"The city is empty, and it's unknown who abandoned it."
330 years ago, work began on the first detailed map of Siberia – Semyon Remezov’s “cartographic Mona Lisa”
Author: Sergey Tashevsky
Cartography is a complex matter, requiring perseverance and consistent rule. Therefore, in ancient times, Russian princes, exhausted by internecine wars, often didn't even really know what they were fighting for, as their land plans were very rough. They were, as they say, "of local significance," roughly delineating their holdings along rivers, floodplains, and villages. They didn't particularly consider how all this would look on a global scale, and they themselves usually didn't stray far from their own territories ("Oh, Russian land, you're already over the hill"—that's all there is to geography).
However, the principalities, for better or worse, united, and from them, something greater was painfully born, proudly calling itself the "Tsardom of Moscow" under Ivan the Terrible and rapidly beginning its expansion to the East. But on maps, it was still a vague, pulsating white spot, barely delineated by European cartographers. "Ruthenia" on the Genoese maps, White Rus', Black Rus', Red Rus', Tartary, and Cumania on Venetian maps, Paolo Giovia's map of the Muscovite lands, Moscovia que Alba Russia among the Flemish, and so on. All these were outlines of varying accuracy of the European part of Russia, while everything beyond, in the East, remained a complete mystery to foreigners (as, incidentally, to most Russians).
The first cartographic sketches of the "Land of the Samoyeds" (Siberia) appeared only in the early 17th century, in the sketches of the Dutch merchant and explorer Isaac Massa. Based on these sketches, as well as the notes of other European travelers, the Dutch cartographer Nicolaes Witsen published a detailed map of "Northern and Eastern Asia and Europe" in 1687 and dedicated it to the young Tsar Peter Alexeevich, the heir to the Russian throne who had just ascended.
But Siberia was barely marked there. And these were all foreign maps. And what about the Russian ones? After all, if a country suddenly declares itself an empire (or intends to do so), it becomes downright necessary for it to clearly mark itself on world maps. And, after all, it's a matter of prestige. We all know how unpleasant it is for one sovereign to hear from another: "You have no maps!" Isn't that why Peter the Great, just after ascending the throne, demanded that intensive mapping be undertaken "for a proper study of the country"?
But seriously, Russian maps certainly existed long before Peter the Great. Including maps of Siberia. Cartography was a affliction that haunted all ancient travelers, and the Russian Cossacks, who were delving ever deeper into Siberia, were no exception. Even those barely literate hastened to map the terrain they traversed, marking on paper paths, rivers, lakes, towns, forts, settlements of foreign tribes, and rich hunting grounds—to make it easier to collect yasak and hunt fur-bearing animals. Moreover, this was their duty: even under Ivan the Terrible, all servicemen, when sent on missions, had to bring back an "otpiska" (report) and a drawing.
It's no surprise that a great many such scraps of paper had accumulated in various government institutions by the time of Peter the Great. But "many" in this case doesn't mean "good." These were all plans drawn up "by eye," without any adherence to cartographic rules. Concepts like "projection," of course, weren't even used, but they almost always contained some absurd "frills" and additions that were important to the planner. And sometimes a nomad's yurt, where a young Cossack met a beautiful Siberian woman, would tower above the surrounding hills and mountains on his map.
Assembling a complete map of Siberia from these fragments seemed extremely difficult. Attempts had been made, however—for example, a well-known drawing by Stepan Polyakov from 1667 shows at least the main Siberian rivers—the Ob, Yenisei, Selenga, Lena, Amur, and so on—plus a shapeless blob of Lake Baikal and the main cities and forts. Polyakov spent many years on this rather sketchy drawing, but Peter was unwilling to wait that long. He demanded a detailed map "yesterday." Well, within a year at the most. After all, setting impossible goals for one's subjects is the hallmark of true national greatness in Russia.
And exactly 330 years ago, in January 1696, in Moscow (then still the capital), a boyar decree was announced: "On the commissioning of a map of Siberia on canvas, indicating cities, villages, peoples, and the distances between settlements." Such a project required a true genius, one possessing, in addition to education and talent, a broad imagination, agility, and courage (for any poorly executed work, young Peter I would punish the contractor without mercy—this was already known). And such a genius was soon found. Tobolsk native Semyon Remezov, a figure of truly Renaissance, Leonardo-esque stature, agreed to undertake the task.
Remezov was born and raised in Tobolsk and belonged, as they say, to the "children of the boyars," a special class of servicemen common in northern and eastern Russia (incidentally, it had little connection to the boyars). The Remezov family was prominent in the city: both Semyon's grandfather and father were Tobolsk servicemen, and his father even rose to the rank of Streltsy centurion—though he later fell into disgrace, forcing his son to start his career, as they say, from scratch. Thus, Semyon rose through the ranks of Siberian civil service: he collected yasak, repelled raids by local tribes, fought in battles with the Voguls and Tatars, founded new villages, and even conducted a census. Where and how he received his education is unknown, but it seems Remezov literally absorbed knowledge, especially applied knowledge. He never stopped learning, even after becoming the father of three sons. In the 90s, when he was already in his 40s, he was considered an experienced draftsman and architect. In 1697, it was under his supervision and according to his design that construction began on the Tobolsk Kremlin—the first stone Kremlin in Siberia.
At the same time, he searched for lime and other minerals, improved the design of brick kilns, and was interested in geology, physics, chemistry, astronomy, and, in general, all the natural sciences known at the time. In short, he was a "Renaissance man," overflowing with talent and curiosity.
Remezov also possessed many talents. He was interested in the history of Siberia and, from discovered ancient documents and notes, compiled the famous "Remezov Chronicle," one of the first sources on Siberian history. He was also an accomplished writer and left behind several historical works. He was also no stranger to art: he personally designed and painted emblems for regimental flags, and at one point even developed a passion for icon painting (though, sadly, not a single icon by him has survived). This "artistic streak" likely also aided him in compiling maps and city plans, which astonished his contemporaries with their elegance and precision. It's therefore unsurprising that the "boyar's verdict" fell upon him.
In the summer of 1697, Remezov (along with his eldest son, who assisted his father with draftsmanship and "artistic" work) was summoned to Moscow to resolve two matters at once. The plan and cost estimate for the construction of the Kremlin in Tobolsk were being discussed, and it was proposed that he examine all the available drawings relating to Siberia in the Armory Chamber, so that, "in his spare time," without being too distracted from the construction, he could produce a large map for Peter. Another man would have seen this as a taunt, but Remezov, who was known for his incredible work ethic (he is said to have slept only a few hours a day), eagerly took on the task. Multitasking, it seemed, was just in his nature.
The "technical assignment," as they would say now, for the future map looked like this: "...to send letters from the Great Sovereigns to all Siberian cities, ordering all Siberian cities with districts of Russian villages and volosts and with yasak volosts to write drawings on canvas, and how many versts or days' travel the city is from the cities, as well as Russian villages and volosts and yasak volosts from that city, and on which rivers those cities and districts and yasak volosts are located, and to describe this on the drawing by name, and in Tobolsk order a good and skilled master to make drawings of all of Siberia and to describe in which places which nomadic peoples live and roam"...
But the "skilled master" didn't wait for all these disparate sketches to arrive in Tobolsk. After all, Remezov himself had traveled extensively throughout Siberia "in the line of duty," so he had a rough idea of distances and other geographical realities. He took up the Tobolsk archives, supplemented them with plans and maps he had brought from the capital, and in 1698 presented the "Great Map of Siberia" in Moscow. Fortunately, this enormous map, drawn on a large canvas, has survived to this day.
And it is truly impressive. It's hard to believe that in just a year (even with the help of his sons), while simultaneously building the Kremlin, Semyon Remezov managed to create this masterpiece, which some historians call "the cartographic Mona Lisa." For a long time, the sheer volume of detail on this map, the precision with which it depicted the meandering rivers and mountain ranges, left it unmatched. In some places (especially around Tobolsk), it proved so accurate that it can still be used today. They say (and this is no joke) that in the 1960s, when all maps in the USSR were deliberately distorted (allegedly to prevent them from being used by "potential enemies"), after some reprint of Remezov's map, canoeists began using it to navigate their expeditions. It surpassed the accuracy of 20th-century Soviet maps!
But, of course, it wasn't exactly a map, but the very same "outline" along which the heroes of the famous Soviet song sailed. No coordinates, just a sketch on paper. Perhaps, at the end of the 17th century, Remezov simply hadn't seen "modern" European world maps and was unaware of the Mercator projection (which had already gained some currency). Or perhaps the "arbitrary" plan simply seemed more familiar. Either way, the map he compiled had no coordinate "grid" at all, and was oriented, unusually for us, "upside down," facing south. And the scale (or rather its distortion) was the same as on most old Russian maps and plans: it decreased from the center to the edges, as if the observer were standing in the middle of the map. Therefore, everything in the middle is large, and at the edges ("on the horizon"), smaller. Remezov chose Tobolsk as the center, and Siberia "dominated" the map, while the Moscow lands (and all of central Russia) were politically incorrectly small, added as if for comparison. This was a counterpoint to most previous maps of Russia, where the European part is vast, the Urals are smaller, and Siberia is a mere "blind spot." Here was Siberia—and only Siberia!
And, beyond the names of rivers and cities, this map contains numerous marks and notes that transform it into a kind of art project, imbuing the dry geographic realities with a mysterious life. "There may be gold here," "Abandoned carts stand here," "The city is empty, and who abandoned it is unknown." Looking at this map feels like reading the table of contents of a fascinating book titled "Siberia."
How did Peter receive the map? There have been varying accounts. Some say it hung in his office for a long time, and he even allegedly used it to test courtiers. Others (and this is more accurate) claimed that the future Russian emperor, already accustomed to "Western" cartography, immediately filed Remezov's map away and ordered work to begin on a "normal" map, so that everything would be in keeping with the norm. The Mercator projection, the coordinate lines, and the Latin alphabet. In other words, no prophet is truly holy in his own land.
But Andrei Vinius, the Duma clerk in charge of the Siberian Prikaz, was so impressed by Remezov's map that he ordered the work to continue. He allocated both funds from the treasury and sheets of scarce "drawing" paper on which to draw a new atlas of Siberia. Plans from Siberian cities and districts were just beginning to arrive, and using this data, Remezov (together with his sons) began work on a massive project, which he called the "Drawing Book of Siberia." The 23-sheet atlas was completed by 1701 and became, as historians write, "the finest work of the pre-scientific period of Russian cartography, the definitive work of the 17th century." At the same time, Remezov was simultaneously working on another project, the so-called "Chorographic Book of Siberia," which he intended to present to Peter the Great. At least, this was evidenced by the dedication he left in the manuscript. This was also an atlas, but an atlas of the distribution of peoples and historical sites. For example, it marked the locations of ancient settlements, forts, and settlements, forgotten and abandoned many centuries ago. For today's archaeologists, this is truly a "gold mine." But Peter had little interest in all this, and besides, this atlas (on which Remezov worked for ten years) was also executed in an "old-fashioned," pre-scientific style, without a coordinate grid and with arbitrary scales. Perhaps that's why it wasn't sent to St. Petersburg and remained in the Tobolsk archives. After the Revolution, it somehow migrated overseas and is now kept in a more secure repository, the Harvard University Library.
Many other cartographic masterpieces created by Remezov have lain in archives for hundreds of years, such as the "Office Drawing Book," which he and his three sons worked on until his death. This is a highly unique collection of official maps of Siberian lands and cities, plans, and architectural drawings, interspersed with the author's autobiographical notes. Indeed, while mapping the lands, Semyon Remezov was transforming them—hundreds of buildings were constructed according to his designs. In Tobolsk alone, in addition to the Kremlin, the Gostiny Dvor, Rentereya, and Prikaznye Palaty were erected. The church in the Trinity Monastery in Tyumen and numerous stone structures in other cities were built according to his designs. Moreover, when creating his designs, he considered everything, down to the very last detail. If it was a church, sketches for casting bells were included with the drawings. Speaking of the state-owned Kamensk Metallurgical Plant, among the plans for its buildings, furnaces, and machines, there were always drawings of the artillery pieces and cannonballs that would be produced there. It seems he was careful not to miss anything, to "set up" his creations in every detail. At least on paper.
But all over the world, plans and diagrams were becoming increasingly arbitrary. The era of so-called "scientific cartography" was dawning. This involved coordinate grids and strict scaling, without unnecessary detail or fantasy. Therefore, Remezov's maps were forgotten almost immediately after his death. However, no one knows where he is buried or what year he died. It seems to have been 1720.
And yet, Remezov's drawings were destined to have a long life—not as geographical maps, but as works of art and historical records. They are reprinted again and again (the last reprint of the "drawing books" and historical notes in four volumes was in 2006). And the "Large Drawing of Siberia," which was on display at the Hermitage until 2007, is currently undergoing restoration and may soon be presented to the public again. For these are not just maps, but an artist's view of the world, with all its mysteries and wonders that defy mathematical coordinates.
