Matryoshkas And Their Legends

The "Legend of Tsar Saltan" Matryoshka Family

Matryoshka, the nestled Russian doll, is perhaps the most famous Russian toy, a culture symbol and a phenomenon in the folk world art.  

 

The moniker Matryoshka comes from a female name Matryona (Matrëna), rooted in the Slavic word “mother” - mat’ (maть), and is associated with fertility and motherhood. That’s why the traditional Matryoshka dolls use the image of a full-bodied, strong, and cheerful mother on the outside with the likenesses of her numerous children painted on the smaller, inner pieces. Some Matryoshka sets consist of female-only dolls while others feature male figurines as well. Today, the image of a robust peasant matriarch is probably still the favorite, although Matryoshkas are painted in a variety of themes, including folk characters and even former Soviet leaders. 

The Rescued Swan Turns into a Princess

If you follow my collection here, you will see that every doll features a scene from a Russian fable, The Legend of Tsar Saltan. As the fable goes, a tsarina and her son, sealed in a barrel, are thrown into the seas by traitors, but the pair safely reach an island where the young prince builds his own state and finds his true love after rescuing a white swan who turns into a beautiful princess – and eventually reunites with his father. 

The first “official” nesting doll was born in the 1890s, in the Children's Education Workshop in the Abramtsevo estate near Moscow. Founded by a Russian patron of arts, Savva Mamontov, the workshop employed professional artists and talented craftsmen to produce and preserve peasant folk art. The original nested doll set was carved by Vasily Zvyozdochkin and painted by Sergey Malyutin, who also did the original design drawing.  However, it was not the first wooden doll ever produced. Thus, the origin of the Matryoshka doll is still unclear – and has a story of its own.

Supposedly, Abramtsevo Matryoshkas were inspired by a Japanese wooden doll brought to Russia from the island of Honshu in Japan. However, the Japanese claim their dolls were inspired by the work of a Russian monk, who created a wooden figure depicting a good-natured, bald old man thought to represent a Buddhist sage. Other sources say, there were seven Japanese dolls, although non-nestled, representing the Seven Lucky Gods. I must admit, in this particular case, I tend to think the origin of the painted wooden figurines belongs to Russia. Blessed with endless forests, the Slavic craftsman had been carving wooden toys, buckets, shoes, kitchen utensils and children’s toys for centuries. 

  The Adventures of the Tsarina and the Prince

Instead of the theological theme, the Abramtsevo craftsmen saw a folk leitmotif to the figurines. Their first doll was a girl named Matryoshka. She held a rooster and carried seven nestled figurines inside: six more girls, one boy, and a baby. In 1900, Savva Mamontov's wife presented the dolls at the World Exhibition in Paris, and the toy earned a bronze medal. Soon after, Matryoshkas were being made in several places in Russia. Now, the tradition is over a hundred years old. 

The New Palace and the Charmed Swan

The biggest Matryoshka was made in 1970, contained 72 pieces and was 1 meter tall. It cost 3,000 rubles (while a popular Soviet car cost 5,000 rubles in the time) and was sent to an exhibition in Japan. A famous Matryoshka couple, "Russian Lad" and "Russian Beauty," was taken to the International Space Station Spaceship by Russian astronauts and given as gift to its international crew. The word Matryoshka is also used metaphorically, as a design paradigm, known as the "Matryoshka principle." 

Menora, Matryoshka, and Me

It seemed I was destined to live in diasporas. In Russia, it was a Jewish diaspora. In New York, it became more of a Russian one. I thought it funny that Americans perceived me as a Russian – perhaps because of my blondish hair. However, in Russia, I looked anything but. Ethnically, I didn’t blend. Amongst Slavonic faces, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Growing up in my hometown of Kazan, a bicultural mêlée of Russian and Tatar, I looked very different from the Slavic girls in my class. I had a straight nose while theirs were roundish and upturned. My eyes were too big, and my hair back then was black, while their braids were of various shades of blond. If anything, I passed for a Tatar because of my dark mane, even though my eyes weren’t almond-shaped. On the streets, the old grandmas with Asian facial features addressed me by the Tatar’s endearing “kizim” – daughter. My two best childhood friends were Tatars too, so I knew enough vocabulary to be able to answer back. The Jewish community in Kazan was tiny: about 6,000 Ashkenazi in a city with a population over a million. It was barely acknowledged, if at all. In school, we learned about Russian history and traditions, broached some Tatar topics, and never touched upon Judaic subjects. Back then, I felt a very strong connection to my Semitic roots. I feared my nation was becoming extinct, so I wanted to be Jewish with all the good and bad that came with it in a country where my people were not a particularly welcomed ethnic minority. Coming to New York, I looked forward to embracing Judaica.

It didn’t happen. In America, being Jewish meant being of Jewish faith, and raised in a Communist country, I remained a devout atheist. Going through the available Judaic sects – Hasidic, conservative, reformed – I realized I didn’t belong anywhere. And they didn’t recognize me as one of their own either. Being tagged as a Russian, I felt offended. I tried to argue that I was still Jewish even if I didn’t speak a word of Hebrew and didn’t pray, even on high holidays. Eventually, I accepted the fact that I sort of fell somewhere in between the two diasporas – a curious place where a menorah and a Matryoshka met. The Soviet emigration of the end of the last century created a new branch of diaspora and a new nationality: the Russian Jew.

About 10 years ago, I took a train from Manhattan to Brighton Beach, home to New York’s largest Russian community. On the way, I became aware of strange phenomena: my fellow Russian Jews no longer accosted me in their native language! The elderly émigré ladies laboriously pulled their accented English sentences together to ask me for directions instead of stating their questions in the easy Russian chatter. When I answered in their native tongue, they were surprised. I walked into a store – which by the way, sold both the painted wooden dolls and the Chanukah candelabras – and looked at myself in the mirror, wondering what part of me had changed so drastically. I couldn’t tell, but it seemed that I no longer belonged to any diaspora. Yet, I wouldn’t quite call myself an American either.

Luckily, I can always pass for a New Yorker. And I no longer care that I couldn’t find the right ethnic niche, because I found my home. I love and blend into this humongous diverse metropolis, in which any liberal-minded person can easily belong. There are about a half a dozen menorahs and a bunch of Matryoshkas in my mother’s house. There’s one of each in mine. I don’t think I’ve given any of my American friends a menorah for their birthdays, but I’ve certainly given many Matryoshkas, which is why I am now down to only one.