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Urban encounters

The estate system in everyday life in 1820s Moscow
Les groupes urbains : le système des états dans la vie quotidienne à Moscou dans les années 1820
Alexander M. Martin
p. 329-351

Résumés

Résumé
Cet article traite de la corrélation entre l’identité d’un ordre (soslovie) et les réalités sociales quotidiennes à Moscou à l’époque de Nicolas Ier. Fondé sur une base de données de 3 555 noms inscrits dans les registres paroissiaux moscovites en 1829 et étayé par des textes littéraires et des Mémoires ayant valeur de preuves complémentaires, l’article pose notamment les questions de la répartition des ordres selon les quartiers de la ville, de la fréquence avec laquelle les membres de différents ordres vivaient sous un même toit, des similitudes ou des différenciations entre les structures des ménages et des familles, ou encore du choix des prénoms pour les enfants selon l’appartenance à tel ou tel de ces ordres. Dans l’ensemble, l’article pointe sur une polarisation binaire des différents ordres dans une classe moyenne et une classe inférieure, mais aussi sur un processus d’assimilation par lequel la culture des élites se diffusait vers le bas dans les autres couches de la société.

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  • 1 The research for this article was made possible by generous support from the National Endowment for (...)
  • 2 Elise K. Wirtschafter, Structures of Society: Imperial Russia’s “People of Various Ranks” (DeKalb: (...)
  • 3 See, for example, the texts reproduced in S.S. Ilizarov, ed., Moskva v opisaniiakh XVIII veka (M.: (...)

1It was under Nicholas I that the ambiguities of social reality in Moscow and St. Petersburg became a major preoccupation of Russian elite culture.1 An important reason for this development lay in a newly critical attitude toward the usefulness of the estate (soslovie) system as a tool of social analysis. Officials, particularly from Catherine II’s reign onwards, had devised this system to provide a comprehensive legal framework for urban society. Its categories were mainly prescriptive, i.e., intended to mold the future development of the urban population according to the needs of the regime.2 Nevertheless, eighteenth-century geographers treated it as descriptive of already existing realities, for instance attempting to characterize the populations of Moscow and St. Petersburg by giving raw statistics on their estate composition.3 The unstated implication was that estate membership correlated neatly with how people actually lived and labored. This shifted in the nineteenth century, when a new interest developed in questions of urban sociology.

  • 4 These issues are discussed in my forthcoming book Enlightened Metropolis: Constructing Imperial Mos (...)
  • 5 Quoted in Nikolai Engel´gardt, Istoriia russkoi literatury XIX stoletiia, v. 1: 1800-1850 (SPb.: Iz (...)
  • 6 Peter Sekirin, ed., The Dostoevsky Archive: Firsthand Accounts of the Novelist From Contemporaries’ (...)

2In the reign of Nicholas I, the opacity of urban life became an omnipresent theme in Russian culture, from the tales of Gogol to the “physiological sketches” of the Natural School and the statistical studies of the Interior Ministry.4 How the estate system interacted with the other dynamics of the city – migration, education, consumerism, the sheer anonymity of the city – seemed less and less transparent. The growing interest in these issues was due to various factors. One was the intellectual influence of ethnography, literary realism, and Smithian economics. The urban revolutions that rocked the West, and the autocracy’s claims that this could never happen in Russia, also inspired reflection. Finally, more and more literati knew first-hand the complexity of urban social identities and the hardships of city life. For example, Nikolai Nekrasov was a noble, but despite his privileged social status, he was so destitute as a youth in St. Petersburg that “for three years, I was hungry all the time, every day.”5 Fëdor Dostoevskii grew up at the hospital for the poor in Moscow where his father was a physician; as a child, he was traumatized by seeing one of his playmates, a servant’s daughter, bleed to death after being raped by a drunk.6 Life experiences such as these led Nekrasov, Dostoevskii, and other contemporaries to write about the city in ways that laid bare the tensions between theory and reality in the urban social order.

3These tensions form the subject of the present article. On the basis of narrative sources and a statistical snapshot of Moscow in 1829, I explore how estate membership correlated with certain aspects of culture, demography, and social interaction. What names did people choose for their children? How common was it for different estates to live in the same neighborhood, even under the same roof? How similar were their family and household structures? In a word, what did membership in a particular estate mean in everyday life?

  • 7 Recent scholarship that addresses these themes includes, for example: A.B. Kamenskii, Povsednevnost (...)

4In contrast to the historiography of Western Europe, questions like these remain little explored in the context of pre-Reform urban Russia, yet they shed light on the estate system at a pivotal moment in its history.7 A half-century after Catherine II’s urban reforms, we can gauge the system’s success at achieving her goals of fostering discrete estate communities while also diffusing “enlightened” cultural values to non-elite strata. Viewed from the opposite chronological direction, these were the sunset years of pre-Reform Russia, and we see in the urban estates under Nicholas I the matrix in which the more modern society of the future evolved. Finally, the Nicholaevan moment was important for the formation of the intelligentsia. In Moscow in 1829, youngsters just beginning to discover urban life included eight-year-old Dostoevskii, fourteen-year-old Pavel Fedotov, later a pioneering urban genre painter, and six-year-old Aleksandr Ostrovskii, the future bard of the Moscow merchantry. Through them and other writers and artists, the memory of Nicholaevan Moscow resonates in Russian culture to this day.

The Confessional Registers

  • 8 TsIAM (Tsentral´nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Moskvy) f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, “Ispovednye vedomosti ni (...)
  • 9 TsIAM, f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, Tverskaia chast´: ts. Aleksiia Mitropolita, chto na Glinishchakh ( (...)
  • 10 TsIAM, f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, l. 397-406, ts. Sviatyia Ravno-Apostol´nyia Marii Magdaliny, chto (...)

5Aside from narrative texts, the source base for this article consists of a database of Moscow confessional registers from 1829. Priests drew up these registers annually to record who had come to confession, which was a legal obligation for Orthodox Christians. They list the residents of each house in the parish (including any who failed to come to confession) by name, estate, age, and family relationship. The database contains the complete records for 1829 from four parishes located in the three principal areas of the city: the church of St. Nicholas, in downtown Moscow’s Tverskaia District; the church of Venerable Pimen, in suburban Sushchëvskaia District; and in Zamoskvorech´e, the churches of SS. Kosma and Damian (Piatnitskaia District) and Venerable Maron (Iakimanskaia District). These registers list a total of 2,889 parishioners.8 To gain further insight into the smaller estates of clergy and nobles, I added the inhabitants of all the houses owned by clergy in another ten parishes (415 individuals of various estates),9 and the 251 people of various estates who lived or worked at the Imperial Widows’ Home.10 All told, the database includes 3,555 individuals.

  • 11 The usefulness and reliability of the confessional registers for analyzing the makeup of the urban (...)
  • 12 These observations are based on TsIAM f. 14, op. 7, d. 3488, “Obyvatel´skaia kniga po Sushchëvskoi (...)

6Like any document, the registers reflect the concerns of their authors. They cover only registered parishioners, not transients, and their authors, who faced the burdensome job of compiling a new register every year, may have been tempted to save time by copying listings from the previous year without updating them.11 Unlike the police register of local residents, the confessional registers do not include people’s livelihood and street address; on the plus side, however, they list many lower-class residents whom the police omitted.12 The priests also ignored kinship ties between residents of different houses; a study of census (reviziia) records might shed light on these relationships.

Source: M. Damaze de Raymond, Tableau historique, géographique, militaire et moral de l’Empire de Russie, 2 vols. [P. : Le Normant, 1812].

  • 13 G. Le Cointe de Laveau, Guide du voyageur à Moscou (M.: de l’imprimerie d’Auguste Semen, Imp. de l’ (...)
  • 14 Of the two remaining churches, one is not identified by name in the register, and the other is loca (...)
  • 15 Downtown – Miasnitskaia and Sretenskaia; Zamoskvorech´e – Iakimanskaia and Piatniskaia; suburbs—Bas (...)
  • 16 Le Cointe de Laveau, Guide du voyageur à Moscou, table facing p. 86.
  • 17 Data from the summary tables in TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1128 and d. 1132.

7How comprehensively did the confessional registers list the population? As of 1824, Moscow had 263 parish churches.13 Each compiled an annual confessional register that included a summary table breaking down the parishioners by estate. To test how much of the population was registered in a parish, I examined these tables for 89 of the 91 churches of the Zamoskvoretskii and Sretenskii ecclesiastical districts (sorok).14 These 89 churches were spread across ten of the twenty districts, or chasti, into which the police divided the city. (These chasti also had an additional 26 churches that belonged to other soroki and are not examined here.) The following table compares police data covering all the inhabitants and churches in these chasti – two downtown, two in Zamoskvorech´e, and six in the suburbs15 – with data from the 89 churches:1617

Population and Parish Registration in Selected Chasti, 1824 and 1829

Population and Parish Registration in Selected Chasti, 1824 and 1829
  • 18 V. Androssov, Statisticheskaia zapiska o Moskve (M.: V tipografii Semena Selivanovskago, 1832), 100 (...)

8Comparing inhabitants per church as counted by police with the number of registered parishioners, we see that only a minority of Muscovites were registered in a local parish. The statistician Vasilii Androssov found that in 1830, out of a total city population just over 300,000, only 68,630 males and 70,650 females were registered with local parishes.18 Those not so registered were mainly rural migrants. Most migrants were men, which explains why females formed a majority of registered parishioners even though the city’s overall population (according to the police data used by Androssov) was 61 percent male. The unchurched were concentrated downtown and, especially, in the suburbs, two areas where manufacturing and large aristocratic households employed migrant laborers. By contrast, Zamoskvorech´e, with its more settled population of petty traders and minor officials, had a much higher percentage of parish registration.

  • 19 Here and throughout the article, individuals are counted as belonging to the same estate as their h (...)
  • 20 Androssov, Statisticheskaia zapiska, 52-53 (for the number of merchants, see ibid., 57-58); the tot (...)

9I indicated earlier that much of my evidence comes from a database of 2,889 parishioners at four Moscow churches. Those confessional registers bear out the impression that once we exclude peasants, Moscow’s registered parishioners were roughly representative of the city in terms of their estate composition.19 The following table compares the four churches with the population figures provided by Androssov.20

10Peasants (including both peasant serfs and state peasants) thus made up 24.1 percent of the population but only 6.5 percent of the parishioners. Without the peasants, however, the composition of the parishes roughly tracks that of the general population, with some discrepancies due to the fact that these parishes were located disproportionately in Zamoskvorech´e and the suburbs, areas with high concentrations of merchants and townspeople (meshchane).

11The confessional registers thus constitute a useful sample both of Moscow’s core urban estates and of its major geographic divisions. Turning now to what they reveal about the world of Muscovites in 1829, we begin with the item most prominently recorded in the registers: the parishioners’ names.

Nomen est omen

12“A name is an omen,” the Romans said. In Russia as well, names, and how they were recorded in writing, were important markers of identity, and they help us understand how cultural patterns shifted over time and spread from one estate to another.

13Surnames were still rare in the early nineteenth century, and even people who theoretically had one did not consistently use it. Since surnames helped locate individuals within extended kinship networks, they were useful to the bureaucracy and to families with a prestigious pedigree or far-flung relations. However, they were of little utility in small-scale communities, where life required only a given name, occasionally a sobriquet to differentiate people who shared a name, and a patronymic to identify one’s parentage. The clergy, who of course decided how a person appeared in the confessional registers, likewise showed little interest in surnames; what mattered to them were given names, which were assigned at baptism, honored a saint, and were often recorded in their Church Slavonic form. All these tendencies show up in the database of confessional registers.

  • 21 These figures include the databases for the four parishes, the Widows’ Home, and the separate cleri (...)

14Among the 2,096 people listed as living without kin or being heads of households,21 only 449 had a surname that the priest recorded. Their incidence declines rapidly as one descends the estate hierarchy: they include 81.0 percent of the nobles, 51.1 percent of the merchants, 21.2 percent of the townspeople, 11.5 percent of the guild artisans, and just 0.2 percent of the peasants and serfs. Despite being objects of intensive official record-keeping, only 47.1 percent of army non-commissioned officers (NCO’s) and enlisted men had surnames noted in the registers. Lastly, a surname was recorded for only 2.7 percent of the clergy, even though all of them used one during their seminary years. The incidence of surnames in the registers thus reflects both their uneven distribution across different estates and the preferences of the clerics who compiled the registers.

  • 22 Example cited in O.N. Trubachëv, ed., Russkaia onomastka i onomastika Rossii: Slovar´ (M.: Shkola-P (...)

15In other ways, Russian naming practices were growing more standardized. The requirement that the Orthodox choose a saint’s name for their children had gained quasi-universal acceptance in the eighteenth century, so pre-Christian Slavic names had largely disappeared. Moreover, confessional registers were required to record the formal form of one’s given name —i.e., no more nicknames as in earlier times— plus one patronymic and, optionally, one surname. One townswoman’s name was recorded in 1711 as “Mavra Mitropolova, daughter of Ivan, wife of Mikhail son of Efrem” (Mavra Ivanova doch´ Mikhailovskaia zhena Efremova syna Mitropolova);22 had she come back to life in 1829, she would have been listed simply as Mavra Ivanova Mitropolova.

  • 23 S. Rassadin, “Svoi liudi, ili russkii obyvatel´ (Aleksandr Ostrovskii),” in A. Ostrovskii, Dramatur (...)
  • 24 “Moskovskiia ‘komnaty snebil´iu’,” in A. Levitov, Moskovskiia nory i trushchoby, 2nd ed. (SPb.: Izd (...)

16Nineteenth-century literature has bequeathed an image of names as humiliating status markers for the lower classes. To the elites, commoners’ surnames could all sound the same, even when they were nothing alike. A nobleman in a play by Ostrovskii tries to recall a merchant’s surname, but all he knows is that it is either very common or else derived from the appellation of some kind of food or merchandise: “I forget. Maybe Ivanov, or maybe Perekusikhin; something in between Ivanov and Perekusikhin, I think, Podtovarnikov.” Later: “that merchant, Prostokvashin.”23 Given names were treated similarly. In Aleksandr Levitov’s 1863 novella about the tenants of a squalid Moscow flophouse, Moskovskiia “komnaty snebil´iu” (roughly, Moscow’s “Furrnushed Room’z”), the protagonists represent plebeian types, right down to their names: “the Tat´ianas, who rent out rooms […] and the Luker´ias, individuals who invariably serve as cooks in the[se] rooms.” To escape such stereotyping, other women in the novella, fresh from the countryside, seek an instant air of city sophistication by adopting exotic European names —Amaliia Gustavovna, Adel´fina Luk´ianovna.24

  • 25 Ivan Belousov, “Ushedshaia Moskva,” in Iu.N. Aleksandrov, ed., Moskovskaia starina: Vospominaniia m (...)
  • 26 Alain Blum, Irina Troitskaia, and Alexandre Avdeev, “Prénommer en Russie orthodoxe : Une pratique p (...)

17Bearing the name of an obscure Byzantine saint —of whom there were many, especially males— suggested that one was either a captive to religious or familial tradition or else socially under the thumb of the parish clergy. In Gogol’s tale “The Overcoat,” the church calendar at the ill-fated hero’s baptism suggests names that ring preposterous and archaic: Mokkii, Sossii, Khozdazat, Trifilii, Dula, Varakhasii, Pavsikakhii, Vakhtisii. Rather than subject her little boy to any of these, the mother reluctantly gives him his father’s only marginally less awful name, the vaguely scatological-sounding Akakii. But at least this mother is a minor noble and hence has a degree of social authority. People of lesser status were more easily bullied. Looking back in the 1920s on late imperial Moscow, Ivan Belousov recalled a wealthy merchant’s daughter named Khavron´ia (which sounds like the word for “sow”); her parents were poor and failed to pay off the priest, so he retaliated by giving her a humiliating name.25 Such conduct by priests was common enough that the church explicitly forbade it.26

  • 27 V.A. Nikonov, Imia i obshchestvo (M.: Izdatel´stvo Nauka, Glavnaia redaktsiia vostochnoi literatury (...)

18The evidence from the database suggests that these literary portrayals mix reality with satirical hyperbole. Except for Mokkii, the names cited by Gogol and Belousov never occur in the database; in fact, most of the 2,000 or so names in the church calendar, which include such gems as Gugstsiatazad and Teklagavvaraiat, are not known ever to have been given to anyone in all of Russian history.27 The database does contain one Izot, one Kharlampii, one Filadel´f, and one Makrida, so unusual names did exist, but they were rare, and less grotesque than Gogol’s version.

19The confessional registers also show such names becoming increasingly rare, which suggests that parents exercised growing autonomy in choosing names for their children. A comparison of two sets of townsmen —males born before 1780 versus after 1814, with 70 to 80 individuals in each group— illustrates this development. In the grandfathers’ generation, one in every three had a name that occurred only once in that cohort; among the grandsons, it was only one in thirteen. Among male peasants and serfs of those same age groups, the younger cohort was 50 precent larger than the older, yet the older group had slightly more different names.

  • 28 N = 279 noblewomen, 482 townswomen, and 485 peasants and serfs. The number of individuals per age c (...)

20Obscure names were less widespread among women simply because there were fewer female saints to choose from. However, evidence for the growing importance of fashion and parental choice can be found by examining the relative popularity of girls’ names. Consider Duniasha. The flower girl in Moscow’s “Furrnushed Room’z” is named Duniasha, as are several servants in War and Peace. Was this a typical lower-class name? Yes and no. The following table shows where Avdot´ia, from which the nickname Duniasha is derived, ranked —in first place, third place, and so forth— on the popularity scale of female names:28

21Clearly, many commoners answered to Duniasha, whereas among nobles it was becoming an old woman’s name. After having earlier been common throughout society, Avdot´ia / Duniasha by the reign of Alexander I thus acquired distinctly lower-class associations. However, after 1815 its popularity among the lower estates waned as well, suggesting a convergence in naming habits among different social strata.

  • 29 See the preceding footnote.

22While ever fewer noble girls were named Avdot´ia (or such comparable names as Pelageia or Matrëna), more bore the names of current or recent empresses –Ekaterina, Elizaveta, Mariia, Aleksandra. These then spread downward through society. The following table shows what share of all females of several estates bore one of those four names:29

23In each of these estates, among girls 14 or younger, there were by 1829 fewer Duniashas than either Aleksandras, Mariias, or Elizavetas. The divergent preferences among parents who christened their children at the turn of the century had disappeared.

  • 30 Blum et al., “Prénommer en Russie orthodoxe,” 351-353.

24Similar trends, albeit with a different timeline, have been observed among peasants in Moscow Province. Alain Blum, Irina Troitskaia, and Aleksandr Avdeev find that the “monarchical” names Aleksandr, Nikolai, and Aleksandra grew steadily more common in villages near Moscow, but they came into wide use only between the 1850s and 1880s, thanks apparently to the popularity of the “tsar-liberator” Alexander II. They also note that “urban” names such as Viktor or Antonina gained ground when the end of serfdom and increasing connections to Moscow broke down the barriers that had isolated the villagers from the rest of society. This was evidently a repetition, a half-century later, of the developments that we observe in the Moscow confessional registers from 1829.30

  • 31 Nikonov, Imia i obshchestvo, 53-55. The point about the growing association of names with social cl (...)

25A quantitative study by Vladimir Nikonov suggests that distinct naming traditions were emerging among peasant, merchant, and noble girls in the late eighteenth century. However, his evidence for noble names comes from the student body of the Smol´nyi Institute, which was drawn from the hereditary nobility —a narrower stratum than my database’s mix of hereditary and personal nobles (many of them presumably of non-noble extraction). At the same time, Nikonov also notes that the Moscow merchantry, the wealthier kin of the townspeople under discussion here, began in the period between 1801 and 1818 to adopt names similar to those of Smol´nyi students born in the second half of the eighteenth century, and that in general, the Moscow merchantry was closer to the nobility in its naming preferences than were provincial nobles, not to mention the peasants.31

26The evolution of naming practices suggests that thanks to the social interactions made possible by life in a large city, formerly upper-class cultural patterns were spreading downward through society. We now turn to the broader social environment in which these changes unfolded.

Urban Spaces

  • 32 “Pogibshee, no miloe sozdanie,” in Levitov, Moskovskiia nory i trushchoby, 195.

27The well-to-do authors who wrote most of the descriptions of pre-Reform Moscow give the impression that the city’s geographic space was socially segregated. In their perception, the downtown was aristocratic: palaces, bright lights, elegant and cosmopolitan shops, a busy, refined night life —the Moscow one knows from Griboedov and War and Peace. Zamoskvorech´e was stereotyped as the opposite: the preserve of a hidebound, xenophobic, puritanical merchantry that preferred shuttered gates and drawn curtains and was immortalized in Ostrovskii’s dramas. Lastly, there were the suburbs. Aleksandr Levitov observed with some hyperbole in 1862 that as “America ha[d] virgin forests” where no man had set foot, “Moscow ha[d] virgin streets.”32 Such places were especially common in the suburbs outside the Garden Ring; when authors registered the suburbs at all, it was for their village-like primitiveness and the blur of lower-status groups that inhabited them.

28The database of the four parishes bears out some, but only some, of these clichés. The downtown parish was indeed “aristocratic,” though not because of the number of nobles living there: at 8.5 percent, they were a small minority, and no more numerous than elsewhere in the city. Rather, downtown was “aristocratic” insofar as a few of the nobles were rich aristocrats and much of the population consisted of their house serfs. Huge retinues of servants were a hallmark of aristocratic display, and the confessional registers suggest that this was concentrated downtown: 72.8 percent of the parishioners there were house serfs, compared to only 14.2 in suburban Sushchëvskaia and a mere 1.9 percent in Zamoskvorech´e. Compared with downtown, the two parishes in “merchant” Zamoskvorech´e were more diverse, but with 19.3 percent merchants and 39.2 percent townspeople, the commercial element certainly predominated; of the other estates, only the nobles exceeded even six percent. The parish in Sushchëvskaia was the most heterogeneous of the four: townspeople (30.9 percent) formed the largest group, but the rest was an amorphous mix, with six estates each making up between 5.5 and 15.8 percent of the parishioners.

29It would be interesting to know how concentrated certain estates were on particular streets, but here the confessional registers are of little help because they do not include street addresses (although these can sometimes be reconstructed from other sources). They do, however, allow us to zoom in even closer, to the micro level of the individual house and its inhabitants. Houses diminished in scale as one moved away from the center, with a median of 17 parishioners per house downtown versus only 9 to 11.5 in the other three parishes. Even where they were small, however, Moscow houses in the 1820s were typically inhabited by multiple households of diverse estates. At home and on the street, Muscovites daily crossed paths in ways that promoted cultural hybridity and social mobility even as they reinforced a particularistic estate consciousness and traditional forms of authority.

  • 33 TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1128, l. 1.
  • 34 A. Voskresenskii, “Umstvennyi vzor na protekshiia leta moei zhizni ot kolybeli i do groba (1778-182 (...)

30We see this in the life of Aleksandr Voskresenskii (b. 1778). He was the son of a poor village cleric, but his world opened up when he came to Moscow as a youth. First he was a tutor in a noble home, where his duties included reading books to his landlady; later, he lived with a merchant. The Zamoskvorech´e confessional registers list him as a priest, and also as a homeowner whose lodgers included nobles, soldatki (wives or daughters of soldiers), townspeople, and a house serf.33 For much of his adult life he lived with members of other estates, and while his career and his memoirs suggest that he remained loyal to his native estate, the fact that he wrote memoirs at all, and the sentimentalist style in which they were composed, show how deeply his encounter with the secular educated classes had affected him.34

  • 35 A.D. Galakhov, Zapiski cheloveka (M. : Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 1999), 103-106.

31Mingling with other estates had an effect on nobles as well, especially if they were of limited means and lived away from the city center. In the 1820s, the future writer Aleksei Galakhov had an aunt in Zamoskvorech´e. What struck him, as he wrote about her decades later, was the contrast between her fierce pride in her noble ancestry and the modest reality of her lifestyle. His aunt was “utterly uneducated” and bereft of income, he recalled, except for dues from her twenty peasant “souls” and rent from her house. (If she was typical of area homeowners, her lodgers were a mix of petty nobles and commoners.) There was no question of her attending the balls downtown at the Noble Assembly, for these were “not open to people from that mix of nobles and townspeople with whom my aunt socialized; that would have required considerable expenses for clothing and carriages.” Instead, she hosted unpretentious parties at home, with a few hired musicians, a bare minimum of food, and lighting from dim and smelly tallow candles.35

32Houses like those of Voskresenskii or Galakhov’s aunt were sites where social identities and relationships were continually being negotiated. We glimpse some of these cross-currents in the letters of Suzanne Voilquin, a Parisian midwife and member of the proto-socialist Saint-Simonian movement. She was in Russia from 1839 to 1846, and although she lived in St. Petersburg, what she describes could as easily have occurred in Moscow.

  • 36 Suzanne Voilquin, Mémoires d’une saint-simonienne en Russie (1839-1846), Maïté Albistur and Daniel (...)

33In the building where she lived, Voilquin observed how the lower classes, particularly women, could achieve a degree of personal autonomy but also suffered under the harsh, sometimes competing demands of masters, employers, husbands, and the police. Across the hall from her lived a German bootmaker who had agreed to hire the serf girl of a poor noblewoman. Eighty percent of her wages were to go toward her manorial dues; when her mistress came to collect and the girl could not pay up, Voilquin writes in disbelief, she was packed off to the police and given 25 lashes. Voilquin herself employed a maid named Elena. She was born into serfdom and had been the teenage lover of her master’s son, who made sure she learned to read and write. Freed when her father was drafted into the army, and abandoned by her lover, Elena had gone off to work in the city. “Very few maidservants marry,” Voilquin explains, “but all are more or less provided with a brat (brother). These comforters take the place of the ‘cousins’ and ‘countrymen’ who adorn French kitchens.” In Elena’s case, the boyfriend was “a well-preserved forty-something” clerk whom Voilquin tolerated because “his demeanor is modest, and besides, his uniform is a guarantee of relative probity.” On one of many occasions when Elena’s drinking got her into trouble, her boyfriend and his colleague came to her rescue by composing a letter of apology in stilted, flowery French. After Elena was eventually fired anyway, her replacement was her sister, the gentle Annushka. Back in the village, Annushka had been married to a brutal drunk named Vasilii and had three children. Then the children died, Vasilii was drafted, and Annushka became a domestic in Moscow. Alerted that Vasilii’s unit was coming to Moscow, she fled to her sister in St. Petersburg, but painful misadventures ensued when Vasilii turned up there, too.36

34Nobles and officials, and even clerks like Elena’s boyfriend, were Kulturträger: they might be poor, but they wore uniforms, shaved, worked in offices, and occasionally knew some French. They had better manners but also expected deference, the more so when they lived cheek by jowl with the lower orders and were anxious to assert their status. They spread the regime’s culture but also sparked friction and resentment.

35These fraught interactions are explored in the novella Savvushka by Ivan Kokorëv (1826-1853). Savvushka is set in the early 1830s in Sushchëvskaia, near the suburban parish included in the database. The title character, a middle-aged tailor, lives in the same house with a greengrocer, a tailor, a glovemaker, and a few others, among them a 22-year-old collegiate registrar. One day, Savvushka sits next to the collegiate registrar. “So, Aleksandr Ivanych, what book is it that you deign to read?,” he asks, and is told condescendingly: “Lyric poetry, I mean, verses. Do you understand?” The young man then pompously declaims a “nebulous poem.” Savvushka addresses the younger man with the respectful vy, only to be answered with a patronizing ty. The conversation flows, but there is no real meeting of the minds. Experience has taught Savvushka about life’s injustice, whereas Aleksandr Ivanych treats people of lower condition as playthings and imagines that reality resembles the contrived plots and emotions that he knows from books.

  • 37 I.T. Kokorëv, Ocherki Moskvy sorokovikh godov (M.-L.: Academia, 1932), 282-283, 289-290.

36Savvushka brings up the young man’s interest in the maiden Lizan´ka. “But you wouldn’t actually marry her, right?” he asks. “What an idea!” comes the incredulous answer: “I’ll find myself a proper match, a noble girl. But what is she [Lizan´ka]? A townsman’s daughter.” His judgment clouded by the status obsessions of his class, he cannot see past the girl’s station to her vulnerable humanity. Savvushka appeals to his conscience and tells his own story of woe, but Aleksandr Ivanych is blind to the difference between reality and artifice: “If you wrote all that as a novel, it would be a fascinating story,” he remarks, to which Savvushka wearily responds: “God be with you, milord! What I told you is true and from the heart, yet here you are talking about your books. No, please spare me that.”37

  • 38 “Moskovskiia ‘komnaty snebil´iu’,” in Levitov, Moskovskiia nory i trushchoby, quotations on 25, 32.

37While Savvushka highlights the tension and miscommunication between different estates under the same roof, Levitov’s Moscow’s “Furrnushed Room’z” foregrounds the plasticity and opacity of the identities that emerge during such encounters. Like Kokorëv, whose father was a manumitted serf, Levitov (1835-1878) was no stranger to the world described in his fiction. His novella revolves around a young soldier’s wife, a villager named Tat´iana. She seeks a new life in Nicholaevan Moscow, much as Levitov himself, a village cleric’s son, did after dropping out of a provincial seminary. Tat´iana becomes a cook in a merchant household and discovers the simple yet intoxicating delights of the city: rich, plentiful food, and attentions from men of charm and manners. Over time, grown fat and streetwise, she meets a fellow soldatka who rents out furnished rooms to down-on-their-luck lodgers “who recommended themselves as unemployed governesses, orphans of a colonel or even a general, or at worst as widows of merchants who became bankrupt but had once belonged to the first guild.” Flattered by the thought of associating with such personages, Tat´iana sees the opportunity to reinvent herself and achieve the respect that society has always denied her, so she rents a few rooms in a large, gloomy downtown house and posts a misspelled sign advertising “furrnushed room’z.” She tells people that her own husband is a long-missing noble officer who by now has reached high rank, and her lodgers invent similarly inflated pedigrees for themselves. One of them claims to be a retired army ensign and once-wealthy landowner; this, he thinks, entitles him to order the artisan boys to bring him liquor and to bully the caretaker who asks him to tone down his drunken nighttime revels. Another lodger is young Praskov´ia Petrovna, recently arrived from the village, who hopes to attract a better class of men by reinventing herself as the faux-German “Amaliia Gustavovna.” In Moscow’s “Furrnushed Room’z”, estate identities cloak reality as easily as reveal it.38

  • 39 TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, l. 450-452, 454-456.

38As in the cases described by Voilquin, Kokorëv, and Levitov, most houses in Moscow were home to people of various estates, not counting all the migrants who are absent from the confessional registers but must have lived somewhere. In some houses, nobles lived with house serfs who both belonged to and worked for them. Extreme instances occurred in “aristocratic” central Moscow. Thus, in one house in the downtown parish, the only registered inhabitants were General Fedor Masolov and 83 house serfs. Another house in the same parish belonged to Prince Aleksei Shakhovskoi and had 85 inhabitants —ten nobles, one student, one peasant, three townspeople, and 70 house serfs.39 Seven other houses in the parish had between 27 and 69 house serfs each; in all but one, those house serfs formed a clear majority of the inhabitants. In the parish’s smaller houses as well, house serfs generally formed the bulk of the inhabitants.

  • 40 Vl. Kachenovskii, “Ivan Trofimovich Kachenovskii,” Bibiliograficheskiia zapiski, 1, 4 (April 1892): (...)
  • 41 TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, l. 513ob-514.

39In more modest form also one encountered this among the service nobility in outlying neighborhoods. For example, the most famous person listed in the parish in Sushchëvskaia was the editor of The Messenger of Europe, the history professor Mikhail Kachenovskii. His rank made him the civilian equivalent of a brigadier, but this Ukrainian-born son of an ethnic Greek townsman was no aristocrat; instead, he had achieved noble status through education and service.40 The 14 residents of his house included five nobles (Kachenovskii, his wife, and their three children) and eight house serfs who all belonged to the professor; the remaining resident, a townswoman, was the only person not obviously connected with the family, but she may have been a domestic employee.41

  • 42 Ibid., l. 516-516ob.
  • 43 Ibid., l. 519ob-520ob.

40In the more common scenario of multiple estates sharing a house, at least outside the city center, the residents included peasants or house serfs who were not living with their master and hence were probably wage laborers, like the domestics described by Voilquin. This scenario was on display down the street from the Kachenovskiis. This house belonged to the family of a deceased aristocrat and had 13 lodgers: a noble officer’s widow; three house serfs who lived apart from their master; a manumitted serf with his wife and son; another manumitted serf; two apparently single townsmen; and three widowed townswomen.42 A house in an adjacent street had 55 inhabitants – more than most suburban houses – who included townspeople, state peasants, peasant and house serfs of at least a dozen different masters, soldiers’ wives, artisans, printers, and the landlady herself (a junior official’s widow) with her mother, her two children, and her three “servants.”43

41How commonly did different estates share a house without forming part of the same household? Townspeople and merchants were more segregated than other estates. In the four parishes, in houses whose residents included townspeople, the median number of townspeople per house was five, and in all those houses together townspeople made up 33.2 percent of all the inhabitants; the corresponding figures for merchants were six per house and 37.6 percent of the total. For the clergy and nobles, the median in the four parishes was only three per house, but while members of the clergy formed 35.0 percent of those houses’ residents, for nobles the figure was only 16.1 percent. As for soldatki and their children, their median was only one per house, and they formed a mere 9.8 percent of the residents of the houses where they lived.

42Determining exactly who shared a house with whom is difficult because the evidence is ambiguous. The confessional registers are not always precise about identities and relationships, e. g., to what estate people identified as “servants” belonged; whether a serf was a peasant or a house serf; and whether members of subaltern groups were lodgers who lived on their own or live-in employees of higher-status residents of the same house. Fewer ambiguities arise if we isolate the six estates that seem always to be precisely identified: nobles, clergy, merchants, townspeople, artisans, and soldatki. In the following table, we see what percentage of the members of each of these six estates shared a house with one or more other estates. (Estates other than these six might live in the same house as well but are not counted here.) In general, as the table shows, most Muscovites lived in close proximity to other estates; even among the most segregated, the townspeople, only 30.3 percent lived in a house with no residents from the other five estates.

43One factor that affected an estate’s degree of segregation was homeownership. Since merchant status was contingent on paying guild fees, merchants were by definition not poor, allowing many to own their homes. Parish clergy were commonly provided with a house by their parish. Hence, in the four parishes, 83.3 percent of the clergy and 65.7 percent of the merchants owned their home or were members of the homeowner’s household. By contrast, many nobles were petty officials who lived on miserly salaries, so the figure for them was only 38.2 percent, and for the townspeople, the merchantry’s poorer cousins, it was only 23.3 percent. (Among soldatki who lived apart from their husbands, it was a mere 1.1 percent, one single individual.)

44There were noteworthy variations among neighborhoods. The suburban parish in Sushchëvskaia, where houses were small and cheap, had the highest proportion of people who owned their home or were members of the homeowner’s household: 28.2 percent for townspeople, 46.4 for nobles, and 95.6 for merchants. The figures were lower in Zamoskvorech´e, but the lowest occurred in the downtown parish: only 28.1 percent for nobles, and zero for townspeople. The merchants alone enjoyed a high level of homeownership (84.6 percent), perhaps because few other than wealthy merchants lived there at all.

45Merchants and clergy typically mingled with other estates when they took in tenants, and many merchants in addition provided housing for their employees; hence, in the four parishes, merchants and clergy comprised only 12.6 percent of the inhabitants, but their houses accommodated 28.6 percent of the population. By contrast, townspeople and especially soldatki encountered other estates as fellow lodgers or else as landlords and/or employers. As for the nobles, some resembled the Kachenovskiis, living in their own home with only their house serfs, but most were too poor and instead rented quarters where they could. In the downtown parish, where nobles owned just over half of the houses, nobles almost always rented from other nobles; in the other parishes, by contrast, they mostly rented from commoners.

Family

46When the parish priests organized their confessional registers by household, they were acknowledging the centrality of households in Muscovites’ lives. Households enforced social control, socialized the young, and supported those who could not provide for themselves. Their structure helped to differentiate the estates but also contributed to a more fundamental distinction between the middling and lower classes.

47A type of household arrangement found particularly among merchants, but also among the clergy, was the extended patriarchal family. Nikolai Vishniakov, who went on to be a harsh critic of what he considered the stifling provincialism of the merchantry, recalled his childhood in a multigenerational merchant family in Zamoskvorech´e in the 1850s:

  • 44 Nikolai Vishniakov, Svedeniia o kupecheskom rode Vishniakovykh, 3 vols. (M.: Tipografiia G. Lissner (...)

We led an unsociable life. At home we received only relatives, and we ourselves went to visit only relatives […] Among the middling merchantry we had many relatives and acquaintances, but we were intimate with no one. […] All our relationships had a ceremonial, formal, almost official character.44

  • 45 On this topic, see Jan de Vries, The Industrious Revolution: Consumer Behavior and the Household Ec (...)

48An extended family like the Vishniakovs provided an economic safety net, but often at the price of an insular existence under harsh patriarchal authority. At the other extreme, people living on their own had greater autonomy and contact with outsiders but were socially and economically vulnerable. Families were better positioned to realize the consumer aspirations associated with social mobility, for they could deploy the labor of wives, children, and the elderly to bring in additional wages and perform vital domestic chores at no cash expense.45 The position of people without families was far more precarious, even when not living alone: living with one’s employer offered some of the comforts of family life but not the security, and collectives (arteli) of male migrant laborers could pool their financial resources but had to spend more —e. g., on prepared foods— because they lacked the domestic skills specific to women. The following table summarizes information about which percentage of different estates lived alone, in nuclear families (head of household plus spouse and/or children), or in extended families (head of household plus dependents other than his/her nuclear family):

Family Structures (Percent)

Family Structures (Percent)

49Family structure followed the same geography as homeownership. The downtown parish, where homeownership was low, had the most nobles, merchants, and townspeople who lived alone – respectively, 23.4, 15.4, and 41.9 percent. The share who lived in extended families was highest where homeownership was also highest, in Sushchëvskaia – respectively, 43.4, 78.0, and 25.6 percent of the three estates. Household size followed this pattern as well: the downtown parish had the smallest families, with a median for all three estates of just one person, while the largest were in Sushchëvskaia, with a median of two for nobles and townspeople and four for merchants.

  • 46 The preceding paragraph is based on data from the four parishes and the separate clergy households.

50Family structure also reflected the socioeconomic position of different estates. For merchants who ran a family business, like the Vishniakovs, it made sense for adult sons to stay as their father’s assistants and heirs, and such families also had the means to take in widowed daughters or orphaned nephews. The parish clergy also lived in families, but the dynamics were different than with merchants. The parish typically provided priests, deacons, and sacristans with a house and a stable income. There was no real analogue to a family business, but it was common for elderly clerics to have their own position transferred to a son or son-in-law, who then moved into the same house and supported the retirees. Men had to be married to receive an appointment, so clerics married young: this may help explain why, in the database, the median age difference between spouses – how much older the husbands were – was only 5 years for clerics, compared with 6 for nobles, and 7 for merchants and townspeople. (Caution is needed in interpreting these numbers, because the incidence of second or third marriages, in which the husband might be much older than the wife, may have differed by estate.) There were few older children in clerical households, because boys left for school and both sexes married young, so the median age of the oldest son was 11, and for the oldest daughter, 10. By contrast, among nobles, merchants, and townspeople, whose sons more rarely went away to school, the corresponding ages ranged from 13 to 14.5 for boys and from 12 to 13 for girls. Even so, the clergy still had more children at home: a median of 3 per household (not counting childless households), compared with 2 for nobles and merchants and only 1 for townspeople.46

  • 47 Androssov, Statisticheskaia zapiska, 136-137.

51Nobles were in a harder position than merchants or clerics. Dependent on meager civil-service incomes, many could barely support themselves, let alone a family. Hence, more ended up alone, and fewer lived in extended families. However, they more than any estate were tied institutionally and emotionally to the monarchy, which sometimes substituted for an extended family by supporting children and the elderly through boarding schools and the Widows’ Home. Similarly, the Moscow branch of the Imperial Philanthropic Society provided financial assistance primarily to minor government officials whose rank entitled them to personal-noble status.47

  • 48 I.A. Slonov, Iz zhizni torgovoi Moskvy (Polveka nazad) (M.: Tipografiia russkago t-va Pechatnago i (...)

52Merchants, clerics, and nobles thus formed a middle stratum that enjoyed a social safety net provided either by families or by the crown. By contrast, those farther down the ladder either lived as subaltern members in other people’s households or else had to fend for themselves. Ivan Slonov’s experience was shared by many workers, apprentices, and shop clerks who lived with their employers. Slonov came from a poor family in the town of Kolomna near Moscow. In 1865, the adolescent Slonov’s father died and he had to go to work in Moscow for a trader named Zaborov. Decades later, by now a rich businessman and globetrotter, he recalled Zaborov and his sons as “true despots, ignorant and backward people.” Zaborov was an old-school merchant: living in his house in Zamoskvorech´e, Slonov and the twelve other young shop assistants were dressed in what looked like “prison uniforms,” and they were beaten, underfed, put to heavy household work, and used in church as the Zaborovs’ private choir. Appalling, yes, but hardly unusual: “Those were harsh times,” Slonov conceded, “and morals and customs were oppressive, so for all his remarkable severity, old man Zaborov”– he was born around 1780 – “was nonetheless a man of his time. At the time, among Russian merchants, there were many despots.”48

  • 49 TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, 529ob-532.
  • 50 Pavel Shcherbinin, “Zhizn´ russkoi soldatki v XVIII-XIX vekakh,” Voprosy istorii, no. 1 (2005): 79- (...)
  • 51 Voilquin, Mémoires, 134.

53Living under the thumb of a Zaborov was hard, but neither did the alternatives have much to recommend them. A case in point are the soldatki who lived in Moscow, typically far from their own or their husbands’ families. Like Suzanne Voilquin’s maidservant Annushka, or Tat´iana in Moscow’s “Furrnushed Room’z,” some found an oppressive refuge in domestic service or set up independent businesses. Others lived with their husbands in crowded barracks, while their sons attended schools that trained them to become soldiers. For example, according to the confessional register from Sushchëvskaia, 175 people lived in the local police station (chastnyi dom); among them were 157 army lower ranks, including 19 women, mostly wives of soldiers serving as police- or firemen.49 Living with their husbands kept the women off the streets and was encouraged by commanders in the belief that married life civilized the men.50 Suzanne Voilquin, as a Saint-Simonian, was fascinated by social engineering, and it was this aspect of women’s presence in the army that most intrigued her. She saw it mainly as a populationist measure to breed new subjects for the tsar, but it also inspired ironic thoughts of the utopian communes inspired by Charles Fourier, the early French socialist, who had written of “phalansteries” that would be organized with machine-like precision to ensure prosperity, harmony, and the satisfaction of humanity’s emotional and erotic needs. “Can you imagine such a regiment?” Voilquin wrote to her sister in New Orleans. “And amidst the soldiers’ uniforms, all this hodgepodge of women and children in rags? For me, despite the imposing grandeur of the barracks of St. Petersburg, I found this as little harmonious as an unsuccessful phalanstery.”51

  • 52 The experience of the soldatka has attracted historians’ interest for its gendered dimension and as (...)

54Many soldatki lived on their own, had no steady livelihood, and often ended up practicing at least casual prostitution.52 As with impoverished nobles, the state felt obligated to intervene as paternalistic provider and disciplinarian, but in much harsher, more punitive form. Androssov found in his 1832 study of Moscow that

In the records of the Work House [Smiritel´nyi Dom] one finds hundreds of soldatki who were sent there by the commandant for a month’s labor after being treated for venereal disease at the Military Hospital. This triangle – get infected in the city, go to the Hospital, from there to the Work House, then start over with disease, back to the Hospital, and labor in the Work House – is familiar to many of the soldatki who live in Moscow.

  • 53 Androssov, Statisticheskaia zapiska, 67, 78. See also: Joseph Bradley, “The Moscow Workhouse and Ur (...)

55Paupers with symptoms of sexually transmitted disease constituted the bulk of the women who were occasionally found frozen to death “in the vast [suburban] market gardens, or in the poorest remote streets of the city, where they were driven by debauchery and utter destitution.”53

  • 54 The almshouse database comprises two elements. First, the two almshouses (bogadel´ni) included in t (...)

56As this last passage suggests, neither patriarchal families, paternalistic employers, nor state institutions were capable of integrating everyone into a tight-knit, controlled community. Many ended up alone. For people from estates that were permanently settled in the city, this meant poverty. Often those affected were older women, in many cases serfs whom their masters had manumitted and left to the mercy of fate. Of the 235 townspeople and artisans in the four parishes who lived on their own, 138 were female, and half of those (69 individuals) were 45 or older; most were widows. Soldatki were in the worst position, with 80.4 percent living alone. Older women from the poorer classes often ended up as charity cases. In a database of almshouses, comprising 601 individuals with a median age of 65, women made up 77.2 percent (464 individuals). Only 219 of these 601 individuals were identified by estate, but within that subset, the lower orders clearly predominated: soldatki were 32.8 percent, and artisans and townspeople, who presumably included impoverished former merchants, another 44.3 percent.54

  • 55 Based on the same data as the earlier table on family structures.
  • 56 “Soldiers” includes enlisted men and non-commissioned officers. These figures represent all the sol (...)
  • 57 Slonov, Iz zhizni, 42.

57Living alone could mean something quite different for house serfs, the group with the largest share of people living alone.55 If we compare women who lived without kin or headed their own household, the median age was 26 for house serfs versus 44 for soldatki. This difference reflects the circumstances that brought the women to Moscow in the first place. House serfs often came to the city as girls or young women, whether to work for their master or for a paying employer, and many later probably returned to their native villages. Soldatki, by contrast, arrived as adults and had nowhere to go back to. As a result, among women who lived without kin or headed their own household, one-third of house serfs were under 22 and only one-tenth were 60 or older; for soldatki, the figures were zero under 22 and one-sixth who were 60 or older. Similar patterns held for males who lived without kin or headed their own household: the median age was 28 for house serfs, 43 for soldiers. Most of the soldiers were veterans who had been reassigned to the police or fire department and leaned toward the older side of middle age: two-thirds were in their forties or fifties.56 These age structures help to explain why foreign visitors remarked on the alacrity of lower-class Muscovites, many of them house serfs, whereas, as Slonov recalled, “a typical thing to see in Moscow” were policemen, outfitted with archaic shakos and halberds, leaning against their guardhouses and taking a nap.57

Conclusion

58The evidence from the confessional registers suggests how complex and paradoxical the urban estate system was in everyday life. For example, the data about family and homeownership substantiate the view that merchants and clergy were particularistic subcultures that kept aloof from other estates, whereas the data about residential segregation and names suggest that upper-class culture was spreading across estate boundaries thanks to nobles living in proximity to other estates and influencing their choice of names for their children. Both the centrifugal and the centripetal forces of the estate system are thus visible in the registers.

  • 58 The correlation of “complex and densely populated households” with higher wealth and social status (...)

59Overall, the evidence presented here suggests that several dynamics governed what it meant to belong to a particular estate in Moscow under Nicholas I. Socioeconomically, the merchants, clergy, and many nobles and townspeople lived in families, and as homeowners they were in addition rooted in their neighborhoods, thus forming a middle class whose households provided a degree of security. By contrast, the poorer townspeople and most soldatki lived alone, faced a presumably more peripatetic life as renters, and were an economically precarious lower class.58 As for rural migrants, they also often lived without kin, but they could return to their villages, and many probably lived in informal groups not identified in the confessional registers. A separate criterion of social differentiation is how the support systems of each estate affected its relationship with the culture and institutions of the government: nobles and soldatki were connected, albeit in dissimilar ways, to official institutions that supported the needy and promoted the regime’s vision of enlightenment, whereas merchants, clergy, and townspeople relied on family networks that upheld more traditional cultural patterns. Finally, the close daily contacts among members of diverse estates, and the spread of certain names from the nobility to the other estates, suggests that the everyday reality of the estate system encouraged not only the formation of distinct social strata but also a degree of cultural homogenization across social boundaries.

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Notes

1 The research for this article was made possible by generous support from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the National Council on East European and Eurasian Research, and the American Council of Teachers of Russian. I am grateful to Alison Smith, the two anonymous readers for the Cahiers du Monde russe, and the participants at the October 2010 Midwest Russian History Workshop for their close reading of earlier versions of the text.

2 Elise K. Wirtschafter, Structures of Society: Imperial Russia’s “People of Various Ranks” (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1994), 37; eadem, Social Identity in Imperial Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1997), 73, 133, 163.

3 See, for example, the texts reproduced in S.S. Ilizarov, ed., Moskva v opisaniiakh XVIII veka (M.: Ianus-K, 1997).

4 These issues are discussed in my forthcoming book Enlightened Metropolis: Constructing Imperial Moscow, 1762-1855 (Oxford University Press), from which parts of the present article are adapted.

5 Quoted in Nikolai Engel´gardt, Istoriia russkoi literatury XIX stoletiia, v. 1: 1800-1850 (SPb.: Izdanie A.S. Suvorina, 1902), 593.

6 Peter Sekirin, ed., The Dostoevsky Archive: Firsthand Accounts of the Novelist From Contemporaries’ Memoirs and Rare Periodicals (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1997), 47.

7 Recent scholarship that addresses these themes includes, for example: A.B. Kamenskii, Povsednevnost´ russkikh gorodskikh obyvatelei: Istoricheskie anekdoty iz provintsial´noi zhizni XVIII veka (M.: Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Gumanitarnyi Universitet, 2006); A.I. Kupriianov, Gorodskaia kul´tura russkoi provintsii: Konets XVIII-pervaia polovina XIX veka (M.: Novyi khronograf, 2007).

8 TsIAM (Tsentral´nyi istoricheskii arkhiv Moskvy) f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, “Ispovednye vedomosti nikitskogo soroka 1829,” l. 447-461ob, tserkov´ Nikolaia chudotvortsa, chto v Gnezdnikakh (753 parishioners); ibid., l. 508-537, tserkov´ Prepodobnogo Pimena, chto v novykh vorotnikakh (1,254 parishioners); TsIAM, f. 203, op. 747, d. 1128, “Ispovednye vedomosti tserkvei zamoskvoretskogo soroka [1829],” l. 236-251ob, ts. Kosmodamianskaia, chto v nizhnikh sadovnikakh (603 parishioners); ibid, l. 581-589ob, ts. Prepodobnogo Marona chudotvortsa, chto v starykh panakh (279 parishioners).

9 TsIAM, f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, Tverskaia chast´: ts. Aleksiia Mitropolita, chto na Glinishchakh (39 parishioners, l. 2-3ob) and ts. Voskreseniia Khristova, chto na Uspenskom vrazhke (21 parishioners, l. 87-87ob); Arbatskaia: ts. Blagoveshcheniia presviatoi Bogoroditsy, chto za Tverskimi vorotami (35 parishioners, l. 14-14a), ts. Vozneseniia Gospodnia, chto na Tsaritsynoi ulitse (53 parishioners, l. 31-32ob), ts. Vozneseniia Gospodnia, chto na Bol´shoi Nikitskoi (18 parishioners, l. 46-46ob), and ts. Voskreseniia Khristova, chto v Maloi Bronnoi (48 parishioners, l. 101-102); Presnenskaia: ts. Vasiliia Kesariiskogo, chto v Tverskoi Iamskoi slobode (68 parishioners, l. 59-60). TsIAM, f. 203, op. 747, d. 1128; Iakimanskaia: ts. Nikolaia chudotvortsa, chto v Golutvine (53 parishioners, l. 1-2) and ts. Bozhiei Materi vsekh skorbiashchikh radosti, chto na Bol´shoi ordynke (45 parishioners, l. 34-35); Piatnitskaia: ts. Sv. Ioanna Predtechi, chto pod Borom (35 parishioners, l. 19-19ob).

10 TsIAM, f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, l. 397-406, ts. Sviatyia Ravno-Apostol´nyia Marii Magdaliny, chto v Imperatorskom Vdov´em Dome (Presnenskaia chast´).

11 The usefulness and reliability of the confessional registers for analyzing the makeup of the urban population is discussed in B.N. Mironov, Russkii gorod v 1740-1860-e gody: Demograficheskoe, sotsial´noe i ėkonomicheskoe razvitie (L.: Nauka, 1990), 7-8. A recent study finds that the registers’ reliability varied considerably from one case to another: Daniel H. Kaiser, “The Sacrament of Confession in the Russian Empire: A Contribution to the Source Study of Ispovednye rospisi,” in Brian Boeck, Russell Martin, and Daniel Rowland, eds., Aporia: Studies in Early Slavic History and Culture in Honor of Donald Ostrowski, (Bloomington: Slavica, 2011).

12 These observations are based on TsIAM f. 14, op. 7, d. 3488, “Obyvatel´skaia kniga po Sushchëvskoi chasti s 1828 po 1831.”

13 G. Le Cointe de Laveau, Guide du voyageur à Moscou (M.: de l’imprimerie d’Auguste Semen, Imp. de l’Acad. Impériale méd.-chirurgicale, 1824), table facing p. 86.

14 Of the two remaining churches, one is not identified by name in the register, and the other is located outside the ten chasti covered by this analysis.

15 Downtown – Miasnitskaia and Sretenskaia; Zamoskvorech´e – Iakimanskaia and Piatniskaia; suburbs—Basmannaia, Lefortovskaia, Meshchanskaia, Pokrovskaia, Serpukhovskaia, and Suchchëvskaia.

16 Le Cointe de Laveau, Guide du voyageur à Moscou, table facing p. 86.

17 Data from the summary tables in TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1128 and d. 1132.

18 V. Androssov, Statisticheskaia zapiska o Moskve (M.: V tipografii Semena Selivanovskago, 1832), 100-101, 116.

19 Here and throughout the article, individuals are counted as belonging to the same estate as their head of household.

20 Androssov, Statisticheskaia zapiska, 52-53 (for the number of merchants, see ibid., 57-58); the total given by Androssov, for reasons he does not explain, is 305,631.

21 These figures include the databases for the four parishes, the Widows’ Home, and the separate clerical households.

22 Example cited in O.N. Trubachëv, ed., Russkaia onomastka i onomastika Rossii: Slovar´ (M.: Shkola-Press, 1994), 71.

23 S. Rassadin, “Svoi liudi, ili russkii obyvatel´ (Aleksandr Ostrovskii),” in A. Ostrovskii, Dramaturgiia (M.: Izdatel´stvo AST—Agentstvo KRPA Olimp, 2002), 9-10. (The play is Bez viny vinovatye.)

24 “Moskovskiia ‘komnaty snebil´iu’,” in A. Levitov, Moskovskiia nory i trushchoby, 2nd ed. (SPb.: Izdanie V.E. Genkelia, 1869), quotation on 6.

25 Ivan Belousov, “Ushedshaia Moskva,” in Iu.N. Aleksandrov, ed., Moskovskaia starina: Vospominaniia moskvichei proshlogo stoletiia (M.: Izdatel´stvo Pravda, 1989), 375-376.

26 Alain Blum, Irina Troitskaia, and Alexandre Avdeev, “Prénommer en Russie orthodoxe : Une pratique particulière,” in Jean-Pierre Poussou and Isabelle Robin-Romero, eds., Histoire de la famille, de la démographie et des comportements: En hommage à Jean-Pierre Bardet (P.: PUPS, 2007), 341, 343.

27 V.A. Nikonov, Imia i obshchestvo (M.: Izdatel´stvo Nauka, Glavnaia redaktsiia vostochnoi literatury, 1974), 143.

28 N = 279 noblewomen, 482 townswomen, and 485 peasants and serfs. The number of individuals per age cohort, from oldest to youngest: noblewomen—102, 73, 51, 53; townswomen—102, 156, 128, 96; serfs and peasants—69, 166, 184, 66. The category “peasants and serfs” includes manumitted serfs.

29 See the preceding footnote.

30 Blum et al., “Prénommer en Russie orthodoxe,” 351-353.

31 Nikonov, Imia i obshchestvo, 53-55. The point about the growing association of names with social classes is also made in Daniel H. Kaiser, “Naming Cultures in Early Modern Russia,” in Nancy Shields Kollmann et al., eds., Камень Краєжгъльнъ / Rhetoric of the Medieval Slavic World: Essays Presented to Edward L. Keenan on His Sixtieth Birthday by his Colleagues and Students, Harvard Ukrainian Studies 19 (1995): 271-291.

32 “Pogibshee, no miloe sozdanie,” in Levitov, Moskovskiia nory i trushchoby, 195.

33 TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1128, l. 1.

34 A. Voskresenskii, “Umstvennyi vzor na protekshiia leta moei zhizni ot kolybeli i do groba (1778-1825 g.),” Dushepoleznoe Chtenie, no. 11 (Nov. 1894): 367-384.

35 A.D. Galakhov, Zapiski cheloveka (M. : Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 1999), 103-106.

36 Suzanne Voilquin, Mémoires d’une saint-simonienne en Russie (1839-1846), Maïté Albistur and Daniel Armogathe, eds. (n. p.: Editions des Femmes, 1977), 131-132, 139, 153-155, 175, 185-187, 197-203, 212-222, quotations on 139.

37 I.T. Kokorëv, Ocherki Moskvy sorokovikh godov (M.-L.: Academia, 1932), 282-283, 289-290.

38 “Moskovskiia ‘komnaty snebil´iu’,” in Levitov, Moskovskiia nory i trushchoby, quotations on 25, 32.

39 TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, l. 450-452, 454-456.

40 Vl. Kachenovskii, “Ivan Trofimovich Kachenovskii,” Bibiliograficheskiia zapiski, 1, 4 (April 1892): 259-269, here: 259-260.

41 TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, l. 513ob-514.

42 Ibid., l. 516-516ob.

43 Ibid., l. 519ob-520ob.

44 Nikolai Vishniakov, Svedeniia o kupecheskom rode Vishniakovykh, 3 vols. (M.: Tipografiia G. Lissnera i A Geshelia [v. 2-3: G. Lissnera i D. Sobko], 1903-1911), 2: 150, 153.

45 On this topic, see Jan de Vries, The Industrious Revolution: Consumer Behavior and the Household Economy, 1650 to the Present (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 86, 111.

46 The preceding paragraph is based on data from the four parishes and the separate clergy households.

47 Androssov, Statisticheskaia zapiska, 136-137.

48 I.A. Slonov, Iz zhizni torgovoi Moskvy (Polveka nazad) (M.: Tipografiia russkago t-va Pechatnago i Izdatel´skago dela, 1914), 73, 75-77, 81.

49 TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1130, 529ob-532.

50 Pavel Shcherbinin, “Zhizn´ russkoi soldatki v XVIII-XIX vekakh,” Voprosy istorii, no. 1 (2005): 79-92, here: 83-85.

51 Voilquin, Mémoires, 134.

52 The experience of the soldatka has attracted historians’ interest for its gendered dimension and as an illustration of social mobility and marginality related to the estate system; see, for example: Elise Kimerling Wirtschafter, “Social Misfits: Veterans and Soldiers’ Families in Servile Russia,” Journal of Military History, 59 (April 1995): 215-236; Beatrice Farnsworth, “The Soldatka: Folklore and Court Record,” Slavic Review, 49, 1 (Spring 1990): 58-73; Shcherbinin, “Zhizn’ russkoi soldatki.” On soldatki as prostitutes later in the century, see Barbara Alpern Engel, “St. Petersburg Prostitutes in the Late Nineteenth Century: A Personal and Social Profile,” Russian Review, 48, 1 (Jan. 1989): 21-44, esp. 26.

53 Androssov, Statisticheskaia zapiska, 67, 78. See also: Joseph Bradley, “The Moscow Workhouse and Urban Welfare Reform in Russia,” Russian Review, 41, 4 (Oct. 1982): 427-444.

54 The almshouse database comprises two elements. First, the two almshouses (bogadel´ni) included in the database on the four parishes. Second, all the almshouse residents (bogadel´niki) recorded in the confessional registers for the first 20 parishes in the file TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1128: these include almshouses in ten parishes plus the House of the Imperial Philanthropic Society. TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1128, l. 10, 43, 67ob-68, 91ob-96ob, 145-145ob, 150, 173-174ob, 192, 232-232ob, 245ob, 338-338ob; d. 1130, 447ob. For a major new study of almshouses and other forms of welfare in pre-Reform Moscow, see N.V. Kozlova, Liudi driakhlye, bol´nye, ubogie v Moskve XVIII veka (M.: ROSSPEN, 2010).

55 Based on the same data as the earlier table on family structures.

56 “Soldiers” includes enlisted men and non-commissioned officers. These figures represent all the soldiers from the database plus an additional data set composed of all the soldiers mentioned in the confessional registers for the first twenty churches included in TsIAM f. 203, op. 747, d. 1128.

57 Slonov, Iz zhizni, 42.

58 The correlation of “complex and densely populated households” with higher wealth and social status has also been noted for Russian towns in the early eighteenth century: Daniel H. Kaiser, “Urban Household Composition in Early Modern Russia,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 23, 1 (Summer 1992): 39-71, esp. 70.

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Table des illustrations

Source: M. Damaze de Raymond, Tableau historique, géographique, militaire et moral de l’Empire de Russie, 2 vols. [P. : Le Normant, 1812].
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Population and Parish Registration in Selected Chasti, 1824 and 1829
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Family Structures (Percent)
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Référence électronique

Alexander M. Martin, « Urban encounters », Cahiers du monde russe [En ligne], 51/2-3 | 2010, mis en ligne le 26 octobre 2013, Consulté le 24 avril 2017. URL : http://monderusse.revues.org/9192

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Droits d'auteur

2011

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