Two faces of the same saint

In most countries, history is to some extent politicised, that is revised to reflect modern political sensibilities. Some of that is unavoidable, I suppose, but pushing that tendency to an extreme will replace history with politics altogether.

Russian historiography, especially but far from exclusively over the past 100 years, is a typical example of facts replaced with politically motivated mythology. Putin is a prime exponent of this, justifying his beastliness with historical references that can only charitably be described as inaccurate.

This brings me to Alexander Nevsky (d. 1263), honoured in Russia as one of its greatest heroes and canonised by the Russian Orthodox Church in 1547. In a 2008 poll, Nevsky was named the greatest Russian ever, narrowly beating Stalin to that honour. Yet that tells you more about Russians in general than specifically about Nevsky.

Alexander, Grand Prince of Kiev, Grand Prince of Vladimir and Prince of Novgorod, acquired his sobriquet by defeating a mighty Swedish army in the 1240 Battle of the Neva. Two years later he defeated the Livonian knights in a battle fought on the ice of Lake Peipus, thus again saving Holy Russia from Western infidels.

The latter exploit was immortalised by Sergei Eisenstein’s 1938 film, commissioned by Stalin. Hence the first icon, or rather iconic image on the left: Nikolai Cherkassky in the eponymous role, his chiselled Nordic features doubtless reflecting Stalin’s self-image he liked to cherish in his heart (though not in front of a mirror).

Eisenstein’s brilliant camerawork, accompanied by Shostakovich’s rousing score, showed Nevsky leading his host into battle. At the critical moment, the ice cracked and hundreds of those Teutonic knights drowned.

Such was the climax of history as politics. History as fact is rather different.

Alexander’s first epic victory was won against a mounted convoy accompanying a caravan of goods for sale. Hence the engagement was merely a skirmish, which Alexander indeed won. However, the provenance of his adversaries is uncertain.

One known fact is that their leader was named Spiridon, a name of Slavic origin. Another fact was that Alexander’s second-in-command was named Drochila, meaning ‘wanker’. A possible name for an epic hero, I suppose, but not the most obvious one.

The contemporaneous chronicles don’t mention the event at all, a gap that Swedish documents never filled. Russian chronicles waited for at least another century for the triumph to make an appearance, but even then it only rated the briefest of mentions.

The Battle on the Ice wasn’t much of a battle either, and by all reliable accounts it wasn’t fought on ice. What is a documented fact is that only 20 knights were killed there, which again qualifies the encounter as a skirmish, not a great battle.

While playing fast and loose with facts, Russian historians, ably assisted by Eisenstein, were accurate in their depiction of Nevsky as an implacable enemy of the West. Russian princes had by then resisted any penetration by Catholicism for at least three centuries, and portraying Alexander in that light was true to life.

He was much more relaxed about cooperating with the Mongols who had invaded Rus’ (Russia qua Russia didn’t exist then) three years before Alexander’s jolly men raided that Slavo-Swedish caravan. In fact, perhaps ‘relaxed’ was too mild a word.

It was with gusto that Alexander collaborated with the Mongol invaders under Khan Batu. He collected tributes for the Mongols from other Rus’ princes, putting his foot down when they wouldn’t pay. Novgorod, a Hanseatic and hence pro-Western principality, was particularly reluctant to cough up.

Alexander attacked on behalf of his Mongol masters and drowned the city in blood. The chronicles of the time record noses and ears cut off, eyes gouged out, and heads rolling. The Mongols had every reason to be happy with their boy.

So happy, in fact, that Alexander officially fraternised with Batu’s son Sartaq (an Arian Christian, by the way). Legally, therefore, he became the Khan’s foster son, a member of his family.

After perestroika arrived, historical revisionism in Russia was for a while privatised, with many amateur historians coming up with wild theories that had nothing to do with reality. Their books were a jolly good read, but one was ill-advised to rely on them for knowledge.

According to one such theory, Alexander wasn’t a Rus’ prince of Scandinavian descent, but actually himself a Mongol. Moreover, he was Batu’s actual, rather than just legal, son. I once read a whole book about that, in the same spirit in which one reads science fiction or comic novels.

And then, in 2005, I attended the greatest exhibition of Russian icons I’ve ever seen, at the Petit Palais in Paris. Some 500 pieces were on show, including the one on the left.

This 17^th century icon shows Alexander Nevsky as, not to cut too fine a point, a Mongol. His facial features are definitely Mongoloid, and he is wearing the dress of a Mongol khan.

What does one make of this? You tell me. The best I can do is have a guess, or rather a few of them.

One would be that the crazy theory wasn’t as crazy as all that, and Alexander was indeed Batu’s son. As far as wild guesses go, this one is as good as any, but there’s a slight hitch. Not a single document supports this possibility.

In fact, Alexander’s genealogy isn’t disputed anywhere. He was a son of the Vladimir Grand Prince Yaroslav, grandson of Vsevolod the Big Nest (so nicknamed because he had 14 children) and great-grandson of Yuri Dolgoruky, the founder of Moscow.

There isn’t a Mongol in that family tree, whose roots can be traced back to Sweden. Then why depict Alexander as a Mongol chieftain?

That could have been a piece of satire, a sort of posthumous rebuke for Alexander’s role as an early prototype of Quisling with an extra violent dimension. The message could have been that, while technically of Rus’ origin, Alexander was a Mongol at heart.

Yet this message is defeated by its medium. An icon is a vehicle for veneration, not criticism. By the time that icon was painted, Alexander had been canonised for about 100 years. Thus the icon depicted St Alexander Nevsky, not the savage debt collector in the service of Khan Batu.

Why then? I don’t know, and none of my guesses sounds convincing. In fact, I’m writing this piece in the hope that an expert will read it and poopoo my ignorance. As a supposedly educated man, he’d say, you should know that… Alas, I can’t complete this sentence.