Was Nietzsche perhaps right in his assessment that 19th century Europe was suffering from an acute neurosis? Even as the world of politics seemed to have kept a more composed and goal-oriented bearing, the whirlwind of popular and revolutionary movements never ceased to threaten the very foundations of European politics, bent on its task of uprooting the most long-standing structures. Indeed, one can hardly think of an institution that was not the subject of questioning in the philosophical discussions and treatises of the seemingly endless list of speculators, from the ordinary family, to education and the state, and each of these, no matter how eccentric, had found fertile ground in at least some corner of the Continent, if not altogether spread across the capitals of Europe in the manner of an air-borne disease.

In psychology, medicine, philosophy, biology, architecture, and engineering—on all fronts the battle was fought, and new orientations were set forth with all the accompanying clamor, rivalry, dispute, all with a single stated goal—to improve the general state of mankind.

And what didn’t have to be reconsidered and sacrificed without further deliberation to accommodate these ambitions! And at what place had history not, in Leninist terminology, had to be “given a push” for the sake of these goals, even if that meant to dispense with the natural feelings of those in whose interests everything was being staged in the first place. And the elites and the intellectuals in attempting to cope with these changes had only been able to give way and to once again assume new defensive positions further to the rear.

At first, there was attempt to apply scrutiny to what was deemed a matter of excess, hastiness, and emotional immaturity. Then, such tendencies were reinterpreted as the unmistakable sign of popular feelings and discontent that must not be ignored. And finally, the wary popular leaders proceeded to rationalize the ensuing changes as the expression of a natural social evolutionary process that should not be confronted, but from whose deficiencies and contradictions it was their duty to derive new remedies. Now, one was left to hold fast; the runaway train of reform could not be restrained, and any dialectical contribution to the paradigm only seemed to help it endure longer and subject more people to its logic.

Yet, it never happens that the disease or the change itself arouses the greatest interest, wonder, or suspicion among those stricken with its symptoms, but rather that which seems to be immune. A land immune to change—this is perhaps the best way to sum up how most of Europe felt towards the Russian Empire, that curious, time-frozen monolith leaning against the European heartland. Surely, a thousand reasons could be given at a moment’s notice as to why Russia should have already ceased to exist, but somehow she seemed to persist. And every each power in Europe had one or the other reason not to invoke Russia’s demise, for no genuine order without Russia seemed possible at all.

The English knew that if Russia were gone, Germany would assumed a greater role, the French were in a desperate need of continental allies, and the Germans wondered if their empire would soon not meet the same fate—at the hands of the very same agitation. But Russia kept growing, remained aloof, and went on to shape the grand politics of the Continent, and her presence became philosophically too uncomfortable; What if Russia will never change, but will simply subdue us? What if the world without progress is not only conceivable, but possible? Thus was born the Eastern Question, thus was born one of the greatest brainstorming efforts, one in which all the intellectual capacities of the continent were mobilized. What was wrong with Russia? The workshops of progressive thought were never miserly with their provisions of hasty arguments for a dwindling—but enlightened, new reality in Europe.

One of the greatest errors in studying the politics of the 19th century is to not consult the bulletins of the day, at least the reports dealing with those greatest political spectacles, where ideas, in all the grandeur of their vision, bitterly clash within the narrow premises of national and provincial politics. Sure, the fact alone that newspapers were already the chief public force is a testimony to the continent’s submission to the instinct of mass sociability. Even in Russia, censorship notwithstanding, newspapers were the main course of every mental and social diet. Between the lines of these perhaps too hearty, rhetorical, and by no means reliable assessments of political realities and imperatives, one can discover the prevailing sentiment, the cultural dispositions of the corresponding milieu in its deliberations on the affairs of the day.

And how consistently did Europe react to the news of social strife in Russia—no genuine enthusiasm is to be found there: “Finally, Russia too has moved forward!”—but rather, the feeling of relief is betrayed: “Finally, Russia too has succumbed!” What is to be said, when even among the Prussian junkers or English aristocrats one discovers the same feeling of disdain, when in genteel consideration they chose to throw off the “shackles” of autocratic pretensions, and when to use Nietzsche’s expression, their tastes had become national? It naturally follows that in the spirit of solidarity with the popular sentiments of their corresponding nations, they too joined with the choir of resentment politics.

Such was the political climate on the continent at the time when Konstantin Pobedonostsev, an éminence grise and an adviser to three Tsars, a man who symbolized the conservative policies of the Russian court, an individual of a very unique character and quite an intellectual himself—decided to address the question of Russia’s image in Europe, to write a critique of the rising liberal and progressive policies and morality, to lay down serious intellectual foundations for autocracy and pay homage in an inspiring way to classical ethics and philosophy. The unassuming title “Reflections of a Russian Statesman” perfectly illustrates the reserved and tactful personality of whose manner one shall discover in abundance in this work, and that so well corresponds to that portrait by the famous Russian artist Ilya Repin. It is not an exaggeration or a matter of adherence to say that one feels almost humbled by the stoicism and dignity that radiates out of Pobedonostsev’s well-tempered prose.

Much as the empathic preface by the Russian-British expatriate and socialite Olga Novikoff remarks, Pobedonostsev’s moral authority was recognized during his life by friend and foe alike, and while some saw him as a political relic and representative of stubborn reactionary statism, political reflections coming from such a high and influential address must have provoked quite some interest. Indeed, the work was quickly translated into German, French, and Italian and solicited some review, like that written by the English author W.L. Courtney, who perhaps unsurprisingly, restated all the English prejudices, calling the Russian state “…that vast, obscure, and terrible region” but making no attempt to put forward the quality of argument he acknowledged to have found in the work he criticizes.

Now, Olga Novikoff and W.L. Courtney are not the only English connections here. In fact, concerning the aloofness of the English towards Russia and vice-versa, this extensive political pamphlet and philosophical orientation by a Russian autocrat and a staunch defender of Orthodoxy is the last place where one would expect to find such an abundance of references to English affairs and English thinkers. Perhaps it is Pobedonostsev’s vocation as a jurist and a legal teacher that opened him to such influences, and some of it is confirmed in the work where he affirms the superiority of English legal practices, while also pointing out that their origins and character are poorly understood by domestic reformers. James Anthony Froude, whom Novikoff indicates as one of the persons who initially encouraged her to write an original treatise on the “Fall of Parliamentary Government,” is one such Englishman referred to by Pobedonostsev, although he seems to have been less fond of Froude despite their sharing some common beliefs.[i] Elsewhere as well, the author speaks with distaste of certain English customs and manners, although with acknowledged and self-conscious partiality that he deems in tune with Russian spirit and culture.

To return briefly to madam Novikoff, it is fair to say that she was surrounded by an air of enigma and intrigue. W.T. Stead describes her as “…full of restless energy as ever, and with boxes full of correspondence with half the notable people of Europe.”[ii] Perhaps it is to be expected of an eloquent lady hailing from what used to be a somewhat exotic realm, where even the Imperial court was shrouded by mystery, who maintained correspondence with so many notable English contemporaries, not to mention her controversial and outspoken views and what was deemed a feverish but frank advocacy of Russia’s cause in the hearth of the British Empire. Some wondered if she was nothing short of a Russian agent who simply charmed naive English notables, typically defenseless against the allure of intellect in a woman. Further in his journal “Review of Reviews” Stead writes:

A complete nimbus of legendary marvel surrounds the head of Madame Novikoff. Long before I had ever met her I had heard her darkly alluded to as a kind of Russian Loreley who lured English statesmen to destruction by the fascination of her song. Her salon at Symonds’s, which she has now forsaken for Claridge’s, was supposed to be a kind of witches’ cave where were brewed the Circean spells which converted British patriots into the sworn agents of Russian despotism.

Despite her devotion to Russia’s interests and her sincere partiality, madam Novikoff seemed to have possessed a genuine desire to bring the nations of Britain and Russia together. This was welcomed by W.T. Stead as a worthy contribution to the promotion of peace between the powers of Europe after the trauma of the Crimean War.

The work has a frequently recurring religious theme, mainly concerned with the matters of state authority over the church, including dogma, faith and religious feeling in general. This is hardly a coincidence, since Pobedonostsev held the position of the Ober-Procurator of the Most Holy Synod of the Russian Orthodox Church, hence faith was one of his intimate interests. From today’s standpoint this may sound like an obscure office, but in fact it bore great prestige both thanks to the vast influence of the Church in the social life of Russia, but also because it meant he acted as a minister personally appointed by the Tsar, to whom he remained very close for the entirety of his reign.

Here we find two aspects of the religious questions discussed: one is philosophical and analyzes the problem of dual authority—the relation between the secular and the spiritual, and reflects also on other religious themes such as nihilism, synthetic religions, and the role of science; the other exposes the author’s personal views on the merits of his native faith, the religious spirit and mentality of Russians, and his sentiments concerning religious life in the West. The former will resonate better with Westerners and other non-Russian audiences as it is both familiar and intuitive, while by no means being a simple repetition of conservative talking points. The latter is rather more centered to Orthodoxy and Russia, and might even annoy those Westerners sensitive to their own religious traditions, but nevertheless provides a very accurate and honest insight into the religious life of ordinary Russians that is in many ways still valid today. In fact, it is not at all lacking in self-criticism and realism in its assessment of both the Russian and the Western natures, but is quite aware of the certain “obscurity” that Russian religiosity radiates to the outside world.

Concerning the problem of duality, Pobedonostsev’s views will be familiar to those introduced to Evola’s exposition of the “Ghibelline tradition,” according to which once consecrated by the spiritual power, the ruler proceeds to assume full and indivisible authority over all secular matters including religious institutions, following the maxim “the disciple outshines the master.”[iii] This doctrine has always been reflexively upheld by Orthodoxy, but Pobedonostsev is aware of the danger of speculation and identifies more or less the same fundamental problem with the Catholic and later French Republican ideals:

Whatever perfection theories based on the separation of Church and State may attain in the minds of logicians, they do not satisfy the simple sentiments of the mass of believers. They may indeed content the political mind which sees in them the best of all possible compromises, and a perfect construction of philosophic ideas; but in the depths of the soul which feels the living necessity of faith, and of unity of faith with life, these artificial theories are irreconcilable with truth.

Apart from the question of organic realities in a society, he also discovers a more religious justification for the unity of the two powers in the sentiments of believers, who in any instance desire the same kind of unity in the visible world as they themselves perceive on the subtle and spiritual plane. The Catholic doctrine, however, holds such ambitions as almost heretical since no such indivisibility can be attained, nor should be sought in the present world, but is the promise of the afterlife for the righteous.[iv] Pobedonostsev feels differently:

It is true that the actual life and each of us is an uninterrupted history of failure and duality, a melancholy discord between thought and work, between faith and life but in this ceaseless struggle the human soul is sustained by nothing so much as by faith in an ideal ultimate unity, a faith which it cherishes as the strongest sanctuary of existence. Reduce a believer to the recognition of this duality, he will be humiliated. Reveal to him that end of all duality to which his soul aspires—he lifts his head, he feels his life renewed, and marches onward armed with faith. Tell him that life and faith are independent of one another, and his soul rejects the thought with the abhorrence with which it would reject the thought of ultimate annihilation.

He proceeds to warn that the faith should not be confounded with conviction, and that any power that wishes to assume authority in the spiritual domain cannot succeed by winning over the superficial intellect, but must animate the religious soul itself. The example of the German Wars of Reformation is given as illustrative of a successful struggle for the supremacy in the arena of spiritual authority:

When, at the time of the Reformation in Germany, the State set itself at the head of the movement against the old ecclesiastical power, and built a new organisation for the Church, it possessed actually the spiritual force of faith. The movement which it led had its origin among the people: it was animated by the deepest and strongest faith; its first leaders represented the highest intelligence of the community, and glowed with the fire of a sincere faith uniting them with the people. Thus in this movement were concentrated immense spiritual forces, which, after many years of struggle, compelled the surrender of the ancient faith.

This might seem like an ordinary conservative reflection of the time, but in Pobedonostsev’s days, the religious cause was being increasingly deserted even on the Right, not to mention that among the more progressive strata, irreligion was at the height of its allure. A true rightist reevaluation of the Christian dogma’s impact on secular affairs was perhaps only in conception, with ground being laid by the likes of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, the latter having been rightfully convinced that his own “world-historic” model was premature for the spirit that was not yet ripe for the dawn of the philosophy of the Superman. Still further, racial theorists such as Grant or Chamberlain fully embraced rationalism, lamenting the legacy of the faith on whom they put blame for intolerance, fratricidal wars, and the obstruction of learning, happily dismissing her further relevance which must make space for the supremacy of the intellect.

It would not be until a couple more decades that modernism and fascism, wholly aloof to the Church and assertive in the social space once considered her domain, would appear as new and vital forces, brushing aside all “retrograde” concerns about the needs of the soul for which fascism derived different remedies in the form of active and martial nature of the corporate state. Nietzsche for his part leaned more towards the camp of reactionary autocrats, having expressed more than once his appreciation for what he saw as still healthy reasoning and political astuteness: “Russia, the only power today which has endurance, which can wait, which can still promise something—Russia, the concept that suggests the opposite of the wretched European nervousness and system of small states.” At the same time, while not having dealt with Chamberlain in particular, his antagonism with the so called “Wagnerites” was fairly well documented, and his intolerance of Francophobia and the flowering German nationalism was the chief reason of his frustration with the German patriotic front.

But at last, Pobedonostsev’s skepticism is based on much more firm reasoning. He observes that it would be ridiculous to expect that the Church will give up her interests in the matters of family life, civil society, and other domains claimed by the state, and over which the state can only proceed to assert greater authority:

Notwithstanding the liberty everywhere extolled, we tend in all things to fall under the power of the State. We establish laws and regulations for every important condition of our social life; many formally demand complete centralization, and the assimilation of individual conditions by legislative measures. If but a shoe pinches we demand regulation by the State; if half-a-dozen individuals complain of a burden, they must seek redress in a petition to the Government.

And so the doctrine of the separation of the Church and the state appears as mere cynicism of the victorious party, according to which she proceeds to grant the Church her “freedom” from any real power. The answer seems to lie in the principle of the State Church, where the state not only establishes formal prerogatives in managing the religious life of a nation, but also becomes responsible for upholding those moral values and the sanctity of faith, and preserving the indissoluble union by which the state itself appears consecrated and in accordance with the religious sentiments and the spirit of the people.

Finally, Pobedonostsev reminds us that while the law may guarantee “equality” of the various churches and religions, in practice, one of them will become dominant among the subjects, who will proceed to give expression to this faith in their everyday life and by extension in the character of the state and its institutions. He notes the example of the Catholic Church reasserting its natural position in Ireland, and of its growing power in the United States, where by the virtue of constitutional principles, religious organizations enjoy the greatest freedom of action. Therefore, a distinction is made between the equality of religions and religious tolerance. Unlike in some forms of reactionary Catholicism, in Pobedonostsev one does not discover any humbleness towards the priestly class. Rather, he does not refrain from criticizing the clergy, if for no other reason but their poor and indifferent performance of their duties and their equal absence of steadfastness concerning the “living faith,” which they have reduced to a mere ceremony.

If particular details of settling religious matters must always resurface as a dispute, it is the unfaltering belief in the total depravity of democracy and pluralism that breathes new vigor into it and gives it a firm foothold. While we may discover the most diverse objections to the principle of democracy, few possess the kind of dignity to their criticism that inspires envy. In individuals who hold a particular station, we discover profound contempt in which is expressed a more intimate comprehension of the matter, which allows one to perceive the current in its total significance, as an exterior and impersonal force that obeys her own logic.

In such criticism, democracy almost turns out to be a form of rude prankishness, if only we were not acutely aware of the fact that it is the ruling paradigm of our age that many earnestly uphold, and to which they ultimately bow. Pobedonostsev belongs to those who firmly dismiss the idea that democracy is any form of real government at all, and who in turn believe that all government proceeds from rulers, who alone are able to give expression to the personal and unbreakable will that is necessary for any self-conscious living entity to pursue its fate with an unimpeded liberty. As Olga Novikoff points out in the preface, not only was it for him a matter of a well-informed distaste, but also of a complete absence of loyalty to such ideas that were never seen by the Russian court as an expression of anything legitimate. Instead, they were seen as a social disease. In this sense, he stood in a different place to his English colleagues, who were already reduced to mere apologetics:

We have no parliamentary party in Russia. No one, even in the abstract, as a matter of theory, would wish to inoculate the Muscovite politician with the passion of parliamentary faction; hence the observations of Mr. Pobyedonostseff have an independence and a detachment from things impossible to those who are themselves in the movement, and who have to consider in all they write and speak the effect which their action may have upon their own future relations to the multitude.

In spite of his great sensitivity to religious matters, in Pobedonostsev one finds a less pious tone in writing than say, one would find in Carlyle. But there are many similarities between the two, and it is plausible that some typically Carlylist sentiments had influenced the Russian, particularly the denouncement of “free will” and “laissez-faire” principles. Although the Russian is in possession of a far more Spartan style, some of Carlyle’s writings even bear strong resemblance:

Liberty? The true liberty of a man, you would say, consisted in his finding out, or being forced to find out the right path, and to walk thereon. To learn, or to be taught, what work he actually was able for; and then, by permission, persuasion, and even compulsion, to set about doing of the same! That is his true blessedness, honour, ‘liberty’ and maximum of wellbeing: if liberty be not that, I for one have small care about liberty. You do not allow a palpable madman to leap over precipices; you violate his liberty, you that are wise; and keep him, were it in strait-waistcoats, away from the precipices! Every stupid, every cowardly and foolish man is but a less palpable madman: his true liberty were that a wiser man, that any and every wiser man, could, by brass collars, or in whatever milder or sharper way, lay hold of him when he was going wrong, and order and compel him to go a little righter.[v]

Not dissimilar is their enmity towards the press, which had already become entrenched in its role as the chief instrument of power in democratic politics. But Pobedonostsev need not make elaborate references to classical mythology to put forward his reasons:

The speed and ease with which abstract conclusions are arrived at are explained by the unceremonious methods observed and in this process of selection of relevant facts and in their treatment. Hence the great success of orators, and the extraordinary effect of the abstractions which they cast to the people. The crowd is easily attracted by commonplaces and generalities invested in sonorous phrases; it cares nothing for proof which is inaccessible to it; thus is formed unanimity of thought, an unanimity fictitious and visionary, but consequences actual enough. This is called “voice of the people,” with the pendant, “voice of God.”

As much as Pobedonostsev is skillful in uncovering the inconsistencies of abstract conceptions, the real strength of his critique of democracy lies in unmasking the vulgarity inherent to all affairs and discourses corresponding not only to the multitude, but to every personality possessed of a formless, polemical nature, that new social realities help spread like a disease even among the loftier corners. Even in the absence of formal voting system, everywhere about one discovers the noise of pluralism, on the streets, at the cafes, and in the newspapers. The submergence of all nobler and more disciplined voices in such circumstances, he proves beyond reasonable doubt, is the rule and not a side effect. Are parliamentary assemblies, then, any better? Let’s refer to Carlyle:

Add now another most unfortunate condition, That your Parliamentary Assembly is not very much in earnest, not at all ‘dreadfully in earnest,’ to do even the best it can; that in general the Nation it represents is no longer an earnest Nation, but a light, sceptical epicurean one, which for a century has gone along smirking, grimacing, cutting jokes about all things, and has not been bent with dreadful earnestness on any thing at all, except on making money each member of it for himself.[vi]

Yet, is the pathos of civilian courtesy not embedded in the very idea of representative democracy, and is it not founded upon the belief in “the end of history”—where the only legitimate conception of life is now this national cul-de-sack, where all partake in the kind of mutual voyeurism of feelings and sentiments? Is parliamentary life not a life devoid of genuine external concerns, and as such by necessity also devoid of ability to concentrate on any given thing? The simple axiom of life as motion refutes the usefulness of Parliament in dealing with the existential problem:

The historical development of society necessitates that local communities increase in numbers and complexity; that separate races be assimilated, or retaining their polities and languages, unite under a single flag, that territory extend indefinitely: under such conditions, direct government by the people is impracticable.

If we were inclined to believe that such parliamentary life was still possible or desirable, and that it in itself represents the kind of progress from which the idea of deliberation regarding life is something inseparable—would such an institutionalized deliberateness still be theoretically sound? What is nowadays apparent to us in the rudest manner had back then only manifested in its benign form, yet was already intolerable:

The institution of Parliament is indeed one of the greatest illustrations of human delusion. Enduring in the course of centuries the tyranny of autocratic and oligarchical governments, and ignoring that the evils of autocracy are the evils of society itself, men of intellect and knowledge have laid the responsibility for their misfortunes on their rulers and on their systems of government, and imagined that by substituting for these systems government by the will of the people, or representative government, society would be delivered from all the evil and violence which it endured. What is the result? The result is that, mutato nomine, all has remained essentially as before, and men, retaining the weaknesses and failings of their nature, have transfused in the new institutions their former impulses and tendencies. As before, they are ruled by personal will, and in the interest of privileged persons, but this personal will is no longer embodied in the person of the sovereign, but in the person of the leader of the party.

Pobedonostsev carefully examines the kind of personality that is compatible with the notion of altruism, and observes that such personality is a rarity whose very ethical foundations are opposed to those that serve the needs of democratic spectacle. Moreover, the way in which their effort translates into a social benefit rests on the ability to concentrate on a given activity, to abide in solitude, to confer with but a handful of resourceful friends and associates, to remain detached and think abstractly—all opposed to the proclivity for partaking in the chaotic, irresolute, exhausting nature of the public discourse:

“Do not trespass beyond the limits of thy destiny,” was the advice of the ancient oracle, “Do not undertake a charge beyond thy strength.” How excellent the advice! All wisdom is in the concentration of thought and power, all evil is in its dispersion. To not to dissipate our strength on a multitude generalities and aspirations, but to choose a work and a field according to our measure, and to dig, and plant, and cultivate, to spend our living strength thereon, and to raise ourselves from strength to knowledge, from knowledge to perfection.

Such are the ethical considerations of this work, laid out in the chapter “The Malady of Our Time” which is almost a treatise on its own within this book, where in a single breath is outlined the depraved logic that supports our modern spiritual, ethical, and moral superstructure, and from which by intuition may be derived the opposing principle. None of this prevents Pobedonostsev from applying cold Machiavellian logic to his analysis of human affairs, and here we are reminded that on Russia’s court there was indeed present the kind of political astuteness, of which only a few remaining critics of popular government on the Continent were aware—which some even praised, such as was the case with Nietzsche. This is rather complementary to the perceived idealism of Russian emperors, as a synthesis of two forces, two paradigms that come together to be united in the principle of the state:

By nature, men are divided into two classes—those who tolerate no power above them, and therefore of necessity strive to rule others and those who by nature dread the responsibility inseparable from independent action, and who shrink from any resolute exercise of will. These were born for submission, and together constitute a herd, which follows the men of will and resolution, who form the minority. Thus the most talented persons submit willingly, and gladly entrust to stronger hands the control of affairs and the moral responsibility for their direction. Instinctively they seek a leader, and become his obedient instruments, inspired by the conviction that he will lead them to victory—and, often, to spoil.

The growing and universal irritability with life in society is borne of disillusionment by the false expectations, by the false promises which make men increasingly irreconcilable with any subordinate position. Now they perceive themselves as only fingertips away from the dignity that hitherto was an accumulation of many generation’s struggle with fortune. In such climate, the gambler’s mentality becomes the norm, as the production of goods and values of a tangible and lasting character must give way to the short-lived triumph of the persona in conquest of daily vanities. Success, happiness, realization, are no longer a promise of hard work, persistence and knowledge, and consequently, the average man no longer has faith in their merit:

The humble watched the lives of the rich and idle, and thinking, “This is not for us,” resigned themselves to the impossible. Now this impossibility has become possible and attainable in the imaginations of all. The private soldier aspires to the dignity of a general, and seeks to attain it, not with hard of service, with duty performed, or distinction gained, but by accident and sudden acquisition. Success is now believed to be the result of accident or good fortune, and by this belief all are incited, as gambler by the hope of gain.

Nowadays, this philosophy of living is masked behind the principle of “professional vocation,” wherein we are accustomed to look upon one’s heritage, inner nature, his in-born sentiments and passions with suspicion, as if these were not inseparable from the way in which such a nature seeks to realize herself, but are a burden to the conquest of present happiness, no matter how transitory it must be once torn from the chain of generations to whom it were a transcendent goal.

And this prompts him to conclude how the happiness of many has been betrayed by man’s boundless skepticism, his innate desire to question, and thus uproot the foundation of his own living. This, according to Pobedonostsev, is a natural thing with a corresponding remedy found in communion—with leaders, countrymen, God, spouses, ancestors, and progeny. These having been condemned, happiness is now a remote memory—“There are few men who have not in their past some time of which they may say, ‘Happiness was possible then—so near.’” The modern man can only consecrate his work to an abstract ideal, of which he does not in the least suspect that it was a hasty concoction of his own mind.

The absence of a complete comprehension of these subtleties and intricacies of life as law, a comprehension that could be regarded as a science in itself, is possibly what caused much misunderstanding not only regarding Pobedonostsev, but also the imperial principle itself. This might have prompted the likes of Lothrop Stoddard to ascribe a narrow imperialist meaning to that famous slogan of this Russian statesman—“Russia is not a state; it is a world!”[vii] Julius Evola, in his characteristically dense but clear manner, gives a sketch of the Imperial principle based on a spiritual foundation:

“The empire in the true sense,” Evola concludes, “can only exist it animated by a spiritual fervor…It this is lacking, one will only have a creation forged by violence—imperialism—a simple mechanical superstructure without a soul.”[viii]

However, when referring to the spirit here, it is necessary to understand that its meaning cannot be reduced to the simple individual will, no matter how the latter is indispensable, if not decisive for the expression of the empire-forging impulse. Rather, we must open ourselves to the perception of what might be called “the world-spirit,” of which the empire is the symbol—the Chinese having once named it “The Middle Kingdom,” and that is elsewhere regarded as the visible, manifested “axis of the world,” or “the universal wheel,” that once again, in Eastern mythology, has its corresponding invisible plane.[ix]

The fact of existence of say, multiple such formations, each of them exercising a certain gravity in its own domain, should not therefore be understood as a contradiction. But that the ordering of forces in history has so often and so consistently been such that we could always find a preeminent, hegemonic power whose force of gravity acted as the dynamo of world-historic developments should alert us to the existence of a mysterious, but immutable principle to the logic of life. That such principles tend to extend themselves to all planes, resulting at once in the simplest and the most complex forms, is clear to Pobedonostsev, in fact, he discovers one such principle in what he calls “inertia”:

Humanity is endowed with another very effective force—inertia. As the ballast in a ship, inertia sustains humanity in the crises of its history, and so indispensable has it become that without it all measured progress would be impossible. This force, which the superficial thinkers of the new school confound with ignorance and stupidity, is absolutely essential to the prosperity of  society. Destroy it, and you deprive the world of that stability which serves as the fulcrum of progress.

With such an integral understanding of the vital and universal principles which play their impartial role in the ordering of mankind, it is also possible to comprehend why truly profound political thinkers were irreconcilable with the principle of “self-determination,” and any strictly national idea of statehood. Such an alignment of forces within the “world-island,” can only be regarded as the symptom of the advancing global political anarchy, inspired by the reluctance of nations to commit to any idea besides endless self-reflection. These are “the politics of intermission,” to refer once again to Nietzsche, where political and moral astuteness emerges only as an exception—almost as the uncontrolled awakening of some older, submerged instinct, which surfaces involuntarily and chooses triumph as the means of its realization.

And we should not shrink from saying also “triumph of the ego,” for given the appropriate circumstances, even ego’s impulse for self-propagation can become an ordering force—if we regard the subsequent social products, such as hereditary monarchy, to be the products of sublimation of the ego-principle. “Morality” in the context of the above, should therefore be understood universally, as justified in the affirmation of life which is regarded as a higher reality in comparison to the utilitarian morality which corresponds to the necessities of daily affairs. These “moral principles” exercise a stronger binding force than the latter:

In human souls there exists a force of moral gravity which draws them one to another; and which, made manifest in the spiritual interaction of souls, answers an organic need. Without this force mankind would be as a heap of sand, without any bond, dispersed by every wind on every side. By this inherent force, without preparatory accord, are men united in society. It impels them out of the crowd of men to seek for leaders with whom to commune, whom to obey, and whose direction to seek.

Having become ignorant of the factual will that alone can give longevity to its political and moral activity, mankind marches steadily towards the greater “judicialization” of life, aided on its path by that subtle art of Jesuitism. The will of authority, once the cornerstone of all institutions, has been displaced in favor of general casuistry—so it is in practice of the courts of law, which are no longer bound by the will of the lawgiver; it is equally so in public discourse, where the natural limitations on the aspirations of individuals, embodied in the principles of rank and duty, are no longer present.

Where this is true, the outward appearance of authoritarianism does little to dissipate the echo from bellow—masses exclaiming their transitory beliefs born of a fragmented perception of reality, the bewilderment augmented by the ever accelerating tempo of living. This is the soil from which flourishes the chief vehicle of disintegration—the press, as the “anti-institution” which hosts all the processes working in reverse of the formal powers. “To agree to disagree” is the highest ethical principle of this spiritual malaise, but underneath lies something more sinister—disagreement as the perpetual state of society by design. Far from merely having the role of enabler, the press naturally assumes the defense and promotion of everything which gives wings to disintegration, for which reason she coordinates action against anything upright and uncompromising. If there is something which best resonates with contemporary audiences from these 19th century reflections, it is certainly the disgust with the liberality and nonchalance with which the press is able to subject individuals to public scorn and break all boundaries of honor. Although, this institution, Pobedonostsev reminds us, profits from a certain inborn human weakness:

But who will dare to stand against the forces of opinion—the opinion of the world on men and institutions? Such is the nature of man that each one of us, whatever his words or actions may be, takes care that he shall conform with the opinions of the people. The man is yet unborn who can truly boast himself free from this servility.

He does not refrain from expressing indignation at collusion between the reformist circles in Russia and the liberal press in Europe. Disregarding the Right’s appreciation of certain “Slavophile” intellectuals—for example, Dostoevsky—the Russian court and its ruling elite found them no less subversive than the purely civilian Republicanism. The ideals of “the people” were equally looked down upon as incoherent:

Even in Russia, so libeled by the lying Press of Europe, such words are heard. Our so-called Slavophiles, with amazing inconsistency, share the same delusion, although their avowed object is to reform and renovate the institutions of their country upon a historic basis. Having joined the chorus of Liberals, in alliance with the propagandists of revolution, they proclaim exactly in the manner of the West: Public Opinion—that is, the collective thought, guided by the natural love of right in all—is the final judge in all matters of public interest.

Very few, even on the Right, were capable of approaching these matters with sufficient level of indifference, in particular regarding strictly personal motivations, to realize the principled character of this policy. They were open only to a one-sided view of Russia as a “tyrant” of nations, allowing the feeling of political inferiority to morph into a permanent intellectual reflex. For this reason, the ideas they glorify are as predictable as they are ridiculously self-centered. The only acceptable paradigm according to the proponents of nationally awakened Europe, is to divide everything and allocate to each his own space—such is the proposed remedy that shall cause the culture to sprout anew. Nietzsche angrily retorts:

This sickliness and want of reason which is most opposed to culture, and which is called Nationalism,—this nevrose nationale from which Europe is suffering acutely; this eternal subdivision of Europe into petty states, with politics on a municipal scale: they have robbed Europe itself of its significance, of its reason,—and have stuffed it into a cul-de-sac. Is there any one except me who knows the way out of this cul-de-sac? Does anyone except me know of an aspiration which would be great enough to bind the people of Europe once more together?

It seems that the Russian Empire knew the way out, and Konstantin Pobedonostsev, as its chief architect in this age of grand designs, put his bets on the force of will, rather than some scheme assembled on the margins of muddle-headed correspondences.

A few years later, Europe shall awaken to the presence of another force in the Far East, looking to build its shelter under the rising sun from the corpse of faltering titans—here too, the principle of pure will expressed in the existential struggle of Japanese nation, bound to escape the boundaries of its tiny habitat and its global insignificance, triumphed over clumsy mechanics of war and politics. Russia too, shall suffer a surprising defeat from this power, but again, like she could stomach the loss of Crimean War, she could stomach the bitter accounting delivered by this nimble insular regime.

What Russia could not stomach, though, was the entrenchment in its ranks of political debility, and of forces who had no regard for the precarious nature of circumstances and fortunes that led to the Russian Empire’s founding—the accumulation of the centuries of state building, ambition, consistency, perfection, stress, survival, and expansion. All of this was easy to simply dismiss as something incidental, and subject to the scrutiny of the intellect—all in the name of “betterment,” but surely, as the product of a natural and concealed disintegrating instinct. Maybe Pobedonostsev’s vision was predetermined to yield to the forces of chaos, and his vision was just another tragedy of history? Had it triumphed, however, Russia would have undoubtedly become the Mackinder’s famous “World-Island” in the fullest sense.

 

* * * * *

[i] Correspondences of Olga Novikoff, including those with Froude, can be found in the book “The M.P. for Russia, reminiscences and correspondence of Madame Olga Novikoff,” collected and edited by W.T. Stead.

[ii] W. T. Stead (The Review of Reviews, vol. III, February, 1891) pp. 123-136

[iii] In one of Evola’s letters to Carl Schmitt from 1955 it is explained thus: “I can give an explanation to the saying “the initiate kills the initiator” only as it refers to the abstract and impersonal plane. In this case, it is only about two phases of the work of initiation. During the first phase, the initiate is in passive position in relation to the initiator: he receives force from him. This is the phase that Hermetism indicates with the Moon (Luna) and Water, also defined as Albedo. In the second phase, however, the initiate seizes this force, making himself a new center; this makes him independent, signifying in a certain sense the “murder” of the initiator on whom he initially depended. Hermetism defines this as the solar phase—the work of Fire, also called Rubedo. This saying is significant: before the mother gives her son to the light; the son then dominates the mother and kills her. Similar examples are found even in other traditions. So also in the Ghibelline idea, according to which the ruler, after receiving the consecration (the first phase), feels himself independent and superior in relationship to the ordained (the priest), the same content of meanings is reflected.” http://www.gornahoor.net/?p=4432

[iv] It was Froude who had given a very vivid description of the role that the Church had played in the Middle Ages in the opening pages of his essay “Erasmus and Luther,” comparing the gravity of Church’s influence in a society to the imposing Cathedral occupying the central place in every town and settlement, and far outshining with her presence every other building.

[v] Carlyle, Past and Present, Book III, Chapter XIII

[vi] Carlyle, Latter-day pamphlets, Parliaments

[vii] Stoddard, Present-Day Europe, Its National States of Mind, https://archive.org/stream/presentdayeurope00stod#page/184/mode/2up

[viii] Evola, as quoted by de Benoist, The Idea of Empire, https://www.gornahoor.net/library/IdeaOfEmpire.pdf

[ix] Evola’s The Mystery of the Grail and Guenon’s The King of the World are the typically Traditionalist expositions of this  idea, although unsurprisingly, they differ to a degree in focus and basic principles in rough proportion to the degree to which these authors held divergent and ultimately, irreconcilable views regarding their understanding of Tradition, initiation and spiritual realization.