Metropolitan Isidor

Born Iakov Sergeevich Nikolʹskii on October 1, 1799, the future metropolitan was the son of a humble village deacon in Tula province (and thus, like most bishops, from the hereditary clerical estate in central Russia).Footnote ¹² His father’s early death subjected the son (in his words) to “the unenviable fate of the rural clergy’s orphans—the full burden of poverty.”Footnote ¹³ That childhood inspired exceptional philanthropy, including an almshouse for poor clergy and a diocesan girls’ school.Footnote ¹⁴ His seminary record earned a scholarship to the St. Petersburg Ecclesiastical Academy (a tertiary educational institution), where he took monastic vows, earned a master’s degree (1826), taught hermeneutics, and contributed to the Church’s first “thick” journal.Footnote ¹⁵ But he soon embarked on the peripatetic career typical of upwardly-bound bishops: seminary rector in Orel (1829), then consecration as suffragan bishop of Dmitrov diocese (1834), under Metropolitan Filaret (Drozdov) of Moscow. His subsequent career took him around the empire: Polotsk (1837), Mogilev (1840), Georgia (1844), Kiev (1858), and finally St. Petersburg and Novgorod (1860), where he remained until his death in 1892. Isidor proudly (and repeatedly) calculated his long service, down to the number of days: “I received holy orders 67 years, 7 months, and 8 days ago; I was tonsured 67 years, 6 months, and 15 days ago.”Footnote ¹⁶ The borderlands made him hypersensitive to ethno-confessional problems and the need for good relations with local officials.Footnote ¹⁷

By the time Isidor became Synodal chairman in 1860, the Church was embarking on its own “Great Reforms.” From an initial focus on the clergy’s material condition, reform broadened to include the seminary, parish, church schools, hereditary estate, and ecclesiastical courts.Footnote ¹⁸ The growing agenda made him anxious: “An alarming time is upon us: the spirit of reform has seized everybody, so that much has changed in the tranquil domain of the Church.”Footnote ¹⁹ Isidor was uneasy about an 1869 statute on merging parishes (to increase parishioners—and hence income—for local clergy), fearing that it would deprive parishioners of a nearby church and incite “hatred of the clergy” (as the purported beneficiaries).Footnote ²⁰ The mergers would also require the priest to serve more parishioners (in rural areas, often scattered across immense territories).Footnote ²¹ Isidor did not just fume in private: he ordered his consistory to reject any merger where parishioners objected.Footnote ²² By the time Pobedonostsev became chief procurator in April 1880, Isidor was well disposed to annul the unpopular scheme for parish mergers.Footnote ²³

Despite his advanced age (80 at the time of Pobedonostsev’s appointment), Isidor had a keen mind and dominated the Synod. As a well-placed observer put it: “With one word he could slow or completely derail any proposal.”Footnote ²⁴ Pobedonostsev concurred: “The metropolitan of St. Petersburg, as presiding member in the Synod, has a voice that is almost always decisive and has great significance for the entire Russian Church. Depending on his frame of mind and character, he can either stall things or move them in the desired direction; he can be objective or biased toward requests and petitions, either stubborn and narrow-minded, or open to reasonable ideas and advice.”Footnote ²⁵ Isidor recorded his activities in 71 notebooks (from March 1, 1881 to his death on September 7, 1892), with a total of 840 double-sided folios (1,680 manuscript pages).Footnote ²⁶ The entries are regular but sometimes omit specifics: “The chief procurator today submitted a letter on an important matter; further disposition of this matter will depend on the will of God”—but neither then nor later did Isidor reveal the substance of that “important matter.”Footnote ²⁷ In one case he declined to reveal why Bishop Nestor (Zass) implored the Synod to recall him from his American diocese: “The secret motive is known only to Metropolitan I[sidor],” referring to himself in the third person. Subsequent events may explain the reticence: soon afterwards Nestor fell overboard from a steamship (in calm weather) and drowned, causing the Russian consul to report that the bishop had been “acting strangely” and probably had “a mental breakdown.”Footnote ²⁸

The diaries focus on Church affairs and reveal little about his personal life or thoughts. Indeed, the title “diary” came from the archivist, not Isidor. Nor do the notebooks resemble the commercial diaries then in vogue (bound volumes with dates, spaces for text, and a lock for privacy). Instead, Isidor used plain yellow paper, entered dates himself (usually with a note about the weather and his pulse), and then wrote as much—or as little—as time and mood dictated. The diary was essentially his work log. The Synodal archivist categorized the folios as a “diary”: in the late nineteenth century an elastic term for various genres, from introspective ego-documents to gossipy political chronicles.Footnote ²⁹ In the latter case (as in Isidor’s diary), the goal was to record what was unreported in official documents and misreported in the press (duly flagged in the diary).Footnote ³⁰ Isidor’s “diary” was an ecclesiastical counterpart to those of officials like Petr Valuev and Dmitrii Miliutin. Isidor also included political rumors, which he heard as a frequent guest at elite social events and as a host at his quarters in Aleksandr Nevskii Monastery.Footnote ³¹ But the diary is mainly about Isidor’s role as chairman of the Synod.

As the diary shows, the chairman’s main focus was personnel, not policy—as he labored to fill an endless stream of vacancies. A few openings appeared in newly created dioceses and vicarships, but most were due to the constant turnover of elderly prelates—through disability, dementia, and death.Footnote ³² During his 32 years chairing the Synod, Isidor presided over countless transfers and the consecration of 138 new prelates, reflecting the massive turnover in the episcopate. Isidor indeed regarded staffing a top priority.Footnote ³³ Revealingly, in September 1883 he listed five “major questions”: two appointments (a diocesan bishop and academy rector), along with three critical institutional problems—academy reform, church finances, and parish schools.Footnote ³⁴

Staffing the Episcopate: Complex Negotiations

The critical question is how those staffing decisions were made. Many historians, even those inclined to qualify his “omnipotence,” claim that Pobedonostsev used transfers to intimidate and control bishops. Pobedonostsev himself would be the first to deny such power: “Juridically I have no power to issue orders in the Church and its domain,” and instead must “take everything to the Synod.”Footnote ³⁵ He complained that enemies exaggerated his power, simply to make him the “scapegoat” for unpopular policy.Footnote ³⁶

Isidor, having seen six chief procurators come and go, was well prepared to deal with Pobedonostsev. He also had a critical advantage: excellent relations with Alexander III, which he was careful to cultivate. With good effect: the emperor routinely signed Synodal resolutions and did not meddle in Church affairs, the sole exception being the appointment of metropolitans for St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Kiev. When, for example, the Synod was considering candidates for metropolitan of Kiev, and Pobedonostsev sent word that the emperor favored Platon [Gorodetskii] of Kherson, Isidor’s response was unequivocal: “So, of course, it shall be.”Footnote ³⁷ For his part, Alexander expressed deep respect for Isidor, especially his liturgical skills. In 1891 the diary boasted that Alexander—asked to identify something truly remarkable in St. Petersburg—named “the metropolitan of St. Petersburg: Who would think that a 92-year old man could perform [the liturgy] the way he did today?”Footnote ³⁸

Interaction with Pobedonostsev was more frequent and more complicated.Footnote ³⁹ In contrast to the previous procurator (D.A. Tolstoi, who did not even appear at the Synodal chancellery), Pobedonostsev was eager to tackle the Church’s problems.Footnote ⁴⁰ But he quickly discovered that bishops were ill disposed to do his bidding. Asked to intercede in one diocese, Pobedonostsev could only shrug: “These matters are very difficult—they do not depend on me. All that I can do is write the bishop, but the bishops vary in their character—sometimes, they are quite inconsiderate. That is our misfortune, and the Orel prelate is precisely such a type.”Footnote ⁴¹ The procurator’s seeming diffidence led one disillusioned supporter to complain that Pobedonostsev was long on rhetoric but short on deeds: “Pobedonostsev moans and groans about die Schlechtigkeit der Zeiten, but does nothing.”Footnote ⁴²

In fact, he tried, but ran into a wall of resistance from bishops. Despite his energetic defense of Church interests (and extraordinary success in securing state funds for parish schools and clergy), Isidor and his colleagues spurned Pobedonostsev’s prescriptions for “counter-reform.”Footnote ⁴³ The procurator in turn concluded that bishops were not part of the solution, but part of the problem: these very prelates had collaborated in the reforms, and hence “to correct this matter, one has to wage battle with the same bishops.”Footnote ⁴⁴ The first major clash came quickly, when the newly-appointed procurator circulated an anonymous proposal to ordain “less expensive,” but less educated candidates as parish priest. The bishops, aghast at lowering the priest’s educational profile and ordaining “simple” commoners without any ecclesiastical schooling, subjected the proposal to scathing criticism. They were unanimous in rejecting the proposed scheme.Footnote ⁴⁵ Later, Pobedonostsev sought to abolish diocesan congresses of clergy (as “unnecessary, pointless, even pernicious”), but again met with resounding defeat.Footnote ⁴⁶ Indeed, when the bishops did act to “fix” the Great Reforms, they did so as a special conclave of 21 bishops—and in Pobedonostsev’s absence.Footnote ⁴⁷ His early initiatives, in short, did not win friends in the episcopate; within a year of his appointment, a well-connected conservative observed that “on ne l’aime pas parmi le clergé” (he is not liked among the clergy).Footnote ⁴⁸

A frustrated Pobedonostsev repaid the disdain and even attributed the Church’s problems to “the indifference and passivity of bishops.”Footnote ⁴⁹ He did not spare Isidor, whom he accused of “bureaucratic indifference” and a lack of interest in “anything beyond the realm of routine Synodal business.”Footnote ⁵⁰ That dour opinion did not improve. One year on the job, he fumed: “But my great concern from morning to night, and from night to morning, is the cause of the Church. I stand on a mountain, from where incredible inveiglement, vice, and disorder are to be seen.” He accused diocesan bishops of concealing kinsmen’s misdeeds and castigated “the indifference and formalism in the Synod.”Footnote ⁵¹ In time Pobedonostsev attributed the bishop’s inactivity “to a certain hidebound mentality and to the sloth generally characteristic of the Slavic nature.”Footnote ⁵² The bishops’ annual diocesan reports (otchety) provoked his wrath: while reading one report (where the bishop praised subordinates and defended priests against accusations of extorting larger fees for sacraments), Pobedonostsev decorated the pages with furious marginalia: “rubbish” (vzdor) and “lies” (vranʹe). Footnote ⁵³ Despite his advanced age and declining health, Pobedonostsev undertook provincial tours to inspect diocesan administration and seminaries first-hand.Footnote ⁵⁴

Given Pobedonostsev’s disdain for the episcopate, personnel decisions were a priority in his interaction with Isidor. But the modus operandi was a collaboration that Isidor aptly called “consultation” (soveshchanie) about appointments.Footnote ⁵⁵ Especially sensitive was the choice of bishops to serve in the Synod, a matter of direct concern to Isidor as chairman. The metropolitan normally relied on tactful procrastination; as one observer put it, “his manner of waiting to act was useful and effective.”Footnote ⁵⁶ Sometimes, however, Isidor did not mince words, dismissing one Pobedonostsev nominee as “undesirable because of his wily character.”Footnote ⁵⁷ Isidor was generally diplomatic, but not more complaisant. In 1886, for example, when Pobedonostsev recommended the bishop of Kursk, Isidor politely countered that it would be more “useful” to summon the current prelate in Warsaw or Pskov.Footnote ⁵⁸ Isidor prevailed, as usual, and avoided the acrimony that poisoned relations between Pobedonostsev and some bishops, notably Metropolitan Platon (Gorodetskii) of Kiev.Footnote ⁵⁹ The good working relationship notwithstanding, Isidor appeared to relish rumors that “the Sovereign has cooled toward Pobedonostsev” and that Pobedonostsev’s political star had begun to fall.Footnote ⁶⁰ In September 1883, for example, Isidor wrote that “the position of the chief procurator has become shaky,” adding that Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolaevich urged the emperor to dismiss Pobedonostsev.Footnote ⁶¹ The diary also reported rumors of Pobedonostsev’s impending transfer to the Ministry of Justice or Education, with no expression of regret or concern.Footnote ⁶² The procurator’s departure seemed still more likely because of the campaign—closely associated with Pobedonostsev—against Lutheran pastors in the Baltics.Footnote ⁶³ The prosecution (and numerous exiles) ignited a political firestorm at home: “All the liberal aristocrats strongly condemn him [Pobedonostsev],” with the result that “his position has become difficult.”Footnote ⁶⁴ Despite any Schadenfreude, Isidor cultivated cordial relations with the chief procurator and his wife (whom he regularly received)—in accord with Isidor’s codex about the importance of good working relations with state officials.Footnote ⁶⁵

In short, Pobedonostsev did not “rule the Church” and order mass transfers of bishops to enhance his own power. He doubtless wanted to do so, but ran into fierce opposition from the episcopate that would erupt into a full-scale fronde in 1905. That, in fact, provides the answer to a question posed by a proponent of the “omnipotence” (vsesilie) thesis: “why, during 25 years of ruling the ecclesiastical domain, did the chief procurator do nothing to change a situation” where the “bishops are so bad.”Footnote ⁶⁶ The abundant episcopal complaints about Pobedonostsev attest not to his power but to the emerging rebellion in the Church. There was indeed a major staffing turnover, but the real dynamic was demography, not the chief procurator.

Organizational Demography

“Aging,” the increase in population over age sixty, is a central demographic in developed countries.Footnote ⁶⁷ In England, for example, between 1841 and 1901 male life expectancy rose from 39 to 51 (a 30.8 percent increase).Footnote ⁶⁸ Paired with a decline in birth rate, rising longevity meant a larger proportion of elderly and those outside the workforce and needing support.Footnote ⁶⁹ By the early twentieth century several countries had already established state pension systems for elderly dependents: Germany (1889), Belgium (1900), England (1908), France (1910), and Sweden (1913).Footnote ⁷⁰

Aging also reshaped the demographic profile of Russia: male life expectancy rose from 25.8 (1840s) to 33.5 (1910s), a 29.8 percent increase.Footnote ⁷¹ Life expectancy was below west European levels, but males over 60 constituted 6.8 percent of the population in 1897. Footnote ⁷² That was only slightly below the 7.4 percent in Germany (1890).Footnote ⁷³ Significantly, aggregate figures for the entire population underrepresent the privileged, whose standard of living (from nutrition to medical care) enabled greater longevity.Footnote ⁷⁴ Even if the general population lagged behind European levels, elites did not. Among high-ranking officials, for example, in 1853–1903 the median age rose in the State Council (from 67.2 to 74.7) and Senate (from 56.7 to 63.9).Footnote ⁷⁵ In 1902 the army reported that the median age of generals was 69.8, with an 85-year-old general still on active duty.Footnote ⁷⁶ As early as 1827 the state established a pension system for civil and military officials, but gave little incentive to retire; the director of the State Bank, for example, received a 6,000 ruble salary but could expect only a 560 ruble pension upon retirement.Footnote ⁷⁷ Hence state pensions did little to slow the rise in the median age at senior levels.

Aging also characterized the Orthodox episcopate: in 1860–90 the mean age rose from 59.4 to 63.8, with a growing proportion over 70.Footnote ⁷⁸ Aging was top-heavy: prelates in elite dioceses were not only the highest ranking but also the oldest. That correlation was directly due to the organizational structure: prelates advanced in rank (suffragan, bishop, archbishop, and metropolitan) and diocese (from remote province to the capitals). Thus “senior” prelates were senior not only in rank but age; while choosing a new metropolitan for Kiev, Isidor noted that the main contender was “older than all the possible candidates.”Footnote ⁷⁹ Isidor himself fit this mold: he was 60 years old when he began his 32 years of service as metropolitan of St. Petersburg, and died a month before his 93^rd birthday. Most of his peers were old, and their mean age was steadily rising. When Isidor arrived in Petersburg in 1860, the mean age of metropolitans was 71.7, but that average had risen to 80.7 by 1891. Aging was also true of the Synod: during the diary years (1881–92), the median age of members rose from 67.1 to 71.3.Footnote ⁸⁰ To put this into perspective, an episcopate in its 60s or 70s was more than twice male life expectancy (26.3 percent for Orthodox males in 1874–83).Footnote ⁸¹ In short, the episcopate was old.

Indeed, really old, with the telltale signs of physical and cognitive decline. Isidor observed that “many of the current hierarchs are subject to various ailments” and proceeded to list fourteen prime examples.Footnote ⁸² The Synod received reports not only about death but infirmity and incapacitation, sometimes from a bishop seeking to explain poor governance or to justify relocation to a hospitable diocese.Footnote ⁸³ The 75-year-old archbishop of Mogilev, for example, explained that “extreme old age and sickly condition” left him incapable of “any governance.”Footnote ⁸⁴ Some bishops were positively decrepit; the bishop of Orel, wrote Isidor, “is so weak that two deacons must hold him up during church services.”Footnote ⁸⁵ A Synodal clerk who visited Orel reported that the bishop “performs services such that one has to flee the church.”Footnote ⁸⁶ Isidor received word that another bishop had suffered an “apoplectic stroke and lost the capacity to speak.”Footnote ⁸⁷ The metropolitan of Moscow had also suffered a stroke, “slurred” his words, and could no longer “speak freely.”Footnote ⁸⁸ The metropolitan of Kiev “has gone completely blind and intends to request permission to retire.”Footnote ⁸⁹ The diary also logs sad cases of dementia. The archbishop of Poltava, for example, “imagines that he is on trial,” and his suffragan confirmed that the archbishop “has had an irreversible mental breakdown.”Footnote ⁹⁰ One archbishop, convinced that he was merely an archimandrite, demanded a miter appropriate for that lower rank.Footnote ⁹¹ A few months later Isidor noted that the same prelate was now “completely senile.”Footnote ⁹² Not without reason did the Synodal archivist describe the aging episcopate as “living mummies.”Footnote ⁹³

Isidor remained intellectually sharp, but typified the physical decline. In his later years he complained of “failing eyesight (especially in the evening, when everything is blurry”).Footnote ⁹⁴ He also began to miss church services or Synod sessions because of poor health and just foul weather.Footnote ⁹⁵ A few months before his death Isidor had to forego a church service on the birthday of the imperial heir (the future Nicholas II) “because of illness.”Footnote ⁹⁶ The diary, so rich in the earlier years, reflected the decline: in his last years entries were often brief (even on staffing) and sometimes a mere note that a Synod session had dealt with “the usual matters.”Footnote ⁹⁷

Aging made it ever more difficult to perform traditional duties. This included long liturgies—a physical challenge for men in advanced years. In 1886 the diary timed one service at four hours, testing the endurance of a man in his mid-80s.Footnote ⁹⁸ Despite robust health, Isidor found long services at St. Isaac’s Cathedral so exhausting that sometimes he “could barely stand up” at the end of a liturgy.Footnote ⁹⁹

The bishop not only had to perform liturgies but to govern a diocese.Footnote ¹⁰⁰ With the assistance of a consistory (normally, a committee with a ranking local monastic and several priests), the bishop dealt with a modest range of tasks before mid-century, but that workload grew relentlessly from the 1860s.Footnote ¹⁰¹ One factor was sheer growth of the Orthodox population: from 52.0 million (1860) to 69.4 million (1890), a 33-percent increase. Even with the addition of a few dioceses, the median population of a diocese rose from 929,869 to 1,247,000. And a larger flock meant a larger workload. Particularly taxing were divorce cases, which were not only complicated but rapidly increasing, from 80 to 936 (1860–1890).Footnote ¹⁰² Another onerous task was the annual visitation to inspect churches, interview clergy, and meet parishioners. These expeditions, lasting one to two months, sufficed only to visit a fraction of the diocese. The bishop of Samara, for example, traveled 462 miles but visited just 52 churches (8 percent of the diocese).Footnote ¹⁰³ In a plea for relocation, the bishop of Orenburg explicitly cited the hardship of visitations, and recommended choosing a successor who is “healthy and capable of the journeys in the diocese.”Footnote ¹⁰⁴

That workload increased enormously after mid-century because of an ever-growing list of responsibilities. Some involved the “inner mission” to defend and to proselytize the faith, now a top priority of the Church (with the relevant section of the chief procurator’s annual report growing from 6 to 38 percent).Footnote ¹⁰⁵ The Synod called on the bishop to supervise diocesan missionaries, establish missionary organizations, and mobilize parish clergy.Footnote ¹⁰⁶ The bishop was also to expand the Church’s social and educational role.Footnote ¹⁰⁷ That included parish trusteeships (popechitelʹstvo), which were not only to support the local church and clergy but to establish almshouses and clinics. The bishop also was to oversee the new network of parish schools, which—with state funding—increased from 4,213 to 31,835 in a single decade (1884–94). The bishop was also to encourage parish libraries, organize famine relief, combat alcoholism, manage the diocesan gazette, and support the local church historical society.Footnote ¹⁰⁸ A summary table, compiled to celebrate changes during the reign of Alexander III, concisely shows the immense increase in activities for which the bishops were now responsible.Footnote ¹⁰⁹ The expanding workload meant expanding paperwork: the sheer volume of diocesan documentation doubled in the post-reform period.Footnote ¹¹⁰ The paperwork explosion was true of the Synod.Footnote ¹¹¹

The workload increased, but not administrative support. The Synod did add a few dioceses (carving unwieldy, large territories into smaller units) and increased the number of suffragan bishops, but otherwise the bishop had to contend with a mind-boggling multitude of duties and paperwork.Footnote ¹¹² Complaints about inadequate funding and staffing circulated before the Great Reforms—that is, before the massive increase in diocesan tasks.Footnote ¹¹³ In 1869 the state adopted a modest consistory budget but did not make subsequent increases, despite the rising workload and inflation.Footnote ¹¹⁴ Bishops resorted to diocesan levies on parishes, but encountered growing resistance.Footnote ¹¹⁵ As a result, the understaffed diocesan administration was unable to keep pace with the influx of new files and inevitably amassed a backlog of unfinished cases. An inspection of Voronezh diocese in 1881, for example, reported 2,529 unfinished files, some dating back ten to twenty years.Footnote ¹¹⁶ The breakdown of diocesan governance generated multiple committees but no solutions.Footnote ¹¹⁷ In short, the bishops were increasingly over-aged and overtasked. Filling vacancies was an urgent preoccupation, and Isidor’s diary shows why this task became increasingly difficult.

The Staffing Conundrum: Retiring, Replacing, and Recruiting

Even when a bishop was manifestly unfit, the Church had no provision for mandatory retirement and support. In practice, Isidor could only cajole a prelate to resign, offering residence in a comfortable monastery and allowance (up to 1,500 rubles per year).Footnote ¹¹⁸ That allowance, while equal to the salary at a poor diocese, did not include the “local revenues” that constituted the bulk of a bishop’s income.Footnote ¹¹⁹ The monastery assignment could also prove contentious if the retiree insisted on a particular cloister and the host resisted.Footnote ¹²⁰ As a result, the Church faced its own “social security” crisis: a population of aging bishops with no system for retirement and support.Footnote ¹²¹ Lack of pensions encouraged bishops to accumulate personal savings—in one spectacular case, 200,000 rubles.Footnote ¹²² Disposition of the bishops’ personal savings became controversial, especially after Metropolitan Platon of Kiev—who had amassed 160,000 rubles—allocated only 10,000 rubles to Kiev-Pecherskii Monastery and designated his kin to receive the rest.Footnote ¹²³ In response Metropolitan Leontii of Moscow proposed that “the capital left by a prelate be given to the Church.”Footnote ¹²⁴

Once retirement or death created a vacancy, the first task was to identify a replacement, but that was neither easy nor swift. One factor was the decision-making process, which was complex and multilateral—bearing no resemblance to the stereotype of an “all-powerful procurator” in traditional historiography. The key actors were Isidor and Pobedonostsev: either side might make an initial recommendation, but that usually led to counter-proposals and negotiations before the two parties came to agreement. Even if the two sides reached immediate agreement, that was only the first step: appointment still required the consent of multiple stakeholders.Footnote ¹²⁵ Formally, the emperor himself had the prerogative of choosing a candidate, but did so only in the case of metropolitans. Diocesan bishops also played a role in choosing a suffragan bishop to serve under them.Footnote ¹²⁶ A ranking prelate might also intercede for a local suffragan bishop or seminary rector. Bishops sometimes volunteered their own candidacy, particularly if ill health required a milder clime.Footnote ¹²⁷ Self-nominations, however, were not particularly welcome: when two prelates sought promotion to a better diocese, Isidor dismissed one proposal as “puerile” and the other as “utterly insane.”Footnote ¹²⁸

Pobedonostsev displayed uncharacteristic tact in these negotiations and avoided the abrasive modus operandi for which he was so infamous (and so unpopular). Recognizing his limited authority, he offered humble suggestions (“Is it not possible to …”), and Isidor duly noted that Pobedonostsev sought “to recommend” a candidate.Footnote ¹²⁹ The tactful procurator sometimes acted through a third party; in 1882, for example, Isidor learned that Pobedonostsev had “asked Archbishop Leontii [Lebedev] to discuss with me, whether I would agree” to reconsider a recent staffing decision (in this case, he agreed).Footnote ¹³⁰ Pobedonostsev also risked playing the “imperial card,” claiming that the emperor preferred a particular candidate. In one case, Pobedonostsev lobbied for a candidate as the emperor’s choice. Isidor was not fooled: “The initiative obviously lies not with the Sovereign, but the chief procurator.”Footnote ¹³¹ The legerdemain worked, but was only plausible for elite appointments. Otherwise, Pobedonostsev had to reach a consensus with Isidor, followed by an attempt to gain the approval of interested parties. Such was the process involving a single appointment.

In most cases, however, the scenario was infinitely more complicated: the process involved not one, but multiple appointments (with B replacing A, C replacing B, D replacing C, and so forth). Serial appointments became a nightmarish game of musical chairs: “The Synod has completed the choice of the bishop in Kursk. It has appointed Bishop Iustin [of Podolʹsk] to Kursk; Bishop Donat of Riga to Podolʹsk; Bishop Arsenii of Ladoga to Riga.”Footnote ¹³² On another occasion the Synod agreed to “transfer the bishop of Astrakhan to Stavropolʹ, the bishop of Saratov to Astrakhan, the bishop of Tobolʹsk to Saratov, the suffragan bishop of Kherson to Tobolʹsk, and the rector of the Simbirsk seminary to Smolensk (with Bishop Nestor of Smolensk retiring to Novospasskii Monastery).”Footnote ¹³³ Negotiations were protracted; rarely did the multiple parties agree quickly or submit meekly.Footnote ¹³⁴ Thus, even when the need to retire or replace was obvious, agreeing on suitable candidates was tortuous. In June 1883, as Isidor pondered another round of staffing decisions, he groused that “new troubles with episcopal appointments lie ahead.”Footnote ¹³⁵

Not only candidates but dioceses varied in desirability—as the different turnover rates show. Bishops remained longer in desirable dioceses (for example, the average tenure was 9.4 years in Tula and 9.6 years in Voronezh), but at the first opportunity fled an undesirable diocese (the average tenure in Omsk, for example, was 2.8 years).Footnote ¹³⁶ The three capital dioceses—Petersburg, Moscow, and Kiev—were the domain for senior prelates, and “senior” referred more to age than ability and achievement. In January 1882, with Kiev Metropolitan Filofei (Uspenskii) in failing health, Isidor saw no ideal successor: “Archbishop Platon [Gorodetskii] of Kherson is already old (age 80); Archbishop Dmitrii [Muretov] of Volhynia, whom Kiev would receive with jubilation, suffers from rheumatism in the legs (and the cathedral at the Kiev Lavra is cold); Archbishop Evsevii [Orlinskii] of Mogilev is also elderly.”Footnote ¹³⁷ Outside the three capitals, dioceses ranged from highly desirable to highly undesirable. Geography mattered greatly: an aging episcopate preferred the temperate climes of central Russia to the torrid south or the frigid north. Finding volunteers for the Urals and Siberia was highly problematic; as Isidor lamented, “it is difficult to find anyone fit for the harsh conditions in [Perm] diocese.”Footnote ¹³⁸ Current conditions in a diocese were also important: Kherson diocese was normally desirable, but in the 1880s a new prelate inherited two suffragans of ill repute.Footnote ¹³⁹

The ethno-confessional profile of a diocese was a significant factor: bishops had strong bonds to their home area (which they called their rodina, or homeland), mainly in central Russia.Footnote ¹⁴⁰ Predictably, few relished being sent to the turbulent borderlands.Footnote ¹⁴¹ Georgia was especially problematic: by the 1880s diocesan authorities reported nationalist demands to liberate the Georgian Church from “the domain of the Holy Synod” and to make “instruction in schools exclusively in the Georgian language.”Footnote ¹⁴² In 1883 the exarch received “death threats” and promptly requested a transfer.Footnote ¹⁴³ Danger did not pass, leaving his successor absolutely “terrified” at the prospect of returning to Tiflis.Footnote ¹⁴⁴

Economics was another factor: salaries and local assets varied enormously. In 1883, when the marshal of the nobility in Orel requested that a former bishop be returned from Nizhnii Novgorod, Isidor exclaimed: “For what sins should he be transferred from a better to a worse diocese! … What a disservice!”Footnote ¹⁴⁵ Such an assignment might even be seen, as Isidor noted, as “punishment” for some misdeed.Footnote ¹⁴⁶ At the very least, staffing was a game of unequal musical chairs, and the chairs varied enormously in size or comfort.

Nor were the candidates easily ranked, given the complex mix of criteria and credentials. Isidor valued liturgical skills and disparaged candidates known for a rushed, apathetic liturgy—as in the case of one candidate (a widowed priest who had taken monastic vows): “In everything one could see the shortcomings of having served previously in the priestly rank—haste, a clumsy blessing, monotone. He has almost never attended an episcopal service.”Footnote ¹⁴⁷ Another factor was advanced degree: virtually all candidates graduated from an academy, but few earned the master’s degree or doctorate deemed essential for a major city, especially one with a university. Isidor also valued a reputation for good relations with local officials, as in his note that the governor of Kazan cannot find “words to express appropriate praise for Archbishop Palladii [Raev].”Footnote ¹⁴⁸ The reputation among believers was also important.Footnote ¹⁴⁹ On the one hand, Isidor took note of negative popular opinion about an archbishop, who “is rude toward his flock, rarely performs services, and has not delivered a single sermon since he came to the diocese.”Footnote ¹⁵⁰ On the other hand, he was quick to note a favorable reputation: “The metropolitan of Moscow [Ioannikii (Rudnev)] is well received in Moscow.”Footnote ¹⁵¹ Consideration was also given to personal health, especially for ailing bishops needing a more favorable climate. A final factor was seniority, measured not by biological age but years in the episcopate: a younger candidate, however meritorious, could not simply leapfrog over seniors.

Dearth of Candidates

On one point Isidor and Pobedonostsev could easily agree: qualified candidates were few and far between. The main problem, indeed, was not to agree on a candidate, but to find one. Thus, when an ailing bishop asked to relocate from Iakutsk, Isidor had no easy answer: “Where can he be sent and who can replace him?”Footnote ¹⁵² Informed of a bishop’s death, Isidor declared the loss “extremely tragic,” not least because “the choice of candidates for the vacant position is very difficult.”Footnote ¹⁵³ Responding to a transfer request, Isidor found the likely replacements unworthy: “Bishop Serapion [Maevskii] of Chernigov is passive (according to the governor), and Bishop Pavel [Dobrokhotov] of Pskov is ill and does not have a good reputation.”Footnote ¹⁵⁴ Pobedonostsev shared Isidor’s perplexity. When a bishop asked for a suffragan, the chief procurator warned that Synodal approval was unlikely: “The main reason—which is quite sad—is the shortage of people for episcopal positions.”Footnote ¹⁵⁵ Pobedonostsev observed that many bishops (“exhausted from the burden of their work”) made the same request, but “where are we to find the people!”Footnote ¹⁵⁶ After two years in office Pobedonostsev exclaimed: “What a harvest, and what a dearth of people [for the task].”Footnote ¹⁵⁷ A decade later, while informing the emperor that another bishop had passed away (“a disaster has truly befallen us”), Pobedonostsev added that “death is taking first one [bishop] and then another, and there are no mature people to replace them.”Footnote ¹⁵⁸

The complaint about few qualified candidates reflected a negative assessment of the seminary and academy, especially after the reforms of 1867–69. In the judgment of conservatives, these schools—tainted by connections to the revolutionary movement—became a hotbed of secular radicalism. That was no figment of their imagination: former seminarians comprised 17 percent of the revolutionary populists in the 1870s, and Isidor’s diary follows reports of seminary unrest in the 1880s.Footnote ¹⁵⁹ The Church revised the academy and seminary charters in 1884, but that failed to stem disorders and strikes in institutions intended to produce priests and prelates.Footnote ¹⁶⁰

But the deeper cause was again demography, not politics: decline of the dukhovnoe soslovie (clerical estate), virtually the sole source of priests and prelates in pre-reform Russia.Footnote ¹⁶¹ As an estate (including not only clergy but their families), in 1870–97 the dukhovnoe soslovie decreased absolutely (from 609,000 to 501,000) and relatively (from 0.93 to 0.54 percent of the population).Footnote ¹⁶² Dismantling that estate was a principal objective of the Great Reforms, which sought to eliminate the caste’s overproduction of candidates and to recruit outsiders with a “calling” to serve. But the reforms proved “semi-effective”: they unleashed a mass exodus of clergy children, but failed to attract candidates from other estates (by 1904 less than 3 percent of the clergy came from other estates).Footnote ¹⁶³ Nor had much changed before the end of the ancien regime: in 1906–12 the clergy (0.5 percent of the population) accounted for 66.7 percent of all newly ordained priests.Footnote ¹⁶⁴ As a result, by the mid-1870s the Church encountered shortages of qualified candidates, initially in outlying dioceses, soon in central Russia as well.Footnote ¹⁶⁵ By 1903 the situation had not improved: “The majority [of seminary graduates], especially the best, are leaving the clerical estate, by entering various institutions of higher learning” (with “only 2–3, at most 5,” graduates becoming priests).Footnote ¹⁶⁶ It was a question of quality, not just quantity: in the words of one cleric, “the best seminarians are transferring to secular ranks.”Footnote ¹⁶⁷ As a result, bishops ordained candidates with a mediocre seminary record or with no seminary degree at all. Conditions varied across the empire, but the national pattern was clear: just as the educational level was rising in other social groups, it fell among for the clergy: priests with a seminary degree dropped from 87.4 percent (1880) to 63.8 percent (1904).Footnote ¹⁶⁸

The secular exodus of top-tier (pervorazriadye) seminarians, in turn, was also true of ecclesiastical academies—a prerequisite for elevation to the episcopate in pre-reform times.Footnote ¹⁶⁹ But academies also experienced a “flight” of graduates to a secular career.Footnote ¹⁷⁰ Whereas pre-reform students often took monastic vows and rose rapidly in the episcopate (as did Isidor), after mid-century graduates chose to become a parish priest or a lay career.Footnote ¹⁷¹ Thus, despite the increase in academy enrollments (from 351 to 772 in 1860–90), the academies produced fewer candidates for the episcopate.Footnote ¹⁷² That shift was also evident in advanced master’s and doctoral degrees: monastics accounted for the majority of degree recipients in pre-reform Russia, but only 5 percent in 1860–90.Footnote ¹⁷³ To fill vacancies, the Church recruited increasingly widowed priests willing to take monastic vows, and this group comprised a third of the episcopate by the 1890s and a half by 1917.Footnote ¹⁷⁴ The shift concerned Isidor, who feared that ex-priests might put family interests before those of the Church. Isidor himself was generous toward relatives, but insisted that prelates place calling above kin.Footnote ¹⁷⁵ In 1883, when a bishop (formerly a widowed priest) resisted relocation because he needed to support a son and grandchildren, Isidor was furious: “This is a pathetic argument: the bishop’s direct obligation is to serve the Church, not act as the guardian of relatives.”Footnote ¹⁷⁶

Given the dearth of candidates, the Church tended to keep the superannuated in service: the number of retired bishops dropped from 16 (1861) to 3 (1891).Footnote ¹⁷⁷ This organizational demography, however, did have a bright side: from century’s end the Church consecrated a new cohort of younger prelates, so that by 1917 the mean age of the episcopate had fallen to 55.1 (compared to 63.8 in 1890). That rejuvenated episcopate was not only younger but more political, determined to defend the Church and, in February 1917, even welcome demise of the monarchy.Footnote ¹⁷⁸

In conclusion, the key dynamic in Church politics and staffing the episcopate was not an all-powerful procurator, but organizational demography: an aging episcopate that increasingly fell prey to disease, disability, and death. Rejuvenation was problematic: the pool of potential replacements was steadily shrinking, given the political turbulence of ecclesiastical schools and mass exodus from the clerical estate. Demography was not the only dynamic; a service structure linking career advancement with geographic relocation also contributed to the high turnover rate. Thus, just as the post-reform Church sought to increase its social engagement, with an exponential increase in the workload of bishops, the Synod encountered an acute shortage of resources, human and material. It repeatedly appealed to the state for more support, but in vain. The state was happy to convene one reform commission after another, but not to fling open its purse (parish schools being the exception). To paraphrase a criticism of Pobedonostsev, the state was long on rhetoric but short on rubles. Frustration and discontent among ranking churchmen gained momentum in the post-reform period, turning into open rebellion in the final, revolutionary era that brought an end to the ancien regime.