Mapping the graphosphere: cultures of writing in early 19th-century Russia (and before).
The graphosphere has two types of boundary, external and internal. It can be characterized both by its relations to what lies outside it and by the interrelations of the constituent components within it. Studies of the early history of the graphosphere focus on its outer boundaries: on its expansion of graphic technologies of information into new social and cultural spaces, on their relations with traditional nongraphic communication (i.e., speech). In the modern world, by contrast, the graphosphere has become, in effect, ubiquitous. It has virtually no outer boundaries. In more recent history, therefore--gradually, over the past four or five centuries--interest shifts onto the graphosphere's inner boundaries, onto the changing functions and configurations and dynamic reconfigurations of its various constituent technologies.
Information technologies emerge in sequence, and the pioneers of information history tended to represent that sequence as a fairly straightforward succession or progression, in an enticing vision of technologically driven cultural and social change. (2) Subsequent studies have rightly emphasized that the new technologies do not simply replace the old. (3) Gesture does not become redundant with the emergence of human speech, nor speech with the spread of writing, nor writing with the spread of printing, nor--much to the relief of paper manufacturers--has printing disappeared with the spread of digital media. This is partly because the newer technologies are not straightforward functional equivalents for the older technologies, not just better ways of doing the same things. On the one hand, they facilitate the doing of new things, and their assimilation may thus involve complex shifts in the functionalities of and interactions among technologies (the analogy with ecosystems, while imperfect, can be felicitous). (4) On the other hand, the technologies relate not just to one another in a closed system but to their specific producers and consumers in real (hence different) societies. Thus, although in very broad terms one can trace processes associated with technological change across history, any assumption of technology-driven determinism stumbles against the sheer variety of specific sociocultural dynamics in real contexts. This tension between general process and culture-specific divergence is what makes the study of graphospheric boundaries--both external and internal--continually challenging.
Although the complexity of the subject does seem to be generally acknowledged, studies of that complexity have been rare, at any rate with regard to Russia. In the first place, historians tend to focus on one or other technology more than on interrelationships, and on the newer more than on the older in any given period. Thus, for example, we have extensive studies of the manuscript cultures of early Rus', (5) or of Russian print culture, from the early 18th century to the post-Soviet period, (6) plus an abundance of self-contained surveys of "niche" uses of particular technologies and a fast-growing literature on digital technologies and the blogosphere; but few attempts at holistic study even as a synchronic snapshot, let alone with any chronological depth. The rise of the new is an important story, but one that can also misrepresent the social and cultural dynamics of the graphosphere as a whole, whether at a given moment or in its transformations over time. (7) Second, besides the tendency to be mono-technological, such studies also tend--by linguistic habit if not by intellectual conviction--to refer to each technology as, in a sense, monocultural, or at any rate as an integral phenomenon and field of inquiry, through the singular ("print culture," "manuscript culture," "digital culture," etc.). In practice this may or may not be appropriate. There may be one or several cultures using a given technology, and in each of those cultures the interrelations among technologies may function similarly or differently. Such are some of the basic issues in the study of the internal boundaries of the graphosphere.
This article focuses on the two classic graphic technologies of the word: writing and printing. In crude summary, the conventional "progressive" model of technological and associated cultural history represents writing (handwriting, manuscripts) as the premodern (mainly medieval) medium, to be succeeded by print as the modern medium, followed by the contemporary digital media. When the assumptions of this model are applied to Russia, they lead to a foregrounding of the fact that the introduction, assimilation, and dissemination of the modern technology, though ultimately inexorable, were late and slow by comparison with the equivalent processes in Western Europe (viewed as the model of proper technological progress). A lot continued to be produced by hand long into what "should" have been the age of print. Such late handwritten production tends to be treated as culturally interesting or relevant when it is also politically subversive or literarily distinguished, but otherwise it is an indication and consequence of backwardness? In consequence, the importance and functions of manuscript cultures (in the plural) are both underestimated and underinvestigated. This, in turn, affects our understanding of print cultures as well, and hence of the broader history of information technologies in Russia. Here I reverse the usual procedure. I begin with manuscript cultures in the early 19th century, consider their relations with the associated print cultures, and sketch the origins and development of those relations back as far as seems appropriate in each case.
No substantial, integrated survey of Russian 19th-century manuscript culture(s) exists. Symptomatically, most of the basic handbooks of Russian paleography do not normally extend to the 19th century. In one of the standard mid-Soviet works, published in 1956, L. V. Cherepnin lamented the almost total lack of paleographic research on the 19th century, (9) but his own attempt to redress the balance was limited to the manuscripts of a few major writers and political figures. (10) Half a century later, the situation had barely changed. Thus two general books on Russian paleography, both published in 2003, make contradictory pronouncements on whether the 19th century is or is not properly part of their field of inquiry. While I. V. Levochkin explains that "Russian paleography studies not only early writing (10th-13th centuries) but also writing of the medieval (14th-16th centuries) and modern (17th-19th centuries) periods," G. N. Aiplatov and A. G. Ivanov state that "paleography studies predominantly manuscript sources before [my emphasis] the 19th century." (11) One might have thought that the explosion of modern archival research would have prompted some intense gap filling, but apparently not. (12) Absurdly, the 55 specimens of handwriting, together with transcriptions, assembled by Biske in 1919 can still be useful. (13)
Hence the need for a sketch map, however speculative and provisional.
There were four main cultures of manuscript writing in early 19th-century Russia: (1) the religious, (2) the administrative, (3) the literary and intellectual, and (4) the private. How did each of these four manuscript cultures stand in relation to associated cultures of print? Here I focus on just two of the many possible dimensions of these relationships: on function and on status. What were, on the one hand, the perceived functions and, on the other hand, the perceived status or authority of the respective media in each case?
A summary glance at almost any substantial catalogue of Russian religious manuscripts shows a continuous history of production and use from the Middle Ages through to the 19th century and beyond. (14) Part of the explanation lies in the Old Believer distrust of post-schismatic official printed books, but production was by no means an Old Believer monopoly, and religious manuscript culture cannot be treated exclusively as a schismatic "niche" phenomenon. (15) In traditional religious culture, right through to the 19th century, there was little or no functional or authoritative differentiation between manuscript and print as such. This does not mean that all religious manuscripts and all religious printed books were functionally and authoritatively identical: as we shall see, there was scope for variation and even polemic on both counts in particular cases and in particular contexts. Nevertheless, a broad cross-media functional equivalence is an important and distinctive feature. We can trace it back to the beginning of print culture in Russia, and through subsequent centuries.
This last remark begs a question: when was the beginning of print culture in Russia? The apparently simple question has several possible answers. The first answer, the most widespread in general accounts, is: 1564, the year in which Ivan Fedorov printed the first dated Muscovite book. This is the answer embedded in and implied by Fedorov's popular sobriquet, pervopechatnih, the first printer. However, uncritical Fedorov-fetishism is punctured by the nitpicking objections of the initiated, who provide the second answer: that Fedorov was not the Muscovite pervopechatnik but merely the first to flaunt his name in a dated colophon; hence his elevation in the modern cult of the named individual, whereas Muscovite print culture actually began with the anonymous imprints over the previous decade. (16) A third answer turns attention back onto the terms of the question, which refers not to Muscovite printed book production but to "print culture." One could argue, for example, that print culture in Muscovy predated local book production, since imported printed books (first from "Latin" Europe, then Cyrillic books from Ruthenia) had been in circulation and active use for many decades before the technology was adopted in Moscow itself. (17) Alternatively (a fourth answer), even if we stick to local production, it can be argued that the mid-16th-century printed books were no more than sporadic and isolated objects, not sufficient to generate a "print culture" in their own time. 1564 (or thereabouts) was not Russia's "Gutenberg moment," and there was no parallel to the extraordinarily rapid diversification and dissemination of print production throughout Renaissance Western Europe from the mid-15th century. Printing had no such obviously distinctive functions and mission in Ivan IV's Moscow. Fedorov quit, and the continuous story of Muscovite printing does not properly start for another couple of generations, until the second decade of the 17th century. (18) Then there is the fifth answer: if by "print culture" we mean not just the existence of printed objects but cultural developments distinctive to the medium, then we have to look later still, to the age of Peter.
Pre-Petrine Russian printing neither superseded nor outflanked manuscript culture. In essence, for the first century and a half of their existence Muscovite printed books replicated both the repertoire and the appearance of manuscript books; indeed, not even of the full range of manuscript books but of a specific subset. In repertoire, the overwhelming majority of pre-Petrine Muscovite printed books were limited to the practical demands either of the basic educational curriculum or of the church's annual cycles of worship. Although educational textbooks, especially primers and instructional versions of the Psalter and Horologion, constitute less than 10 percent of the titles, large print runs and frequent reprints mean that they probably account for over half of the total number of books produced. (19) Liturgical books constitute around 40 percent of the titles and editions, though nearer 30 percent of the total number of copies, while--reversing the proportions--books for general edification (homilies and exegesis) provide more of the titles (again around 40 percent) but fewer than 10 percent of the total number of copies. The technology of print was used for its efficiency as a means of standardizing and multiplying a set range of texts, not as a catalyst for the production of new types of text. Visually, early printed books were made to look much like their manuscript counterparts. Visually and functionally the relationship was one of equivalence.
The reasons for such limitations in early Russian print culture have been a topic of much speculation. Edward L. Keenan, for example, attributes it to state censorship and paranoid manipulation of the supply. Robert Mathiesen, by complete contrast, claims that it was due to the high status of the liturgy, while Irina Pozdeeva comes close to arguing that the limitations were not really limitations at all. (20)
A Russian print culture as something distinct from manuscript cultures was a product of the Petrine revolution. Petrine civic type not merely looked different; it was used for new kinds of books, a new type for a new culture. (21) Crucially for the dynamics of print and manuscript, the new type was introduced alongside, rather than instead of, the old. This was differentiation, not reform; the parallel introduction of something new, not the modernization or abolition of something old. The traditional kirillitsa retained its role in the production of church books. The visual and functional distinction between ecclesiastical kirillitsa and secular civic type, though not an immediately consistent practice, was the intention, the message, and the eventual result. (22) Paradoxically, therefore, the introduction of civic type could be said to have strengthened, rather than undermining, the traditional undifferentiated culture of ecclesiastical writing, whether in print or in manuscript. Pre-Petrine printing was a monoculture whose repertoire and appearance was encompassed by the manuscript culture of its day. Through introducing new types (in all senses) of printing for new functions while also retaining the old in its old functions, the Petrine reforms created and entrenched a plurality of print cultures but thereby also provided a structure for the long-term retention of the kirillitsa monoculture. With regard to their respective manuscript cultures: although the civic type was not dissimilar to some forms of cursive script, there was no consistent formal or visual correspondence between the new printing and the increasingly diverse handwritings which developed in the nonreligious sphere. (23) The letter forms of the civic type were predominantly associated not just with secular content but specifically with print. In the Orthodox religious sphere, by contrast, manuscript and print maintained a visual and functional equivalence, as different means of doing the same thing, right through to the 19th century. Each mimicked the other. There was no clear sense of a graphospheric boundary between them. Just as the earliest printed books were made to look like manuscript books, so manuscript books could model themselves very precisely on printed books. It can sometimes be hard, at an unpracticed glance, to distinguish which book is a product of which technology (see Figure 1). (24) Or the two could intermingle: printed decorations, headpieces and illustrations can be found in manuscript books from at least the 16th century, and the practice continued in the 19th century.
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The exception proves the rule. When ecclesiastical printing separated itself demonstratively from its visual association with the equivalent manuscript culture, the result was problematic. The Russian Bible Society's short-lived attempts at publishing vernacular translations of Scripture involved not just rendering from Church Slavonic into Russian but also transposing from kirillitsa to civic type. The first translation of the Gospels appeared in 1819, followed by the complete New Testament in 1821. Initially the Bible Society publications retained both versions in parallel columns, but soon the fig leaf of the kirillitsa was removed and the translations began to be issued without their Church Slavonic originals, in civic type alone. A civic-type Psalter appeared in 1822, the earliest St. Petersburg edition of the New Testament in civic type alone was issued in 1823, with a Moscow edition following in 1824. Traditionalists were uncomfortable about the entire project. Language and script were not the only points of complaint against the Bible Society, but they were symptomatic. (25) The vernacular text, in civic type, did not look like the authoritative Scriptures ought to look. It had too blatantly breached the internal boundary of print cultures. It had been cut off from the exclusive and marked sphere of ecclesiastical print-manuscript equivalence. The experiment was stamped on by the minister of education, Aleksandr Shishkov. A further half-century had to pass before the first Russian publication of a complete Russian translation of the Bible, the Synodal Bible of 1876. To summarize schematically: in liturgical and ecclesiastical culture the graphospheric boundary was not technological, between manuscript and print; rather it was to an appreciable extent visual, between iconic and noniconic representations of the authoritative sacred texts.
The claim is not that manuscript and print were identical and interchangeable in all respects. The social geography, for example, was differentiated: manuscripts were more typical of a monastic or rural milieu. Nor did functional equivalence, reinforced by visual association, necessarily imply that the two media were perceived as identical in authority. Here we can distinguish between the authority of an individual text in either medium, and the textual authority of the medium in general. At the level of the individual text, neither print nor manuscript was paramount in all contexts. Monasteries, churches, or individuals could hold and use the same works in either form. The Nikonian revised liturgical texts issued by the Moscow Printing House in the 1650s were authoritative for those who remained under patriarchal authority but not for schismatics. Nevertheless, at a more general level, print tended to be treated as definitive, at least in principle or aspiration. Thus, for example, the Old Believers may have preferred their own manuscripts to Nikonian printed texts, but their manuscripts (and indeed their own printed books) drew authority not from one another but from pre-Nikonian print. (26)
With the growth of the administrative apparatus from the 16th century onward, in the role of quintessential scribe the monk gradually came to be replaced by the minor civil servant. (27) By the middle of the 19th century, Russia's institutions of governance were churning out documents on a truly awesome scale: upward of 30 million documents per year, apparently, in the Ministry of the Interior alone. (28) Over 1,350 separate documents could be required in the course of a single transaction, the sale of a nobleman's land. (29) This was a lot of writing by a lot of people, vastly more than were involved in print production. From the late 1830s, the scribe made his cultural bow as literary hero. Through Gogol''s Akakii Akakievich, or a decade later through the protagonists of stories emanating from the natural'naia shkola, including the early stories of Dostoevskii, readers were inducted into a social and psychological pathology of scribedom. Where ancient monastic scribes had been pious and ascetic recorders of eternal truths (at least in literary representation--the classic exemplar being Pimen in Pushkin's Boris Godunov), the new quill pushers were sensitive souls deformed by the relentless tyranny of soulless routine whose very purpose had been reduced to mere process. Here we are not concerned by the adequacy of such representations but with the prominence and functions and authority of the medium itself, especially in its relations with the equivalent culture of print.
Very broadly, one can draw a functional distinction between routine recordkeeping and the dissemination of official pronouncements. Manuscript was the technology of record, print was the technology of dissemination. This, overall, seems a fairly clear internal graphospheric boundary, yet on inspection some of the border zones are interestingly murky.
Here, again, we start with a digression on the origins of print. In the previous section we looked at five possible answers to the question of when print culture began. There is a sixth. If by "print" we mean any lettering formed by impression, then the story begins long before the introduction of the printing press with movable type. The earliest East Slavic graphic "impressions" of writing are the legends on the coins of Vladimir and on the seals of the princes, churchmen, and functionaries of Rus'. (30) Printing in this sense begins in an administrative function, with the official imprimatur, as a sign of status, authority. The impressed seal authenticates the attached manuscript document. I do not claim a direct line of descent from the early impressed seal to the later printed document, but the association of impression with authority is indicative. (31)
Systematic histories and bibliographies of Russian printing focus on books. Printed documents are inadequately documented. Two features seem adequately clear: first, in the production of printed administrative documents, as in other aspects of printing, Moscow lagged behind the Cyrillic printers from Poland/Lithuania and Ruthenia (in the late 16th century the Mamonichi in Vilno even developed a "cursive" typeface for administrative documents, visually distinct from ecclesiastical texts); second, the initial Muscovite experiments were sporadic. (32) The 1649 Ulozhenie was the first and only nonecclesiastical administrative book to appear in 17th-century Moscow. The first ecclesiastical administrative printed documents were the stavlennye gramoty for the appointment of priests, archpriests, and deacons, 7,000 of which were printed on Patriarch Nikon's orders in February and March 1652. (33) The regular printing of administrative documents for secular purposes began still later and was concentrated on the issue of zhalovannye gramoty, land charters and privileges. The records of the Printing Department Archive describe issues of zhalovannye gramoty starting in 1675. (34) The continuous and routine use of print for the production of authoritative official documents was among the processes initiated by Peter the Great. In Gary Marker's convenient summary table, administrative and official publications account for over 60 percent of Russia's printed output for the first quarter of the 18th century. (35) Figures for later in the century are more diluted, partly because of the growth of other print cultures, but partly also because, unlike the standard catalogues of print production under Peter (which list almost all forms of output), the standard catalogues for the post-Petrine period omit single-sheet proclamations and short individual laws, (36) which are the staple diet of administrative printing-not to mention (and they do not) the expanding range of standard printed documents and blank forms. (37) However, statistical problems arising from incomplete bibliographies do not alter the fact: while manuscript remained the standard medium for the conduct of administrative business, print became the standard medium for official pronouncements. In March 1714, Peter I decreed that decrees for general distribution were henceforth to be issued in print. In subsequent decades, print came to be used in documents for regulating the movement of people and for guaranteeing sums of money: for internal passports specifying permission for peasants to work more than 30 versts from their villages, for passports authorizing travel abroad, for the credentials of foreigners living in Russia, and for banknotes.
The difference in status and function between administrative uses of print and manuscript could be explained partly in terms of the economics of production (to print routine business would be absurdly expensive) or in terms of the convenience of mass distribution (records of routine transactions are rarely required in more than a few copies; some official pronouncements require widespread promulgation). In the early 1800s, as increasing numbers of provincial administrations acquired printing presses, they had to balance the startup costs against the difficulty in finding scribes to produce the requisite numbers of copies. (38) At least as important, however, was the question of control and authenticity. Manuscript copies were more easily forged. An ukaz of Catherine II dated 14 March 1764 announced that only printed decrees should be regarded as authentic, and manuscript documents purporting to be her decrees should be ignored. The seriousness of the problem is indicated by the fact that in October 1773 Catherine had to repeat the decree on the grounds that it was not sufficiently observed. (39) Because of the extent of state control over print production, print forgery was less likely than forgery in the more anarchic medium of handwriting. Thus, though some of the reasons for choosing print may have been practical (ease of mass copying and dissemination), resulting practices also gave the medium a particular aura. Printing was the technology that amplified and verified the voice of authority.
The aura of the printed decree is nicely illustrated, albeit on a somewhat anecdotal level, by its occasional appropriation into the private sphere in the early 19th century. At his estate at Gruzino, Count Arakcheev set up a printing press, producing rules for his military colonies--a kind of ministate. They included, for example, "Brief Rules for Mothers," whose afterword specified that the book should be kept "next to the icon-stand, so that [the rules] will be constantly in view." (40) In Arakcheev's version of the graphosphere, his printed rules were to be accorded the visible status of a sacred object.
The preceding couple of paragraphs are, however, in an important respect misleading. Not all early administrative documents were in fact fully printed. In many of them--perhaps the majority--the printed form was not yet the authoritative document. In order for it to become complete or valid, it required manuscript additions. A significant proportion of printed documents were actually technological hybrids. Decrees needed signing (and sealing), land grants needed a space for entering the particulars of the beneficiary, passports needed spaces for personal details. Such technological hybrids are of special interest to students of the graphosphere. They are themselves part of the border zone, key markers of the internal graphospheric boundaries.
Printed blank forms--deliberately incomplete printed texts with spaces left for manuscript insertions--figure among the earliest specimens of printing in Western Europe. (41) Scant catalogue records, poor survival rates, and a relative lack of scholarly interest, have meant that evidence for equivalent functions of Cyrillic printing has been hard to locate. One scholar has even suggested that an apparent absence of printed blank forms may be a distinctive feature of early Cyrillic printing. (42) But the impression is false. Thus, for example, around 1590 the Mamonichi in Vilno were commissioned by Bishop Kirill of Lutsk to print a standard charter for the appointment of priests. The text is a nine-leaf pamphlet, but it also serves as a blank form, with gaps left for the name of the priest to be filled in by hand. (43) Likewise the Muscovite charters of the last quarter of the 17th century: they are large, wordy folio documents almost entirely filled with printed text, but again with gaps for the individual details (see Figure 2). (44) Over the 18th century, printed blanks (i.e., technological hybrids, which became fully functional documents only with the requisite additions in manuscript) were introduced in a range of contexts. In the later 19th century, their production and use expanded exponentially. The printed blank form became the bureaucratic document-template par excellence (see, e.g., Figure 3). (45)
The graphospheric boundaries shift subtly even within the hybrids. We can trace, in very broad outline, an internal hierarchy from manuscript toward print, corresponding to a move up the scale of authority. Consider, for example, the scale of formats for internal passports. (46) A decree issued by Peter I in June 1724 (his so-called Plakat) specified that peasants wishing to work up to 30 versts from home needed (manuscript) letters of permission from their owners. For more distant work, they must have the letters registered with the district officials and replaced with a new permit (in effect, the passport), signed and sealed by the local military commander. (47) Legislation under Catherine I (in a decree of the Senate dated 1 February 1726) specified that printed blanks should be used for the official passports. (48) The insistence on print was expressly introduced as a device to combat forgery, (49) though we do not know to what extent it was successful, nor indeed do we know the extent of compliance. The issuing of a decree does not instantly change all existing practices. In the terms of the present discussion, here the change was in the balance of media, not in the replacement of one by the other. Print, as a more reliable technology of authentication, replaced some elements of the manuscript document. Not only were the personal details still in manuscript, however, but the document remained invalid without the manuscript signature. Russians traveling abroad took multimedia passports: printed blanks with the particulars completed in manuscript, authenticated both by the empress's wafer seal and by the signature of the relevant dignitary, plus (in many cases) an authorized printed translation of the main document into German. Foreigners in Russia could arrive with manuscript credentials (printed international passports were by no means universal in the 18th century), but, at least toward the end of the century, to conduct business inside Russia they might also need printed affirmation of their status issued (in Russian) by their own country's diplomatic representatives. (50)
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Even where the authority of print was explicitly declared, as in the case of decrees, in practice the hierarchy of technological status was more nuanced, more paradoxical, than might be supposed. Thus, on the one hand, printed decrees signaled their own authenticity through verbal and visual reference to traditionally verified (signed and sealed) originals. Virtually every printed decree, from their Petrine origins in 1714 through to the 19th century, concluded with (1) a printed roundel denoting the "place of the seal," and (2) next to the roundel, a printed statement indicating where and by whom the original document had been signed in manuscript (Figure 4). (51) In principle, therefore, at least at an emblematic level, the manuscript signature retained its status even while in practice it was being supplanted by a printed reference to itself. On the other hand, when local manuscript copies were made from the centrally distributed printed decrees, they could faithfully retain a (manuscript) representation of these printed allusions to the manuscript original, and to the fact that it had been printed (Figure 5). (52) Thus the printed decree certified its authority with reference to a manuscript original, while the manuscript copy certified its own authenticity through reproducing this element from its printed original.
An analogous nuanced progression from manuscript signature to its printed representation is provided by Russian banknotes. Banknotes used three technologies of authentication: (1) a complex and distinctive watermark, (2) a printed statement of function and value, and (3) manuscript signatures. Over time, the printed components became more elaborate, while the manuscript component was reduced. The earliest banknotes (from 1769) were guaranteed by at least four handwritten signatures, including those of two senators. (53) From the mid-1780s, three signatures were reckoned sufficient, including those of the bank director and cashier. From 1818, only one handwritten signature remained (that of the cashier), while the signature of the director was merely engraved, a printed simulacrum; like the "place of the seal" on decrees, a printed reminder of some notional manuscript original, which, in the case of post-1818 banknotes, did not actually have to exist at all. (54)
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These are general tendencies, not absolute rules. There were exceptions. Sometimes the exceptions can even be generalized as tendencies. We have posited a hierarchy of authority in which print was superior to manuscript. This is not invented in retrospect but clearly stated in 18th-century legislation. Yet if print was in general a better guarantor of authority, in certain contexts manuscripts could be equal or even superior to print in status. This "exception" occurs at the luxury end of the spectrum of production, where a fine manuscript outranked routine print (Figure 6). Grants of nobility were issued as elaborately illuminated parchment manuscripts--a practice which remained the norm despite Tsar Paul's decision also to authorize the issue of printed blanks for the purpose. (55) Military commissions, solemn enough but a step down from grants of nobility, were sometimes printed on parchment as one-off individualized documents rather than as standard blanks--still an ostentatiously expensive mode of production. Here the main distinction is perhaps not between technologies as such but between degrees of opulence. In administrative practice, at the top end of the market manuscript and print were, once more, functionally equivalent.
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Returning to our starting point: the day-to-day administrative culture of the early 19th century was overwhelmingly a culture of handwriting. This central fact should not be obscured by a story of the progressive incursion of print. Print did come to fill a distinctive set of niches, and in these functional niches its relative restriction and stability reinforced its specific authority.
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Literary and Intellectual Writing
By contrast with a scarcity of systematic studies of printed administrative documents, a great deal has been written about the interrelationships among the three communicative technologies of speaking, writing, and printing in the Russian literary world in the first half of the 19th century, especially with regard to the social and cultural dynamics of literary salons and circles--the chat rooms of their age. (56) A distinctive feature of this milieu was the fluidity of the relations among the various media. At one end of the spectrum of attitudes was the aristocratic affectation of the civilized amateur's disdain for vulgar print. (57) At the other end of the spectrum lay those literary circles which were, in effect, editorial boards and the emergence of professional writers for whom payment for print runs was a necessity, even if still an indignity. On one side of the scale, the elegant manuscript album was revered as an emblem of civilized pursuits; on the other, the manuscript copy could threaten the writer's earnings through print sales. As for the products themselves: the chat and recitation is sadly lost, the reading aloud from manuscripts is preserved only in memoirs, but the manuscript cultures of al'bomy and libri amicorum survive and are studied in quite large numbers. (58) The printed products range from the ephemeral to the commercial: from societies' rulebooks (both flippant and serious--literati, too, recognized print as a medium for rule lists), to occasional almanacs, through vanity printing for private distribution, right through to institutionally published and distributed books and journals. But the boundaries of genre and medium were permeable. Sometimes one can trace the paths of an individual work across the media: from author's manuscript to recitation in the salon and album manuscript record, to almanac publication, back to manuscript copies in albums (some by the author, some by admiring readers), through discussion and criticism, back to a revised print version, back to a scrapbook album (one that was derived from printed texts rather than anticipating them), and so on. Authors and readers, reciters and listeners, producers and critics, scribes and printers were in multimedia dialogue with each other as never before.
The fluctuations among modes of production and reproduction raise all sorts of awkward questions about ownership and authority, about intellectual property, about the canonicity or mutability of texts, and about the relations among the technologies. Indeed, it appears inappropriate to speak here of "boundaries" between speech, manuscript, and print, rather than a zone of coexistence, another hybrid milieu. "[his is not to say that the media were completely interchangeable, or that no general contours can be traced. For present purposes we should mention just two aspects: first, with regard to the authority (if not always the status) of print; and second, with regard to the distribution of manuscripts.
In the professed values of the salon or circle, print did not always figure at the top of the hierarchy of status. (59) However, it would have been a bold move to exclude all thought of or aspiration for print. "[he groups that enjoyed the highest prestige, whether in their own estimation or retrospectively, may have engaged in a cult of exclusive talk but were not conceived as exclusively devoted to talk. Rhetoric apart, print publication was an aspiration, whether central or peripheral. For some groups, publication was central to what would now be called their "mission." This applies throughout the period, not just to the literary circles of the late 1830s and 1840s, which were closely associated with "thick" journals. The St. Petersburg Society for Lovers of Sciences, Letters, and the Arts (Obshchestvo liubitelei nauk, slovesnosti i khudozhestv; the exact form of the name was not stable), founded in 1801, printed a set of rules, in Russian and German versions, devoted partly to questions of membership and accounts but prominently also to procedures for discussing and approving members' works for publication. (60) The Society for Lovers of Letters and Wisdom (Obshchestvo liubitelei slovesnosti i premudrosti), which gathered at the home of Sof'ia Dmitrievna Ponomareva from 1821 to 1824, discussed, approved, or rejected material for Izmailov's journal Blagonamerennyi. (61) Notes and agendas and memoirs of circle discussions are strewn with unrealized projects for almanacs or journals. Even the seriously flippant Arzamas had plans, with the future prominent tsarist functionaries Sergei Uvarov and Dmitrii Bludov designated as editors. (62) In a different genre, at his Friday-evening gatherings from the late 1820s Aleksandr Voeikov apparently had reporters noting down gossip for his publications. (63) Print had dignity as a medium, as a form, irrespective of its practical efficacy as a means of publication and distribution. Thus, for example, Pushkin claimed that Literaturnaia gazeta, with a mere 100 subscribers, was "necessary not so much for the public as for certain writers." (64) Print and manuscript (and oral) production fed and legitimized each other. Mere self-publication, such as the profuse productions by the generous but much-mocked grafoman Count Dmitrii Ivanovich Khvostov, put their author outside the rules of the game. (65)
Barriers to print, of course, could include not just the literary judgments of one's peers, and not just the commercial judgment of a publisher, but also the political judgments of the government. Manuscript is often viewed as a medium both of high cultural status and of political subversion, especially when a work circulates only in manuscript. This can indeed be the case, but was not necessarily so. The classic counter-example is the circulation of Griboedov's Gore ot uma (Woe from Wit). Brief extracts appeared in the theater almanac Russkaia Taliia (i.e. Thalia, the Muse of comedy) in 1825. Griboedov was murdered in 1829. In 1833, the first printed edition of the full play was published, but with significant omissions, based on the censored stage version (first performed in January 1831). The complete and unexpurgated text, based on authorial and authorized manuscripts, did not appear in Russia until 1862. Yet the uncensored text was well known and widely distributed in manuscript from the mid-1820s onward. These were not surreptitious copies, precursors of a Soviet samizdat model. Gore ot urea was reproduced openly in manuscript on an almost industrial scale, not by secret admirers but by professional scribes. Griboedov's friend Andrei Zhandr is said to have organized a "whole chancery" of clerks. The censors, when considering a printed edition in 1831, recognized the incongruity of withholding permission to publish 2,000 or 3,000 copies when an estimated 40,000 manuscript copies were already in circulation. Reviewers of the 1833 censor-approved edition openly declared that readers could fill in the gaps for themselves with the aid of freely available manuscripts. (66) The censors applied their normal criteria--in this instance partly political, partly moral--to the stage version and the first printed version but apparently took no action either to stem the mass circulation of uncensored manuscript versions or to discipline the author or (after his death) the scribes. It is as if the authorities were concerned less by the contents than by the medium, as if they objected not to the distribution of the play as such but to its appearance specifically in print. The objection was therefore emblematic, not practical. To print meant to imply (or indeed to give, since it would need active censorial approval) the official imprimatur. Print was official, "real" in a different way. I do not suggest that Nicholas I and his censors were indifferent to manuscript. There are plenty of examples of heavy-handed police action following manuscript distribution, or indeed following public oral recitation. But the sheer incongruity of the response--or nonresponse--to the manuscript "publication" of Gore ot uma, in numbers far greater than any print run of the time, while maintaining a ban first on any print version and then on a complete print version, is indicative of perceptions of the symbolic status of the technologies on either side of the graphospheric boundary.
It goes almost without saying that, in the early 19th century, private jottings and correspondence were produced entirely in manuscript, a monomedia cultural reserve in a self-contained niche, a long way from any graphospheric boundary. To set up and print one's personal notes in movable type would have been the height of eccentricity both on economic and on practical grounds. With no market, no requirement for multiple copies, and a premium on immediacy, private writing was obviously not a prime target for colonization by print. Here, at least at the level of production, there were none of the intermedial nuances that have complicated our consideration of other areas of writing. Yet the apparent simplicity of the private culture of manuscript production does not mean that it was insignificant to the study of the internal dynamics of the graphosphere. Its robust and continuous presence is an important counterbalance to "progressive" stories of the rise of print. As consumers of the written word, 19th-century literate Russians engaged regularly with cultures of print; but as producers, long into the age of print, in Russia as everywhere else, most people's engagement with the written word was through private handwriting.
Private writing was a self-contained manuscript culture only at the level of production. At the nonvisible level, interfaces with print cultures could be significant. This applies in particular to letters. Private correspondence was not conducted in print, but it was influenced by print and could in turn have an effect on print culture. "It" was, of course, a varied phenomenon. William Mills Todd, for example, distinguishes at least three genres of letter: the personal, the business, and the familiar. (67) At the more literary end of the scale, the "familiar" letter was in constant dialogue with literary (including printed) precedent, it could itself be subsequently printed, and it helped sustain epistolary styles which also surfaced in printed fiction. Indeed, the "familiar" letter is a challenge to the categories in this survey, since it is not really a "private" letter at all. It was, in William Mills Todd's phrase, "semipublic," part of the same nexus of relationships that we considered in the previous section. Even away from the literariness of the literati, in the more authentically personal sphere, letter writing was a taught craft, drawing on manuals and precedent and models as well as on spontaneous expression. (68) Mutatis mutandis, that which can be said of the dialogic form (the letter) can also be said of the monologic form, the diary, which at the literary end of the spectrum was analogous. Perhaps the truest monomedial culture of handwriting is to be found in ephemeral jottings, disposable fragments of fact and thought, where writing serves only as a temporary aid to memory.
In a broader perspective, in relation to the larger history of information technologies, the absence of print in the culture of private writing highlights the economic and practical limitations of the printing press with movable type, and hence the boundaries of the first print revolution. For over four centuries, from Gutenberg until the domestic adoption of that hybrid invention the "type-writer" in the second half of the 19th century, print made hardly any appreciable incursions into the production of writing in the private sphere. (69) Print did not kill the manuscript. The printing press facilitated a huge expansion and diversification of cultures of writing. Its relations to manuscript production were complex and dynamic, but it was no challenge to handwriting as such. Instead, the death of the manuscript skipped a technological generation. The fundamental challenge to the very existence of handwriting came not with the invention and spread of movable type but with the electronic technologies. The word processor, and then e-mail and its web-based derivatives, have effectively squeezed the remaining functions of the manuscript text in the private sphere, its last zone of exclusivity. When the means of production and effective distribution of the nonhandwritten text are devolved to the level of the individual, there is little space left for a mainstream, robust manuscript culture.
Print culture and manuscript culture were not two monoliths in opposition, nor were they two distinct stages in linear technological progress. The graphosphere was composed of a variety of interrelated and overlapping zones, whose configurations changed over time. Here I have outlined maps of just some of those border zones, according to a limited set of cartographic criteria, mainly by asking about status and function. If we apply different criteria, we will produce differently nuanced maps. To illustrate the point, and at the risk of overextending the limits of acceptable generalization in an already speculative survey, I end with a brief mention of a few other potential modes of graphospheric topography.
An economic map of the internal graphospheric boundaries would look somewhat different. The spread of printing in Western Europe was, to an appreciable extent, market-driven. This does not mean that printing was a sure path to riches: capital setup costs were high; access to commissions and sales outlets was competitive. (70) But the search for markets was a powerful driver of diffusion, as the producers and purveyors of print sought to undercut and outflank not just producers and purveyors of manuscripts but one another. By the end of the 15th century, one could travel the length and breadth of Western Europe--from Leiden down to Capua, from Brno to Nantes--and never be far from a printing press. (71) In Russia there was no proper market before the 19th century. The presses of the Moscow Printing House in the 17th century, or the licensed institutional publishers of the 18th century, operated in market conditions only in the sense that they had to be concerned with financial management, attempting to match production costs with sales revenue, but they were near-monopolies without entrepreneurial competition until the highly significant but still limited efforts of Nikolai Novikov and others after Catherine II's 1783 decree on the private ownership and operation of printing presses. (72) This, in turn, had implications for the relative costs of printing and writing: in the hand copying of printed books where there was little commercial pressure to reprint; in the increasing numbers of trained nonecclesiastical scribes; in the reproduction and dissemination of material which fell outside the limited repertoire of the "top-down" policies of the printing houses.
Alternatively, we could look at social and physical geography. How did the graphospheric boundaries appear to different social groups and peoples in different parts of Russia? These were centuries of double expansion on a very large scale: the expansion of the empire itself, and the expansion of the graphosphere within it. Moreover, the expansion of the latter was at a faster rate. Cultures of writing and printing did not merely grow to keep pace with the geopolitical growth; they "thickened out" within the enlarged imperial space. More of the population came to have more direct access to more of the products of the two technologies. The spread of literacy and the spread of printing are well-told stories, but in what ways were the internal boundaries of the graphosphere modified in this process of double expansion? How, for example, should one map the graphospheric implications of the absorption, within the empire, of non-Russian (e.g., Islamic or Transcaucasian or Baltic Christian) cultures of writing?
This, in turn, raises the question of the graphosphere's linguistic geography. Here I have surveyed material almost entirely in Russian or Church Slavonic, but the linguistic restriction is misleading even with regard to Russia's European heartlands, let alone its imperial periphery. Manuscripts, printed books, and documents in Polish, Greek, Latin, German, and French, even occasionally in English, were not only imported but also produced locally, in changing configurations across the period. After centuries of sometimes wilful neglect, the classical languages finally acquired some status (though not an entirely harmonious coexistence) from the later 17th century. (73) Until the 18th century, foreign-language imported printed texts provided a permissible medium for types of materials that in Russian were still only acceptable in manuscript. Within Russia, foreign-language publishing was a mainstream activity for Russian printing houses through the 18th century (74) (though provincial presses in the early 19th century could apparently find this beyond their competence). (75) The status of French in polite society is directly reflected in the prominence of French in the culture of manuscript albums. (76) No properly nuanced map of the graphosphere would be complete without an attempt to trace the shifting boundaries between manuscript and print in different languages.
Then, crucially, there are pictures. Here we have looked only at the verbal components of the graphosphere: at writing words with quill or pen and ink, and at printing words with movable type. A fuller map would include pictures, and the pattern of relationships between printed and nonprinted pictures would not mirror the pattern of relationships between printed and nonprinted words. The differences were partly technological, partly institutional, and partly cultural. The technologies of picture production were, by comparison with the technologies of word production, hugely asymmetrical. Printed words could approximately replicate in size and/or appearance most of the principal forms of written words during the period, but printing could not yet come remotely close to providing an equivalent technology for the range of hand-produced pictures, either in flexibility of scale and format and materials (from manuscript miniature to monumental mural, from paper to wood to canvas) or--despite an increasing sophistication--in techniques of rendering color. Institutionally, ownership of modes of production was less clearly demarcated. The potential propaganda value of printed pictures for the state was recognized from the mid-17th century, (77) and Petrine engraving was a state enterprise, but the logistics of engraving, let alone of plain woodcuts, made it harder to contain than letterpress. (78) Moreover, the institutions of picture production dramatically extended the prestige of pictorial hand-painting into areas where, over the same period, the prestige of verbal handwriting was diminished. In religious culture, painted icons were in no danger whatever of being ousted by printed equivalents, at least from the major public spaces. (79) In secular high culture, where printed words came to dominate over manuscript words, hand-painted pictures--in stark contrast--were a substantially new, expanding, and increasingly institutionalized phenomenon (i.e., "art"). Culturally, therefore, printed pictures tended to occupy rather specific niches appropriate to their qualities and limitations.
Such differences affect both the overall map of print and nonprint cultures and the contours of status around the graphospheric boundaries. On the overall map, for example, the major category of "administrative writing" had no comparable counterpart in cultures of depiction. As for status, at first glance there might seem to be a simple inversion: in the cultures of words, printing carried the aura of the official imprimatur; in cultures of depiction, hand-painting was perched at the top end of the cultural hierarchies of church and state, while mere prints were the largely derivative medium at the bottom end. This would be an overcrude representation, however. It would leave little room for the significant reverse relationships in which hand production followed print, rather than the other way round. For example, imported printed pictures were profoundly influential in reshaping local cultures of hand-produced pictures right across the spectrum: not just in obviously Europeanizing "art," but even in religious culture, as in the extraordinarily pervasive presence of Visscher's biblical prints in Russian religious depiction of the mid- to late 17th century. (80)
And so on. These are a few specimens of some rough preliminary sketches. When the sketches become detailed maps, and when we then superimpose the maps on one another, and when the results are then viewed in a relevant comparative context, we may move some way toward producing the basics of an integrated history of the sociocultural dynamics, and of the distinctiveness, of the respective information technologies in Russia.
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(1) For the term "graphosphere" in a more limited and, in my view, inappropriate sense, denoting the age of print in a chronological sequence from the "logosphere" (denoting the age of writing) to the "videosphere," see Regis Debray, "Socialism: A Life-Cycle," New Left Review 46 (July-August 2007): 5-28; cf. Debray, Cours de mediologie generale (Paris: Gallimard, 2001), 532-37; for a less jargonistic equivalent ("graphic environment"), see Simon Franklin, Writing, Society, and Culture in Early Rus, c. 950-1300 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 3-12.
(2) On writing, see, e.g., Jack Goody, The Logic of Writing and the Organization of Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); cf. Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word (London: Methuen, 1982). On print, see the classic study by Elizabeth Eisenstein, The Printing Press as an Agent of Change: Communications and Cultural Transformations in Early Modern Europe, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979).
(3) E.g., David R. Olson and Nancy Torrance, eds., Literacy and Orality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); David McKitterick, Print, Manuscript, and the Search for Order, 1450-1830 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); cf. P. F. Kornicki, "Manuscript, not Print: Scribal Culture in the Edo Period," Journal of Japanese Studies 32, 1 (2006): 23-52.
(4) David Barton, Literacy: An Introduction to the Ecology of Written Language, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007).
(5) E.g., Roland Marti, Handschrift-Text-Textgruppe-Literatur: Untersuchungen zur inneren Gliederung der fruhen Literatur aus dem ostslavischen Sprachbereich in den Handschriften des 11. bis 14. Jahrhunderts (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1989); A. A. Medyntseva, Gramotnost' v Drevnei Rusi: Po pamiatnikam epigrafiki X-pervoi poloviny XIII veka (Moscow: Nauka, 2000).
(6) E.g., Gary Marker, Publishing, Printing, and the Origins of Intellectual Life in Russia, 1700-1800 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985); Jeffrey Brooks, When Russia Learned to Read. Literacy and Popular Literature, 1861-1917 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985); Stephen Lovell, The Russian Reading Revolution: Print Culture in the Soviet and Post-Soviet Eras (Basingstoke, UK: Macmillan, 2000); S. V. Konovchenko, Vlast', obshchestvo i pechat' v Rossii (Rostov-on-Don: SKNTs VSh, 2003).
(7) On this as a wider problem in histories of technologies in general, see David Edgerton, The Shock of the Old: Technology and Global History since 1900 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006).
(8) The problem has been noted sporadically: see, e.g., A. S. Myl'nikov, "Kul'turnoistoricheskoe znachenie rukopisnoi knigi v period stanovleniia knigopechataniia," Kniga: Issledovaniia i materialy 9 (Moscow, 1964): 37-53; and S. P. Luppov, "Pechamaia i rukopisnaia kniga v Rossii v pervom sorokaletii XVIII v. (problema sosushchestvovaniia)," in Rukopisnaia i pechatnaia kniga (Moscow: Nauka, 1975), 182-92.
(9) L. V. Cherepnin, Russkaia paleografiia (Moscow: Gosudarstvennoe izdatel'stvo politicheskoi literatury, 1956), 74.
(10) Ibid., 509-53.
(11) I. V. Levochkin, Osnovy russkoi paleografii (Moscow: Krug, 2003), 6; G. N. Aiplatov and A. G. Ivanov, Russkaia paleografiia (Moscow: Logos, 2003), 5.
(12) See the similar comments of Olga E. Glagoleva, Working with Russian Archival Documents.. A Guide to Modern Handwriting, Document Forms, Language Patterns and Other Related Topics (Toronto: Centre for Russian and East European Studies, University of Toronto, 1998), 1-2.
(13) Roman Biske, Russian Handwriting (London: Richard Jaschke, 1919).
(14) See, e.g., N.V. Savel'eva, Ocherk istorii formirovaniia pinezhskoi knizhno-rukopisnoi traditsii: Opisanie rukopisnykh istochnikov (Pinezhskaia knizhno-rukopisnaia traditsiia XVI-nachala XX vv., 1) (St. Petersburg: Dmitrii Bulanin, 2003); T. V. Panich and L. V. Titova, Opisanie sobraniia rukopisei IIFiF SO AN SSSR (Novosibirsk: Nauka, 1991); or the chronological index of manuscripts in S. V. Smilianskaia and N. G. Denisov, Staroobriadchestvo Bessarabii: Knizhnost'i pevcheskaia kul'tura (Moscow: Indrik, 2007), 381-82.
(15) Thus, for example, B. A. Semenovker, Evoliutsiia informatsionnoi deiatel'nosti: Rukopisnaia informatsiia, pt. 1 (Moscow: Pashkov dora, 2009), 176, heavily overstates the case when he claims that "Old Believer copying of books prolonged the Russian manuscript tradition by three centuries."
(16) M. N. Tikhomirov, "Nachalo knigopechataniia v Rossii," in U istokov russkogo knigopechataniia, ed. Tikhomirov, A. A. Sidorov, and A. I. Nazarov (Moscow: Izdatel'stvo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1959), 13-20; E. L. Nemirovskii, "Pervaia moskovskaia tipografiia v svete novykh issledovanii: K 450-1etiiu so dnia osnovaniia," Fedorovskie chteniia, 2003 (Moscow: Nauka, 2003): 11-52.
(17) See, e.g., the use of Latin and Low German printed books for the Gennadian Bible of 1499: Henry R. Cooper, Slavic Scriptures: The Formation of the Church Slavonic Version of the Holy Bible (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2003), 129-31; and Francis J. Thomson, "A Brief Survey of the History of the Church Slavonic Bible from Its Cyrillomethodian Origins until Its Final Form in the Elizabethan Bible of 1751," Slavica Gandensia 32, 2 (2006): 53-58.
(18) See I. V. Pozdeeva, "The Activity of the Moscow Printing House in the First Half of the Seventeenth Century," Solanus 6 (1992): 27-55.
(19) See the calculations in ibid. for the first half of the century. For the latter half of the century, see Pozdeeva's "Mezhdu srednevekov'em i novym vremenem: Novoe v deiatel'nosti Moskovskogo pechamogo dvora vtoroi poloviny XVII v.," in Moskovskii pechatnyi dvor--fakt i faktor russkoi kul'tury, 1652-1700 gody: Issledovaniia i publikatsii, bk. 1, ed. I. V. Pozdeeva, A. V. Dadykin, and V. P. Pushkov (Moscow: Nauka, 2007), 60-128.
(20) See Edward L. Keenan, "Ivan the Terrible and Book Culture: Fact, Fancy, and Fog. Remarks on Early Muscovite Printing," Solanus 18 (2004): 28-50; Robert Mathiesen, "Cosmology and the Puzzle of Early Printing in Old Cyrillic," Solanus 18 (2004): 5-27; and Pozdeeva, "Activity of the Moscow Printing House."
(21) See V. M. Zhivov, "Azbuchnaia reforma Petra I kak semioticheskoe preobrazovanie," Trudy po znakovym sistemam 19 (1986): 54-67.
(22) Well into the latter part of the century kirillitsa remained standard for basic primers (bukvari), and secular works in kirillitsa were produced on several presses: see Gary Marker, "Faith and Secularity in Eighteenth-Century Russian Literacy, 1700-1775," in Christianity and the Eastern Slavs, 2: Russian Culture in Modern Times, ed. Robert P. Hughes and Irina Paperno (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 3-24; Marker, Publishing, 21-22; and E. L. Nemirovskii, "Sosushchestvovanie kirillovskogo tserkovnoslavianskogo i grazhdanskogo shriftov v XVIII v.," in Tri stoletiia russkogo grazhdanskogo shrifta (1708-2008): Materialy konferentsii "Inyia grazhdanskiia knigi pechatat' temizh novymi azbukami ..." 3 iiunia 2008 g., ed. A. Iu. Samarin (Moscow: Pashkov dora, 2008), 156-59. Note that the boundary was not so permeable in the opposite direction: V. M. Zhivov, Iazyk i kul'tura v Rossii XVIII veka (Moscow: Shkola "Iazyki russkoi kul'tury," 1996), 24-25, 491-94.
(23) The civic typeface was influenced by Latin antiqua (i.e. "Roman") type and perhaps by a rounded form of early 18th-century Cyrillic cursive: see A. G. Shchingal, Russkii tipografskii shrift: Voprosy istorii i praktika primeneniia (Moscow: Kniga, 1985), 38-40.
(24) On 18th- and 19th-century manuscripts whose poluustav hand imitates early printed books, see, e.g., Savel'eva, Ocherk, 27, 40, and nos. 421, 422, 625, 658, 659, 660, etc.
(25) On the whole episode, see I. A. Chistovich, Istoriia perevoda Biblii na russkii iazyk, 2nd ed. (St. Petersburg: M. M. Stasulevich, 1899), 25-94; and M. I. Rizhskii, Istoriia perevodov Biblii v Rossii (Novosibirsk: Nauka, 1978), 130-39.
(26) On Old Believer printing of the relevant period, see A. V. Voznesenskii, Predvaritel'nyi spisok staroobriadcheskikh kirillicheskikh izdanii XVIII veka (St. Petersburg: Khronograf, 1994); Voznesenskii, Staroobriadcheskie izdaniia XVIII-nachala XIX veka: Vvedenie v izuchenie (St. Petersburg: Izdatel'stvo Sankt-Peterburgskogo universiteta, 1996); and E. A. Emel'ianova, Staroobriadcheskie izdaniia kirillicheskogo shrifta kontsa XVIII-nachala XIX veka (Moscow: Pashkov dom, 2010). On the continuing authority of the early tradition, see Iu. A. Labyntsev and L. L. Shchavinskaia, "Ostrozhskaia Bibliia u russkikh staroobriadtsev XX-XXI vv.," in Traditsionnaia kniga v kul'ture pozdnego srednevekov'ia, pt. 1 : Kirillicheskaia kniga v russkoi istorii i kul'ture, ed. I. V. Pozdeeva (Iaroslavl': Redmer, 2008), 230-38.
(27) For an overview of the text-generating consequences of institutional growth, see M. P. Iliushenko, Istoriia deloproizvodstva v dorevoliutsionnoi Rossii: Uchebnoe posobie (Moscow: Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi gumanitarnyi universitet, 1993).
(28) W. Bruce Lincoln, "The Daily Life of St. Petersburg Officials in the Mid-Nineteenth Century," Oxford Slavonic Papers: New Series 8 (1975): 82, citing the 1851 memoir of L. A. Perovskii, "O prichine umnozheniia deloproizvodstva vo vnutrennem upravlenii."
(29) Lincoln, "Daily Life," 92.
(30) M. P. Somikova, Drevneishie russkie monety X-XI vekov: Katalog i issledovanie (Moscow: Banki i birzhi, 1995); V. L. Ianin, Aktovye pechati Drevnei Rusi X-XV vv., 2 vols. (Moscow: Nauka, 1970).
(31) In affirming that the scope of the current survey is limited to movable type, I should note that I therefore also ignore, except for some brief comments at the end, block printing: woodblocks and engravings, including lubok block books (tsel'nogravirovannye knigi), although these would, of course, figure in a more comprehensive study of the graphosphere.
(32) For non-Muscovite Cyrillic printed documents, see, e.g., V. I. Luk'ianenko, Izdaniia kirillicheskoi pechati XV-XVI vv. (1491-1600): Katalog iz sobraniia GPB (St. Petersburg: Rossiiskaia natsional'naia biblioteka, 1993), 196-200, 209-10 (nos. 94, 96, 100). The "cursive" typeface is illustrated in A. A. Guseva, Izdaniia kirillovskogo shrifta vtoroi poloviny XVI veka: Svodnyi katalog (Moscow: Indrik, 2003), no. 110.
(33) L. N. Gorbunova and T. N. Luk'ianova, Moskovskie kirillovskie izdaniia XVI-XVII vv. v sobraniiakh RGADA: Katalog, no. 3:1651-1675 (Moscow: Indrik, 2003), 197, nos. 6-10.
(34) E. V. Luk'ianova, "Listovye izdaniia Moskovskogo pechatnogo dvora vo vtoroi polovine XVII v. (po dokumentam Prikaza knigopechatnogo dela)," Fedorovskie chteniia, 2003 (Moscow: Nauka, 2003): 214-24; see also A. A. Guseva, "Neizvestnye izdaniia Verkhnei tipografii (Tsarskie zhalovannye gramoty 1681-1683 gg.," Kniga: Issledovaniia i materialy 65 (1993): 130-36. Guseva states that the production of printed blanks for land charters began in the late 1660s but gives no details. According to Pozdeeva, "Mezhdu srednevekov'em i novym vremenem," 120, archives allude to charters from 1671 and their issue became systematic from 1675. Note, however, as one-off curiosities (not part of any wider pattern): an enigmatic record of a gramota to the Zaporozhian troops in the Cherkassian towns, ordered by Tsar Aleksei Mikhailovich on 19 September 1659; and a copy of the tsar's charter for the Iverskii Monastery, printed at the monastery itself on 28 May 1665, on the press set up there by Nikon in 1655 (N. P. Kiselev, "O moskovskom knigopechatanii XVII veka," Kniga: Issledovaniia i materialy 2 : 131).
(35) See the table in Marker, Publishing, 25.
(36) Noted in ibid., 245. Compare the much fuller coverage in the Petrine catalogue, as stated in P. N. Berkov's introduction to T. A. Bykova and M. M. Gurevich, Opisanie izdanii, napechatannykh kirillitsei, 1689-ianvar' 1725 g. (Moscow and Leningrad: Izdatel'stvo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1958), 6, though Bykova herself (44) acknowledges that significant categories of ephemera (aktsidentnye izdaniia) have nevertheless been omitted.
(37) The admirable exception is N. P. Likhachev, Katalog letuchikh izdanii i ikh perepechatok: Manifesty, ukazy i drugie pravitel 'stvennye rasporiazheniia v otdel 'nykh izdaniiakh i perepechatkakh (St. Petersburg: V. S. Balashev & Ko., 1895), but this is a (partial) catalogue of a single--very remarkable--collection, not a systematic bibliography.
(38) M. N. Kufaev, Istoriia russkoi knigi v XIX veke (Moscow: Pashkov dora, 2003), 61-62.
(39) Polnoe sobranie zakonov Rossiiskoi imperii: Seriia I, 1649-1825 (St. Petersburg: Vtoroe otdelenie Ego Imperatorskogo Velichestva Kantseliarii, 1830; henceforth PSZ), 16:645 (no. 12,090, Senate announcement of 17 March 1764); and 19:836-37 (no. 14,047, Senate announcement of 19 October 1773). I am grateful to an anonymous reader for the suggestion that the 1773 iteration may well have been prompted by the use of manuscript pseudodecrees in the Pugachev revolt. On manuscript forgery, see also below, on passports. For more on decrees, see Simon Franklin, "Printing and Social Control in Russia, 2: Decrees," forthcoming in Russian History 38 (2011).
(40) Kufaev, Istoriia, 78.
(41) A series of papal indulgences dated 1454 and 1455 (though perhaps all were printed in 1454): see Margaret Stillwell, The Beginning of the World of Books, 1450-1470: A Chronological Survey of the Texts Chosen for Printing during the First Twenty Years of the Printing Art, with a Synopsis of the Gutenberg Documents (New York: Bibliographical Society of America, 1972), nos. 8-11.
(42) Robert Mathiesen, "Cyrillic and Glagolitic Printing and the Eisenstein Thesis," Solanus 6 (1992): 3-26, asserts (19): "To the best of my knowledge, printed blank forms in Old Cyrillic were not produced by Slavia Orthodoxa during the fifteenth through seventeenth centuries."
(43) Guseva, Izdaniia kirillovskogo shrifta, no. 105.
(44) See also, e.g., Pozdeeva, "Mezhdu srednevekov'em i novym vremenem," 121; and Christies sale no. 7551, Valuable Russian Printed Books and Manuscripts, 27 November 2008, Lot 15.
(45) A.V. Remnev, "Rossiiskoe deloproizvodstvo: Ot 'nauki filologii' k 'iskussrvu redaktirovaniia' (biurokraticheskoe zazerkal'e XIX stoletiia)," in Dokument v kontekste istorii: Materialy II Mezhdunarodnoi nauchnoi konferentsii, ed. A. P. Tolochko (Omsk: Izdatel'stvo Omskogo gosudarsrvennogo universiteta, 2009), 21, claims that the blank form "killed the individuality of the bureaucratic document."
(46) See Simon Franklin, "Printing and Social Control in Russia, 1: The Passport," Russian History 37 (2010): 208-37.
(47) See articles 12, 13, and 16 of the section "O polkovnike s ofitsery" in the Plakat, in Rossiiskoe zakonodatel 'stvo X-XX vekov, 4: Zakonodatel 'stvo perioda stanovleniia absoliutizma (Moscow: Iuridicheskaia literatura, 1986), 202-12.
(48) T. A. Bykova, M. M. Gurevich, and R. I. Kozintseva, Opisanie izdanii, napechatannykh pri Petre I: Svodnyi katalog. Dopolneniia i prilozheniia (Leningrad: Biblioteka Akademii nauk SSSR, 1972), 125-26 (no. 448). Cf. V. G. Chemukha, Pasport v Rossii 1719-1917 (St. Petersburg: Liki Rossii, 2007), 35-36, on Elizabeth's decree of 1743. Note that Chernukha (24) traces the requirement for print to Peter's 1724 Plakat, apparently misinterpreting its requirement that the passport be authenticated "with signature and seal" (rukoiu i pechat 'iu).
(49) The 1726 decree--PSZ, 7:565-66 (no. 4827)--explicitly states that it is enacted because the "seal and signature" requirements of Peter's 1724 Plakat were being abused by forgers. See also E. V. Anisimov, The Reforms of Peter the Great: Progress through Coercion in Russia, trans. John T. Alexander (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1993), 236.
(50) Such printed accreditations were issued, for example, by the British consuls general; cf. the first American printed passports, produced by a distinguished American representative abroad: see Randolph G. Adams, The Passports Printed by Benjamin Franklin at his Passy Press (Ann Arbor, MI: William L. Clements Library, 1925).
(51) For the full text of the illustrated decree, see PSZ, 5:165-66 (no. 2925).
(52) Illustration: manuscript copy of Anna's decree on the duties of a prokuror, issued on 5 September 1733 and printed on 26 October. For the printed text, see PSZ, 9:199-201 (no. 6475).
(53) As specified in Catherine II's manifesto of 29 December 1768 (printed in February 1769) on the establishment of banks in St. Petersburg and Moscow: PSZ, 18:787-92 (no. 13,219).
(54) See, e.g., N. V. Prokhorova, Monety i banknoty Rossii (Moscow: Dom slavianskoi knigi, 2008), 123-32, 154-55, and the illustrations between 96 and 97; and A. S. Mel'nikova, V. V. Uzdenikov, and I. S. Shikanova, Den 'gi v Rossii: Istoriia russkogo denezhnogo khoziaistva s drevneishikh vremen do 1917g. (Moscow: Strelets, 2000), 148-54. Cf. also http://russianmoney. info/Imperial/and www.nensberg.narod.ru/russia/zarist/page03.html.
(55) O. O. Khoruzhenko, Dvorianskie diplomy) XVIII veka v Rossii (Moscow: Nauka, 1999), 165.
(56) William Mills Todd III, Fiction and Society in the Age of Pushkin: Ideology, Institutions, and Narrative (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), esp. 45-105; M. Aronson and S. Reiser, Literaturnye kruzhki i salony (St. Petersburg: Akademicheskii proekt, 2001; orig. 1929); Irina Murav'eva, Salony pushkinskoi pory: Ocherki literaturnoi i svetskoi zhizni Sankt-Peterburga (St. Petersburg: Kriga, 2008).
(57) See, for example, the remarks in Eikhenbaum's introduction to Aronson and Reiser, Literaturnye kruzhki i salony, 4-5, on Iazykov's professed adherence to a hierarchy of preference and esteem from salon recitation (at the top) through album to almanac and finally to journal (at the bottom). Not that such fastidiousness prevented Iazykov from reissuing his album verses in print: see Murav'eva, Salony, 190.
(58) V. E. Vatsuro, "Literaturnye al'bomy v sobranii Pushkinskogo doma (1750-1840-e gody)," Ezhegadnik Rukopisnogo otdela Pushkinskogo doma na 1977 god (Leningrad: Nauka, 1979), 3-56; Gitta Hammarberg, "Flirting with Words: Domestic Albums, 1770-1840," in Russia-Women--Culture, ed. Helena Goscilo and Beth Holmgren (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 297-320.
(59) Here I treat salons and circles together, but see the distinctions drawn by Aronson and Reiser, Literaturnye kruzhki i salony, 34-38.
(60) Statut der St. Peterburgischen Gesellschaft von Liebhabern der Wissenschaften, Litteratur und Kunste (St. Petersburg: Marine-Buchdruckerei, 1805).
(61) Aronson and Reiser, Literaturnye kruzhki i salony, 291-93.
(62) Ibid., 108-13, 287-88.
(63) Ibid., 320.
(64) See Murav'eva, Salony, 143.
(65) On Khvostov's reputation, see A. E. Makhov, "Eto veseloe imia Khvostov," in D. I. Khvostov, Sochineniia (Moscow: Intrada, 1999), 6-43.
(66) See N. K. Piksanov, "Istoriia teksta 'Goria ot uma,'" in A. S. Griboedov, Gore ot uma, ed. Piksanov (Moscow: Nauka, 1969), esp. 332-38.
(67) William Mills Todd III, The Familiar Letter as a Literary Genre in the Age of Pushkin (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1976), 8-12.
(68) See, e.g., the practical advice offered in the essay on letter writing by N. I. Grech, translated in Todd, Familiar Letter, 204-8.
(69) Precursors of the typewriter can be traced at least to the early 18th century, but standard production began only from the 1850s: see Michael H. Adler, The Writing Machine (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1973). According to Glagoteva, Working with Russian Archival Documents, 62, "in Russia, typewritten documents appeared only after 1898."
(70) See, e.g., Lucien Febvre and Henri-Jean Martin, The Coming of the Book, trans. David Gerard (London: Verso, 1997), 109-27.
(71) See the maps in Elizabeth Eisenstein, The Printing Revolution in Early Modern Europe, new ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 17-19.
(72) See Marker, Publishing, 103-34.
(73) See, e.g., B. L. Fonkich, Greko-slavianskie shkoly v Moskve v XVII veke (Moscow: Iazyki slavianskikh kul'tur, 2009); Iu. K. Vorob'ev, Latinskii iazyk v russkoi kul'ture XVII-XVIII vekov (Saransk: Izdatel'stvo Mordovskogo universiteta, 1999); and D. L. Liburkin, Russkaia novolatinskaia poeziia: Materialy k istorii (XVII-pervaia polovina XVIII veka) (Moscow: Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi gumanitarnyi universitet, 2000).
(74) See Svodnyi katalog knig na inostrannykh iazykakh, izdannykh v Rossii v XVIII veke, ed. A. I. Kopanev et al., 3 vols. (Leningrad: Nauka, 1984-86).
(75) PSZ, 34:110 (no. 26,475), in a circular sent to governors by the head of the Ministry of Police, dated 20 March 1817.
(76) E. P. Grechanaia, Kogda Rossiia govorila po-frantsuzski (Moscow: IMLI RAN, 2010), esp. 220-48.
(77) Simon Franklin, "Printing Moscow: Significances of the Frontispiece to the 1663 Bible," Slavonic and East European Review 88, 1 (2010): 73-95.
(78) M. Alekseeva, Graviura petrovskogo vrerneni (Leningrad: Iskusstvo, 1990), 171-89; E. A. Mishina, Russkaia graviura na dereve XVII-XVIII vv. (St. Petersburg: ARS Publishers, Dmitrii Bulanin, n.d. ).
(79) Mass production and distribution of printed icons dates only from the late 19th century, despite Patriarch Ioakim's dire warnings 200 years earlier: see Robert L. Nichols, "The Icon and the Machine in Russia's Religious Renaissance, 1900-1909," in Christianity and the Arts in Russia, ed. William C. Brumfield and Milos M. Velimirovic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 131-44.
(80) On the remarkably diverse impacts of these imported prints, see, e.g., E. P. Sachavets-Fedorovich, "Iaroslavskie stenopisi i Bibliia Piskatora," in Russkoe iskusstvo XVII veka (Leningrad: Academia, 1929), 85-108; I. L. Buseva-Davydova, "Novye ikonograficheskie istochniki russkoi zhivopisi XVII v.," in Russkoe iskusstvo pozdnego srednevekov 'ia: Obraz i smysl, ed. A. L. Batalov (Moscow: NII teorii i istorii izobrazitel'nykh iskussrv, 1993), 190-206; O. A. Belobrova, "O drevnerusskikh podpisiakh k nekotorym niderlandskim tsel'nogravirovannym izdaniiam XVII v.," Trudy Otdela drevnerusskoi literatury 43 (1990): 70-81; and Lindsey J. Hughes, "Western European Graphic Material as a Source for Moscow Baroque Architecture," Slavonic and East European Review 55, 4 (1977): 433-43.
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|Title Annotation:||Forum: Technologies of Communication|
|Date:||Jun 22, 2011|
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