practice. For he himself must have belonged to those masses of Little Russians, in whom the circumstances of imperial Russia generated the energy of ethnic self-repudiation. Why on earth should one choose a “vernacular” when “the common Russian language... is far more comprehensible?”

Then the censor began to show a political reflex. He worried that the increasing number of Ukrainian publications in the early 1860s could stir up the “feeling of separation in the Little Russian nationality.” Novitsky even saw “the hand of Warsaw” in the revival of Ukrainian sentiments. This worry was very typical of him.

The point is that the Polish Kingdom had at the time burst into the flame of an uprising aimed at the independence of Poland. On May 1, 1863, Mikhail Muraviov, called hangman for his cruelty, was appointed omnipotent dictator of Poland. He became very soon the idol of almost all Russia, which saw a great upsurge of nationalist sentiments. The ideologists of Slavophilism sang the praises of Muraviov as the savior of a “single and indivisible” state. Them apart, the whole empire acclaimed the despotic conqueror of Poland. Aleksandr Hertzen called this jingoism of his compatriots patriotic syphilis.

The hangman became a national hero. Even such an enlightened Russian as Prince Viazemsky wrote, “he hanged as his duty required.”

“THERE NEVER WAS, IS, NOR CAN BE”

The Kyiv censor Novitsky sent his message to Minister of Internal Affairs Valuyev at the time when fears over the “single and indivisible” body politic of Russia overfilled the minds of millions the empire’s bureaucrats. Having received the message, Valuyev ordered a letter drafted to Tsar Alexander II. This letter can still be found in the archives, and we can now have a more or less clear idea of the so-called Valuyev Circular.

But first a few words about its author.

PСtr Aleksandrovich Valuyev (1814-1890, incidentally, the son- in-law of Prince Viazemsky) made a name for himself by writing The Reflections of a Russian under the impression of the fall of Sevastopol. In his opus, young Courland Governor Valuyev applied the well-deserved phrase “overall official lies” to the existing Russian system. In the epoch of Alexandrine reforms, the liberal Valuyev was in his element: his public-speaking talent, imposing manners, and ability to work much and fast were noticed. He held the office of interior minister for six years (starting in late 1861). His reputation was reflected in old encyclopedia articles: “cosmopolitan,” “a marquis in Russia,” “a man of words but not deeds,” an opponent of the land reform but an advocate of the local government reform, an adversary to Muraviov, the Russifier of Poland, and, at the same time, advocate of a French- style official press.

Turning to the tsar over the Little Russian publications, Valuyev carefully retold the text of Novitsky’s memorandum. Yet, he also added some new accents: he, for example, pointed out that, while earlier “works in the Little Ukrainian language were only intended for the educated classes of Southern Russia, advocates of the Little Russian cause have now fixed their eyes on the uneducated commoners.” In other words, they had begun to publish primers, grammars, geography textbooks, and establishing Sunday schools... Valuyev suggested that the question of publishing Ukrainian books for ordinary people be considered jointly by the minister for public education, over-procurator of the Holy Synod and... the gendarme- in-chief. Meanwhile, before this kind of a “joint discussion” was held, Minister Valuyev issued a censorship instruction “to allow publication of only those Little- Russian-language works that belong to belles-lettres, while religious and primary-education books for the common people in the same language are not to be published pending the solution of this problem.”

The emperor expressed his will in the follow resolution, “To be executed forthwith by His Majesty’s order. St. Petersburg, July 18, 1963.”

The most famous phrase in Valuyev’s circular – “there never was, is, nor can there be such thing as a separate Little Russian language” – has been quoted a great many times in Ukrainian political writings. It is interesting, however, that these words in the text allegedly belong to somebody other than Valuyev himself. Like Novitsky, he again refers to the opinion of “the majority of Little Russians” and only shares this opinion and considers it “quite well-founded,” that is, in essence axiomatic.

KOSTOMAROV’S REVOLT

It was in fact a request rather than a revolt. In late July that same year of 1863, Professor of History Mykola Kostomarov complained in a letter to Minister Valuyev that he was robbed of any chance to publicly defend himself. The newspaper Moskovskiye novosti , well known for its chauvinistic aggressiveness, suspected the historian of taking sides with Polish rebels. But the true motivation was Kostomarov’s intention to publish scholarly books in the Ukrainian language, one alleged to be not even a language and which the Ukrainians themselves did not need.

Yet, Moskovskiye novosti stubbornly refused to let Kostomarov answer his opponents on its pages. So he decided to remind Valuyev about the freedom of speech and the censorship provision that “the criticized person has the right to print a denial in the same publication.” In other words, he wanted the minister to intervene and upbraid the editors.

But Kostomarov asked the minister not only to help him publish his denial. He tried to defend Ukrainian book-printing in general and to convince Valuyev that publishing a Ukrainian-language scholarly book does not necessarily mean an evil scheme of “the Polish nationality.” The letter Kostomarov admittedly wrote over a private problem suddenly assumed an unexpected hue: in its final part, the author, a former member of the Brotherhood of Saints Cyril and Methodius, became an advocate of the Ukrainians! “There is no decree which does not allow an innocent book to be printed only because it has been written in one language or dialect or another,” Kostomarov tries to persuade the minister. “I beseech Your High Excellency to allay all the unfounded suspicions of solidarity with any evil schemes in the sacred cause of public education, which is extremely insulting to all those who have the honor of belonging to the Little Russian tribe (my emphasis — Author ), and not to link this with the publication of scholarly books in the Little Russian language...”

What did Kostomarov hope for? He was in fact asking Valuyev to repudiate his own circular. The professor was running the risk of being reminded about his Cyril Methodius past and the Saratov exile.

And reminded he was. Valuyev invited Kostomarov to his country retreat for a conversation. Everything looked quite diplomatic. “To His High Honor N. I. Kostomarov... The Minister of Internal Affairs has the honor to most humbly request the pleasure of the company of Nikolai Ivanovich Kostomarov at his country retreat on Sunday, this 28th of July, at one o’clock p.m. ...”

The results of this conversation are summed up in the record, “The Honorable Minister has personally told Mr. Kostomarov what to do under such circumstances.”

It should be said, much to Kostomarov’s honor, that he never recanted; he only remained silent for some time. In any case, later in the 1870s he came out again in defense of the Ukrainian language.

In any case, in 1863 his voice sounded like a cry from the heart of a scholar and intellectual who had done so much to prevent Ukrainian culture and history from vanishing like Atlantis. In writing his letter to Valuyev, Kostomarov felt and saw that the brief thaw the Ukrainians had experienced after the death of Nicholas II had already come to an end. The journal Osnovy (Foundations) had ceased publication, the idea of organizing Ukrainian Sunday schools was suppressed, there was a mood of disappointment among the previously optimistic public, and on top of everything Panteleimon Kulish set off to Warsaw to serve in the tsarist administration.

This made still more valuable the lonely voice of an individual who tried to promote justice and truth...

“JOINT DISCUSSION”

Valuyev’s intention to find a common solution as to whether or not it was advisable to publish Ukrainian-language books for the ordinary people eventually reached an impasse. The Russian bureaucratic tradition was to put the “joint discussion” into cold storage. The Holy Synod over-procurator reflected for as long as eighteen months, perhaps because he viewed this as nothing but a “quaint literary trick,” yet with a dangerous political implication.

However, what finally brought the secret of the Valuyev circular to this and not any other result was a special opinion of Minister for Public Education A. Golovnin. A publication can be banned “for the inherent ideas, not for the language it is written in,” Golovnin believed. Moreover, bans always provoke the wrath and indignation of those whose ethnic feelings are touched upon: so will it be wise for the government to throw this boomerang?

Facing different opinions, Valuyev reported to his immediate superiors that “the aforesaid question is subject to further discussion in legislative terms.” The matter was tabled indefinitely.

Still, the secret circular did accomplish its evil mission: not a single Ukrainian-language book was published in 1866.