Founded in 1765, the St. Petersburg Free Economic Society was one of imperial Russia's first and most prestigious public associations. Historians have long recognized the society's significance for the empire's agrarian history, but only recently have scholars begun to pay attention to its contributions to Russian public culture. Focusing on the society's daily activities and public practices under Catherine II, this article argues that the organization's dependence on royal and elite protection transformed it into a patronage network that mirrored the hierarchies found in state service. Despite its egalitarian rhetoric, courtiers such as Fedor Angal't wielded the greatest influence by virtue of their elite status while rank-and-file members like Andrei Nartov assumed responsibility for the organization's dayto- day operations. The lived experience of the society underscores the persistence of traditional power relationships in the empire's nascent public culture and illuminates the survival tactics devised by the first generation of Russia's educated public.

As a part-time observer of the Soviet literary scene, I am gratified to see my tentative generalizations endorsed by men as knowledgeable and authoritative in the field of Soviet literature as George Gibian and Max Hayward. I am also glad that my attempt at diagnosis has provided an occasion for an illuminating companion piece and a thoughtful reassessment of what is undoubtedly one of the most significant works of recent Soviet fiction.

I have no quarrel whatsoever with the main body of Professor Gibian's perceptive and amply documented analysis, which supplements admirably my sketchy survey of trends and issues. The only portion of his article which may call for a brief rejoinder or clarification is the extended footnote. To take issue with what Professor Gibian himself calls "minuscule objections" is a somewhat picayune undertaking. But, just to be conversational, let me offer a few counter-cavils.

Sometime in the decade between 1826 and 1836 Tiutchev wrote a poem entitled “Son na more” (“Dream at Sea”). A literal English translation would read as follows:

Both the sea and the storm rocked our skiff; Sleepy, I was abandoned to the full caprice of the waves. The two infinities were within me, And willfully they played with me. Around me, like cymbals, resounded the cliffs. The winds replied, and the waves sang. I flew deafened in a chaos of sounds. But above the chaos of sounds my dream was swiftly borne. Sickly bright, magically mute, It blew lightly over the sounding darkness. In the rays of my fever it unfolded its world: The earth shone green, the ether grew bright, Labyrinthine gardens, palaces, columns, And myriads of silent crowds seethed. I recognized many faces unfamiliar to me. I saw magic creatures, mysterious birds. Across the peaks of creation I strode like a god, And under me the world shone motionless. But through all the dreams, like the wail of a magician, I heard the roar of the ocean's abyss, And into the quiet domain of visions and dreams Burst the foam of the roaring waves.

Practically every single work of the young Dostoevsky may be interpreted as what Jules Janin called a parodie sérieuse. What the young Dostoevsky seems to be doing is essentially the following: He presents a romantic or sentimental theme, but with the characters and setting of the natural'naia shkola, and seeks to find a form that would fit such a synthesis. As a result, his heroes are “miscast,” that is, they have to play roles for which they are not fit. The timid, middle-aged, baldish Devushkin in Poor Folk is cast in the role of a sentimental lover; the thoroughly prosaic, “ordinary,” trivial Goliadkin in The Double develops a Doppelgänger complex; the semiliterate, brutish miser Prokharchin in the story “Mr. Prokharchin” comes to stand for the idea of supreme individualism—and so on.

The old French adage comparaison n'est pas raison indicates that comparison (contrast, too, for that matter) is never made for its own sake but only to lead to some conclusion. That is why the habit of comparing, or contrasting, the history of one country with that of another (or several others) gives rise to such vexing problems and generates such intense passions—and in turn feeds on them. We are dealing here not only with a “scientific” problem, whose solution would be an acquired truth, but with the attitudes of the participants and spectators of historical events as well. Unlike the scholar who is supposed to search only for truth, social and political thinkers and litterateurs engage in comparative analysis and reasoning in order to indulge whatever lies closest to their hearts at a given moment. In his paper Mr. Roberts has concentrated on the problems facing the scholar-scientist. His scientific similes and epistemological caveats are therefore neither mere literary embellishments nor a challenge to C. P. Snow's dichotomized view of the contemporary intellectual but quite deliberate and telling evidence that his main preoccupation is to clarify the methodological issues involved. In this very essential and laudable enterprise he has cut away much of the underbrush that all too often obscures comparative analysis and politically (or culturally or religiously) motivated contrasts. But in so doing he has perhaps allowed himself to lose sight of the reasons that made the question of Russia's relationship to the West an issue of such momentous concern for generations of Russians as well as Europeans—and now for Americans too. By taking up the discussion from the questions of method which Mr. Roberts has elucidated so well, we may be able to come to grips with the problem of attitudes and clarify a bit more the nature of the specific comparative issue with which we are concerned.

Russian imperialism under various regimes has often been denounced, and rarely praised. Even more seldom has it been defined. In fact, it is more difficult to define than to condemn. One difficulty lies in the fact that from the time, beginning in the 1450s, of the final unification of the principalities of central Russia around a single center of power—Moscow—the Muscovite state itself was constantly expanding through the settlement of Russian peasants across the Eastern European plain, while even in this earliest period various non-Russian peoples came under Muscovite rule. At what point does “expansion” end and “imperialism” begin?

The difficulties facing the student of contemporary Soviet conditions in his search for reliable evidence on detail are well known. Court cases, so far as reported, have obvious advantages in comparison, let us say, with the literary productions of authors, who aim at illustrating the direction in which Soviet society is supposed to move, as well as in comparison with the published reports of refugees. These reports may be supposed not to reflect the outlook of the typical Soviet citizen. Further, the refugees’ experiences are subject to processes of selection and editing, which are to a greater or lesser extent conditioned by the state of international relations and of public opinion in the country of publication. The court case, in contrast, represents facts established by the authorities under conditions in which maximum precision is desired, and it is published not only because of its propagandist but (and mainly) for its legal interest.