The Birth and Death of the Siberian Newspaper
Author: Andrey Filimonov
Two men shared the same passion. The first published a newspaper, the second was its editor-in-chief. Their fates took different paths. The publisher was hailed as a "Siberian enlightener," with streets, libraries, and community centers named after him. The editor vanished into thin air in the basement of the Cheka and, under Soviet rule, was considered a "counterrevolutionary" and a "Siberian separatist." Pyotr Makushin (the publisher) and Alexander Adrianov (the editor) united behind the "Sibirskaya Gazeta," the first independent media outlet in Tomsk province, whose first issue was published on the day of the tsar's assassination, March 1, 1881. The authorities immediately saw "malicious intent" in this.
“The coincidence of the publication of the first issue of the newspaper with the event of March 1st in St. Petersburg led the local gendarme colonel Alexandrov, nicknamed Smorchok (due to his unremarkable figure), to the idea of conducting a secret investigation to determine whether there had been an agreement within the editorial board to commemorate the regicide with the release of the first issue of the Siberian Newspaper…" Makushin recalled.
The terrified officials couldn't believe it was a mere coincidence, even though permission to publish the newspaper had been granted on February 5, when absolutely no one, including the gendarmerie department, suspected what would happen in St. Petersburg three weeks later. Conspiracy theories, as often happens, triumphed over common sense, and the Sibirskaya Gazeta was labeled from the very beginning as an "undesirable liberal trend." According to Hegel, bureaucracy determines the fate of citizens through its decisions. The editors of the Sibirskaya Gazeta had no choice but to follow this destiny.
"Gaps, constituting an indirect protest against censorship, are not allowed."
According to Tomsk researcher Natalia Zhilyakova, the newspaper had two censors—one evil, one kind. The kinder censor was Governor Vasily Mertsalov. Mertsalov had been a journalist in his youth and sympathized with the writers' attempts to change life through the power of the printed word. On the other hand, as an official, he was supposed to protect the existing order—primarily from those same writers.
The vicious censor, Vice-Governor Gilyarov, brutally slashed the proofs of the Sibirskaya Gazeta newspaper during his boss's absence and heartily detested independent journalism, believing it to be run by self-important gentlemen who had no love for their homeland or their sovereign emperor. He was, of course, right in some ways. Just one statement by Sibirskaya Gazeta editor-in-chief Alexander Adrianov is worth mentioning: "Wherever our government directs its breath, flies are sure to die there"—an obvious lack of respect and loyalty.
In general, Tomsk censors and journalists shared the same mutual antipathy as their counterparts in the capital. It's just that Tomsk's morals were a bit rougher, Siberian-style.
When Governor Mertsalov left the city in the spring of that fateful year of 1881 to inspect his property, his deputy rolled up his sleeves and armed himself with a red pencil. Gilyarov deleted almost half the articles from the 11th (May) issue of the Sibirskaya Gazeta. At that time, the newspaper employed the liberal lawyer Yevgeny Korsh, exiled from St. Petersburg and a supporter of the Narodnaya Volya revolutionaries, who helped the terrorist Vera Zasulich emigrate after her acquittal by a jury.
In his memoirs, Korsh described the “outrages” of the Tomsk censor:
"Gilyarov disliked the circular from the new Minister of Internal Affairs, Count Ignatiev; from the telegraphic version of this circular, the words were deleted, stating that 'the government will grant appropriate freedoms' to public forces to participate in the eradication of sedition; that 'the rights of the nobility, zemstvos, and urban estates will remain inviolable'; and that 'the peasants will receive possible relief from hardship, an improvement in their social structure and economic life.' Furthermore, from the official report of the court hearing on March 1, reprinted from the Government Herald, in the testimony of the defendant Zhelyabov, Gilyarov deleted the words: 'I was among the people for a long time, worked peacefully, but was forced to abandon this activity for the reason stated by the defendant Kibalchich.' The description of the execution of the convicted, taken from the newspaper 'Order,' was also cut."
The censor himself explained his actions by saying that he, as a representative of the authorities, knew better than the newspapermen what the “local press” was for:
"...I may have been a strict censor-governor, but I acted out of duty, conscience, and the utmost discretion. And my discretion leads me to the conclusion that newspapers and rags that contain much empty liberalism and little true patriotism, like snakes and serpents, hiss but will not sting unless they are firmly restrained in time or completely destroyed. The local press is useful when it truthfully presents local customs, points out the best in Russia that is not yet found in Siberia, and does not prattle on about the harm of educational inspectors, about global tasks, and general reorganization."
In response, the editors of the Sibirskaya Gazeta newspaper did something that would later become part of the canon of Russian censorship history. They prepared an issue with "gaps" where articles had been deleted. The reader was given a clear indication of how much text had been removed. This technique made censorship a blatant and visible fact. But even this version of issue No. 11 never reached readers. Gilyarov "refused to issue a ticket for the newspaper in this form." Not only were materials deemed "unacceptable" banned, but even the mere demonstration of the fact that materials had been removed was prohibited. The editors telegraphed the Minister of Internal Affairs and received the reply: "'gaps,' constituting an indirect protest against censorship, are not permitted." The absence of text, as a sign of censorship interference, could alarm readers with the mere hint of something unauthorized. According to the principles of the Russian bureaucracy, informing the public about the operation of the censorship mechanism was prohibited.
The staff of the Sibirskaya Gazeta newspaper posted the response received from St. Petersburg on the streets of Tomsk as leaflets, informing citizens that censorship prohibited even blank spaces where text should be banned. Thanks to this campaign, the new newspaper was immediately remembered and loved by readers. Despite the virtual demise of issue No. 11, the number of subscribers to Makushin's publication grew, and by the middle of its first year, SG had surpassed a thousand. This was excellent news for Makushin. He wasn't some abstract enlightener of the "masses," as he had been portrayed in Soviet times, when it was unacceptable to talk about money. Pyotr Makushin was a businessman, which he conducted in much the same way as his contemporaries in the West—a liberal media magnate. Joseph Pulitzer in the US or Leopold Sonnemann In Germany, Makushin built up his holding company brick by brick, striving to expand his client base as much as possible.
"If you were a typical Tomsk employee of that time, you'd start your day with Makushin's Siberian Life newspaper, from which you'd learn, among other things, about new books at Makushin's bookstore (in the absence of video, this was the only media entertainment). Your children would likely attend an elementary school built with Makushin's fundraising and equipped with equipment from Makushin's retail chain. Incidentally, your children's school supplies and your writing materials for work would likely also come from Makushin's stores. And on weekends, you could also go to the People's House (where the theater was located)—naturally, also from Makushin." — this is the image of Pyotr Makushin’s publishing “empire” draws publication "Siberia.Realities".
The business began with a library. In 1870, Makushin opened the first private public library in his home in Tomsk. He ordered books from Moscow and St. Petersburg for 300 rubles on an installment plan, and introduced a subscription fee of 10 kopecks per month. Within six months, he had 73 subscribers, and within a year, over a hundred, and the library began to pay for itself.
The next step was opening a bookstore. Makushin borrowed 5 rubles from merchant Pyotr Mikhailov, traveled to Moscow to stock his books, and on February 19, 1873, opened the "Mikhailov and Makushin" store, considered the first bookstore in Siberia. Moscow publishers offered the Siberian bookseller a wholesale discount of 20-30%; in Tomsk, the books were sold at roughly Moscow and St. Petersburg prices, including shipping costs. The first batch sold out within four months; on his next trip to Moscow, sales increased exponentially thanks to a loan from the publishers.
The third step was to launch their own newspaper, which became the "backbone of the empire." Advertising in the Sibirskaya Gazeta increased the number of customers at the bookstore where the Sibirskaya Gazeta was sold. The printing house increased production and also printed tickets, labels, notebooks, and textbooks for schools, where new readers and buyers were growing up. Education is a business, and Makushin was the first Siberian to implement an educational business model.
In the mid-1880s, his newspaper experienced a boom. It employed some of Siberia's finest writers, as well as exiled intellectual journalists such as Felix Volkhovsky, Dmitry Klements, and Alexander Kropotkin (brother of the famous anarchist). Writers Korolenko, Stanyukovich, and Uspensky also appeared on SG's pages. The newspaper published essays and reviews, as well as articles on the history, ethnography, and economics of Siberia. Issue after issue, discussions centered on the abolition of criminal exile to Siberia, the zemstvo system in Siberia, and the resettlement issue. The Trans-Siberian Railway project was also examined and criticized. Expressing the opinion of his senior regional comrades, Alexander Adrianov wrote that Siberia needed not a highway from west to east, but a network of latitudinal roads from south to north. All of this greatly irritated the authorities. Tomsk Governor Krasovsky demanded that the Sibirskaya Gazeta maintain a "balance of positive and negative publications," to which Adrianov responded with a rather arrogant refusal: "Our newspaper is fundamentally oppositional... [By agreeing to your terms] we would mislead the average person." The governor complained to St. Petersburg, and in 1888 the newspaper was closed. Formally, this was a "suspension" of operations; the editorial staff had already received similar administrative penalties of eight and four months twice in its short history. But this time, things turned out to be serious. The editorial staff received no official invitation to the "event of the century"—the grand opening of Tomsk University on July 22—and the staff who showed up at the celebration without permission were asked to leave.
"The final, fatal blow to the Sibirskaya Gazeta was dealt by the trustee of the educational district, V. M. Florinsky, who declared to the Minister of Internal Affairs that, with the existence of the Sibirskaya Gazeta, he could not vouch for the peace of the students at the university being opened in Tomsk." — Makushin recalled.
A few days after the university's opening, the editorial board was notified of the newspaper's suspension. But even the "strictest of precautionary measures—suspension of the newspaper for eight months—satisfied neither the Police Department nor the Ministry of Education. In January 1889, the police again petitioned to ban the Tomsk publication, and on January 24, a council of three ministers, "having discussed the general direction of the Sibirskaya Gazeta published in Tomsk and finding it unequivocally harmful, decided to cease publication of this newspaper altogether."
Thus, the first private media outlet in Tomsk was closed, after existing for eight years and during this time becoming an important factor in Siberia's regional identity.
The fate of a commoner or the grey cardinal of regionalism
Alexander Adrianov came from a priest's family, just like Nikolai Chernyshevsky and other commoners who shook the foundations of autocracy in the second half of the 19th century.
After graduating from the Tobolsk gymnasium, Adrianov entered the University of St. Petersburg, where he studied on an imperial scholarship.
During his student years, he became involved with regional activists and, through Nikolai Yadrintsev, met Grigory Potanin, who hired him as a photographer on an ethnographic expedition to Mongolia. However, Adrianov's future as an ethnographer and archaeologist never materialized. Journalism attracted him more than science. By his own admission, he always felt "pathologically dependent on newspaper publishing and public statements." Shortly before his execution, during interrogation by the Cheka, Adrianov articulated his position: "I consider newspaper work a method of political struggle."
The most difficult and protracted battle of his life was the struggle with censorship. Adrianov denounced the official with the red pencil with contemptuous epithets like "our censor Petukhov—a perpetually drunken, depraved animal." First in Irkutsk, where he edited the newspaper "Sibir," then in Tomsk, where he was invited by Pyotr Makushin, Adrianov fought for freedom of speech and the press, causing scandals and ruining relations with all the tsar's officials, from the governor to the police chief. He was even uncompromising on this issue with his colleagues. In one of his letters to Potanin, he complains about Makushin, who feared that Adrianov's sharp pen would lead to the newspaper's closure: "They find fault with every harsh phrase, demand that one word or expression be replaced with another, etc. My Siberian review has been plucked pretty badly by domestic censorship, but... (look, this is dirty linen in public—a secret, between us) things will get better..."
However, things didn't improve. After the closure of the Sibirskaya Gazeta, Adrianov was forced to leave Tomsk, as he was under secret police surveillance, and move to the Yenisei province, where he managed to get a job as an "excise official." At the same time, Alexander Vasilyevich continued to work in archeology (excavating burial mounds) and journalism (his first wrote about the Tunguska meteorite right on the day of its fall—true, he mixed up almost everything and even indicated the fall site a couple of thousand kilometers to the south, but in the newspaper business, only one thing matters—being first):
"The train, approaching the siding when the meteorite fell, was so startled by the unusual roar that the engineer stopped it, and the public rushed to the site of the distant wanderer's fall. But they were unable to examine the meteorite closely, as it was still red-hot. Later, when it had cooled, various people from the siding and engineers passing along the road examined it, and they probably dug around it. According to these people, the meteorite had almost entirely sunk into the ground—only its tip remains; it is a whitish mass of stone, estimated to be about 6 cubic fathoms in size. This is the news conveyed to me, which, as they say, I give back what I bought it for." A. V. Adrianov. "An Alien from Celestial Space." Siberian Life, Sunday, June 29 (July 12), 1908.
Soon, Adrianov, at Makushin's invitation, would head the newspaper's social affairs section. And in 1913, he would become embroiled in another scandal, publishing an article about a workers' strike at the office of the Siberian oligarch Alexander Vtorov. The article was deemed slander and socialist propaganda, and Adrianov was exiled to Minusinsk, where he incited the local intelligentsia to publish the opposition newspaper "Minusinsky Krai." For this, he would be exiled even further, to the village of Ermakovskoye, where there was neither intelligentsia nor opposition. Adrianov "passed time" in exile until the February Revolution of 1917, which freed him along with other prisoners of conscience.
Returning to his post as editor of Sibirskaya Zhizn, Adrianov feels no gratitude toward the new government and criticizes it harshly: "We truly live under the sign of all sorts of 'freedoms'—freedom to commit murder... freedom to lie... freedom to commit lawlessness... to arrest whomever we please." For this, "progressive forces" organize a boycott of Sibirskaya Zhizn in Tomsk, to which Adrianov responds in his uncompromising manner: "A boycott of Sibirskaya Zhizn is empty words! Only violence... can end the newspaper's existence."
And violence wasn't long in coming. The Bolsheviks closed Sibirskaya Zhizn in January 1918 after Adrianov refused to "approve publications," i.e., accept the terms of the Red censorship. But a few months later, rebellious Czechoslovaks overthrew the Soviet regime, and in the summer of 1918, Adrianov returned to politics—he was once again editor-in-chief and also a deputy in the Siberian Duma, one of the leaders of the regionalist faction (he was known as the "grey cardinal of regionalism," managing the faction on behalf of the aging and ailing Potanin). In his new capacity, Adrianov came into conflict with the Provisional Siberian Government. At the last meeting of the Siberian Duma in November 1918, he protested the actions of Nikolai Avksentyev, chairman of the Provisional All-Russian Government, who had arrived in Tomsk specifically to dissolve the Duma. When the Duma deputies rise in unison with cries of "Long live Avksentyev!", Adrianov demonstratively sits down and doesn't rise until the Prime Minister leaves the chamber. Adrianov's biography as a professional oppositionist is simply perfect: there isn't a single political regime with which he hasn't fallen out. Because all regimes demand (or expect) loyalty from his newspaper, and he remains true to the ideal of free speech.
The denouement comes with Kolchak's collapse in December 1919. A week before the second coming of Soviet power, Adrianov bequeaths his ethnographic collection to Tomsk University, explaining this by the threat of physical violence: "considering... the alarming state... the possibility of any excesses... property... and life itself may be damaged."
In his diary, he describes the last working day of Sibirskaya Zhizn: “Despite the protests of my family, despite their demands not to leave the house, I went to the editorial office at about 10 a.m.… I didn’t find any of the staff there, but it immediately became clear that the issue had to be published. I sent a note to P. A. Rybkin inviting him to the editorial office to perform his duties, sent an invitation to I. A. Ivanov as well, and then submitted what was ready to the typesetting office… Around five o’clock in the evening, our meeting was held in a very incomplete composition; only seven people showed up, i.e., less than half. By six o’clock the meeting was over, having decided to temporarily cease publication of Sib. Zhizn since it was impossible to continue it under the current conditions… My family was happy about my arrival, and even more so because I would no longer be going to the editorial office…”
On December 20, 1919, Adrianov was arrested two days after the publication of the last issue. In March 1920, Znamya Revolyutsii published a death list, with the rebellious editor's name at the top.
How the Soviet government recognized Makushin as a millionaire
Pyotr Makushin's post-October fate may seem benign only in light of the tragic fate of Alexander Adrianov. In the autumn of 1919, shortly before his death, Supreme Ruler Kolchak awarded Makushin the title of Honorary Citizen of Siberia "in recognition of his long-standing public activity and the exceptional services he rendered to the people of Siberia in the field of education." Just a few months later, this title acquired the character of an "aggravating circumstance" after Soviet power was established in Siberia. In the spring of 1920, Makushin's stores were nationalized. Pyotr Ivanovich himself was arrested in Irkutsk but soon released. He wrote: "I perceived the communist movement as an attack on the foundations of the social order, leading the state to impoverishment and destruction." In the summer of 1920, he returned to Tomsk, where he was given a list of the property confiscated from him: a store, a library, a printing house, a house, and warehouses. The Soviet government values Makushin's assets at "a million rubles." Meanwhile, the "millionaire" lives in poverty. As a favor, he is offered a job at Sibgosizdat, a creation of his own bookstore chain. The former owner is required to supply the stores with "proletarian books." Makushin agrees; he has no choice.
In 1924, he wrote a statement to the Siberian Revolutionary Committee, calling October a "coup d'état" that "stopped the implementation of all his projects" and asking for the revival of the People's University with the addition of a "people's conservatory." He died a year and a half later, without receiving a response. In his will, he ordered the installation of an unusual monument on his grave: an electric light bulb crowning a vertical railroad track. In Makushin's time, both were considered symbols of progress.
The educator's grave is located in the courtyard of the People's House (known as the "House of Science" during the Soviet era). The tombstone bears the inscription: "Not a single illiterate person."
