A most unusual source, a waitress at American House who was an employee of the UPDK, a security and domestic service that looked after foreigners, was baffled one evening at dinnertime when I told her of my search for Uvarov. Why in God’s name would I want to write about a nineteenth-century reactionary, she wanted to know. It made no sense to her—and, every now and then, not to me either. I told her about Harvard’s Ph.D. requirements and about my reasons for selecting Uvarov. She looked at me with puzzled impatience, shook her head, muttered “That is insane,” and then advised me that a good place to start my quest would be the Historical Library. If I thought I could not crack the state’s central archives, I would probably get nowhere.
So off to the Historical Library I went after work the next day. It was a very old building on an even older prerevolutionary street, Starosadsky Pereulok, which translated roughly as “the little street with the ancient garden.” I didn’t get there until 7:30 p.m. I joined a long line of students waiting to register for admission. After a few minutes I found myself looking down at a librarian so old and frail she must have had the job since czarist times. She did not look up but asked for my name. When I answered “Kalb” and then added “Marvin” but without my patronymic (with my patronymic I would have had to say “Marvin Maksimovich,” “Marvin, the son of Maksim”), she did look up. “Where are you from?” she asked, obviously picking up from my accent that I was not a native Russian. “From the United States,” I answered. Her attitude turned frigidly professional. She pushed hard against the back of her seat, as if she wanted to get as far away from me as possible.
“What are you doing here in Moscow?” she asked cautiously. I told her I worked at the JPRS, but I was also a Ph.D. student.
“What university?
“Harvard,” I replied.
“Do you have your documents?”
I showed her my diplomatic propusk, my identification card. She looked at it, then at me. A group of students congregated around us, asking if there was a problem. The old lady rose slowly, ignoring the students. “Tovarishch,” she said, pointing at me, “you come this way, please,” which I did, following her into a small adjacent room. “Wait here.” She nodded toward a wooden chair. I waited for more than fifteen minutes. Finally she and four others returned. One was apparently the chief librarian. Everyone deferred to her.
“Why are you here?” she asked brusquely.
“To do research,” I replied.
“What kind of research?”
“I am doing work on Uvarov, Sergei Semyonovich Uvarov.”
The chief librarian smiled skeptically. “Why would anyone want to do research on Uvarov? He was a reactionary.” I agreed, yes, he was a “conservative” but an interesting subject nonetheless, and no one else was writing about him.
“Why don’t you write about Lenin?” she asked. “He’s much more interesting. He’s a progressive.”
I answered, “Everybody is writing about Lenin, but no one is writing about Uvarov.” I smiled, trying to be both serious and charming. The chief librarian shook her head in bewilderment, conferred briefly with her colleagues, and then, much to my surprise and delight, said simply “Khorosho,” “Okay,” and led me into a large reading room, where she pointed to a desk and a card catalog. “Look through it, and tell me what you want.”
I was astonished. One hour after arriving at the Historical Library, I was given a pass and access to several interesting studies of Uvarov. All were secondary sources, but I was actually doing research in Moscow—I had broken the ice. I was to learn in time that not every Soviet library, and certainly not the Central State Archives, would similarly open its doors to a non-Russian student of Uvarov, but I had taken one big step toward my twin goals of doing research on Uvarov while working at the JPRS—and for the moment that was good enough. My mother would be pleased.
One foreign correspondent who had worked in Moscow for many years told me the next day that I was the first foreigner allowed to do research in the Historical Library. Ever. True or not, I was positive I had one person to thank: that person who had delivered the secret speech and launched the year of the thaw.
A day or two later, encouraged by my victory at the Historical Library, I decided to take my next step and go to the official office that registered all deaths in Moscow. I knew that Uvarov had died in Moscow in 1855. Where was he buried? Was there a plaque? What did it say? This was basic information; naively, I expected no problem in obtaining it. An old woman sitting near the entrance to the gloomy building, apparently a docent of the bureau, said she knew nothing about a burial site in Moscow but did know of a monument to his memory in Leningrad. Indeed, she added, even where he lived in Leningrad—that is, “if the house is still standing.” The docent seemed unable or unwilling to go further.
Undeterred, I decided on the spot to go directly to the State Museum, a large, oddly shaped red-brick building at the opposite end of Red Square from St. Basil’s Cathedral, looking for all the world as if it had been mistakenly plopped there by a distracted architect. It contained, I was told, the prerevolutionary archives of Russian aristocrats, among many other things. Maybe I’d have better luck there. And for a brief time I thought I had.
Another very old woman was in charge of the “historical division.” How interesting, that—in Moscow, so many museums, staffed by so many old women! Unlike many of the other female staff, though, this one was gentle, neatly dressed, and, to a degree, cooperative. When I told her about Uvarov, she directed me with no apparent hesitation to Hall 30. Hurriedly I went to Hall 30 and there it was, a document with Uvarov’s famous formula, “Nationalism, Autocracy, and Orthodoxy,” on a table under glass and surrounded by a small gaggle of giggling students.
“Uvarov?” one asked. “Who’s he?”
The others shrugged with obvious indifference. It was clear they had never heard of Uvarov, though he was a leader of the nineteenth-century conservative movement. Nevertheless, I was delighted. For the first time I was getting close to my subject. Here was his famous formula, and I was able to read it and take notes. Guards stood near the doors but did nothing.
I walked back to the old woman near the entryway. “That was really wonderful,” I said with excitement. “But would it now be possible to see all of Uvarov’s papers, his letters, everything?” She shook her head and explained that although she would like to help me, she had no authority to do so. Only the uchenyi sekretar (learned or academic assistant) could help. I went directly to her office. She too was surprisingly friendly, saying she had a great deal of material on Uvarov’s son, an outstanding Russian archeologist, but little on Uvarov himself. I expressed my disappointment, but we got on so well she promised she would do “everything in my power” to get me admitted to the state archives. There, she was certain, I’d find Uvarov’s papers.
Two days later I was back at the State Museum, hoping her “power” had been pervasive enough to produce miracles in the Soviet bureaucracy. The uchenyi sekretar was again friendly but her message was decidedly discouraging. She had tried, she said, but had failed. She could do nothing more on her own, and she recommended I try… the Historical Library.
“I’ve been to the Historical Library,” I said. “Indeed I have a pass and a desk there.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You have a desk at the Historical Library? Well then”—she smiled—“why come here?”
I explained that I needed primary source material, that the Historical Library had provided me with books and articles but nothing original—and that for a Ph.D. I needed primary sources. “I want to see his letters, his papers, his home,” I pleaded. “I want to see Uvarov firsthand.” The uchenyi sekretar had a good heart. She wanted to help, but since I had already been to the Historical Library, she suggested with apparent reluctance that I visit the Central State Archives, which were then under the control of the the dreaded Ministry of Internal Affairs (MVD), the secret police. As she led me to the exit she offered her best wishes, adding with a smile, “Maybe your friend Khrushchev can get you in.”