著者

原 暉之

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

no.24, pp.p75-125, 1979

著者

大石 雅彦

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.36, pp.21-45, 1989

著者

秋月 俊幸

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.19, pp.59-95, 1974

著者

外川 継男

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.6, pp.65-87, 1962

著者

野村 政修

出版者

北海道大学

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.45, pp.305-318, 1998

著者

外川 継男

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.7, pp.105-144, 1963

著者

金 成浩

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.45, pp.263-285, 1998-03-31

著者

加藤 有子

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.57, pp.1-25, 2010

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This paper attempts to demonstrate Bruno Schulz (1892-1942)'s, a Polish writer and artist, specific view of a book as the topos integrating image and text, by discussing Schulz's illustrations in Sanatorium under the Sign of the Hourglass (1937) and the cliché-verre series titled The Idolatrous Book (1920-22, 1924). The discussions of Schulz's works have generally centered on his prose and developed separately in the fields of art and literary criticism. By focusing on the forgotten fact that he felt great interest in illustrating books, this paper reconsiders Schulz's two books in the triangular relationship between image, text, and book. The first chapter examines Schulz's 33 illustrations in his Sanatorium as elements of the book pages. Most of Schulz's illustrations are realistic visualizations of the characters' described actions and settings, with the exception of three illustrations in the stories "Edzio" and "Father's Last Escape." These three illustrations that have no literal relationships to the text depict the plots or action symbolically or structurally. Examples of the latter are the two illustrations in "Edzio." As a pair, they visually represent a metaphysical view on the "story/history [historia]" described in the text. These two integrate with the text more deeply than the others. The next chapter reconsiders The Idolatrous Book as a book consisting of only images. Particular attention is paid to the technique of cliché-verre, which is a combination of photography and engraving. If we consider that the ancient books were "engraved" on wax, clay, or stone plates, Schulz's act of creating the cliché-verre images is, in effect, an act of simultaneous writing and drawing. Schulz's two books -- Sanatorium and The Idolatrous Book -- are therefore not mere verbal or visual arts; they transcend the traditional dichotomy of words versus images. This chapter also points out reproducibility as another distinctive aspect of the cliché-verre. Schulz, as if defying this characteristic, made every set of The Idolatrous Book different. He gave each set different title pages with different images and set numbers. Moreover, each set is unbound, which makes it possible to change the order of pictures or even change the very pictures included. By accumulating only variations, Schulz erases the difference between the concepts of "original" and "copy." Each set stands alone as a unique work of art. The third chapter demonstrates that "book," as an integration of image and text, is presented in Schulz's short stories as "The Book," which is in fact fragments of illustrated journals and a stamp album. Furthermore, the narrator and his Father Jakub always drew images on paper with words -- on books or journals -- supporting the view that Schulz deemed words and images equal elements of works of art. This chapter also notes that Schulz's books -- Sanatorium, illustrated by him, and The Idolatrous Book, "The Book" in his short stories -- exhibit the characteristics of the literary concept of "liberature" proposed by Fajfer (1999) for books integrating text and all the physical elements of the book as an organically complete literary work. Overall, the discussion explains why "book" is a recurring subject of Schulz's works. A book is a space where Schulz can realize his artistic visions as an author-cum-artist, blurring the boundary between the verbal and the visual in his works.

著者

左近 幸村

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.59, pp.61-92, 2012-06-15

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В России чай стал популярным напитком с XVIII века - сначала в высшем обществе, а с конца века чай начали пить и простые люди. В то же время чай являлся весьма важным обогащающим казну продуктом: в 1887 году, например, чай принес в Россию 30% пошлинного дохода. Однако история чайной торговли в России до сих пор мало изучена. В Японии данной темой занимаются несколько современных историков, таких как К. Йосида, М. Сиотани, Т. Моринага, но их внимание сосредоточено больше на первой половине XIX века. До 1860 года город Кяхта, находящийся на русско-монгольской границе, был единственным торговым пунктом между Россией и Китаем на основе Кяхтинского договора, заключенного в 1727 году. А после 1862 года китайский чай привозили в Россию не только через Кяхту, но и через границы с европейскими странами, в особенности через Одессу. Таким образом, после 1862 года ситуация вокруг чайной торговли в России радикально изменилась. Хотя японские историки обращают внимание на чайную торговлю в Кяхте с конца XVIII века до начала XIX века, представляется, что стоит анализировать и период после 1862 года, потому что именно в этот период она стала связываться как с Китаем, так и с Индией и Цейлоном. До 1914 года существовало три пути, по которым чай привозили в Россию. Первый - это путь через Одессу или другие европейские таможни. Второй - путь через Кяхту. Но после открытия Транссибирской железной дороги Владивосток заменил Кяхту. Третий - путь через Туркестан. Первым путем привозили исключительно черный чай. Более половины импортного чая привозили вторым путем, это был китайский кирпичный чай. Импортный чай, привозимый третьим путем, был исключительно зеленым. Кирпичный и зеленый чай был очень дешевым. Эти сорта продавали по Сибири и Средней Азии. Объем импорта чая в Россию все время увеличивался с начала XIX века до 1917 года. После 1862 года объем импортного чая, который перевозили через Кяхту, увеличивался. Во второй половине 1850-х годов каждый год через Кяхту перевозили около 400 000 пудов чая. Во второй половине 1880-х годов каждый год перевозили уже около 1 200 000 пудов чая. Развитие торговли чаем через Кяхту, несмотря на появление соперника - города Одессы - можно объяснить новыми пошлинными законами российского правительства. На азиатской границе взимались более низкие таможенные сборы, чем на европейской. С 1881 до 1886 года сохранялась ценовая разница в 13-14 кредитных рублей с пуда чая. В 1887 году разница сократилась до 12 рублей, в 1899 году - до 9 рублей. В конце концов, в 1902 году разница составила 6 рублей. Развитию чайной торговли в России после 1862 года способствовали два главных фактора. Первым фактором являлась смена чайного рынка Англии с Китая на свои колонии. В 1890-е годы Россия вместо Англии стала занимать первое место по импорту чая из Китая. До этого периода кантонский чай привозили в Одессу через Лондон, потому что чай возили на английских судах. Однако в конце XIX века Англия начала покупать чай главным образом в Индии и на Цейлоне, потому что индийский и цейлонский чай был лучше и дешевле, чем китайский. Что касается черного чая, то возможно, что количество ввозимого в Россию из Индии и с Цейлона чая стало больше, чем из Китая после Русско-японской войны. Вторым фактором было развитие путей сообщения в России. Регулярные плавания российских судов из Одессы во Владивосток и обратно начались с 1880 года. Эти суда стали называть ≪Добровольным флотом≫, потому что его денежный фонд составляли добровольные пожертвования купцов из Москвы и Петербурга. Плавание занимало около 40 дней. Сначала в год было только 5 рейсов (туда и обратно), а в 1901 году было уже 23 рейса. На судах перевозили солдат, ссыльных и переселенцев на Дальний Восток, а в Одессу перевозили чай. Суда заходили в китайский город Ханькоу - центр чайной торговли в Китае. Более того, в 1900 году в перевозках на российский Дальний Восток начали участвовать Северное пароходное общество и Русское Восточно-Азиатское пароходство, которые были созданы датскими предприятиями. После Русско-японской войны Северное пароходное общество превратилось в главного конкурента Добровольного флота. Одновременно чай перевозили не только из Ханькоу, но и из Коломбо и Калькутты в Москву через Владивосток. Таким образом, до начала Первой мировой войны в перевозке чая в Россию доминировали российские пароходы.

著者

福嶋 千穂

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

no.58, pp.197-227[含 英語文要旨], 2011

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The early modern composite-monarchy Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth possessed Ruthenian lands on its Eastern borderlands. Ruthenia had its historical roots in Kievan Rus, and kept the Orthodox faith within the Catholic-dominant Commonwealth. Orthodoxy (Kievan Metropolitanate) represented Ruthenia's peculiar regionalism, while Ruthenia had never been given any administrative entity in the Commonwealth. Orthodoxy, which had been tightly connected with Ruthenian regional and ethnic identity, began to be challenged when the Orthodox higher clergy in Ruthenia declared church union with the Catholic Church (Union of Brest, 1596). The majority of the hierarchy accepted Catholic dogma and the Pope's supremacy on condition that Eastern rites and customs be sustained, while the majority of secular nobles resisted this union. After church union, the Ruthenian Church divided into two: the Uniates and the Disuniates (Orthodox). This church union in Ruthenia and its significance have been studied mainly from three perspectives: church history (both Catholic and Orthodox), Ukrainian national history (Eastern-oriented and Western-oriented), and social structure. In this article, I examine a variety of questions arising from the Union of Brest in Ruthenia, by comparing the ways in which those belonging to different social strata attempted to answer them to satisfy their own interests. The Ruthenian nobility, the sole local group with political rights as a political nation of the Commonwealth, considered that all such confessional issues had to be solved by legal processes, that is, parliamentary activities. Since the majority of the secular Ruthenian nobility was against church union, which might threaten their privilege of freedom of faith, they supported the Orthodoxy's rights in parliament. These activities produced results even during the reign of King Sigismund III, who was one of main promoters of the church union. When his successor Vladislaus IV was enthroned in 1632, he was so tolerant of non-Catholic faiths as to allow the Orthodox Church in Ruthenia to restore the legal status of its hierarchy. Nevertheless, this event did not resolve the religious split in Ruthenia. It only meant that both the Uniates and the Orthodoxy became legal entities in the Commonwealth. Both of the Ruthenian Eastern Churches remained as secondary religions, lower than the Roman Catholic Church. Although the secular nobility's support led to the restoration of the Orthodox Church's rights and legal status, the Ruthenian nobility was disposed to convert to Roman Catholicism. The frequent conversion particularly among rich and powerful magnates was detrimental to both of the Eastern Churches. Threatened by this tendency, the two Eastern Churches attempted to find an alternative way of unification. However, while the king supported this plan of reunion, the Roman Curia did not. A more serious challenge hampering the reunion derived from the anti-Uniate and anti-Commonwealth sentiments among the Ruthenian lower stratum and Cossacks mostly willing to gain Muscovite support. Unlike the nobles enjoying the privilege of freedom of faith, the Ruthenian populace suffered physical oppression by the Catholics and Uniates because of their confession. In Southeastern Ruthenia (Ukraine) the Cossacks became the defenders of Orthodoxy from this oppression. In contrast to the nobles (and the Western Ruthenian burghers), these people considered that the achievement in 1632 brought them almost nothing. They saw no particular difference between Uniatism and Roman Catholicism, and regarded both of them as faiths of others', while counting on the Cossacks and the Muscovite tsar as cobelievers. It is possible to conclude that one can observe not only a religious split but also cleavage among social strata and regions within Ruthenia after the Union of Brest. The population of Ruthenia could be divided into two groups according to their attitudes toward confessional questions. One, represented by the nobility, was those attempting to solve them within the limits of the Commonwealth. The other, represented by Cossacks and commoners in the eastern part of Ruthenia, was those ready to solicit support from forces outside the Commonwealth for fear of polonization and latinization. Some Cossack elites could have become an intermediate group between the bipolar identities of Catholic Poland and Orthodox Ruthenia, with their obvious pro-Commonwealth orientation manifested in the Hadiach Agreement (1658). However, their attitude of excluding the Uniates shows that they were no longer the same Ruthenian elites who had accepted the Uniates as an integral part of Ruthenia.

著者

福岡 星児

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.3, pp.101-124, 1959

著者

バールィシェフ エドワード

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.52, pp.205-240, 2005

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The term "theory of civilizations" is usually associated with the German philosopher Oswald Spengler and the English historian Arnold Toynbee, who -- it is believed -- worked out an original conceptualization of world history. Oswald Spengler's Der Untergang des Abendlandes (1918) is considered to be the starting point of this theory. Civilizationists maintain the position that there is no such entity as humankind. World history is essentially a product of different interactions between great cultural formations, described as "civilizations," "cultural super-systems" or merely "cultures," which might be understood as independent actors in world politics and world history. These formations are characterized by internal integrity and self-sufficiency. Like any biological subject, "civilizations" go through phases of birth, growth, blossoming, decline and death. It should be noted that the "theory of civilizations" was not a mere scientific conception, born in the minds of some outstanding individuals. It seems to have been an integral part of the social consciousness of some great nations. The contours of the theory of civilizations can be observed in the works of the Russian thinker Nikolai Danilevsky, whose Rossiia i Evropa (1869) anticipated Spengler's theory, or Japanese scientist Endo Kichisaburo, whose Oushuu-bunmei no botsuraku (The Decline of European Civilization, 1914) immediately evokes Spengler's The Decline of the West. The theory of civilizations was deeply rooted in the socio-economic conditions of the development of European countries during the 19th century. The ideas comprising the core of the theory were the product of a German philosophical heritage. The conceptual roots of the theory might be found in the philosophy of Hegel, who asserted that every nation had its own mission and its greatest task is in the realization of this mission. Metaphorically speaking, the theory was born between biologism and antimodernism, which were highly influential streams of thought in the 19th century. The former was an inalienable part of modernism itself, and the latter was a reaction to it. The theory of civilizations appeared as a result of a combination of these elements with messianism. It was in this particular form that it spread to Germany, Russia and Japan. The enthusiastic reception of the theory of civilizations in the above-mentioned countries was a result of the similarity of their positions with regard to the international "division of labour." All these nations could be perceived as "second echelon nations" when compared with Britain, France and the USA, which had begun their movement on the path of modernization and industrialization earlier. As relative late-comers, these nations found themselves in a bitter struggle for survival, and had an urgent need to mobilize their power if they were to maintain their position as independent actors in the arena of international politics. It is generally supposed that "the theory of civilizations," as a part of the social consciousness at that time, played an important role in this process of mobilization. Whereas Britain, France and the USA were already highly industrialized, and therefore their interests lay in maintaining the "status-quo," Japan and Russia, being "second echelon nations," were waiting for a chance to replace them and the civilizations theory legitimized their ambitions. The First World War was met and greeted in Japan and Russia as the beginning of the "Decline of the West." To the Japanese and the Russians the Great War was perceived as revealing the problems and defects of Western civilization. It signified not merely a crisis in relations between the Great Powers, but was perceived as being a by-product of the international system itself and its fundamental principles of liberalism, which elevated "social Darwinism" and imperialism to prominence as concepts in the practice of international relations. Against the background of German military success, the renunciation of laissezfaire and the introduction of the conscription system by England were considered as symptoms of the decline of the British Empire. The First World War was heralded in Japan and Russia as a transitional period, which would eventually result in the collapse of the entire world system. The crisis of the international order had a huge influence on the position of Japan in the world system. The First World War afforded Japan an opportunity to execute its special "civilizational mission," starting with an attempt to establish its foreign policy on a more independent basis. This resulted in discussions about revision of the Anglo-Japanese alliance, which for a long time had been an axis of Japanese diplomacy. The World War revealed a serious contradiction between the position of Japan as an independent actor and her strong orientation to Great Britain in the international arena. The crisis of the West, with the British Empire as its core element, pushed Japan into the arms of Russia. Rapprochement with Russia as a "second echelon nation" meant for Japan an opportunity to weaken her dependence on Great Britain, the classic example of a "first echelon nation." In other words, rapprochement with Russia could be an instrument for securing Japan an independent position in world politics. The civilizations theory, which mediated "the decline of the West" in the "second echelon nations," strengthened consciousness of the crisis and invigorated Japanese nationalism and messianism. The latter, in its turn, lead to the grasp for national independence and pushed Japan to closer relations with Russia. On the other hand, the theory of civilizations, including clear predictive features, presented a guide to action for Japanese politicians, who needed some vision of the postwar future with which to play the big diplomatic game during the World War. First of all, the theory of civilizations demonstrated that Britain and France were moving into an abyss. Secondly, according this theory, America, Japan's main rival in East Asia and the Pacific, was considered as an extension of the West, embodying all the "diseases" of European civilization, which was facing decline. On the contrary, Germany and Russia were described by the theory as the "young nations" that would have a splendid future. Germany was considered to be an attractive ally, because of her rapid growth and vigorous conduct on the world stage: that is why, from the strategic point of view, rapprochement with Germany seemed to be a more effective and reasonable tactic, but in the conditions of war it was extremely difficult. In this situation Russo-Japanese rapprochement seemed the only possible variant. In the conditions of "the decline of the West," the dynamic economic and demographic development of Russia together with elements of traditional structure, not yet corrupted by modernism, such as monarchy, deep religiousness etc., testified that Russia was a "young nation" which had a long and glorious future ahead of it. Moreover, Russo-Japanese rapprochement was considered to be a reasonable combination, because it could open a way to a Triple Japanese-Russo-German Eurasian alliance in the case of conclusion of a separate peace treaty between Russia and Germany, securing Japan from isolation in the postwar world. Without doubt, such considerations played a fundamental theoretical role, advocating the necessity of Russo-Japanese rapprochement, and had a major influence on the course of Russo-Japanese negotiations, which led to the Russo-Japanese Alliance of July 3, 1916. Such civilizational arguments for Russo-Japanese rapprochement appeared vividly in the position of Baron Goto Shimpei (1857-1929), an influential political leader of the beginning of the 20th century. Focusing on the theory of civilizations as the background of Russo-Japanese rapprochement not only helps us to reconstruct a three-dimensional view of Russo-Japanese relations during the First World War, but also deepens our understanding of a crucial period of world history and the mechanisms of world politics.

著者

外川 継男

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.33, 1986

著者

齋藤 厚

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.48, pp.113-137, 2001

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During the war in Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1994, Muslims there decided to give a new name to the language which they spoke. This decision was taken together with the change of their ethnic name. "Bosnian" (Bosanski) replaced Serbo-Croatian as the official name of their language, while "Bosniacs" (Bošnjaci) was adopted as their new national name. Bosniacs continued to use the linguistic elements of Serbo-Croatian even after its nominal change. At that time, it was uncertain whether they would seek to create purely Bosnian linguistic elements. The first orthographical textbook of Bosnian was published in the autumn of 1996. Some minor changes were added to the linguistic elements of Serbo-Croatian in this textbook. Despite its publication, some questions about Bosnian remain unclear. One is whether Bosnian is to be considered a distinct language or it is no more than a new name of Serbo-Croatian. Another is why the new language name does not correspond to the new national name. In this paper I have tried to answer these questions by examining the linguistic, historical, and political background of Bosnian. The paper also reconsiders the role of language in ethnic identity because the case of Bosnian is a rare one: a nation based on religion has tried to create its own language later. The first chapter indicates the linguistic features of Serbo-Croatian in Bosnia-Herzegovina, which is the base of Bosnian. Serbo-Croatian was established as the common language of the region's Serbs, Croats, Muslims, and Montenegrins in the late 19th century. It is a single, standard language with two major variants (the western or Croatian and eastern or Serbian variants) and two varieties (that spoken in Bosnia-Herzegovina and that in Montenegro). Standard Serbo-Croatian is based on the dialect spoken extensively in eastern Bosnia-Herzegovina and western Serbia. The variants contain many words exclusive to themselves, while the varieties blend elements of both variants. In Bosnia-Herzegovina, Serbs, Croats, and Muslims speak the same Bosnian language variety. It is almost impossible to distinguish a Serb from a Croat from a Muslim by their speech alone, because the ethnic distribution was very mixed and their dialects vary geographically, not ethnically. In the Bosnian language variety it is acceptable/common to use and mix elements of both variants. The second chapter reviews the recent history of arguments and policies about Bosnian language. Despite the above language situation, certain Muslim linguists argued that Bosnian should be recognized as a distinct language in the 1970's. The authorities in the late 19th century, too, once attempted to create a Bosnian language. Bosnian was chosen for the name of the official language in Bosnia-Herzegovina soon after the start of the Habsburgs' rule there. Benjamin Kallay, who served as governor of Bosnia-Herzegovina from 1882 to 1903, believed the necessity of a separate Bosnian national identity among the population and therefore decided to create a Bosniac people and a Bosnian language. At that time, Serbs called their mother tongue Serbian and used a Cyrillic-phonetic alphabet, Croats called it Croatian and used a Latin-etymological alphabet, and Muslims called it Bosnian or Serbian or Croatian and used an Arabic or a Cyrillic-phonetic alphabet. In order to standardize their common spoken language as Bosnian, Kallay and his government decided to adopt a Latin-phonetic alphabet and established the Committee for the Bosnian Language. The work of this committee resulted in the publication of a Grammar of Bosnian Language for High Schools in 1890. Though this textbook was widely used, many problems related to the name of the language arose. Serbs and Croats were strongly against the name Bosnian, and they refused to call their language as such not only in high schools but also in public life. Some Muslim intellectuals positively accepted this name, but most of the Muslim population were not like them. Thus, Kallay's attempt proved unsuccessful in its early stage, and no more important measures were taken after that. In 1907, 4 years since Kallay's death, the official language in Bosnia-Herzegovina was renamed from Bosnian to Serbo-Croatian. The Kingdom of Yugoslavia founded in 1918 did not recognize neither nationality nor particularity of Muslims in Bosnia-Herzegovina. In spite of such situation, they never relied on the former unsuccessful names of "Bosniacs" and "Bosnian". They continued to keep a distance from these names after World War II in Socialist Yugoslavia for decades. The name "Bosnian language" was revived in the early 1970's, this being catalyzed by the proclamation of a Muslim nationality and by various national movements in other federal units. At this time, Bosnian was perceived particulary as the language of Muslims. Though some Muslim linguists insisted that it needed to put back the voiced h wherever it was suspected one might have existed, they could not present any good examples. Others even admitted that it would be difficult for Bosnian to have its own elements. They did not insist on the use of the name Bosniac nation along with Bosnian, because they regarded it as a negation of the Muslim national conciousness. The third chapter surveys the change of national and linguistic identity of Muslims in the process of disintegration in ex-Yugoslavia, and examines how Bosnian has been created and used. Influenced by the increasingly fluid politics in the late 1980's, the national and linguistic identitiey of Muslims started to be shaken. Many questions related to their nationality and language were raised, especially after the collapse of the League of Communists of Yugoslavia in the beginning of 1990. Muslims themseives once decided to keep the existing names of "Muslim nation" and "Serbo-Croatian language" after several controversies. But the outbreak of war in Bosnia-Herzegovina brought about another situation. During the war in 1993, two events occured which later made Muslims change their national and language names. One was the start of the conflict with Croats, their former ally against Serbs. This new coflict made Muslims seek a language name other than Serbo-Croatian. The other was the publication of a paper named "The Clash of Civilizations?" by Huntington. It strengthened the anti-Islam tendency among Westerners, and their strong bias forced Muslims to seek another national name. In the next year, Muslims dared to adopt the new names of Bosniacs and Bosnian, which they had long avoided using. These names were adopted without any strong opposition despite their negative past and implications. Some pretexts were formed for the use of these names by Muslim intellectuals. They explained that the Bosniac national name, which implied a supranational concept, could be used by Muslims exclusively because Serbs and Croats would not identify themselves as such any more. They also insisted that the language had to be Bosnian, not Bosniac, because it would be regarded as a mother tongue not only by Bosniacs but also by members of other nations in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Until the publication of its first orthographical textbook in 1996, Bosnian was de facto a new name added to Serbo-Croatian. But it became clear that Muslims, now Bosniacs, wanted Bosnian to be exclusively their language in this textbook. New elements were invented in it, through changing some orthographic rules, or putting back the voiced h wherever it was suspected one might have existed in the distant past. Though Bosnian was created in such way, its new elements are not always used. Interventions in the language were too late and subtle. In addition, the authorities have not formed a concrete language policy, and the Bosniac population is not eager to use them. Considering these conditions, it is impossible to regard Bosnian as a distinct language. It is also hard to foresee that Bosnian will become more distinct in the near future, because there are no signs of change in these conditions for the time being. It was not easy for Bosnian to be created from the beginning. Since standard Serbo-Croatian is based on the dialect in Bosnia-Herzegovina, Bosnian could not pick up enough peculiar elements from this dialect. Furthermore, Bosnian had great difficulty in finding elements exclusive to Muslims/Bosniacs in this dialect which is shared by the three nations.

著者

石 和静

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

no.46, pp.33-55, 1999

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This paper elucidates the plans for Korea's neutralization by Russia between 1900-1903 and evaluates its connection with Count Witte's Manchurian policy It deals with a series of three attempts to realize Korea's neutrality under the auspices of a "joint guarantee by the Powers," which was invented by the Russian government. In most of the literature reviewed, discussions about Russia's Korean neutralization plans have failed to view them as policies initiated by the government as a whole, and tended to interpret them only as impromptu, unauthoritative proposals by Russian Ministers on the spot. Witte, as the Russian Minister of Finance who had the greatest influence in Russian East Asian affairs, sought to strike separate under-the-table deals with Japan concerning Korea's neutrality. Japan in fact wanted a free hand for itself in the Korean peninsula, however, which seemed to Russia absolutely unacceptable in view of Korea's paramount strategic significance. This study shows that Korea's neutralization was Russia's ultimate goal, and this goal conflicted with lapan's stance on the Korean and Manchurian issues. In the end, these tensions contributed to the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War in 1904. The Korean neutralization policy was originated and conducted by Witte. This was due to Witte and his ministry's involvement in all aspects of Russian foreign affairs. Witte's solution to the Korean problem was always connected with the situation in Manchuria, where the Russians wanted to exercise their extraterritorial rights. He brought up the Korean neutralization policy as a temporary means to defend against the lapanese from "getting into Korea" while Russian troops were actively engaged against the Boxer Rebellion in Manchuria. Witte argued that Japan would be handicapped by the expenditures it was making in Korea and that it would be much more susceptible to Russian pressure, especially once the Transsiberian Railroad was completed. All of which would make it easier for Russia to take possession of Korea later, if circumstances required. In other words, Witte was simply searching for a modus vivendi until Russian preparations were complete. Henceforth Russian troops occupied Manchuria on 7 January 1901, Izvolskii, the Russian Minister to Japan, proposed Korea's neutralization under international guarantees, that is, by Japan and Russia, which in substance would divide the Korean peninsula according to each side's sphere of influence. The Japanese government, however, replied that they would not discuss Korea's neutrality until the Russians took steps to move their armies out of Manchuria. By replying through Chinda, the Japanese Minister to St. Petersburg, Japan by- passed lzvolskii who had been entrusted by the Czar with the authority to negotiate the neutralization issue. The two countries' relations continued to be very strained. The "war crisis" of Spring 1901, caused by the conflict and mutual distrust between Russia and lapan on the Manchurian and Korean questions, had a number of consequences. First, it tended to unite Japanese statesmen who had previously been undecided with the proponents of the Anglo-Japanese alliance. Second, for Witte, Russia's primary concern was to avoid war with Japan, and the best means for solving the Manchurian problem was to renounce any political intentions in Manchuria and limit Russian interests there to the protection the Chinese Eastern Railway's interest as a private company With regards to Korea, he felt that if lapan demanded the country's annexation, the proper course would be to open the issue to international discussion. Even if Japan seized Korea, Russia should not consider it a casus belli. Following the "war crisis," a second neutrality scheme was attempted by Witte himself. In July 1901, when his ideas were accepted as the basis for a plan for the three-stepped e vacuation of Manchuria with some reservations, he approached the Japanese Minister in St. Petersburg and suggested, unofficially, a conditional arrangement regarding the crucial Korean problem. Russia, he said, would agree to a settlement making Korea a neutral area, but allow Japan the right to supply the Korean government with administrative and fmancial advisers as well as with a chief of police. In return, Iapan would officially recognize Russia's preponderance in Manchuria. Witte's practical proposals would have conceded Japan's demands in Korea with some reservations and normalized relations with China. The main concern of Wiitte's counterpart, however, was Korea, and for Japan it was seen as matter of life and death for Japan to keep Russia out of Korea. Japan could not question the actions of Russia in Manchuria merely on the basis of the London Times revelations of reported Russo-Chinese secret ne gotiations to consolidate Russia's occupation of Manchuria. By tying in the Manchurian question with Korea they hoped to ascertain Russia's intentions. The Russian proposal ended in failure because lapan would not enter into an agreement concerning Korea until the fate of Manchuria was decisively settled. Russia did not take this to mean a breakdown in negotiations. In Decernber 1901, while the question of a military retreat from Manchuria was a heated subject of discussion between Russia and China, Witte suggested more specific neutrality terms in St. Petersburg, in talks with Ito, Iapan's former Premier. It is evident that the Russians accepted the Japanese demands with respect to Korea only with the following qualifications: guarantees to maintain Korea's independence, not to use any part of Korean territory for strategic purposes, and not to hinder Russia's free passage through the Korea Strait. In return, Russia was to be left with a free hand in Manchuria. On the other hand, Ito brought with him an itemized plan setting forth Japan's desire for a free hand in Korea commercially, industrially, militarily and politically, as well as offering a guarantee that the country would not be used for military purposes against Russia. In the end, Russia's final plan was refused by the Japanese government. Japan felt compelled to conclude an alliance with England which would provide it with the guarantees it needed for primacy over Korea rather than negotiate an agreement with Russia which would have hindered it in attaining this goal. The last secret attempt by Russia to achieve Korea's neutrality was the proposal for the "Neutralization of Korea under the joint guarantee of the Three Powers, Russia, Japan, and America." This plan was aborted almost as soon as Russia had begun proposing it, mainly because America had already made a decision not to interfere in a matter being pursued by the Japanese government. At the time lapan questioned Russia's approaches to America. It is evident that with the first scheduled evacuation in Manchuria coming soon, Witte probably considered the plan as a way of placating America and to encouraging them to develop a new understanding regarding Korea. To restrict Russia's activities in Manchuria and in support of the Anglo-Iapanese Alliance, the United States demanded the 'Open Door' policy in China. It should be also noted that the fmal neutralization scheme proposed in September 1902 was a more concrete version of the plan "under the joint guarantee of the Powers" which had been formally proposed in January 1901. The main feature of the negotiations on Korea's neutralization between Russia and Japan was that the Russian proposals were repeatedly rejected by the Japanese, who were always one step ahead of Russia. The pattern of Russia's abortive schemes for Korean neutrality did not change in official discussions on the Manchurian and Korean questions after August 1903, the period of so-called "w ar diplomacy." From the Japanese point of view," the neutralization of Korea" meant the sacrifice of its position on the peninsula. In fact, Japan, not yet viewing itself as a fully independent actor, had the support of England and America behind it. Agreeing to anti-Russian common interests, the Western powers did not stint in their promises of diplomatic support to Japan. It can be surmised that the failure of Russia's schemes to neutralize Korea, aimed at putting lapan's imperialistic ambitions to rest, was a by-product of general trends in power politics in East Asia since the last decades of the nineteenth century.

著者

近藤 正憲

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.53, pp.333-353, 2006

著者

平松 潤奈

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

no.51, pp.321-349, 2004

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From the period of perestroika, there has been an argument in the criticism of Soviet culture that the Stalinist culture suppressed the representation of the body, which is irreducible to the canonical language. In this body/language opposition, the body is seen as deviation, excess or something antagonistic to the social and language order. But it is not appropriate to think that the body can be represented outside of and autonomous from language because, taking this assumption and regarding the body as something that needs release from the yoke of the language order, we only repeat the same scheme of such sayings that the body must be suppressed by language. The body should, therefore, be seen as that formed in the practice of language. In this light, dissident writer Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's text appears to tell how the body is formed in the language activity and treated by the language order. His text does not take the body/language opposition for granted, but probes the mechanism which this opposition stands on. Solzhenitsyn's novel, The First Circle, describes the process of the formation of the body far more clearly and elaborately than in any other of his writings. The central motif of the novel is voice-hearing, which inevitably raises the question of the relation of language and body. That is because, on one hand, voice carries linguistic messages, but on the other, it is a part of the human body. Voice separates from the body and goes through various media (recorder, telephone, radio etc.), but in this process it does not seem to lose the trace of the body in the form of its materiality, such as frequency and amplitude. This duality of voice plays a decisive role in The First Circle. In the beginning of the story, Innokentii Volodin, a young diplomat, calls the embassy of the United States in Moscow and reveals that a Soviet agent will receive information about the manufacturing of an atomic bomb. His conversation is tapped and recorded, and the Ministry of State Security (MGB) commits the tape to a special prison-institute commonly called a sharashka, where confined scientists and engineers are working for the benefit of the government. Gleb Nerzhin, a mathematician, and Lev Rubin, a linguist, are ordered to analyze the tape and identify the criminal among five suspects. The novel depicts in detail the process of voice analysis, which is to be examined concretely in this paper. Previous studies on Solzhenitsyn's novels have not read these technology motifs in their literal meaning. If attention is paid to descriptions of technology, they tend to concentrate on metaphorical and ideological interpretations of them (the telephone network stands for the bureaucratic system of the socialist state, for instance) and ignore the material and practical aspect of them. Solzhenitsyn himself lived in a sharashka for three years, and the model of Nerzhin is the author. He compared the sharashka to "the first circle" (borrowed from Dante's The Divine Comedy), which is the most privileged place among the concentration camps. There, prisoners were exempted from hard labor and even enjoyed freedom of speech, unthinkable in the outside society. Their work was directly connected with the benefit of the state, and significant contribution sometimes freed them. Many technical experts imprisoned in the sharashka, however, belonged to the generations before the Revolution, and a part of them were anti-Stalinist sympathizers. What sustained this inclination was their assurance of the autonomy of "techno-elite," but in fact their life depended on the technological innovation which they devised for the regime. In other words, the channels of their voices are strictly controlled, but at the same time their technology regulates the conditions on how voices are transmitted. Located in this ambiguous position of sharashka, the prisoners in The First Circle are confronted with difficult ethical questions to decide one after another. The depiction of the analysis of Volodin's voice is based on a true story Solzhenitsyn experienced in the sharashka and that Rubin's model Lev Kopelev wrote a detailed memoir about. By the time they take up Volodin's case, the prisoners have been engaged in the development of a scrambler phone that can protect Stalin's telephone conversation from being tapped by encoding and decoding human voices. The decoded voice must be identifiable with the speaker as well as being clearly heard. Looking back to the duality of voice mentioned above, clarity of voice (what one is saying) is related to its linguistic aspect, while identification (who is speaking) to its materiality or body. The latter is considered more complicated than the former, and what is necessary for the analysis of Volodin's voice is the latter (who is the criminal). To develop this special apparatus, Nerzhin (Solzhenitsyn) and Rubin (Kopelev) used a device called "visible speech," the prototype of today's sound spectrograph. It gives voiceprints which records frequency and energy of voices according to time. Rubin thinks their patterns differ from person to person, so he can identify the criminal by comparing the voiceprints of given tapes. But, in fact, voiceprint does not reveal the owner of the voice by itself. It only transcribes the materiality (body) of voice, which is unique and unrepeatable every time. To identify the owner, one must find some distinct features of his voice, always unchangeable. Rubin (Kopelev) has inmates and staff in the sharashka read the same words and syllables in various ways, but, as he confessed, Kopelev could not discover such features. What is important here is that the identity of voice is sought by articulating its materiality (voiceprints) linguistically (by particular words and syllables). In The First Circle, through voice analysis, Rubin focuses his attention on two suspects, Volodin and Shchevronok, and he tells his boss that Shchevronok is more suspicious. But that is a mistake. His boss reports to a MGB official about two suspects, requiring more data, but the official rejects the request and announces that he will arrest both. Here the strict examination of voice properties turns to absurdity. We might wonder, with all of the complicated investigation, which Rubin is forced to work on, why the author lets Rubin make a mistake and for the authorities to arrest an innocent man. Before answering this question, we should reexamine the special nature of Volodin's case -- a crime on the telephone line. As it was already seen, voice has two aspects; it is regarded as a trace of the body (and this trace also has materiality) and a carrier of language simultaneously. This duality of voice makes Volodin's case very unique. On one hand, his voice transmits linguistic message, which is recognized as a crime in the social order. On the other hand, his voice is the criminal act itself. It means that the language order and the bodily act are connected directly in his voice. Usually, bodily acts, occurring in particular time and space, are unrepeatable. But Volodin's recorded voice makes it repeatable. Through the process of voice analysis, the repeatable body (materiality) of voice is articulated to the language order and identified with its owner. In this sense, the identifiable body of the criminal is formed in the practice of the language order. We may think that Rubin's mistake shows the imperfection of this articulation system: he could not tell the difference between two men's voices. This imperfection, however, is necessary to the order. Stalin in the novel suspects that 5 to 8 percent of the people in the state are not content with the present regime although they vote for it in elections. Stalin asserts that the MGB can exist only because there are always hidden enemies in the society. His suspicion keeps on creating newly imagined enemies, who do not appear in elections, that is, who are not articulated to the language order (election has the simplest linguistic form -- yes or no). This supposed percentage of hidden enemies can be seen here as corresponding to the percentage Rubin mistakes. For Rubin's identification process is accompanied with the possibility of misidentification, and this misidentification (the imperfection of articulation) produces the hidden body of enemies behind the language order. Thus, the imperfection of the articulation technology makes the language order produce suppressible body. The voice analysis depicted in the novel shows the process of how the deviant body is produced, identified and oppressed in the regulation of social and linguistic order. Along with Rubin's voice analysis, the novel presents a different kind of voice-hearing. Nerzhin is said to have "strange hearing," with which he has been able to hear suppressed people moaning and shrieking since his childhood. This voice reaches him without going through any material medium -- newspaper, radio, or telephone. He does not trust them at all. Volodin's voice is carried by the telephone line and analyzed by the device of visible speech, by which, as a result, he is arrested. Adding to such media technologies, one more medium participates in voice analysis -- the body of the analyzer (Rubin); the clarity of decoded voice is examined by his ears, one of which is deaf, a fact which Rubin hides from people around him. Furthermore, when Rubin (Kopelev) has to infer from a voiceprint what the voice is saying in front of a MGB official, Nerzhin (Solzhenitsyn) secretly tries to help Rubin by showing the answer by gesture. All these mediums are described as things which deceive people. Among the mediums in the novel, written letters in documents are particularly deceptive. Recorded letters are easily placed under the control of a third party so they do not hold the truth. The cause of the deceptiveness is the materiality of media and body. Nerzhin's hearing is "strange" and fantastic because it omits such media technology and body, which seems indispensable for normal communication, and still can catch voices. Denying all the mediums, Nerzhin tries to approach the origin of suppressed people's voice. In the sharashka he likes to go and listen to Spiridon, a plain peasant, because Spiridon is a blind and illiterate man that is cut from the deceptive media networks (Rubin calls this Nerzhin's "going to the people" in fun). Nerzhin cannot learn any principle of life from Spiridon's tales, but just listens to his voice through his "soul" while sitting side by side; Nerzhin's hearing is independent of reason and media. Nerzhin goes further this way "to the people" and takes a much more radical step by refusing to take part in the work on the cryptography for the scrambler phone, as a result of which he is sent to a regular concentration camp. To leave the sharashka, which serves the regime with media technology, means that he will join the truly suppressed people. At the last moment in the sharashka, Nerzhin sees the van that will transport him and fellow prisoners elsewhere through Moscow city. He sees the word "Meat" painted on the body of the van for disguise. This detail has rich implication. The word "Meat" does not only hide the body of prisoners in the car, but exposes by accident the violence of the language order which treats the human body as "meat." In this scene, violence is not generated in the situation where language has already screened out the body as recent criticism insists, but when language designates the body in a certain way. Throwing his own body from the language order to outside of it, Nerzhin reveals such violence because in this moment he can observe both aspects of Soviet society. This is the point where the relation between language and body is determined. After that, the viewpoint of the narrative suddenly switches to a foreign newspaper reporter who sees the van on the street and takes the word "Meat" as it is. Nerzhin's body vanishes to outside of language but leaves the strange hearing to readers, who now know the violence of language. This consequence of Solzhenitsyn's novel has been criticized in two ways; first, it distinguishes the world of suppressed ordinary people as something sacred. Secondly, it stands in an omnipotent position which commands view of both sides of Soviet society. These arguments are apparently true, but, as we have seen in this paper, The First Circle narrates how two aspects of society (suppressing language order and suppressed body) are being separated. In this separation consists violence, which is depicted in the last scene of the novel (the scene about the "Meat" van). In fact, Nerzhin's vanishing body acts as the medium that informs readers of the two aspects of Soviet society, though he will not admit that the human body functions as a medium. It can be said that Solzhenitsyn himself, when he writes The Gulag Archipelago, for example, works as such a medium, articulating the "reality" of concentration camps to language text.

著者

地田 徹朗

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

no.56, pp.34-36, 2009

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This article investigates three grandiose canal construction projects in Turkmenistan during the post-war Stalin period and their relationship with the Aral Sea problem. These three projects are the "Karakum Canal," the "Major (Glavnyi) Turkmen Canal" and the "Diversion of Siberian Rivers" projects. In order to illustrate these projects' logical structures and their mutual contrarieties, made by central authorities, republican leaders, scientists in the center and technical experts in the construction field, the author approaches these projects from three points of view: 1. political history (both central and republican), 2. history of science and technology (geography, hydrology and hydraulic engineering) and 3. regional studies (Central Asia, especially Turkmenistan). It is not this article's purpose to "attribute" the Aral Sea problem to the USSR's water policy's negative impacts. Rather, the author tries to "depoliticize" these topics. The go signal for the "Karakum Canal" project was given by a resolution of the Soviet Union's Council of Ministers (CM) on 21 July 1947 (that is, before the beginning of "Stalin's Nature Transformation Plan," which started in 1948), although its initial concept dates back to the beginning of the twentieth century (G. Sazonov's idea). The First Project Document, edited by A. Boltenkov, hydraulic engineer in the Turkmen SSR, was approved on 25 January 1947 at the USSR Gosplan's Scientific-Technical Expert Commission, which described the Karakum canal as contributing to expeditiously expanding the irrigated lands for cotton production in the southeastern Turkmenistan oasis along the Murgab and Tedzhen rivers. This document referred only to the "future prospect" of this canal's elongation to Ashgabat and further. Turkmenistan (not "Turkmen") specialists actively participated in the preliminary work of drafting the document. Turkmen leaders called for the early realization of this "quick-impact" project, but the central Gosplan authorities denounced their requests, accusing them of holding up another construction project of the Tedzhen reservoir, which would eventually be completed in 1950, when the "Great Communist Construction" slogan and the start of the "Major Turkmen Canal" project were announced. As a result, the Karakum Canal project fell back to the second plan, whose beginning the Turkmens had to await until 1954, that is, the next year after Stalin's death. The prototype of the "Major Turkmen Canal" project dates back to 1893, when imperial army officer A. I. Glukhovskoi presented his original plan to route some volume of Amu-Darya's water to the Caspian Sea through the Uzboi riverbed's remnants, although an idea of this kind also existed during Peter the Great's reign. The resolution of the USSR's CM on this project was adopted on 11 September 1950 "without" the Project Document, as part of "Stalin's Nature Transformation Plan" and the "Great Communist Construction" projects (which included the famous "Volga-Don Canal"). The former "Plan," the core concept of the construction of "communism" itself (as well as the "Great Communist Construction") in the post-war period, became the theoretical background of this large-scale canal project, which had to be finished by 1957, and as a result of which 1,300,000 ha of newly irrigated land (mainly around the Amu-Darya delta and southwestern Turkmenistan) and 7 million ha of new pasture land (in the Karakum desert) should have been cultivated by the final stage. Both Moscow-Leningrad based geographers (I. P. Gerasimov, V. A. Obruchev, V. V. Tsinzerling, etc.) and on-site hydraulic engineers (V. S. Eristov, chief engineer of the Construction Administration "Sredazgidrostroi," etc.) enthusiastically supported this project, despite some clashes of viewpoints about the "canal route." The former favored the Western-Uzboi route, but the latter proposed the southbound route, going through the Karakum desert via an artificial canal. The latter variant was adopted at last. Turkmen authorities also assisted with this project, but their role was limited to providing indirect supports for constructors. This project ended abruptly on 25 March 1953 at the initiative of L. P. Beria immediately upon Stalin's death. The discussion about the "Diversion of Siberian Rivers" project also began in connection with the above-mentioned "Nature Transformation Plan." This project's antecedent is also very old, going back to Y. Demchenko's idea in 1871, which the Imperial Geographical Society's members laughingly dismissed at that time. The idea came back to life in the 1920s after the Bolshevik Revolution, and M. M. Davydov, hydraulic engineer of the Hydroelectric Power Station Designating Institute "Gidroenergoproekt," published his plan in 1949, which proposed the large-scale diversion and multipurpose use (that is, not only for agricultural development and climatic change, but for river transportation and hydroelectric power generation) of the Obi and Yenisei waters in Western Siberia and Central Asia. Davydov clearly claimed that this canal would "liquidate deserts" in Central Asia. In 1950, the other variant of this project by hydraulic engineer A. A. Shul'ga, showed that this canal increased vapor circulation in the atmosphere by around 12-20%, which created additional water flow in rivers in the respective regions. These plans were not approved at that time, but became the basis of further full-fledged examination from the 1960s onward. Finally, scholars' outlooks on the future Aral Sea problem were examined in the context of grandiose canal construction projects. First of all, the "nature transformists" had reached a consensus that plain water should be used for irrigation as much as possible, rather than being fed uselessly into the saline Aral Sea. Accordingly, hydrologists figured out how many meters the Aral Sea would fall as a result of the construction of two grandiose canals in Turkmenistan. The Karakum Canal up to the Tedzhen oasis would have lowered the Aral Sea by about 2.5 meters, according to the Project Document. Leningrad-based hydrologist B. D. Zaikov estimated that the Aral Sea would have fallen by about 11.7 meters if the Major Turkmen Canal had taken 600 cubic meters per second, although this fall would have been fastest during the first 20 years, slowing considerably thereafter. In sum, about a 14.2 meter drawdown was foreseen during the two canals' planning stages. Knowing well these predictions, some Soviet geographers (B. A. Fedorovich, N. N. Mikhailov, etc.) already had related the canal projects in the Aral Sea basin with the diversion of Siberian water to Central Asia as a prescription for the Aral Sea's shrinkage. It is well-known that the Aral Sea started to scale down after 1960 in conjunction with sluicing water into the Karakum canal, but Central Asian authorities were not frustrated until the Aral Sea problem reached a critical stage, because the diversion of a great amount of Siberian water held great promise for them. Central authorities around Stalin upheld the "Nature Transformation Plan" and the "Great Communist Construction" as an ideologically true national credo, which should have contributed to the post-war rebuilding and communist construction. Turkmenistan's leaders were inclined more to the economically "quick-impact" Karakum Canal project than to the more "ideological" Major Turkmen Canal project, regardless of their acceptance of the latter project itself. Fervently supporting the "Nature Transformation Plan," geographers and on-site hydraulic engineers tried to vindicate their own viewpoints on the Major Turkmen Canal, which could be described as a leadership struggle around this project. Some hydraulic engineers attempted to ride the wind, propounding the grandiose "Diversion of Siberian Rivers" project in the context of the "Nature Transformation Plan." As such, various actors' various motives were intricately intertwined with these grandiose canal construction projects, forming a specific historical stage emblematic of the post-war Stalin period.

著者

近藤 正憲

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究 (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

no.53, pp.333-353, 2006

著者

Momose Hiroshi

出版者

北海道大学スラブ研究センター

雑誌

スラヴ研究(Slavic Studies) (ISSN:05626579)

巻号頁・発行日

vol.17, pp.1-39, 1973